Book: Uncle Max

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Uncle Max




'Well, well, we will see about it,' humouring her as though she were a
child. 'Will you not speak to this lady, Phoebe? She has come down here
to help us all,--sick people, and unhappy people, and every one that
wants help.'

'She can't do anything for me,' muttered Phoebe restlessly; 'no one--not
even you, doctor, can do anything for me. I am doomed,--doomed before my
time.'

Mr. Hamilton looked at me meaningly, as though to say, 'Now you see what
you have to do: this is more your work than mine.' I obeyed the hint, and
accosted the sick woman as cheerfully as though her dismal speech had not
curdled my blood.

'I hope I shall be some comfort to you; it is hard indeed if no one can
help you, when you have so much to bear!'

'To bear!' repeating my words as though they stung her. 'I have lain here
for three years--three years come Christmas Eve, doctor--between these
four walls, summer and winter, winter and summer, and never knew except
by heat or cold what season of the year it was. And I am young,--just
turned four-and-thirty,--and I may lie here thirty years more, unless
I die or go mad.'

'Now, Phoebe,' remonstrated Mr. Hamilton,--and how gently he
spoke!--'have I not told you over and over that things may mend yet if
you will only be patient and good? You are just making things worse by
bearing them so badly. Why, a friend of mine has been seven years on her
back like you, and she is the happiest, cheeriest body: it is quite a
pleasure to go into her room.'

'Maybe she is good, and I am wicked,' returned Phoebe sullenly. 'I cannot
help it, doctor: it is one of my bad days, and nothing but wicked words
come uppermost. The devil has a deal of power when a woman is chained as
I am.'

'Don't you think you could exorcise the demon by a song, Miss Garston?'
observed Mr. Hamilton, in an undertone. 'This is just the case where
music may be a soothing influence; something must be tried for the poor
creature.'

The proposition almost took away my breath. Sing now! before Mr.
Hamilton! And yet how in sheer humanity could I refuse? I had often sung
before to my patients, and had never minded it in the least; but before
Mr. Hamilton!

'You need not think of me,' he continued provokingly,--for of course I
was thinking of him: 'I am no critic in the musical line. Just try how it
answers, will you?' And he walked away and turned his back to us, and
seemed absorbed in the sampler.

For one minute I hesitated, and then I cleared my throat. 'I am going to
sing something, Phoebe. Mr. Hamilton thinks it will do you good.' And
then, fearful lest her waywardness should stop me, I commenced at once
with the first line of the beautiful hymn, 'Art thou weary? art thou
languid?'

My voice trembled sadly at first, and my burning face and cold hands
testified to my nervousness; but after the first verse I forgot Mr.
Hamilton's presence and only remembered it was Charlie's favourite hymn
I was singing, and sang it with a full heart.

When I had finished, I bent over Phoebe and asked if I should sing any
more, and, to my great delight, she nodded assent. I sang 'Abide with
me,' and several other suitable hymns, and I did not stop until the hard
look of woe in Phoebe's eyes had softened into a more gentle expression.

As I paused, I looked across the room. Mr. Hamilton was still standing by
the mantelpiece, perfectly motionless. He had covered his eyes with his
hand, and seemed lost in profound thought. He absolutely started when I
addressed him.

'Yes, we will go if you have finished,' but he did not look at me as he
spoke. 'Phoebe, has the young lady done you any good? Did you close your
eyes and think you heard an angel singing? Now you must let me take her
away, for she is very tired, and has worked hard to-day. To-morrow, if
you ask her, she will come again.'

'I shall not wait to be asked,' I returned, answering the dumb, wistful
look that greeted the doctor's words. 'Oh yes, I shall come again
to-morrow, and we will have a little talk, and I will bring you some
flowers, and if you care to hear me sing I have plenty of pretty songs.'
And then I kissed her forehead, for I felt strongly drawn to the poor
creature, as though she were a strange, suffering sister, and I thought
that the kiss and the song and the flowers would be a threefold cord
of sympathy for her to bind round her harassed soul through the long
hours of the night.

Mr. Hamilton followed me silently out, and on the threshold we
encountered Susan Locke. She was a thin, subdued-looking woman, dressed
in rusty black, with a careworn, depressed expression that changed into
pleasure at the sight of Mr. Hamilton.

'Oh, doctor, this is good of you, surely,--and you so busy! It is one of
Phoebe's bad days, when nothing pleases her and she will have naught to
say to us, but groan and groan until one's heart is pretty nigh broken.
I was half hoping that you would look in on us and give her a bit of a
word.'

