Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max







CHAPTER XLVI

NAP BARKS IN THE STABLE-YARD


I was arranging some flowers that Max had sent us the next morning, and
waiting for Gladys to join me, when Mr. Hamilton came in.

'Where is Gladys?' he asked, looking round the room; but when he heard
that she had not finished dressing, he would not hear of my disturbing
her.

'It is no matter,' he went on. 'I shall be back before she is in bed. I
only wanted to tell her that I have seen Cunliffe. I breakfasted with him
this morning. He will be up here presently to see her. He looks ten years
younger, Miss Garston.' And, as I smiled at that, he continued, in rather
a constrained voice,--

'Mr. Tudor breakfasted with us.'

'Yes, I suppose so,' I returned carelessly. 'What splendid carnations
these are, Mr. Hamilton! You have not any so good at Gladwyn.'

'Cunliffe must spare me some cuttings,' he replied, rather absently;
then, without looking at me, and in a peculiar voice, 'Is it still a
secret, Miss Garston, or may I be allowed to congratulate you?'

I dropped the carnations as though they suddenly scorched me.

'Why should you congratulate me, Mr. Hamilton?'

'I thought you considered me a friend,' he replied, rather nervously.
'But, of course, if it be still a secret, I must beg your pardon for my
abruptness.'

'I don't know what you mean,' I said, very crossly, but my cheeks were
burning. 'If this be a joke, I must tell you once for all that I dislike
this sort of jokes: they are not in good taste': for I was as angry with
him as possible, for who knew what nonsense he had got into his head? He
looked at me in quite a bewildered fashion; my anger was evidently
incomprehensible to him. We were playing at cross-purposes.

'Do you think I am in the mood for joking?' he said, at last. 'Have you
ever heard me jest on such subjects, Miss Garston? I thought we agreed on
that point.'

'Do you mean you are serious?'

'Perfectly serious.'

'Then in that case will you kindly explain to me why you think I am to be
congratulated?'

He looked uncomfortable. 'I have understood that you and Mr. Tudor
were engaged, or, at least, likely to become so. Do you mean,' as
my astonished face seemed to open room for doubt, 'that it is not
true?--that Etta deceived me there?'

'Miss Darrell!' scornfully; then, controlling my strong indignation
with an effort, I said, more quietly, 'I think that we ought to beg Mr.
Tudor's pardon for dragging in his name in this way: he would hardly
thank us. If I am not mistaken, he is in love with my cousin Jocelyn.'

'Impossible! What a credulous fool I have been to believe her! Your
cousin Jocelyn,--do you mean Miss Jill?'

'Yes,' I returned, smiling, for a sense of renewed happiness was stealing
over me. 'The foolish fellow is always following me about to talk of her.
I do believe he is honestly in love with her. He saved her life, and that
makes it all the worse.'

'All the better, you mean,' regarding me gravely. That fixed, serious
look made me rather confused.

'Would you mind telling me, Mr. Hamilton,' I interposed hurriedly, 'what
put this absurd idea into your head?'

'It was Etta,' he returned, in a low voice. 'It was that night when you
had been singing to us, and she came home unexpectedly.'

'Yes, yes, I remember'; but I could not meet his eyes.

'She told me when we got home that Mr. Tudor was in love with you, and
that she believed you were engaged, or that, at least, there was an
understanding between you; and she added that if I did not believe her I
might watch for myself, and I should see that you were always together.'

'Well?' rather impatiently.

'I will beg your pardon afterwards for following Etta's advice, but I did
watch, and it was not long before I came round to her opinion.'

'Mr. Hamilton!'

'Wait a moment before you get angry with me again. I never saw you in a
passion before'; but I knew he was laughing at me. 'Etta was certainly
right in one thing: I seemed always finding you together.'

'That was because I often met Mr. Tudor in the village, and he turned
back and walked with me a little; but we always talked of Jill.'

'How could I know that?' in rather an injured voice. 'Were you talking of
Miss Jocelyn in the vicarage kitchen-garden that evening?'

'Probably,' was my cool reply; for how could I remember all the subjects
of our conversation?

'And when you went to Hyde Park Gate, you were together then,--Leah saw
you,--and--' But I could bear no more.

'How could I know that I should be watched and spied upon, and all my
innocent actions misrepresented?' I exclaimed indignantly. 'It was not
fair, Mr. Hamilton. I could not have believed it of you, that you should
listen to such things against me. That boy, too!'

