Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




It is impossible to describe the look she gave me; astonishment,
incredulity, and something like dawning hope were blended in it; but
she remained silent.

'You have missed your vocation, that is true. You were set apart here
to do most divine work; but you have failed over it. Still, you may
be forgiven. How many prayers you might have prayed for Robert! You
might have been an invisible shield between him and temptation. There
is so much power in the prayers of unselfish love. This room, which
you describe as a tomb, or an antechamber of hell, might have been an
inner sanctuary, from which blessings might flow out over the whole
neighbourhood. Silent lessons of patience might have been preached here.
Your sister's weary hands might have been strengthened. You could have
mutually consoled each other; and now--' I paused, for here conscience
completed the sentence. I saw a tear steal under her eyelid, and then
course slowly down her face.

'I have made Susan miserable, I know that; and she is never impatient
with me if I am ever so cross with her. Ah, I deserve my punishment, for
I have been a selfish, hateful creature all my life. I do think sometimes
that an evil spirit lives in me.'

'There is One who can cast it out; but you must ask Him, Phoebe. Such a
few words will do: "Lord help me!" Now we have talked enough, and Susan
will be coming back from church. I mean to sing you the evening hymn, and
then I must go.' And, almost before I had finished the last line, Phoebe,
exhausted with emotion, had sunk into a refreshing sleep, and I crept
softly out of the room to watch for Susan's return.

I felt strangely weary as I walked home. It was almost as though I had
witnessed a human soul struggling in the grasp of some evil spirit. It
was the first time I had ever ministered to mental disease. Never before
had I realised what self-will, unchastened by sorrow and untaught by
religion, can bring a woman to. Once or twice that evening I had doubted
whether the brain were really unhinged; but I had come to the conclusion
that it was only excess of morbid excitement.

My way home led me past the vicarage. Just as I was in sight of it, two
figures came out of the gate and waited to let me pass. One of them was
the churchwarden, Mr. Townsend, and the other was Mr. Hamilton. It was
impossible to avoid recognition in the bright moonlight; but I was rather
amazed when I heard Mr. Hamilton bid Mr. Townsend good-night, and a
moment after he overtook me.

'You are out late to-night, Miss Garston. Do you always mean to play
truant from evening service?'

I told him how I had spent my time, but I suppose my voice betrayed
inward fatigue, for he said, rather kindly,--

'This sort of work does not suit you; you are looking quite pale this
evening. You must not let your feelings exhaust you. I am sorry for
Phoebe myself, but she is a very tiresome patient. Do you think you have
made any impression on her?'

He seemed rather astonished when I briefly mentioned the subject of our
talk.

'Did she tell you about herself? Come, you have made great progress. Let
her get rid of some of the poison that seems to choke her, and then there
will be some chance of doing her good. She has taken a great fancy to
you, that is evident; and, if you will allow me to say so, I think you
are just the person to influence her.'

'It is a very difficult piece of work,' I returned; but he changed the
subject so abruptly that I felt convinced that he knew how utterly jaded
I was. He told me a humorous anecdote about a child that made me laugh,
and when we reached the gate of the cottage he bade me, rather
peremptorily, put away all worrying thoughts and to go to bed, which
piece of advice I followed as meekly as possible, after first reading
a passage out of my favourite _Thomas a Kempis_; but I thought of Phoebe
all the time I was reading it:

'The cross, therefore, is always ready, and everywhere waits for thee.
Thou canst not escape it wheresoever thou runnest; for wheresoever thou
goest, thou carriest thyself with thee and shalt ever find thyself.... If
thou bear the cross cheerfully, it will bear thee, and lead thee to the
desired end, namely, where there shall be an end of suffering, though
here there shall not be. If thou bear it unwillingly, thou makest for
thyself a (new) burden, and increasest thy load, and yet,
notwithstanding, thou must bear it.'




CHAPTER XIII

LADY BETTY


The next evening I was refused admittance to Phoebe's room. Miss Locke
met me at the door, looking more depressed than usual, and asked me to
follow her into the kitchen, where we found Kitty in the rocking-chair by
the hearth, dressing her new doll.

'It is just as she treated the vicar and Mr. Tudor,' she observed
disconsolately. 'I don't quite know what ails her to-day; she had a
beautiful night, and slept like a baby, and when I took her breakfast to
her she put her arms round my neck and asked me to kiss her,--a thing she
has not done for a year or more; and she went on for a long time about
how bad she had been to me, and wanting me to forgive her and make it up
with her.'

