Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




I had learned much from my father, but still more from my mother.
Uncle Max had called her a good woman, but she was more than that:
she possessed one of those rare unselfish natures that cannot remain
satisfied with their own personal happiness: they wish to include
the whole world. She wanted to inculcate in me her own spirit of
self-sacrifice. I can remember some of her short, trenchant sentences
now.

'Never mind happiness: that is God's gift to a few: do your duty.'

'If you have loved your fellow-creatures sufficiently you will not be
afraid to die. A good conscience will smooth your pillow.'

And once, in her last illness, when Charlie asked if she were
comfortable, 'Not very, but I shall soon be quite comfortable, for I
shall hope to forget in heaven how little I have done, after all, here;
and yet I always wanted to help others.'

Oh, how good she was! And Charlie was good too, after the fashion of
young men: not altogether thoughtless, full of the promptings of his kind
heart; but Uncle Max was right when he said his last illness had ripened
him: it was not the old careless Charlie who had wooed Lesbia who lay
there: it was another and a better Charlie.

In the old days he had rallied me in a brotherly manner on my
old-fashioned, grave ways. 'You are not a modern young lady, Ursie,' he
would say; and he would often call me 'grandmother Ursula'; but all the
same he would listen to my plans with the utmost tolerance and good
nature.

Ah, those talks in the twilight, before the fatal disease developed
itself, and he lay in idle fashion on the couch with his arms under his
head, while I sat on the footstool or on the rug in the firelight! We
were to live together,--yes, that was always the dream; even when
Lesbia's fair face came between us, he would not hear of any difference.
I was to live with him and Lesbia, Lesbia was rich, and, though Charlie
had little, they were to marry soon.

I was to form a part of that luxurious household, but my time was to be
my own, and I was to devote it to the sick poor of Rutherford. 'Mind,
Ursula, you may work, but I will not have you overwork,' Charlie had once
said, more decidedly than usual; 'you must come home for hours of rest
and refreshment. You have a beautiful voice, and it shall be properly
trained; you may sing to your invalids as much as you like, and sometimes
I will come and sing too; but you must remember you have social duties,
and I shall expect you to entertain our friends.' And it was the idea of
this dual life of home sympathy and outside work that had so strongly
seized upon my imagination.

When Charlie died I was too sick at heart to carry out my plan. 'How can
one work alone?' I would say sorrowfully to myself; but after a time the
emptiness of my life and dissatisfaction with my surroundings brought
back the old thoughts.

I remembered the dear old rectory life, where every one was in earnest,
and contrasted it with the trifling pursuits that my aunt and cousin
called duties. My present existence seemed to shut me in like prison
bars. Only to be free, to choose my own life! And then came emancipation
in the shape of hard hospital work, when health and spirits returned to
me; when, under the stimulus of useful employment and constant exercise
of body and mind, I slept better, fretted less, and looked less
mournfully out on the world. Uncle Max was right when he said a year
at St. Thomas's would save me.

By and by the idea dawned upon me that I might still carry out my plan;
there were poor people at Heathfield, where Uncle Max's parish was. What
should hinder me from living there under Uncle Max's wing and trying to
combine the two lives, as Charlie wished?

I was young, full of activity. I did not wish to shut myself out from my
kind. I could discharge my duties to my own class and enjoy a moderate
amount of pleasure. I was young enough to desire that; but the greater
part of my time would be placed at the disposal of my poorer neighbours.
People might think it singular at first, but they would not talk for
ever, and the life would be a happy one to me.

All this had been said in that voluminous letter of mine to Uncle Max;
he might argue and shake his head over it, thereby proving himself a
wise man, but he could not but know that I was absolutely under my own
control, as far as a woman could be. I need ask no one's advice in the
disposal of my own life; his own and Uncle Brian's guardianship was
merely nominal now. After five-and-twenty I was declared my own
mistress in every sense of the word.

Uncle Brian came out to meet us as soon as he heard Uncle Max's voice
in the hall; the two were very great friends, and they shook hands
cordially.

'Glad to see you, Cunliffe; why did you not let us know that you were
coming up to town? We could have put you up easily--eh, Ursula?'

'Yes, indeed, Uncle Brian'; and then I added coaxingly, 'Do please send
for your portmanteau, Uncle Max; you know Lesbia is coming this evening,
and you are such a favourite with her.' I knew this would be a strong
inducement, for Uncle Max's soft heart would insist on treating Lesbia
as though she were a widowed princess.