'Miss Garston has done more than that,' replied Mr. Hamilton. 'I
think you will find your sister a little cheered. Give her something
comfortable to eat and drink, and speak as cheerfully as you can.
Good-night, Miss Locke.' And then he motioned to me to precede him down
the little garden. Mr. Hamilton was so very silent all the way home that
I was somewhat puzzled; he did not speak at all about Phoebe,--only said
that he was afraid that I was very tired, and that he was the same; and
when we came in sight of the cottage he left me rather abruptly; if it
had not been for his few approving words to Susan Locke, I should have
thought something had displeased him.

Uncle Max made me feel a little uncomfortable the next morning. I met
him as I was starting for my daily work, and he walked with me to Mrs.
Marshall's.

'I was up at Gladwyn last evening, Ursula,' he began. 'Miss Elizabeth
is still away, but the other ladies asked very kindly after you. Miss
Hamilton means to call on you one afternoon, only she seems puzzled to
know how she is ever to find you at home. I cannot think what put
Hamilton into such a bad temper; he scarcely spoke to any of us, and
looked horribly cranky, only I laughed at him and he got better; he
never mentioned your name. You have not fallen out again, eh, little
she-bear?' looking at me rather anxiously.

'Oh dear, no; we are perfectly civil to each other; I understand him
better now.' But all the same I could not help wondering, as I parted
from Max, what could have made Mr. Hamilton so strangely silent.

It was still early in the afternoon when I found myself free to go and
see Phoebe; she had been on my mind all day, and had kept me awake for
a long time; those miserable eyes haunted me. I longed so to comfort her.
Miss Locke opened the door; I thought she seemed pleased to see me, but
she eyed my basket of flowers dubiously.

'Phoebe is looking for you, Miss Garston, though she says nothing about
it; it is not her way; but I see her eyes turning to the door every now
and then, and she made Kitty open the curtains. If I may make so bold,
those flowers are not for Phoebe, surely?'

'Yes, indeed they are, Miss Locke. Dr. Hamilton wishes her to have
something pleasant to look at.' But Miss Locke only shook her head.

'The neighbours have sent in flowers often and often, and she has made me
carry them out of the room; the vicar used to send them too, but he knows
now that it is no manner of use: she always says they do not put flowers
in tombs, only outside them: she will have it she is living in a tomb.'

'We must get this idea out of her head,' I returned cheerfully, for I was
obstinately bent on having my own way about the flowers.

Kitty was sewing on a little stool by the window; the curtains were
undrawn, so that the room was tolerably light, and might have been
cheerful, only an ugly wire blind shut out all view of the little garden.

I could not help marvelling at the strange perversity that could wilfully
exclude every possible alleviation; there must be some sad warp or twist
of the mental nature that could be so prolific of unwholesome fancies. As
I turned to the bed I thought Phoebe looked even more ghastly in the
daylight than she had done last evening; her skin was yellow and
shrivelled, like the skin of an old woman; her eyes looked deep-set and
gloomy, but their expression struck me as more human; her thin lips even
wore the semblance of a smile.

When I had greeted her, and had drawn from her rather reluctantly that
she had had some hours' sleep the previous night, I spoke to Kitty. The
little creature looked so subdued and moped in the miserable atmosphere
that I was full of pity for her, so I showed her a new skipping rope that
I had bought on my way, and bade her ask her aunt Susan's permission to
go out and play.

The child's dull eyes brightened in a moment. 'May I go out, Aunt
Phoebe?' she asked breathlessly.

'Yes, go if you like,' was the somewhat ungracious answer.

'She is glad enough to get away from me,' she muttered, when Kitty had
shut the door gently behind her. 'Children have no heart; she is an
ungrateful, selfish little thing; but they are all that; we clothe her
and feed her, and it is little we get out of her in return; and Susan
is working her fingers to the bone for the two of us.'

I took no notice of this outburst, and commenced clearing away the
medicine-bottles to make room for my basket of chrysanthemums and
ivy-leaves. Uncle Max had procured them for me, but I had no idea as
I arranged them that they had come from Gladwyn.

Phoebe watched my movements very gloomily; she evidently disapproved
of the whole proceeding. I carried out the bottles to Miss Locke, and
begged her to throw them away: 'they are of no use to her,' I observed.
'Mr. Hamilton intends to send her a new mixture, and this array of
half-emptied phials is simply absurd: it is just a whim. If your sister
asks for them when I have gone, you can tell her that Miss Garston
ordered them to be destroyed.'

