Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




Without a moment's hesitation I walked out on the balcony. The young
painter looked round in some surprise at the sound of my footsteps, and
touched his cap with a half-smile.

'It is a beautiful morning,' I began nervously, for I wanted to make him
speak. 'Have you been at work long?'

'Ever since six o'clock,' he returned, and I think he was a little
surprised at hearing himself addressed. 'We work early these light
mornings.' And then he took up his brush and went on painting.

I watched him for a minute or two without a word. How was I to proceed?
My presence seemed to puzzle him. Perhaps he wondered why a lady should
take such interest in his work. I saw him glance at me uneasily.

'Will you let me speak to you?' I said, in a very low voice, and as he
came towards me, rather unwillingly, I continued: 'I know the men call
you Jack Poynter, but that is not your name. You are Eric Hamilton; no,
do not be frightened: I am Gladys's friend, and I will not injure you.'

I had broken off abruptly, for I was alarmed at the effect of my words.
The young painter's face had become ashen pale, and the brush had fallen
out of his shaking hand. The next moment a fierce, angry light had come
to his eyes.

'What do you mean? who are you?' he demanded, in a trembling voice, but
even at the moment's agitation I noticed he spoke with the refined
intonation of a gentleman. 'I know nothing of what you say: you must
take me for another man. I am Jack Poynter.'

'Oh, Mr. Hamilton,' I implored, stretching out my hands across the
balcony, 'do not treat me as an enemy. I am a friend, who only means
well. For Gladys's sake listen to me a moment.'

'I will hear nothing!' he stammered angrily. 'I will not be hindered in
my work any longer. Excuse me if I am rude to a lady, but you take me for
another man.' And before I could say another word he had stepped through
the open window.

I could have wrung my hands in despair. He had denied his own identity at
the very moment when his paleness and terror had proved it to me without
doubt. 'You take me for another man,' he had said; and yet I could have
sworn in a court of justice that he was Eric Hamilton; not only his face,
but his voice; his manner, told me he was Gladys's brother.

But he should not elude me like this, and I hurried downstairs,
determined to find my way into the empty house and confront him again.
The fastenings of the hall door gave me a little difficulty. I was afraid
Clayton would hear me, but I found myself outside at last, and in another
minute I was in the deserted drawing-room.

Alas! Eric was not there: only his paint-pot and brush lay on the balcony
outside. Surely he could not have escaped me in these few minutes; he
must be in one of the other rooms. At the top of the stairs I encountered
a young workman, and began questioning him at once.

'Well, this is a queer start,' he observed, in some perplexity. 'I saw
Jack only this moment: he wanted his jacket, for he said he had a summons
somewhere. I noticed he was palish, and seemed all of a shake, but he did
not answer when I called out to him.'

'Do you mean he has gone?' I asked, feeling ready to cry with
disappointment.

'Yes, he has gone right enough; but he'll be back presently, by the time
the governor comes round. I wonder what's up with Jack; he looked mighty
queer, as though the peelers were after him; in an awful funk, I should
say.'

'Will you do me a favour, my man?' and as I spoke a shining half-crown
changed hands rather quietly. 'I want to speak to your friend Jack
Poynter very particularly, but I am quite sure that he wishes to avoid
me. If he comes back, will you write a word on a slip of paper and throw
it on to the balcony of 64?--Just the words "At work now" will do, or any
direction that will find him. I am very much in earnest over this.'

The man looked at me and then at the half-crown. He had a good-humoured,
stupid-looking face, but was young enough to like an unusual job.

'It will be worth more than that to you to bring me face to face with
Jack Poynter, or to give me any news of him,' I continued. 'You do not
know where he lives, for example?'

'No: we are none of us his mates, except Fowler and Dunn, and they don't
know where he lodges: "Gentleman Jack" keeps himself close. But he'll be
here sure enough by and by, and then I will let you know,' and with this
I was obliged to be content. I was terribly vexed with myself. I felt I
had managed badly. I ought to have confronted him in the empty house,
where he could not have escaped me so easily. Would he come back again?
As I recalled his terrified expression, his agitated words, I doubted
whether he would put himself within my reach. I was so worried and
miserable that I was obliged to own myself ill and to beg that I might be
left in quiet. I had to endure a good deal of petting from Jill, who
would keep coming into my room to see how my poor head was. Happily,
one of my windows commanded an uncovered corner of the balcony. I could
see without going down if any scrap of paper lay there. It was not until
evening that I caught sight of an envelope lying on one of the seats.

