Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




I was not surprised that Gladys slept little that night: no doubt
agitating thoughts kept her restless. Towards morning she grew quieter,
and sank into a heavy sleep that I knew would last for two or three
hours. I had counted on this, and had laid my plan accordingly.

I must see Uncle Max at once, and she must not know that I had seen him.
In her weak state any suspense must be avoided. The few words that I
might permit myself to say to him must be spoken without her knowledge.

I knew that in the summer Max was a very early riser. He would often be
at work in his garden by six, and now and then he would start for a long
country walk,--'just to see Dame Earth put the finishing-touches to her
toilet,' he would say. But five had not struck when I slipped into
Chatty's room half dressed. The girl looked at me with round sleepy eyes
as I called her in a low voice.

'Chatty, it is very early, not quite five, but I want you to get up and
dress yourself as quietly as you can and come into the turret-room. I am
going out, and I do not want to wake anybody, and you understand the
fastenings of the front door. I am afraid I should only bungle at them.'

'You are going out, ma'am!' in an astonished voice. Chatty was thoroughly
awake now.

'Yes, I am sorry to disturb you, but I do not want Miss Gladys to miss
me. I shall not be long, but it is some business that I must do.' And
then I crept back to the turret-room.

Leah slept in a little room at the end of the passage, and I was very
unwilling that any unusual sound should reach her ears. Chatty seemed
to share this feeling, for when she joined me presently she was carrying
her shoes in her hands. 'I can't help making a noise,' she said
apologetically; 'and so I crept down the passage in my stockings. If
you are ready, ma'am, I will come and let you out.'

I stood by, rather nervously, as Chatty manipulated the intricate
fastenings. I asked her to replace them as soon as I had gone, and to
come down in about half an hour and open the door leading to the garden.
'I will return that way, and they will only think I have taken an early
stroll,' I observed. I was rather sorry to resort to this small
subterfuge before Chatty, but the girl had implicit trust in me, and
evidently thought no harm; she only smiled and nodded; and as I lingered
for a moment on the gravel path I heard the bolt shoot into its place.

It was only half-past five, and I walked on leisurely. I had not been
farther than the garden for three weeks, and the sudden sense of freedom
and space was exhilarating.

It was a lovely morning. A dewy freshness seemed on everything; the birds
were singing deliciously; the red curtains were drawn across the windows
of the Man and Plough; a few white geese waddled slowly across the green;
some brown speckled hens were feeding under the horse-trough; a goat
browsing by the roadside looked up, quite startled, as I passed him,
and butted slowly at me in a reflective manner. There was a scent of
sweet-brier, of tall perfumy lilies and spicy carnations from the
gardens. I looked at the windows of the houses I passed, but the blinds
were drawn, and the bees and the flowers were the only waking things
there. The village seemed asleep, until I turned the corner, and there,
coming out of the vicarage gate, was Uncle Max himself. He was walking
along slowly, with his old felt hat in his hand, reading his little
Greek Testament as he walked, and the morning sun shining on his
uncovered head and his brown beard.

He did not see me until I was close to him, and then he started, and an
expression of fear crossed his face.

'Ursula, my dear, were you coming to the vicarage? Nothing is wrong,
I hope?' looking at me anxiously.

'Wrong! what should be wrong on such a morning?' I returned playfully.
'Is it not delicious? The air is like champagne; only champagne never had
the scent of those flowers in it. The world is just a big dewy bouquet.
It is good only to be alive on such a morning.'

Max put his Greek Testament in his pocket and regarded me dubiously.

'Were you not coming to meet me, then? It is not a quarter to six yet.
Rather early for an aimless stroll, is it not, my dear?'

'Oh yes, I was coming to meet you,' I returned carelessly. 'I thought you
would be at work in the garden. Max, you are eying me suspiciously: you
think I have something important to tell you. Now you must not be
disappointed; I have very little to say, and I cannot answer questions;
but there is one thing, I have found out all you wish to know about
Captain Hamilton.'

It was sad to see the quick change in his face,--the sudden cloud that
crossed it at the mention of the man whom he regarded as his rival. He
did not speak; not a question came from his lips; but he listened as
though my next word might be the death-warrant to his hopes.

'Max, do not look like that: there is no cause for fear. It is a great
secret, and you must never speak of it, even to me,--but Lady Betty is
engaged to her cousin Claude.'

For a moment he stared at me incredulously. 'Impossible! you must have
been deceived,' I heard him mutter.