'All right,' he returned in his lazy way, and then I took the matter into
my own hands by leaving the room at once to consult with Mrs. Martin,
Aunt Philippa's housekeeper. As I closed the door I glanced back for
another look at Uncle Max. He had thrown himself into an easy-chair, as
though he were tired, and was leaning back with his hands under his head
in Charlie's fashion, looking up at Uncle Brian, who was standing on the
rug.

I always thought Uncle Brian a very handsome man. He had clear, well-cut
features and a gray moustache, and he was quiet and dignified. He always
looked to me, with his brown complexion, more like an Indian officer than
a wealthy banker. There was nothing commercial in his appearance; but I
should have admired him more if he had been less cold and repressive in
manner; but he was an undemonstrative man, even to his own children.

I remember hinting this once to Uncle Max, and he had rebuked me more
severely than he had ever done before.

'I do not like young girls like you, Ursula, to be so critical about
their elders. Garston is an excellent fellow; he has plenty of brains,
and always does the right thing, however difficult it may be. Men are not
like women, my dear: they often hide their deepest feelings. Your poor
uncle has never been quite the same man since Ralph's death, and just as
he was getting over his boy's loss a little he had a fresh disappointment
with Charlie: he always meant to put him in Ralph's place.'

I was a little ashamed of my criticism when Max said this. I felt I had
not made sufficient allowance for Uncle Brian: the death of his only son
must have been a dreadful blow. Ralph had died at Oxford; they said he
had overworked himself in trying for honours and then had taken a chill.
He was a fine, handsome young fellow, nearly two-and-twenty, and his
father's idol: no wonder Uncle Brian had grown so much older and graver
during the last few years.

And he had been fond of Charlie, and had meant to have him in Ralph's
place; my poor boy would have been a rich one if he had lived. Uncle
Brian had taken him into the bank, and Lesbia and her fortune were
promised to him, but the goodly heritage was snatched away before his
eyes, and he was called away in the fresh bloom of his youth.

I always thought Uncle Brian liked Max better than any other man: he
was always less stiff and frigid in his presence. I could hear his low
laugh--Uncle Brian never laughed loudly--as I closed the door; Max had
said something that amused him. They would be quite happy without me,
so I ran up to the schoolroom on the chance of getting a chat with Jill.

The schoolroom was on the second floor, where Jill, I, and Fraeulein all
slept. Sara had a handsome room next to her mother's, and a little
boudoir furnished most daintily for her special use. I do not believe
she ever sat in it, unless she had a cold or was otherwise ailing; the
drawing-room was always full of company, and Sara was the life of the
house. I used to peep in at the pretty room sometimes as I went up to
bed; there were few notes written at the inlaid escritoire, and the
handsomely-bound books were never taken down from the shelves. Draper,
Aunt Philippa's maid, fed the canaries and dusted the cabinets of china.
Sometimes Sara would trip into the room with one of her cronies for a
special chat; the ripple of their girlish laughter would reach us as Jill
and I sat together. 'Whom has Sara got with her this afternoon?' Jill
would say peevishly. 'Do listen to them; they do nothing but laugh. If
Fraeulein had set her all these exercises she would not feel quite so
merry,' Jill would finish, throwing the obnoxious book from her with a
little burst of impatience.

I always pitied Jill for having to spend her days in such a dull room;
the furniture was ugly, and the windows looked out on a dismal back-yard,
with the high walls of the opposite building. Aunt Philippa, who was a
rigid disciplinarian with her young daughter, always said that she had
chosen the room 'because Jill would have nothing to distract her from her
studies.' The poor child would put up her shoulders at this remark and
draw down the corners of her lips in a way that would make Aunt Philippa
scold her for her awkwardness. 'You need not make yourself plainer than
you are, Jocelyn,' she would say severely; for Jill's awkward manners
troubled her motherly vanity. 'What is the good of all the dancing and
drilling and riding with Captain Cooper if you will persist in hunching
your shoulders as though you were deformed? Fraeulein has been complaining
of you this morning; she seems excessively displeased at your
carelessness and want of application.' 'I know I shall get stupid, shut
up in that dull hole with Fraeulein,' Jill would say passionately, after
one of these maternal lectures. Aunt Philippa was really very fond of
Jill; but she misunderstood the girl's nature. The system had answered
so well with Sara that she could not be brought to comprehend why it
should fail with her other child. Sara had grown up blooming and radiant
in spite of the depressing influences of Fraeulein and the dull, narrow
schoolroom. Her music and singing masters had come to her there. Little
Madame Blanchard had chirped to her in Parisian accent for the hour
together over _les modes_ and _le beau Paris_. Sara had danced and
drilled with the other young ladies at Miss Dugald's select
establishment, and had joined them at the riding-school or in the
cavalcade under Captain Cooper.

