Book: Uncle Max

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'You know how Miss Locke's illness has engrossed me,' I remonstrated.
'I never pretend to mere conventional calls.'

'No, indeed. You have a code of your own, have you not? Your niece is
fortunate, Mr. Cunliffe. She makes her own laws, while we poor inferior
mortals are obliged to conform to the world's dictates. I wish I were
strong-minded like you. It must be such a pleasure to be free and despise
_les convenances_. People are so artificial, are they not?'

'Ursula is not artificial, at any rate,' returned Max, with a benevolent
glance. It had struck me as I entered the room that he looked rather
bored and ill at ease, but Miss Darrell was in high spirits, and looked
almost handsome. I never saw her better dressed.

'No, indeed. Miss Garston is almost too frank; not that that is a fault.
Oh yes, Miss Locke's illness has been a tedious affair: even Giles got
weary of it, and used to grumble at having to go every day. Of course,
seeing Giles once or twice a day, you heard all our news, so we did not
expect you to toil up here: that would have been unnecessary trouble
after your hard work.'

Miss Darrell spoke quite civilly, and I do not know why her speech
rankled and made me reply, rather quickly,--

'Nurses do not gossip with the doctor, Miss Darrell. Mr. Hamilton has
told me no news, I assure you. Gladys's letters tell me far more.'

I was angry with myself when I said this, for why need I have answered
her at all or taken notice of her remark? and, above all, why need I have
mentioned Gladys's name? Miss Darrell's colour rose in a moment.

'Dear me! I am glad to hear dear Gladys writes to you. She does not
honour us. Lady Betty gets a note sometimes, but Giles and I are never
favoured with a word. Giles feels terribly hurt about it sometimes, but
I tell him it is only Gladys's way. Girls are careless sometimes. Of
course she does not mean to slight him.'

'Of course not,' rather gravely from Max.

'All the same it is very neglectful on Gladys's part. If you are a real
friend, Miss Garston, you will tell her what a mistake it is,--really a
fatal mistake, though I do not dare to tell her so. I see Giles's look of
disappointment when the post brings him nothing but dry business letters.
He is so anxious about her health. He let her go so willingly, and yet
not one word of recognition for her own, I may say her only, brother.'

Max was looking so exceedingly grave by this time that I longed to change
the subject. I would say a word in defence of Gladys when we were alone,
he and I. It would be worse than useless to speak before Miss Darrell.
She would twist my words before my face. I never said a word in Gladys's
behalf that she did not make me repent it.

The next moment, however, she had started on a different tack.

'Oh, do you know, Mr. Cunliffe,' she said carelessly, as she crossed the
hearth-rug to ring the bell, 'we have heard again from Captain Hamilton?'

Max raised his head quickly. 'Indeed! I hope he is quite well. By the
bye, I remember you told me he had a touch of fever; but I trust he has
got the better of that.'

'We hope so,' in a very impressive tone; 'but it was a sharp attack, and
no doubt home-sickness and worry of mind accelerated the mischief. Poor
Claude! I fear he has suffered much; not that he says so himself: he is
far too proud to complain. But he is likely to come home on sick-leave;
next mail will settle the question, but I believe we may expect him about
the end of July.'

'Indeed! That is good news for all of you'; but the poker that Max had
taken up fell with a little crash among the fire-irons. Miss Darrell gave
a faint scream, and then laughed at her foolish nervousness.

'It was very clumsy on my part,' stammered Max. Could it be my fancy, or
had he turned suddenly pale, as though something had startled him too?

'Oh no, it was only my poor nerves,' replied Miss Darrell, with her
brightest smile. 'What was I saying? Oh yes, I remember now,--about
Claude: he wrote to Gladys to ask if he might come, and she said yes.
Ah, here comes tea, and I believe I heard Giles's ring at the bell.'

I cannot tell which of the two revealed it to me,--whether it was the
sudden pallor on Max's face, or the curious watchful look that I detected
in Miss Darrell's eyes: it was only there for a moment, but it reminded
me of the look with which a cat eyes the mouse she has just drawn within
her claws. I saw it all then with a quick flash of intuition. I had
partly guessed it before, but now I was sure of it.

My poor Max, so brave and cheery and patient! But she should not torment
him any longer in my presence. If he had to suffer,--and the cause of
that suffering was still a mystery to me,--she should not spy out his
weakness. He had turned his face aside with a quick look of pain as he
spoke, and the next moment I had mounted the breach and was begging Miss
Darrell to assist me in the case of a poor family,--old hospital
acquaintances of mine, who were emigrating to New Zealand.