'Nonsense!' speaking in his old good-humoured voice, and looking
exceedingly pleased. 'He is five-and-twenty, and a very good-looking
fellow: a girl might do worse for herself than marry Lawrence Tudor.'

'But I intend to have him as my cousin some day,' was my reply; but at
this moment Chatty came in to tell Mr. Hamilton that the boxes were in
the cart, and Miss Darrell waiting in the carriage.

'Confound it! I had forgotten all about Etta,' he returned impatiently.
'Well, it cannot be helped: we must finish our conversation this
evening.' And with a smile that told of restored confidence he went off.

I sat down and cried a little for sheer happiness, for I knew the barrier
was broken at last, and that we should soon arrive at a complete
understanding. It was hard that he should have to leave me just then; and
the thought of resuming the conversation in the evening made me naturally
a little nervous. 'Supposing I go back to the White Cottage,' I thought
once; but I knew he would follow me there, and that it would seem idle
coquetting on my part. It would be more dignified to wait and hear what
he had to say. I should go back to the White Cottage in a day or two.

Gladys came out of her room when she heard the wheels, and proposed that
we should go down into the drawing-room. 'Poor poor Etta!' she sighed. 'I
try to pity and be sorry for her, but it is impossible not to be glad
that she has gone. I want to look at every room, Ursula, and to realise
that I am to have my own lovely home in peace. We must send for Lady
Betty; and Giles must know about Claude. I do not believe that he will
be angry: oh no, nothing will make Giles angry now.'

Max found us very busy in the drawing-room. I was just carrying out a
work-box and a novel that belonged to Miss Darrell, and Gladys had picked
up a peacock-feather screen, and a carved ivory fan, and two or three
little knick-knacks. 'Take them all away, Ursula dear,' she pleaded, with
a faint shudder; but as she put them in my arms there were Max's eyes
watching us from the threshold.

I saw her go up to him as simply as a child, and put her hands in his,
and as I closed the door Max took her in his arms. The peacock screen
fell at my feet, the ivory fan and a hideous little Chinese god rolled
noisily on the oilcloth. I smiled as I picked them up. My dear Max and
his Lady of Delight were together at last. I felt as though my cup of joy
were full.

Max remained to luncheon, but he went away soon afterwards. Gladys must
rest, and he would come again later in the evening. I was rather glad
when he said this, for I wanted to go down to the White Cottage and see
Mrs. Barton, and I could not have left the house while he was there. Yes,
Max was certainly right: it would be better for him to come again when
Mr. Hamilton was at home.

I made Gladys take possession of her favourite little couch in the
drawing-room, but she detained me for some time talking about Max, until
I refused to hear another word, and then I went up to my own room, and
put on my hat.

I thought Nap would like a run down the road,--and I could always make
Tinker keep the peace,--so I went into the stable-yard in search of him.
He was evidently there, for I could hear him barking excitedly. The next
moment a young workman came out of the empty coach-house, and walked
quickly to the gate, followed closely by Nap, jumping and fawning on him.

'Down, down, good dog!' I heard him say, and then I whistled back Nap,
who came reluctantly, and with some difficulty I contrived to shut him up
in the stable-yard. There seemed no man about the premises. Then I
hurried down the road in the direction of the village: my heart was
beating fast, my limbs trembled under me. I had caught sight of a perfect
profile and a golden-brown moustache as the young workman went out of the
gate, and I knew it was the face of Eric Hamilton.

My one thought was that I must follow him, that on no account must I lose
sight of him. As I closed the gate I could see him in the distance, just
turning the corner by the Man and Plough; he was walking very quickly in
the direction of the station. I quickened my steps, breaking into a run
now and then, and soon had the satisfaction of lessening the distance
between us; my last run had brought me within a hundred yards of him,
and slackened my pace, and began to look the matter in the face.

I remembered that the London train would be due in another quarter of an
hour; no doubt that was why he was walking so fast. I must keep near him
when he took his ticket. I had no fear of his recognising me; he had only
seen me twice, without my bonnet, and now I wore a hat that shaded my
face, and my plain gray gown was sufficiently unlike the dress I had
worn at Hyde Park Gate. I had a sudden qualm as the thought darted into
my mind that he might possibly have a return-ticket; but I should know if
he got into the Victoria train, and I determined on taking a ticket for
myself.

I had a couple of sovereigns and a little loose silver in my purse. I had
assured myself of this fact as I walked down the hill. As soon as the
young workman had entered the booking-office, I followed him closely, and
to my great relief heard him ask for a third-class ticket for Victoria.
When he had made way for me I took the same for myself, and then, as I
had seven minutes to spare, I went into the telegraph-office and dashed
off a message to Gladys.