'On the contrary, I leave other people to be duped,' was my somewhat cool
answer. 'You need not doubt my news: Gladys is my informant: only, as I
have just told you, it is a great secret. Mr. Hamilton is not to know
yet, and Gladys writes most of the letters. Poor little Lady Betty is in
constant terror that she will be found out, and they are waiting until
Captain Hamilton has promotion and comes home in November.'

He had not lost one word that I said: as he stood there, bareheaded, in
the morning sunshine that was tingeing his beard with gold, I heard his
low, fervent 'Thank God! then it was not that;' but when he turned to me
his face was radiant, his eyes bright and vivid; there was renewed hope
and energy in his aspect.

'Ursula, you have come like the dove with the olive-branch. Is this
really true? It was good of you to come and tell me this.'

'I do not see the goodness, Max.'

'Well, perhaps not; but you have made me your debtor. I like to owe this
to you,--my first gleam of hope. Now, you must tell me one thing. Does
Miss Darrell know of this engagement?'

'She does.'

'Stop a moment: I feel myself getting confused here. I am to ask no
questions: you can tell me nothing more. But I must make this clear to
myself: How long has she known, Ursula? a day? a week?'

'Suppose you substitute the word months,' I observed scornfully. 'I know
no dates, but Miss Darrell has most certainly been acquainted with her
cousin's engagement for months.'

'Oh, this is worse than I thought,' he returned, in a troubled tone.
'This is almost too terrible to believe. She has known all I suffered on
that man's account, and yet she never undeceived me. Can women be so
cruel? Why did she not come to me and say frankly, "I have made a
mistake; I have unintentionally misled you: it is Lady Betty, not Gladys,
who is in love with her cousin"? Good heavens! to leave me in this
ignorance, and never to say the word that would put me out of my misery!'

I was silent, though silence was a torture to me. Even, now the extent of
Miss Darrell's duplicity had not clearly dawned on him. He complained
that she had left him to suffer through ignorance of the truth; but the
idea had not yet entered his mind that possibly she had deceived him from
the first. 'Oh, the stupidity and slowness of these honourable men where
a woman is concerned!' I groaned to myself; but my promise to Gladys kept
me silent.

'It was too bad of her, was it not?' he said, appealing to me for
sympathy; but I turned a deaf ear to this.

'Max, confess that you were wrong not to have taken my advice and gone
down to Bournemouth: you might have spared yourself months of suspense.'

'Do you mean--' And then he reddened and stroked his beard nervously; but
I finished his sentence for him: he should not escape what I had to say
to him.

'It is so much easier to come to an understanding face to face; but you
would not take my advice, and the opportunity is gone. Gladys is in the
turret-room: you could not gain admittance to her without difficulty:
what you have to say must be said by letter; but you might trust that
letter to me, Max.'

He understood me in a moment. I could see the quick look of joy in his
eyes. I had not betrayed Gladys, I had adhered strictly to my word that I
would only speak of Lady Betty's engagement; and with his usual delicacy
Max had put no awkward questions to me: he had respected my scruples, and
kept his burning curiosity to himself. But he would not have been a man
if he had not read some deeper meaning under my silence: he told me
afterwards that the happy look in my eyes told him the truth.

So he merely said very quietly, 'You were right, and I was wrong, Ursula:
I own my fault. But I will write now: I owe Miss Hamilton some
explanation. When the letter is ready, how am I to put it into your
hands?'

'Oh,' I answered in a matter-of-fact way, as though we were speaking of
some ordinary note, and it was not an offer of marriage from a penitent
lover, 'when you have finished talking to Miss Darrell,--you will enjoy
her conversation, I am sure, Max; it will be both pleasant and
profitable,--you might mention casually that there was something you
wanted to say to your niece Ursula, and would she kindly ask that young
person to step down to you for a minute? and then, you see, that little
bit of business will be done.'

'Yes, I see; but--' but here Max hesitated--'but the answer, Ursula?'

'Oh, the answer!' in an off-hand manner; 'you must not be looking for
that yet. My patient must not be hurried or flurried: you must give
her plenty of time. In a day or two--well, perhaps, I might find an
early stroll conducive to my health; these mornings are so beautiful;
and--Nonsense, Max! I would do more than this for you'; for quiet,
undemonstrative Max had actually taken my hand and lifted it to his lips
in token of his gratitude.

