Uncle Max Chapter 29

MISS DARRELL HAS A HEADACHE

I began to feel that Gladys had been away a long time, and to wish for her return. I was much disappointed, then, on receiving a letter from her about a fortnight after Elspeth's death, telling me that Colonel Maberley had made up his mind to spend Easter in Paris, and that she had promised to accompany them.

'I shall be sorry to be so long without your companionship,' she wrote. 'I miss you more than I can say; but I am sure that it is far better for me to remain away as long as possible: the change is certainly doing me good. I am quite strong and well: they spoil me dreadfully, but I think this sort of treatment suits me best.'

It was a long letter, and seemed to be written in a more cheerful mood than usual. There was a charming description of a trip they had taken, with little graceful touches of humour here and there.

I handed the letter silently to Max when he called the next day. I thought that it would be no harm to show it to him. He took it to the window, and was so busy reading it that I had half finished a letter I was writing to Jill before he at last laid it down on my desk.

'Thank you for letting me see it,' he said quietly: 'it has been a great pleasure. Somehow, as I read it, it seemed as though the old Gladys Hamilton had written it,—not the one we know now. Indeed, she seems much better.'

'Yes, and we must make up our minds to do without her,' I answered, with a sigh.

'And we shall do so most willingly,' he returned, with a sort of tacit rebuke to my selfishness, 'if we know the change is benefiting her.' And then, with a change of tone, 'What a beautiful handwriting hers is, Ursula!—so firm and clear, so characteristic of the writer. Does she often write you such long, interesting letters? You are much to be envied, my dear. Well, well, the day's work is waiting for me.' And with that he went off, without saying another word.

My next visitor was Mr. Hamilton. He came to tell me of an accident case. A young labourer had fallen off a scaffolding, and a compound fracture of the right arm had been the result. He was also badly shaken and bruised, and was altogether in a miserable plight.

I promised, of course, to go to him at once; but he told me that there was no immediate hurry; he had attended to the arm and left him very comfortable, and he would do well for the next hour or two; and, as Mr. Hamilton seemed inclined to linger for a little chat, I could not refuse to oblige him.

'It is just as well that this piece of work has come to me,' I said presently, 'for I was feeling terribly idle. Since Elspeth's death I have not had a single case, and have employed my leisure in writing long letters to my relations and taking country rambles with Tinker.'

'That is right,' he returned heartily. 'I am sure we worked you far too hard at one time.'

'It did not hurt me, and I should not care to be idle for long.—Yes, I have heard from Gladys,' for his eyes fell on the open letter that lay beside us. 'I am rather disappointed that I shall not see her before I go away.'

'Are you going away, then?' he asked, very quickly, and I thought the news did not seem to please him.

'Not for three weeks. I hope my patient will be getting on by that time, and will be able to spare me: at any rate, I can give his mother a lesson or two. You know my cousin is to be married, and I have promised to help Aunt Philippa.'

'How long do you think you will be away?' he demanded, with a touch of his old abruptness.

'For a fortnight. I could not arrange for less. Sara is making such a point of it.'

'A whole fortnight! I am afraid you are terribly idle, after all, Miss Garston. You are growing tired of this humdrum place. You are yearning for "the leeks and cucumbers of Egypt,"' with a grim smile.

'You are wrong,' I returned, with more earnestness than the occasion warranted. 'I feel a strange reluctance to re-enter Vanity Fair. The splendours of a gay wedding are not to my taste. Sara tells me that her reception after the ceremony will be attended by about two hundred guests. To me the idea is simply barbarous. I expect I shall be heartily glad to get back to Heathfield.'

I was surprised to see how pleased Mr. Hamilton looked at this speech. I had been thinking of my work and my quiet little parlour, not of Gladwyn, when I spoke; but he seemed to accept it as a personal compliment.

'I assure you that we shall welcome you back most gladly,' he returned. 'The place will not seem like itself without our busy village nurse. Well, you have worked hard enough for six months: you deserve a holiday. I should like to see you in your butterfly garb, Miss Garston. I fancy, however, that I should not recognise you.'

