Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'Oh dear!' sighed Jill at this.

'How happy I am compared with her!' I went on, relapsing unconsciously
into my own voice. 'I am young and strong; I have all my life before me.
True, poor Ralph has gone, but I was only a child, and did not miss him.
I have a good father and an indulgent mother' ('Humph!' observed Jill at
this point, only she turned it into a cough); 'if my present schoolroom
life is not to my taste, I am sensible enough to know that the drudgery
and restraint will not last for long; in another year, or a year and a
half, Fraeulein, whom I certainly do not love, will go back to her own
country. I shall be free to read the books I like, to study what I
choose, or to be idle. I shall have Sara's cheerful companionship instead
of Fraeulein's heavy company; I shall ride; I shall walk in the sunshine;
I shall be a butterfly instead of a chrysalis; and if I care to be
useful, all sorts of paths will be open to me.'

'There, hold your tongue,' interrupted Jill, with a rough kiss; 'of
course I know I am a wicked, ungrateful wretch, and that I ought to be
more patient. Yes, you shall go, Ursula; you are a darling, but I will
not want to keep you; you are too good to be wasted on me; it would be
like pouring gold into a sieve. Well, I did cry about it this afternoon,
but I won't be such a goose any more. I will live my life the same way,
in spite of all of them, you will see if I don't, Ursula. Who is it who
says, "The thoughts of youth are long long thoughts"? I have such big
thoughts sometimes, especially when I sit in the dark. I send them out
like strange birds, all over the world,--up, up, everywhere,--but they
never come back to me again,' finished Jill mournfully; 'if they build
nests I never know it: I just sit and puzzle out things, like poor little
grimy Cinderella.'

Jill's eloquence did not surprise me. I knew she was very clever, and
full of unfledged poetry, and I had often heard her talk in that way; but
I had no time to answer her, for just then the first gong sounded, and I
could hear Sara running up to her room to dress for dinner. Jill jumped
up, and tugged at the bell-rope rather fiercely.

'Martha must have forgotten all about the tea-things; very likely the
lamp is smoky and will have to be trimmed. I must not come and help you,
Ursie dear, for I have to learn my German poetry before I dress.' And
Jill pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains with a vigorous hand.
Martha looked quite frightened at the sight of Jill's energy and her own
remissness.

'Why did you not ring before, Miss Jocelyn?' she said, plaintively, and
in rather an injured voice, as she carried away the tea-tray.

Uncle Max passed me in the passage; Clarence was following with his
portmanteau; he looked surprised to see me still in my bonnet with my fur
cape trailing over one arm; but I nodded to him cheerfully and went
quickly into my room.

My life at St. Thomas's had inured me to hardness; it had contrasted
strangely with my luxurious surroundings at Hyde Park Gate. Aunt Philippa
certainly treated me well in her way. I had a full share of the loaves
and the fishes of the household; my room was as prettily furnished as
Jill's; a bright fire burnt in the grate; there were pink candles on the
dressing-table. Martha, who waited upon us both, had put out my black
evening dress on the bed, and had warmed my dressing-gown; she would come
to me by and by with a civil offer of help.

I was rather puzzled at the sight of a little breast-knot of white
chrysanthemums that lay on the table, until I remembered Uncle Max; no
one had ever brought me flowers since Charlie's death; he had gathered
the last that I ever wore--some white violets that grew in a little
hollow in the ground of Rutherford Lodge. I hesitated painfully before
I pinned the modest little bouquet in my black dress, but I feared Uncle
Max would be hurt if I failed to appear in it. I wore mother's pearl
necklace as usual, and the little locket with her hair; somehow I took
more pleasure in dressing myself this evening, when I knew Uncle Max's
kind eyes would be on me.

I had not hurried myself, and the second gong sounded before I reached
the drawing-room, so I came face to face with Lesbia, who was coming out
on Uncle Brian's arm. She kissed me in her quiet way, and said, 'How do
you do, Ursula?' just as though we had met yesterday, and passed on.

I thought she looked prettier than ever that evening--like a snow
princess, in her white gown, with a little fleecy shawl drawn round her
shoulders, for she took cold easily. She had a soft creamy complexion,
and fair hair that she wore piled up in smooth plaits on her head; she
had plaintive blue eyes that could be brilliant at times, and a lovely
mouth, and she was tall and graceful like Sara.

