Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'My dear Jocelyn, why have you put on that old gown? Surely your new
cream-coloured dress with coffee lace would have been more suitable. What
was Draper thinking about?'

'I was in too great a hurry; I did not wait for Draper,' returned Jill
candidly. 'Draper was dreadfully cross about it, but I ran away from her.
What does it matter, mamma? They have all seen my cream-coloured dress,
except--' But here Jill laughed: the naughty child meant Mr. Tudor.

'I am afraid there is not time to change it now; but I am very much vexed
about it,' returned Aunt Philippa, in a loud whisper. 'You are really
looking your worst to-night.' But Jill only laughed again, and asked her
cousin Clarence when he took her down to dinner if it were not a very
pretty gown.

'I don't know much about gowns,' drawled the young man,--Mr. Tudor and
I were following them: 'it looks rather flimsy and washed out. If I were
you I would wear something more substantial. You see, you are so big,
Jocelyn; your habit suits you better.'

We heard Jill laughing in a shrill fashion at this dubious compliment,
and presently she and Mr. Tudor, who sat next to her, were talking as
happily as possible. I do not believe he noticed her unbecoming gown: his
face had lighted up, and he was full of animation. Poor Lawrence! he was
five-and-twenty, and yet the presence of this girl of sixteen was more to
him than all the young-ladyhood of Heathfield. Even charming little Lady
Betty was beaten out of the field by Jill's dark eyes and sprightly
tongue.

It was a very pleasant evening, and we were all enjoying ourselves: no
one imagined anything could or would happen; life is just like that: we
should just take up our candlesticks, we thought, and march off to bed
when Aunt Philippa gave the signal. No one could have imagined that there
would be a moment's deadly peril for one of the party,--an additional
thanksgiving for a life preserved that night.

And then no one seemed to know how it happened; people never do see,
somehow.

There was music going on. Agatha Chudleigh--the Chudleighs were Aunt
Philippa's belongings--was playing the piano, and her brother Clarence
was accompanying her on the violoncello. There was a little group round
the piano. Jill was beating time, standing with her back to a small
inlaid table with a lamp on it. Mr. Tudor was beside her. Jill made a
backward movement in her forgetfulness and enthusiasm. The next moment
the music stopped with a crash. There was a cry of horror, the lamp
seemed falling, glass smashed, liquid fire was pouring down Jill's
unfortunate dress. If Mr. Tudor had not caught it, they said afterwards,
with all that lace drapery, the room must have been in flames; but he had
jerked it back in its place, and, snatching up a bear-skin rug that lay
under the piano, had wrapped it round Jill. He was so strong and prompt,
there was not a moment lost.

We had all crowded round in a moment, but no one dared to interfere with
Mr. Tudor. We could hear Aunt Philippa sobbing with terror. Clarence
Chudleigh extinguished the lamp, some one else flung an Indian blanket
and a striped rug at Jill's feet. For one instant I could see the girl's
face, white and rigid as a statue, as the young man's powerful arms
enveloped her. Then the danger was over, and Jill was standing among us
unhurt, with her muslin gown hanging in blackened shreds, and with
bruises on her round white arms from the rough grip that had saved her
life.

One instant's delay, and the fiery fluid must have covered her from head
to foot; if Lawrence had not caught the falling lamp, if he had lost one
moment in smothering the lighted gown, she must have perished in agony
before our eyes; but he was strong as a young Hercules, and, half
suffocated and bruised as she was, Jill knew from what he had saved her.

As the scorched bear-skin dropped to the floor, Lawrence picked up the
Indian blanket and flung it over Jill's tattered gown. 'Go up to your
room, Miss Jocelyn,' he whispered: 'you are all right now.' And she
obeyed without a word. Miss Gillespie and I followed. I think Aunt
Philippa was faint or had palpitations, for I heard Uncle Brian calling
loudly to some one to open the windows. Jill was hysterical as soon as
she reached her room. She was quite unnerved, and clung to me, shaking
with sobs, while Miss Gillespie mixed some sal-volatile. I could not help
crying a little with her from joy and thankfulness; but we got her quiet
after a time, and took off the poor gown, and Jill showed us her bruises,
and cheered up when we told her how brave and quiet she had been; and
then she sat for some minutes with her face hidden in my lap, while I
stroked her hair silently and thanked God in my heart for sparing our
Jill.

