Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'Is it wrong?' she answered quickly. 'I do not forget, I shall never
forget, but the pain seems soothed somehow. When I wake up in the bed
where I slept as a child, I hear the birds singing, and I do not say to
myself, "Here is another long weary day to get through." On the contrary,
I jump up and dress myself as quickly as I can, for I love to be out
among the dews; everything is so sweet and still in the early morning;
there is such freshness in the air.'

'And these early walks are good for you.'

'Oh, I never leave the grounds. I just saunter about with Flo and Rover.
When breakfast is ready I have a bouquet to lay beside mother's plate.
Dear, good mother! do you know she cannot say enough in praise of
Rutherford, now she sees the breakfasts I eat? I think she would be
reconciled to any place if she saw me enjoy my food: at the Albert Hall
Mansions I never felt hungry; I was always too tired to eat.'

'I knew Mrs. Fullerton would never repent her sacrifice.'

'No, indeed; mother and I have never been so cosy in our lives. She sits
in the verandah and laughs over my quarrels with Patrick: he is quite as
cross-grained as ever, dear old fellow, but there is nothing that he will
not do for me. We are making a rose-garden now. Do you remember that
sunny corner by the terrace and sundial?--dear Charlie always wanted me
to have a rose-garden there. We have trellis-work arches and a little
arbour. Patrick and Hawkins are doing the work, but I fancy they cannot
get on without me.'

She stopped with a little laugh at her own conceit, and then went on:

'And I am so busy in other ways, Ursula. Every Monday I go to the
mothers' meeting with Mrs. Trevor, and I have some of the old women at
the almshouses besides,--I am so fond of those old women,--and I have
just begun afternoons for tennis; people like these, and they come from
such a distance. Mr. Manners declares the Rutherford Thursdays will
soon be known all over the country.'

'Bravo, Lesbia! you are taking your position nobly, my dear; this is just
what Charlie wanted to see you,--a brave sweet woman who would not let
sorrow and disappointment spoil her own and other people's lives.' Then,
as she blushed with pleasure at my words, I said carelessly, 'Do you
often see Mr. Manners?'

'Oh yes,' she returned without hesitation,--'on my Thursdays, and at
church, and at the vicarage: we are always meeting somewhere. He was
Charlie's friend, you know, and he is so nice and sympathising, and tells
me so much about their school life and college life together. He was so
fond of Charlie, and the undergraduates used to call them Damon and
Pythias.'

'To be sure: Charlie was always talking about Harcourt. He has grown very
handsome, I have heard.'

'Mother says so: he is certainly good-looking,' she answered simply; 'and
then he is so kind. I feel almost ashamed at troubling him so much with
our business and commissions, but he never seems to mind any amount of
trouble. I have never met any one so unselfish.'

I turned away my head to hide a smile. Lesbia was quite serious. She was
too much absorbed in the memory of Charlie to read the secret of Harcourt
Manners's unselfishness: the kindly attentions of the young man, his
solicitude and sympathy, had not yet awakened a suspicion of the truth.

One day Lesbia's eyes would be opened, and she would be shocked and
surprised to find the hold that Charlie's friend had got over her heart.
Very likely she would dismiss him and lock herself up in her room and cry
for hours; probably she would persist for some weeks in making herself
and him exceedingly unhappy. But it would be all no use; the tie of
sympathy would be too strong; he would have made himself too necessary to
her. One day she would have to yield, and find her life's happiness in
thus yielding. Charlie's white lily was too fair to be left to wither
alone, and I knew Harcourt Manners would be worthy to win the prize.

I could see it all before it happened, while Lesbia talked in her serious
way of Mr. Manners's unselfishness. Presently, however, she changed the
subject, and began questioning me eagerly about my work; and just then
Jill joined us, and placed herself on the floor at my feet, with the firm
intention, evidently, of listening to our remarks.

The conversation drifted round to Gladwyn presently. I could see Lesbia
was a little curious about these friends of mine that I had mentioned
casually in my letters.

'I can't quite make out the relationship,' she said, in a puzzled tone.
'You are always talking about this Gladys. Is she really so beautiful and
fascinating? And who is Miss Darrell?'

'You had better ask me,' interrupted Jill, quite rudely, 'for Ursula is
so absurdly infatuated about the whole family; she thinks them all quite
perfect, with the exception of the double-faced lady, Miss Darrell; but
they are very ordinary,--quite ordinary people, I assure you.'

'Now, Jill, we do not want any of your impertinence. Lesbia would rather
hear my description of my friends.'