I rang my bell and begged Draper to bring it to me at once. She thought
it had fluttered out of my window, and went down smilingly to fulfil my
behest.

It was a blank envelope, closely fastened, and I waited until Draper was
out of the room to open it: the slip of paper was inside.

'Jack has not been here all day,' was scrawled on it, 'and the governor
is precious angry. I doubt Jack has got into some trouble or other.--Your
obedient servant, Joe Muggins.'




CHAPTER XXXIV

I COMMUNICATE WITH JOE MUGGINS


Of course I knew it would be so; Eric had escaped me; but I could not
help feeling very down-hearted over the disappointment of all my hopes.

I longed so much to comfort Gladys, to bring back peace and unity to that
troubled household. I had nourished the secret hope, too, that I might
benefit Mr. Hamilton without his knowledge, and so return some of his
many kindnesses to me. I knew--none better--how sincerely he had mourned
over the supposed fate of his young brother, how truly he lamented his
past harshness. If I could have brought back their young wanderer, if I
could have said to them, 'If he has done wrong he is sorry for his fault;
take him back to your hearts,' would not Mr. Hamilton have been the first
to hold out his hand to the prodigal? Here there was no father; it must
be the elder brother who would order the fatted calf to be killed.

I had forgotten Miss Darrell. The sudden thought of her was like a dash
of cold water to me. Would she have welcomed Eric? There again was the
miserable complication!

All the next day I watched and fretted. The following evening Clayton
told me, with rather a supercilious air, that a workman calling himself
Joe Muggins wanted to speak to me. 'He did not know your name, ma'am, but
he described the lady he wanted, so I knew it was you. He said you had
asked him a question about a man named Jack Poynter.'

'Oh, it is all right, thank you, Clayton,' I returned quickly, and I went
out into the hall.

Joe Muggins looked decidedly nervous. He was in his working dress,
having, as he said, 'come straight to me, without waiting to clean
himself.'

'I made so bold, miss,' went on Joe, 'because you seemed anxious about
Jack, and I would not lose time. Well, Jack has been and given the
governor the sack,--says he has colic too; but we know that is a sham. My
mate saw him in Lisson Grove last night. He was walking along, his hands
in his pockets, when Ned pounces on him. "What are you up to, Jack?" he
says. "Why haven't you turned up at our place? The governor's in a
precious wax, I can tell you. They want him to put on more men, as
there's a press for time."--"Well, I am not coming there any more," says
Jack, looking as black as possible. "The work doesn't suit my complaint,
and I have written to tell Page so." And he stuck to that, and Ned could
not get another word out of him: but he says he is shamming, and is not
ill a bit. It is my belief, and Ned's too, that he has got into some
trouble with the governor.'

'No, I am sure you are wrong,' I returned, with a sigh; 'but I am very
much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. If you hear anything
more about Jack Poynter, or can find out where he lives, will you
communicate with me at this address?' And I handed Joe my card and a
half-sovereign.

'Yes, I'll do it, sure and certain,' he replied, with alacrity. 'Some of
us will come across him again, one of these days, and we will follow him
for a bit. You may trust me for that, miss. We will find him, sure
enough.' And then I thanked him, and bade him good-night.

There was only one thing now that I could do before taking counsel with
Gladys, and that was to advertise in some of the London papers. I wrote
out some of these advertisements that evening:

'Jack Poynter is earnestly requested to communicate with Ursula G. He may
possibly hear of something to his advantage.' And I gave the address of
an old lawyer who managed my business, writing a note to Mr. Berkeley at
the same time, begging him to forward any answer to Ursula G.

Another advertisement was of a different character:

'For Gladys's sake, please write to me, or give me a chance of speaking
to you. An unknown but most sincere friend, U. G.'

The third advertisement was still more pressing:

'Jack Poynter's friends believe him dead, and are in great trouble: he
is entreated to undeceive them. One word to the old address will be a
comfort to his poor sister.'

As soon as I had despatched these advertisements to the paper offices, I
sat down and wrote to Gladys. It was not my intention to tell her about
Eric, but I must say some word to her that would induce her to come home.
I told her that I was going back to Heathfield the following afternoon,
and that I was beginning to feel impatient for her return.

'I cannot do without you any longer, my dear Gladys,' I wrote. 'There is
so much that I want to talk to you about, and that I cannot write. I have
heard something that has greatly excited me, and that makes me think that
your view of the case is right, and that your brother Eric is alive. Of
course we must not be too sanguine, but I begin to have hopes that you
may see him again.'

