Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




Yes, we all missed Jill, and I for one loved the girl dearly. It made me
quite happy one day when she wrote a long letter, telling me that she was
delighted with her new governess.

'Miss Gillespie is as nice as possible,' she wrote. 'I already feel quite
fond of her; my lessons are as interesting now as they used to be dull
with Fraeulein. She knows a great deal, and is not ashamed to confess when
she is ignorant of anything; she says right out that she cannot answer my
questions, and proposes that we should study it together. I quite enjoy
our walks and talks, for she takes so much interest in all I tell her.
She is a little dull and sad sometimes, as though she were thinking of
past troubles; but I like to feel that I can cheer her up and do her
good. Mother and Sara are delighted with her; she plays so beautifully,
and they say that she is such a gentlewoman. When we come downstairs in
the evening she will not allow me to creep into a corner; she makes me
join in the conversation, and coaxes me to play my pieces; and she tries
to prevent mother making horrid little remarks on my awkwardness.

'"It will all come right, Mrs. Garston," I heard her say one day. "It is
far wiser not to notice it: young girls are so sensitive, and Jocelyn is
keenly alive to her shortcomings." And mother actually nodded assent to
this, and the next moment she called me up, and said how much I had
improved in my playing, and that Colonel Ferguson had told her that I
had been exceedingly well taught.

'By the bye, I am quite sure that Colonel Ferguson intends to be my
brother-in-law: he is always here in the evening, and yesterday he sent
Sara such a magnificent bouquet.'

Jill's chatty letters were always amusing. She had prepared me
beforehand, so I was not surprised at receiving a voluminous letter from
Aunt Philippa a few days afterwards, informing me of Sara's engagement to
Colonel Ferguson.

'Your uncle and I are delighted with the match,' she wrote. 'Colonel
Ferguson belongs to a very good old family, and he has private property.
Your uncle says that he is a very intelligent man, and is much respected
in the regiment.

'Mrs. Fullerton thinks it is a pity for Sara to marry a widower; but I
call that nonsense; he is a young-looking man for his age, and every one
thinks him so handsome. Sara, poor darling, is as happy as possible. I
believe that they are to be married soon after Easter, as he wants to get
some salmon fishing in Norway: so we shall come up to Hyde Park Gate
early next week, and see about the trousseau, for there is no time to be
lost.'

Sara added a few words in her pretty girlish handwriting.

'I wonder if you will be very much surprised by mamma's letter, Ursula
dear. We all thought he liked Lesbia, but no, he says that was entirely a
mistake on our part, he never really thought of her at all.

'Of course I am very happy. I think there is no one like Donald in the
world. I cannot imagine why such a wise, clever man should fall in love
with a silly little body like me. I suppose I must please him in some
way, for, really, he seems dreadfully in love.

'You must come to my wedding, Ursula, and I must choose your dress
for you; of course father will pay for it, but I promise you it shall
be pretty, and suitable to your complexion. I mean to have eight
bridesmaids. Jocelyn will be one, of course, and I shall get that tall,
fair Grace Underley to act as a foil to her bigness. I shall not ask
poor Lesbia to be one; it would be too trying for her, and I know you
will not care about it; but you must come for a week, and see all my
pretty things, and help poor mamma, for she has only Jocelyn: so remember
you are to keep yourself disengaged the week after Easter.'

I wrote back that same evening warm congratulations to Sara and Aunt
Philippa, and promised to come when Sara wanted me. A gay wedding was not
to my taste, but I knew I owed this duty to them: they had been kind to
me in their own fashion and according to their lights, and I would not
fail them. Easter would fall late this year,--in the middle of April:
there were still three months before Sara would be married, and most
likely by that time I should need a few days' rest and change.

The next morning I heard from Lesbia. It was a kind, sad little letter;
she told me she was glad about Sara's engagement, and as they were still
at Hastings she and her mother had called at Warrior Square, and had
found Sara and her _fiance_ together.

'I think it has improved Sara already,' it went on; 'she was looking
exceedingly pretty, and in good spirits, and she seemed very proud of
her tall, grave-looking soldier. Mother and I always liked Colonel
Ferguson. He and Sara are complete contrasts; I think her brightness
and good-humour, as well as her beauty, have attracted him, for he is
honestly in love! I liked the quiet, deferential way in which he treated
her. I am sure he will make a kind husband. Mrs. Garston looked as happy
as possible. I did not see Jocelyn; she was out riding with her father.

