'AT LAST, URSULA, AT LAST!'
We were interrupted at this moment by the landlady's voice calling to
Eric from the bottom of the stairs.
'Jack,--I say, Jack, what has become of the steak I promised to cook for
you? I'll be bound Jenny has eaten it.'
Eric gave a short laugh and went out into the passage, and I heard him
say, in rather a low voice,--
'A lady, a friend of my sister's, has just brought me some news. I expect
she is as tired and hungry as I am. Do you think,' coaxingly, 'that you
could get tea for us in the parlour, Mrs. Hunter? and perhaps you will
join us there'; for class-instinct had awoke in Eric at the sight of a
lady's face, and I suppose, in spite of my Quakerish gray gown, I was
still young enough to make him hesitate about entertaining me in his
bachelor's room.
There was a short parley after this. Then Mrs. Hunter came up panting,
and, still wiping her hands from imaginary soap-suds, carried off the
steak and the three-cornered loaf. 'It will be ready in about twenty
minutes, Jack,' she observed, with a good-natured nod.
Eric employed the interval of waiting by questioning me eagerly about his
sisters. Then he tried to find out, in a gentlemanly way, how I contrived
to be so mixed up with his family. This led to a brief _résumé_ of my own
history and work, and by the time Mrs. Hunter called us I felt as though
I had known Eric for years.
Mrs. Hunter beamed on us as we entered. There was really quite a tempting
little meal spread on the round table, though the butter was not fresh
nor the forks silver, but the tea was hot and strong, and the bread was
new. And Eric produced from his stores some lump sugar and a pot of
strawberry jam, and I did full justice to the homely fare.
When Mrs. Hunter went into the kitchen to replenish the teapot I took the
opportunity of consulting Eric about a lodging for the night. It was too
late to return to Heathfield. Besides, I had made up my mind that Eric
should accompany me. Aunt Philippa and Jill were in Switzerland, and the
house at Hyde Park Gate would be empty. I could not well go to an hotel
without any luggage. Eric seemed rather perplexed, and said we must take
Mrs. Hunter into our confidence, which we did, and the good woman soon
relieved our minds.
She said at once that she knew an excellent person who let lodgings round
the corner,--a Miss Moseley. Miss Gunter, who had been a music-mistress
until she married the young chemist, had lived with her for six years;
and Miss Crabbe, who was in the millinery department at Howell's, the big
shop in Kimber Street, was still there. Miss Gunter's room was vacant,
and she was sure Miss Moseley would take me in for the night and make me
comfortable.
I begged Mrs. Hunter to open negotiations with this obliging person, and
she pulled down her sleeves at once, and tied her double chin in a very
big black bonnet. While she was gone on this charitable errand, Eric and
I sat by the parlour window in the gathering dusk, and I told him about
Gladys's engagement to Uncle Max.
He seemed much excited by the news. 'I always thought that would be a
case,' he exclaimed: 'I could see Mr. Cunliffe cared for her even then.
Well, he is a first-rate fellow, and I am awfully glad.' And then he fell
into a reverie, and I could see there were tears in his eyes.
Mrs. Hunter returned presently with the welcome news that Miss Moseley
was airing my sheets at the kitchen fire, and, after a little more talk,
Eric walked with me to Prescott Street and gave me in charge to Miss
Moseley, after promising to be with me soon after nine the next morning.
I found Miss Moseley a cheerful talkative person, with very few teeth and
a great deal of good-nature. She gave me Miss Gunter's history as she
made the bed. I could see that her marriage with the young chemist was
a great source of glorification to all connected with her. She was still
holding forth on the newly-furnished drawing-room, with its blue sofa
and inlaid chiffonier, as she lighted a pair of candles in the brass
candlesticks, and brought me a can of hot water. I am afraid I was rather
thankful when she closed the door and left me alone, for I was tired, and
longed to think over the wonderful events of the day. I slept very
sweetly in the old-fashioned brown bed that was sacred to the memory of
Miss Gunter, and woke happily to the fact that another blue day was
shining, and that in a few hours Eric and I would be at Heathfield. I
ate my frugal breakfast in a small back parlour overlooking the blank
wall of a brewery, and before I had finished there was a quick tap at the
door, and Eric entered. A boyish blush crossed his handsome face as I
looked at him in some surprise. He had laid aside his workman's dress,
and wore the ordinary garb of a gentleman. Perhaps his coat was a little
shabby and the hat he held in his hand had lost its gloss, but no one
would have noticed such trifles with that bright speaking face and air
of refinement; and, though he looked down at his uncovered hands and
muttered something about stopping to buy a pair of gloves, I hastened to
assure him that it was so early that it did not matter. 'I should hardly
have recognised you, Mr. Eric,' I ventured to observe, for I saw he was
a little sensitive about his appearance; and then he told me in his frank
way that the clothes he wore were the same in which he left Gladwyn
nearly four years ago.