Miss Gillespie had gone downstairs to carry a good report to Aunt
Philippa. Directly she had gone, Jill jumped up, still shaking a little,
and went to her wardrobe.

'I must go downstairs,' she said, a little feverishly. 'I have never
thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life. Help me to be quick, Ursie dear,
for I feel so queer and tottery.' And nothing I could say would prevail
on her to remain quietly in her room. While I was arguing with her, she
had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her
trembling fingers.

'Oh, you are obstinate, Jill: you ought to be good on this night of all
nights.' But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own
way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she
pushed me away.

'It does not matter how I look. I am only going down for a few minutes.
He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.'
And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.

Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall. When he saw Jill, he hurried up to
her at once.

'Miss Jocelyn, this is very imprudent. You ought to have gone to bed: you
are not fit to be up after such a shock,' looking at her pale face and
swollen eyes with evident emotion.

Jill looked at him gently and seriously, and held out her hands to him
quite simply.

'I could not go to bed without thanking you, I am not quite so selfish
and thoughtless. You have saved my life: do you think I shall ever forget
that?'

Poor Lawrence! the excitement, the terror, and the relief were too much
for him; and there was Jill holding his hands and looking up in his face,
with her great eyes full of tears. It was not very wonderful that for a
moment he forgot himself.

'I could not help doing it,' he returned. 'What would have become of me
if you had died? I could not have borne it.'

Jill drew her hands away, and her face looked a little paler in the
moonlight. The young man's excited voice, his strange words, must have
told her the truth. No, she was not too young to understand; her head
drooped, and she turned away as she answered him,--

'I shall always be grateful. Good-night, Mr. Tudor: I must go to my
mother. Come, Ursula.'

She did not look back as we walked across the hall, though poor Lawrence
stood quite still watching us. Why had the foolish boy said that? Why had
he forgotten his position and her youth? Why had he hinted that her life
was necessary to his happiness? Would Jill ever forget those words, or
the look that accompanied them? I felt almost angry with Lawrence as
I followed Jill into the room.

Jill need never have doubted her mother's love. Aunt Philippa had been
too faint and ill to follow her daughter to her room, but her face was
quite beautiful with maternal tenderness as she folded the girl in her
arms. Not even her father, who especially petted Jill, showed more
affection for her that night.

'Oh, Jocelyn, my darling, are you quite sure that you are unhurt? Miss
Gillespie says you were only frightened and a little bruised; but I
wanted to see for myself. Mr. Tudor will not let us thank him, but we
shall be grateful to him all our lives, my pet. What would your poor
father and I have done without you?'

Jill hid her face like a baby on her mother's bosom: she was crying
quietly. Her interview with Mr. Tudor had certainly upset her. Uncle
Brian put his hand in her rough locks. 'Never mind, my little girl: it is
now over; you must go to bed and forget it,'--which was certainly very
good advice. I coaxed Aunt Philippa to let her go, and promised to remain
with her until she was asleep. She was very quiet, and hardly said a word
as I helped her to undress, but as I sat down by the bedside she drew my
head down beside hers on the pillow.

'Don't think I am not grateful because I do not talk about it, Ursie
dear,' she whispered. 'I hope to be better all my life for what has
happened to-night.' But as Jill lay, with wide, solemn eyes, in the
moonlight, I wondered what thoughts were coursing through her mind. Was
she looking upon her life preserved as a life dedicated, regarding
herself as set apart for higher work and nobler uses? or was her
gratitude to her young preserver mixed with deeper and more mysterious
feelings? I could not tell, but from that night I noticed a regular
change in Jill: she became less girlish and fanciful, a new sort of
womanliness developed itself, her high spirits were tempered with
softness. Uncle Brian was right when he said a few days afterwards
'that his little girl was growing a woman.'




CHAPTER XXXIII

JACK POYNTER


My conscience felt decidedly uneasy that night: in spite of all argument
to the contrary, I could not shake off the conviction that it was my duty
to speak to Aunt Philippa. I ought to warn her of the growing intimacy
between the young people. She and Uncle Brian ought to know that Mr.
Tudor was not quite so harmless as he looked.