'Called to town on important business; may be detained to-night. Will
write if necessary.'

As I gave in the form I could hear the signal for the up train, and had
only time to reach the platform when the Victoria train came in.

The young workman got into an empty compartment, and I followed and
placed myself at the other end. I had no wish to attract his notice; the
ill success of my former attempt had frightened me, and I felt I dared
not address him, for fear he should leave the train at the next station.
Some workmen had got in and were talking noisily among themselves. I did
not feel that the opportunity would he propitious.

When we had actually left Heathfield I stole a glance at the young man:
he had drawn his cap over his eyes, and seemed to feign sleep, no doubt
to avoid conversation with the noisy crew opposite us; but that he was
not really asleep was evident from the slight twitching of the mouth and
a long-drawn sigh that every now and then escaped him.

I could watch him safely now, and for a few minutes I studied almost
painfully one of the most perfect faces I had ever seen. It was thin and
colourless, and there were lines sad to see on so young a face; but it
might have been a youthful Apollo leaning his head against the wooden
wainscotting.

Once he opened his eyes and pushed back his cap with a gesture of
weariness and impatience. He did not see me: those sad, blue-gray eyes
were fixed on the moving landscape; but how like Gladys's they looked!
I turned aside quickly to hide my emotion. I thought of Gladys and Mr.
Hamilton, and a prayer rose to my lips that for their sake I might
succeed in bringing the lost one back.

The journey seemed a long one. All sorts of fears tormented me. I
remembered Mr. Hamilton was in London: there was danger of encountering
him at Victoria. It was five now: he might possibly return to dinner. I
could scarcely breathe as this new terror presented itself to me, for if
Eric caught sight of his brother all would be lost.

When the train stopped, I followed the young workman as closely as
possible. As we were turning in the subterranean passage for the District
Railway, my heart seemed to stop. There was Mr. Hamilton reading his
paper under the clock: we actually passed within twenty yards of him, and
he did not raise his eyes. I am sure Eric saw him, for he suddenly dived
into the passage, and I had much trouble to keep him in sight: as it was,
I was only just in time to hear him ask for a third-class single to
Bishop's Road.

I did not dare enter the same compartment, but I got into the next,
and now and then, when our train stopped at the different stations,
I could hear him distinctly talking to a fellow-workman, in a refined,
gentlemanly voice, that would have attracted attention to him anywhere.
Once the other man called him Jack, and asked where he hung out, and I
noticed this question was cleverly eluded, but I heard him say afterwards
that he was in regular work, and liked his present governor, and that the
old woman who looked after him was a tidy, decent lady, and kept things
comfortable. My thoughts strayed a little after this. The sight of Mr.
Hamilton had disturbed me. What would he think when Gladys showed him
my telegram? He had promised to finish our conversation this evening.
I felt with a strange soreness of longing that I should not see Gladwyn
that night. My absence of mind nearly cost me dear, for I had no idea
that we had reached Bishop's Road until Eric passed my window, and with a
smothered exclamation I opened the door: happily, the passengers were
numerous and blocked up the stairs, so I reached the street to find him
only a few yards before me.

My patience was being severely exercised after this, for Eric did not go
straight to his lodgings. He went into a butcher's first, and after a few
minutes' delay--for there were customers in the shop--came out with a
newspaper parcel in his hand. Then he went into a grocer's, and through
the window I could see him putting little packets of tea and sugar in his
pocket.

His next business was to the baker's, and here a three-cornered crusty
loaf was the result. The poor young fellow was evidently providing his
evening meal, and the sight of these homely delicacies reminded me that
I was tired and hungry and that a cup of tea would be refreshing. Eric
carried his steak and three-cornered loaf jauntily, and every now and
then broke into a sweet low whistle that reminded me of his nickname
among his mates of 'Jack the Whistler.'

We were threading the labyrinth of streets that lie behind Bishop's Road
Station; I was beginning to feel weary and discouraged, when Eric stopped
suddenly before a neat-looking house of two stories, with very bright
geraniums in the parlour window, and taking out his latch-key let himself
in, and closed the door with a bang.

I stalked carelessly to the end of the street, and read the name. 'No. 25
Madison Street,' I said to myself, and then I went up to the door and
knocked boldly. My time had come now, I thought, trying to pull myself
together, for I felt decidedly nervous.

