Uncle Max / Carey, Rosa Nouchette, 1840-1909

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Title: Uncle Max


Author: Rosa Nouchette Carey



Release Date: June 17, 2005  [eBook #16080]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


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UNCLE MAX

by

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY

Author of 'Nellie's Memories,' 'Wee Wifie,' 'Robert Ord's Atonement,'
etc.

1894







CONTENTS


       I. Out of the Mist

      II. Behind the Bars

     III. Cinderella

      IV. Uncle Max Breaks The Ice

       V. 'When The Cat Is Away'

      VI. The White Cottage

     VII. Giles Hamilton, Esq

    VIII. New Brooms Sweep Clean

      IX. The Flag of Truce

       X. A Difficult Patient

      XI. One of God's Heroines

     XII. A Missed Vocation

    XIII. Lady Betty

     XIV. Lady Betty Leaves Her Muff

      XV. Up At Gladwyn

     XVI. Gladys

    XVII. 'Why Not Trust Me, Max?'

   XVIII. Miss Hamilton's Little Scholar

     XIX. The Picture In Gladys's Room

      XX. Eric

     XXI. 'I Ran Away, Then!'

    XXII. 'They Have Blackened His Memory Falsely'

   XXIII. The Mystery at Gladwyn

    XXIV. 'Weeping may endure for a Night'

     XXV. 'There is no one like Donald'

    XXVI. I hear about Captain Hamilton

   XXVII. Max opens his Heart

  XXVIII. Crossing the River

    XXIX. Miss Darrell has a Headache

     XXX. With Timbrels and Dances

    XXXI. Wedding-Chimes

   XXXII. A Fiery Ordeal

  XXXIII. Jack Poynter

   XXXIV. I communicate with Joe Muggins

    XXXV. Nightingales and Roses

   XXXVI. Breakers Ahead

  XXXVII. 'I claim that Promise, Ursula'

 XXXVIII. In the Turret-Room

   XXXIX. Whitefoot is saddled

      XL. The Talk in the Gloaming

     XLI. 'At five o'clock in the Morning'

    XLII. Down the Pemberley Road

   XLIII. 'Conspiracy Corner'

    XLIV. Leah's Confession

     XLV. 'This Home is yours no longer'

    XLVI. Nap barks in the Stable-yard

   XLVII. At last, Ursula, at last!'

  XLVIII. 'What o' the Way to the End?'





CHAPTER I

OUT OF THE MIST


It appears to me, looking back over a past experience, that certain days
in one's life stand out prominently as landmarks, when we arrive at some
finger-post pointing out the road that we should follow.

We come out of some deep, rutty lane, where the hedgerows obscure the
prospect, and where the footsteps of some unknown passenger have left
tracks in the moist red clay. The confused tracery of green leaves
overhead seems to weave fanciful patterns against the dim blue of the
sky; the very air is low-pitched and oppressive. All at once we find
ourselves in an open space; the free winds of heaven are blowing over us;
there are four roads meeting; the finger-post points silently, 'This way
to such a place'; we can take our choice, counting the mile-stones rather
wearily as we pass them. The road may be a little tedious, the stones may
hurt our feet; but if it be the right road it will bring us to our
destination.

In looking back it always seems to me as though I came to a fresh
landmark in my experience that November afternoon when I saw Uncle Max
standing in the twilight, waiting for me.

There had been the waste of a great trouble in my young life,--sorrow,
confusion, then utter chaos. I had struggled on somehow after my twin
brother's death, trying to fight against despair with all my youthful
vitality; creating new duties for myself, throwing out fresh feelers
everywhere; now and then crying out in my undisciplined way that the
task was too hard for me; that I loathed my life; that it was impossible
to live any longer without love and appreciation and sympathy; that so
uncongenial an atmosphere could be no home to me; that the world was an
utter negation and a mockery.

That was before I went to the hospital, at the time when my trouble was
fresh and I was breaking my heart with the longing to see Charlie's face
again. Most people who have lived long in the world, and have parted with
their beloved, know what that sort of hopeless ache means.

My work was over at the hospital, and I had come home again,--to rest, so
they said, but in reality to work out plans for my future life, in a sort
of sullen silence, that seemed to shut me out from all sympathy.

It had wrapped me in a sort of mantle of reserve all the afternoon,
during which I had been driving with Aunt Philippa and Sara. The air
would do me good. I was moped, hipped, with all that dreary hospital
work, so they said. It would distract and amuse me to watch Sara making
her purchases. Reluctance, silent opposition, only whetted their
charitable mood.

'Don't be disagreeable, Ursula. You might as well help me choose my new
mantle,' Sara had said, quite pleasantly, and I had given in with a bad
grace.

Another time I might have been amused by Aunt Philippa's majestic
deportment and Sara's brisk importance, her girlish airs and graces; but
I was too sad at heart to indulge in my usual satire. Everything seemed
stupid and tiresome; the hum of voices wearied me; the showroom at
Marshall and Snelgrove's seemed a confused Babel,--everywhere strange
voices, a hubbub of sound, tall figures in black passing and repassing,
strange faces reflected in endless pier-glasses,--faces of puckered
anxiety repeating themselves in ludicrous _vrai-semblance_.

I saw our own little group reproduced in one. There was Aunt Philippa,
tall and portly, with her well-preserved beauty, a little full-blown
perhaps, but still 'marvellously' good-looking for her age, if she could
only have not been so conscious of the fact.

Then, Sara, standing there slim and straight, with the furred mantle just
slipping over her smooth shoulders, radiant with good health, good looks,
perfectly contented with herself and the whole world, as it behooves a
handsome, high-spirited young woman to be with her surroundings, looking
bright, unconcerned, good-humoured, in spite of her mother's fussy
criticisms: Aunt Philippa was always a little fussy about dress.

Between the two I could just catch a glimpse of myself,--a tall
girl, dressed very plainly in black, with a dark complexion, large,
anxious-looking eyes, that seemed appealing for relief from all this
dulness,--a shadowy sort of image of discontent and protest in the
background, hovering behind Aunt Philippa's velvet mantle and Sara's
slim supple figure.

'Well, Ursula,' said Sara, still good-humouredly, 'will you not give us
your opinion? Does this dolman suit me, or would you prefer a long jacket
trimmed with skunk?'

I remember I decided in favour of the jacket, only Aunt Philippa
interposed, a little contemptuously,--

'What does Ursula know about the present fashion? She has spent the last
year in the wards of St. Thomas's, my dear,' dropping her voice, and
taking up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses to inspect me more critically,--a
mere habit, for I had reason to know Aunt Philippa was not the least
near-sighted. 'I cannot see any occasion for you to dress so dowdily,
with three hundred a year to spend absolutely on yourself; for of course
poor Charlie's little share has come to you. You could surely make
yourself presentable, especially as you know we are going to Hyde Park
Mansions to see Lesbia.'

This was too much for my equanimity. 'What does it matter? I am not
coming with you, Aunt Philippa,' I retorted, somewhat vexed at this
personality; but Sara overheard us, and strove to pour oil on the
troubled waters.

'Leave Ursula alone, mother: she looks tolerably well this afternoon;
only mourning never suits a dark complexion--' But I did not wait to
hear any more. I wandered about the place disconsolately, pretending to
examine things with passing curiosity, but my eyes were throbbing and my
heart beating angrily at Sara's thoughtless speech. A sudden remembrance
seemed to steal before me vividly: Charlie's pale face, with its sad,
sweet smile, haunted me. 'Courage, Ursula; it will be over soon.' Those
were his last words, poor boy, and he was looking at me and not at Lesbia
as he spoke. I always wondered what he meant by them. Was it his long
pain, which he had borne so patiently, that would soon be over? or was
it that cruel parting to which he alluded? or did he strive to comfort
me at the last with the assurance--alas! for our mortal nature, so sadly
true--that pain cannot last for ever, that even faithful sorrow is
short-lived and comforts itself in time, that I was young enough to
outlive more than one trouble, and that I might take courage from this
thought?

I looked down at the black dress, such as I had worn nearly two years
for him, and raged as I remembered Sara's flippant words. 'My darling,
I would wear mourning for you all my life gladly,' I said, with an inward
sob that was more anger than sorrow, 'if I thought you would care for me
to do it. Oh, what a world this is, Charlie! surely vanity and vexation
of spirit!'

I did not mean to be cross with Sara, but my thoughts had taken a gloomy
turn, and I could not recover my spirits: indeed, as we drove down Bond
Street, where Sara had some glittering little toy to purchase, I
reiterated my intention of not calling at Hyde Park Mansions.

'I do not want any tea,' I said wearily, 'and I would rather go home.
Give my love to Lesbia; I will see her another day.'

'Lesbia will be hurt,' remonstrated Sara. 'What a little misanthrope you
are, Ursula! St. Thomas's has injured you socially; you have become a
hermit-crab all at once, and it is such nonsense at your age.'

'Oh, let me be, Sara!' I pleaded; 'I am tired, and Lesbia always chatters
so; and Mrs. Fullerton is worse. Besides, did you not tell me she was
coming to dine with us this evening?'

'Yes, to be sure; but she wanted us to meet the Percy Glyns. Mirrel and
Winifred Glyn are to be there this afternoon. Never mind, Lesbia will
understand when I say you are in one of your ridiculous moods.' And Sara
hummed a little tune gaily, as though she meant no offence by her words
and was disposed to let me go my own way.

'The carriage can take you home, Ursula; we can walk those few yards,'
observed Aunt Philippa, as she descended leisurely, and Sara tripped
after her, still humming. But I took no notice of her words: I had had
enough dulness and decorum to last me for some time, and the Black Prince
and his consort Bay might find their way to their own stables without
depositing me at the front door of the house at Hyde Park Gate. I told
Clarence so, to his great astonishment, and walked across the road in an
opposite direction to home, as though my feet were winged with
quicksilver.

For the Park in that dim November light seemed to allure me; there was
a red glow of sunset in the distance; a faint, climbing mist between the
trees; the gas-lamps were twinkling everywhere. I could hear the ringing
of some church bell; there was space, freedom for thought, a vague,
uncertain prospect, out of which figures were looming curiously,--a
delightful sense that I was sinning against conventionality and Aunt
Philippa.

'Halloo, Ursula!' exclaimed a voice in great astonishment; and there, out
of the mist, was a kind face looking at me,--a face with a brown beard,
and dark eyes with a touch of amusement in them; and the eyes and the
beard and the bright, welcoming smile belonged to Uncle Max.

As I caught at his outstretched hand with a half-stifled exclamation
of delight, a policeman turned round and looked at us with an air of
interest. No doubt he thought the tall brown-bearded clergyman in the
shabby coat--it was one of Uncle Max's peculiarities to wear a shabby
coat occasionally--was the sweetheart of the young lady in black. Uncle
Max--I am afraid I oftener called him Max--was only a few years older
than myself, and had occupied the position of an elder brother to me.

He was my poor mother's only brother, and had been dearly loved by
her,--not as I had loved Charlie, perhaps; but they had been much to each
other, and he had always seemed nearer to me than Aunt Philippa, who was
my father's sister; perhaps because there was nothing in common between
us, and I had always been devoted to Uncle Max.