It made me very unhappy to act the traitor to this honest, simple young
fellow. I would rather have taken his hand and bidden him God-speed with
his wooing. If I had been Uncle Brian I would have welcomed him heartily
as a suitor for Jill. True, she was absurdly young,--only sixteen,--but I
would have said to him, 'If you are in earnest, if you really love this
girl, and are willing to wait for her, go about your business for three
years, and then come and try your chance with her. If she likes you she
shall have you. I am quite aware you are poor,--that you are a curate on
a hundred and fifty a year; but you are well connected and a gentleman,
and as guileless as a young Nathaniel. I could not desire a better
husband for my daughter.'

But it was not likely that Uncle Brian would be so quixotic. And I
knew that Aunt Philippa was rather ambitious for her children, and it
had been a great disappointment to her that Sara had refused a young
baronet. So it was with the guilty feelings of a culprit that I entered
the morning-room the next morning and asked Aunt Philippa if I might
have a few minutes' conversation with her.

To my relief, she treated the whole matter very coolly, and with a
mixture of shrewdness and common sense that quite surprised me.

She assured me that it was not of the least consequence. Young creatures
like Jocelyn must pass through this sort of experiences. She was
certainly rather young for such an experiment, but it would do her no
harm. On the contrary, a little stimulus of gratified vanity might be
extremely beneficial in its after-effects. She was somewhat backward and
childish for her age. She would have more self-respect at finding herself
the object of masculine admiration.

'Depend upon it, it will do her a great deal of good,' went on Aunt
Philippa placidly. 'She will try now in earnest to break herself off her
little _gaucheries_. As for Mr. Tudor, do not distress yourself about
him. He is young enough to have half-a-dozen butterfly fancies before he
settles down seriously.'

'I remember,' she continued, 'that during Sara's first season we had
rather a trouble about a young barrister. He was a handsome fellow, but
terribly poor, and your uncle told me privately that he must not be
encouraged. Well, Sara got it into her head that she was in love with
him, and, in spite of all I could say to her by way of warning, she
would promise him dances, and, in fact, they did a good bit of flirting
together. So I told your uncle that we had better leave town earlier that
year. We went into Yorkshire, paying visits, and then to Scotland. Sara
had never been there before, and we took care that she should have a
thoroughly enjoyable trip. My dear, before three months were over
she had forgotten Henry Brabazon's existence. It was just a girlish
sentimentality; nothing more. When we got back to town we made Mr.
Brabazon understand that his attentions were displeasing to your uncle,
and before the next season he was engaged to a rich young widow. I do
not believe Sara ever missed him.'

I listened to all this in silence. I was much relieved to find that Aunt
Philippa was not disposed to blame me for Lawrence Tudor's infatuation.
She told me that she was not the least afraid of his influence, and
should not discourage his visits. Jocelyn would never see him alone, and
it was not likely that she would be staying at Heathfield again. I
thought it useless to say any more. I had satisfied my conscience, and
might now safely wash my hands of all responsibility. If the thought
crossed my mind that Jill was very different from Sara,--that her will
was stronger and her affections more tenacious,--there was no need to
give it utterance. Sixteen was hardly the age for a serious love-affair,
and I might well be content to leave Jill in her mother's care.

Now and then a doubt of Aunt Philippa's wisdom came to me,--on the last
evening, for instance, when I was speaking to Jill about Heathfield, and
when I rather incautiously mentioned Lawrence Tudor's name.

I recollected then that Jill had never once spoken of him since the night
of the accident. It had dropped completely out of our conversation. I
forget what I said then, but it was something about my seeing him at
Heathfield.

We were standing together on the balcony, and as I spoke Jill stooped
suddenly to look at a little flower-girl who was offering her wares on
the pavement below. For a moment she did not answer. But I could see her
cheek and even her little ear was flushed.

'Oh yes, you will see him,' she returned presently. 'What a little mite
of a child! Look, Ursula. Please remember us to him, and--and we hope he
is quite well.' And Jill walked away from me rather abruptly, saying she
must ask her mother for some pence. It was then that a doubt of Aunt
Philippa's policy crossed my mind; Jill was so different from other
girls; and Lawrence Tudor had saved her life.

I had other things to occupy my mind just then,--a fresh anxiety that I
could share with no one, and which effectually spoiled the last few days
of my London visit.

The sight of Leah had somewhat disturbed me. It had brought back memories
of the perplexities and mysteries of Gladwyn. Strange to say, I saw her
again the very next day.

