Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'That is what I call sensible, Mrs. Garston,' he said, paying her a
compliment at once, as she sat flushed and fanning herself, 'and Ursula
ought to feel herself very grateful to you for your forbearance and
acquiescence in her plan.'

I do not believe he knew any more than myself where the forbearance had
been, but he took it all for granted.

'Nothing puts heart into a person more than feeling sure of one's
friends' sympathy. Now, we all of us, even Garston, in spite of his
disapproval, wish Ursula good success in her scheme; some of us think
better of it than others; for my own part, I am so convinced that she
will have so many difficulties and disappointments to hamper her that
I cannot bear to say a discouraging word.' And yet he had said dozens,
only I was magnanimous and forgave him.

This settled the matter, for Aunt Philippa grew so sorry for me that she
was almost out of breath again pitying me. 'I do not believe she can help
it,' she said, in rather an audible aside to Mrs. Fullerton; 'her mother
had a sort of craze about these things, and seemed to think it part of
her religion to make herself uncomfortable; and poor Herbert was quite as
bad, only he was a clergyman, and it did not matter so much with him; so
I suppose the poor child inherits it. This sort of thing runs in
families,' went on Aunt Philippa, in an awe-struck voice, as though it
were a species of insanity. 'I am only thankful that my own girls have
not got these notions.'

Mrs. Fullerton found out now that it was time to go home and dress for
dinner, so Lesbia came round to me and whispered that I must come and see
her soon, for she wanted to talk to me, and not to Sara, who was always
running in and out.

'I am very fond of Sara, and like to see her, she amuses me so; but when
I want advice or sympathy I feel I must come to you now, Ursula.' And
though she had never said so much to me before, I knew she meant it; that
there was some change in her, some want of nature or heaven knows what
feminine need, when she missed me, and wanted me, and found some comfort
in the thought of me.

There was no time for more discussion, and indeed we were all a little
weary of it; but after dinner Uncle Max, who seemed in excellent spirits,
as though he had done something wonderful and was proud of his own
achievements, beckoned me into the inner drawing-room under pretence of
showing me some engravings, and when we found ourselves alone, he said
pleasantly, though abruptly--

'Well, Ursula, I thought you would be glad to have an opportunity of
thanking me, for of course you feel very grateful to me for all the
trouble I have taken.'

'Oh, indeed!' I returned scornfully, for it would never do to encourage
this vainglorious spirit. 'I should have felt more disposed to thank you
if you had not kept me for two days in suspense!'

'That is the result of doing a woman a good turn,' shaking his head
mournfully. 'The moment she gets her own way, she turns upon you and
rends you. Fie, fie on you, little she-bear!'

'Oh, Max, do be quiet a moment.'

'Max, indeed! Where are your manners, child? What would Garston say if he
heard your flippancy?' But by the way he stroked his beard and looked at
me, I saw he was not displeased. No one would have taken him for my uncle
who had seen us together, for he was a young-looking man, and I was old
for my age.

'I do want you to be serious a moment,' I went on plaintively. 'I am
really very obliged to you for having broken the ice: after all, I have
not been badly submerged. I soon rose to the surface when Lesbia held out
a helping hand.'

'Well, now, Ursula, do you not agree with me?--was not Lesbia a darling?'

'She was very nice and sisterly,' I confessed. 'She has more in her than
I ever thought. Poor little thing! I am afraid she is very unhappy, only
she hides it so.'

'Just so. That shows her good sense: the world is very intolerant of a
protracted grief; its victims must learn to dry their eyes quickly.'

Uncle Max was becoming philosophical: this would never do.

'Never mind about Lesbia,' I observed impatiently, 'we can talk about
her in the next room; what I want to know is, how soon I may come to
Heathfield.' For I knew how dilatory men can be about other people's
business, and I fully expected that Uncle Max would put me off to the
summer.

'You may come as soon as you like,' he returned, rather too carelessly.
'Shall we say next week, or will that be too early?'

I suppressed my astonishment cleverly, but was down on him in a moment.

'I should like to have some place found for me first,' I remarked
sententiously; 'you must take lodgings for me first, and then I can
settle my plans.'

'Oh, that is done already,' he observed cheerfully. 'I have spoken to
Mrs. Barton about you, and she has very nice rooms vacant. I wanted them
for Tudor, until I mooted the vicarage plan. It is a tidy little place,
Ursula, and I think you will be very comfortable there.'