After this we walked back in the direction of Gladwyn, and nothing more
was said about the letter. We listened to the rooks cawing from the elms,
and we stood and watched a lark rising from the long meadow before
Maplehurst and singing as though its little throat would burst with its
concentrated ecstasy of song; and when I asked Max if he did not think
the world more beautiful than usual that morning, he smiled, and suddenly
quoted Tennyson's lines, in a voice musical with happiness:

'All the land in flowery squares,
Beneath a broad and equal-flowing wind,
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud
Drew downward; but all else of heaven was pure
Up to the sun, and May from verge to verge,
And May with me from heel to heel.'

'Yes, but, Max, it is July now. The air is too mellow for spring. Your
quotation is not quite apt.'

'Oh, you are realistic; but it fits well enough. Do you not remember how
the poem goes on?

"The garden stretches southward. In the midst
A cedar spread its dark-green layers of shrub.
The garden-glasses shone, and momently
The twinkling laurel scattered silver lights."

I always think of Gladwyn when I read that description.'

I laughed mischievously: 'I am sorry to leave you just as you are in a
poetical vein; but I must positively go in. Good-bye, Max,' I felt I had
lingered a little too long when I saw the blinds raised in Mr. Hamilton's
study. But apparently the room was empty. I sauntered past it leisurely,
and walked down the asphalt path. On my return I picked one or two roses,
wet with dew. As I raised my head from gathering them I saw Leah standing
at the side door watching me.

'Oh, it was you,' she grumbled. 'I thought one of those girls had left
the door unlocked. A pretty piece of carelessness that would have been
to reach the master's ears! You are out early, ma'am.'

I was somewhat surprised at these remarks, for Leah had made a point of
always passing me in sullen silence since I had refused her admittance
into the sick-room. Her manner was hardly civil now, but I thought it
best to answer her pleasantly.

'Yes, Leah, I have taken my stroll early. It was very warm last night,
and I did not sleep well. There is nothing so refreshing as a morning
walk after a bad night. I am going to take these roses to Miss Gladys.'
But she tossed her head and muttered something about people being mighty
pleasant all of a sudden. And, seeing her in this mood, I walked away.
She was a bad-tempered, coarse-natured woman, and I could not understand
why Mr. Hamilton seemed so blind to her defects. 'I suppose he never sees
her; that is one reason,' I thought, as I carried up my roses.

Gladys was still asleep. I had finished my breakfast, and had helped
Chatty arrange the turret-room for the day, when I heard the long-drawn
sigh that often preluded Gladys's waking. I hastened to her side, and
found her leaning on her elbow looking at my roses.

'They used to grow in the vicarage garden,' she said wistfully. 'Dark
crimson ones like these. I have been dreaming.' And then she stopped and
flung herself back wearily on her pillow. 'Why must one ever wake from
such dreams?' she finished, with the old hopeless ring in her voice.

'What was the dream, dear?' I asked, smoothing her hair caressingly. It
was fine, soft hair, like an infant's, and its pale gold tint, without
much colour or gloss, always reminded me of baby hair. I have heard
people find fault with it. But when it was unbound and streaming in wavy
masses over her shoulders it was singularly beautiful. She used to laugh
sometimes at my admiration of her straw-coloured tresses, or lint-white
locks, as she called them. But indeed there was no tint that quite
described the colour of Gladys's hair.

'Oh, I was walking in some fool's paradise or other. There were roses in
it like these. Well, another blue day is dawning, Ursula, and has to be
lived through somehow. Will you help me to get up now?' But, though she
tried after this to talk as usual, I could see the old restlessness was
on her. A sort of feverish reaction had set in. She could settle to
nothing, take pleasure in nothing; and I was not surprised that Mr.
Hamilton grumbled a little when he paid his morning visit.

'How is this? You are not quite so comfortable to-day, Gladys,' he asked,
in a dissatisfied tone. 'Is your head aching again?'

She reluctantly pleaded guilty to the headache. Not that it was much, she
assured him; but I interrupted her.

'The fact is, she sat up too late last night, and I let her talk too
much and over-exert herself.' For I saw he was determined to come to the
bottom of this.

'I think the nurse was to blame there,' he returned, darting a quick,
uneasy look at me. I knew what he was thinking: Miss Darrell's speech,
that Miss Garston always excited Gladys, must have come into his mind.

'If the nurse deserves blame she will take it meekly,' I replied. 'I know
I was wrong to let her talk so much. I must enforce extra quiet to-day.'
And then he said no more. I do not think he found it easy to give me the
scolding that I deserved. And, after all, I had owned my fault.