'They have been lying by all this time,' he went on, 'and they are sadly
creased, I am afraid. I have grown a little broader, and they don't seem
to fit me, somehow, but I did not want Gladys to see me in anything
else.'
We had decided to take the ten o'clock train to Heathfield, so I did
not keep him long waiting for me. On our way to the station we met a
house-painter: he looked rather dubiously at Eric.
'All right, Phil,' he laughed, 'I am going home; but I shall turn up
again all right: this lady has brought me good news.' And he wrung Phil's
hand with a heartiness that spoke volumes.
He was very excited and talkative at first, but as soon as we left
Victoria behind us he became quieter, and soon afterwards perfectly
silent; and I did not disturb him. He grew more nervous as we approached
Heathfield, and when the train stopped he had not an atom of colour in
his face.
'I do not know what I shall say to Giles,' he said, as we walked up the
hill. 'It will be very awkward for both of us, Miss Garston. Of course
I know that--'
But I begged him not to anticipate the awkwardness. 'You will be welcomed
as we only welcome our dearest and best,' I assured him. 'Your brother's
heart has been sore for you all these years: you need not fear one word
of reproach from him.' But he only sighed, and asked me not to walk so
quickly; his courage was failing; I could see the look of nervous fear
on his face.
We had arranged that he should accompany me to Gladwyn. Gladys never left
her room before twelve, and I thought that I could shut him safely in the
dining-room while I prepared her for his arrival. I knew Mr. Hamilton was
never at home at this hour, but I had not reckoned on the disorganised
state of the house, or the difference my brief absence would make in the
usual routine.
I blamed myself for rashness and want of consideration when, on opening
the gate, I saw Gladys crossing one of the little lawns around the house,
with Max and Mr. Hamilton. At my faint exclamation Eric let go the gate
rather too suddenly, and it swung back on its hinges so noisily that they
all looked round, and the poor boy stood as though rooted to the spot.
But the next moment there was the gleam of a white gown, and Gladys came
running over the grass towards us with outstretched hands, and in another
second the brother and sister were locked in each other's arms.
'Oh, my darling,' we heard her say, as she put up her face and kissed
him, and then her fair head seemed to droop lower and lower until it
touched Eric's shoulder. I glanced anxiously at Mr. Hamilton.
'Take her into the house, Eric,' he said, in his ordinary voice; but how
white his face looked! 'It has been too sudden, and she has fainted.'
And, without a word, Eric lifted her in his strong arms and carried her
of his own accord to the little blue couch in the drawing-room, and then
stood aside while his brother administered the usual remedy. Not a look
had passed between them yet: they were both too much absorbed in Gladys.
She soon opened her eyes, and pushed away the vinaigrette I was holding
to her.
'It is nothing, Ursula. I am well, quite well. Where is my dear boy? Do
not keep him from me.' And then Eric knelt down beside her, and put his
arm round her with a sort of sob.
'I ought not to have startled you so, Gladys. I have made you look so
pale.' But she laughed again, and pushed back his hair from his forehead,
and feasted her eyes on his face as though they could never be satisfied.
'Eric, darling, it seems like a dream; and it was Ursula, dear good
Ursula, who has given you back to us. We must thank her presently; but
not now. Oh, I must look at you first. He looks older, does he not,
Giles?--older and more manly. And what broad shoulders, and such a
moustache!' but Eric silenced her with a kiss.
'That will do, Gladys dear,' he whispered, springing to his feet; and
then, with downcast eyes and a flush on his face, he held out his hand
to his brother. It was taken and held silently, and then Mr. Hamilton's
disengaged hand was laid on his shoulder caressingly.
'Welcome home, my dear boy,' he said; but his voice was not quite so
clear as usual.
'I am very sorry, Giles,' he faltered; but Mr. Hamilton would not let him
speak.
'There is nothing to be sorry for, now,' he said significantly. 'Have you
shaken hands with Mr. Cunliffe, Eric? Gladys, can you spare your boy for
a few moments while I carry him off?' And, as Gladys smiled assent, Mr.
Hamilton signed to Eric to follow him.
Max sat down beside Gladys when they had left the room, and Gladys made
a space for me on the couch.
'You must tell us how it happened,' she said, fixing her lovely eyes on
me. 'Dear Ursula, we owe this fresh happiness to you: how can I thank you
for all your goodness to us?' But I would not allow her to talk in this
fashion, and I left Max to soothe her when she cried a little, and then
I told them both how I had found Eric in the stable-yard with Nap, and
how I had tracked him successfully to his lodgings.