They made splendid foils to each other; but in my opinion Sara carried
the palm: she was more piquant and animated; her colouring was brighter,
and she had more expression; but Charlie's Lily, as he called her, was
quite as much admired, and indeed they were both striking-looking girls.

I saw that Uncle Max took a great deal of notice of Lesbia, who sat next
to him. I could not hear their conversation, but a pretty pink colour
tinged Lesbia's face, and her eyes grew dark and bright as she listened,
and I saw her glance at her left hand where the half-hoop of diamonds
glistened that Charlie had placed there; she had not quite forgotten the
dear boy then, for I am sure she sighed, but the next moment she had
turned from Uncle Max, and was engaged in an eager discussion with Sara
about some private theatricals in which Sara was to take a part.

When we went back to the drawing-room we found Fraeulein in her favourite
red silk dress, trying to repair the damage that Sooty had wrought in her
half-knitted stocking, and Jill, looking very bored and uncomfortable,
turning over the photograph album in a corner. She looked awkward and
sallow in her Indian muslin gown: the flimsy stuff did not suit her any
more than the pink coral beads she wore round her neck. Her black locks
bobbed uneasily over the book. She looked bigger than ever when she stood
up to speak to Lesbia.

'How that child is growing!' observed Aunt Philippa behind her fan to
Fraeulein, whose round face was beaming with smiles at the entrance of the
ladies. 'That gown was made only a few weeks ago, and she is growing out
of it already. Jocelyn, my love, why do you hunch your shoulders so when,
you talk to Lesbia? I am always telling you of this awkward habit.'

Poor Jill frowned and reddened a little under this maternal admonition;
her eyes looked black and fierce as she sat down again with her
photographs. This hour was always a penance to her; she could not speak
or move easily, for fear of some remark from Aunt Philippa. When her
mother and Fraeulein interchanged confidences behind the big spangled fan,
the poor child always thought they were talking about her.

Her bigness, her awkwardness, troubled Jill excessively. Her clumsy hands
and feet seemed always in her way.

'I know I am the ugly duckling,' she would say, with tears in her eyes;
'but I shall never turn into a swan like Sara and Lesbia,--not that I
want to be like them!'--with a little scorn in her voice. 'Lesbia is too
tame, too namby-pamby, for my taste; and Sara is stupid. She laughs and
talks, but she never says anything that people have not said a hundred
times before. Oh, I am so tired of it all! I grow more cross and
disagreeable every day,' finished Jill, who was very frank on the
subject of her shortcoming.

I would have stopped and talked to Jill, only Lesbia tapped me on the arm
rather peremptorily.

'Come into the back drawing-room,' she said, in a low voice. 'I want to
speak to you.--Jill, why do you not practise your new duet with Sara? She
will play nothing but valses all the evening, unless you prevent it'

But Jill shook her head sulkily; she felt safer in her corner. Sara was
strumming on the grand pianoforte as we passed her; her slim fingers were
running lazily over the keys in the 'Verliebt und Verloren' valse.
Clarence was lighting the candles; William was bringing in the coffee;
and Colonel Ferguson was following rather unceremoniously. People were
always dropping in at Hyde Park Gate: perhaps Sara's bright eyes
magnetised them. We had colonels and majors and captains at our will,
for there was a martial craze in the house: to-night it was grave,
handsome Colonel Ferguson.

He was rather a favourite with Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa, perhaps
because his troubles interested them; he had buried his young wife and
child in an Indian grave, and some people said that he had come to
England to look out for a second wife.

He was a very handsome man, and still young enough to find favour in a
girl's sight, and his wealth made him a _grand parti_ in the parents'
eyes. At present he had bestowed equal attention on Sara and Lesbia,
though close observers might have noticed that he lingered longest by
Sara's side.

'How do you do, Colonel Ferguson?' said Sara, nodding to him in her
bright, unconcerned way, as she finished her valse. 'Mother is over
there talking to Fraeulein: you will find your coffee ready for you.' And
her glossy little head bent over the keys again, while the lazy music
trickled through her fingers. Though Colonel Ferguson did as he was told,
I fancied he would keep a close watch over the young performer.

The inner drawing-room had heavy velvet hangings that closed over the
archway; on cold evenings the curtains would be drawn rather closely;
there would be a bright fire, and a single lamp lighted. Very often Uncle
Brian would retire with his book or paper when Sara's valses wearied him
or the room filled with young officers. Since Ralph's death he had
certainly become rather taciturn and unsociable. Aunt Philippa, who loved
gaiety, never accompanied him, but now and then Jill would creep from her
corner, when her mother was not looking, and slip behind the ruby
curtains. I have caught her there sometimes sitting on the rug, with her
rough head against her father's knee; they would both of them look a
little shamefaced, as if they were guilty of some fault.