I had just gone out in the passage an hour later, to carry away a bowl of
carnations that Gladys found too strong in the room, when I heard Uncle
Max's voice in the hall. The front door was open, and he had entered
without ringing. I was glad of this. The door of the turret-room was
closed, and Gladys would not hear his voice. I should manage to slip
down without her noticing the fact.

So I busied myself in Lady Betty's room until I heard the drawing-room
door open and close again, and I knew Miss Darrell was coming in search
of me. I went out to meet her, with Gladys's empty luncheon-tray in my
hands. I thought she looked rather cross and put out, as though her
interview with Uncle Max had disappointed her.

'Mr. Cunliffe is in the drawing-room, and he would like to speak to you
for a moment.' she said, in a voice that showed me how unwilling she was
to bring me the message. 'I told him that you never cared to be disturbed
in the morning, as you were so busy; but he was peremptory.'

'I am never too busy to see Uncle Max: he knows that,' I returned
quickly. 'Will you kindly allow me a few moments alone with him?' for she
was actually preparing to follow me, but after this request she retired
sulkily into her own room.

I found Max standing in the middle of the room, looking anxiously towards
the door: the moment it closed behind me he put a thick white envelope in
my hand.

'There it is, Ursula,' he said nervously: 'will you give it to her as
soon as possible? I have been literally on thorns the last quarter of an
hour. Miss Darrell would not take any of my hints that I wished to see
you: so I was obliged at last to say that I could not wait another
moment, and that I must ask her to fetch you at once.'

'Poor Max! I can imagine your feelings; but I have it safe here,' tapping
my apron pocket. 'But you must not go just yet.' And I beckoned him
across the room to the window that overlooked a stiff prickly shrub.

He looked at me in some surprise. 'We are alone, Ursula.'

'Yes, I know: but the walls have ears in this house: one is never safe
near the conservatory: there are too many doors. Tell me, Max, how have
you got on with Miss Darrell this morning?'

'I was praying hard for patience all the time,' he replied, half
laughing. 'It was maddening to see her sitting there so cool and crisp
in her yellow tea-gown--well, what garment was it?' as I uttered a
dissenting ejaculation: 'something flimsy and aesthetic. I thought her
smooth sentences would never stop.'

'Did she notice any change in your manner to her?'

'I am afraid so, for I saw her look at me quite uneasily more than once.
I could not conceal that I was terribly bored. I have no wish to be
discourteous to a lady, especially to one of my own church workers; but
after what has passed I find it very difficult to forgive her.'

This was strong language on Max's part. I could see that as a woman he
could hardly tolerate her, but he could not bring himself to condemn her
even to me. He hardly knew yet what he had to forgive: neither he nor
Gladys had any real idea of the treachery that had separated them.

Max would not stay many minutes, he was so afraid of Miss Darrell coming
into the room again. I did rather an imprudent thing after that. Max was
going to the Maberleys', for the colonel was seriously ill, so I begged
him to go the garden way, and I kept him for a moment under the window of
the turret-room.

I saw him glance up eagerly, almost hungrily, but the blinds were
partially down, and there was only a white curtain flapping in the summer
breeze.

But an unerring instinct told me that the sound of Max's voice would be a
strong cordial to the invalid, it was so long since she had heard or seen
him. As we sauntered under the oak-trees I knew Gladys would be watching
us.

On my return to the room I found her sitting bolt upright in her
arm-chair, grasping the arms; there were two spots of colour on her
cheeks; she looked nervous and excited.

'I saw you walking with him, Ursula; he looked up, but I am glad he could
not see me. Did--did he send me any message?' in a faltering voice.

'Yes, he sent you this.' And I placed the thick packet on her lap. 'Miss
Hamilton,'--yes, it was her own name: he had written it. I saw her look
at it, first incredulously, then with dawning hope in her eyes; but
before her trembling hands could break the old-fashioned seal with which
he had sealed it I had noiselessly left the room.




CHAPTER XLII

DOWN THE PEMBERLEY ROAD


Three-quarters of an hour had elapsed before I ventured into the room
again; but at the first sound of my footsteps Gladys looked up, and
called to me in a voice changed and broken with happiness.

'Ursula, dear Ursula, come here.' And as I knelt down beside her and put
my arms round her she laid her cheek against my shoulder: it was wet with
tears.

'Ursula, I am so happy. Do you know that he loves me, that he has loved
me all through these years? You must not see what he says; it is only for
my eyes; it is too sweet and sacred to be repeated; but I never dreamt
that any one could care for me like that.'