I felt that Uncle Max deserved praise, and I gave it to him without
stint or limit; he took it nobly, like a man who feels he has earned
his reward.

'I fancy I have done a neat thing,' he said modestly.

'Directly I read your letter and saw that you were in earnest, I went
down to Mrs. Barton and had a long talk with her. Do you remember the
White Cottage, Ursula, that stands just where the road dips a little,
after you have passed the vicarage? It is on the main road that leads to
the common: there is a field, and one or two houses, and on the right the
road branches off to Main Street, where my poorer parishioners live. Oh,
I see that you have forgotten. Well, there is a low white cottage,
standing far back from the road, with rather a pretty garden, and a field
at the back: people call it the White Cottage; though it is smothered in
jasmine in the summer; and there is a nice little parlour with a bedroom
over it. That will do capitally, I fancy. Old Mrs. Meredith lived there
until her death, and she left her furniture to Mrs. Barton.'

I expressed myself as being well pleased at this description, and then
inquired a little anxiously if there were room for my piano and my books.

'Oh yes, it is quite a good-sized room; that is why I wanted it for
Tudor. You will not mind it being a little low: it is only a cottage,
remember. There is a nice easy couch, I spotted that at once, and a
capital easy-chair, and some corner cupboards that will, hold a store of
good things; you can make it as pretty as possible.'

'And Mrs. Barton, Max,--is she a pleasant person?'

'There could not be a pleasanter. You will find yourself in clover,
Ursula, you will indeed; she is a nice little woman, and has all the
cardinal virtues, I believe; she is a widow and has a big son who works
at Roberts's, the builder's. Nathaniel is very big, very big indeed, so
much so that I feel it my duty to warn you of his size, for fear you
should receive a shock. The cottage just holds him when he sits down,
and his mother's one anxiety is that he should not bring down the kitchen
ceiling more than once a year, as it hurts his head and comes expensive;
he has a black collie they call Tinker, the cleverest dog in the place,
so Nathaniel says; and these three constitute the household of the White
Cottage.'

I was charmed with Uncle Max's account; the cottage seemed cosy and
homelike. I knew I could trust his opinion; he was a good judge of
character, and was seldom wrong in his estimate of a man, woman, or
child, and he would be especially careful to intrust me to a thoroughly
reliable person. I begged him therefore to close with Mrs. Barton at
once; she asked a very moderate price for her rooms, and I could have
afforded higher terms. It would not take me long to pack my books and
other treasures: some of them I should be obliged to leave behind, but
I must take all Charlie's books and my own, and my favourite pictures and
bits of china, and a store of fine linen for my own use. I was somewhat
demoralised by the luxury at Hyde Park Gate, and liked to make myself
comfortable after my own way. Poor Charlie used to laugh at me and say
I should be an old maid, and, as I considered this fact inevitable, I
took his teasing in good part.

I told Uncle Max that I thought I could be ready in another week, and
that I saw no good in delay. He assented to this, and was kind enough
to add that the sooner I came the better. I was a little dismayed to
find that he had not considered himself bound to keep my counsel; he had
talked about my plan to his curate, Mr. Tudor, and I gathered from his
manner, for he refused to tell me any more, that he had discussed it
with another person.

This was too bad, but I would not let him see that this vexed me. I
wanted to settle in and begin my work quietly before the neighbourhood
knew of my existence; but if Uncle Max published my intended arrival in
every house he visited, I felt I could not even worship in comfort, for
fear the congregation should be eying me suspiciously.

I thought it better to change the subject: so I began to question him
about Mr. Tudor and Mrs. Drabble, the latter being the ruling power at
the vicarage; and he fell upon the bait and swallowed it eagerly, so my
vexation passed unnoticed.

Uncle Max did not live quite alone. His house was large, far too large
for an unmarried man, and he was very sociable by nature, so he induced
his curate to take up his abode with him; but the two men and Mrs.
Drabble, the housekeeper, and the maid under her, could not fill it, and
several rooms were shut up. Lawrence Tudor had been a pupil of Uncle Max,
and the two were very much attached to each other. Uncle Max had brought
him up once or twice to Hyde Park Gate, and we had all been much pleased
with him. He was not in the least good-looking, but I remember Sara said
he was gentlemanly and pleasant and had a nice voice. I knew his frank
manner and evident affection for Uncle Max prepossessed me in his favour;
he had been very athletic in his college days, and was passionately fond
of boating and cricket, and he was very musical and sang splendidly.