'Well, Ursula,' he said, pretending to look grave, but evidently far too
pleased to see me to give me a very severe lecture, 'what is the meaning
of this? Does Mrs. Garston allow young ladies under her charge to stroll
about Hyde Park in the twilight? or have you stolen a march on her,
naughty little she-bear?'

I drew my hand away with an offended air: when Uncle Max wished to tease
or punish me he always reminded me that the name of Ursula signified
she-bear, and would sometimes call me 'the little black growler'; and at
such times it was provoking to think that Sara signified princess. I have
always wondered how far and how strongly our baptismal names influence
us. Of course he would not let me walk beside him in that dignified
manner: the next instant I heard his clear hearty laugh, and then I
laughed too.

'What an absurd child you are! I was thinking over your letter as I
walked along. It did not bring me to London, certainly; I had business of
my own; but, all the same, I have walked across the Park this evening to
talk to you about this extraordinary scheme.'

But I would not let him go on. He was about to cross the road, so I took
his arm and turned him back. And there was the gray mist creeping up
between the trees, and the lamps glimmering in the distance, and the
faint pink glow had not yet died away.

'It is so quiet here,' I pleaded, 'and I could not get you alone for a
moment if we went in. Uncle Brian will be there, and Jill, and we could
not say a word. Aunt Philippa and Sara have gone to see Lesbia. I have
been driving with them all the afternoon. Sara has been shopping, and how
bored I was!'

'You uncivilised little heathen!' Then, very gravely, 'Well, how is poor
Lesbia?'

'Do not waste your pity on her,' I returned impatiently. 'She is as well
and cheerful as possible. Even Sara says so. She is not breaking her
heart about Charlie. She has left off mourning, and is as gay as ever.'

'You are always hard on Lesbia,' he returned gently. 'She is young,
my dear, you forget that, and a pretty girl, and very much admired.
It always seems to me she was very fond of the poor fellow.'

'She was good to him in his illness, but she never cared for Charlie as
he did for her. He worshipped the very ground she walked on. He thought
her perfection. Uncle Max, it was pitiful to hear him sometimes. He would
tell me how sweet and unselfish she was, and all the time I knew she was
but an ordinary, commonplace girl. If he had lived to marry her he would
have been disappointed in her. He was so large-hearted, and Lesbia has
such little aims.'

'So you always say, Ursula. But you women are so severe in your judgment
of each other. I doubt myself if the girl lives whom you would have
considered good enough for Charlie. Yes, yes, my dear,'--as I uttered a
dissenting protest to this,--'he was a fine fellow, and his was a most
lovable character; but it was his last illness that ripened him.'

'He was always perfect in my eyes,' I returned, in a choked voice.

'That was because you loved him; and no doubt Lesbia possessed the same
ideal goodness for him. Love throws its own glamour,' he went on, and
his voice was unusually grave; 'it does not believe in commonplace
mediocrity; it lifts up its idol to some fanciful pedestal, where the
poor thing feels very uncomfortable and out of its element, and then
persists in falling down and worshipping it. We humans are very droll,
Ursula: we will create our own divinities.'

'Lesbia would have disappointed him,' I persisted obstinately; but I
might as well have talked to the wind. Uncle Max could not find it in
his heart to be hard to a pretty girl.

'That is open to doubt, my dear. Lesbia is amiable and charming, and I
daresay she would have made a nice little wife. Poor Charlie hated clever
women, and in that respect she would have suited him.'

After this I knew it was no good in trying to change his opinion. Uncle
Max held his own views with remarkable tenacity; he had old-fashioned
notions with respect to women, rather singular in so young a man,--for he
was only thirty; he preferred to believe in their goodness, in spite of
any amount of demonstration to the contrary; it vexed him to be reminded
of the shortcomings of his friends; by nature he was an optimist, and had
a large amount of faith in people's good intentions. 'He meant well, poor
fellow, in spite of his failures,' was a speech I have heard more than
once from his lips. He was always ready to condone a fault or heal a
breach; indeed, his sweet nature found it difficult to bear a grudge
against any one; he was only hard to himself, and on no one else did he
strive to impose so heavy a yoke. I was only silent for a minute, and
then I turned the conversation into another channel.

'But my letter, Uncle Max!'

'Ah, true, your letter; but I have not forgotten it. How old are you,
Ursula? I always forget.'

'Five-and-twenty this month.'

'To be sure; I ought to have remembered. And you have three hundred a
year of your own.'

I nodded.

'And your present home is distasteful to you?' in an inquiring tone.

'It is no home to me,' I returned passionately. 'Oh, Uncle Max, how can
one call it home after the dear old rectory, where we were so happy,
father, and mother, and Charlie--and--'

'Yes, I know, poor child; and you have had heavy troubles. It cannot be
like the old home, I am well aware of that, Ursula; but your aunt is a
good woman. I have always found her strictly just. She was your father's
only sister: when she offered you a home she promised to treat you with
every indulgence, as though you were her own daughter.'

'Aunt Philippa means to be kind,' I said, struggling to repress my
tears,--tears always troubled Uncle Max: 'she is kind in her way, and so
is Sara. I have every comfort, every luxury; they want me to be gay and
enjoy myself, to lead their life; but it only makes me miserable; they do
not understand me; they see I do not think with them, and then they laugh
at me and call me morbid. No one really wants me but poor Jill: I am so
fond of Jill.'

'Why cannot you lead their life, Ursula?'

'Because it is not life at all,' was my resolute answer: 'to me it is the
most wearisome existence possible. Listen to me, Uncle Max. Do you think
I could possibly spend my days as Sara does,--writing a few notes, doing
a little fancy-work, shopping and paying visits, and dancing half the
night? Do you think you could transform such a poor little Cinderella
into a fairy princess, like Sara or Lesbia? No; the drudgery of such a
life would kill me with _ennui_ and discontent.'

'It is not the life I would choose for you, certainly,' he said, pulling
his beard in some perplexity: 'it is far too worldly to suit my taste; if
Charlie had lived you would have made your home with him. He often talked
to me about that, poor fellow. I thought a year or two at Hyde Park Gate
would do you no harm, and might be wholesome training; but it has proved
a failure, I see that.'

'They would be happier without me,' I went on, more quietly, for he was
evidently coming round to my view of the case. 'Aunt Philippa does not
mean to be unkind, but she often lets me see that I am in the way, that
she is not proud of me. She would have taken more interest in me if I had
been handsome, like Sara; but a plain, dowdy niece is not to her taste.
No, let me finish, Uncle Max,'--for he wanted to interrupt me here.
'They made a great fuss about my training at the hospital last year,
but I am sure they did not miss me; Sara spoke yesterday as though she
thought I was going back to St. Thomas's, and Aunt Philippa made no
objection. I heard her tell Mrs. Fullerton once "that really Ursula was
so strong-minded and different from other girls that she was prepared for
anything, even for her being a female doctor."'

'Well, my dear, you are certainly rather peculiar, you know.'

'Oh, Uncle Max,' I said mournfully, 'are you going to misunderstand me
too? Providence has deprived me of my parents and my only brother: is it
strong-minded or peculiar to be so lonely and sad at heart that gaiety
only jars on me? Can I forget my mother's teaching when she said,
"Ursula, if you live for the world you will be miserable. Try to do your
duty and benefit your fellow-creatures, and happiness must follow"?'

'Yes, poor Emmie, she was a good woman: you might do worse than take
after her.'

'She would not approve of the life I am leading at Hyde Park Gate,' I
went on. 'She and Aunt Philippa never cared for each other. I often think
that if she had known she would not have liked me to be there. Sundays
are wretched. We go to church?--yes, because it is respectable to do so;
but there is a sort of reunion every Sunday evening.'

'I wish I could offer you a home, Ursula; but--' here Uncle Max
hesitated.

'That would not do at all,' I returned promptly. 'Your bachelor home
would not do for me; besides, you might marry--of course you will,' but
he flushed rather uncomfortably at that, and said, 'Pshaw! what
nonsense!' We had paused under a lamp-post, and I could see him plainly:
perhaps he knew this, for he hurried me on, this time in the direction of
home.

'I am five-and-twenty,' I continued, trying to collect the salient points
of my argument. 'I am indebted to none for my maintenance; I am free, and
my own mistress; I neglect no duty by refusing to live under Uncle
Brian's roof; no one wants me; I contribute to no one's happiness.'

'Except to Jill's,' observed Uncle Max.

'Jill! but she is only a child, barely sixteen, and Sara is becoming
jealous of my influence. I shall only breed dissension in the household
if I remain. Uncle Max, you are a good man,--a clergyman; you cannot
conscientiously tell me that I am not free to lead my own life, to choose
my own work in the world.'

'Perhaps not,' he replied, in a hesitating voice. 'But the scheme is a
peculiar one. You wish me to find respectable lodgings in my parish,
where you will be independent and free from supervision, and to place
your superfluous health and strength--you are a muscular Christian,
Ursula--at the service of my sick poor, and for this post you have
previously trained yourself.'

'I think it will be a good sort of life,' I returned carelessly, but how
my heart was beating! 'I like it so much, and I should like to be near
you, Uncle Max, and work under you as my vicar. I have thought about this
for years. Charlie and I often talked of it. I was to live with him and
Lesbia and devote my time to this work. He thought it such a nice idea
to go and nurse poor people in their homes. And he promised that he
would come and sing to them. But now I must carry out my plan alone, for
Charlie cannot help me now.' And as I thought of the sympathy that had
never failed me my voice quivered and I could say no more.

'I wish we were all in heaven,' growled Uncle Max,--but his tone was a
little husky,--'for this world is a most uncomfortable place for good
people, or people with a craze. I think Charlie is well out of it.'

'Under which category do you mean to place me?' I asked, trying to laugh.

'My dear, there is a craze in most women. They have such an obstinate
faith in their own good intentions. If they find half a dozen fools to
believe in them, they will start a crusade to found a new Utopia. Women
are the most meddlesome things in creation: they never let well alone.
Their pretty little fingers are in every human pie. That is why we get so
much unwholesome crust and so little meat, and, of course, our digestion
is ruined.'

'Uncle Max--' But he would not be serious any longer.

'Ursula, I utterly refuse to inhale any more of this mist. I think a
comfortable arm-chair by the fire would be far more conducive to comfort.
You have given me plenty of food for thought, and I mean to sleep on it.
Now, not another word. I am going to ring the bell.' And Uncle Max was as
good as his word.