'She is a brave, dear child, is she not, Gladys?' observed Max. Then,
with a mischievous look in his brown eyes, 'You are proud of your
presumptive niece, are you not, dear?' And then, in spite of Gladys's
confusion, for she was still a little shy with him, I burst out laughing,
and she was obliged to join me, for it had never entered into our heads
that Gladys would be my aunt. The laugh brought back her colour and did
her good; but she would not look at Max for a long time after that,
though he was on his best behaviour and said all sorts of nice things
to us both.
It was a long time before Mr. Hamilton brought Eric back to us. They
both looked very happy, but Eric's eyes had a strangely softened look
in them. The gong sounded for luncheon just then, and Mr. Hamilton asked
me, in rather a surprised tone, why I had not taken off my hat and
jacket, so I ran off to my room in a great hurry. As he opened the door
for me, he said, in rather an odd tone, 'Do you know you have not wished
me good-morning, Miss Garston?' I muttered some sort of an answer, but he
merely smiled, and told me not to keep them waiting. Gladys came in to
luncheon, and took her usual place; but neither she nor Eric made much
pretence of eating, though Mr. Hamilton scolded them both for their want
of appetite. Nobody talked much, and there was no connected conversation:
I think we were all too much engrossed in watching Gladys. Max was in the
background for once, but he did not seem to think of himself at all: the
sight of Gladys's sweet face, radiant with joy, was sufficient pleasure
for him; but now and then she turned to him in a touching manner, as
though to show she had not forgotten him, and then he was never slow
to respond.
When luncheon was over, Mr. Hamilton begged me to take Gladys to the
turret-room and persuade her to lie down.
'I am going to send Cunliffe away until dinner-time,' he said, with
a sort of good-natured peremptoriness: 'under the circumstances he is
decidedly _de trop_. Yes, my dear, yes,' as Gladys looked pleadingly at
him, 'Eric shall come and talk to you. I am not so unreasonable as that.'
And I think we all understood the feeling that made Gladys put her arms
round her brother's neck, though we none of us heard her whisper a word.
Max consented very cheerfully to efface himself for the remainder of the
afternoon, and Gladys accompanied me upstairs. I waited until Eric joined
us, and then I left them together.
'Oh, Gladys, he was so good, and I did not deserve it!' he burst out
before I had closed the door. 'I never knew Giles could be like that.'
But I took care not to hear any more. I hardly knew what to do with
myself that afternoon, but I made up my mind at last that I would finish
a letter I had begun to Jill. The inkstand was in the turret-room, but I
thought I would fetch one out of the drawing-room; but when I reached
the head of the staircase I drew back involuntarily, for Mr. Hamilton was
standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall with
folded arms, as though he were waiting for somebody or something. An
unaccountable timidity made me hesitate; in another second I should have
gone back into my room, but he looked up, and, as before, our eyes met.
'Come,' he said, holding out his hand, and there was a sort of impatience
in his manner. 'How long are you going to keep me waiting, Ursula?' And I
went down demurely and silently, but I took no notice of his outstretched
hands.
I was trying to pass him in a quiet, ordinary fashion, as though there
were no unusual meaning in his deep-set eyes; but he stopped me somewhat
coolly by taking me in his arms.
'At last, Ursula, at last!' was all he said, and then he kissed me....
* * * * *
I remember I told Giles, when I had recovered myself a little, that he
had taken things too much for granted.
He had brought me into the drawing-room, and was sitting beside me on the
little couch. To my dazzled eyes the room seemed full of sunshine and the
sweet perfume of flowers: to this day the scent of heliotrope brings back
the memory of that afternoon when Giles first told me that he loved me.
He seemed rather perplexed at first by my stammering little speech, and
then I suppose my meaning dawned on him, for his arm pressed me more
closely.
'I think I understand: you mean, do you not, Ursula, that I have not
asked you in plain English to be my wife? I thought we understood each
other too well for any such word to be necessary. Ever since you told me
that fellow Tudor was nothing to you, I felt you belonged to me.'
'I do not see that,' I returned shyly, for Giles in his new character was
rather formidable. He had taken such complete possession of me, and, as I
had hinted, had taken everything for granted. 'Because Mr. Tudor was
simply a friend, it did not follow that I cared for any one else.'
'Yes; but you do care for me a good deal, darling, do you not?' in a
most persuasive voice. 'But, for my own comfort, I want you to tell me
if you are quite content to accept such a crabbed old bachelor for your
husband.'
It was a little difficult to answer, but I made him understand that
I looked upon him in a very different light, and I think I managed to
content him.
'And you are really happy, dear?'