The little Uncle Max had told me about him had strongly interested me.
The Tudors had been wealthy people, and Uncle Max had spent more than one
long vacation at their house, coaching Walter Tudor, who was going in for
an army examination, and reading Greek with Lawrence (or Laurie, as they
generally called him) and another brother, Ben.

Lawrence had meant to enter the army too. Nelson, the eldest of all, was
already in India, and had a captaincy. They were all fine, stalwart young
men, fond of riding and hunting and any out-of-door pursuit. But there
never would have been a parson among them but for the failure of the
company in which Mr. Tudor's money was invested. He had been one of the
directors, and from wealth he was reduced to poverty.

There was no money to buy Walter a commission, so he enlisted, bringing
fresh trouble to his parents by doing so. Ben entered an office, but
Lawrence was kept at Oxford by an uncle's generosity, and under strong
pressure consented to take orders.

The poor young fellow had no special vocation, and he owned to Max
afterwards that he feared that he had done the wrong thing. I am afraid
Max thought so too, but he would not discourage him by saying so; on the
contrary, he treated him in a bracing manner, telling him that he had
put his hand to the plough, and that there must be no looking backward,
and bidding him pluck up heart and do his duty as well as he could; and
then he smoothed his way by asking him to be his curate and live with
him, so saving him from the loneliness and discomfort of some curates'
existence, who are at the mercy of their landladies and laundresses.

So the two lived merrily together, and Lawrence Tudor was all the better
man and parson for Uncle Max's genial help and sympathy; and though Mrs.
Drabble grumbled and did not take kindly to him at first, she made him
thoroughly comfortable, and mended his socks and sewed on his buttons in
motherly fashion. Mrs. Drabble was quite a character in her way; she was
a fair, fussy little woman, who looked meek enough to warrant the best of
tempers; she had a soft voice and manner that deceived you, and a vague
rambling sort of talk that landed you nowhere; but if ever woman could be
a mild virago Mrs. Drabble was that woman. She worshipped her master, and
never allowed any one to find fault with him; but with Mr. Tudor, or the
maid, or any one who interfered with her, she could be a flaxen-haired
termagant; she could scold in a low voice for half an hour together
without minding a single stop or pausing to take breath. Mr. Tudor used
to laugh at her, or get out of her way, when he had had enough of it; she
only tried it on her master once, but Max stood and stared at her with
such surprise and such puzzled good-humour that she grew ashamed and
stopped in the very middle of a sentence.

But, with all her temper, neither of them could have spared Mrs. Drabble,
she made them so comfortable.




CHAPTER V

'WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY'


Aunt Philippa had one very good point in her character: she was not of
a nagging disposition. When she scolded she did it thoroughly, and was
perhaps a long time doing it, but she never carried it into the next day.

Jill always said her mother was too indolent for a prolonged effort; but
then poor Jill often said naughty things. But we all of us knew that Aunt
Philippa's wrath soon evaporated; it made her hot and uncomfortable while
it lasted, and she was glad to be quit of it: so she refrained herself
prudently when I spoke of my approaching departure; and, being of a
bustling temperament, and not averse to changes unless they gave her much
trouble, she took a great deal of interest in my arrangements, and bought
a nice little travelling-clock that she said would be useful to me.

Seeing her so pleasant and reasonable, I made a humble petition that Jill
might be set free from some of her lessons to help me pack my books and
ornaments. She made a little demur at this, and offered Draper's services
instead; but it was Jill I wanted, for the poor child was fretting sadly
about my going away, and I thought it would comfort her to help me. So
after a time Aunt Philippa relented, after extorting a promise from Jill
that she would work all the harder after I had gone; and, as young people
seldom think about the future except in the way of foolish dreams, Jill
cheerfully gave her word. So for the last few days we were constantly
together, and Fraeulein had an unexpected holiday. Jill worked like a
horse in my service, and only broke one Dresden group; she came to me
half crying with the fragment in her hand,--the poor little shepherdess
had lost her head as well as her crook, and the pink coat of the shepherd
had an unseemly rent in it,--but I only laughed at the disaster, and
would not scold her for her awkwardness. China had a knack of slipping
through Jill's fingers; she had a loose uncertain grasp of things that
were brittle and delicate; she had not learned to control her muscles or
restrain her strength. She had a way of lifting me up when I teased her
that turns me giddy to remember: I was quite a child in her hands. She
was always ashamed of herself when she had done it, and begged my pardon,
and as long as she put me on my feet again I was ready to forgive
anything. Jill felt a sort of forlorn consolation in using up her
strength in my service: she would hardly let me do anything myself;
I might sit down and order her about from morning to night if I chose.

