I COMMUNICATE WITH JOE MUGGINS
Of course I knew it would be so; Eric had escaped me; but I could not help feeling very down-hearted over the disappointment of all my hopes.
I longed so much to comfort Gladys, to bring back peace and unity to that troubled household. I had nourished the secret hope, too, that I might benefit Mr. Hamilton without his knowledge, and so return some of his many kindnesses to me. I knew—none better—how sincerely he had mourned over the supposed fate of his young brother, how truly he lamented his past harshness. If I could have brought back their young wanderer, if I could have said to them, 'If he has done wrong he is sorry for his fault; take him back to your hearts,' would not Mr. Hamilton have been the first to hold out his hand to the prodigal? Here there was no father; it must be the elder brother who would order the fatted calf to be killed.
I had forgotten Miss Darrell. The sudden thought of her was like a dash of cold water to me. Would she have welcomed Eric? There again was the miserable complication!
All the next day I watched and fretted. The following evening Clayton told me, with rather a supercilious air, that a workman calling himself Joe Muggins wanted to speak to me. 'He did not know your name, ma'am, but he described the lady he wanted, so I knew it was you. He said you had asked him a question about a man named Jack Poynter.'
'Oh, it is all right, thank you, Clayton,' I returned quickly, and I went out into the hall.
Joe Muggins looked decidedly nervous. He was in his working dress, having, as he said, 'come straight to me, without waiting to clean himself.'
'I made so bold, miss,' went on Joe, 'because you seemed anxious about Jack, and I would not lose time. Well, Jack has been and given the governor the sack,—says he has colic too; but we know that is a sham. My mate saw him in Lisson Grove last night. He was walking along, his hands in his pockets, when Ned pounces on him. "What are you up to, Jack?" he says. "Why haven't you turned up at our place? The governor's in a precious wax, I can tell you. They want him to put on more men, as there's a press for time."—"Well, I am not coming there any more," says Jack, looking as black as possible. "The work doesn't suit my complaint, and I have written to tell Page so." And he stuck to that, and Ned could not get another word out of him: but he says he is shamming, and is not ill a bit. It is my belief, and Ned's too, that he has got into some trouble with the governor.'
'No, I am sure you are wrong,' I returned, with a sigh; 'but I am very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. If you hear anything more about Jack Poynter, or can find out where he lives, will you communicate with me at this address?' And I handed Joe my card and a half-sovereign.
'Yes, I'll do it, sure and certain,' he replied, with alacrity. 'Some of us will come across him again, one of these days, and we will follow him for a bit. You may trust me for that, miss. We will find him, sure enough.' And then I thanked him, and bade him good-night.
There was only one thing now that I could do before taking counsel with Gladys, and that was to advertise in some of the London papers. I wrote out some of these advertisements that evening:
'Jack Poynter is earnestly requested to communicate with Ursula G. He may possibly hear of something to his advantage.' And I gave the address of an old lawyer who managed my business, writing a note to Mr. Berkeley at the same time, begging him to forward any answer to Ursula G.
Another advertisement was of a different character:
'For Gladys's sake, please write to me, or give me a chance of speaking to you. An unknown but most sincere friend, U. G.'
The third advertisement was still more pressing:
'Jack Poynter's friends believe him dead, and are in great trouble: he is entreated to undeceive them. One word to the old address will be a comfort to his poor sister.'
As soon as I had despatched these advertisements to the paper offices, I sat down and wrote to Gladys. It was not my intention to tell her about Eric, but I must say some word to her that would induce her to come home. I told her that I was going back to Heathfield the following afternoon, and that I was beginning to feel impatient for her return.
'I cannot do without you any longer, my dear Gladys,' I wrote. 'There is so much that I want to talk to you about, and that I cannot write. I have heard something that has greatly excited me, and that makes me think that your view of the case is right, and that your brother Eric is alive. Of course we must not be too sanguine, but I begin to have hopes that you may see him again.'
More than this I did not venture to say, but I knew that these few words would make Gladys set her face homeward: she would not rest until she asked me my meaning. As I gave Clayton the letter I felt convinced that before a week was over Gladys would find her way to Heathfield.
I had to give all my attention to Jill after this; but, though she hung about me in her old affectionate way, I felt that I should leave her far happier than she had ever been before, and she did not deny this, only begged me to come and see them sometimes.
'You know I can't do without you, you darling bear,' she finished, with one of her old hugs.
I was still more touched by Aunt Philippa's regret at parting with me; she said so many kind things; and, to my surprise, Uncle Brian relaxed from his usual coldness, and quite warmed into demonstration.