With a sudden pang I remembered Elspeth's words. He does not think that such home attire will become me. I thought he preferred me in my usual nun's garb of black serge.

'Oh,' I said, petulantly and foolishly, 'I must own that I shall look rather like a crow dressed up in peacock's feathers in the grand gown Sara has chosen for me'; but I was a little taken aback, and felt inclined to laugh, when he asked me, with an air of interest, what it was like in colour and material.

'Sara wished it to be red plush,' I replied demurely; 'but I refused to wear it; so she has waived that in favour of a dark green velvet. I think it is absolutely wicked to make Uncle Brian pay for such a dress; but it seems that Sara will get her own way, so I must put up with all they choose to give me.'

'That is hardly spoken graciously. If your uncle be rich, why should he not please himself in buying you a velvet gown? I think the fair bride-elect has good taste. You will look very well in dark-green velvet: light tints would not suit you at all; red would be too gay.'

He spoke with such gravity and decision that I thought it best not to contradict him. I even repressed my inclination to laugh: if he liked to be dogmatic on the subject of my dress, I would not hinder him. The next moment, however, he dismissed the matter.

'I agree with you in disliking gay weddings. The idea is singularly repugnant to me. Because two people elect to join hands for the journey of life, is there any adequate reason why all their idle acquaintances should accompany them with cymbals and prancings and all sorts of fooleries just at the most solemn moment of their life?'

'I suppose they wish to express their sympathy,' I returned.

'Sympathy should wear a quieter garb. These folks come to church to show their fine feathers and make a fuss; they do not care a jot for the solemnity of the service; and yet to me it is as awful in its way as the burial service. "Till death us do part,"—can any one, man or woman, say these words lightly and not bring down a doom upon himself?' He spoke with suppressed excitement, walking up and down the room: one could see how strongly he felt his words. Was he thinking of Mrs. Carrick? I wondered. He gave a slight shudder, as though some unwelcome thought obtruded itself, and then he turned to me with a forced smile.

'I am boring you, I am afraid. I get horribly excited over the shams of conventionality. What were we talking about? Oh, I remember: Gladys's letter. Yes, she has written to Lady Betty, but not such a volume as that,' glancing at the closely written sheets. 'You are her chief correspondent, I believe; but she told us her plans. For my part, I am glad that she should enjoy this trip to Paris. Really, the Maberleys are most kind. I sent her a cheque to add to her amusements, for of course all girls like shopping.'

How generous he was to his sisters! with all his faults of manner, he seemed to grudge them nothing. But all the same I knew Gladys would have valued a few kind words from him far more than the cheque; but perhaps he had written to her as well. But he seemed rather surprised when I asked him the question.

'Oh no; I never write to my sisters: they would not care for a letter from me. Etta offered to enclose it in a letter she had just finished to Gladys, so that saved all trouble. By the bye, Miss Garston, I hope you will come up to Gladwyn one evening before you leave Heathfield. I do not see why we are to be deserted in this fashion.'

Neither did I, if he put it in this way: reluctant as I was to spend an evening there in Gladys's absence, it certainly was not quite kind either to him or to Lady Betty to refuse. He seemed to anticipate a refusal, however, for he said hastily,—

'Never mind answering me now. Etta shall write to you in proper form, and you shall fix your own evening. Now I have hindered you sufficiently, so I will take my leave,'—which he did, but I heard him some time afterwards talking to Nathaniel in the porch.

A few days after this I received a civil little note from Miss Darrell, pressing me to spend a long evening with them, and begging me to bring my prettiest songs.

I made the rather lame excuse that I was much engaged with my new patient, and fixed the latest day that I could,—the very last evening before I was to leave for London. Mr. Hamilton met me a few hours afterwards, and asked me rather drily what my numerous engagements could be.

'You are the most unsociable of your sex,' he added, when I had no answer to make to this. 'I shall take care that you are properly punished, for neither Cunliffe nor Tudor shall be asked to meet you. Etta was sure you would like one or both to come, but I put my veto on it at once.'

'Then you were very disagreeable,' I returned laughingly. 'I wanted Uncle Max very much.' But he only shook his head at me good-humouredly, and scolded me for my want of amiability.