My importunity seemed to surprise her. My sudden loquacity was an
interruption; but I would not be repressed or silenced. I took the chair
beside her, and made her look at me. I fixed her wandering attention and
pressed her until she grew irritable with impatience. I saw Max was
recovering himself: by and by he gave a forced laugh.

'You will have to give in, Miss Darrell. Ursula always gets her own way.
How much do you want, child? You must be merciful to a poor vicar. Will
that satisfy you?' offering me a sovereign, and Miss Darrell, after a
moment's hesitation, produced the same sum from her purse.

I took her money coolly, but I would not resign the reins of the
conversation any more into her hands. When Mr. Hamilton entered the room
he stopped and looked at me with visible astonishment: he had never heard
me so fluent before; but somehow my eloquence died a natural death after
his entrance. I was still a little shy with Mr. Hamilton.

His manner was unusually genial this afternoon. I was sure he was
delighted to see us both there again. He spoke to Max in a jesting tone,
and then looked benignly at his cousin, who was superintending the
tea-table. She certainly looked uncommonly well that day; her dress of
dark maroon cashmere and velvet fitted her fine figure exquisitely; her
white, well-shaped hands were, as usual, loaded with brilliant rings. She
was a woman who needed ornaments: they would have looked lavish on any
one else, they suited her admirably. Once I caught her looking with
marked disfavour on my black serge dress: the pearl hoop that had been my
mother's keeper was my sole adornment. I daresay she thought me extremely
dowdy. I once heard her say, in a pointed manner, that 'her cousin Giles
liked to see his women-folk well dressed; he was very fastidious on that
point, and exceedingly hard to please.'

Mr. Hamilton seemed in the best of humours. I do not think that he
remarked how very quiet Max was all tea-time. He pressed us to remain to
dinner, and wanted to send off a message to the vicarage; but we were
neither of us to be persuaded, though Miss Darrell joined her entreaties
to her cousin's.

I was anxious to leave the house as quickly as possible, and I knew by
instinct what Max's feelings must be. I could not enjoy Mr. Hamilton's
conversation, amusing as it was. I wanted to be alone with Max; I felt
I could keep silence with him no longer. But we could not get rid of Mr.
Hamilton; as we rose to take our departure he coolly announced his
intention of walking with us.

'The Tylcotes have sent for me again,' he said casually. 'I may as well
walk down with you now.' He looked at me as he spoke, but I am afraid my
manner disappointed him. For once Mr. Hamilton was decidedly _de trop_.
I am sure he must have noticed my hesitation, but it made no difference
to his purpose. I had found out by this time that when Mr. Hamilton had
made up his mind to do a certain thing, other people's moods did not
influence him in the least. He half smiled as he went out to put on his
greatcoat, and, as though he intended to punish me for my want of
courtesy, he talked to Max the whole time; not that I minded it in the
least, only it was just his lordly way.

To my great relief, however, he left us as soon as we reached the
vicarage, so I wished him good-night quite amiably, and of course Max
walked on with me to the cottage.

He was actually leaving me at the gate without a word except 'Good-night,
Ursula,' but I laid my hand on his arm.

'You must come in, Max. I want to speak to you.'

'Not to-night, my dear,' he returned hurriedly. 'I have business letters
to write before dinner.'

'They must wait, then,' I replied decidedly, 'for I certainly do not
intend to let you leave me just yet. Don't be stubborn, Max, for you know
I always get my own way. Come in. I want to tell you why Gladys never
writes to her brother.' And he followed me into the house without a word.




CHAPTER XXVII

MAX OPENS HIS HEART


But I did not at once join Max in the parlour, though he was evidently
expecting me to do so: instead of that, I ran upstairs to take off my
walking-things. It would be better to leave him alone a few minutes. When
I returned he was leaning back in the easy-chair, with his hands clasped
behind his head, evidently absorbed in thought. I was struck by his
expression: it was that of a man who was nerving himself to bear some
great trouble; there was a quiet, hopeless look on his face that touched
me exceedingly. I took the chair opposite him, and waited for him to
speak. He did not change his attitude when he saw me, but he looked at me
gravely, and said, 'Well, Ursula?' but there was no interest in his tone.

Of course I knew what he meant, but I let that pass, and something seemed
to choke my voice as I tried to answer him:

'Never mind that now: we will come to that presently. I want to tell you
that I know it now, Max. I guessed a little of it before, but now I am
sure of it.'

