Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'Oh no, Mr. Hamilton,' I exclaimed, shocked to hear him speak in this
way, 'things are not so bad as that. I know Gladys would be more to you
if she could.' But he turned upon me almost fiercely.

'Do not tell me that,' he said harshly, 'for I cannot believe you. Gladys
cared more for Eric's little finger than the whole of us put together;
she looks upon me as his destroyer, as a hard taskmaster who oppressed
him and drove him out of his home. Oh, you want to contradict me; you
would tell me how gentle Gladys is, and how submissive. No, she is never
angry, but her looks and words are cold as this frozen snow; she has not
kissed me of her own accord since Eric left us. I sometimes think it is
painful for her to live under my roof.'

'Mr. Hamilton!'

'Well, what now?' in the same repellent tone.

'You are wrong; you are unjust. Gladys does not feel like that; she has
tried to forgive you in her heart for any past mistake; she sees you
regret much that has passed, and she is no longer bitter against you.
I wish you would believe this. I wish you could understand that she, too,
longs to break down the barrier. Perhaps I ought not to say it, but I
think Miss Darrell keeps you apart from your sisters.'

'What, Etta!' in an astonished tone. 'Why, she is always making
excuses for Gladys's coldness. Come, Miss Garston, I cannot have you
misunderstand my poor little cousin in this way. You have no idea how
faithful and devoted she is. She has actually refused a most advantageous
offer of marriage to remain with us. She told me this in confidence; the
girls do not know it: perhaps I ought not to have repeated it; but you
undervalue Etta. Few women would sacrifice themselves so entirely for
their belongings.'

'No, indeed,' was my reply to this; but I secretly marvelled at this
piece of intelligence, and there was no time to ask any questions, for
we had reached the cottage, and the next minute I was standing by Susan
Locke's bedside.

There was no need to tell me that poor Susan was in danger; the
inflammation ran high; the flushed face, the difficult breathing,
the strength and fulness of the rapid pulse, filled me with grave
forebodings. Mr. Hamilton remained with me some time, and when he took
his leave he promised to come again as early as possible in the morning.

'I will stay altogether if you wish it,' he said kindly, 'if you feel
the least uneasiness at being alone.' But I disclaimed all fear on this
score. I only begged him to remain with the patient a few minutes while
I spoke to Phoebe, and he agreed to this.

It was late; but I knew she would not be asleep. How could she sleep,
poor soul, with this fresh stroke threatening her? As I opened the door
I heard her calling to me in a voice broken with sobs.

'Oh, Miss Garston, I have been longing for you to come to me; you have
been here for hours. I have been lying listening to your footsteps
overhead. Do you know, the suspense is killing me?'

'Yes, I am so sorry for you, Phoebe: it is hard to bear, is it not?
But I could not leave your sister. We are doing all we can to ease her
sufferings, but she is very very ill.'

'Do you think that I do not know that? She is dying! My only sister is
dying!' And here her tears burst out again. 'Ah, Miss Garston, those
dreadful words are coming true, after all.'

'What words, my poor Phoebe?' And I knelt down by her side and smoothed
the hair from her damp forehead.

'Oh, you know what I mean. I have repeated them before; they haunt me day
and night, and you refused to take them back. "If we will not lie still
under His hand, and learn the lesson He would teach us, fresh trials may
be sent to humble us,"--fresh trials; and, oh, my God, Susan is dying!'

'You must not say that to her nurse, Phoebe; you must try and strengthen
my hands: indeed, all hope is not lost: the inflammation is very high,
but who knows if your prayers may not save her?'

'My prayers! my prayers!' covering her face while the tears trickled
through her wasted fingers; 'as though God would listen to me who have
been a rebel all my life.'

'Ah, but you are not rebellious now: you have fought against Him all
these years, but now all His waves and billows have gone over your head,
and you cannot breast them alone.'

'No, and I have deserved it all. I do try to pray, Miss Garston, I do
indeed, but the words will not come. I can only say over and over again,
"Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee," and then I stop
and my heart seems breaking.'

'Well, and what can be better than that cry of your poor despairing heart
to your Father! Do you think that He will not have pity on His suffering
child? Be generous in your penitence, Phoebe, and trust yourself and
Susan in His hands.'

'Ah, but you do not know all,' she continued, fixing her miserable eyes
on me. 'I have not been good to Susan: I have let her sacrifice her life
for me, and have taken it all as a matter of course. I made her bear all
my bad tempers and never gave her a good word. She was too tired,--ah,
she was often tired,--and then she took this chill, and I made her wait
on me all the same. She told me she was ill and in great pain, and I kept
her standing for a long time; and I would not bid her good-night when she
went away; and I heard her sigh as she closed the door, and I called her
back and she did not hear me; and now--' But here hysterical sobs checked
her utterance.