'Go to bed, Jill; it is time for little girls to be asleep,' he would
say, patting her cheek. Jill would nestle it on his coat-sleeve for a
moment, as she obeyed him. Her father had the softest place in her heart.
She always would have it that her mother was hard on her, but she never
complained of want of kindness from her father.

'Colonel Ferguson comes very often,' remarked Lesbia, a little peevishly,
as she walked to the fireplace to warm herself: she was a chilly being,
and loved warmth. 'His name is Donald, is it not? some one told me so:
Donald Ferguson. Well, he is not bad; he may do for Sara. She has plenty
of quicksilver to balance his gravity.'

I was rather surprised at this beginning; but without waiting for any
answer, she went on.

'What is this Mr. Cunliffe tells me?' she asked, fixing her blue eyes
on my face with marked interest. 'You are going to carry out your old
scheme, Ursula, about nursing poor people and singing to them. He tells
me you have chosen Heathfield for your future home, and that he is to
find you lodgings. Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it,' she went on
eagerly. 'I thought you had given up all that when--when--' but here she
stopped and her lips trembled; of course she meant when Charlie died, but
she rarely spoke his name. I would not let her see my astonishment,--she
had never seemed so sisterly before,--but I took the seat close to her
and talked to her as openly as though she were Jill or Uncle Max; now and
then I paused, and we could hear Colonel Ferguson's deep voice: he was
evidently turning over the pages of Sara's music.

'Go on, Ursula; I like to hear it,' Lesbia would say when I hesitated;
she was not looking at me, but at the fire, with her cheek supported
against her hand.

'What do you think of it?' I asked, presently, when I had finished and
we had both been silent a few minutes listening to one of Mendelssohn's
Songs without Words that Sara was playing very nicely.

'What do I think of it?' she replied, and her voice startled me, it was
so full of pain. 'Oh, Ursula, I think you are to be envied! If I could
only come with you and work too!--but there is mother, she could not do
without me, and so we must just go on in the same old way.'

I was so shocked at the hopelessness of her tone, so taken aback at her
words, that I could not answer her for a moment: it seemed inconceivable
to me that she could be saying such things. Poor pretty Lesbia, whom
Charlie had loved and whom I considered a mere fragile butterfly. She
was quite pale now, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

'You do not believe me, Ursula; no, I was right--you never understood me.
I often told dear Charlie so. You think, because I laugh and dance and do
as other girls do, that I have forgotten--that I do not suffer. Do you
think I shall ever find any one so good and kind in this world again? Oh,
you are hard on me, and I am so miserable, so unhappy, without Charlie.
And I am not like you: I cannot work myself into forgetfulness; I must
stop with mother and do as she bids me, and she says it is my duty to be
gay.'

I was so ashamed of myself, of my mean injustice, that I was very nearly
crying myself as I asked her pardon.

'Why do you say that?' she returned, almost pettishly, only she looked so
miserable. 'I have nothing to forgive. I only want you to be good to me
and not think the worst, for I'm really fond of you, Ursula, only you are
so reserved and cold with me,'

'My poor dear,' I returned, taking the pretty face between my hands and
kissing it. 'I will never be unkind to you again. Forgive me if I have
misunderstood you: for Charlie's sake I want to love you.' And then she
put her head down on my shoulder and cried a little, and bemoaned herself
for being so unhappy; and all the time I comforted her my guilty
conscience owned that Uncle Max was right.




CHAPTER IV

UNCLE MAX BREAKS THE ICE


Uncle Max was one of those men who like to take their own way about
things; he never hurried himself, or allowed other people's impatience
to get the better of him. 'There is a time for everything, as Solomon
says,' was his favourite speech when any one reproached him with
procrastination; 'depend upon it, the best work is done slowly. What is
the use of so much hurry? When death comes we shall be sure to leave
something unfinished.'

So for two whole days he just chatted commonplaces with Aunt Philippa,
rallied Sara, who loved a joke, and talked politics with Uncle Brian, and
never mentioned one word about my scheme; if I looked anxiously at him he
pretended to misunderstand my meaning, and, in fact, behaved from
morning to night in a most provoking way.