CHAPTER II

BEHIND THE BARS


It was quite true, as I had told Uncle Max, that the scheme had been no
new one; it was no sudden emanation from a girl's brain, morbid with
discontent and fruitless longings; it had grown with my youth and had
become part of my environment. As a child the thought had come to me as
I followed my father into one cottage after another in his house-to-house
visitation. He had been a conscientious, hard-working clergyman; in fact,
his work killed him, for he overtasked a constitution that was not
naturally strong. I accompanied my mother, too, in her errands of mercy,
and saw a great deal of the misery engendered by drink, ignorance, and
want of forethought. In the case of the sick poor, the gross
mismanagement and want of cleanly and thrifty habits led to an amount
of discomfort and suffering that even now makes me shudder. The parish
was overgrown and insufficiently worked; the greater part of the
population belonged to the working-classes; dissenting chapels and
gin-palaces flourished. Often did my childish heart ache at the
surroundings of some squalid home, where the parents toiled all day for
worse than naught, just to satisfy their unhealthy cravings, while the
children grew up riotous, half starved, and full of inherited vices.
There was a little child I saw once, a cripple, dying slowly of some sad
spinal disease, lying in a dark corner, on what seemed to me a heap of
rags. Oh, God, I can see that child's face now! I remember when we heard
of its death my mother burst into tears. They were tears of joy, she told
me afterwards, that another suffering child's life was ended; 'and there
are hundreds and hundreds of these little creatures, Ursula,' she said,
'growing up in sin and misery; and the world goes on, and people eat and
drink and are merry, for it is none of their business, and yet it is not
the will of the Father that one of these little ones should perish.'

I had learned much from my father, but still more from my mother.
Uncle Max had called her a good woman, but she was more than that:
she possessed one of those rare unselfish natures that cannot remain
satisfied with their own personal happiness: they wish to include
the whole world. She wanted to inculcate in me her own spirit of
self-sacrifice. I can remember some of her short, trenchant sentences
now.

'Never mind happiness: that is God's gift to a few: do your duty.'

'If you have loved your fellow-creatures sufficiently you will not be
afraid to die. A good conscience will smooth your pillow.'

And once, in her last illness, when Charlie asked if she were
comfortable, 'Not very, but I shall soon be quite comfortable, for I
shall hope to forget in heaven how little I have done, after all, here;
and yet I always wanted to help others.'

Oh, how good she was! And Charlie was good too, after the fashion of
young men: not altogether thoughtless, full of the promptings of his kind
heart; but Uncle Max was right when he said his last illness had ripened
him: it was not the old careless Charlie who had wooed Lesbia who lay
there: it was another and a better Charlie.

In the old days he had rallied me in a brotherly manner on my
old-fashioned, grave ways. 'You are not a modern young lady, Ursie,' he
would say; and he would often call me 'grandmother Ursula'; but all the
same he would listen to my plans with the utmost tolerance and good
nature.

Ah, those talks in the twilight, before the fatal disease developed
itself, and he lay in idle fashion on the couch with his arms under his
head, while I sat on the footstool or on the rug in the firelight! We
were to live together,--yes, that was always the dream; even when
Lesbia's fair face came between us, he would not hear of any difference.
I was to live with him and Lesbia, Lesbia was rich, and, though Charlie
had little, they were to marry soon.

I was to form a part of that luxurious household, but my time was to be
my own, and I was to devote it to the sick poor of Rutherford. 'Mind,
Ursula, you may work, but I will not have you overwork,' Charlie had once
said, more decidedly than usual; 'you must come home for hours of rest
and refreshment. You have a beautiful voice, and it shall be properly
trained; you may sing to your invalids as much as you like, and sometimes
I will come and sing too; but you must remember you have social duties,
and I shall expect you to entertain our friends.' And it was the idea of
this dual life of home sympathy and outside work that had so strongly
seized upon my imagination.

When Charlie died I was too sick at heart to carry out my plan. 'How can
one work alone?' I would say sorrowfully to myself; but after a time the
emptiness of my life and dissatisfaction with my surroundings brought
back the old thoughts.

I remembered the dear old rectory life, where every one was in earnest,
and contrasted it with the trifling pursuits that my aunt and cousin
called duties. My present existence seemed to shut me in like prison
bars. Only to be free, to choose my own life! And then came emancipation
in the shape of hard hospital work, when health and spirits returned to
me; when, under the stimulus of useful employment and constant exercise
of body and mind, I slept better, fretted less, and looked less
mournfully out on the world. Uncle Max was right when he said a year
at St. Thomas's would save me.

By and by the idea dawned upon me that I might still carry out my plan;
there were poor people at Heathfield, where Uncle Max's parish was. What
should hinder me from living there under Uncle Max's wing and trying to
combine the two lives, as Charlie wished?

I was young, full of activity. I did not wish to shut myself out from my
kind. I could discharge my duties to my own class and enjoy a moderate
amount of pleasure. I was young enough to desire that; but the greater
part of my time would be placed at the disposal of my poorer neighbours.
People might think it singular at first, but they would not talk for
ever, and the life would be a happy one to me.

All this had been said in that voluminous letter of mine to Uncle Max;
he might argue and shake his head over it, thereby proving himself a
wise man, but he could not but know that I was absolutely under my own
control, as far as a woman could be. I need ask no one's advice in the
disposal of my own life; his own and Uncle Brian's guardianship was
merely nominal now. After five-and-twenty I was declared my own
mistress in every sense of the word.

Uncle Brian came out to meet us as soon as he heard Uncle Max's voice
in the hall; the two were very great friends, and they shook hands
cordially.

'Glad to see you, Cunliffe; why did you not let us know that you were
coming up to town? We could have put you up easily--eh, Ursula?'

'Yes, indeed, Uncle Brian'; and then I added coaxingly, 'Do please send
for your portmanteau, Uncle Max; you know Lesbia is coming this evening,
and you are such a favourite with her.' I knew this would be a strong
inducement, for Uncle Max's soft heart would insist on treating Lesbia
as though she were a widowed princess.

'All right,' he returned in his lazy way, and then I took the matter into
my own hands by leaving the room at once to consult with Mrs. Martin,
Aunt Philippa's housekeeper. As I closed the door I glanced back for
another look at Uncle Max. He had thrown himself into an easy-chair, as
though he were tired, and was leaning back with his hands under his head
in Charlie's fashion, looking up at Uncle Brian, who was standing on the
rug.

I always thought Uncle Brian a very handsome man. He had clear, well-cut
features and a gray moustache, and he was quiet and dignified. He always
looked to me, with his brown complexion, more like an Indian officer than
a wealthy banker. There was nothing commercial in his appearance; but I
should have admired him more if he had been less cold and repressive in
manner; but he was an undemonstrative man, even to his own children.

I remember hinting this once to Uncle Max, and he had rebuked me more
severely than he had ever done before.

'I do not like young girls like you, Ursula, to be so critical about
their elders. Garston is an excellent fellow; he has plenty of brains,
and always does the right thing, however difficult it may be. Men are not
like women, my dear: they often hide their deepest feelings. Your poor
uncle has never been quite the same man since Ralph's death, and just as
he was getting over his boy's loss a little he had a fresh disappointment
with Charlie: he always meant to put him in Ralph's place.'

I was a little ashamed of my criticism when Max said this. I felt I had
not made sufficient allowance for Uncle Brian: the death of his only son
must have been a dreadful blow. Ralph had died at Oxford; they said he
had overworked himself in trying for honours and then had taken a chill.
He was a fine, handsome young fellow, nearly two-and-twenty, and his
father's idol: no wonder Uncle Brian had grown so much older and graver
during the last few years.

And he had been fond of Charlie, and had meant to have him in Ralph's
place; my poor boy would have been a rich one if he had lived. Uncle
Brian had taken him into the bank, and Lesbia and her fortune were
promised to him, but the goodly heritage was snatched away before his
eyes, and he was called away in the fresh bloom of his youth.

I always thought Uncle Brian liked Max better than any other man: he
was always less stiff and frigid in his presence. I could hear his low
laugh--Uncle Brian never laughed loudly--as I closed the door; Max had
said something that amused him. They would be quite happy without me,
so I ran up to the schoolroom on the chance of getting a chat with Jill.

The schoolroom was on the second floor, where Jill, I, and Fraeulein all
slept. Sara had a handsome room next to her mother's, and a little
boudoir furnished most daintily for her special use. I do not believe
she ever sat in it, unless she had a cold or was otherwise ailing; the
drawing-room was always full of company, and Sara was the life of the
house. I used to peep in at the pretty room sometimes as I went up to
bed; there were few notes written at the inlaid escritoire, and the
handsomely-bound books were never taken down from the shelves. Draper,
Aunt Philippa's maid, fed the canaries and dusted the cabinets of china.
Sometimes Sara would trip into the room with one of her cronies for a
special chat; the ripple of their girlish laughter would reach us as Jill
and I sat together. 'Whom has Sara got with her this afternoon?' Jill
would say peevishly. 'Do listen to them; they do nothing but laugh. If
Fraeulein had set her all these exercises she would not feel quite so
merry,' Jill would finish, throwing the obnoxious book from her with a
little burst of impatience.

I always pitied Jill for having to spend her days in such a dull room;
the furniture was ugly, and the windows looked out on a dismal back-yard,
with the high walls of the opposite building. Aunt Philippa, who was a
rigid disciplinarian with her young daughter, always said that she had
chosen the room 'because Jill would have nothing to distract her from her
studies.' The poor child would put up her shoulders at this remark and
draw down the corners of her lips in a way that would make Aunt Philippa
scold her for her awkwardness. 'You need not make yourself plainer than
you are, Jocelyn,' she would say severely; for Jill's awkward manners
troubled her motherly vanity. 'What is the good of all the dancing and
drilling and riding with Captain Cooper if you will persist in hunching
your shoulders as though you were deformed? Fraeulein has been complaining
of you this morning; she seems excessively displeased at your
carelessness and want of application.' 'I know I shall get stupid, shut
up in that dull hole with Fraeulein,' Jill would say passionately, after
one of these maternal lectures. Aunt Philippa was really very fond of
Jill; but she misunderstood the girl's nature. The system had answered
 so well with Sara that she could not be brought to comprehend why it
should fail with her other child. Sara had grown up blooming and radiant
in spite of the depressing influences of Fraeulein and the dull, narrow
schoolroom. Her music and singing masters had come to her there. Little
Madame Blanchard had chirped to her in Parisian accent for the hour
together over _les modes_ and _le beau Paris_. Sara had danced and
drilled with the other young ladies at Miss Dugald's select
establishment, and had joined them at the riding-school or in the
cavalcade under Captain Cooper.

Sara had worn her bondage lightly, and had fascinated even grim old Herr
Schliefer. Her tact and easy adaptability had kept Fraeulein Sonnenschein
in a state of tepid good-humour. Every one, even cross old Draper,
idolised Sara for her beauty and sprightly ways. When Aunt Philippa
declared her education finished, she tripped out of the schoolroom as
happily as possible to take possession of her grand new bedroom and the
little boudoir, where all her girlish treasures were arranged. She had
not been the least impatient for her day of freedom: it would all come in
good time. When the sceptre was put into her hands and her sovereignty
acknowledged by the whole household, the young princess was not a bit
excited. She put on her court dress and made her courtesy to her majesty
with the same charming unconsciousness and ease of manner. No wonder
people were charmed with such good-humour and freshness. If the glossy
hair did not cover a large amount of brains, no one found fault with her
for that.