I determined, when the evening came, that he should not find fault with me in any way. I was rather in holiday mood; my patient was going on well, and his mother was a neat, capable body, and might be trusted to look after him. No other cases had come to me, and I might leave Heathfield with a clear conscience. Uncle Max would miss me, but an old college friend was coming to stay at the vicarage, so I could be better spared. I had seen a great deal of Mr. Tudor lately. I often met him in the village, and he always turned back and walked with me: he met me on this occasion, and walked to the gates of Gladwyn. Indeed, he detained me for some minutes in the road, trying to extract particulars about the wedding.

'Miss Jocelyn is to be bridesmaid, then?' describing a circle with his stick in the dust.

'Yes. Poor Sara is afraid that she will be quite overshadowed by Jill's bigness; she has made her promise not to stand quite close. They have got a match for her. Grace Underley is as tall as Jill, and very fair. Sara calls them her night and morning bridesmaids.'

'I think I shall be in London on the fourteenth. I thought, Miss Garston, that there was a prejudice to weddings in May.'

'Yes; but Sara laughs at the idea, and Colonel Ferguson says it is all nonsense. I did not know you were coming to town so soon.'

'Some of my people will be up then,' he said absently. 'Perhaps I shall have a peep at you all; but of course'—rather hastily—'I shall not call at Hyde Park Gate until the wedding is over.'

I wished he would not call then. What was the good of feeding his boyish fancy? it would soon die a natural death, if he would only be wise. Poor Mr. Tudor! I began to be afraid that he was very much in earnest after all: there was a grave expression on his face as he turned away. Perhaps he knew, as I did, that our big awkward Jill would develop into a splendid woman; that one of these days Jocelyn Garston would be far more admired than her sister; that the ugly duckling would soon change into a swan. There were times even now when Jill looked positively handsome, if only her short black locks would grow, and if she would leave off hunching her shoulders.

'I should like Lawrence Tudor to have my Jill, if he were only rich; but there is no hope for him now, poor fellow!' I said to myself, as I walked up the gravel walk towards the house.

Gladwyn looked its best this evening. The shady little lawns that surrounded the house looked cool and inviting; the birds were singing merrily from the avenue of young oaks; the air was sweet with the scent of May-blossoms and wall-flowers: great bunches of them were placed in the hall.

Thornton, who admitted me, said that Leah would be waiting for me in the blue room, as Miss Darrell's room was called; so I went up at once.

I was passing through the dressing-room, when I saw the bedroom door was half opened, and a voice—I scarcely recognised it as Miss Darrell's, it was so different from her usual low, toneless voice—exclaimed angrily, 'You forget yourself strangely, Leah! one would think you were the mistress and I the maid, to hear you speaking to me.'

'I can't help that, Miss Etta,' returned the woman insolently. 'If you are not more punctual in your payments I will go to the master myself and tell him.' But here I knocked sharply at the door to warn them of my presence, and Leah ceased abruptly, while Miss Darrell bade me enter.

She tried to meet me as usual, but her face was flushed, and she looked at me uneasily, as though she feared that I had overheard Leah's speech. I thought Leah looked sullen and stolid as she waited upon me. It was a most forbidding face. I was glad when Miss Darrell dismissed her on some slight pretext.

'Leah is in a bad temper this evening,' she observed, examining the clasp of a handsome bracelet as she spoke. I noticed then that she had beautiful arms, as well as finely-shaped hands, and the emerald-eyed snake showed to advantage. 'She is a most invaluable person, but she can take liberties sometimes. Perhaps you heard me scolding her; but I consider she was decidedly in the wrong.'

'She does not look very good-tempered,' was my reply.

Miss Darrell still looked flushed and perturbed; but she took up her fan and vinaigrette, and proposed that we should join Lady Betty in the drawing-room. Leah was in the hall. As we passed her she addressed Miss Darrell.

'If you can spare me a moment, ma'am, I should like to speak to you,' she said, quite civilly; but I thought her manner a little menacing.