Mr. Tudor was calling at the door to inquire after Jill: he had his bag
in his hand, and was on his way to the station. I was just going out to
call on Lesbia, and we walked a few yards together. Just as I was bidding
him good-bye, two women passed us: as I looked at them casually, I saw
Leah's flickering light-coloured eyes; she was looking in my direction,
but, though I nodded to her, she did not appear to recognise me. The
other woman was a stranger.

I was sitting alone on the balcony that afternoon. Aunt Philippa and Jill
and Miss Gillespie were driving. I took advantage of their absence and
the unusual quiet of the house to finish a book in which I was much
interested.

I was very fond of this balcony seat: the awning protected me from the
hot June sun, and the flower-boxes at my feet were sweet with mignonette.
I could see without being seen, and the cool glimpses of the green Park
were pleasant on this hot afternoon.

The adjoining house was unoccupied: it was therefore with feelings of
discomfort that I heard the sound of workmen moving about the premises,
and by and by the smell of fresh paint made me put down my book with
suppressed annoyance.

A house-painter was standing very near me, painting the outside sashes of
the window: he had his back turned to me, and was whistling to himself in
the careless way peculiar to his class. It was a clear, sweet whistling,
and I listened to it with pleasure.

A sudden noise in the street caused him to look round, and then he saw
me, and stopped whistling.

Where had I seen that face? It seemed familiar to me. Of whom did that
young house-painter remind me? Could I have seen him at St. Thomas's
Hospital? Was it some patient whose name I had forgotten during my year's
nursing? I had had more than one house-painter on my list.

I was tormented by the idea that I ought to recognise the face before
me, and yet recognition eluded me. I felt baffled and perplexed by some
subtile fancied resemblance. As for the young painter himself, he looked
at me quietly for a moment, as though I were a stranger, touched his cap,
and went on painting. When he had finished his job, he went inside, and
I heard him whistling again as he moved about the empty room.

It was a beautiful face: the features were very clearly cut and defined,
like--Good heavens! I had it now: it reminded me of Gladys Hamilton's.
The next moment I was holding the balcony railing as though I were giddy;
it was like Gladys, but it was still more like the closed picture in
Gladys's room. I pressed my hands on my eyelids as with a strong effort
I recalled her brother Eric's face, and the next moment the young painter
had come to the window again, and I was looking at him between my
fingers.

The resemblance could not be my fancy; those were Eric's eyes looking at
me. It was the same face, only older and less boyish-looking. The fair
moustache was fully grown; the face was altogether more manly and full of
character. It must be he; I must go and speak to him; but as I rose, my
limbs trembling with excitement, he moved away, and his whistle seemed to
die in the distance.

It was nearly six o'clock, and there was no time to be lost. I ran
upstairs and put on my bonnet and mantle. I thought that Clayton looked
at me in some surprise,--I was leaving the house without gloves; but I
did not wait for any explanation: the men would be leaving off work. The
door was open, and I quickly found my way to the drawing-room, but, to my
chagrin, it was empty, and an elderly man with gray hair came out of a
back room with a basket of carpenter's tools and looked at me
inquiringly.

'There is a workman here that I want to find,' I said breathlessly,--'the
one that was painting the window-frames just now,--a tall, fair young
man.'

'Oh, you'll be meaning Jack Poynter,' he returned civilly; 'he and his
mate have just gone.'

'It cannot be the one I mean,' I answered, somewhat perplexed at this.
'He was very young, not more than three-or four-and-twenty, good-looking,
with a fair moustache, and he was whistling while he worked.'

'Ay, that's Jack Poynter,' returned the man, taking off his paper cap and
rubbing up his bristly gray hair. 'We call Jack "The Blackbird" among us;
he is a famous whistler, is Jack.'

'Oh, but that is not his name,' I persisted, in a distressed voice. 'Why
do you call him Jack Poynter?'

'That is what he calls himself,' returned the man drily. Evidently he
thought my remarks a little odd. 'Folks mostly calls themselves by their
own names; among his mates he is known as "The Whistler," or "The
Blackbird," or "Gentleman Jack."'

'Well, never mind about his name,' I replied impatiently. 'I want to
speak to him. Where does he live? Will you kindly give me his address?'

'You would be welcome to it if I knew it, but "Gentleman Jack" keeps
himself dark. None of us know where he lives. I believe it used to be
down Holloway; but he has moved lately.'

'I wish you would tell me what you know about him,' I pleaded. 'It is
not idle curiosity, believe me, but I think I shall be able to do him
a service.'