I had roused him effectually. A sort of dusky red came to his face
as he sat up and looked at me. He did not ask me what I meant: we
understood each other in a moment. He only sighed heavily, and said, 'I
have never told you anything, Ursula, have I?' but his manner testified
no displeasure. He would never have spoken a word to me of his own
accord, and yet my sympathy would be a relief to him. I knew Max's nature
so well: he was a shy, reticent man; he could not speak easily of his own
feelings unless the ice were broken for him.

'Max,' I pleaded, and the tears came into my eyes, 'if my dear mother
were living you would have told her all without reserve.'

'I should not have needed to tell her: she would have guessed it, Ursula.
Poor Emmie! I never could keep anything from her. I have often told you
you are like her: you reminded me of her this afternoon.'

'Then you must make me your _confidante_ in her stead. Do not refuse
me again, Max: I have asked this before. In spite of our strange
relationship, we are still like brother and sister. You know how quickly
I guessed Charlie's secret: surely you can speak to me, who am her
friend, of your affection for Gladys.'

I saw him shrink a little at that, and his honest brown eyes were full of
pain.

'My affection for Gladys,' he repeated, in a low voice. 'You are very
frank, Ursula; but somehow I do not seem to mind it. I never care for
Miss Darrell to speak to me on the subject, although she has been so
kind; in fact, no one could have been kinder. We can only act up to our
own natures: it is certainly not her fault, but only my misfortune, that
her sympathy jars on me.'

Max's words gave me acute pain.

'Surely you have not chosen Miss Darrell for your _confidante_, Max?'

'I have chosen no one,' he returned, with gentle rebuke at my vehemence.
'Circumstances made Miss Darrell acquainted with my unlucky attachment.
She did all she could to help me, and out of common gratitude I could not
refuse to listen to her well-meant efforts to comfort me.'

I remained silent from sheer dismay. Things were far worse than I had
imagined. I began to lose hope from the moment I heard Miss Darrell had
been mixed up in the affair; the thought sickened me. I could hardly bear
to hear Max speak; and yet how was I to help him unless he made me
acquainted with the real state of the case?

'I suppose I had better tell you all from the beginning,' he said, rather
dejectedly; 'that is, as far as I know myself, for I can hardly tell you
when I began to love Gladys. I call her Gladys to myself,' with a faint
smile, 'and it comes naturally to me. I ought to have said Miss
Hamilton.'

'But not to me, Max,' I returned eagerly.

'What does it matter what I call her? She will never take the only name
I want to give her!' was the melancholy reply to this. 'I only know one
thing, Ursula, that for three years--ay, and longer than that--she has
been the one woman in the world to me, and that as long as she and I live
no other woman shall ever cross the threshold of the vicarage as its
mistress.'

'Has it gone so deep as that, my poor Max?'

'Yes,' he returned briefly. 'But we need not enter into that part of the
subject; a man had best keep his own counsel in such matters. I want to
tell you bare facts, Ursula; we may as well leave feelings alone. If you
can help me to understand one or two points that are still misty to my
comprehension, you will do me good service.'

'I will try my very best for you both.'

'Thank you, but we cannot both be helped in the same way; our paths do
not lie together. Miss Hamilton has refused to become my wife.'

'Oh, Max! not refused, surely.' This was another blow,--that he
should have tried and failed,--that Gladys with her own lips should
have refused him; but perhaps he had written to her, and there was some
misunderstanding; but when I hinted this to Max he shook his head.

'We cannot misunderstand a person's words. Oh yes, I spoke to her,
and she answered me; but I must not tell you things in this desultory
fashion, or you will never understand. I have told you that I do not
know when my attachment to Miss Hamilton commenced. It was gradual and
imperceptible at first,--very real, no doubt, but it had not mastered my
reason. I always admired her: how could I help it?' with some emotion.
'Even you, who are not her lover, have owned to me that she is a
beautiful creature. I suppose her beauty attracted me first, until I saw
the sweetness and unselfishness of her nature, and from that moment I
lost my heart.

'The full consciousness came to me at the time of their trouble about
Eric. I had been fond of the poor fellow, for his own sake as well as
hers, but I never disguised his faults from her. I often told her that I
feared for Eric's future; he had no ballast, it wanted a moral earthquake
to steady him, and it was no wonder that his caprices and extravagant
moods angered his brother. She used to be half offended with me for my
plain speaking, but she was too gentle to resent it, and she would beg
me to use my influence with Hamilton to entreat him not to be so hard
on Eric.