'Will not another time do, Leah?' returned her mistress in a worried tone; but the next moment she begged me to go in without her.

Lady Betty was sitting by the open window with Nap beside her. I thought the poor little girl looked dull and lonely. She gave an exclamation of pleasure at seeing me, and ran towards me with outstretched hands. She looked like a child in her little white gown and blue ribbons, with her short curly hair.

'I am so glad to see you, Miss Garston! I thought Etta would keep you, I have been alone all the afternoon: Etta never sits with me now. How I wish Gladys would come back! I have no one to speak to, and I miss her horribly.'

'Poor Lady Betty!'

'You would say so, if you knew how horrid it all was. Just now, as I was sitting alone, I felt like a poor little princess shut up in an enchanted tower. Giles is the magician, and Etta is the wicked witch. I was making up quite a story about it.'

'Why have you not been to see me lately, Lady Betty?'

'Oh, how silly you are to ask me such a question!' she returned pettishly. 'You had better ask Witch Etta. Now you pretend to look surprised. She won't let me come—there!'

'My dear child, surely you need not consult your cousin.'

'Of course not,' wrinkling her forehead; 'but then, you see, Witch Etta consults me: she makes a point of finding out all my little plans and nipping them in the bud. She says she really cannot allow me to go so often to the White Cottage; Mr. Cunliffe and Mr. Tudor are always there, and it is not proper. She is always hinting that I want to meet Mr. Tudor, and it is no good telling her that I never think of such a thing.' Lady Betty was half crying. A more innocent, harmless little soul never breathed; she had not a spice of coquetry in her nature. I felt indignant at such an accusation.

'It is all nonsense, Lady Betty,' I returned sharply. 'Mr. Tudor has not called at the cottage more than once since Jill left me, and then Uncle Max sent him. When I first came to Heathfield he was very kind in doing me little services, and he dropped in two or three times when Jill was with me; but indeed he has never been a constant visitor. When we meet it is at the vicarage or in the street.'

'You would never convince Etta of that,' replied Lady Betty disconsolately. 'She has even told Giles how often Mr. Tudor goes to the cottage, and she has got it into her head that I am always trying to meet him there. It is such an odious idea, only worthy of Etta herself!' went on the little girl indignantly. 'If I could only make her hold her tongue to Giles!'

'I would not trouble about it if I were you, dear. No one who knows you would believe it. Such an idea would never occur to Mr. Tudor; he is an honest, simple young fellow, who is not ashamed to respect women in the good old-fashioned way.'

'Oh yes, I like him, and so does Jill; but I wish he were a thousand miles off, and then Etta would give me a little peace. How angry Gladys would be if she knew it! But I don't mean to trouble her about my small worries, poor darling.'

I had never heard Lady Betty speak with such womanly dignity. She was so often childish and whimsical that one never expected her to be grave and responsible like other people. She kissed me presently, and said I had done her good, and would I always believe in her in spite of Etta, for she was not the giddy little creature that Etta made her out to be; she was sure Giles would think more of her but for Etta's mischief-making.

Mr. Hamilton came in after this, and sat down by us, but Miss Darrell did not make her appearance until the gong sounded, and then she hurried in with a breathless apology. I do not know what made me watch her so closely all dinner-time. She took very little part in the conversation, seemed absent and thoughtful, and started nervously when Mr. Hamilton spoke to her. He told her once that she looked pale and tired, and she said then that the evening was close, and that her head ached. I wondered then if the headache had made her eyes so heavy, or if she had been crying.

Mr. Hamilton was a little quiet, too, through dinner, but listened with great interest when Lady Betty and I talked about the approaching wedding. I had to satisfy her curiosity on many points,—the bride's and bridesmaids' dresses, and the programme for the day.

The details did not seem to bore Mr. Hamilton. His face never once wore its cynical expression; but when we returned to the drawing-room, and Lady Betty wanted to continue the subject, he took her quietly by the shoulders and marched her off to Miss Darrell.

'Make the child hold her tongue, Etta,' he said good-humouredly. 'I want to coax Miss Garston to sing to us.' And then he came to me with the smile I liked best to see on his face, and held out his hand.