'Come to us as often as you can, Ursula,' he said. 'Your aunt and I will be only too pleased to see you.' And then he asked me, a little anxiously, if I found my small income sufficient for my needs.
I assured him that my wants were so few, and Mrs. Barton was so economical, that but for my poorer neighbours I could hardly use it all.
'Well, well,' he returned, putting a handsome cheque in my hands, 'you can always draw on me when you feel disposed. I suppose you like pretty things as much as other girls.' And he would not let me even thank him for his generosity.
Aunt Philippa only smiled when I showed her the cheque.
'My dear, your uncle likes to do it, and you must not be too proud to accept his gifts: you may need it some day. We have only two daughters: as it is, Jocelyn will be far too rich. I do not like the idea that Harley's child should want anything.' And she kissed me with tears in her eyes.
Dear Aunt Philippa! she had grown quite motherly during those three weeks.
It was a lovely June afternoon: when I started from Victoria there was a scent of hay in the air. Jill had brought with her to the station a great basketful of roses and narcissus and heliotrope, and had put it on the seat beside me that its fragrance might refresh me.
I felt a strange sort of excitement and pleasure at the thought of returning home. Mrs. Barton would be glad to get me back, I knew. Uncle Max would not be at the station to meet me, for he had written to say that he was still detained at Norwich. His cousin was dead, and had left him her little property,—some six or seven hundred a year. There were some valuable books and antiquities, and some old silver besides. He was the only near relation, and business connected with the property would oblige him to remain for another week or ten days. I was rather sorry to hear this, for Heathfield was not the same without Uncle Max.
But not even Uncle Max's absence could damp me, I felt so light-hearted. 'I hope I am not fey,' I said to myself, with a little thrill of excitement and expectation as the familiar station came in view. Never since Charlie's death had I felt so cheerful and full of life.
Nathaniel was on the platform to look after my luggage, so I walked up the hill quietly, with my basket of flowers. As I passed the vicarage, Mr. Tudor came out and walked with me to the gate of the White Cottage. I had a dim suspicion that he had been watching for me.
Of course he asked after the family at Hyde Park Gate, and was most particular in his inquiries after Aunt Philippa. Just at the last he mentioned Jill.
'I hope your cousin Jocelyn is well,—I mean none the worse for her accident,' he said, turning very red.
'Oh no,' I returned carelessly; 'nothing hurts Jill. She was riding in the Park the next morning as though nothing had happened.'
'I remember you told me so, when I called to inquire,' was his answer. 'It was a nasty accident, and might have upset her nerves; but she is very strong and courageous.'
'She has great reason to be grateful to you,' I returned, for I felt very sorry for him. He was hoping that she had sent him some message; she would surely desire to be remembered to him. When I repeated Jill's abrupt little speech his face cleared, and he looked quite bright.
'There is Mrs. Barton looking out for you: I must not keep you at the gate talking,' he said cheerfully. 'Besides, I see Leah Bates coming down from Gladwyn, and I want to speak to her.' And he ran off in his boyish fashion.
I was glad to escape Leah, so I went quickly up the garden-path. The little widow was waiting for me in the porch, her face beaming with welcome. Tinker rushed out of the kitchen as soon as he heard my voice, and gambolled round us with awkward demonstrations of joy that nearly upset us, and Joe the black cat came and rubbed himself against my gown, with tail erect and loud purring.
The little parlour looked snug and inviting. The fireplace was decorated with fir cones and tiny boughs covered with silvery lichen. A great pot of mignonette perfumed the room with its sweetness. Charlie's face seemed to greet me with grave sweet smiles. I seemed to hear his voice, 'Welcome home, Ursula.'
'Oh, I am so glad to be home!' I said, as I went upstairs to my pretty bedroom.
When I had finished my unpacking, and had had tea, I sat down in my easy-chair, with a book that Miss Gillespie had lent me. Tinker laid his head in my lap, and we both disposed ourselves for an idle, luxurious evening. The bees were still humming about the honeysuckles; one great brown fellow had buried himself in one of my crimson roses; the birds were twittering in the acacia-tree, chirping their good-night to each other; the sun was setting behind the limes in a glory of pink and golden clouds, and a mingled scent of roses, mignonette, and hay seemed to pervade the atmosphere.