Jill raged and stormed fiercely under Sara's light-hearted philosophy;
when her sister told her to be patient under Fraeulein's yoke, that a good
time was coming for her also, when lesson-books would be shut up, and
Herr Schliefer would cease to scatter snuff on the carpet as he sat
drumming with his fingers on the keyboard and grunting out brief
interjections of impatience.

'What does it matter about Herr Schliefer?' Jill would say, in a sort of
fury. 'I like him a hundred times better than I do that mincing little
poll-parrot of a Madame Blanchard: she is odious, and I hate her, and I
hate Fraeulein too. It is not the lessons I mind; one has to learn lessons
all one's life; it is being shut up like a bird in a cage when one's
wings are ready for flight. I should like to fly away from this room,
from Fraeulein, from the whole of the horrid set; it makes me cross,
wicked, to live like this, and all your sugar-plums will do me no good.
Go away, Sara; you do not understand as Ursula does, it makes me feel bad
to see you standing there, looking so pretty and happy, and just laughing
at me.'

'Of course I laugh at you, Jocelyn, when you behave like a baby,'
returned Sara, trying to be severe, only her dimples betrayed her. 'Well,
as you are so cross, I shall go away. There is the chocolate I promised
you. Ta-ta.' And Sara put down the _bonbonniere_ on the table and walked
out of the room.

I was not surprised to see Jill push it away. No one understood the poor
child but myself; she was precocious, womanly, for her age; she had
twenty times the amount of brains that Sara possessed, and she was
starving on the education provided for her.

To dance and drill and write dreary German exercises, when one is
thirsting to drink deeply at the well of knowledge; to go round and round
the narrow monotonous course that had sufficed for Sara's moderate
abilities, like the blind horse at the mill, and never to advance an inch
out of the beaten track, this was simply maddening to Jill's sturdy
intellect. She often told me how she longed to attend classes, to hear
lectures, to rub against full-grown minds.

'Now. Me-ess Jocelyn, we will do a little of ze Wallenstein, by the
immortal Schiller. Hold up the head, and leave off striking the table
with your elbows.' Jill would give a droll imitation of Fraeulein, and
end with a groan.

'What does she know-about Schiller? She cannot even comprehend him. She
is dense,--utterly dense and stupid; but because she knows her own
language and has a correct deportment she is fit to teach me.' And Jill
ground her little white teeth in impotent wrath. Jill always appeared to
me like an infant Pegasus in harness; she wanted to soar,--to make use of
her wings,--and they kept her down. She was not naturally gay, like Sara,
though her health was good, and she was as powerful as a young Amazon.
Her nature was more sombre and took colour from her surroundings.

She was like a child in the sunshine; plenty of life and movement
distracted her from interior broodings and made her joyous; when she was
riding with the young ladies from Miss Dugald's, she would be as merry as
the others.

But her dreary schoolroom and Fraeulein's society chafed her nervous
sensibilities dangerously; there were only a few brown sparrows, or
a stray cat intent on game, to be seen from her window. From the
drawing-room, from Sara's boudoir, from her mother's bedroom, there was
a charming view of the Park. In the spring the fresh foliage of the
trees, and the velvety softness of the grass, would be delicious; down
in the broad white road, carriages were passing, horses cantering,
happy-looking people in smart bonnets, in gorgeous mantles, driving about
everywhere; children would be running up and down the paths in the Park,
flower-sellers would stand offering their innocent wares to the
passengers. Jill would sit entranced by her mother's window watching
them; the sunshine, the glitter, the hubbub, intoxicated her; she made up
stories by the dozen, as her dark eyes followed the gay equipages. When
Fraeulein summoned her she went away reluctantly; the stories got into
her head, and stopped there all the time she laboured through that long
sonata.

'Why are your fingers all thumbs to-day, Fraeulein?' Herr Schliefer
would demand gloomily. Jill, who was really fond of the stern old
professor, hung her head and blushed guiltily. She had no excuse to
offer: her girlish dreams were sacred to her; they came gliding to her
through the most intricate passages of the sonata, now with a _staccato_
movement,--brisk, lively,--with fitful energy, now _andante_, then
_crescendo, con passione_. Jill's unformed girlish hands strike the
chords wildly, angrily. '_Dolce, dolce_,' screams the professor in her
ears. The music softens, wanes, and the dreams seem to die away too.
'That will do, Fraeulein: you have not acquitted yourself so badly after
all.' And Jill gets off her music-stool reluctant, absent, half awake,
and her day-dream broken up into chaos.




CHAPTER III

CINDERELLA


As I opened the schoolroom door a half-forgotten picture of Cinderella
came vividly before me.

The fire had burnt low; a heap of black ashes lay under the grate; and by
the dull red glow I could see Jill's forlorn figure, very indistinctly,
as she sat in her favourite attitude on the rug, her arms clasping her
knees and her short black locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. She
gave a little shrill exclamation of pleasure when she saw me.

'Ah, you dear darling bear, do come and hug me,' she cried, trying to get
up in a hurry, but her dress entangled her.

'Where is Fraeulein?' I asked, pushing her back into her place, while I
knelt down to manipulate the miserable fire. 'Jill, you look just like
Cinderella when the proud sisters drove away to the ball. My dear, were
you asleep? Why are you sitting in the dark, with the fire going out, and
the lamp unlighted? There, it only wanted to be stirred; we shall have
light by which to see other's faces directly,'

'Fraeulein has a headache and has gone to lie down,' returned Jill, and,
though I could not see her clearly, I knew at once by her voice that she
had been crying; only she would have been furious if I had noticed the
fact. 'I hope I am not very wicked, but Fraeulein's headaches are the
redeeming points in her character; she has them so often, and then she
is obliged to lie down.'

'Of course you have offered to bathe her head?' I asked, a little
mischievously, but Jill, who was unusually subdued, took the question
in good part.

'Oh yes, and I spoke to her quite civilly; but I suppose she saw the
savage gleam of delight in my eyes, for she was as cross as possible, and
went away muttering that "Meess Jocelyn had the heart like the flint; if
it had been Meess Sara, now--" and then she banged the door, so the pain
could not have been so bad after all. It is my belief,' went on Jill,
'that Fraeulein always has a headache when she has a novel to finish.
Mamma does not like her to set me an example of novel-reading, so she
is obliged to lock herself in her own room.'

I took no notice of this statement, as I rather leaned to this view of
the subject myself. Fraeulein's round placid face and excellent appetite
showed no signs of suffering, and her constant plea of a bad headache was
only received with any credulity by Aunt Philippa herself; neither Sara
nor I had much respect for Fraeulein Sonnenschein, with her thick little
figure, and big head covered with flimsy flaxen plaits. We were both
aware of the smooth selfishness of her character, though Sara chose to
ignore it for Jill's benefit. She was industrious, painstaking, and
capable of a great deal of dull routine in the way of duties, but she
was far too fond of her own comfort, and all the affection of which she
was capable was lavished upon her own relatives; she had cared for Sara
moderately, but her other pupil, Jill, was a thorn in her side. So I
passed over Fraeulein's headache without comment, and took Jill to task
somewhat sharply for the comfortless state of the room. A good scolding
would rouse her from her dejection; the blinds were up and the curtains
undrawn; the remains of a meal, the usual five-o'clock schoolroom tea,
were still on the table. Jill's German books were heaped up beside her
empty cup and the glass dish that contained marmalade; the kettle
spluttered and hissed in the blaze; Jill's little black kitten, Sooty,
was dragging a half-knitted stocking across the rug.

'I forgot to ring for Martha,' faltered Jill; 'she will come presently.
Don't be cross, Ursula. I like the room as it is; it is deliciously
untidy, just like Cinderella's kitchen; but there is no hope of the fairy
godmother; and you are going away, and I shall be ten times more
miserable.'

It was this that was troubling her, then; for I had told her my plans and
all about my letter to Uncle Max. Perhaps she had heard his voice in the
hall, for Jill's pretty little ears heard everything that went on in the
house: she admitted her knowledge at once when I taxed her with it.

'Oh yes, I know Mr. Cunliffe is here. I heard papa go out and speak to
him; his voice sounded quite cheerful; and now he has come and it will
all be settled; and you will go away and be happy with your poor people,
and forget that I am fretting myself to death in this horrid room.'

She had drawn me down on the rug forcibly,--for she had the strength of
a young Titaness,--and was wrapping her arms around me with a sort of
fierce impatience. Her big eyes looked troubled and affectionate. Few
people admired Jill; she was undeveloped and awkward, full of angles, and
a little brusque in manner; she had a way of thrusting out her big feet
and squaring her shoulders that horrified Aunt Philippa. She was very
big, certainly, and would never possess Sara's slim grace. Her hair had
been cropped in some illness, and had not grown so fast as they expected,
but hung in short thick lengths about her neck; it was always getting
into her eyes, and was being pushed back impatiently, but she would much
oftener throw her head back with a fling like an unbroken pony, for she
was jerky as young things often are.

But, though, people found fault with Jill, and often said that she would
never be as handsome as Sara, I liked her face. Perhaps it was a little
irregular and her complexion slightly sallow, but when she was flushed or
excited and she opened her big bright eyes, and one could see her little
white teeth gleaming as she laughed, I have thought Jill could look
almost beautiful; but her good looks depended on her expression.

'I suppose it will be settled,' I replied, with a quick catch at my
breath, for the mere mention of the subject excited me; 'but you will be
a good child and not fret if I do go away. No, I shall never forget you,'
as a close hug answered me; 'I love you too dearly for that; but I want
you to be brave about it, dear, for I cannot be happy wasting my time and
doing nothing. You know how ill I was before I went to St. Thomas's, so
that Uncle Max was obliged to tell Aunt Philippa that I must have change
and hard work, or I should follow Charlie.'

'Oh yes, and we were all so frightened about you, you poor thing; you
looked so pinched and miserable. Well, I suppose I must let you go, as
you are so wicked as to disobey the proverb that "Charity begins at
home."'

'Listen to me, dear,' I returned, quite pleased to find her so
reasonable. 'I am very glad to know that I have been a comfort to you,
but I shall hope to be so still. I will write long letters to you, Jill,
and tell you all about my work, and you shall answer them, and talk to me
on paper about the books you have read, and the queer thoughts you have,
and how patient and strong you have grown, and how you have learned to
put up with Fraeulein's little ways and not aggravate her with your
untidiness.' And here Jill's hand--and it was by no means a small
hand--closed my lips rather abruptly. But I was used to this sort of
sledge-hammer form of argument.

'Oh, it is all very fine for you to sit there and moralise, Ursula, like
a sort of sucking Diogenes,' grumbled Jill, 'when you know you are going
to have your own way and live a deliciously sort of three-volume-novel
life, not like any one else's, unless it were Don Quixote, or one of the
Knights of the Round Table, poking about among a lot of strange people,
doing wonderful things for them, until they are all ready to worship you.
It is all very well for you, I say; but what would you do if you were
me?' cried Jill, in her shrill treble, and quite oblivious of grammatical
niceties; 'how would you like to be poor me, shut up here with that old
dragon?'

This was a grand opportunity for airing my philosophy, and I rushed at
it. To Jill's amazement, I shook my hair back in the way she usually
shook her rough black mane, and, opening my eyes very widely, tried to
copy Jill's falsetto.