At last I could bear it no longer, and one wet afternoon, when I knew he
was in the drawing-room, making believe to write his letters, but in
reality getting a deal of amusement out of Sara's sprightly conversation,
for she was never silent for two minutes if she could help it, I shut
myself up in my own room, and would not go near him. I knew he would ask
where Ursula was every half-hour, and would soon guess that I was out of
humour about something; and possibly in an hour or two his conscience
would prick him, and he would feel that I deserved reparation.

This little piece of ill-tempered artifice bore excellent fruit, for
before I had nearly finished the piece of plain sewing I had set myself
as a sort of penance, there was a tap at the door, and Sara came in,
looking very excited, with her bright eyes full of wonder.

'Oh, Ursula, there is such a fuss downstairs! Uncle Max has been telling
us all about your absurd scheme. Mother is as cross as possible; she is
so angry, and yet half crying at the same time.'

'And Uncle Brian,' I exclaimed eagerly,--'what does he say?'

'Oh, you know father's way. He just smiled as though the whole thing
were beneath his notice, and went on reading his paper, and when mother
appealed to him he said, coolly, that it was none of his business or hers
either if Ursula chose to make a fool of herself; she had the right to do
so,--something like that, you know.'

'How very pleasant!' I remarked satirically, for I hated the way Uncle
Brian put down his foot on things that displeased him. I preferred Aunt
Philippa's voluble arguments to that.

'To make things worse,' went on Sara cheerfully, 'Mrs. Fullerton and
Lesbia have come in, and mother and Mrs. Fullerton are trying which can
talk the faster. Lesbia asked for you, and then did not speak another
word. What shall you do, Ursula, dear?'

'I shall just go down and ask Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea,' I returned
coolly, folding up my work. Sara looked half frightened at my boldness,
and then she began to laugh.

'It is so absurd, you know,' she returned, linking her arm in mine
affectionately. 'What ever put such nonsense in your head? you are so
comfortable here with us, and you have your own way, and I never tease
you now about going to balls. It is so silly of you trying to make
yourself miserable, and living in poky lodgings. You might as well be
a fakir, or a dervish, or a Protestant nun, or anything else that is
unpleasant.'

'My dear, you do not know anything about it,' I answered rather angrily.
'You and I are different people, Sara; we shall never think the same
about anything.'

'Well, I don't know,' she returned, half affronted: 'when people try to
be extra good I always find they succeed in making themselves extra
disagreeable. It is far more religious, in my opinion, to be pleasant
to every one, and make them believe that there is something cheerful
in life, instead of pulling a long face and doing such dreadfully bad
things.' And after this little fling, in which she tried to be very
severe, only as usual her dimples betrayed her, she begged me quite
earnestly to smooth my hair, as though I were breaking one of the
commandments by keeping it rough; and, having obliged her in this
particular, and allowed her to peep at her own pretty face over my
shoulder, we went down to the drawing-room as though we were the best
of friends.

It was impossible to quarrel with Sara; she was as gay and irresponsible
as a child; one might as well have been angry with a butterfly for
brushing his gold-powdered wings across your face; the gentle flappings
of Sara's speeches never raised a momentary vexation in my mind. I was
often weary of her, but then we do weary of children's company sometimes;
in certain moods her bright sparkling effervescence seemed to jar upon
me: but I never liked to see her sad. Sadness did not become Sara; when
she cried, which was as seldom as possible, and only when some one died,
or she lost a pet canary, all her beauty dimmed, and she looked limp and
forlorn, like a crushed butterfly or a draggled flower.

I do not think I was quite as cool and unconcerned as I wished to appear
when I marched into the drawing-room, and, after greeting Mrs. Fullerton
and Lesbia, asked Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea.

Quite a hubbub of voices had struck on my ear as I opened the door, and
yet complete silence met me. Lesbia, indeed, whispered 'Poor Ursula' as I
kissed her, but Mrs. Fullerton looked at me with grave disapproval. Aunt
Philippa was sitting bolt upright behind the tea-tray, and handed me my
cup, rather as Lady Macbeth did the dagger. I received it, however, as
though it were my due, and glanced at Uncle Max; but he was too wise to
look at me, so I said, as coolly as possible, 'Why are you so silent, and
yet you were talking loudly enough before Sara and I came into the room?'
For there is nothing like taking the bull of a dilemma by the horns; and
I had plenty of, let us say, native impudence, only, personally, I should
have given it another name; and then, of course, I brought the storm upon
me.