'Yes, but you are sorry now, and Susan has forgiven you. I think she
wanted to send you a message, but she is in too great pain to speak. I
heard her say, "Poor Phoebe," but I begged her not to make the effort;
you see she is thinking of you still.'

'My poor Susan! But she must not miss you; I am wicked and selfish to
keep you like this. Go to her, Miss Garston!' And I was thankful to be
dismissed.

My heart was full when I re-entered the sick-room. Mr. Hamilton looked
rather scrutinising as he rose to give me his place.

'Your thoughts must be here,' he said meaningly. 'Forgive me, if I give
you that hint: do not forget Providence is watching over that other room.
One duty at a time, Miss Garston.' And, though I coloured at this
wholesome rebuke, I knew he was correct.

'Yes, he is right,' I thought, as I stood listening to poor Susan's
oppressed and difficult breathing: 'the Divine Teacher is beside His
child. It is not for us to question this discipline or plead for an
easier lesson.' But none the less did the fervent petition rise from my
heart that the angel of death might not be suffered to enter this house.

The night wore on, but, alas! there was no improvement. When Mr. Hamilton
came through the snow the next morning he looked grave and dissatisfied,
and then he asked me if I wanted any help; but I shook my head. 'Mrs.
Martin is in the house: she will look after Phoebe and Kitty.'

When he had gone, I wrote a little note and gave it to Kitty:

'I cannot leave Susan for a minute, she is so very ill. Mr. Hamilton can
see no improvement. He is coming again at mid-day. She suffers very much;
but we will not give up hope, you and I;' and I bade Kitty carry it to
her aunt.

When Mr. Hamilton returned, he brought a little covered basket with him,
and bade me rather peremptorily take my luncheon while he watched beside
the patient.

This act of thoughtfulness touched me. I wondered who had packed the
basket: there was the wing of a chicken, some delicate slices of tongue,
a roll, and some jelly. A little note lay at the bottom:

'Giles has asked me to provide a tempting luncheon: he says you have
had a sad night with poor Miss Locke, and are looking very tired. Poor
Ursula! you are spending all your strength on other people.

'In another half-hour I shall leave Gladwyn. I think I am glad to go,
things are so miserable here, and one loses patience sometimes. I wish
I could know poor Susan Locke's fate before I go; but Giles seems to have
little hope. Take care of yourself for my sake, Ursula. I have grown to
love you very dearly.

'--Your affectionate friend,

'Gladys.'

Mr. Hamilton came again early in the evening, and I took the opportunity
of paying Phoebe another visit.

She was lying with her eyes closed, and looked very ill and
exhausted,--alarmingly so, I thought: her emotion had nearly spent
itself, and she was now passive and waiting for the worst.

'Let me know when it happens,' she whispered. 'I have no hope now, but I
will try and bear it.' And she drew my hands to her lips and kissed them:
'they have touched Susan, they are doing my work, they are blessed hands
to me.' And then she seemed unable to bear more.

When Mr. Hamilton paid his final visit he announced his intention of
remaining in the house. 'There will be a change one way or another before
long, and I shall not leave you by yourself to-night,' he said quietly;
and in my heart I was not sorry to hear this. He told me that there was a
good fire downstairs, and that he meant to take possession of a very
comfortable arm-chair, but that he wanted to remain in the sick-room for
half an hour or so.

I fancied that his professional eyes had already detected some change.
Presently he walked away to the fireplace and stood looking down into the
flames in rather an absent way.

I could not help looking at him once or twice, he seemed so absorbed in
thought; his dark face looked rigid, his lips firmly closed, and his
forehead slightly puckered.

More than once I had puzzled myself over a fancied resemblance of Mr.
Hamilton to some picture I had seen. All at once I remembered the
subject. It was the picture of a young Christian sleeping peacefully just
before he was called to his combat with wild beasts in the amphitheatre:
the keeper was even then opening the door: the lions were waiting for
their prey. The face was boyish, but still Mr. Hamilton reminded me of
him. And there was a picture of St. Augustine sitting with his mother
Monica, that reminded me of Mr. Hamilton too. I had called him plain, and
Jill thought him positively ugly, but, after all, there was something
noble in his expression, a power that made itself felt.