'How thankful I am Jocelyn Garston and not Ursula Garston,' I said,
with rapid staccato. 'Poor Ursula! I am fond of her, but I would not
change places with her for the world. She has known such a lot of trouble
in her life, more than most girls, I believe; she has lost her lovely
home,--such a sweet old place,--and her mother and father and Charlie,
all her nearest and her most beloved, and she is so sad that she wants
to work hard and forget her troubles.'

'Oh dear!' sighed Jill at this.

'How happy I am compared with her!' I went on, relapsing unconsciously
into my own voice. 'I am young and strong; I have all my life before me.
True, poor Ralph has gone, but I was only a child, and did not miss him.
I have a good father and an indulgent mother' ('Humph!' observed Jill at
this point, only she turned it into a cough); 'if my present schoolroom
life is not to my taste, I am sensible enough to know that the drudgery
and restraint will not last for long; in another year, or a year and a
half, Fraeulein, whom I certainly do not love, will go back to her own
country. I shall be free to read the books I like, to study what I
choose, or to be idle. I shall have Sara's cheerful companionship instead
of Fraeulein's heavy company; I shall ride; I shall walk in the sunshine;
I shall be a butterfly instead of a chrysalis; and if I care to be
useful, all sorts of paths will be open to me.'

'There, hold your tongue,' interrupted Jill, with a rough kiss; 'of
course I know I am a wicked, ungrateful wretch, and that I ought to be
more patient. Yes, you shall go, Ursula; you are a darling, but I will
not want to keep you; you are too good to be wasted on me; it would be
like pouring gold into a sieve. Well, I did cry about it this afternoon,
but I won't be such a goose any more. I will live my life the same way,
in spite of all of them, you will see if I don't, Ursula. Who is it who
says, "The thoughts of youth are long long thoughts"? I have such big
thoughts sometimes, especially when I sit in the dark. I send them out
like strange birds, all over the world,--up, up, everywhere,--but they
never come back to me again,' finished Jill mournfully; 'if they build
nests I never know it: I just sit and puzzle out things, like poor little
grimy Cinderella.'

Jill's eloquence did not surprise me. I knew she was very clever, and
full of unfledged poetry, and I had often heard her talk in that way; but
I had no time to answer her, for just then the first gong sounded, and I
could hear Sara running up to her room to dress for dinner. Jill jumped
up, and tugged at the bell-rope rather fiercely.

'Martha must have forgotten all about the tea-things; very likely the
lamp is smoky and will have to be trimmed. I must not come and help you,
Ursie dear, for I have to learn my German poetry before I dress.' And
Jill pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains with a vigorous hand.
Martha looked quite frightened at the sight of Jill's energy and her own
remissness.

'Why did you not ring before, Miss Jocelyn?' she said, plaintively, and
in rather an injured voice, as she carried away the tea-tray.

Uncle Max passed me in the passage; Clarence was following with his
portmanteau; he looked surprised to see me still in my bonnet with my fur
cape trailing over one arm; but I nodded to him cheerfully and went
quickly into my room.

My life at St. Thomas's had inured me to hardness; it had contrasted
strangely with my luxurious surroundings at Hyde Park Gate. Aunt Philippa
certainly treated me well in her way. I had a full share of the loaves
and the fishes of the household; my room was as prettily furnished as
Jill's; a bright fire burnt in the grate; there were pink candles on the
dressing-table. Martha, who waited upon us both, had put out my black
evening dress on the bed, and had warmed my dressing-gown; she would come
to me by and by with a civil offer of help.

I was rather puzzled at the sight of a little breast-knot of white
chrysanthemums that lay on the table, until I remembered Uncle Max; no
one had ever brought me flowers since Charlie's death; he had gathered
the last that I ever wore--some white violets that grew in a little
hollow in the ground of Rutherford Lodge. I hesitated painfully before
I pinned the modest little bouquet in my black dress, but I feared Uncle
Max would be hurt if I failed to appear in it. I wore mother's pearl
necklace as usual, and the little locket with her hair; somehow I took
more pleasure in dressing myself this evening, when I knew Uncle Max's
kind eyes would be on me.

I had not hurried myself, and the second gong sounded before I reached
the drawing-room, so I came face to face with Lesbia, who was coming out
on Uncle Brian's arm. She kissed me in her quiet way, and said, 'How do
you do, Ursula?' just as though we had met yesterday, and passed on.

I thought she looked prettier than ever that evening--like a snow
princess, in her white gown, with a little fleecy shawl drawn round her
shoulders, for she took cold easily. She had a soft creamy complexion,
and fair hair that she wore piled up in smooth plaits on her head; she
had plaintive blue eyes that could be brilliant at times, and a lovely
mouth, and she was tall and graceful like Sara.

They made splendid foils to each other; but in my opinion Sara carried
the palm: she was more piquant and animated; her colouring was brighter,
and she had more expression; but Charlie's Lily, as he called her, was
quite as much admired, and indeed they were both striking-looking girls.

I saw that Uncle Max took a great deal of notice of Lesbia, who sat next
to him. I could not hear their conversation, but a pretty pink colour
tinged Lesbia's face, and her eyes grew dark and bright as she listened,
and I saw her glance at her left hand where the half-hoop of diamonds
glistened that Charlie had placed there; she had not quite forgotten the
dear boy then, for I am sure she sighed, but the next moment she had
turned from Uncle Max, and was engaged in an eager discussion with Sara
about some private theatricals in which Sara was to take a part.

When we went back to the drawing-room we found Fraeulein in her favourite
red silk dress, trying to repair the damage that Sooty had wrought in her
half-knitted stocking, and Jill, looking very bored and uncomfortable,
turning over the photograph album in a corner. She looked awkward and
sallow in her Indian muslin gown: the flimsy stuff did not suit her any
more than the pink coral beads she wore round her neck. Her black locks
bobbed uneasily over the book. She looked bigger than ever when she stood
up to speak to Lesbia.

'How that child is growing!' observed Aunt Philippa behind her fan to
Fraeulein, whose round face was beaming with smiles at the entrance of the
ladies. 'That gown was made only a few weeks ago, and she is growing out
of it already. Jocelyn, my love, why do you hunch your shoulders so when,
you talk to Lesbia? I am always telling you of this awkward habit.'

Poor Jill frowned and reddened a little under this maternal admonition;
her eyes looked black and fierce as she sat down again with her
photographs. This hour was always a penance to her; she could not speak
or move easily, for fear of some remark from Aunt Philippa. When her
mother and Fraeulein interchanged confidences behind the big spangled fan,
the poor child always thought they were talking about her.

Her bigness, her awkwardness, troubled Jill excessively. Her clumsy hands
and feet seemed always in her way.

'I know I am the ugly duckling,' she would say, with tears in her eyes;
'but I shall never turn into a swan like Sara and Lesbia,--not that I
want to be like them!'--with a little scorn in her voice. 'Lesbia is too
tame, too namby-pamby, for my taste; and Sara is stupid. She laughs and
talks, but she never says anything that people have not said a hundred
times before. Oh, I am so tired of it all! I grow more cross and
disagreeable every day,' finished Jill, who was very frank on the
subject of her shortcoming.

I would have stopped and talked to Jill, only Lesbia tapped me on the arm
rather peremptorily.

'Come into the back drawing-room,' she said, in a low voice. 'I want to
speak to you.--Jill, why do you not practise your new duet with Sara? She
will play nothing but valses all the evening, unless you prevent it'

But Jill shook her head sulkily; she felt safer in her corner. Sara was
strumming on the grand pianoforte as we passed her; her slim fingers were
running lazily over the keys in the 'Verliebt und Verloren' valse.
Clarence was lighting the candles; William was bringing in the coffee;
and Colonel Ferguson was following rather unceremoniously. People were
always dropping in at Hyde Park Gate: perhaps Sara's bright eyes
magnetised them. We had colonels and majors and captains at our will,
for there was a martial craze in the house: to-night it was grave,
handsome Colonel Ferguson.

He was rather a favourite with Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa, perhaps
because his troubles interested them; he had buried his young wife and
child in an Indian grave, and some people said that he had come to
England to look out for a second wife.

He was a very handsome man, and still young enough to find favour in a
girl's sight, and his wealth made him a _grand parti_ in the parents'
eyes. At present he had bestowed equal attention on Sara and Lesbia,
though close observers might have noticed that he lingered longest by
Sara's side.

'How do you do, Colonel Ferguson?' said Sara, nodding to him in her
bright, unconcerned way, as she finished her valse. 'Mother is over
there talking to Fraeulein: you will find your coffee ready for you.' And
her glossy little head bent over the keys again, while the lazy music
trickled through her fingers. Though Colonel Ferguson did as he was told,
I fancied he would keep a close watch over the young performer.

The inner drawing-room had heavy velvet hangings that closed over the
archway; on cold evenings the curtains would be drawn rather closely;
there would be a bright fire, and a single lamp lighted. Very often Uncle
Brian would retire with his book or paper when Sara's valses wearied him
or the room filled with young officers. Since Ralph's death he had
certainly become rather taciturn and unsociable. Aunt Philippa, who loved
gaiety, never accompanied him, but now and then Jill would creep from her
corner, when her mother was not looking, and slip behind the ruby
curtains. I have caught her there sometimes sitting on the rug, with her
rough head against her father's knee; they would both of them look a
little shamefaced, as if they were guilty of some fault.

'Go to bed, Jill; it is time for little girls to be asleep,' he would
say, patting her cheek. Jill would nestle it on his coat-sleeve for a
moment, as she obeyed him. Her father had the softest place in her heart.
She always would have it that her mother was hard on her, but she never
complained of want of kindness from her father.

'Colonel Ferguson comes very often,' remarked Lesbia, a little peevishly,
as she walked to the fireplace to warm herself: she was a chilly being,
and loved warmth. 'His name is Donald, is it not? some one told me so:
Donald Ferguson. Well, he is not bad; he may do for Sara. She has plenty
of quicksilver to balance his gravity.'

I was rather surprised at this beginning; but without waiting for any
answer, she went on.

'What is this Mr. Cunliffe tells me?' she asked, fixing her blue eyes
on my face with marked interest. 'You are going to carry out your old
scheme, Ursula, about nursing poor people and singing to them. He tells
me you have chosen Heathfield for your future home, and that he is to
find you lodgings. Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it,' she went on
eagerly. 'I thought you had given up all that when--when--' but here she
stopped and her lips trembled; of course she meant when Charlie died, but
she rarely spoke his name. I would not let her see my astonishment,--she
had never seemed so sisterly before,--but I took the seat close to her
and talked to her as openly as though she were Jill or Uncle Max; now and
then I paused, and we could hear Colonel Ferguson's deep voice: he was
evidently turning over the pages of Sara's music.

'Go on, Ursula; I like to hear it,' Lesbia would say when I hesitated;
she was not looking at me, but at the fire, with her cheek supported
against her hand.

'What do you think of it?' I asked, presently, when I had finished and
we had both been silent a few minutes listening to one of Mendelssohn's
Songs without Words that Sara was playing very nicely.