'Well?' I demanded, rather impatiently, as Susan wiped her patient eyes
and took up her sewing.

'Well, poor lamb! I told her I would forgive her anything and everything
if she would only let me go on with my work, for I had Mrs. Druce's
mourning to finish; but she would not let me stir for a long time, and
cried so bitterly--though she says she never can cry--that I thought of
sending for you or Dr. Hamilton. But she cried more when I mentioned you,
and said, No, she would not see you; you had left her more miserable than
she was before: and she made me promise to send you away if you came this
evening, which I am loath to do after all your kindness to her.'

'I have brought her some fresh flowers this evening,' was my reply. 'Do
not distress yourself, Miss Locke; we must expect Phoebe to be contrary
sometimes.' And the words came to my mind, "And ofttimes it casteth him
into the fire, and oft into the water." 'You have discharged your duty,
but I am not going just yet. Let me help you with that work. I am very
fond of sewing, and that is a nice easy piece. Shall you mind if I sing
to you and Kitty a little?'

I need not have asked the question when I saw the fretted look pass from
Miss Locke's face.

'It is the greatest pleasure Kitty and I have, next to going to church,'
she said humbly. 'Your voice does sound so sweet; it soothes like a
lullaby. It is my belief,' speaking under her breath so that the child
should not hear her, 'that she is just trying to punish herself by
sending you away.'

I thought perhaps this might be the case, for who could understand all
the perversities of a diseased mind? But if Phoebe's will was strong for
evil, mine was stronger still to overcome her for her own good. I was
determined on two things: first, that I would not leave the house without
seeing her; and, secondly, that nothing should induce me to stay with her
after this reception. She must be disciplined to civility at all costs.
Max had been wrong to yield to her sick whims.

I must have sung for a long time, to judge by the amount of work I
contrived to do, and if I had sung like a whole nestful of skylarks I
could not have pleased my audience more. I was sorry to set Miss Locke's
tears flowing, because it hindered her work; tears are such a simple
luxury, but poor folk cannot always afford to indulge in them.

I had just commenced that beautiful song, 'Waft her, angels, through the
air,' when the impatient thumping of a stick on the floor arrested me; it
came from Phoebe's room.

'I will go to her,' I said, waving Miss Locke back and picking up my
flowers. 'Do not look so scared: she means those knocks for me.' And I
was right in my surmise. I found her lying very quietly, with the traces
of tears still on her face; she addressed me quite gently.

'Do not sing any more, please; I cannot bear it; it makes my heart ache
too much to-night.'

'Very well,' I returned cheerfully. 'I will just mend your fire, for it
is getting low, and put these flowers in water, and then I will bid you
good-night.'

'You are vexed with me for being rude,' she said, almost timidly. 'I told
Susan to send you away, because I could not bear any more talk. You made
me so unhappy yesterday, Miss Garston.'

I was cruel enough to tell her that I was glad to hear it, and I must
have looked as though I meant it.

'Oh, don't,' she said, shrinking as though I had dealt her a blow. 'I
want you to unsay those words: they pierce me like thorns. Please tell me
you did not mean them.'

'How can I know to what you are alluding?' I replied, in rather an
unsympathetic tone; but I did not intend to be soft with her to-day: she
had treated me badly and must repent her ingratitude. 'I certainly meant
every word I said yesterday,'

To my great surprise, she burst into tears, and repeated word for word
a fragment of a sentence that I had said.

'It haunts me, Miss Garston, and frightens me somehow. I have been saying
it over and over in my dreams,--that is what upset me so to-day: "if we
will not lie still under His hand,"--yes, you said that, knowing I have
never lain still for a moment,--"and if we will not learn the lesson He
would fain teach us, it may be that fresh trials may be sent to humble
us."'

Pity kept me silent for a moment, but I knew that I must not shirk my
work.

'I am sorry if the truth pains you, Phoebe, but it is no less the truth.
How am I to look at you and think that God has finished His work?'

She put up both her hands and motioned me away with almost a face of
horror, but I took no notice. I arranged the flowers and tended the fire,
and then offered her some cooling drink, which she did not refuse, and
then I bade her good-night.

'What!' she exclaimed, 'are you going to leave me like that, and not a
word to soothe me, after making me so unhappy? Think of the long night I
have to go through.'

'Never mind the length of the night, if only you can hear His voice in
the darkness. You wanted to send me away, Phoebe; well, and to-morrow I
shall not come; I shall stay at home and rest myself. You can send me
away, and little harm will happen; but take care you do not send Him
away.' And I left the room.