I kissed her without speaking; there seemed a lump in my throat just
then. I did not often repine, but the yearning sense of pain was strong
on me. When would this cruel silence between me and Giles be broken? But
Gladys, wrapt in her own blissful thoughts, did not notice my emotion.

'He says that there is much that he can only tell me by word of mouth,
and that he dare not trust to a letter explanations for his silence, and
much that I shall have to tell him in return; for we shall need each
other's help in making everything clear.

'He seems to reproach himself bitterly, and asks my pardon over and over
again for misunderstanding me so. He says my giving up my work was the
first blow to his hopes, and then he had been told that I cared for my
cousin Claude. He believed until this morning that I was in love with
him; and it was your going to him--oh, my darling! how good you have been
to me and him!--that gave him courage to write this letter, Ursula.'
And here she cried a little. 'Was it Etta who told him this falsehood
about, Claude? How could she he so wicked and cruel?'

'Do not think about her to-day, my dearest,' I returned soothingly. 'Her
punishment will be great some day. We will not sit in judgment on her
just now. She cannot touch your happiness again, thank heaven!'

'No,' with a sigh; 'but, as Max says, it is difficult to forgive the
person who is the chief source of all our trouble. He did say that, and
then he reproached himself again for uncharitableness, and added that he
ought to have known me better.

'He does not seem quite certain yet that I can care for him, and he begs
for just one word to put him out of his suspense, to tell him if I can
ever love him well enough to be his wife. I don't want him to wait long
for my answer, Ursula: he has suffered too much already. I think I could
write a few words that would satisfy him, if I could only trust Chatty to
take them.'

'You had better wait until to-morrow morning and intrust your letter to
the "five-o'clock carrier."' And as my meaning dawned on her her doubtful
expression changed into a smile. 'Do wait, Gladys,' I continued
coaxingly. 'It is very selfish of me, perhaps, but I should like to give
that letter to Max.'

'You may have your wish, then, for I was half afraid of sending it by
Chatty. I have grown so nervous, Ursula, that I start at a shadow. I can
trust you better than myself. Well, I will write it, and then it will be
safe in your hands.'

I went away again after this, and left her alone in the quiet shady room.
I fought rather a battle with myself as I paced up and down Lady Betty's
spacious chamber. Why need I think of my own troubles? why could I not
keep down this pain? I would think only of Gladys's and of my dear Max's
happiness, and I dashed away hot tears that would keep blinding me as I
remembered the chilly greeting of the morning. And yet once--but no; I
would not recall that bitter-sweet memory. I left Gladys alone for an
hour: when I went back she was leaning wearily against the cushions of
her chair, the closely-written sheets still open on her lap, as though
she needed the evidence of sight and touch to remind her that it was not
part of her dream.

'Have you written your letter, Gladys?'

'Yes,' with a blush; 'but it is very short, only a few words. He will
understand that I am weak and cannot exert myself much. Will you read it,
Ursula, and tell me if it will do?'

I thought it better to set her mind at rest, so I took it without demur.
The pretty, clear handwriting was rather tremulous: he would be sorry to
see that.

'My dear Mr. Cunliffe,'--it said,--'Your letter has made me very happy.
I wish I could answer it as it ought to be answered; but I know you will
not misunderstand the reason why I say so little.

'I have been very ill, and am still very weak, and my hand trembles too
much when I try to write; but I am not ungrateful for all the kind things
you say; it makes me very happy to know you feel like that, even though I
do not deserve it.

'You must not blame yourself so much for misunderstanding me: we have
both been deceived; I know that now. It was wrong of me to give up my
work; but Etta told me that people were saying unkind things of me, and
I was a coward and listened to her: so you see I was to blame too.

'I have not answered your question yet, but I think I will do so by
signing myself,

'Yours, always and for ever,

'Gladys.'

'Will he understand that, Ursula?'

'Surely, dear; the end is plain enough: you belong to Max now.'

'I like to know that,' she returned simply. 'Oh, the rest of feeling that
he will take care of me now! it is too good to talk about. But I hope I
am sufficiently thankful.' And Gladys's lovely eyes were full of solemn
feeling as she spoke.

I thought she wanted to be quiet,--it was difficult for her to realise
her happiness at once,--so I told her that I had some letters to write,
and carried my desk into the next room, but she followed me after a time,
and we had a long talk about Max.

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