Sara had worn her bondage lightly, and had fascinated even grim old Herr
Schliefer. Her tact and easy adaptability had kept Fraeulein Sonnenschein
in a state of tepid good-humour. Every one, even cross old Draper,
idolised Sara for her beauty and sprightly ways. When Aunt Philippa
declared her education finished, she tripped out of the schoolroom as
happily as possible to take possession of her grand new bedroom and the
little boudoir, where all her girlish treasures were arranged. She had
not been the least impatient for her day of freedom: it would all come in
good time. When the sceptre was put into her hands and her sovereignty
acknowledged by the whole household, the young princess was not a bit
excited. She put on her court dress and made her courtesy to her majesty
with the same charming unconsciousness and ease of manner. No wonder
people were charmed with such good-humour and freshness. If the glossy
hair did not cover a large amount of brains, no one found fault with her
for that.

Jill raged and stormed fiercely under Sara's light-hearted philosophy;
when her sister told her to be patient under Fraeulein's yoke, that a good
time was coming for her also, when lesson-books would be shut up, and
Herr Schliefer would cease to scatter snuff on the carpet as he sat
drumming with his fingers on the keyboard and grunting out brief
interjections of impatience.

'What does it matter about Herr Schliefer?' Jill would say, in a sort of
fury. 'I like him a hundred times better than I do that mincing little
poll-parrot of a Madame Blanchard: she is odious, and I hate her, and I
hate Fraeulein too. It is not the lessons I mind; one has to learn lessons
all one's life; it is being shut up like a bird in a cage when one's
wings are ready for flight. I should like to fly away from this room,
from Fraeulein, from the whole of the horrid set; it makes me cross,
wicked, to live like this, and all your sugar-plums will do me no good.
Go away, Sara; you do not understand as Ursula does, it makes me feel bad
to see you standing there, looking so pretty and happy, and just laughing
at me.'

'Of course I laugh at you, Jocelyn, when you behave like a baby,'
returned Sara, trying to be severe, only her dimples betrayed her. 'Well,
as you are so cross, I shall go away. There is the chocolate I promised
you. Ta-ta.' And Sara put down the _bonbonniere_ on the table and walked
out of the room.

I was not surprised to see Jill push it away. No one understood the poor
child but myself; she was precocious, womanly, for her age; she had
twenty times the amount of brains that Sara possessed, and she was
starving on the education provided for her.

To dance and drill and write dreary German exercises, when one is
thirsting to drink deeply at the well of knowledge; to go round and round
the narrow monotonous course that had sufficed for Sara's moderate
abilities, like the blind horse at the mill, and never to advance an inch
out of the beaten track, this was simply maddening to Jill's sturdy
intellect. She often told me how she longed to attend classes, to hear
lectures, to rub against full-grown minds.

'Now. Me-ess Jocelyn, we will do a little of ze Wallenstein, by the
immortal Schiller. Hold up the head, and leave off striking the table
with your elbows.' Jill would give a droll imitation of Fraeulein, and
end with a groan.

'What does she know-about Schiller? She cannot even comprehend him. She
is dense,--utterly dense and stupid; but because she knows her own
language and has a correct deportment she is fit to teach me.' And Jill
ground her little white teeth in impotent wrath. Jill always appeared to
me like an infant Pegasus in harness; she wanted to soar,--to make use of
her wings,--and they kept her down. She was not naturally gay, like Sara,
though her health was good, and she was as powerful as a young Amazon.
Her nature was more sombre and took colour from her surroundings.

She was like a child in the sunshine; plenty of life and movement
distracted her from interior broodings and made her joyous; when she was
riding with the young ladies from Miss Dugald's, she would be as merry as
the others.