I made her very happy by leaving some of my possessions under her
care--some books that I knew she would like to read, and other treasures
that I had locked up in my wardrobe. Jill had the key and could rummage
if she liked, but she told me quite seriously that it would comfort her
to come and look at them sometimes. 'It will feel as though you were
coming back some day, Ursie,' she said affectionately.

Late one afternoon I left her busy in my room, and went to the Albert
Hall Mansions to bid good-bye to Lesbia. I had called once or twice, but
had always missed her. So I slipped across in the twilight, as I thought
at that hour they would have returned from their drive.

The Albert Hall Mansions were only a stone's throw from Uncle Brian's
house, so I considered myself safe from any remonstrance on Aunt
Philippa's part. I liked to go there in the soft, early dusk; the smooth
noiseless ascent of the lift, and the lighted floors that we passed, gave
one an odd, dreamy feeling. Mrs. Fullerton had a handsome suite of
apartments on the third floor, and there was a beautiful view from her
drawing-room window of the Park and the Albert Memorial. It was a nice,
cheerful situation, and Mrs. Fullerton, who liked gaiety, preferred it
to Rutherford Lodge, though Lesbia had been born there and she had passed
her happiest days in it.

I found Mrs. Fullerton alone, but she seemed very friendly, and was
evidently glad to see me. I suppose I was better company than her own
thoughts.

I liked Mrs. Fullerton, after a temperate fashion. She was a nice little
woman, and would have been nicer still if she had talked less and thought
more. But when one's words lie at the tip of one's tongue there is little
time for reflection, and there are sure to be tares among the wheat.

She was looking serious this evening, but that did not interfere with her
comeliness or her pleasant manners. I found her warmth gratifying, and
prepared to unbend more than usual.

'Sit down, my dear. No, not on that chair: take the easy one by the fire.
You are looking rather fagged, Ursula. It seems to be the fashion with
young people now: they get middle-aged before their time. Oh yes, Lesbia
is out. It is the Engleharts' "At Home," and she promised to go with Mrs.
Pierrepoint. But she will be back soon. Now we are alone, I want to ask
you a question. I am rather anxious about Lesbia. Dr. Pratt says there
is a want of tone about her. She is too thin, and her appetite is not
good. The child gets prettier every day, but she looks far too delicate.'

I could not deny this. Lesbia certainly looked far from strong, and then
she took cold so easily. I hinted that perhaps late hours and so much
visiting (for the Fullertons had an immense circle of acquaintances,
with possibly half a dozen friends among them) might be bad for her.

Mrs. Fullerton looked rather mournful at this.

'I hope you have not put that in her head,' she returned uneasily.
'All yesterday she was begging me to give up the place and go back to
Rutherford Lodge. Major Parkhurst is going to India in February, and so
the house will be on our hands.'

'I think the change will be good for Lesbia. It is such a pretty place,
and she was always so fond of it.'

'Oh, it is pretty enough,' with a discontented air; 'but life in a
village is a very tame affair. There are not more than four families in
the whole place whom we can visit, and when we want a little gaiety we
have to drive into Pinkerton.'

'I think it would be good for Lesbia's health, Mrs. Fullerton.'

'Well, well,' a little peevishly, 'we must talk to Dr. Pratt about it.
But how is Lesbia to settle well if I bury her in that poky little
village? Perhaps I ought not to say so to you, Ursula; but poor dear
Charlie has been dead these two years, so there can be no harm in
speaking of such things now. But Sir Henry Sinclair is here a great deal,
and there is no mistaking his intentions, only Lesbia keeps him at such
a distance.'

I thought it very bad taste of Mrs. Fullerton always to talk to me about
Lesbia's suitors. Lesbia never mentioned such things herself. As far as I
could judge, she was very shy with them all. I could not believe that the
placid young baronet had any chance with her. She might possibly marry,
but poor Charlie's successor would hardly be a thick-set, clumsy young
man, with few original ideas of his own. Colonel Ferguson would have been
far better; but he evidently preferred Sara.

I was spared any reply, for Lesbia entered the room at that moment. She
looked more delicately fair than usual, perhaps because of the contrast
with her heavy furs. Her hair shone like gold under her little velvet
bonnet, but, though she was so warmly dressed, she shivered and crept as
close as possible to the fire.