'We are going down to dear Rutherford in March, but I have promised Sara
to come up for the wedding. Don't sigh, Ursula: it is all in the day's
work, and one has to do trying things sometimes.

'I have come to think that perhaps dear Charlie is better off where he
is. He was so enthusiastic and so true that life must have disappointed
him. Perhaps I should have disappointed him too; but no, I should have
loved him too well to do that.

'I shall love to be at Rutherford during the spring. Everything will
remind me of those sweet spring days two years ago. Oh, those walks and
rides, and the evening when we listened to the nightingale and he told me
that he loved me! I remember the very patch of grass where I stood. There
was a little clump of alders, and I can see how he looked then. Oh,
Ursula, these memories are very sad, but they are sweet, too; for Charlie
is our Charlie still, is he not?'

'Poor Lesbia!' I sighed, as I folded up her letter and prepared for my
day's work. 'It must be hard for her to witness Sara's happiness, when
her own life is so clouded. Her heart is still true to Charlie; but she
is so young, and life is so long. I trust that better things are in store
for her.'

Miss Locke was recovering very slowly. Years of anxiety and hard work
had overtaxed her strength sorely. Mr. Hamilton used to shake his head
over her tardy progress, and tell her that she was a very unsatisfactory
patient, and that he had expected to cure her long before this.

'If it were not for you and my dear Miss Garston, I should never be lying
here now,' she returned gratefully. 'I must have died; you know that,
doctor; and even now, in spite of all the good things you send me, I am
so weary and fit for nothing I feel as though I should never sit up
again.'

'Oh, we shall have you up before long,' he returned cheerfully. 'You
are only rather slow about it. You are not troubling about your work or
anything else, I hope, because the rent is paid, and there is plenty in
the cupboard for Phoebe and Kitty.'

'I know you have paid the rent, and I shall never be grateful enough to
you, doctor; for what should I have done, with this long illness making
me behindhand with everything? I am afraid Miss Garston puts her hand in
her pocket sometimes. I hope the Lord will bless you both for your
goodness to two helpless women. Ay, and he will bless you, doctor!'

'I am sure I hope so,' he returned, in a good-humoured tone, shaking her
hand. 'There! mind what your nurse says, and keep yourself easy: you will
find Phoebe a different person when you see her next.'

I was afraid Phoebe would find her sister much changed when they met.
Miss Locke had greatly aged since her illness; her hair was much grayer,
and her face was sunken, and I doubted whether she would ever be the same
woman again. Mr. Hamilton and I had already discussed the sisters'
future.

'I am afraid they will be terribly pinched,' he said once. 'Miss Locke
is suffering now from years of overwork. She will never be able to work
as hard as she has done. And she has to provide for that child Kitty, as
well as for poor Phoebe.'

'We must think what is to be done,' I replied. 'Miss Locke is a very good
manager: she is careful and thrifty. A little will go a long way with
her.'

Mr. Hamilton said no more on the subject just then, but a few days
afterwards he told me that he intended to buy the cottage. He had a good
deal of house-property in Heathfield, and a cottage more or less did not
matter to him.

'They shall live in it rent-free, and I will take care of the repairs.
There will be no need for Miss Locke to work so hard then. She is a good
woman, and I thoroughly respect her. Of course I know she is a favourite
of yours, Miss Garston, but you must not think that influences me.'

'As though I should imagine such a thing!' I returned, in quite an
affronted tone. But Mr. Hamilton only laughed.

'You are such an insignificant person, you see,' he went on
mischievously. 'You are of so little use to your generation. People do
not benefit by your example, or defer to your opinion. There is no St.
Ursula in the calendar.' Now what did he mean by all this rigmarole? But
he only laughed again in a provoking way, and went out.

I had had both the sisters on my hands. Those hours of fearful suspense
had told on Phoebe, and for a week or two we were very anxious about her.

I kept the extent of her illness from Susan, and she never knew that
Mr. Hamilton visited her daily. Strange to say, Phoebe gave us little
trouble. She bore her bodily sufferings with surprising patience, and
even made light of them; and she would thank me most gratefully when I
waited on her.

I was never long in her room. There was no reading or singing now.
Nothing would induce her to keep me from Susan. She used to beg me to
go back to Susan and leave her to Kitty. I never forgot Susan's look of
astonishment when I told her this.

'Somehow, it doesn't sound like Phoebe,' she said, looking at me a
little wistfully. 'Are you sure you understand her, Miss Garston?--that
something has not put her out? She has often sulked with me like that.'

