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.