UNCLE BRYAN AGAIN.
'Chris,' says my mother to me, on the following day, can you leave off
work an hour earlier this evening?'
'Yes, mother,' I replied; 'at six o'clock if you like.'
'Then at six o'clock,' she says gaily, 'I shall take possession of
you.'
As the hour strikes, she comes to my side, dressed for walking. 'No
tea, mother?' I ask.
'We are going out to tea, my dear,' she answers.
I keep her waiting but a very few minutes, and presently we are in the
streets. I know that something of importance is about to be disclosed
to me, and that it will please my mother to be allowed to disclose it
in her own way; therefore I hazard no conjectures, and we talk on
indifferent subjects. But this does not prevent me from working
myself into a state of agitation as to the precise nature of our
errand. We take the omnibus to Holborn, and from there we walk towards
Bedford-square. My mother leads the way down a clean narrow street,
and we pause before a small three-storied house.
'Somebody lives here that we know,' says my mother, as she knocks at
the door.
'Can it be Jessie?' I ask of myself, as I glance upwards. There are
flowers on the window-sills of the first and third floor; those on the
first floor are especially fine, and almost entirely cover the
windows. It is on the third floor we stop when we enter the house.
'Remember what you said to me, my dear,' my mother whispers as we
enter the room. There is no one to receive us, but my Mother goes into
an inner room, and comes out of it presently, and motions me with a
tender smile to go in. I enter alone; an old man with white hair is
standing by the window, looking towards the door. A grave expression
is on his face, which is deeply lined; I recognise uncle Bryan
immediately, although he is much changed. I had had in my mind a
lingering hope that my mother was taking me to see Jessie; but in the
pleasure of seeing uncle Bryan I lose sight for a few moments of my
disappointment.
'Uncle,' I say, as I advance towards him with outstretched hand. He
meets me half-way, and clasps my hand eagerly in his, and then turns
aside with quivering lips, still holding my hand. I know that he has
noticed both my pleasure and my disappointment, and I hope it is not
the latter that causes him to turn aside.
I have said that he is changed, but I find it difficult to explain
in what way he is different from what he was. It is not that his
hair has grown quite white during the months that we have been parted,
it is not that his form is bowed, or that his features are more
deeply-lined; the same shrewd thoughtful expression is there, but in
some undefinable way it is softened, and although the old look of
self-reliance is in his eyes, it is less hard than it was. As I
silently note these changes, I am reminded of a passage I read a few
days before this meeting, in which a man is said to have had in his
face an expression which might have been brought there by the touch of
angel fingers on his eyelids while he slept.
'I received your message yesterday, my dear boy,' he says presently.
'Your mother brought it straight to me. It gladdened my heart
inexpressibly.'
Then I know that my mother must have been in the habit of visiting him
for some time; it does not surprise me to learn this; every day of her
life brings me fresh proofs of her goodness.
'How long ago was it, uncle,' I ask, 'since mother discovered where
you were living?'
'Quite a month, my dear boy,' he replies, and adds quickly, 'it was my
wish that she should say nothing to you until I gave her permission.'
I smile softly at this defence of her.
'She can do nothing wrong,' I say. 'I think I know the spirit that
lives in the hearts of angels.'
My mother, who is preparing tea for us, peeps in here.
'Do you forgive me, my dear?' she says. 'You never thought your mother
would deceive you, I daresay.'
'I shall have to consider very seriously,' I say, kissing her, 'before
I can pronounce an opinion on your conduct. There are some things that
take a long time in learning.'
She stands between us, embracing us, glancing with tearful eyes from
one to the other.
'But I must make haste, and get tea ready,' she cries, running away
from us; 'there! the kettle's boiling over.'
'Which is the better kind of wisdom, uncle,' I say; 'that which comes
from the head or the heart?'
He answers: 'That which touches us most deeply, which makes us kinder,
more tender and tolerant, less harsh and dogmatic, more charitable and
merciful, must be the better kind of teaching. All this springs from
the heart. You said to your mother just now that some things take a
long time in learning. I have been all my life learning a lesson, and
have but now, when I am near my grave, mastered it. In plays, in
poems, in stories, in songs, those words and sentiments which appeal
to the heart are invariably most effective. You see, my dear boy, my
views are changed.'
After this he asks me about myself, and I tell him what has passed,
and he listens with pleasure and patience, as though he had not
already heard it all from my mother's lips--but I do not think of this
at the time.