'When the blow came, I was always up at Gladwyn once, sometimes twice, a
day. They all wanted me; it was my duty to be their consoler. I am glad
to remember now that I was some comfort to her.'

'Wait a moment, Max; I must ask you something. Do you believe that Eric
was guilty?'

'I am almost sorry that you have put that question,' he returned
reluctantly. 'I never would tell her what I thought. It was all a
mystery. Eric might have been tempted; it was not for me to say. She
could see I was doubtful. I told her that, whether he were sinned against
or sinning, our only thought should be to bring him back and reconcile
him to his brother. "God will prove his innocence if he be blackened
falsely," I said to her; and, strange to say, she forgave me my doubts.'

'Oh, Max, I see what you think.'

'How can I help it,' he replied, 'knowing Eric's character so well? he
was so weak and impulsive, so easily led astray, and then he was under
bad influences. You will have heard Edgar Brown's name. He was a wild,
dissipated fellow, and Hamilton had a right to forbid the acquaintance;
both he and I knew that Edgar had low propensities, and was always
lounging about public-houses with a set of loafers like himself. He has
got worse since then, and has nearly broken his mother's heart. Do you
think any man with a sense of responsibility would permit a youth of
Eric's age to have such a friend? Yet this was a standing grievance with
Eric, and I am sorry to say his sister took Edgar's part. Of course she
knew no better: innocence is credulous, and Edgar was a sprightly,
good-looking fellow, the sort that women never fail to pet.'

'Yes, I see. Eric was certainly to blame in this.'

'He was faulty on many more points. I am afraid, Ursula you have been
somewhat biassed by Miss Hamilton. You must remember that she idolised
Eric,--that she was blind to many of his faults; she made excuses for him
whenever it was possible to do so, but with all her weak partiality she
could not deny that he was thriftless, idle, and extravagant, that he
defied his brother's authority, that he even forgot himself so far as to
use bad language in his presence. I believe, once, he even struck him;
only Hamilton declared he had been drinking, so he merely turned him out
of the room.'

I looked at Max sadly. 'This may be all true; but I cannot believe that
he took that cheque.'

'The circumstantial evidence against him is very strong,' he replied
quietly. 'You do not know what power a sudden temptation has over these
weak natures: he was hard pressed, remember that; he had gambling debts,
thanks to Edgar. Fancy gambling debts at twenty! I have tried to take
Miss Hamilton's view of the case, but I cannot bring myself to believe
in his innocence. Most likely he repented the moment he had done it,
poor boy. Eric was no hardened sinner. I sometimes fear--at least, the
terrible thought has crossed my mind, and I know Hamilton has had it
too--that in his despair he might have made away with himself.'

'Oh, Max, this is too horrible!' And I shuddered as I thought of the
beautiful young face so like Gladys's, with its bright frank look that
seemed to appeal to one's heart.

'Well, well, we need not speak of it; but it was a sad time for all of
us; and yet in some ways it was a happy time to me. It was such a comfort
to feel that I was necessary to them all; that they looked for me daily;
that they could not do without me. I used to be with Hamilton every
evening; and when Gladys was very ill they sent for me, because they
said no one knew how to soothe her so well.

'Do you wonder, Ursula, that, seeing her in her weakness and sorrow, she
grew daily into my life, that my one thought was how I could help and
comfort her?

'She was very gentle and submissive, and followed my advice in
everything. When I told her that only work could cure her sore heart,
she did not contradict me: in a little while I had to check her feverish
activity. She had overwhelmed herself with duties; she managed our
mothers' meetings with Miss Darrell's help, taught in our schools, and
helped train the choir. I had allotted her a district, and she worked it
admirably. She was my right hand in everything; all the poor people
worshipped her.'

'Yes, Max,' for he paused, as though overwhelmed with some bitter-sweet
recollection.

'I loved her more each day, but I respected her sorrow, and tried to hide
my feelings from her. It was more than a year after Eric's disappearance
before I ventured to speak, and then it was by Hamilton's advice that I
did so. He had set his heart on the match. He told me more than once that
he would rather have me as a brother-in-law than any other man.

'I thought I had prepared her sufficiently, but it seems that she was
very much, startled by my proposal. Her trouble had so engrossed her that
she had been perfectly blind to my meaning. It was all in vain, Ursula,
for she did not love me,--at least not in the right way. She told me so
with tears, accusing herself of unkindness. She liked, most certainly she
liked me, but perhaps she knew me too well.