More than this I did not venture to say, but I knew that these few words
would make Gladys set her face homeward: she would not rest until she
asked me my meaning. As I gave Clayton the letter I felt convinced that
before a week was over Gladys would find her way to Heathfield.

I had to give all my attention to Jill after this; but, though she hung
about me in her old affectionate way, I felt that I should leave her far
happier than she had ever been before, and she did not deny this, only
begged me to come and see them sometimes.

'You know I can't do without you, you darling bear,' she finished, with
one of her old hugs.

I was still more touched by Aunt Philippa's regret at parting with me;
she said so many kind things; and, to my surprise, Uncle Brian relaxed
from his usual coldness, and quite warmed into demonstration.

'Come to us as often as you can, Ursula,' he said. 'Your aunt and I
will be only too pleased to see you.' And then he asked me, a little
anxiously, if I found my small income sufficient for my needs.

I assured him that my wants were so few, and Mrs. Barton was so
economical, that but for my poorer neighbours I could hardly use it all.

'Well, well,' he returned, putting a handsome cheque in my hands, 'you
can always draw on me when you feel disposed. I suppose you like pretty
things as much as other girls.' And he would not let me even thank him
for his generosity.

Aunt Philippa only smiled when I showed her the cheque.

'My dear, your uncle likes to do it, and you must not be too proud to
accept his gifts: you may need it some day. We have only two daughters:
as it is, Jocelyn will be far too rich. I do not like the idea that
Harley's child should want anything.' And she kissed me with tears in her
eyes.

Dear Aunt Philippa! she had grown quite motherly during those three
weeks.

It was a lovely June afternoon: when I started from Victoria there was a
scent of hay in the air. Jill had brought with her to the station a great
basketful of roses and narcissus and heliotrope, and had put it on the
seat beside me that its fragrance might refresh me.

I felt a strange sort of excitement and pleasure at the thought of
returning home. Mrs. Barton would be glad to get me back, I knew. Uncle
Max would not be at the station to meet me, for he had written to say
that he was still detained at Norwich. His cousin was dead, and had left
him her little property,--some six or seven hundred a year. There were
some valuable books and antiquities, and some old silver besides. He was
the only near relation, and business connected with the property would
oblige him to remain for another week or ten days. I was rather sorry to
hear this, for Heathfield was not the same without Uncle Max.

But not even Uncle Max's absence could damp me, I felt so light-hearted.
'I hope I am not fey,' I said to myself, with a little thrill of
excitement and expectation as the familiar station came in view. Never
since Charlie's death had I felt so cheerful and full of life.

Nathaniel was on the platform to look after my luggage, so I walked up
the hill quietly, with my basket of flowers. As I passed the vicarage,
Mr. Tudor came out and walked with me to the gate of the White Cottage.
I had a dim suspicion that he had been watching for me.

Of course he asked after the family at Hyde Park Gate, and was most
particular in his inquiries after Aunt Philippa. Just at the last he
mentioned Jill.

'I hope your cousin Jocelyn is well,--I mean none the worse for her
accident,' he said, turning very red.

'Oh no,' I returned carelessly; 'nothing hurts Jill. She was riding in
the Park the next morning as though nothing had happened.'

'I remember you told me so, when I called to inquire,' was his answer.
'It was a nasty accident, and might have upset her nerves; but she is
very strong and courageous.'

'She has great reason to be grateful to you,' I returned, for I felt very
sorry for him. He was hoping that she had sent him some message; she
would surely desire to be remembered to him. When I repeated Jill's
abrupt little speech his face cleared, and he looked quite bright.

'There is Mrs. Barton looking out for you: I must not keep you at the
gate talking,' he said cheerfully. 'Besides, I see Leah Bates coming down
from Gladwyn, and I want to speak to her.' And he ran off in his boyish
fashion.

I was glad to escape Leah, so I went quickly up the garden-path. The
little widow was waiting for me in the porch, her face beaming with
welcome. Tinker rushed out of the kitchen as soon as he heard my voice,
and gambolled round us with awkward demonstrations of joy that nearly
upset us, and Joe the black cat came and rubbed himself against my gown,
with tail erect and loud purring.

The little parlour looked snug and inviting. The fireplace was decorated
with fir cones and tiny boughs covered with silvery lichen. A great pot
of mignonette perfumed the room with its sweetness. Charlie's face seemed
to greet me with grave sweet smiles. I seemed to hear his voice, 'Welcome
home, Ursula.'