I laid down my book and fell into a waking dream; my thoughts seemed to take bird-flights into all sorts of strange places; the summer sounds and scents seemed to lull me into infinite content. Now I heard a drowsy cluck-cluck from the poultry-yard,—Dame Partlet remonstrating with her lord; then a faint moo from the field where pretty brown-eyed Daisy was chewing the cud; down below they were singing in the little dissenting chapel; sweet shrill voices reached me every now and then. I could hear Nathaniel chanting in a deep bass, as he worked in the back-yard, 'All people that on earth do dwell,'—the dear homely Old Hundredth. It was no wonder that a light, very light, footstep on the gravel outside did not rouse me. The door behind me opened, and Tinker turned his head lazily, and his tail began to flop heavier against the floor. The next moment two soft arms were round my neck.
'Gladys,—oh, Gladys!' and for the moment I could say no more, in my delight and surprise at seeing the dear beautiful face again.
'I wanted to surprise you, Ursula dear,' she said, laughing and kissing me. 'How still and quiet you and Tinker were! I believe you were both asleep. When I heard you were coming home I planned with Lady Betty that I would creep down to the cottage and take you unawares. I made Mrs. Barton promise not to betray me.'
'When did you come back?' I asked, bewildered. 'Why did you not write and tell me you were coming?'
'Oh, it was decided all in a hurry. The Maberleys heard that their daughter, Mrs. Egerton, would arrive in England this week, a whole month before they expected her, so they have gone down to Southampton, and left me to find my way home alone. I arrived last night, much to Giles's astonishment. You know Dora is their only surviving child, and she has been in India the last five years. She is bringing her two boys home.'
'Last night. Then you did not get my letter?'
'No; but it will follow me. How good you have been to write so often, Ursula! I have quite lived on your letters.'
'Let me see how you look,' was my answer to this; and indeed I thought she had never looked more beautiful. There was a lovely colour in her face, and she seemed bright and animated, though I could not deny that she was still very thin.
'You have not grown fatter,' I went on, pretending to grumble; 'you are still too transparent, in my opinion; but Jill's snow-maiden has a little life in her.'
'Does Jill call me that?' she returned, in some surprise. 'Oh, I am quite well: even Giles says so. He declares he is glad to have me back, and poor little Lady Betty quite cried with joy. It was nice, after all, coming home.'
'I am so glad to hear you say that.'
'Etta is away, you know: that makes the difference. Gladwyn never seemed so homelike before. By the bye, Ursula, Giles has sent you a message; he—no, we all three, want you to spend a long evening with us to-morrow. He has been called away to Brighton, and will not be back until mid-day; but we all three agreed that it would be so nice if you came early in the afternoon, and we would have tea in the little oak avenue. Etta never cares about these al fresco meals, she is so afraid of spiders and caterpillars; but Lady Betty and I delight in it.'
I wish Jill could have heard Gladys talk in this bright, natural way. I am sure she would not have recognised her snow-maiden. There was no weary constraint in her manner to-night, no heavy pressure of unnatural care on her young brow: she seemed too happy to see me again to think of herself at all.
When we had talked a little more I began to approach the subject of Eric very gradually. At my first word her cheek paled, and the old wistfulness came to her eyes.
'What of Eric?' she asked quickly. 'You look a little strange, Ursula. Do not be afraid of speaking his name: he is never out of my thoughts, waking or sleeping.'
I told her that I knew this, but that I had something very singular to narrate, which I feared might excite and disappoint her, but that I could assure her of the certainty that he was alive and well.
She clasped her hands almost convulsively together, and looked at me imploringly. 'Only tell me that, and I can bear everything else,' she exclaimed.
But as she listened her face grew paler and paler, and presently she burst into tears, and sobbed so violently that I was alarmed.
'It is nothing,—nothing but joy,' she gasped out at length. 'I could not hear you say that you had seen him, my own Eric, and not be overcome. Oh, Ursula, if I had only been with you!' And she hid her face on my shoulder, and for a little while I could say no more.
When she was calmed I finished all that I had to tell, and read her the advertisements, but they seemed to frighten her.
'How dreadful if Etta or Giles should see them!' she said nervously. 'Etta is so clever, she finds out everything. I would not have her read one of them for worlds. Why did you put your name, Ursula?—it is so uncommon.'
'No one will connect me with Jack Poynter. I did not think there would be any risk,' I replied soothingly. 'I put "for Gladys's sake" in the Daily Telegraph. You see, we must try to attract his notice.'
'Giles never takes in the Daily Telegraph. We have the Times and the Standard, and the Morning Post for Etta. Which did you put in the Standard?'
I repeated the advertisement: 'Jack Poynter's friends believe him dead, and are in great trouble: he is entreated to undeceive them. One word to the old address will be a comfort to his poor sister.'