I was quite willing to oblige him, and he kept me hard at work for nearly an hour, first asking me if I were tired, and then begging for one more song; and sometimes I thought of Gladys as I sang, and sometimes of Max, and once of Mrs. Carrick, with her wonderful gray eyes, and her false fair face.

When I had finished I saw Mr. Hamilton looking at me rather strangely.

'Why do you sing such sad songs?' he asked, in a low voice, as though he did not wish to be overheard; but he need not have been afraid: Miss Darrell was evidently taking no notice of any one just then. She was lying back in her chair with her eyes closed, and I noticed afterwards that her forehead was lined like an old woman's.

'I like melancholy songs,' was my reply, and I fingered the notes a little nervously, for his look was rather too keen just then, and I had been thinking of Mrs. Carrick.

'But you are not melancholy,' he persisted. 'There is no weak sentimentality in your nature. Just now there was a passion in your voice that startled me, as though you were drawing from some secret well.' He paused, and then went on, half playfully,—

'If I were like the Hebrew steward, and asked you to let down your pitcher and give me a draught, I wonder what you would answer?'

'That would depend on circumstances. You would find it difficult to persuade me that you were thirsty, or needed anything that I could give.'

'Would it be so difficult as all that?' he returned thoughtfully. 'I thought we were better friends; that you had penetrated beneath the upper crust; that in spite of my faults you trusted me a little.'

His earnestness troubled me. I hardly knew what he meant.

'Of course we are friends,' I answered hastily. 'I can trust you more than a little.' And I would have risen from my seat, but he put his hand gently on my sleeve.

'Wait a moment. You are going away, and I may not have another opportunity. I want to tell you something. You have done me good; you have taught me that women can be trusted, after all. I thank you most heartily for that lesson.'

'I do not know what you mean,' I faltered; but I felt a singular pleasure at these words. 'I have done nothing. It is you that have been good to me.'

'Pshaw!' impatiently. 'I thought you more sensible than to say that. Now, I want you,' his voice softening again, 'to try and think better of me; not to judge by appearances, or to take other people's judgments, but to be as true and charitable to me as you are to others. Promise me this before you go, Miss Garston.'

I do not know why the tears started to my eyes. I could hardly answer him.

'Will you try to do this?' he persisted, stooping over me.

'Yes,' was my scarcely audible answer, but he was satisfied with that monosyllable. He walked away after that, and joined Lady Betty. Miss Darrell had not moved; she still lay back on the cushions, and I thought her face looked drawn and old. When I spoke to her, for it was getting late, she roused herself with difficulty.

'My head is very bad, and I shall have to go to bed, after all,' she said, giving me her hand. 'I am afraid your beautiful singing has been thrown away on me, for I was half asleep. I thought I heard you and Giles talking by the piano, but I was not sure.'

Mr. Hamilton walked home with me. He had resumed his usual manner; he told me he had had a letter that day that would oblige him to go to Edinburgh for a week or so.

'I think I shall take the night mail to-morrow evening, though it will give me a busy day: so, after all, I shall not miss you, Miss Garston.' And after a little more talk about the business that had summoned him, we reached the White Cottage and he bade me good-bye.

'I hope you will have a pleasant holiday. Take care of yourself, for all our sakes.' And with that he left me.

It was long before I slept that night. I felt confused and feverish, as though I were on the brink of some discovery that would overwhelm and alarm me. I could not understand myself or Mr. Hamilton. His words presented an enigma. I felt troubled by them, and yet not unhappy.

Had Miss Darrell overheard him? I wondered. I felt, if she had done so, her manner would have been different. She seemed jealous of her cousin, and always monopolised his words and looks. He had never spoken to me a dozen words in her presence that she had not tried to interrupt us. Had she really been asleep? These doubts kept recurring to me. Just before I fell asleep a remembrance of Leah's sullen face came between me and my dreams. Her insolent voice rang in my ears. What had she meant by her words? Why had Miss Darrell submitted to her impertinence? Was she afraid of Leah, as Gladys said? I began to feel weary of all these mysteries.