On my return to the room I found Phoebe lying with her eyes closed. I
could have laughed outright at her perversity, for of course she had shut
them to exclude the sight of the flower-basket, though it was the
loveliest little bit of colour, the dark-red chrysanthemum nestled so
prettily among trails of tiny variegated ivy. I resolved to punish her
for this piece of morbid obstinacy, and took down the wire blind; she was
speechless with anger when she found out what I had done, but I was
resolved not to humour these ridiculous fancies; the dull wintry light
was not too much for her.

'You must not be allowed to have your own way so entirely,' I said,
laughing: 'your sister is very wrong to give in to you. Mr. Hamilton
wishes your room to be more cheerful: he says the dull surroundings
depress and keep you low and desponding, and I must carry out his orders,
and try how we are to make your room a little brighter. Now'--as she
seemed about to speak--'I am going to sing to you, and then we will have
a talk.'

'I don't care to hear singing to-day, my head buzzes so with all this
flack,' was the sullen answer; but I took no notice of this ill-tempered
remark, and began a little Scotch ballad that I thought was bright and
spirited.

She closed her eyes again, with an expression of weariness and disgust
that made me smile in spite of my efforts to keep serious; but I soon
found out that she was listening, and so I sang one song after another,
without pausing for any comment, and pretended not to notice when the
haggard weary eyes unclosed, and fixed themselves first on the flowers,
next on my face, and last and longest at the strip of lawn, with the bare
gooseberry bushes and the narrow path edged with privet.

When I had sung several ballads, I waited for a minute, and then
commenced Bishop Ken's evening hymn, but my voice shook a little as I saw
a sudden heaving under the bedclothes, and in another moment the large
slow tears coursed down Phoebe's thin face. It was hard to finish the
hymn, but I would not have dispensed with the Gloria.

'What is it, Phoebe?' I asked gently, when I had finished. 'I am sorry
that I have made you cry.'

'You need not be sorry,' she sobbed at last, with difficulty: 'it eases
my head, and I thought nothing would ever draw a tear from me again. I
was too miserable to cry, and they say--I have read it somewhere, in the
days when I used to read--that there is no such thing as a tear in hell.'

I tried not to look astonished at this strange speech. I must let this
poor creature talk, or how should I ever find out the root of her
disease? so I answered quietly that no doubt she was right, that in that
place of outer darkness there should be weeping, without tears, and a
gnashing of teeth, beside which our bitterest human sorrow would seem
like nothing.

'That is true,' she returned, with a groan; 'but, Miss Garston, hell has
begun for me here; for three years I have been in torment, and rightly
too,--and rightly too,--for I never was a good woman, never like Susan,
who read her Bible and went to church. Oh, she is a good creature, is
Susan.'

'I am glad to hear it, Phoebe: so, you see, your affliction, heavy as it
is,--and I am not saying it is not heavy,--is not without alleviation.
The Merciful Father, who has laid this cross upon you, has given you this
kind companion as a consoler. What a comfort you must be to each other!
what a divine work has been given to you both to do,--to bring up that
motherless little creature, who must owe her very life and happiness to
you!'

She lay and looked at me with an expression of bewildered astonishment,
and at this moment Miss Locke opened the door, carrying a little tea-tray
for her sister. I had a glimpse of Kitty curled up on the mat outside the
door, with the skipping-rope still in her hand. She had evidently been
listening to the singing, for she crept away, but in the distance I could
hear her humming 'Ye banks and braes' in a sweet childish treble that was
very harmonious and true.




CHAPTER XI

ONE OF GOD'S HEROINES


No. I was quite right when I told poor Phoebe that her sad case was not
without alleviation. I was still more sure of the truth of my words when
I saw with what care Miss Locke had prepared the invalid's meal, and how
gently she helped to place her in a proper position. There was evidently
no want of love between the sisters; only on one side the love was more
self-sacrificing and unselfish than the other. It needed only a look at
Susan Locke's spare form and thin, careworn face to tell me that she was
wearing herself out in her sister's service. Phoebe looked in her face
and broke into a harsh laugh, to poor Susan's great alarm.

'What do you think Miss Garston has been saying, Susan? That we must be a
comfort to each other. Fancy my being a comfort to you! You poor thing,
when I am the plague and burden of your life,' And she laughed again, in
a way that was scarcely mirthful.

'Nay, Phoebe, you have no need to say such things,' returned her sister
sadly; but she was probably used to this sort of speeches. 'I am bound to
take care of you and Kitty, who are all I have left in the world. It is
not that I find it hard, but that you might make it easier by looking a
little cheered sometimes.'

Phoebe took this gentle rebuke somewhat scornfully.