'That will do,' she answered, in a relieved tone. 'Etta cannot read between the lines there. Oh, Ursula, do you think that Eric will see them?'
I assured her that there was no doubt on the subject. All the better class of workmen had access to some club or society, where they saw the leading papers. I thought the Daily Telegraph the most likely to meet his eyes, and should continue to insert an advertisement from time to time. 'We must be patient and wait a little,' I continued. 'Even if our appeals do not reach him, there is every probability that Joe Muggins or one of the other workmen will come across him. We want to find out where Jack Poynter lives. I mean to write to Joe in a few days, and offer him a handsome sum if he can tell me his address.'
'That will be the best plan; but, oh, Ursula, how am I to be patient? To think of my dear boy becoming a common workman! he is poor, then; he wants money. I feel as though I cannot rest, as though I must go to London and look for him myself.'
Gladys looked so excited and feverish that I almost repented my confidence. I did all I could to soothe her.
'Surely, dear, it is not so difficult to wait a little, knowing him to be alive and well, as it was to bear that long suspense.'
'Oh, but I never believed him to be dead,' she answered quickly. 'I was very anxious, very unhappy, about him, often miserable, but in my dreams he was always full of life. When I woke up I said to myself, "They are wrong; Eric is in the world somewhere; I shall see him again."'
'Just so; and now with my own eyes I have seen him, evidently in perfect health and in good spirits.'
'Ah, but that troubles me a little,' she returned, and her beautiful mouth began to quiver like an unhappy child's. 'How can Eric, my Eric who loved me so, be so light-hearted, knowing that all these years I have been mourning for him? I remember how he used,' she went on plaintively, 'to whistle over his work, and how Giles used to listen to him. Sometimes they kept up a duet together, but Eric's note was the sweeter.'
'We must be careful not to misjudge him even in this,' was my answer: 'how do you know, Gladys, that he has not assured himself that you are all well, and, as far as he knows, happy? Or perhaps his heart was very heavy in spite of his whistling. A young man does not show his feelings like a girl.'
'No doubt you are right,' she replied, sighing, and then she turned her head away, and I could see the old tremulous movement of her hands. 'Ursula,' she said, in a very low voice, 'have you told Mr. Cunliffe about this?'
'Uncle Max!' I exclaimed, concealing my astonishment at hearing her mention his name of her own accord. 'No; indeed, he is away from home: we have not met for the last three weeks. Would you wish me to tell him, Gladys?'
She pondered over my question, and I could see the curves of her throat trembling. Her voice was not so clear when she answered me:
'He might have helped us. He is kind and wise, and I trusted him once. But perhaps it will be hardly safe to tell him: he might insist on Giles knowing, and then everything would be lost.'
'What do you mean?' I asked hastily. 'Surely Mr. Hamilton ought to know that his brother is alive.'
'Yes, but not now—not until I have seen him. Ursula, you are very good; you are my greatest comfort; but indeed you must be guided in this by me. You do not know Giles as I do. He is beginning to influence you in spite of yourself. If Giles knows, Etta will know, and then we are lost.'
Her tone troubled me: it was the old keynote of suppressed hopeless pain: it somehow recalled to me the image of some helpless innocent bird struggling in a fowler's net. Her eyes looked at me with almost agonised entreaty.
'If Etta knows, we should be lost,' she repeated drearily.
'She shall not know, then,' I returned, pretending cheerfulness, though I was inwardly dismayed. 'You and I will watch and wait, Gladys. Do not be so cast down, dear. Remember it is never so dark as just before the dawn.'
'No,' she replied, with a faint smile, 'you are right there; but it is growing dark in earnest, Ursula, and I must go home, or Leah will be coming in search of me.'
'Very well; I will walk with you,' I replied; and in five minutes more we had left the cottage.
We walked almost in silence, for who could tell if eaves-droppers might not lurk in the dark hedgerows? I know this feeling was strong in both our minds.
At the gate of Gladwyn we kissed each other and parted.
'I am happier, Ursula,' she whispered. 'You must not think I am ungrateful for the news you have given me, only it has made me restless.'
'Hush! there is some one coming down the shrubbery,' I returned, dropping her hand, and going quickly into the road. As I did so, I heard Leah's smooth voice address Gladys:
'You were so, late, ma'am, that I thought I had better step down to the cottage, for fear you might be waiting for me.'
'It is all right, Leah,' was Gladys's answer. 'Miss Garston walked back with me. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.' And then I heard their footsteps dying away in the distance.