'Oh, I am so glad to be home!' I said, as I went upstairs to my pretty
bedroom.

When I had finished my unpacking, and had had tea, I sat down in my
easy-chair, with a book that Miss Gillespie had lent me. Tinker laid his
head in my lap, and we both disposed ourselves for an idle, luxurious
evening. The bees were still humming about the honeysuckles; one great
brown fellow had buried himself in one of my crimson roses; the birds
were twittering in the acacia-tree, chirping their good-night to each
other; the sun was setting behind the limes in a glory of pink and golden
clouds, and a mingled scent of roses, mignonette, and hay seemed to
pervade the atmosphere.

I laid down my book and fell into a waking dream; my thoughts seemed to
take bird-flights into all sorts of strange places; the summer sounds and
scents seemed to lull me into infinite content. Now I heard a drowsy
cluck-cluck from the poultry-yard,--Dame Partlet remonstrating with her
lord; then a faint moo from the field where pretty brown-eyed Daisy was
chewing the cud; down below they were singing in the little dissenting
chapel; sweet shrill voices reached me every now and then. I could hear
Nathaniel chanting in a deep bass, as he worked in the back-yard, 'All
people that on earth do dwell,'--the dear homely Old Hundredth. It was no
wonder that a light, very light, footstep on the gravel outside did not
rouse me. The door behind me opened, and Tinker turned his head lazily,
and his tail began to flop heavier against the floor. The next moment two
soft arms were round my neck.

'Gladys,--oh, Gladys!' and for the moment I could say no more, in my
delight and surprise at seeing the dear beautiful face again.

'I wanted to surprise you, Ursula dear,' she said, laughing and kissing
me. 'How still and quiet you and Tinker were! I believe you were both
asleep. When I heard you were coming home I planned with Lady Betty that
I would creep down to the cottage and take you unawares. I made Mrs.
Barton promise not to betray me.'

'When did you come back?' I asked, bewildered. 'Why did you not write and
tell me you were coming?'

'Oh, it was decided all in a hurry. The Maberleys heard that their
daughter, Mrs. Egerton, would arrive in England this week, a whole month
before they expected her, so they have gone down to Southampton, and left
me to find my way home alone. I arrived last night, much to Giles's
astonishment. You know Dora is their only surviving child, and she has
been in India the last five years. She is bringing her two boys home.'

'Last night. Then you did not get my letter?'

'No; but it will follow me. How good you have been to write so often,
Ursula! I have quite lived on your letters.'

'Let me see how you look,' was my answer to this; and indeed I thought
she had never looked more beautiful. There was a lovely colour in her
face, and she seemed bright and animated, though I could not deny that
she was still very thin.

'You have not grown fatter,' I went on, pretending to grumble; 'you are
still too transparent, in my opinion; but Jill's snow-maiden has a little
life in her.'

'Does Jill call me that?' she returned, in some surprise. 'Oh, I am quite
well: even Giles says so. He declares he is glad to have me back, and
poor little Lady Betty quite cried with joy. It was nice, after all,
coming home.'

'I am so glad to hear you say that.'

'Etta is away, you know: that makes the difference. Gladwyn never seemed
so homelike before. By the bye, Ursula, Giles has sent you a message;
he--no, we all three, want you to spend a long evening with us to-morrow.
He has been called away to Brighton, and will not be back until mid-day;
but we all three agreed that it would be so nice if you came early in the
afternoon, and we would have tea in the little oak avenue. Etta never
cares about these _al fresco_ meals, she is so afraid of spiders and
caterpillars; but Lady Betty and I delight in it.'

I wish Jill could have heard Gladys talk in this bright, natural way. I
am sure she would not have recognised her snow-maiden. There was no weary
constraint in her manner to-night, no heavy pressure of unnatural care on
her young brow: she seemed too happy to see me again to think of herself
at all.

When we had talked a little more I began to approach the subject of Eric
very gradually. At my first word her cheek paled, and the old wistfulness
came to her eyes.

'What of Eric?' she asked quickly. 'You look a little strange, Ursula.
Do not be afraid of speaking his name: he is never out of my thoughts,
waking or sleeping.'

I told her that I knew this, but that I had something very singular to
narrate, which I feared might excite and disappoint her, but that I could
assure her of the certainty that he was alive and well.