'Cheered! The woman actually says cheered, when I am already on the
border-land of the place of torment. Was I not as good as dead and buried
three years ago? And did not father always tell us that hell begins in
this world for the wicked?'

'Ay, that was father's notion; and I was never clever enough to argue
with him. But you are not wicked, my woman, only a bit tiresome and
perverse and wanting in faith.' And Miss Locke, who was used to these
wild moods, patted her sister's shoulder, and bade her drink her tea
before it got cold, in a sensible matter-of-fact way, that was not
without its influence on the wayward creature; for she did not refuse
the comforting draught.

I took my leave soon after this, after promising to repeat my visit on
the next evening. Phoebe bade me good-bye rather coldly, but I took no
notice of her contrary mood. Miss Locke followed me out of the room, and
asked me anxiously what I thought of her sister.

'It is difficult to judge,' I returned, hesitating a little. 'You must
remember this is only my second visit, and I have not made much way with
her. She is in a state of bodily and mental discomfort very painful to
witness. If I am not mistaken, she is driving herself half-crazy with
introspection and self-will. You must not give way to this morbid desire
to increase her own wretchedness. She needs firmness as well as
kindness.'

Miss Locke looked at me wistfully a moment.

'What am I to do? She would fret herself into a fever if I crossed her
whims. Directly you have left the house she will be asking for that wire
blind again, though it would do her poor eyes good to see the thrushes
feeding on the lawn, and there is the little robin that comes to us every
winter and taps at the window for crumbs; but she would shut them all
out,--birds, and sunshine, and flowers.'

'Just as she would shut out her Father's love, if she could; but it is
all round her, and no inward or outward darkness can hinder that. Miss
Locke, you must be very firm. You must not move the flowers or replace
the blind on any pretext whatever. She must be comforted in spite of
herself. She reminds me of some passionate child who breaks all its
toys because some wish has been denied. We are sorry for the child's
disappointment, but a wise parent would inflict punishment for the fit
of passion.'

Miss Locke sighed; her mouth twitched with repressed emotion. She was
evidently an affectionate, reticent woman, who found it difficult to
express her feelings.

'I am keeping you standing all this time,' she said apologetically, 'and
I might have asked you to sit down a minute in our little kitchen. Let me
pour you out a cup of tea, Miss Garston. Kitty and I were just going to
begin.'

I accepted this offer, as I thought Miss Locke evidently wanted to speak
to me. She seemed pleased at my acquiescence, and told Kitty to stay with
her aunt Phoebe a few minutes.

'I have baked a nice hot cake with currants in it, Kitty,' she said
persuasively, 'and you shall have your share, hot and buttered, if you
will be patient and wait a little.'

'She is a good little thing,' I observed, as the child reluctantly
withdrew to her dreary post, after a longing look at the table, while
Miss Locke placed a rocking-chair with a faded green cushion by the fire,
and opened the oven door to inspect the cake. 'It is dull work for the
little creature to be so much in the sick-room. It is hardly a wholesome
atmosphere for a child.'

Miss Locke shook her head as though she endorsed this opinion.

'What am I to do?' she returned sorrowfully. 'Kitty is young, but she
has to bear our burdens. I spare her all I can; but when I am at my
dressmaking Phoebe cannot be left alone, and she has learned to be quiet
and handy, and can do all sorts of things for Phoebe. I know it is not
good for her living alone with us, but the Lord has ordered the child's
life as well as ours,' she finished reverently.

'We must see what can be done for Kitty,' was my answer. 'She can be
free to play while I am with your sister. I sent her out with her new
skipping-rope this evening. What brought her back so soon?'

'It was the singing,' returned Miss Locke, smiling. 'The street door
was just ajar, and Kitty crept in and curled herself up on the mat. It
sounded so beautiful, you see; for Kitty and I only hear singing at
church, and it is not often I can get there, with Phoebe wanting me;
so it did us both good, you may be sure of that.'

I could not but be pleased at this simple tribute of praise, but
something else struck me more, the unobtrusive goodness and self-denial
of Susan Locke. What a life hers must be! I hinted at this as gently as
I could.

'Ay, Phoebe has always been a care to me,' she sighed. 'She was never as
strong and hearty as other girls, and she wanted her own way, and fretted
when she could not get it. Father spoiled her, and mother gave in to her
more than she did to me; and when trouble came all along of Robert Owen,
and he used her cruel, just flinging her aside when he saw some one he
fancied more than Phoebe, and driving her mad with spite and jealousy,
then she let herself go, as it were. She was never religious, not to
speak of, all the time she kept company with Robert, so when her hopes
of him came to an end she had nothing to support her. It needs plenty of
faith to make us bear our troubles patiently.'