'She was so unhappy at the thought of giving me pain, so sweet and gentle
in her efforts to console me and heal the wound she had inflicted, that I
could not lose hope. She told me that, though she had trusted me entirely
as her friend, she had never thought of me as her lover, and the idea was
strange to her. This thought gave me courage, and I begged that I might
be allowed to speak to her again at some future time.

'She wanted to refuse, and said hurriedly that she never intended to
marry. But I took these words as meaning nothing. A girl will tell you
this and believe it as she says it. I suppose I pressed her hard to leave
me this margin of hope, for after reflecting a few minutes she looked at
me gravely and said it should be as I wished. In a year's time I might
speak to her again, and she would know her own mind.

'I pleaded for a shorter ordeal, though secretly I was overjoyed at this
crumb of consolation vouchsafed to me. But she was inexorable, though
perfectly gentle in her manner.

'"I wish you had set your heart on some one else, Mr. Cunliffe,"
she said, with a melancholy smile, "for I can give you so little
satisfaction. I feel so confused and weary, as though life afforded me
no pleasure. But, indeed, I do all you tell me, and I mean to go on with
my work."

'I was glad to hear her say this, for at least I should have the
happiness of seeing her every day.

'"In a year's time," she went on, "my heart may feel a little less heavy,
and I shall have had opportunity to reflect over your words. I cannot
tell you what my answer may be, but if you are wise you will not hope. If
you do not come to me then, I shall know that you have changed, and shall
not blame you in the least. You are free to choose any one else. I have
so little encouragement to give you that I shall not expect you to submit
to this ordeal." But I think her firmness was a little shaken, and she
looked at me rather timidly when I thanked her very quietly and said that
at the time appointed I would speak to her again. I supposed she had not
realised the strength of my feelings.

'Ursula, I was by no means hopeless. And as the months passed on my hopes
grew.

'I saw her daily, and after the first awkwardness had passed we were good
friends. But her manner changed insensibly. She was less frank with me;
at times she was almost shy. I saw her change colour when I looked at
her. She was quiet in my presence, and yet my coming pleased her. I
thought it would be well with me when the time came for renewing my
suit; but it seems that I was a blind fool.

'I had put down the exact date, May 7. It was last year, Ursula. I meant
to adhere to the very day and hour; but before February closed my hopes
had suffered eclipse.

'All at once Miss Hamilton's manner became cold and constrained, as
you see it now. Her soft shyness, that had been so favourable a sign,
disappeared entirely. She avoided me on every occasion. She seemed to
fear to be alone with me a moment. Her nervousness was so visible and so
distressing that I often left her in anger. A barrier--vague, and yet
substantial--seemed built up between us.

'She began to neglect her work, and then to make excuses. She was
overdone, and suffered from headache. The school-work tired her. You
have heard it all, Ursula: I need not repeat it.

'One by one she dropped her duties. The parish knew her no more. She
certainly looked ill. Her melancholy increased. Something was evidently
preying on her mind.

'One day Miss Darrell spoke to me. She had been very kind, and had fed my
hopes all this time. But now she was the bearer of bad news.

'She came to me in the study, while I was waiting for Hamilton. She
looked very pale and discomposed, and asked if she might speak to me. She
was very unhappy about me, but she did not think it right to let it go
on. Gladys wanted me to know. And then it all came out.

'It could never be as I wished. Miss Hamilton had been trying all this
time to like me, and once or twice she thought she had succeeded, but the
feeling had never lasted for many days. I was not the right person. This
was the substance of Miss Darrell's explanation.

'"You know Gladys," she went on, "how sensitive and affectionate her
nature is; how she hates to inflict pain. She is working herself up into
a fever at the thought that you will speak to her again.

'"It was too terrible last time, Etta," she said to me, bursting into
tears. "I cannot endure it again. How am I to tell him about Claude?"

'"About Claude!" I almost shouted. Miss Darrell looked frightened at my
violence. She shrank back, and turned still paler. I noticed her hands
trembled.

'"Oh, have you not noticed?" she returned feebly. "Oh, what a cruel task
this is! and you are so good,--so good."

'"Tell me what you mean!" I replied angrily, for I felt so savage at that
moment that a word of sympathy was more than I could bear. You would not
have known me at that moment, Ursula. I am not easily roused, as you
know, but the blow was too sudden. I must have forgotten myself to have
spoken to Miss Darrell in that tone. When I looked at her, her mouth was
quivering like a frightened child's, and there were tears in her eyes.

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