When I told Miss Locke that I was not coming the next evening she looked
frightened. 'Has my poor Phoebe offended you so badly, then?' she asked
tremulously.

'I am not offended at all,' I replied; 'but Phoebe has need to learn
all sorts of painful lessons. I shall have all the warmer welcome on
Wednesday, after leaving her to herself a little.' But Miss Locke only
shook her head at this.

The next day was so lovely that I promised myself the indulgence of a
long country walk; there was a pretty village about two miles from
Heathfield that I longed to see again. But my little plan was frustrated,
for just as I was starting I heard Tinker bark furiously; a moment
afterwards there was a rush and scuffle, followed by a shriek in a
girlish treble; in another moment I had seized my umbrella and flown to
the door. There was a fight going on between Tinker and a large black
retriever, and a little lady in brown was wandering round them,
helplessly wringing her hands, and crying, 'Oh, Nap! poor Nap!'

I took her for a child the first moment, she was so very small. 'Do not
be frightened, my dear,' I said soothingly, 'I will make Tinker behave
himself.' And a well-aimed blow from my umbrella made him draw off
growling. In another moment I had him by the collar, and by dint of
threats and coaxing contrived to shut him up in the kitchen. He was not
a quarrelsome dog generally, but, as I heard afterwards, Nap was an old
antagonist; they had once fallen out about Peter, and had never been
friends since.

I found the little brown girl sitting in the porch with her arms round
the retriever's neck; she was kissing his black face, and begging him to
forget the insult he had received from that horrid Barton dog.

'Poor old Tinker is not horrid at all, I assure you,' I said, laughing;
'he is a dear fellow, and I am already very fond of him.'

'But he nearly killed Nap,' she returned, with a little frown; 'he is
worse than a savage, for he has no notion of hospitality. Nap and I came
to call,' rising with an air of great dignity. 'I suppose you are Miss
Garston. I am Lady Betty.'

I had never heard of such a person in Heathfield; but of course Uncle Max
would enlighten me. As I looked at her more closely I saw my mistake in
thinking she was a child; little brown thing as she was, she was fully
grown up, and, though not in the least pretty, had a bright piquant face,
a _nest retrousse_, and a pair of mischievous eyes.

She was dressed rather extravagantly in a brown velvet walking-dress,
with an absurd little hat, that would have fitted a child, on the top of
her dark wavy hair; she only wanted a touch of red about her to look like
a magnified robin-redbreast.

'Well,' she said impatiently, as I hesitated a moment in my surprise,
'I have told you we have come for a call, Nap and I; but if you are going
out--'

'Oh, that is not the least consequence,' I returned, waking up to a sense
of my duty. 'I am very pleased to see you and Nap; but you must not stop
any longer in this cold porch; the wind is rather cutting. There is a
nice fire in my parlour.' And I led the way in.

I was rather puzzled about Nap, for I seemed to recognise his sleek head
and mild brown eyes; and yet where could I have seen him? He trotted in
contentedly after his mistress, and stretched himself out on the rug
Tinker's fashion; but Lady Betty, instead of seating herself, began to
walk round the room and inspect my books and china, making remarks upon
everything in a brisk voice, and questioning me in rather an inquisitive
manner about sundry things that attracted her notice; but, to my great
surprise and relief, she passed Charlie's picture without remark or
comment--only I saw her glancing at it now and then from under her long
lashes. This mystified me a little; but I thought her whole behaviour a
little peculiar. I had never before seen callers on their first visit
perambulating the room like polar bears, or throwing out curious feelers
everywhere. As a rule, they sat up stiffly enough and discussed the
weather.

Lady Betty was evidently a character; most likely she prided herself on
being unlike other people. I was just beginning to wish that she would
sit down and let me question her in my turn, when she suddenly put up her
eye-glasses and burst into a most musical little laugh.

'Oh, do come here, Miss Garston; this is too amusing! There goes her
majesty Gladys of Gladwyn, accompanied by her prime minister. Don't they
look as though they were walking in the Row?--heads up--everything in
perfect trim! They are coming to call--yes!--no!--They are going to the
Cockaignes first. What an escape! my dear creature, if they come here I
shall fly to Mrs. Barton. The prime minister's airs will be too much for
my gravity.'

I gave her a very divided attention, for I was watching Miss Hamilton and
her companion with much interest. I could see that Miss Darrell was
chatting volubly; but Miss Hamilton's face looked as grave and impassive
as it had looked on Sunday. When they had passed out of sight I turned to
Lady Betty rather eagerly; she had dropped her eye-glasses, but an amused
smile still played round her lips.