'Oh, Phoebe never sulks now,' I returned, smiling at this view of the
case. 'She is not like the same woman, Susan. She thinks of other people
now.' Miss Locke heard me silently, but I saw that she was still
incredulous. She was not sanguine enough to hope for a miracle; and
surely only a miracle could change Phoebe's sullen and morbid nature.

The sisters were longing to meet, but the helplessness of the one and the
long-protracted weakness of the other kept them long apart, though only a
short flight of stairs divided them.

At last I thought we might venture to bring Susan into Phoebe's room.

The weather was less severe, and Susan seemed a little stronger, so Kitty
and I hurried ourselves in preparation for a festive tea in Phoebe's
room.

She watched us with unconcealed interest as we spread the tea-cloth, and
arranged the best china, and then placed an easy-chair by her bedside.

The room really looked very bright and cosy. A little gray kitten that I
had brought Kitty was asleep on the quilt; Phoebe had taken a great fancy
to the pretty, playful little creature, and it was always with her;
Kitty's large wax doll was lying with its curly head on her pillow.

Susan trembled very much as she entered the room, leaning heavily on
my arm. Phoebe lay quite motionless, watching her as she walked slowly
towards the bed, then her face suddenly grew pitiful, and she held out
her arms.

'Oh, how ill you look, my poor Susan, and so old and gray! but what does
it matter, so that I have got my Susan back? If you had died, I should
have died too; God never meant to punish me like that.' And she stroked
and kissed her face as though she were a child, and for a little while
the two sisters mingled their tears together.

Susan was too weak for much emotion, so I placed her comfortably in her
easy-chair, and bade her look at Phoebe without troubling to talk; but
her heart was too full for silence.

'Why, my woman,' she burst out, 'you look real bonnie! I do believe your
face has got a bit of colour in it, and you remind me of the old Phoebe;
nay,' as Phoebe laughed at this, 'I never thought to hear you laugh
again, my dearie.'

'It is with the pleasure of seeing you,' returned Phoebe. 'If you only
knew what I suffered while you lay ill! "there is no improvement," they
said, and Miss Garston looked at me so pityingly; and if you had died and
never spoken to me again,--and I had refused to bid you good-night,--you
remember, Susan! oh, I think my heart would have broken if you had gone
away and left me like that.'

'Nay, I should have thought nothing about it, but that it was just
Phoebe's way. Do you mean that you fretted about that, lass? Oh,' turning
to me, for Phoebe was crying bitterly over the recollection, 'I would not
believe you, Miss Garston, when you said Phoebe was changed, for I said
to myself, "Surely she will be up to her old tricks again soon"; but now
I see you are right. Nay, never fret, my bonnie woman, for I loved you
when you were as tiresome and cross-grained as possible. I think I cannot
help loving yon,' finished Susan simply, as she took her sister's hand.

That was a happy evening that we spent in Phoebe's room. When tea was
over we read a few chapters, Kitty and I, and then I sang some of
Phoebe's favourite songs. When I had finished, I looked at them: Phoebe
had fallen asleep with Susan's hand still in hers: there was a look of
peaceful rest on the worn gray face that made me whisper to Miss Locke,--

'The evil spirit is cast out at last, Susan.'

'Ay,' returned Susan quietly. 'She is clothed and in her right mind, and
I doubt not sitting at the feet of Him who has called her. I have got my
Phoebe back again, thank God, as I have not seen her for many a long
year.'




CHAPTER XXVI

I HEAR ABOUT CAPTAIN HAMILTON


It was now more than five weeks since Gladys had left us, but during that
time I had heard from her frequently.

Her letters were deeply interesting. She wrote freely, pouring out her
thoughts on every subject without reserve. Somehow I felt, as I read
them, that those letters gave as much pleasure to the writer as to the
recipient; and I found afterwards that this was the case. Her
consciousness of my sympathy with her made her open her heart more freely
to me than to any other person. She delighted in telling me of the books
she read, in describing the various effects of nature. Her descriptions
were so powerful and graphic that they quite surprised me. She made me
feel as though I were walking through the fir woods beside her, or
standing on the sea-shore watching the white-crested waves rolling in and
breaking into foam at our feet. A sort of dewy freshness seemed to stamp
the pages. Gladys loved nature with all her heart; she revelled in the
solemn grandeur of those woods, in the breadth and freedom of the ocean;
it seemed to harmonise with her varying moods.