'Yes, very happy'; but the tears were in my eyes as I answered. He seemed
distressed to see them, and wanted me to tell him the reason; but I think
he understood me thoroughly when I whispered how glad Charlie would have
been. I asked him presently how long he had cared for me, but, to my
surprise, he declared that he hardly knew himself: he had been interested
in me from the first hour of our meeting, but it was when he heard me
sing in Phoebe Locke's room that the thought came to him that he must try
and win me for his wife.
I think it was in answer to this that I said some foolish word about my
want of beauty. I was a little sensitive on the subject, but, to my
dismay, Giles's face darkened, and he dropped my hand.
'Never say that to me again, if you love me, Ursula,' he said, in such
a grieved voice that I could hardly bear to hear it. 'Do you think I
would have married you if you had been handsome? Do you know what you
are talking about, child? Has no one told you about Ella?'
'Oh yes,' I returned, terrified at his sternness, for he had never spoken
to me in such a tone before. 'Yes, indeed, and I know she was very
beautiful.'
'She was perfectly lovely,'--in the same hard voice. Oh, how he must have
suffered, my poor Giles! 'And the memory of that false loveliness has
made me loathe the idea of beauty ever since. No, I would never have let
myself love you if you had been handsome, Ursula.'
'I am glad I am not,' I returned, in a choked voice, for all this was
very painful to me. Something in my tone attracted his notice, for he
stooped and looked in my face, and his manner instantly changed.
'Oh, you foolish child,' very caressingly, 'there are actually tears in
your eyes! You are not afraid of me, Ursula? I am always excited when I
speak of Ella: she very nearly destroyed my faith in women.'
'I cannot bear to think how you suffered,' I faltered, but he would not
let me finish.
'Never mind; you have been my healer; you have always rested me so. Never
call yourself plain again in my hearing. No other face could be half so
dear to me.' And then, with his old smile, 'Do you know, dear, when I saw
you in that velvet gown at your cousin's wedding you looked so handsome
that I went home in a bad humour, and then Etta told me about Tudor.
Well, I have you safe now.' But I will not transcribe all Giles's speech;
it was so lover-like, it made me understand, once for all, what I was to
him, and how little he cared for life unless I shared it with him.
By and by he went on to speak of our mutual work, and here again he more
than contented me.
'I do not mean to rob the poor people of their nurse, Ursula,' he said
presently. 'When you come to Gladwyn as its mistress, I hope we shall
work together as we do now.'
I told him I hoped so too; that I never wished to lay down my work.
'You are quite right, dear,' he answered cheerfully. 'We will not be
selfish in our happiness. True, your work must be in limits. When I come
home I shall want to see my wife's face. No,' rather jealously, 'I could
not spare you of an evening, and in the morning there will be household
duties. You must not undertake too much, Ursula.'
I told Giles, rather demurely, that there was plenty of time for the
consideration of this point. He was inclined to bridge over the present
in a man's usual fashion, but my new position was too overwhelming for me
to look beyond the deep abiding consciousness that Giles loved me and
looked to me for happiness.
So I turned a deaf ear when he asked me presently if I should mind Lady
Betty sharing our home; 'for,' he went on, 'the poor child has no other
home, and she is so feather-headed that no sensible man will think of
marrying her.' It was not my place to enlighten Giles about Claude, but
I thought it very improbable that Lady Betty would be long at Gladwyn;
but I was a little oppressed by this sort of talk, and yet unwilling that
he should notice my shyness, so I took the opportunity of saying it was
tea-time, and did he not think that Gladys and Eric had been talking long
enough?
He seemed unwilling to let me go, but I pleaded my nurse's duties, and
then he told me, laughing, that I was a wilful woman, and that I might
send Eric to him. As it happened, Eric was coming in search of Giles, and
I found him in the passage.
Gladys was lying on her couch, looking worn out with happiness. She
was beginning to speak about Eric, when something in my face seemed to
distract her. She watched me closely for a moment, then threw her arms
round me and drew my head on her shoulder.
'Is it so, Ursula? Oh, my dear dear sister! I am so glad!' And she seemed
to understand without a word when my over-excited feelings found vent in
a flood of nervous tears, for she only kissed me quietly, and stroked my
hair, until I was relieved and happy again.
'Dear Ursula,' she whispered, 'how can I help being glad, for Giles's
sake?'
'And not for mine?' drying my eyes, and feeling very much ashamed of
myself.
'Ah, you will see how good Giles will be,' was her reply to this. 'You
will be a happy woman, Ursula. You are exactly suited to each other.' And
I knew she was right.
Max's turn came presently.
I was sitting alone in the drawing-room before dinner. Giles had brought
me some flowers, and had rushed off to dress himself; and I was looking
out on the garden and the strip of blue sky, and buried in a happy
reverie, when two hands suddenly lifted me up, and a brown beard brushed
my face.
'Little she-bear, do you know how glad I am!' Max joyously exclaimed. And
indeed he looked very glad.