Sara was right. Aunt Philippa certainly talked the faster; Mrs. Fullerton
tried her best to edge in a word now and then,--a very scathing word,
too,--but there was no silencing that flow of rapid talk. I quite envied
her pure diction and the ingenious turn of her sentences; she made so
much of her own admirable foresight and care of me, and so little of my
merits.

'I always said something like this would happen, Ursula. I have told your
uncle often,--Brian, why don't you speak?--yes, indeed, I have told him
often that I never met any one so strong-minded and self-willed. You need
not laugh, Sara,--unless you do it to provoke me,--but I have been like a
mother to Ursula. Thank heaven, my daughters are not of this pattern!
they do not mistake eccentricity for goodness, or flaunt ridiculous
notions in the faces of their elders.'

This was too bad of Aunt Philippa; only she had lost her temper, and was
feeling utterly aggrieved, and Mrs. Fullerton, who was a meddlesome,
good-humoured woman, and who had nothing of which to complain in life
except a little over-plumpness and too much money, was agreeing with her
like a good neighbour and friend.

Uncle Max was smiling, and pulling his beard behind his paper; but he
made no attempt to check the flow of feminine eloquence. He had said his
say like a man, and had taken my part behind my back, and he knew women
were like new wine,--very sound and sweet, but they must find their vent.
Aunt Philippa would be kinder ever after if we let her scold us properly,
and took our scolding with a good grace.

Once or twice Uncle Brian let his eye-glasses dangle, and spoke a peevish
word or two.

'Nonsense, my dear! have I not said over and over again that this is
none of our business? Ursula is old enough to know her own mind; if she
chooses to be eccentric we cannot hinder her. All this talk goes for
nothing.'

'Ah, but, Mr. Garston, young people want guidance,' observed Mrs.
Fullerton impressively, for Aunt Philippa was beginning to sob, partly
from the effects of wasted eloquence, and perhaps with a little shortness
of breathing: anyway, her anger was working itself out. 'If you were to
advise Ursula as you would Sara, your influence might induce her to
change her mind.'

'I cannot endorse your opinion, Mrs. Fullerton,' returned Uncle Brian
drily. 'I am far too keen an observer of human nature to think we can
talk sense to deaf ears with any benefit.--Ursula, my child,' turning to
me with a smile that might have been kinder, but perhaps he meant it to
be so, 'there is not a grain of sense in your scheme: in spite of
Cunliffe's eloquence, it will not hold water; in fact, in a little while
you will be glad to come back to us again. When you do, I think I can
promise that we will not laugh at you more than once a day, and then
moderately.'

Now, this speech of Uncle Brian's made me very angry. No doubt he meant
to be kind, and to show me that if my scheme failed I might come home to
them again; but I was so much in earnest that his satire and his laughing
at me hurt me more than all Aunt Philippa's hard speeches. So I flushed
up, and for the first time tears came into my eyes; for he had prophesied
failure, and I could not bear that, and I might have said words in my
sudden irritation for which I should have been sorry afterwards, only
Lesbia, who had sat behind me all this time, as silent and soft-breathed
as a mouse, got up quickly and took my hand and stood by me.

'I think you have all said plenty of hard things to Ursula, and no one
has been kind to her. I think she deserves praise and not all this blame;
if she cannot lead the comfortable life we do, thinking how we are to get
the most pleasure and enjoy ourselves, it is because she is better than
we are, and thinks more about her duty. Mrs. Garston,--I do not mean to
be rude, I am far too fond of you all, because you have all been so good
to me,'--and here Lesbia's while throat swelled,--'but I cannot bear to
hear Ursula so blamed. Mr. Cunliffe, I know you agree with me, you said
so many nice things when Ursula was out of the room.'

This little burst of eloquence surprised us all. Uncle Max said
afterwards that he was quite touched by it. Lesbia was generally so quiet
and undemonstrative that her words took Aunt Philippa by storm. She might
have been offended by Lesbia saying that I was better than the rest of
them,--a fact that my conscience most emphatically contradicted; but when
Lesbia kissed her, and begged her to think better of things, she cried a
little because Charlie was not there to see how pretty she could look,
and then cheered up, and made overtures that I might come and kiss her
too, which I did most willingly, and with a full heart, remembering she
was my father's sister and had been good to me according to her lights.

When Uncle Max saw that reconciliation was imminent, and that by Lesbia's
help I was likely to have the best of it, my own way, and a good deal of
petting to follow,--for they would all make more of me during the short
time I would be with them,--he threw down his paper in high good-humour
and joined us.

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