A stout, oldish woman with rather a pleasant face opened the door; her
arms were bare, and she dried her hands on her apron as she asked me my
business.

'Your lodger Jack Poynter has just come in,' I said quietly. 'I have a
message for him. Can I see him, please?'

'Oh ay,--you can see him surely.' And she stepped back into the passage
and called out, 'Jack, Jack! here is a young woman wants to speak to
you.' But I shut the door hurriedly and interrupted her:

'Let me go up to his room: you can tell me where it is'; for it never
would do to speak to him in the passage.

'Well, perhaps he may be washing and brushing himself a bit after his
journey,' she returned good-humouredly: 'he is a tidy chap, is Jack. If
you go up to the top landing and knock at the second door, that is his
sitting-room; he sleeps at the back, and Sawyer has the other room.'

I followed these instructions, and knocked at the front-room door; but no
voice bade me come in; only a short bark and a scuffle of feet gave me
notice of the occupant: so I ventured to go in.

It was a tidy little room, and had a snug aspect. A white fox-terrier
with a pretty face retreated growling under a chair, but I coaxed her to
come out. The steak and the loaf were on the table. But I had no time for
any further observation, for a voice said, 'What are you barking at,
Jenny?' and the next moment Eric entered the room.

He started when he saw me caressing the dog.

'I beg your pardon for this intrusion,' I began nervously, for I saw I
was not recognised; 'but I have followed you from Heathfield to tell you
the good news. Mr. Hamilton, it is all found out; Miss Darrell stole that
cheque.'

I had blurted it out, fearing that he might start away from me even then:
he must know that his name was cleared, and then I could persuade him to
listen to me. I was right in my surmise, for as I said his name he put
his hand on the door, but my next words made him drop the handle.

'What?' he exclaimed, turning deadly pale, and I could see how his lips
quivered under his moustache. 'Say that again: I do not understand.'

'Mr. Hamilton,' I repeated slowly, 'you need not have rushed past your
poor brother in that way at Victoria, for he is breaking his heart, and
so is Gladys, with the longing to find you. Your name is cleared: they
only want to ask your forgiveness for all you have suffered. It was a
foul conspiracy of two women to save themselves by ruining you. Leah has
made full confession. Your cousin Etta took the cheque out of your
brother's desk.'

'Oh, my God!' he gasped, and, sitting down, he hid his face in his hands.
The little fox-terrier jumped on his knee and began licking his hands.
'Don't, Jenny: let me be,' he said, in a fretful, boyish voice that made
me smile. 'I must think, for my brain seems dizzy.'

I left him quiet for a few minutes, and Jenny, after this rebuke, curled
herself up at his feet and went to sleep. Then I took the chair beside
him, and asked him, very quietly, if he could listen to me. He was
frightfully pale, and his features were working, but he nodded assent and
held his head between his hands again, but I know he heard every word.

I told him as briefly as I could how Gladys had languished and pined all
these years, how she had clung to the notion of his innocence and would
not believe that he was dead. He started at that, and asked what I meant.
Had Giles really believed he was dead?

'He had reason to fear so,' I returned gravely; and I told him how his
watch and scarf had been found on the beach at Brighton, and how the
hotel-keeper had brought them to Mr. Hamilton.

He seemed shocked at this. 'I had been bathing,' he said, in rather an
ashamed voice: 'some boy must have stolen them, and then dropped his
booty for fear of the police. I missed them when I came out of the water,
and I hunted about for them a long time. As I was leaving the beach I saw
one of Giles's friends coming down towards me, and I got it into my head
that I was recognised. I dared not go back to the hotel. Besides, my
money was running short. I took a third-class ticket up to London, and
on my way fell in with a house-painter, who gave me lodging for a few
nights.'

'Yes, and then--' for he hesitated here.

'Well, you see, I was just mad with them at home. I thought I could never
forgive Giles that last insult. My character and honour were gone. Etta
had been my secret enemy all along, because she knew I read her truly.
Leah had given in her false evidence. My word was nothing. I was looked
upon as a common thief. I swore that I would never cross the threshold of
Gladwyn again until my name was cleared. They should not hear of me; if
they thought me dead, so much the better!'

'Oh, Mr. Eric, and you never considered how Gladys would suffer!'