Just then the lines of his face relaxed and softened; he half smiled,
looked up, and our eyes met. I was terribly abashed at the thought that
he should find me watching him; but, to my surprise, his face brightened,
and he roused himself and crossed the room.

'I was dreaming, I think, but you woke me. Are you very tired? Shall I
take your place?' But before I could reply his manner changed, and he
stooped over the bed, and then looked at me with a smile.

'I thought so. The breathing is certainly less difficult: the
inflammation is diminishing. I see signs of improvement.'

'Thank God!' was my answer to this, and before long this hope was
verified: the pain and difficulty of breathing were certainly less
intense, the danger was subsiding.

Mr. Hamilton went downstairs soon after this, and I settled to my
solitary night-watch, but it was no longer dreary: every hour I felt more
assured that Susan Locke would be restored to her sister.

Once or twice during the night I crept into Phoebe's room to gladden her
heart with the glad news, but she was sleeping heavily and I would not
disturb her. 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the
morning,' I said to myself, as I sat down by Susan's bedside. I was very
weary, but a strange tumult of thoughts seemed surging through my brain,
and I was unable to control them. Gladys's pale face and tear-filled eyes
rose perpetually before me: her low, passionate tones vibrated in my ear.
'They have accused him falsely,' I seemed to hear her say: 'Eric never
took that cheque.'

What a mystery in that quiet household! No wonder there was something
unrestful in the atmosphere of Gladwyn,--that one felt oppressed and ill
at ease in that house.

Fragments of my conversation with Mr. Hamilton came unbidden to my
memory. How strange that that proud, reserved man should have spoken so
to me, that he had suffered his heart's bitterness to overflow in words
to me, who was almost a stranger: 'They lay the blame of that poor boy's
death at my door, as though I would not give my right hand to have him
back again.' Oh, if Gladys had only heard the tone in which he said this,
she must have believed and have been sorry for him.

'They are too hard upon him,' I said to myself. 'If he has been stern
and injudicious with his poor young brother, he has long ago repented
of his hardness. He is very good to them all, but they will not try to
understand him: it is not right of Gladys to treat him as a stranger.
I am sorry for them all, but I begin to feel that Mr. Hamilton is not the
only one to blame.'

I wished I could have told him this, but I knew the words would never
get themselves spoken. I might be sorry for him in my heart, but I could
never tell him so, never assure him of my true sympathy. I was far too
much in awe of him: there are some men one would never venture to pity.

But all the same I longed to do him some secret service; he had been kind
to me, and had helped me much in my work. If I could only succeed in
bringing him and Gladys nearer together, if I could make them understand
each other, I felt I would have spared no pains or trouble to do so.

If he were not so infatuated on the subject of his cousin's merits, I
thought scornfully, I should be no more sanguine about my success; but
Miss Darrell had hoodwinked him completely. As long as he believed in all
she chose to tell him, Gladys would never be in her proper place.

As soon as it was light I heard Mr. Hamilton stirring in the room below.
He came up for a moment to tell me that he was going home to breakfast;
he looked quite fresh and brisk, and declared that he had had a capital
night's sleep.

'I am going to find some one to take your place while you go home and
have a good seven hours' rest,' he said, in his decided way. 'I suppose
you are aware that you have not slept for forty-eight hours? Kitty is
going to make you some tea.' And with this he took himself off.

I went into Phoebe's room presently. Kitty told me that she was awake at
last. As soon as she saw me she put up her hands as though to ward off my
approach.

'Wait a moment,' she said huskily. 'You need not tell me; I know what you
have come to say; I have no longer a sister: Susan is a saint in heaven.'

For a moment I hesitated, afraid to speak. She had nerved herself to bear
the worst, and I feared the revulsion of feeling would be too great. As I
stood there silently looking down at her drawn, haggard face, I felt she
would not have had strength to bear a fresh trial. If Susan had died
Phoebe would not have long survived her.

'You are wrong,' I said, very gently. 'I have no bad news for you this
morning. The inflammation has diminished. Susan breathes more easily:
each breath is no longer acute agony.'

'Do you mean that she is better?' staring at me incredulously.

'Most certainly she is better. The danger is over; but we must be very
careful, for she will be ill for some time yet. Yes, indeed, Phoebe, you
may believe me. Do you think I would deceive you? God has heard your
prayers, and Susan is spared to you.'

I never saw a human countenance so transformed as Phoebe's was that
moment; every feature seemed to quiver with ecstasy; she could not speak,
only she folded her hands as though in prayer. Presently she looked up,
and said, as simply as a child,--

'Oh, I am so happy! I never thought I should be happy again. You may
leave me now, Miss Garston, for I want to thank God, for the first time
in my life. I feel as though I must love Him now for giving Susan back
to me.' And then again she begged me to leave her.