'I feel a different creature already,' she wrote when she had been away
a fortnight. 'Without owning myself happy (but happiness, active or
negative, will never come to me again), still I am calmer and more at
peace,--away from the oppressive influences that surrounded me at home.

'I have made up my mind that the atmosphere of Gladwyn is fatal to my
soul's health. I seem to wither up like some sensitive plant in that
blighting air; half-truths, misunderstandings, and jealousies have
corroded our home peace. I am better away from it all, for here I can own
myself ill and miserable, and no one blames or misapprehends my meaning:
there are no harsh judgments under the guise of pity.

'These dear people are so truly charitable, they think no evil of a poor
girl who is faithful to a brother's memory: they are patient with my sad
moods, they leave me free to follow out my wishes. I wander about as I
will, I sketch or read, I sit idle; no one blames me; they are as good to
me as you would be in their place.

'I shall stay away as long as possible, until I feel strong enough to
take up my life again. You will not be vexed with me, my dear Ursula: you
know how I have suffered; you of all others will sympathise with me.
Think of the relief it is to wake up in the morning and feel that no
jarring influences will be at work that day; that no eyes will pry into
my secret sorrow, or seek to penetrate my very thoughts; that I may look
and speak as I like; that my words will not be twisted to serve other
people's purposes. Forgive me if I speak harshly, but indeed you do not
know all yet. Your last letter made me a little sad, you speak so much of
Giles. Do you really think I am hard upon him? The idea is painful to me.

'I like you to think well of him. He is a good man. I have always
thoroughly respected him, but there is no sympathy between us. Of course
it is more Etta's fault than his: she has usurped my place, and Giles no
longer needs me. Perhaps I am not kind to him, not sisterly or soft in my
manners; but he treats me too much as a child. He never asks my opinion
on any subject. We live under his protection, and he never grudges us
money; he is generous in that way; but he never enters into our thoughts.
Lady Betty and I lead our own lives.

'You ask me why I do not write to him, my dear Ursula. Such a thought
would never enter my head. Write to Giles! What should I say to him? How
would such a letter ever get itself written? Do you suppose he would care
for me as a correspondent? I should like you to ask him that question, if
you dared. Giles's face would be a study. I fancy I write that letter,--a
marvellous composition of commonplace nothings. "My dear brother, I think
you will like to hear our Bournemouth news," etc. I can imagine him
tossing it aside as he opens his other letters: "Gladys has actually
written to me. I suppose she wants another cheque. See what she says,
Etta. You may read it aloud, if you like, while I finish my breakfast."
Now do not look incredulous. I once saw Lady Betty's letter treated in
this way, and all her poor little sentences pulled to pieces in Etta's
usual fashion. No, thank you, I will not write to Giles. I write to Lady
Betty sometimes, but not often: that is why she comes to you for news. We
are a queer household, Ursula. I am very fond of my dear little Lady
Betty, but somehow I have never enjoyed writing to her since Etta one day
handed to her one of my letters opened by mistake. Lady Betty has fancied
the mistake has occurred more than once.'

I put down this letter with a sigh; it was the only painful one I had
received from Gladys. My remark about her writing to her brother had
evidently upset her, but after this she did not speak much about Gladwyn,
and by tacit consent we spoke little about any of her people except Lady
Betty. When I mentioned Mr. Hamilton I did so casually, and only with
reference to my own work. He was so mixed up with my daily life, I came
so continually into contact with him, that it was impossible to avoid his
name.

Gladys understood this, for she once replied,--

'I am really and honestly glad that you and Giles work so well together.
He will be a good friend to you, I know, for when he forms a favourable
opinion of a person he is slow to change it, and Giles is one who, with
all his faults, will go through fire and water for his friends. I like to
hear of him in this way, for you always put him in the best light, and
though you may not believe it after all my hard speeches, I am
sufficiently proud of my brother to wish him to be properly appreciated.'
And after this I mentioned him less reluctantly.

Max came back about ten days after Jill had left us. I found him waiting
for me one evening when I got back to the cottage. As usual, he greeted
me most affectionately, only he laughed when I made him turn to the light
that I might see how he looked.

'Well, what is your opinion, Ursula, my dear? I hope you have noticed the
gray hairs in my beard. I saw them there this morning.'

'You are rather tanned by the cold winds. I suppose Torquay has done you
good; but your eyes have not lost their tired look, Max: you are not a
bit rested.'