'What do I think of it?' she replied, and her voice startled me, it was
so full of pain. 'Oh, Ursula, I think you are to be envied! If I could
only come with you and work too!--but there is mother, she could not do
without me, and so we must just go on in the same old way.'

I was so shocked at the hopelessness of her tone, so taken aback at her
words, that I could not answer her for a moment: it seemed inconceivable
to me that she could be saying such things. Poor pretty Lesbia, whom
Charlie had loved and whom I considered a mere fragile butterfly. She
was quite pale now, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

'You do not believe me, Ursula; no, I was right--you never understood me.
I often told dear Charlie so. You think, because I laugh and dance and do
as other girls do, that I have forgotten--that I do not suffer. Do you
think I shall ever find any one so good and kind in this world again? Oh,
you are hard on me, and I am so miserable, so unhappy, without Charlie.
And I am not like you: I cannot work myself into forgetfulness; I must
stop with mother and do as she bids me, and she says it is my duty to be
gay.'

I was so ashamed of myself, of my mean injustice, that I was very nearly
crying myself as I asked her pardon.

'Why do you say that?' she returned, almost pettishly, only she looked so
miserable. 'I have nothing to forgive. I only want you to be good to me
and not think the worst, for I'm really fond of you, Ursula, only you are
so reserved and cold with me,'

'My poor dear,' I returned, taking the pretty face between my hands and
kissing it. 'I will never be unkind to you again. Forgive me if I have
misunderstood you: for Charlie's sake I want to love you.' And then she
put her head down on my shoulder and cried a little, and bemoaned herself
for being so unhappy; and all the time I comforted her my guilty
conscience owned that Uncle Max was right.




CHAPTER IV

UNCLE MAX BREAKS THE ICE


Uncle Max was one of those men who like to take their own way about
things; he never hurried himself, or allowed other people's impatience
to get the better of him. 'There is a time for everything, as Solomon
says,' was his favourite speech when any one reproached him with
procrastination; 'depend upon it, the best work is done slowly. What is
the use of so much hurry? When death comes we shall be sure to leave
something unfinished.'

So for two whole days he just chatted commonplaces with Aunt Philippa,
rallied Sara, who loved a joke, and talked politics with Uncle Brian, and
never mentioned one word about my scheme; if I looked anxiously at him he
pretended to misunderstand my meaning, and, in fact, behaved from
morning to night in a most provoking way.

At last I could bear it no longer, and one wet afternoon, when I knew he
was in the drawing-room, making believe to write his letters, but in
reality getting a deal of amusement out of Sara's sprightly conversation,
for she was never silent for two minutes if she could help it, I shut
myself up in my own room, and would not go near him. I knew he would ask
where Ursula was every half-hour, and would soon guess that I was out of
humour about something; and possibly in an hour or two his conscience
would prick him, and he would feel that I deserved reparation.

This little piece of ill-tempered artifice bore excellent fruit, for
before I had nearly finished the piece of plain sewing I had set myself
as a sort of penance, there was a tap at the door, and Sara came in,
looking very excited, with her bright eyes full of wonder.

'Oh, Ursula, there is such a fuss downstairs! Uncle Max has been telling
us all about your absurd scheme. Mother is as cross as possible; she is
so angry, and yet half crying at the same time.'

'And Uncle Brian,' I exclaimed eagerly,--'what does he say?'

'Oh, you know father's way. He just smiled as though the whole thing
were beneath his notice, and went on reading his paper, and when mother
appealed to him he said, coolly, that it was none of his business or hers
either if Ursula chose to make a fool of herself; she had the right to do
so,--something like that, you know.'

'How very pleasant!' I remarked satirically, for I hated the way Uncle
Brian put down his foot on things that displeased him. I preferred Aunt
Philippa's voluble arguments to that.

'To make things worse,' went on Sara cheerfully, 'Mrs. Fullerton and
Lesbia have come in, and mother and Mrs. Fullerton are trying which can
talk the faster. Lesbia asked for you, and then did not speak another
word. What shall you do, Ursula, dear?'

'I shall just go down and ask Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea,' I returned
coolly, folding up my work. Sara looked half frightened at my boldness,
and then she began to laugh.

'It is so absurd, you know,' she returned, linking her arm in mine
affectionately. 'What ever put such nonsense in your head? you are so
comfortable here with us, and you have your own way, and I never tease
you now about going to balls. It is so silly of you trying to make
yourself miserable, and living in poky lodgings. You might as well be
a fakir, or a dervish, or a Protestant nun, or anything else that is
unpleasant.'

'My dear, you do not know anything about it,' I answered rather angrily.
'You and I are different people, Sara; we shall never think the same
about anything.'

'Well, I don't know,' she returned, half affronted: 'when people try to
be extra good I always find they succeed in making themselves extra
disagreeable. It is far more religious, in my opinion, to be pleasant
to every one, and make them believe that there is something cheerful
in life, instead of pulling a long face and doing such dreadfully bad
things.' And after this little fling, in which she tried to be very
severe, only as usual her dimples betrayed her, she begged me quite
earnestly to smooth my hair, as though I were breaking one of the
commandments by keeping it rough; and, having obliged her in this
particular, and allowed her to peep at her own pretty face over my
shoulder, we went down to the drawing-room as though we were the best
of friends.

It was impossible to quarrel with Sara; she was as gay and irresponsible
as a child; one might as well have been angry with a butterfly for
brushing his gold-powdered wings across your face; the gentle flappings
of Sara's speeches never raised a momentary vexation in my mind. I was
often weary of her, but then we do weary of children's company sometimes;
in certain moods her bright sparkling effervescence seemed to jar upon
me: but I never liked to see her sad. Sadness did not become Sara; when
she cried, which was as seldom as possible, and only when some one died,
or she lost a pet canary, all her beauty dimmed, and she looked limp and
forlorn, like a crushed butterfly or a draggled flower.

I do not think I was quite as cool and unconcerned as I wished to appear
when I marched into the drawing-room, and, after greeting Mrs. Fullerton
and Lesbia, asked Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea.

Quite a hubbub of voices had struck on my ear as I opened the door, and
yet complete silence met me. Lesbia, indeed, whispered 'Poor Ursula' as I
kissed her, but Mrs. Fullerton looked at me with grave disapproval. Aunt
Philippa was sitting bolt upright behind the tea-tray, and handed me my
cup, rather as Lady Macbeth did the dagger. I received it, however, as
though it were my due, and glanced at Uncle Max; but he was too wise to
look at me, so I said, as coolly as possible, 'Why are you so silent, and
yet you were talking loudly enough before Sara and I came into the room?'
For there is nothing like taking the bull of a dilemma by the horns; and
I had plenty of, let us say, native impudence, only, personally, I should
have given it another name; and then, of course, I brought the storm upon
me.

Sara was right. Aunt Philippa certainly talked the faster; Mrs. Fullerton
tried her best to edge in a word now and then,--a very scathing word,
too,--but there was no silencing that flow of rapid talk. I quite envied
her pure diction and the ingenious turn of her sentences; she made so
much of her own admirable foresight and care of me, and so little of my
merits.

'I always said something like this would happen, Ursula. I have told your
uncle often,--Brian, why don't you speak?--yes, indeed, I have told him
often that I never met any one so strong-minded and self-willed. You need
not laugh, Sara,--unless you do it to provoke me,--but I have been like a
mother to Ursula. Thank heaven, my daughters are not of this pattern!
they do not mistake eccentricity for goodness, or flaunt ridiculous
notions in the faces of their elders.'

This was too bad of Aunt Philippa; only she had lost her temper, and was
feeling utterly aggrieved, and Mrs. Fullerton, who was a meddlesome,
good-humoured woman, and who had nothing of which to complain in life
except a little over-plumpness and too much money, was agreeing with her
like a good neighbour and friend.

Uncle Max was smiling, and pulling his beard behind his paper; but he
made no attempt to check the flow of feminine eloquence. He had said his
say like a man, and had taken my part behind my back, and he knew women
were like new wine,--very sound and sweet, but they must find their vent.
Aunt Philippa would be kinder ever after if we let her scold us properly,
and took our scolding with a good grace.

Once or twice Uncle Brian let his eye-glasses dangle, and spoke a peevish
word or two.

'Nonsense, my dear! have I not said over and over again that this is
none of our business? Ursula is old enough to know her own mind; if she
chooses to be eccentric we cannot hinder her. All this talk goes for
nothing.'

'Ah, but, Mr. Garston, young people want guidance,' observed Mrs.
Fullerton impressively, for Aunt Philippa was beginning to sob, partly
from the effects of wasted eloquence, and perhaps with a little shortness
of breathing: anyway, her anger was working itself out. 'If you were to
advise Ursula as you would Sara, your influence might induce her to
change her mind.'

'I cannot endorse your opinion, Mrs. Fullerton,' returned Uncle Brian
drily. 'I am far too keen an observer of human nature to think we can
talk sense to deaf ears with any benefit.--Ursula, my child,' turning to
me with a smile that might have been kinder, but perhaps he meant it to
be so, 'there is not a grain of sense in your scheme: in spite of
Cunliffe's eloquence, it will not hold water; in fact, in a little while
you will be glad to come back to us again. When you do, I think I can
promise that we will not laugh at you more than once a day, and then
moderately.'

Now, this speech of Uncle Brian's made me very angry. No doubt he meant
to be kind, and to show me that if my scheme failed I might come home to
them again; but I was so much in earnest that his satire and his laughing
at me hurt me more than all Aunt Philippa's hard speeches. So I flushed
up, and for the first time tears came into my eyes; for he had prophesied
failure, and I could not bear that, and I might have said words in my
sudden irritation for which I should have been sorry afterwards, only
Lesbia, who had sat behind me all this time, as silent and soft-breathed
as a mouse, got up quickly and took my hand and stood by me.

'I think you have all said plenty of hard things to Ursula, and no one
has been kind to her. I think she deserves praise and not all this blame;
if she cannot lead the comfortable life we do, thinking how we are to get
the most pleasure and enjoy ourselves, it is because she is better than
we are, and thinks more about her duty. Mrs. Garston,--I do not mean to
be rude, I am far too fond of you all, because you have all been so good
to me,'--and here Lesbia's while throat swelled,--'but I cannot bear to
hear Ursula so blamed. Mr. Cunliffe, I know you agree with me, you said
so many nice things when Ursula was out of the room.'

This little burst of eloquence surprised us all. Uncle Max said
afterwards that he was quite touched by it. Lesbia was generally so quiet
and undemonstrative that her words took Aunt Philippa by storm. She might
have been offended by Lesbia saying that I was better than the rest of
them,--a fact that my conscience most emphatically contradicted; but when
Lesbia kissed her, and begged her to think better of things, she cried a
little because Charlie was not there to see how pretty she could look,
and then cheered up, and made overtures that I might come and kiss her
too, which I did most willingly, and with a full heart, remembering she
was my father's sister and had been good to me according to her lights.

When Uncle Max saw that reconciliation was imminent, and that by Lesbia's
help I was likely to have the best of it, my own way, and a good deal of
petting to follow,--for they would all make more of me during the short
time I would be with them,--he threw down his paper in high good-humour
and joined us.