'On the contrary, she would prefer the opinion of an unprejudiced
person,' persisted Jill, with a voluble eloquence that took away my
breath. 'Listen to me, Lesbia. This Mr. Hamilton that Ursula is always
talking about'--how I longed to box Jill's pretty little ears! she had
lovely ears, pink and shell-like, hidden under her black locks--'is an
ugly, disagreeable-looking man.'

'Oh!' from Lesbia, in rather a disappointed tone.

'He is quite old,--about five-and-thirty, they say,--and he has a long
smooth-shaven face like a Jesuit. I don't recollect seeing a Jesuit,
though; but he is very like one all the same. He has dark eyes that stare
somehow and seem to put you down, and he has a way of laughing at you
civilly that makes you wild; and Ursula believes in him, and is quite
meek in his presence, just because he is a doctor and orders her about.'

'My dear Lesbia, I hope you are taking Jill's measure with a grain of
salt. Mr. Hamilton is not disagreeable, and he never orders me about.'

Jill shook her head at me, and went on:

'Then there is the double-faced lady--but never mind her; we both hate
her.'

'You mean Miss Darrell, Mr. Hamilton's cousin?'

'Yes, Witch Etta, as Lady Betty calls her. She is a dark-eyed, slim piece
of elegance, utterly dependent on her clothes for beauty; she dresses
perfectly, and makes herself out a good-looking woman, but she is not
really good-looking; and she is always talking, and her talk is exciting,
because there is always something behind her words, something mildly
suggestive of volcanoes, or something equally pleasant and enlivening.
If she smiles, for instance, one seems to think one must find out the
meaning of that.'

'Who has taught you all this, Jill?' asked Lesbia, bewildered by this
sarcasm.

'My mother-wit,' returned Jill, utterly unabashed. 'Well, then there is
Gladys. Ah, now we are coming to the saddest part. Once upon a time there
was a beautiful maiden, really a lovely creature,--oh, I grant you that,
Ursula,--but she fell under the power of some wicked magician, male or
female,--some folks say Witch Etta,--who changed her into a snow-maiden
or an ice-maiden. If she were only alive, this Gladys would be most
lovely and bewitching; but, you see, she is only a poor snow-maiden, very
white and cold. If she gives you her hand, it quite freezes you; her kiss
turns you to ice too; her smile is congealing. Ursula tries to thaw her
sometimes, but it does no good. She is only Gladys, the snow-maiden.'

I was too angry with Jill to say a word. Lesbia looked more mystified
than ever.

'If she be so cold and sad, how can Ursula be so fond of her?' she
demanded, in her practical way. But Jill took no notice, but rattled on:

'Little brown Betsy--I beg her pardon--Lady Betty, is the best of all:
she is really human. Gladys is only half alive. Lady Betty laughs and
talks and pouts; she wrinkles up like an old woman when she is cross, and
has lovely dimples when she smiles. She is not pretty, but she is quaint,
and interesting, and childlike. I am very fond of Lady Betty,' finished
Jill, with a benevolent nod.

I proceeded to annotate Jill's mischievous remarks with much severity.
I left Mr. Hamilton alone, with the exception of a brief sentence; I
assured Lesbia that he was not ugly, but only peculiar-looking, and that
he was an intellectual, earnest-minded man who had known much trouble.
Jill made a wry face, but did not dare to contradict me.

'As for his sister Gladys,' I went on, 'she is simply a most beautiful
girl, whose health has failed a little from a great shock'; here Jill and
Lesbia both looked curious, but I showed no intention of enlightening
them. 'She is a little too sad and quiet for Jill's taste,' I continued,
'and she is also somewhat reserved in manner, but when she likes a person
thoroughly she is charming.'

I went on a little longer in this strain, until I had thoroughly
vindicated my favourite from Jill's aspersion.

'You are very fond of her, Ursula: your eyes soften as you talk of her.
I should like to see this wonderful Gladys.'

'You must see her one day,' I rejoined; and then the gong sounded, and
Lesbia jumped up in a fright, because she said she would keep her mother
waiting, and Jill hurried off to her room to dress.

We had what Jill called a picnic dinner in Uncle Brian's study. Every one
enjoyed it but Clayton, who seemed rather put out by the disorganised
state of the house, and who was always getting helplessly wedged in
between the escritoire and the table. We would have much rather waited on
ourselves, and we wished Mrs. Martin had forgone the usual number of
courses. When it was over we all went into the long drawing-room, and
Jill played soft snatches of Chopin, while Sara and Colonel Ferguson
whispered together on the dark balcony.

Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia joined us later on, and then Colonel Ferguson
took his leave. I thought Sara looked a little quiet and subdued when she
joined us; her gay chatter had died away, her eyes were a little
plaintive. When we had said good-night, and Jill and I were passing down
the corridor hand in hand, we could hear voices from Aunt Philippa's
room. Through the half-opened door I caught a glimpse of Sara: she was
kneeling by her mother's chair, with her head on Aunt Philippa's
shoulder. Was she bidding a tearful regret to her old happy life? I
wondered; was she looking forward with natural shrinking and a little
fear to the new responsibility that awaited her on the morrow? It was the
mother who was talking; one could imagine how her heart would yearn over
her child to-night,--what fond prayers would be uttered for the girl.
Aunt Philippa was a loving mother: worldliness had not touched the
ingrained warmth of her nature.

I am glad to remember how brightly the sun shone on Sara's wedding-day.
There was not a cloud in the sky. When I woke, the birds were singing in
Hyde Park, and Jill in her white wrapper was looking at me with bright,
excited eyes.

'It is such a lovely morning!' she exclaimed rapturously. 'Actually Sara
is asleep! Fancy sleeping under such circumstances! She and mother are
going to have breakfast together in the schoolroom. Do be quick and
dress, Ursula; father is always so early, you know.'

Uncle Brian was reading his paper as usual when I entered the study. Miss
Gillespie was pouring out coffee. Jill was fidgeting about the room,
until her father called her to order, and then she sat down to the table.
I do not think any of us enjoyed our breakfast. Uncle Brian certainly
looked dull; Jill was too excited to eat; poor Miss Gillespie had tears
in her eyes; she poured out tea and coffee with cold shaking hands.
'Lilian Gillespie, from her devoted friend Maurice Compton,' came into my
head: no wonder the thought of marriage-bells and bridal finery made her
sad. I am afraid I should have shut myself up in my own room, and refused
to mingle with the crowd, under these circumstances. I quite understood
the feeling of sympathy that made Jill stoop down and kiss the smooth
brown hair as she passed the governess's chair: it was a sort of
affectionate homage to misfortune patiently borne.

I went up to the schoolroom when breakfast was over. Aunt Philippa looked
as though she had not slept: there was a jaded look about her eyes. Sara,
on the contrary, looked fresh and smiling; she was just going to put
herself in her maid's hands; but she tripped back in her pretty muslin
dressing-gown and rose-coloured ribbons to kiss me and ask me to look
after Jill's toilet.

'Every one is so busy, and mother and Draper will be attending to me.
Do, please, Ursie dear, see that she puts on her bonnet straight.' And
of course I promised to do my best.

As it happened, Jill was very tractable and obedient. I think her
beautiful bridesmaid's dress rather impressed her. I saw a look of awe in
her eyes as she regarded herself, and then she dropped a mocking courtesy
to her own image.

'I am Jocelyn to-day, remember that, Ursula. I don't look a bit like
Jill. Jocelyn Adelaide Garston, bridesmaid.'

'You look charming, Jill--I mean Jocelyn.'

'Oh, how horrid it sounds from your lips, Ursie! I like my own funny
little name best from you. Now come and let me finish you.' And Jill, in
spite of her fine dress, would persist in waiting on me. She was very
voluble in her expression of admiration when I had finished, but I did
not seem to recognise 'Nurse Ursula' in the elegantly-dressed woman that
I saw reflected in the pier-glass. 'Fine feathers make fine birds,' I
said to myself.

I think we all agreed that Sara looked lovely. Lesbia, who joined us in
the drawing-room, contemplated her with tears in her eyes.

'You look like a picture, Sara,' she whispered,--'like a fairy queen,--in
all that whiteness.' Sara dimpled and blushed. Of course she knew how
pretty she was, and how people liked to look at her; but I am sure she
was thinking of Donald, as her eyes rested on her bridal bouquet. Dearly
as she loved all this finery and consequence, there was a soft,
thoughtful expression in her eyes that was quite new to them, and
that I loved to see.

We went to church presently, and Lesbia and I, standing side by side,
heard the beautiful, awful service. 'Till death us do part.' Oh, what
words to say to any man! Surely false lips would grow paralysed over
them!

A most curious thing happened just then. I had raised my eyes, when they
suddenly encountered Mr. Hamilton's. A sort of shock crossed me. Why was
he here? How had he come? How strange! how very strange! The next moment
he had disappeared from my view: probably he had withdrawn behind a
pillar that he might not attract my notice. I could almost have believed
that it was an illusion and fancied resemblance, only I had never seen a
face like Mr. Hamilton's.

The momentary glimpse had distracted me, and I heard the remainder of the
service rather absently; then the pealing notes of the wedding-march
resounded through the church; we all stood waiting until Sara had signed
her name, and had come out of the vestry leaning on her husband's arm.