Mr. Hamilton did not forget me. I had just put the sick-room in order
when a respectable young woman made her appearance. She told me that her
name was Carron, that she was a married woman and a friend of Miss
Locke's, and she would willingly take my place until evening.

I was thankful to accept this timely offer of help, and went home and
enjoyed a deep dreamless sleep for some hours. When I woke it was
evening. Jill was standing by my bedside with a tray in her hands.
The room was bright with firelight. Jill's big eyes looked at me
affectionately.

'How you have slept, Ursie dear! just like a baby! I have been in and out
half-a-dozen times; but no, you never stirred. I told Mr. Hamilton so,
when he inquired an hour ago. Now, you are to drink this coffee, and when
you are quite awake I will give you his message.'

'I am quite awake now,' I returned, rubbing my eyes vigorously.

'Well, then, let me see. Oh, Miss Locke is going on well, and Mrs. Carron
will stop with her until eight o'clock. Phoebe has been ill, and they
sent for him; but it was only faintness and palpitation, and she is
better now. He has been to see Elspeth, and she is poorly; but there is
no need for you to trouble about her. Miss Darrell is sending her broth
and jelly, and Peggy waits on her very nicely. Lady Betty and I went to
see her to-day, and she was as comfortable and cheery as possible, and
told us that she felt like a lady in that big bed downstairs. Mr.
Hamilton says she will not die just yet, but one of these days she will
go off as quietly as a baby. She asked after you, Ursie, and sent you a
power of love, and I hope it will do you good.'

'And what have you been doing with yourself all day, Jill?' I asked,
rather anxiously.

'Oh, lots of things,' tossing back her thick locks. 'Let me see. Lady
Betty came to fetch me for a walk, and we met Mr. Tudor. He is all alone,
poor man, and very dull without Mr. Cunliffe; he told us so: so Lady
Betty brought him back to lunch. And Miss Darrell was so cross, and told
poor Lady Betty that she was very forward to do such a thing; they had
such a quarrel in the drawing-room about it. Mr. Tudor came in and
found Lady Betty crying, so he made us come out in the garden, and we
played a new sort of Aunt Sally. Mr. Tudor stuck up an old hat of Mr.
Hamilton's,--at least we found out it was not an old one after all,--and
we snowballed it, and Mr. Hamilton came out and helped us. After tea, we
all told ghost-stories round the fire. Miss Darrell does not like them,
so she went up to her room. Mr. Tudor had to see a sick man, but he came
back to dinner; but I would not stay, for I thought you would be waking,
Ursie, so Mr. Hamilton brought me home.'

'Jill!' I asked desperately, 'have they not written for you to join them
at Hastings yet? I begin to think you have been idle long enough.'

'Had you not better go to sleep again, Ursie dear?' returned Jill,
marching off with my tray. But she made a little face at me as she went
out of the door. 'I shall get into trouble over this,' I thought. 'I
really must write to Aunt Philippa.' But I was spared the necessity, for
the very next day Jill came to me at Miss Locke's to tell me, with a very
long face, that her mother had written to say that Miss Gillespie was
coming the following week, and Jill was to pack up and join them at
Hastings the very next day.




CHAPTER XXV

'THERE IS NO ONE LIKE DONALD'


Mrs. Carron very kindly took my place that I might be with Jill that last
evening, and we spent it in Jill's favourite fashion, talking in the
firelight.

She was a little quiet and subdued, full of regret at leaving me, and
more affectionate than ever.

'I have never been so happy in my life,' she said, in rather a melancholy
voice. 'When I get to Hastings, my visit here will seem like a dream, it
has been so nice, somehow; you are such a dear old thing, Ursula, and I
am so fond of Lady Betty, I shall ask mother to invite her in the
holidays.'

'And there is no one else you will regret, Jill?' I asked, anxious to
sound her on one point.

'Oh yes; I am sorry to bid good-bye to Mr. Tudor. He has been such fun
lately. I really do think he is quite the nicest young man I know.'

'Do you know many young men, my dear?' was my apparently innocent remark;
but Jill was not deceived by this smooth speech.

'Of course I do,' in a scornful voice; 'they come to see Sara, and I
hate them so, flimsy stuck-up creatures, with their white ties and absurd
little moustaches. Each one is more stupid and vapid than the other. And
Sara must think so too; for she smiles on them all alike.'