But her dreary schoolroom and Fraeulein's society chafed her nervous
sensibilities dangerously; there were only a few brown sparrows, or
a stray cat intent on game, to be seen from her window. From the
drawing-room, from Sara's boudoir, from her mother's bedroom, there was
a charming view of the Park. In the spring the fresh foliage of the
trees, and the velvety softness of the grass, would be delicious; down
in the broad white road, carriages were passing, horses cantering,
happy-looking people in smart bonnets, in gorgeous mantles, driving about
everywhere; children would be running up and down the paths in the Park,
flower-sellers would stand offering their innocent wares to the
passengers. Jill would sit entranced by her mother's window watching
them; the sunshine, the glitter, the hubbub, intoxicated her; she made up
stories by the dozen, as her dark eyes followed the gay equipages. When
Fraeulein summoned her she went away reluctantly; the stories got into
her head, and stopped there all the time she laboured through that long
sonata.

'Why are your fingers all thumbs to-day, Fraeulein?' Herr Schliefer
would demand gloomily. Jill, who was really fond of the stern old
professor, hung her head and blushed guiltily. She had no excuse to
offer: her girlish dreams were sacred to her; they came gliding to her
through the most intricate passages of the sonata, now with a _staccato_
movement,--brisk, lively,--with fitful energy, now _andante_, then
_crescendo, con passione_. Jill's unformed girlish hands strike the
chords wildly, angrily. '_Dolce, dolce_,' screams the professor in her
ears. The music softens, wanes, and the dreams seem to die away too.
'That will do, Fraeulein: you have not acquitted yourself so badly after
all.' And Jill gets off her music-stool reluctant, absent, half awake,
and her day-dream broken up into chaos.




CHAPTER III

CINDERELLA


As I opened the schoolroom door a half-forgotten picture of Cinderella
came vividly before me.

The fire had burnt low; a heap of black ashes lay under the grate; and by
the dull red glow I could see Jill's forlorn figure, very indistinctly,
as she sat in her favourite attitude on the rug, her arms clasping her
knees and her short black locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. She
gave a little shrill exclamation of pleasure when she saw me.

'Ah, you dear darling bear, do come and hug me,' she cried, trying to get
up in a hurry, but her dress entangled her.

'Where is Fraeulein?' I asked, pushing her back into her place, while I
knelt down to manipulate the miserable fire. 'Jill, you look just like
Cinderella when the proud sisters drove away to the ball. My dear, were
you asleep? Why are you sitting in the dark, with the fire going out, and
the lamp unlighted? There, it only wanted to be stirred; we shall have
light by which to see other's faces directly,'

'Fraeulein has a headache and has gone to lie down,' returned Jill, and,
though I could not see her clearly, I knew at once by her voice that she
had been crying; only she would have been furious if I had noticed the
fact. 'I hope I am not very wicked, but Fraeulein's headaches are the
redeeming points in her character; she has them so often, and then she
is obliged to lie down.'

'Of course you have offered to bathe her head?' I asked, a little
mischievously, but Jill, who was unusually subdued, took the question
in good part.

'Oh yes, and I spoke to her quite civilly; but I suppose she saw the
savage gleam of delight in my eyes, for she was as cross as possible, and
went away muttering that "Meess Jocelyn had the heart like the flint; if
it had been Meess Sara, now--" and then she banged the door, so the pain
could not have been so bad after all. It is my belief,' went on Jill,
'that Fraeulein always has a headache when she has a novel to finish.
Mamma does not like her to set me an example of novel-reading, so she
is obliged to lock herself in her own room.'

I took no notice of this statement, as I rather leaned to this view of
the subject myself. Fraeulein's round placid face and excellent appetite
showed no signs of suffering, and her constant plea of a bad headache was
only received with any credulity by Aunt Philippa herself; neither Sara
nor I had much respect for Fraeulein Sonnenschein, with her thick little
figure, and big head covered with flimsy flaxen plaits. We were both
aware of the smooth selfishness of her character, though Sara chose to
ignore it for Jill's benefit. She was industrious, painstaking, and
capable of a great deal of dull routine in the way of duties, but she
was far too fond of her own comfort, and all the affection of which she
was capable was lavished upon her own relatives; she had cared for Sara
moderately, but her other pupil, Jill, was a thorn in her side. So I
passed over Fraeulein's headache without comment, and took Jill to task
somewhat sharply for the comfortless state of the room. A good scolding
would rouse her from her dejection; the blinds were up and the curtains
undrawn; the remains of a meal, the usual five-o'clock schoolroom tea,
were still on the table. Jill's German books were heaped up beside her
empty cup and the glass dish that contained marmalade; the kettle
spluttered and hissed in the blaze; Jill's little black kitten, Sooty,
was dragging a half-knitted stocking across the rug.