I was under Major Egerton's care. The crowd round the door was so great
that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could pilot me to the
carriage. Lesbia was following us with another officer, whose name I did
not know. As we took our seats I distinctly saw Mr. Hamilton cross the
road. He was walking quietly down Hyde Park. As we passed he turned and
took off his hat. I thought it was a strange thing that he should be in
the neighbourhood on Sara's wedding-day, and that he should have deigned
to play the part of a spectator after his severe strictures on gay
weddings. I supposed his business in Edinburgh was finished, and he had
an idle day or two on his hands. I half expected him to call the next
day, for I had given him my address; but he did not come, and I heard
from Mr. Tudor afterwards that he had gone on to Folkestone.




CHAPTER XXXII

A FIERY ORDEAL


It is a hackneyed truism, and, like other axioms, profoundly true, that
wedding-festivities are invariably followed by a sense of blank dulness.

It is like the early morning after a ball, when the last guests have left
the house: the lights flicker in the dawn, the empty rooms want sweeping
and furnishing to be fit for habitation. Yawns, weariness, satiety, drive
the jaded entertainers to their resting-places. Every one knows how
tawdry the ball-dress looks in the clear morning light. The diamonds
cease to flash, the flowers are withered, the game is played out.

Something of this languor and vacuum is felt when the bride and
bridegroom have driven away amid the typical shower of rice. The smiles
seem quenched, somehow; mother and sisters shed tears; a sense of loss
pervades the house; the bridal finery is heaped up in the empty room; one
little glove is on the table, another has fallen to the floor. All sorts
of girlish trinkets that have been forgotten lie unheeded in corners.

I know we all thought that evening would never end, and I quite
understood why Jill hovered near her mother's chair, listening to her
conversation with Mrs. Fullerton. Every now and then Aunt Philippa broke
down and shed a few quiet tears. I heard her mention Ralph's name once.
'Poor boy! how proud he would have been of his sister!' Uncle Brian heard
it too, for I saw him wince at the sound of his son's name; but Jill
stroked her mother's hand, and said, quite naturally, 'Most likely Ralph
knows all about it, mamma, and of course he is glad that Sara is so
happy.'

Our pretty light-hearted Sara. I had no idea that I should miss her
so much! Indeed, we all missed her: it seemed to me now that I had
undervalued her. True, she had not been a congenial companion to me in my
dark days; but even then I had wronged her. Why should I have expected
her to grope among the shadows with me, instead of following her into the
sunshine? Sara could not act contrary to her nature. Sad things depressed
her. She wanted to cause every one to be happy.

Her feelings were far deeper than I had imagined them to be. I liked the
way she spoke to Jill when she was bidding good-bye to us all.

'Jocelyn dear, promise me that you will be good to mother. She has no one
but you now to study her little ways and make her comfortable, and she is
not as young as she was, and things tire her.' Of course Jill promised
with tears in her eyes, and Sara went away smiling and radiant. Jill was
already trying to redeem her promise, as she hovered like a tall slim
shadow behind her mother's chair in the twilight.

'Come and sit down, Jocelyn, my dear,' observed Aunt Philippa at last, in
her motherly voice. When I looked again, Jill's black locks were bobbing
on her mother's lap, and the three seemed all talking together.

There was very little rest for any one during the next few days. Sara's
marriage had brought sundry relations from their country homes up to
town, and there was open house kept for all. Jill went sight-seeing with
the young people. Aunt Philippa drove some of the elder ladies to the
Academy, to the Grosvenor Gallery, to the Park, and other places.

Every day there were luncheon-parties, tea-parties, dinner-parties; the
long drawing-room seemed full every evening. Jill put on one or other of
her pretty new gowns, and played her pieces industriously; there was no
stealing away in corners now. There were round games for the young
people; now and then they went to the theatre or opera: no wonder Jill
was too tired and excited to open her lesson-books. My fortnight's visit
extended itself to three weeks. Aunt Philippa could not spare me; she
said I was much too useful to her and Uncle Brian. I wrote to Mrs. Barton
and also to Lady Betty, and I begged the latter to inform her brother
that I could not leave my relations just yet.

Lady Betty wrote back at once. She had given my message, she said, but
Giles had not seemed half pleased with it. She thought he was going away
somewhere, she did not know where; but he had told her to say that there
were no fresh cases, and that Robert Lambert was going on all right, and
that as I seemed enjoying myself so much it was a pity not to take a
longer holiday while I was about it, and he sent his kind regards; and
that was all. I suppose I ought to have been satisfied, but it struck me
that there was a flavour of sarcasm about Mr. Hamilton's message.