She clasped her hands almost convulsively together, and looked at me
imploringly. 'Only tell me that, and I can bear everything else,' she
exclaimed.

But as she listened her face grew paler and paler, and presently she
burst into tears, and sobbed so violently that I was alarmed.

'It is nothing,--nothing but joy,' she gasped out at length. 'I could
not hear you say that you had seen him, my own Eric, and not be overcome.
Oh, Ursula, if I had only been with you!' And she hid her face on my
shoulder, and for a little while I could say no more.

When she was calmed I finished all that I had to tell, and read her the
advertisements, but they seemed to frighten her.

'How dreadful if Etta or Giles should see them!' she said nervously.
'Etta is so clever, she finds out everything. I would not have her read
one of them for worlds. Why did you put your name, Ursula?--it is so
uncommon.'

'No one will connect me with Jack Poynter. I did not think there would be
any risk,' I replied soothingly. 'I put "for Gladys's sake" in the _Daily
Telegraph_. You see, we must try to attract his notice.'

'Giles never takes in the _Daily Telegraph_. We have the _Times_ and the
_Standard_, and the _Morning Post_ for Etta. Which did you put in the
_Standard_?'

I repeated the advertisement: 'Jack Poynter's friends believe him dead,
and are in great trouble: he is entreated to undeceive them. One word to
the old address will be a comfort to his poor sister.'

'That will do,' she answered, in a relieved tone. 'Etta cannot read
between the lines there. Oh, Ursula, do you think that Eric will see
them?'

I assured her that there was no doubt on the subject. All the better
class of workmen had access to some club or society, where they saw the
leading papers. I thought the _Daily Telegraph_ the most likely to meet
his eyes, and should continue to insert an advertisement from time to
time. 'We must be patient and wait a little,' I continued. 'Even if our
appeals do not reach him, there is every probability that Joe Muggins
or one of the other workmen will come across him. We want to find out
where Jack Poynter lives. I mean to write to Joe in a few days, and offer
him a handsome sum if he can tell me his address.'

'That will be the best plan; but, oh, Ursula, how am I to be patient?
To think of my dear boy becoming a common workman! he is poor, then; he
wants money. I feel as though I cannot rest, as though I must go to
London and look for him myself.'

Gladys looked so excited and feverish that I almost repented my
confidence. I did all I could to soothe her.

'Surely, dear, it is not so difficult to wait a little, knowing him to be
alive and well, as it was to bear that long suspense.'

'Oh, but I never believed him to be dead,' she answered quickly. 'I was
very anxious, very unhappy, about him, often miserable, but in my dreams
he was always full of life. When I woke up I said to myself, "They are
wrong; Eric is in the world somewhere; I shall see him again."'

'Just so; and now with my own eyes I have seen him, evidently in perfect
health and in good spirits.'

'Ah, but that troubles me a little,' she returned, and her beautiful
mouth began to quiver like an unhappy child's. 'How can Eric, my Eric who
loved me so, be so light-hearted, knowing that all these years I have
been mourning for him? I remember how he used,' she went on plaintively,
'to whistle over his work, and how Giles used to listen to him. Sometimes
they kept up a duet together, but Eric's note was the sweeter.'

'We must be careful not to misjudge him even in this,' was my answer:
'how do you know, Gladys, that he has not assured himself that you are
all well, and, as far as he knows, happy? Or perhaps his heart was very
heavy in spite of his whistling. A young man does not show his feelings
like a girl.'

'No doubt you are right,' she replied, sighing, and then she turned her
head away, and I could see the old tremulous movement of her hands.
'Ursula,' she said, in a very low voice, 'have you told Mr. Cunliffe
about this?'

'Uncle Max!' I exclaimed, concealing my astonishment at hearing her
mention his name of her own accord. 'No; indeed, he is away from home:
we have not met for the last three weeks. Would you wish me to tell him,
Gladys?'

She pondered over my question, and I could see the curves of her throat
trembling. Her voice was not so clear when she answered me:

'He might have helped us. He is kind and wise, and I trusted him once.
But perhaps it will be hardly safe to tell him: he might insist on Giles
knowing, and then everything would be lost.'

'What do you mean?' I asked hastily. 'Surely Mr. Hamilton ought to know
that his brother is alive.'

'Yes, but not now--not until I have seen him. Ursula, you are very good;
you are my greatest comfort; but indeed you must be guided in this by me.
You do not know Giles as I do. He is beginning to influence you in spite
of yourself. If Giles knows, Etta will know, and then we are lost.'

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