'I suppose you know something of his belongings,' returned the man with a
shrewd glance. 'Now that is what me and my mates say. We would none of us
be surprised if "Gentleman Jack" has respectable folk belonging to him.
He has not quite our ways. He is a cut above us, and clips his words like
the gentlefolk do. But he is an industrious young fellow, and does not
give himself airs.'

'Could you not find out for me where he lives?'

'Well, for the matter of that, you might ask him yourself, miss; he will
be here again to-morrow morning, and I am off to Watford on a job. Jack
is not at work regularly in these parts. He is doing a turn for a mate of
his who is down with a touch of colic. He is working at Bayswater mostly,
and he will be here to-morrow morning.'

'You are sure of that?'

'Oh yes. Tom Handley won't be fit for work for a spell yet. He will be
here sharp enough, and then you can question him yourself.' And, bidding
me a civil good-evening, the man took up his tools and went heavily
downstairs, evidently expecting me to follow him. I went back and stole
up quietly to my room. Aunt Philippa and Jill had returned from their
drive. I could hear their voices as I passed the drawing-room; but I
wanted to be alone to think over this strange occurrence.

My pulses were beating high with excitement. Not for one moment did I
doubt that I had really seen Eric in the flesh. Gladys's intuition was
right: her brother was not dead. I felt that this assurance alone would
make her happy.

If she were only at Heathfield, or even at Bournemouth, I would telegraph
for her to come; I could word the message so that she would have hastened
to me at once; but Paris was too far; too much time would be lost.

Uncle Max, too, had been called to Norwich to attend a cousin's
death-bed: I had had a note from him that very morning, so I could not
have the benefit of his advice and assistance. I knew that I dared not
summon Mr. Hamilton: the brothers had parted in ill blood, with bitter
words and looks. Eric looked on his step-brother as his worst enemy. All
these years he had been hiding himself from him. I dared not run the risk
of bringing them together. I could not make a _confidante_ of Aunt
Philippa or Uncle Brian. They had old-fashioned views, and would have at
once stigmatised Eric as a worthless fellow. Circumstantial evidence was
so strong against him that few would have believed in his innocence. Even
Uncle Max condemned him, and in my own heart there lurked a secret doubt
whether Gladys had not deceived herself.

No, my only course would be to speak to him myself, to implore him for
Gladys's sake to listen to me. My best plan would be to rise as early as
possible the next morning, and to be on the balcony by six o'clock. I
should see the men come in to their work, and should have no difficulty
in making my way to them. The household was not an early one, especially
in the season. I should have the house to myself for an hour or so.

Of course my future movements were uncertain. I must speak to Eric first,
and induce him to reopen communications with his family. I would tell him
how his brother grieved over his supposed death, how changed he was; and
he should hear, too, of Gladys's failing health and spirits. I should not
be wanting in eloquence on that subject. If he loved Gladys he would not
refuse to listen to me.

After a time I tried to set aside these thoughts, and to occupy myself
with dressing for the evening. We had a dinner-party that night. Mrs.
Fullerton and Lesbia were to be of the party. They were going down to
Rutherford the next day, so I should have to bid them good-bye.

The evening was very tedious and wearisome to me: my head ached, and the
glitter of lights and the sound of many voices seemed to bewilder me.
Lesbia came up after dinner to ask if I were not well, I was so pale and
quiet. We sat out on the balcony together in the starlight for a little
while, until Mrs. Fullerton called Lesbia in. I would gladly have
remained there alone, drinking in the freshness of the night dews, but
Jill came out and began chattering to me, until I went back with her into
the room.

There was very little sleep for me that night. When at last I fell into
a dose, I was tormented by a succession of miserable dreams. I was
following a supposed Eric down long country roads in the darkness.
Something seemed always to retard me: my feet were weighted with lead,
invisible hands were pulling me back. I heard him whistling in the
distance, then I stumbled, and a black bog engulfed me, and I woke with
a stifled cry.

I woke to the knowledge that the sun was streaming in at my windows,
and that some sound like a falling plank had roused me from my uneasy
slumbers. It must be past six o'clock, I thought; surely the men must be
at work. Yes, I could hear their voices; and the next moment I had jumped
out of bed, and was dressing myself with all possible haste.

It was nearly seven when I crept down into the drawing-room to
reconnoitre the adjoining house. As I unfastened the window I heard the
same sweet whistling that had arrested my attention yesterday.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.