'_La belle cousine_ is improving the occasion as usual. Poor Gladys, how
bored she looks! but there is no escape for her this afternoon, for the
prime minister has her in tow. I wonder from what text she is preaching?
Ezekiel's dry bones, I should think, from her majesty's face.'

'Do you know the Hamiltons of Gladwyn very intimately?' I asked
innocently; but I grew rather out of patience when Lady Betty
first lifted her eye-glass and stared at me, with the air of a
non-comprehending kitten, and then buried her face in a very fluffy
little muff in a fit of uncontrolled merriment.

I was provoked by this, and determined not to say a word. So presently
she came out of her muff and asked me, with mirthful eyes, for whom I
took her.

'You are Lady Betty, I understood,' was my stiff response.

'Yes, of course; every one calls me that, except the vicar, who will
address me as Miss Elizabeth. I never will answer to that name; I hate it
so. The servants up at Gladwyn never dare to use it. I would get Etta to
dismiss them if they did. Is it not a shame that people should not have a
voice in the matter of their name,--that helpless infants should be
abandoned to the tender mercies of some old fogey of a sponsor? Miss
Garston, if I were ever to hear you address me by that name it would be
the death-warrant to our friendship.'

'Let me know who you really are first, and then I will promise not to
offend your peculiar prejudice.'

'Dear me!' she answered pettishly, 'you talk just like Giles. He often
laughs at me and makes himself very unpleasant. But then, as I often tell
him, philanthropists are not pleasant people with whom to live; a man
with a hobby is always odious. Well, Miss Garston, if you will be so
prying, my name is Elizabeth Grant Hamilton; only from a baby I have been
called Lady Betty.'

'I shall remember,' I replied quietly, for really the little thing seemed
quite ruffled. This was evidently more than a whim on her part. 'It would
have seemed to me a liberty to use a family pet name. But of course if
you wish me to do so--'

'I do wish it,' rather peremptorily. 'That is partly why Mr. Cunliffe and
I are not good friends,--that, and other reasons.'

'Oh, I am sorry you do not like Uncle Max,' I said, rather impulsively;
but she drew herself up after the manner of an aggrieved pigeon. She was
rather like a bright-eyed bird, with her fluffy hair and quick movements.

'Oh, I like him well enough, but I do not understand him. Men are not
easy to understand. He is quiet, but he is disappointing. We must not
expect perfection in this world,' finished the little lady sententiously.

'I have never met any one half as good as Uncle Max,' was my warm retort.
'He is the most unselfish of men.'

'Unselfish men make mistakes sometimes,' she returned drily. 'Giles and
he are great friends. He is up at Gladwyn a great deal; so is Mr. Tudor.
Mr. Tudor is not a finished character, but he has good points, and one
can tolerate him. There, how vexing, we were just beginning to talk
comfortably, and I see the shadow of her majesty's gown at the gate.
Come, Nap, we must fly to Mrs. Barton's for refuge. _Au revoir_, Miss
Garston.' And, kissing her little gloved hand, this strangest of Lady
Betties vanished, followed by the obedient Nap.

My pulses quickened a little at the prospect of seeing the beautiful face
of Gladys Hamilton in my little room; but it was not she who entered
first, but Miss Darrell, whose sharp incisive glance had taken in every
detail of my surroundings before her faultlessly-gloved hand had released
mine; and even when I turned to greet Miss Hamilton, her peculiar and
somewhat toneless voice claimed my attention.

'How very fortunate,' she began, seating herself with elaborate caution
with her back to the light. 'We hardly hoped to find you at home, Miss
Garston. My cousin Giles informed us how much engaged you were. We have
been so interested in what Mr. Cunliffe told us about it. It is such a
romantic scheme, and, as I am a very romantic person, you may be sure of
my sympathy. Gladys, dear, is this not a charming room? Positively you
have so altered and beautified it that I can hardly believe it is the
same room. I told a friend of ours, Mrs. Saunders, that it would never
suit her, as it was such a shabby little place.'

'It is very nice,' returned Miss Hamilton quietly. 'I hope,' fixing her
large, beautiful eyes on me, 'that you are comfortable here? We thought
perhaps you might be a little dull.'

'I have no time to be dull,' I returned, smiling, but Miss Darrell
interrupted me.