'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.

I parted from Lesbia very affectionately, for she seemed loath to say
good-bye, but I knew poor Jill would be grumbling at my absence; the
others were dining out, and I had promised to join the schoolroom tea,
which was to be half an hour later on my account, but it was nearly six
before I made my appearance, very penitent at my delay, and fully
expecting a scolding.

I found Jill, however, kneeling on the rug, making toast, with Sooty in
her arms; she had blacked her face in her efforts, but looked in high
good-humour.

'Fraeulein has gone out for the whole evening: that freckled Fraeulein
Misschenstock has been here, and has invited her to tea and supper. Mamma
said she could go, as you would remain with me, so we shall be alone and
cosy for the whole evening. Now, you may pour out tea, if you like, for I
have all this buttered toast on my mind. I am as hungry as a hunter; but
there is a whole seed-cake, I am glad to see. Now, darling, be quick, for
you have kept me so long waiting.' And Jill brushed vigorously at her
blackened cheek, and beamed at me.

But, alas! we had reckoned without our host, and a grand disappointment
was in store for us, though, as it turned out, things were not as bad as
they appeared to be at first.

I was praising Jill's buttered toast, for I knew she prided herself
on this delicacy, and she had just cut herself a thick wedge of the
seed-cake, which she was discussing with a school-girl's appetite, when
I heard Uncle Brian's voice calling for Ursula rather loudly: so I ran to
the head of the staircase, and, to my surprise, saw him coming up in his
slow, dignified manner.

'Look here, Ursula, I shall be late at the Pollocks', and your aunt and
Sara have gone on, and there is Tudor in the drawing-room, just arrived
with a message from Cunliffe. Of course we must put him up; but the
trouble is there is no dinner, and of course he is famished: young men
always are.'

My heart sank as I thought of Jill, but there was no help for it. Max's
friends were sacred. Mr. Tudor must be made as comfortable as possible.

'It cannot be helped, Uncle Brian,' I returned, trying to keep the
vexation I felt out of my voice. 'Supposing you send Mr. Tudor up to the
schoolroom, and we will give him some tea. Jill has made some excellent
buttered toast, and Clayton can get some supper for him by and by in the
dining-room: there is sure to be a cold joint,--or perhaps Mrs. Martin
will have something cooked for him.'

'That must do,' he replied, somewhat relieved at this advice. 'We shall
be back soon after tea, so you will not have him long on your hands.
Entertain him as well as you can, there's a good girl.' He had quite
forgotten, and so had I for the moment, that Fraeulein was out for the
evening, and that possibly Aunt Philippa might object to a young man
joining the schoolroom tea; but, as it proved afterwards, she was more
shocked at Uncle Brian than at any one else: she said he ought to have
given up his dinner and stayed with his guest.

'I confess I do not see what Ursula could have done better,' she
remarked severely; 'she could not spend the evening alone with him in the
drawing-room; and of course he wanted his tea. That comes of allowing
Fraeulein to neglect her duties: she is too fond of spending her time with
Fraeulein Misschenstock.'

I did not dare break the news to Jill, for fear she should lock herself
in her own room, for she never liked the society of young men; they
laughed at her too much, in a civil sort of way: so I hurried down into
the drawing-room and explained matters to Mr. Tudor, whom I found walking
about the room and looking somewhat ill at ease.

He seemed rather amused at the idea of the schoolroom tea, but owned that
he was hungry and tired, as he had had a fourteen-mile walk that day.

'It is all Mr. Cunliffe's fault that I am quartered on you in this way,'
he said, laughing a little nervously--and very likely Uncle Brian's
dignified reception had made him uncomfortable; 'but he would insist on
my bringing my bag, and Mr. Garston has a dinner-engagement, and cannot
attend to business until to-morrow morning.'

'I am afraid you would like a dinner-engagement too, after your fourteen
miles,' I returned, in a sympathetic voice, for he did look very tired.
'We will give you some tea now, and then you can get rid of the dust of
the journey, and by that time Mrs. Martin will have done her best to
provide you with some supper.'

'I see I have fallen in good hands,' he replied, brightening at this in
a boyish sort of way. 'Where is the schoolroom? I did not know there was
such an apartment, but of course Mrs. Garston told me that her youngest
daughter had not finished her studies. I think I saw her once: she was
very tall, and had dark hair.'

'Oh yes; that was Jill--I mean Jocelyn, but we always call her Jill. Will
you come this way, please? Fraeulein is out, and we were having a good
time by ourselves.'

'And I have come to spoil it,' he answered regretfully, as I opened the
door.

I shall never forget Jill's face when she saw us on the threshold. She
quite forgot to shake hands with Mr. Tudor in her dismay, but stood
hunching her shoulders, with Sooty still clasped in her arms and her
great eyes staring at him, till he said a pleasant word to her, and then
she flushed up, and subsided into her chair. I stole an anxious glance at
the cake; to my great relief, Jill had been quietly proceeding with her
meal in my absence, for I knew that in her chagrin she would refuse to
touch another morsel. I wondered a little what Mr. Tudor would think of
her ungracious reception of him; but he showed his good-breeding by
taking no notice of it and confining his remarks to me.

Jill's ill-humour thawed by and by when she saw how he entered into the
spirit of the fun. He vaunted his own skill with the toasting-fork, and,
in spite of fatigue, insisted on superintending another batch of the
buttered toast; he was very particular about the clearness of the fire,
and delivered quite an harangue on the subject. Jill's sulky countenance
relaxed by and by; she opened her lips to contradict him, and was met so
skilfully that she appealed to me for assistance.

By the time tea was over, we were as friendly with Mr. Tudor as though we
had known him all our lives, and Jill was laughing heartily over his racy
descriptions of schoolroom feasts and other escapades of his youth. He
looked absurdly young, in spite of his clerical dress; he had a bright
face and a peculiarly frank manner that made me trust him at once; he did
not look particularly clever, and Jill had the best of him in argument,
but one felt instinctively that he was a man who would never do a mean or
an unkind action, that he would tell the truth to his own detriment with
a simple honesty that made up for lack of talent.

I could see that Jill's bigness and cleverness surprised him. He
evidently found her amusing, for he tried to draw her out; perhaps he
liked to see how her great eyes opened and then grew bright, as she
tossed back her black locks or shook them impatiently. When Jill was
happy and at ease her face would grow illuminated; her varying
expression, her animation, her quaint picturesque talk, made her
thoroughly interesting. I was never dull in Jill's company; she had
always something fresh to say; she had a fund of originality, and drew
her words newly coined from her own mint.

I do not believe that Mr. Tudor quite understood her, for he was a simple
young fellow. But she piqued his curiosity. I must have appeared quite a
tame, commonplace person beside her. When Jill went out of the room to
fetch something, he asked me, rather curiously, how old she was, and when
I told him that she was a mere child, not quite sixteen, he said, half
musing, that she seemed older than that. She knew so much about things,
but he supposed she was very clever.

We went down into the drawing-room after this, and Jill kept me company
while Mr. Tudor supped in state, with Clayton and Clarence to wait on
him. He came up after a very short interval, and said, half laughing,
that his supper had been a most formal affair.

'By the bye, Miss Garston,' he observed, as though by an afterthought,
'I hear you are coming down to Heathfield.' He stole a glance at Jill as
he spoke. She had discarded her Indian muslin and coral necklace as being
too grand for the occasion, and wore her ruby velveteen, that always
suited her admirably. She looked very nice, and quite at her ease,
sitting half-buried in Uncle Brian's arm-chair, instead of being bolt
upright in her corner. She had drawn her big feet carefully under her
gown, and was quite a presentable young lady.

I thought Mr. Tudor was rather impressed with the transformation
Cinderella in her brown schoolroom frock, with a smutty cheek and rumpled
collar, was quite a different person:--presto--change--the young princess
in the ruby dress has smooth locks and a thick gold necklace. She has big
shining eyes and a happy child's laugh. Her little white teeth gleam in
the lamplight. I do not wonder in the least that Mr. Tudor looks at Jill
as he talks to me. It is a habit people have with me.

But I answered him quite graciously.

'Yes, I am coming down to Heathfield the day after to-morrow. I suppose
I ought to say _Deo volente_. I hope you all mean to be good to me, Mr.
Tudor, and not laugh at my poor little pretensions.'

'I shall not laugh, for one,' he replied, looking me full in the face
now with his honest eyes. 'I think it is a good work, Miss Garston. The
vicar'--he always called Uncle Max the vicar--'was talking about it up
at Gladwyn the other day, and Mr. Hamilton said--'

'Gladwyn? Is that the name of a house?' I asked, interrupting Mr. Tudor
a little abruptly.

'To be sure. Have you not heard of Gladwyn?' And at that he looked a
little amused. But I was not fated to hear more of Gladwyn that night,
for the next moment Aunt Philippa came bustling into the room, and Sara
and Uncle Brian followed her.




CHAPTER VI

THE WHITE COTTAGE


Good-bye is an unpleasant word to say, and I said mine as quickly as
possible, but I did not like the remembrance of Jill's wet cheek that
I had kissed: I was haunted by it during the greater part of my brief
journey. For some inexplicable reason I had chosen to arrive at
Heathfield late in the afternoon; I wanted to slip into my new home in
the dusk. I knew that Uncle Max would meet me at the station and look
after my luggage, so I should have no trouble, and I hoped that I should
wake up among my neighbours the next morning before they knew of my
arrival.

When we stopped at some station a little while before we reached
Heathfield, the guard put a gentleman in my compartment: I fancied they
had not noticed me, for a large black retriever followed him.

The gentleman lifted his hat directly he saw me, and apologised for
his dog's presence, until I assured him it made no difference to me; and
then he drew a newspaper from his bag and tried to read by the somewhat
flickering light. As I had nothing else to do, and his attention was
evidently very much absorbed, I looked at him from time to time in an
idle, furtive sort of way.

He had taken off his hat and put it on the seat; his dark smooth-shaven
face reminded me of a Romish priest, but he had no tonsure; instead of
that he had thick closely-cropped hair without a hint or suspicion of
baldness, was strongly built and very broad, and looked like a man who
had undergone training.

I was rather given to study the countenances of my fellow-passengers,--it
was a way I had,--but I was not particularly prepossessed with this man's
face; it looked hard and stern, and his manner, though perfectly
gentlemanly, was a little brusque. I abandoned the Romish priest theory
after a second glance, and told myself he was more like a Roman
gladiator.

As we approached Heathfield, he folded up his paper and patted his dog,
who had sat all this time at his feet, with his head on his knees. It was
a beautiful, intelligent animal, and had soft eyes like a woman, and by
the way he wagged his tail and licked the hand that fondled his glossy
head I saw he was devoted to his master.

Just then I encountered a swift, searching glance from the stranger,
which rather surprised me. He had looked at me, as he spoke, in an
indifferent way; but this second look was a little perplexing; it was
as though he had suddenly recognised me, and that the fact amused him;
and yet we had never met before,--it was such an uncommon face, so
singular altogether, that I could never have forgotten it.