'You are terribly hard on the young men of your generation, Jill; I
daresay I should think them very harmless and pleasant.' But she shook
her head vigorously.

'Why cannot they be natural, and say good-natured things, like Mr. Tudor?
He is real, and not make-believe, pretending that he is too bored to live
at all. One would think there was no truth anywhere, nothing but tinsel
and sham, to listen to them. That is why I like Mr. Tudor: he has the
ring of the true metal about him. Even Miss Darrell agrees with me
there.'

'Do you discuss Mr. Tudor with Miss Darrell?'

'Why not?' opening her eyes widely. 'I like to talk about my friends,
and I feel Mr. Tudor is a real friend. She was so interested,--really
interested, I mean, without any humbug,--at least, pretence,' for here I
held up my finger at Jill. 'She wanted to know if you liked him too, and
I said, "Oh yes, so much; he was a great favourite of yours," and she
seemed pleased to hear it.'

'You silly child! I wish you would leave me and my likes and dislikes out
of your conversations with Miss Darrell.'

'Well, do you know, I try to do so, because I know how you hate her,--at
least, dislike her: that is a more ladylike term,--you are so horribly
particular, Ursula; but somehow your name always gets in, and I never
know how, and there is no keeping you out. Sometimes she makes me
dreadfully angry about you, and sometimes she says nice things; but
there, we will not talk about the double-faced lady to-night. I
understand her less than ever.'

We glided into more serious subjects after this. I made Jill promise to
be more patient with her life, and work from a greater sense of duty, and
I begged her most earnestly to fight against discontent, and exorcise
this youthful demon of hers, and again she promised to do her best.

'I feel better about things, somehow: you have done me good, Ursie; you
always do. I must make mother understand that I am nearly a woman, and
that I do not intend to waste my time any longer dreaming childish
dreams. I suppose mother is really fond of me, though she does find fault
with me continually, and is always praising Sara.' Jill went on talking
in this way for some time, and then we went upstairs together.

I was rather provoked to find Mr. Tudor at the station the next morning.
I suppose my steady look abashed him, for he muttered something about
Smith's bookstall, as though I should be deceived by such a flimsy
excuse. After all, Mr. Tudor was not better than other young men; in
spite of Jill's praises, he was capable of this mild subterfuge to get
his own way.

Jill was so honestly and childishly pleased to see him that I ought to
have been disarmed. She went off with him to the bookstall, while I
looked after her luggage, and they stood there chattering and laughing
until I joined them, and then Mr. Tudor grew suddenly quiet.

As the train came up, I heard him ask Jill how long they were to stay at
Hastings, and if they would be at Hyde Park Gate before Easter.

'I shall be up in town then,' he remarked carelessly, 'to see some of my
people.'

'Oh yes, and you must come and see us,' she returned cheerfully.
'Good-bye, Mr. Tudor. I am so sorry to leave Heathfield.'

But, after all, Jill's last look was for me: as she leaned out of the
carriage, waving her hand, she did not even glance at the young man who
was standing silent and gloomy beside me. I felt rather sorry for the
poor boy, as he turned away quite sadly.

'I must go down to the schools: good-bye, Miss Garston,' he said
hurriedly. One would have thought he had to make up for lost time, as he
strode through the station and up the long road. Had Jill really taken
his fancy, I wondered? had her big eyes and quaint speeches bewitched
him? Mr. Tudor was a gentleman, and we all liked him; but what would
Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa say if a needy, good-looking young curate
were suddenly to present himself as a lover for their daughter Jocelyn?
Why, Jill would be rich some day,--poor Ralph was dead, and she and Sara
would be co-heiresses. Her parents would expect her to make a grand
match.

I shook my head gravely over poor Lawrence's prospects as I took my way
slowly up the hill. I was rather glad when his broad shoulders were out
of sight; I should be sorry if any disappointment were to cloud his
cheery nature.

I missed Jill a great deal at first, but in my heart I was not sorry
to get rid of the responsibility; a lively girl of sixteen, with strong
individuality and marked precocity, is likely to be a formidable charge;
but Mrs. Barton lamented her absence in no measured terms.

'It seems so dull without Miss Jocelyn,' she said, the first evening.
'She was such a lively young lady, and made us all cheerful. Why, she
would run in and out the kitchen a dozen times a day, to feed the
chickens, or pet the cat, or watch me knead the bread. She and Nathaniel
got on famously together, and often I have found her helping him with the
books, and laughing so merrily when he made a mistake. I used to think
Nathaniel did it on purpose sometimes, just for the fun of it.'

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