Mrs. Fullerton had some notes to write, so she went into the dining-room
to write them and very good-naturedly left us by ourselves.

Lesbia looked at me rather wistfully.

'I have missed you twice, Ursula. I am so sorry; and now you go the day
after to-morrow. I wish I could do something for you. Is there nothing
you could leave in my charge?'

'Only Jill,' I said, half laughing. 'If you would take a little more
notice of her after I have gone, I should be so thankful to you.'

I thought Lesbia seemed somewhat amused at the request.

'Poor old Jill! I will do my best; but she never will talk to me. I think
I should like her better than Sara if she would only open her lips to me.
Well, Ursula, what have you and mother been talking about?'

'About Rutherford Lodge,' I returned quickly. 'Do you really want to go
back there?'

'Did mother talk about that?' looking excessively pleased. 'Oh yes, I
am longing to go back. I don't want to frighten you, Ursie, dear,--and,
indeed, there is no need,--but this life is half killing me. I am too
close to Hyde Park Gate; one never gets a chance of forgetting old
troubles; and then mother is always saying gaiety is good for me, and she
will accept every invitation that comes; and I get so horribly tired; and
then one cannot fight so well against depression.'

I took her hand silently, but made no answer; but I suppose she felt my
sympathy.

'You must not think I am wicked and rebellious,' she went on, with a
sigh. 'I promised dear Charlie to be brave, and not let the trouble spoil
my life; he would have it that I was so young that happiness must return
after a time, and so I mean to do my best to be happy, for mother's sake,
as well as my own; and I know Charlie would not like me to go on
grieving,' with a sad little smile.

'No, darling, and I quite understand you.' And she cheered up at that.

'I knew you would, and that is why I want to tell you things. I have
tried to do as mother wished, but I do not think her plan answers;
excitement carries one away, and one can be as merry as other girls
for a time, but it all comes back worse than ever.'

'Mere gaiety never satisfied an aching heart yet.'

'No; I told mother so, and I begged her to go back to Rutherford because
it is so quiet and peaceful there and I think I shall be happier. I shall
have my garden and conservatory, and there will be plenty of riding and
tennis. I am very fond of our vicar's wife, Mrs. Trevor, and I rather
enjoy helping her in the Sunday-school and at the mothers' meeting; not
that I do much, for I am not like you, Ursula, but I like to pretend to
be useful sometimes.'

'I see what you mean, Lesbia: your life will be more natural and less
strained than it is here.'

'Yes, and time will hang less heavy on my hands. I do love gardening,
Ursula. I know I shall forget my troubles when I find myself with dear
old Patrick again, grumbling because I will pick the roses. I shall sleep
better in my little room, and wake less unhappy. Oh, mother!' as Mrs.
Fullerton entered at that moment with a half-finished note in her hand,
'I am telling Ursula how home-sick I am, and how I long for the dear old
Lodge. Do let us go back, mother darling: I want to hunt for violets
again in the little shady hollow beyond the lime-tree walk.'

'Yes, dearest, we will go if you really wish it so much,' returned Mrs.
Fullerton, with a sigh. 'Why, my pet, did you think I should refuse?' as
Lesbia put her arms round her neck and thanked her. 'When a mother has
only got one child she is not likely to deny her much: is she, Ursula?'

'Oh, mother, how good you are to me!' returned Lesbia, and her blue eyes
were shining with joy. When Mrs. Fullerton had left the room again she
told me that she had often cried herself to sleep with the longing to be
in her old home again; she loved every flower in the garden, every animal
about the place, and she grew quite bright and cheerful as she planned
out her days. No, there was nothing morbid about Lesbia's nature; she was
an honest, well-meaning girl, who had had a great disappointment in her
life; she meant to outlive it if she could, to be as happy as possible.
A wise instinct told her that her best chance of healing lay in country
sights and sounds: the fresh gallop over the downs, the pleasant saunter
through the sweet Sussex lanes, the sweet breath of her roses and
carnations, would all woo her back to health and cheerfulness. When the
pretty colour came back into Lesbia's face her mother would not regret
her sacrifice; and then I remembered that Charlie's friend Harcourt
Manners lived about half a dozen miles from Rutherford, and always
attended the Pinkerton dances, and he was a nice intelligent fellow.
But I scolded back the foolish thoughts, and felt ashamed of myself for
entertaining them.

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