'You have not mentioned Jessie's name,' he says, 'thinking perhaps it
would pain me; but I can speak of her without grief, if not without
sadness. I have only one wish in life now, my dear lad.'
Believing that he refers to a reconciliation between himself and
Jessie, and having full faith in my mother's power to bring this
about, I say that I earnestly hope it will be fulfilled, and that I
believe it will be. He gazes at me with a soft light in his eyes.
'You know in what relation she stands to me, Chris?'
'Yes, uncle.'
If I could give her to you, my dear boy----'
But I stop him here, and beg him in scarcely distinct words not to
continue the subject.
'But one word, Chris,' he says; 'you love her still?'
'With all my heart, uncle, and shall all my life. But it hurts me to
speak of her; I can bear it better in silence.'
My mother calls out that tea is ready, and once more we three sit down
together.
'I miss the little parlour,' my mother says; 'how many happy years we
lived there!'
She forgets all the sorrow and pain we experienced there, and recalls
only the tenderest reminiscences. Occasionally a flash of uncle
Bryan's old humour gives piquancy to the conversation, but there is
now no bitterness or cynicism in what he says. At eight o'clock my
mother puts on her bonnet; I am surprised that we are going so early,
but she says it is a fine night and that she feels inclined for a
walk.
'Uncle Bryan will walk with us,' I say.
My mother shakes her head, smilingly, and says she does not want him.
I look towards uncle Bryan; he does not seem in the least disturbed.
'We shall see each other again soon,' he says, as he shakes hands with
me on the doorstep of his house.
'You will come to us, then,' I say eagerly. 'I want to show you my
work.'
'Yes, I will come very soon; but your mother will see to everything,
Chris.'
'There is one thing I want particularly to ask you, uncle, if you'll
not mind.'
'Say it, my dear boy.'
'Living here, all alone, as you are doing,' I say, and I pause
somewhat awkwardly.
He assists me.
'Yes, my dear boy--living here all alone, as I am doing----'
'I was thinking it must be very lonely for you, uncle.'
'It is a lonely life, Chris, living by oneself.'
'And without any friends near you.'
'Yes, my dear boy.'
'I want you to give up these rooms, uncle, and come and live with us,
or if you wouldn't like to do that, to go back to your shop.'
His eyes brighten; my mother's eyes also are beaming.
'It would be a pity to take the shop away from that good little woman,
Josey West. And you would really like me to come and live with you
again?'
'It would make us very happy--mother especially. Look at her face.'
'With all my eccentricities and oddities, you would still wish me to
come?'
'Ah, but you are altered now.' He makes a grimace. 'Well, even if you
were not, I should be very, very glad if you will come. You can give
me lessons in flower-growing.'
I glance up to the windows in which the flowers were blooming. His
eyes follow mine.
'Which do you think the best, Chris; those on the first or those on
the third floor?'
'On the first floor certainly, and I am surprised at it. I thought no
one could beat you. Mother was never so successful as you were. Your
flowers were always the finest.'
He rubs his hand, and says,
'Well, we shall see, we shall see.' And then, more earnestly, 'I am
glad you have asked me, Chris; I was wishing for it. Good-night now;
we'll talk of it by and by.'
As he seems evidently wishful to get rid of us, and as my mother seems
no less anxious to go, I take my leave. On our way home we pass a
theatre, and my mother expresses a wish to enter; we go into the pit,
and witness a French comic opera done into English. The performance is
a good one, but is spoilt by the unnecessary introduction of some
foreign dancers, whose coarse vulgarity and outrageous disregard for
decency shock my mother. It is seldom that my mother goes to a
theatre, and she says, as we come out,
'If that is to become the fashion in theatres, I am more than glad
that Jessie is not going on the stage.'
'Then she is not going?' I ask eagerly.
'Well, my dear,' replies my mother, with sudden reserve, 'it almost
looks as if she had given up the idea.'
At home I find a letter on the table. I open it and read:
'Miss West presents her compliments to Mr. Christopher Carey, and will
be happy to see him and his mother at nine o'clock to-morrow evening,
at the Old House at Home.'
'Why, mother,' I say, 'this is exactly like the note Josey sent to me
when I first went to her place. I suppose she wants to have an evening
in the old house before her brother Sheridan takes possession. I
wonder if the kitchen is the same. I shall never forget my feelings
when I saw it for the first time. You must come, mother, is a
wonderful sight.'
My mother smiles an assent.
'I am glad you asked your uncle to come and live with us,' she says,
as she wishes me good-night.