'I forgot to ring for Martha,' faltered Jill; 'she will come presently.
Don't be cross, Ursula. I like the room as it is; it is deliciously
untidy, just like Cinderella's kitchen; but there is no hope of the fairy
godmother; and you are going away, and I shall be ten times more
miserable.'

It was this that was troubling her, then; for I had told her my plans and
all about my letter to Uncle Max. Perhaps she had heard his voice in the
hall, for Jill's pretty little ears heard everything that went on in the
house: she admitted her knowledge at once when I taxed her with it.

'Oh yes, I know Mr. Cunliffe is here. I heard papa go out and speak to
him; his voice sounded quite cheerful; and now he has come and it will
all be settled; and you will go away and be happy with your poor people,
and forget that I am fretting myself to death in this horrid room.'

She had drawn me down on the rug forcibly,--for she had the strength of
a young Titaness,--and was wrapping her arms around me with a sort of
fierce impatience. Her big eyes looked troubled and affectionate. Few
people admired Jill; she was undeveloped and awkward, full of angles, and
a little brusque in manner; she had a way of thrusting out her big feet
and squaring her shoulders that horrified Aunt Philippa. She was very
big, certainly, and would never possess Sara's slim grace. Her hair had
been cropped in some illness, and had not grown so fast as they expected,
but hung in short thick lengths about her neck; it was always getting
into her eyes, and was being pushed back impatiently, but she would much
oftener throw her head back with a fling like an unbroken pony, for she
was jerky as young things often are.

But, though, people found fault with Jill, and often said that she would
never be as handsome as Sara, I liked her face. Perhaps it was a little
irregular and her complexion slightly sallow, but when she was flushed or
excited and she opened her big bright eyes, and one could see her little
white teeth gleaming as she laughed, I have thought Jill could look
almost beautiful; but her good looks depended on her expression.

'I suppose it will be settled,' I replied, with a quick catch at my
breath, for the mere mention of the subject excited me; 'but you will be
a good child and not fret if I do go away. No, I shall never forget you,'
as a close hug answered me; 'I love you too dearly for that; but I want
you to be brave about it, dear, for I cannot be happy wasting my time and
doing nothing. You know how ill I was before I went to St. Thomas's, so
that Uncle Max was obliged to tell Aunt Philippa that I must have change
and hard work, or I should follow Charlie.'

'Oh yes, and we were all so frightened about you, you poor thing; you
looked so pinched and miserable. Well, I suppose I must let you go, as
you are so wicked as to disobey the proverb that "Charity begins at
home."'

'Listen to me, dear,' I returned, quite pleased to find her so
reasonable. 'I am very glad to know that I have been a comfort to you,
but I shall hope to be so still. I will write long letters to you, Jill,
and tell you all about my work, and you shall answer them, and talk to me
on paper about the books you have read, and the queer thoughts you have,
and how patient and strong you have grown, and how you have learned to
put up with Fraeulein's little ways and not aggravate her with your
untidiness.' And here Jill's hand--and it was by no means a small
hand--closed my lips rather abruptly. But I was used to this sort of
sledge-hammer form of argument.

'Oh, it is all very fine for you to sit there and moralise, Ursula, like
a sort of sucking Diogenes,' grumbled Jill, 'when you know you are going
to have your own way and live a deliciously sort of three-volume-novel
life, not like any one else's, unless it were Don Quixote, or one of the
Knights of the Round Table, poking about among a lot of strange people,
doing wonderful things for them, until they are all ready to worship you.
It is all very well for you, I say; but what would you do if you were
me?' cried Jill, in her shrill treble, and quite oblivious of grammatical
niceties; 'how would you like to be poor me, shut up here with that old
dragon?'

This was a grand opportunity for airing my philosophy, and I rushed at
it. To Jill's amazement, I shook my hair back in the way she usually
shook her rough black mane, and, opening my eyes very widely, tried to
copy Jill's falsetto.

'How thankful I am Jocelyn Garston and not Ursula Garston,' I said,
with rapid staccato. 'Poor Ursula! I am fond of her, but I would not
change places with her for the world. She has known such a lot of trouble
in her life, more than most girls, I believe; she has lost her lovely
home,--such a sweet old place,--and her mother and father and Charlie,
all her nearest and her most beloved, and she is so sad that she wants
to work hard and forget her troubles.'

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