'No, of course not; busy people are never dull. I told you so, Gladys, as
we walked up the road. Depend upon it, I said, Miss Garston will hardly
have a minute to give to our idle chatter. She will be wanting to get to
her sick people, and wish us at Hanover. Still, as my cousin Giles said,
we must do the right thing and call, though I am sure you are not a
conventional person; neither am I. Oh, we are quite kindred souls here.'

I tried to receive this speech in good part, but I certainly protested
inwardly against the notion that Miss Darrell and I would ever be kindred
souls. I felt an instinctive repugnance to her voice; its want of tone
jarred on me; and all the time she talked, her hard, bright eyes seemed
to dart restlessly from Miss Hamilton to me. I felt sure that nothing
could escape their scrutiny; but now and then, when one looked at her in
return, she seemed to veil them most curiously under the long curling
lashes.

She was rather an elegant-looking woman, but her face was decidedly
plain. She had thin lips and rather a square jaw, and her sallow
complexion lacked colour. One could not guess her age exactly, but she
might have been three-or four-and-thirty. I heard her spoken of
afterwards as a very interesting-looking person; certainly her figure
was fine, and she knew how to dress herself,--a very useful art when
women have no claim to beauty.

Miss Darrell's voluble tongue seemed to touch on every subject. Miss
Hamilton sat perfectly silent, and I had not a chance of addressing her.
Once, when I looked at her, I could see her eyes were fixed on my
darling's picture. She was gazing at it with an air of absorbed
melancholy: her lips were firmly closed, and her hands lay folded in
her lap.

'That is the picture of my twin-brother,' I said softly, to arouse her.

To my surprise, she turned paler than ever, and her lips quivered.

'Your twin brother, yes; and you have lost him?' But here Miss Darrell
chimed in again:

'How very interesting! What a blessing photography is, to be sure? Do you
take well, Miss Garston? They make me a perfect fright. I tell my cousins
that nothing on earth will induce me to try another sitting. Why should I
endure such a martyrdom, if it be not to give pleasure to my friends?'

To my surprise, Miss Hamilton's voice interrupted her: it was a little
like her step-brother's voice, and had a slight hesitation that was not
in the least unpleasant. She spoke rather slowly: at least it seemed so
by comparison with Miss Darrell's quick sentences.

'Etta, we have not done what Giles told us. We hope you will come and
dine with us to-morrow. Miss Garston, without any ceremony.'

'Dear me, how careless of me!' broke in Miss Darrell, but her forehead
contracted a little, as though her cousin's speech annoyed her. 'Giles
gave the message to me, but we were talking so fast that I quite forgot
it. My cousin will have it that you are dull, and our society may cheer
you up. I do not hold with Giles. I think you are far too superior a
person to be afraid of a little solitude; strong-minded people like you
are generally fond of their own society; but all the same I hope you do
not mean to be quite a recluse.'

'We dine at seven, but I hope you will come as much earlier as you like,'
interposed Miss Hamilton. 'No one will be with us but Mr. Tudor.'

'You forget Mr. Cunliffe, Gladys,' observed Miss Darrell, in rather a
sharp voice. 'I am sure I do not know what the poor man has done to
offend you; but ever since last summer--' But here Miss Hamilton rose
with a gesture that was almost queenly, and her impassive face looked
graver than ever.

'I did not know you had invited Mr. Cunliffe, Etta, or I should certainly
have mentioned him. Good-bye, Miss Garston: we shall look for you soon
after six.'

There was something wistful in her expression; it seemed as though she
wanted me to come, and yet I was a complete stranger to her. I felt very
reluctant to dine at Gladwyn, but that look overruled me.

'I will try to come early,' was my answer, and then I drew back to let
them pass.

Miss Darrell bade me good-bye a little stiffly; something had evidently
put her out. As they went down the narrow garden path I could see she was
speaking to Miss Hamilton rather angrily, but Miss Hamilton seemed to
take no notice.

What did it all mean? I wondered; and then I suddenly bethought myself of
my other visitor. I had wholly forgotten her existence in my interest in
her beautiful sister. What could have become of Lady Betty?




CHAPTER XIV

LADY BETTY LEAVES HER MUFF


This question was speedily answered.

The gate had scarcely closed behind my visitors when I heard a gay little
laugh behind me, and Lady Betty tripped across the passage and took
possession of the easy-chair in the friendliest way.

'Now we can have a chat and be cosy all by ourselves,' she said, with
childish glee; and then she stopped and looked at me, and her rosy little
mouth began to pout, and a sort of baby frown came to her forehead.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.