I grew irritated without reason, for how could a stranger recognise me?
Happily the lights from the station flashed before my eyes at that
moment, and I began nodding and smiling towards a corner by the
bookstall, where a felt hat and brown head were all that I could see
of Uncle Max.

'Well, here you are, Ursula, punctual to a minute,' exclaimed Max, as he
shook hands. 'Halloo, Hamilton, where did you spring from?' going to the
carriage door to speak to my fellow-passenger. I was so provoked at this,
fearing an introduction, for Max was such a friendly soul, that I went to
the luggage-van and began counting my boxes, and Max did not hurry
himself to look after me.

'Now, then,' he observed cheerily, when he condescended to join me, 'is
your luggage all right? Do you mean all those traps are yours? Bless me,
Ursula, what will Mrs. Barton say? Put them on the fly, you fellows, and
be sharp about it. Come along, child; it is pelting cats and dogs, if you
know what that means: you have a wet welcome to Heathfield.'

I took the news philosophically, and assured him it did not matter in the
least. We could hear the rain beating against the windows as we reached
the booking-office. A closed waggonette with a pair of horses was waiting
at the door; my fellow-passenger, whom Max had addressed as Hamilton, was
standing on the pavement, speaking somewhat angrily to the coachman. I
heard the man's answer as he touched his hat.

'Miss Darrell said I was to bring the waggonette, sir: it did not rain so
badly when the order was brought round to the stables.'

'I could have taken a fly easily: it is worse than folly bringing out
the horses this wet night. Jump in, Nap. What, must I go first? Manners
before a wet coat.'

I heard no more, for Max hurried me into a fly, and the waggonette passed
us on the road.

'Who was that?' I asked curiously.

'Oh, that is Mr. Hamilton. Why did you not wait for me to introduce
him to you, Ursula? He is a rich doctor who lives in these parts; he
practises for his own pleasure among the poor people; he will not attend
gentle-folks. He told me that he had studied medicine meaning to make it
his profession, but a distant relative died and left him a fortune, and
by so doing spoiled his career.'

'That was rather ungracious of him; but he looks the sort of man who
could do plenty of grumbling. Where does he live, Max?'

'Oh, at Gladwyn: I cannot show you the house now, because we do not pass
it. There is the church, Ursula, and there is Tudor in his mackintosh
coming out of the vicarage: that is the best of Lawrence, he never shirks
his duty; he hates the job, but he does it. He is going down to see old
Smithers and get sworn at for his pains.'

'Have you got any cases ready for me, Max?' I asked, with a little
tingling of excitement.

'Hamilton has. I was at Gladwyn the other evening, and had a talk with
him. He was a little off-hand about your mission; he thinks you must be
romantic, and all that sort of thing. You would have laughed to have
heard him talk, and I let him go on just for the joke of it. It was rich
to hear him say that he did not believe in hysterical goodness; a girl
would do anything now to get herself talked about--no, I did not mean to
repeat that,' interrupting himself, with an annoyed air. 'Hamilton always
says more than he means. Look, Ursula, there is the White Cottage; that
bow-window to the right belongs to your parlour. Now, my dear, I will
open the gate, and you must just run up the path as quickly as you can,
for you can hardly hold up an umbrella in this wind. You see the cottage
does not boast of a carriage-drive.'

That odious Mr. Hamilton--or Dr. Hamilton, which was it? No wonder he
looked like a Romish priest if he could make those Jesuitical remarks!
I felt I almost hated him, but I resolved to banish him from my mind,
as I ran past the dripping laurels that bordered the narrow path. The
cottage door was open as soon as our fly had stopped at the gate; and
by the light I could see the neat flower-borders and clipped yews, and
a leafless wide-spreading tree with a seat under it. As I made my way
into the porch, a very big man without his coat passed me with a civil
'good-evening.' I thought it must be Nathaniel, from his great height,
and of course the prim-looking little widow in black, standing on the
threshold, was Mrs. Barton. She had a nice, plaintive face, and spoke
in a mild, deprecating voice.

'Good-evening, Mrs. Barton. What dreadful weather! I hope my wet boxes
will not spoil the oilcloth.'

'That is easily wiped off, Miss Garston; but I am thinking the damp must
have made you chilly. Come into the parlour: there is a fine rousing fire
that will soon warm you. A fire is a deal of comfort on a wet, cool
night. I have lighted one in your bedroom too.'

Evidently Mrs. Barton spared herself no trouble. I was a fire-worshipper,
and loved to see the ruddy flame lighting up all the odd corners, and I
was glad to think both my rooms would be cheerful. The parlour looked the
picture of comfort; my piano was nicely placed, and the davenport, and
the chair that I had sent with it. A large old-fashioned couch was drawn
across the window, the round table had a white cloth on it, and the
tea-tray and a cottage loaf were suggestive of a meal. The room was long
and rather low, but the bow-window gave it a cosy aspect; one glance
satisfied me that I had space for the principal part of my books, the
rest could be put in my bedroom. When Mrs. Barton stirred the fire and
lighted the candles the room looked extremely cheerful, especially as
Tinker, the collie, had taken a fancy to the rug, and had stretched
himself upon it after giving me a wag of his tail as a welcome. Mrs.
Barton would hardly give me time to warm my hands before she begged me
to follow her upstairs and take off my things while they brought in the
luggage.

I found my bedroom had one peculiarity: you had to descend two broad
steps before you entered it.

It was the same size as the parlour, and had a bow-window. The furniture
was unusually good; it had belonged to the previous lodger, Mrs.
Meredith, who had bequeathed it to Mrs. Barton at her death.

I was thankful to see a pretty iron bedstead with a brass ring and blue
chintz hangings, instead of the four-poster I had dreaded. There was a
commodious cupboard and a handsome Spanish mahogany chest of drawers that
Mrs. Barton pointed out with great pride. A bright fire burned in the
blue-tiled fireplace; there was an easy-chair and a round table in the
bow-window; a pleasant perfume of lavender-scented sheets pervaded the
room, and a winter nosegay of red and white chrysanthemums was prettily
arranged in a curious china bowl. I praised everything to Mrs. Barton's
satisfaction, and then she went downstairs to see to the tea, first
giving me the information that Nathaniel was coming upstairs with the
big trunk, and would I tell him where to place it?

He entered the next moment, carrying the heavy trunk on his shoulder as
easily as though it were a toy. He was a good-looking man, with a fair
beard and a pair of honest blue eyes, and in spite of his size and
strength--for he was a perfect son of Anak--seemed rather shy and
retiring.

I left him loosening the straps of my box, and went downstairs to find
Uncle Max.

He had made himself quite at home, and was sitting in the big easy-chair
contemplating the fire.

'Well, Ursula, how do you like your rooms? Oh yes, there are two cups and
saucers,' as I looked inquiringly at the table, 'because Mrs. Barton
expects me to remain to tea. She is frying ham and eggs at the present
moment; I hope you do not mind such homely country fare; but to-morrow
you will be your own housekeeper.'

I assured Uncle Max that I had fallen in love with the White Cottage, and
that I liked Mrs. Barton excessively, that my bedroom was especially cosy
and was most comfortably furnished. 'You will see how pretty this room
will look when I put up my new curtains and pictures,' I went on; 'it is
a little bare at present, but it will soon have a more furnished
appearance. I mean to be so busy to-morrow settling all my treasures.'
And I spoke with so much animation that Uncle Max smiled at what he
called my youthful enthusiasm.

'You may be as busy as you like all day,' he returned, in his pleasant
way, 'so that you come up to the vicarage in the afternoon to see Mrs.
Drabble. Lawrence will be out: that fellow always is out,'--in a humorous
tone of vexation. 'He makes himself so confoundedly agreeable that people
are always asking him to dinner: he is terribly secular, is Lawrence, but
he is young and will mend. Come up to the vicarage and dine with me,
Ursula; I want you to taste Mrs. Drabble's pancakes: they are food for
angels, as Lawrence always says.'

I accepted the invitation a little regretfully, for it seemed hard to
leave my hermitage the first evening; but then Uncle Max had been so good
to me that it would never do to disappoint him, and, as Mr. Tudor would
be out, we should be very cosy together.

Mrs. Barton brought in the ham and eggs at this moment, and I sat down
before my gay little tea-tray, marvelling secretly at the scarlet
flamingo. There were plenty of homely delicacies on the table,--hot cakes
and honey, and a basket of brown-and-yellow pippins. Uncle Max shook his
head and pretended the hot cakes would ruin his digestion, but he enjoyed
them all the same, and made an excellent meal.

We sat for a long time talking over the fire, chiefly of Lesbia and Jill,
for he took a warm interest in them both; but about eight o'clock he
remembered he had an engagement, and went off rather hurriedly, and I
went upstairs and unpacked one of my boxes, and arranged my clothes in
the chest of drawers and in the big, roomy cupboard.

When the church clock struck ten, I went down again in search of hot
water. At the sound of my footstep, Mrs. Barton came out in the passage
and invited me into the kitchen.

'There is only Nat there at his books,' she said, in her plaintive voice;
'he works late sometimes, though I tell him he uses up candle and
firelight. Please make yourself at home, Miss Garston; we shall always
be pleased to see you in our kitchen, when you like to pop in.'

'I hope I shall not come too often,' I returned, looking round at its
bright snug appearance. A square of dark carpet covered part of the
red-tiled floor; the round deal table in the centre was hidden under a
crimson cloth, and two big elbow-chairs stood on each side of the wide
fireplace. Nathaniel sat in one, with a little round table in front of
him, covered with books and papers, with a small lamp for his own use.
Mrs. Barton's work-box and mending-basket were on the centre table, the
hearth had just been swept up, there was a smell of hot bread, and a row
of freshly-baked loaves were cooling on the dresser; the firelight shone
on the gleaming pewter and brass utensils, and a great tabby cat sat
purring on the elbow of Nathaniel's chair. I thought he seemed a little
confused at my entrance, for he got up rather awkwardly and shuffled his
papers together, so I took pity on his embarrassment, and only spoke to
Mrs. Barton.

She took me into the little outer kitchen to show me where she did her
cooking, and I asked her in a low voice what he was studying.

'He does a little of everything,' she said, with a sort of suppressed
pride in her voice. 'Sometimes it is history, and oftener summing; he
will have it that a man cannot have too much learning, and that he wants
to improve himself; he is always fretting because he never had a chance
when he was young, all along of his having to work when his poor father
died, and so he is all for making up for lost time; sometimes Dr.
Hamilton comes in and helps him with the Latin and--what do you call
those figures?'

I suggested mathematics, and she nodded assent.

'Oh, Nat is a sight cleverer already than his master,' she went on. 'I am
thinking that if he goes on learning more and more, that Mr. Roberts will
be taking him into the business some day. Nat is a sort of foreman now,
for his master thinks a deal of Nathaniel, and no wonder, for it is not
only his learning, and his sitting up late, and getting up early in the
winter's morning, and creeping downstairs without his boots so as not
to wake me; for all he is such a good son; but I will say it, that there
is not a young man in these parts that can beat Nat,' finished the little
wido