'And then her health failed.'

'Yes; and mother died, and father followed her within six months, and
Phoebe could not be with them, and she took on about that; she has had a
deal of trouble, and that is why I cannot find it in my heart to be hard
on her; she was that fond of Robert, though he was a worthless sort of
fellow, that, as the saying is, she worshipped the ground he walked on.
Ah, Phoebe was bonnie-looking then, though she was never over-strong,
and had not much colour; but he need not have called her a sickly
ill-tempered wench when he threw her over and married Nancy. It was
a cruel way to serve a woman that loved him as Phoebe did.'

'She has certainly had her share of trouble. How long ago did this happen
to your sister?'

'It must be five years since Robert and Nancy were married. Phoebe was
never the same woman since then, though her health did not fail for a
year or more afterwards; Mr. Hamilton always says she has had a good
riddance of Robert. He never thought much of him, and he has told me that
it is far better that Phoebe never had a chance of marrying him, for she
would have been a sad burden to any man; and she would not have had you
to nurse her.' And Miss Locke's careworn face brightened. 'That is just
what I tell myself, when I am out of heart about her; the Lord knew
Robert would have been a cruel husband to her,--for he is not too kind
to Nancy,--and so He kept Phoebe away from him. Phoebe is not one to bear
unkindness,--it just maddens her,--and we have all spoilt her.'

'Just so, and she knows her power over you. I am afraid she gives you a
great deal to bear, Miss Locke.'

'I never mind it from her,' she answered simply. 'She is all I have in
the world except Kitty, and I am thinking what I can do for her from
morning to night; that is the best and the worst of my work, one need
never stop thinking for it. Sometimes, when I am tired, or things have
gone wrong with my customers, or I am a bit behindhand with the rent,
I wish I could talk it over with her; it would ease me somehow; but I
never do give way to the feeling, for it would only fret and worry her.'

'You are wrong,' I returned warmly. 'Mr. Hamilton would tell you so if
you asked him. Any worry, any outside trouble, would be better for Phoebe
than this unhealthy feeding on herself. Take my advice, Miss Locke, talk
about yourself and your own troubles. Phoebe is fond of you, it will
rouse her to enter more into your life.'

Miss Locke shook her head, and the tears came into her mild hazel eyes.

'There is One who knows it all. I'll not be troubling my poor Phoebe,'
she said, and her hands trembled a little. Kitty came in at this moment
and said her aunt Phoebe wanted her, so we were obliged to break off the
conversation.

I thought about it all rather sadly as I sat by my solitary fire that
evening with Tinker's head on my lap. He had taken to me, and I always
found him waiting for my return; but it was less of Phoebe than of Susan
I was thinking. I was so absorbed in my reflections that Uncle Max's
voice outside quite startled me.

'May I come in, Ursula?' he said, thrusting in his head. 'I have been
at the choir-practice, so I thought I would call as I passed.'

Of course I gave him a warm welcome, and he drew his chair to the
opposite side of the fire, and declared he felt very comfortable: then
he asked me why I was looking grave, and if I were tired of my solitude.
I disclaimed this indignantly, and gave him a sketch of my day's work,
ending with my talk to Susan Locke.

He seemed interested, and listened attentively.

'It is such a sad case, Max,--poor Phoebe's, I mean,--but I am almost
as sorry for her sister. Susan Locke is such a good woman.'

'You would say so if you knew all, Ursula, but Miss Locke would never
tell you herself. When Phoebe's illness came on, and Hamilton told them
that she might not get well for a year or two, or perhaps longer, Susan
broke off her own engagement to stay with her sister. Her father was just
dead, and the child Kitty had to live with them.'

'Miss Locke engaged!' I exclaimed, in some surprise, for it had never
struck me that the homely middle-aged woman had this sort of experience
in her life.

Max looked amused.

'In that class they do not always choose youth and beauty. Certainly
Susan Locke was neither young nor handsome, but she was a neat-looking
body, only she has aged of late. Do you want to know all about it? Well,
she was engaged to a man named Duncan: he was a widower with three or
four children; he had the all-sorts shop down the village, only he moved
last year. He was a respectable man and had a comfortable little
business, and I daresay he thought Miss Locke would make a good mother to
his children. She told me all about it, poor thing! She would have liked
to marry Duncan; she was fond of him, and thought he would have made her
a steady husband; but with Phoebe on her hands she could not do her duty
to him or the children.

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