'Yes, that was my only trouble; but I thought they would turn her against
me in time. I was nearly mad, I tell you: but for Phil Power I believe I
should have been desperate; but he stuck to me, and was always telling me
that a man can live down anything. Indeed, but for Phil and his pretty
little wife I should have starved, for I had no notion of helping myself,
and would not have begged for a job to save my life, for I could not
forget I was a gentleman. But Phil got me work at his governor's. So
I turned house-painter, and rather liked my employment. I used to tell
myself that it was better than old Armstrong's office. Why, I make two
pounds a week now when we are in full work,' finished the poor lad
proudly.

My heart was yearning over him, he was so boyish and weak and impulsive;
but I would not spare him. I told him that it was cowardly of him to hide
himself,--that it would have been braver and nobler to have lived his
life openly. 'Why not have let your brother know what you were doing?' I
continued. 'For years this shadow has been over his home. He has believed
you dead. He has even feared self-destruction. This fear has embittered
his life and made him a hard, unhappy man.'

'Do you mean Giles has suffered like that?' he exclaimed; and his gray
eyes grew misty.

'Yes, in spite of all your sins against him, he has loved you dearly; and
Gladys--' But he put up his hand, as though he could hear no more.

'Yes, I know, poor darling; but I have often seen her, often been near
her; but I heard her laugh, and thought she was happy and had forgotten
me. How long is it since Leah confessed, Miss--Miss--' And here he
laughed a little nervously. 'I do not know who you are, and yet you
must be a friend.'

'I am Ursula Garston, a very close friend of your sister Gladys, and
I have been nursing her in this last illness.'

'What! has she been ill?' he asked anxiously. And when I had given him
full particulars he questioned me again about Leah's confession, and I
had to repeat all I could remember of her words.

'Then I was not cleared when you spoke to me at Hyde Park Gate?' he
returned, with a relieved air. 'So it did not matter my giving you the
slip. You frightened me horribly, Miss Garston, I can tell you that. I
saw those advertisements, too, to Jack Poynter, and I was very near
leaving the country; but I am glad I held on, as Phil advised,' drawing
a long breath as he spoke.




CHAPTER XLVII

'AT LAST, URSULA, AT LAST!'


We were interrupted at this moment by the landlady's voice calling to
Eric from the bottom of the stairs.

'Jack,--I say, Jack, what has become of the steak I promised to cook for
you? I'll be bound Jenny has eaten it.'

Eric gave a short laugh and went out into the passage, and I heard him
say, in rather a low voice,--

'A lady, a friend of my sister's, has just brought me some news. I expect
she is as tired and hungry as I am. Do you think,' coaxingly, 'that you
could get tea for us in the parlour, Mrs. Hunter? and perhaps you will
join us there'; for class-instinct had awoke in Eric at the sight of a
lady's face, and I suppose, in spite of my Quakerish gray gown, I was
still young enough to make him hesitate about entertaining me in his
bachelor's room.

There was a short parley after this. Then Mrs. Hunter came up panting,
and, still wiping her hands from imaginary soap-suds, carried off the
steak and the three-cornered loaf. 'It will be ready in about twenty
minutes, Jack,' she observed, with a good-natured nod.

Eric employed the interval of waiting by questioning me eagerly about his
sisters. Then he tried to find out, in a gentlemanly way, how I contrived
to be so mixed up with his family. This led to a brief _resume_ of my own
history and work, and by the time Mrs. Hunter called us I felt as though
I had known Eric for years.

Mrs. Hunter beamed on us as we entered. There was really quite a tempting
little meal spread on the round table, though the butter was not fresh
nor the forks silver, but the tea was hot and strong, and the bread was
new. And Eric produced from his stores some lump sugar and a pot of
strawberry jam, and I did full justice to the homely fare.

When Mrs. Hunter went into the kitchen to replenish the teapot I took the
opportunity of consulting Eric about a lodging for the night. It was too
late to return to Heathfield. Besides, I had made up my mind that Eric
should accompany me. Aunt Philippa and Jill were in Switzerland, and the
house at Hyde Park Gate would be empty. I could not well go to an hotel
without any luggage. Eric seemed rather perplexed, and said we must take
Mrs. Hunter into our confidence, which we did, and the good woman soon
relieved our minds.

She said at once that she knew an excellent person who let lodgings round
the corner,--a Miss Moseley. Miss Gunter, who had been a music-mistress
until she married the young chemist, had lived with her for six years;
and Miss Crabbe, who was in the millinery department at Howell's, the big
shop in Kimber Street, was still there. Miss Gunter's room was vacant,
and she was sure Miss Moseley would take me in for the night and make me
comfortable.

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