'I believe I want more work: too much rest would kill me with ennui,'
stretching out his arms with a sort of weary gesture. 'I walked a great
deal at Torquay; I was out in the air all day; but it did not seem to be
what I wanted: I was terribly bored. Tudor is glad to get me back. The
fellow actually seems dull. Have you any idea what has gone wrong with
him, Ursula?' But I prudently turned a deaf ear to this question, and he
did not follow it up; and a moment afterwards he mentioned that he had
been at Gladwyn, and that Miss Darrell had given him a good account of
Miss Hamilton.

'I had no idea that she was away until this afternoon. Her departure was
rather sudden, was it not?'

I think he was glad when I gave him Gladys's message; but he looked
rather grave when I told him how much she was enjoying her freedom.

'She seems a different creature; those Maberleys are so good to her; they
pet her, and yet leave her uncontrolled to follow her own wishes. I am
more at rest about her there.'

'A girl ought to be happy in her own home,' he returned, somewhat
moodily. 'I think Miss Hamilton has indulged her sadness long enough.
Perhaps there are other reasons for her being better. I suppose she has
not heard--?' And here he stopped rather awkwardly.

'Do you mean whether she has heard anything of Eric? Oh no, Max.'

'No, I was not meaning that,' looking at me rather astonished. 'Of course
we know the poor boy is dead. I was only wondering if she had had an
Indian letter lately. Well, it is none of my affair, and I cannot wait to
hear more now. Good-night, little she-bear; I am off.' And he actually
was off, in spite of my calling him quite loudly in the porch, for I
wanted him to tell me what he meant. Had Gladys any special correspondent
in India? I wondered if I might venture to question Lady Betty.

As it very often happens, she played quite innocently into my hands, for
the very next day she came to tell me that she had had a letter from
Gladys.

'It was a very short one,' she grumbled. 'Only she had an Indian letter
to answer, and that took up her time, so that was a pretty good excuse
for once.'

'Has Gladys any special friend in India?'

'Only Claude!--I mean our cousin, Claude Hamilton. Have you not often
heard us talk of him? How strange! Why, he used to stay with us for
months at a time, and he and Gladys were great friends: they correspond.
He is Captain Hamilton now; his regiment was ordered to India just at the
time poor dear Eric disappeared; he was awfully shocked about that, I
remember. Etta wrote and told him all about it; he was a great favourite
of hers. We none of us thought him handsome except Etta; he was a
nice-looking fellow, but nothing else.'

'And you and Gladys are fond of him?'

'Oh yes.' But here Lady Betty looked a little queer.

'Gladys writes to him most: she has always been his correspondent.
Now and then I get a letter written to me. You see, he has no one else
belonging to him, now his mother is dead. Aunt Agnes died about two years
ago, and he never had brothers or sisters, so he adopted us.'

'Uncle Max knew him, of course?'

'To be sure. Mr. Cunliffe knew all our people. Claude was a favourite of
his, too. I think every one liked him; he was so straightforward, and
never did anything mean. I think he will make a splendid officer; he has
had fever lately, and we rather expect he is coming home on sick-leave.
Etta hopes so.'

'Gladys has never spoken of her cousin to me.'

'That is because you two are always talking about other things,--poor
Eric, for example. Gladys likes to talk about Claude, of course: he is
her own cousin.' And Lady Betty's manner was just a little defiant, as
though I had accused Gladys of some indiscretion. I heard her mutter,
'They find plenty of fault with her about that,' but I took no notice.
I had satisfied my curiosity, and I knew now why Max fancied an Indian
letter would raise Gladys's spirits; but all the same he might have
spoken out. Max had no business to be so mysterious with me.

I heard Captain Hamilton's name again shortly afterwards. I was calling
at Gladwyn one afternoon. I was loath to do so in Gladys's absence, but
I dared not discontinue my visits entirely, for fear of Miss Darrell's
remarks. To my surprise, I found her _tete-a-tete_ with Uncle Max. She
welcomed me with a great show of cordiality; but before I had been five
minutes in the room I found out that my visit was inopportune, though
Max seemed unfeignedly pleased to see me, and she had repeated his words
in almost parrot-like fashion. 'Oh yes, I am so glad to see you, Miss
Garston! it is so good of you to call when dear Gladys is away! Of course
I know she is the attraction: we all know that, do we not?' smiling
sweetly upon me. 'She has been away more than five weeks now,--dear,
dear! how time flies!--really five weeks, and this is your first call.'

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