But he was right; I was enjoying myself. Lesbia was still in town, and I
saw her every day. My acquaintance with Miss Gillespie grew to intimacy,
and I think we mutually enjoyed each other's society. Aunt Philippa
seemed to turn to me naturally for help and comfort, and her constant
'Ursula, my dear, will you do this for me?' gave me a real feeling of
pleasure; and then there was Jill to pet and praise at every odd moment.

One day we were all called upon to admire Sara's new signature, 'Sara
Ferguson,' written in bold, girlish characters. 'Donald is looking over
my shoulder as I write it, dear mamma,' Sara wrote, in a long postscript.
'Are husbands always so impertinent? Donald pretends that it is part of
his duty to see that I dot my _i_'s and cross my _t_'s: he will talk such
nonsense. There, he has gone off laughing, and I may end comfortably by
telling you that he spoils me dreadfully and is so good to me, and that
I am happier than I deserve to be, and your very loving child, Sara.'

'Poor darling! she always did make her own sunshine,' murmured Aunt
Philippa fondly.

Now, that afternoon who should call upon us but Mr. Tudor? Jill was out,
as usual, riding with two of her cousins and Uncle Brian; they had gone
off to Kew or Richmond for the afternoon; but Aunt Philippa, who had been
dozing in her easy-chair by the window, welcomed the young man very
kindly, and made him promise to stay to dinner.

Mr. Tudor tried not to look too much pleased as he accepted the
invitation. A sort of blush crossed his honest face as he turned to me:
he had two or three messages to deliver, he said. Mr. Cunliffe had given
him one, and Mrs. Barton, and Lady Betty. She, Lady Betty, wanted me to
know that Miss Darrell was going to Brighton for a week or ten days, and
that she hoped I should come home before then.

I heard, too, that Mr. Hamilton had gone to Folkestone, and that he had
tried to induce Uncle Max to go with him. 'But it is no use telling him
he wants a change,' finished Mr. Tudor, with a sigh; 'he is bent on
wearing himself out for other people.'

Mr. Tudor and I chatted on for the remainder of the afternoon. I had
taken him out on the balcony: there were an awning and some chairs, and
we could sit there in comparative privacy looking down on the passers-by.
Aunt Philippa was nodding again: we could hear her regular breathing
behind us: poor woman! she was worn out with bustle and gaiety. I was
thankful that a grand horticultural _fete_ kept all the aunts and cousins
away, with the exception of the two who were riding with Jill.

Clayton brought us out some tea presently, and we found plenty of topics
for conversation.

All at once I stopped in the middle of a conversation.

'Mr. Tudor, have my eyes deceived me, or was that Leah?'

'Who?--what Leah? I do not know whom you mean!' he returned, rather
stupidly, staring in another direction. There was a cavalcade coming up
the road,--a tall slim girl, on a chestnut mare, riding on in front with
a young man, another girl and an elderly man with a gray moustache
following them, a groom bringing up the rear.

Of course it was Jill, smiling and waving towards the balcony; she could
not see Mr. Tudor under the awning, but she had caught sight of my silk
dress. Jill looked very well on horseback: people always turned round to
watch her. She had a good seat, and rode gracefully; the dark habit
suited her; she braided her unmanageable locks into an invisible net that
kept them tidy.

'Is that Miss Jocelyn?' asked Lawrence, almost in a voice of awe. The
young curate grew very red as Jill rode under the balcony and nodded to
him in a friendly manner.

'There is Mr. Tudor,' we heard her say. 'Be quick and lift me off my
horse, Clarence.' But she had slipped to the ground before her cousin
could touch her, and had run indoors.

Mr. Tudor went into the room at once, but I sat still for a moment.
Why had I asked him? Of course it was Leah. I could see her strange
light-coloured eyes glancing up in my direction. What was she doing in
London? I wondered. She was dressed well, evidently in her mistress's
cast-off clothes, for she wore a handsome silk dress and mantle. Had they
quarrelled and parted? I felt instinctively that it would be a good day
for Gladwyn if Leah ever shook off its dust from her feet. Gladys
regarded her as a spy and informer, and she had evidently an unwholesome
influence over her mistress.

We separated soon after this to dress for dinner, and Mr. Tudor went to
his hotel. I was rather sorry when I came downstairs to find that Jill
had made rather a careless toilet. She wore the flimsy Indian muslin gown
that I thought so unbecoming to her style, with a string of gold beads of
curious Florentine work round her neck. She looked so different from the
graceful young Amazon who had ridden up an hour ago that I felt provoked,
and was not surprised to hear the old sharp tone in Aunt Philippa's
voice:

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