Uncle Max Part 52

Miss Gillespie had gone downstairs to carry a good report to Aunt Philippa. Directly she had gone, Jill jumped up, still shaking a little, and went to her wardrobe.

'I must go downstairs,' she said, a little feverishly. 'I have never thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life. Help me to be quick, Ursie dear, for I feel so queer and tottery.' And nothing I could say would prevail on her to remain quietly in her room. While I was arguing with her, she had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her trembling fingers.

'Oh, you are obstinate, Jill: you ought to be good on this night of all nights.' But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she pushed me away.

'It does not matter how I look. I am only going down for a few minutes.

He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.'

And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.

Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall. When he saw Jill, he hurried up to her at once.

'Miss Jocelyn, this is very imprudent. You ought to have gone to bed: you are not fit to be up after such a shock,' looking at her pale face and swollen eyes with evident emotion.

Jill looked at him gently and seriously, and held out her hands to him quite simply.

'I could not go to bed without thanking you, I am not quite so selfish and thoughtless. You have saved my life: do you think I shall ever forget that?'

Poor Lawrence! the excitement, the terror, and the relief were too much for him; and there was Jill holding his hands and looking up in his face, with her great eyes full of tears. It was not very wonderful that for a moment he forgot himself.

'I could not help doing it,' he returned. 'What would have become of me if you had died? I could not have borne it.'

Jill drew her hands away, and her face looked a little paler in the moonlight. The young man's excited voice, his strange words, must have told her the truth. No, she was not too young to understand; her head drooped, and she turned away as she answered him,--

'I shall always be grateful. Good-night, Mr. Tudor: I must go to my mother. Come, Ursula.'

She did not look back as we walked across the hall, though poor Lawrence stood quite still watching us. Why had the foolish boy said that? Why had he forgotten his position and her youth? Why had he hinted that her life was necessary to his happiness? Would Jill ever forget those words, or the look that accompanied them? I felt almost angry with Lawrence as I followed Jill into the room.

Jill need never have doubted her mother's love. Aunt Philippa had been too faint and ill to follow her daughter to her room, but her face was quite beautiful with maternal tenderness as she folded the girl in her arms. Not even her father, who especially petted Jill, showed more affection for her that night.

'Oh, Jocelyn, my darling, are you quite sure that you are unhurt? Miss Gillespie says you were only frightened and a little bruised; but I wanted to see for myself. Mr. Tudor will not let us thank him, but we shall be grateful to him all our lives, my pet. What would your poor father and I have done without you?'

Jill hid her face like a baby on her mother's bosom: she was crying quietly. Her interview with Mr. Tudor had certainly upset her. Uncle Brian put his hand in her rough locks. 'Never mind, my little girl: it is now over; you must go to bed and forget it,'--which was certainly very good advice. I coaxed Aunt Philippa to let her go, and promised to remain with her until she was asleep. She was very quiet, and hardly said a word as I helped her to undress, but as I sat down by the bedside she drew my head down beside hers on the pillow.

'Don't think I am not grateful because I do not talk about it, Ursie dear,' she whispered. 'I hope to be better all my life for what has happened to-night.' But as Jill lay, with wide, solemn eyes, in the moonlight, I wondered what thoughts were coursing through her mind. Was she looking upon her life preserved as a life dedicated, regarding herself as set apart for higher work and n.o.bler uses? or was her grat.i.tude to her young preserver mixed with deeper and more mysterious feelings? I could not tell, but from that night I noticed a regular change in Jill: she became less girlish and fanciful, a new sort of womanliness developed itself, her high spirits were tempered with softness. Uncle Brian was right when he said a few days afterwards 'that his little girl was growing a woman.'

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

JACK POYNTER

My conscience felt decidedly uneasy that night: in spite of all argument to the contrary, I could not shake off the conviction that it was my duty to speak to Aunt Philippa. I ought to warn her of the growing intimacy between the young people. She and Uncle Brian ought to know that Mr.

Tudor was not quite so harmless as he looked.

It made me very unhappy to act the traitor to this honest, simple young fellow. I would rather have taken his hand and bidden him G.o.d-speed with his wooing. If I had been Uncle Brian I would have welcomed him heartily as a suitor for Jill. True, she was absurdly young,--only sixteen,--but I would have said to him, 'If you are in earnest, if you really love this girl, and are willing to wait for her, go about your business for three years, and then come and try your chance with her. If she likes you she shall have you. I am quite aware you are poor,--that you are a curate on a hundred and fifty a year; but you are well connected and a gentleman, and as guileless as a young Nathaniel. I could not desire a better husband for my daughter.'

But it was not likely that Uncle Brian would be so quixotic. And I knew that Aunt Philippa was rather ambitious for her children, and it had been a great disappointment to her that Sara had refused a young baronet. So it was with the guilty feelings of a culprit that I entered the morning-room the next morning and asked Aunt Philippa if I might have a few minutes' conversation with her.

To my relief, she treated the whole matter very coolly, and with a mixture of shrewdness and common sense that quite surprised me.

She a.s.sured me that it was not of the least consequence. Young creatures like Jocelyn must pa.s.s through this sort of experiences. She was certainly rather young for such an experiment, but it would do her no harm. On the contrary, a little stimulus of gratified vanity might be extremely beneficial in its after-effects. She was somewhat backward and childish for her age. She would have more self-respect at finding herself the object of masculine admiration.

'Depend upon it, it will do her a great deal of good,' went on Aunt Philippa placidly. 'She will try now in earnest to break herself off her little _gaucheries_. As for Mr. Tudor, do not distress yourself about him. He is young enough to have half-a-dozen b.u.t.terfly fancies before he settles down seriously.'

'I remember,' she continued, 'that during Sara's first season we had rather a trouble about a young barrister. He was a handsome fellow, but terribly poor, and your uncle told me privately that he must not be encouraged. Well, Sara got it into her head that she was in love with him, and, in spite of all I could say to her by way of warning, she would promise him dances, and, in fact, they did a good bit of flirting together. So I told your uncle that we had better leave town earlier that year. We went into Yorkshire, paying visits, and then to Scotland. Sara had never been there before, and we took care that she should have a thoroughly enjoyable trip. My dear, before three months were over she had forgotten Henry Brabazon's existence. It was just a girlish sentimentality; nothing more. When we got back to town we made Mr.

Brabazon understand that his attentions were displeasing to your uncle, and before the next season he was engaged to a rich young widow. I do not believe Sara ever missed him.'

I listened to all this in silence. I was much relieved to find that Aunt Philippa was not disposed to blame me for Lawrence Tudor's infatuation.

She told me that she was not the least afraid of his influence, and should not discourage his visits. Jocelyn would never see him alone, and it was not likely that she would be staying at Heathfield again. I thought it useless to say any more. I had satisfied my conscience, and might now safely wash my hands of all responsibility. If the thought crossed my mind that Jill was very different from Sara,--that her will was stronger and her affections more tenacious,--there was no need to give it utterance. Sixteen was hardly the age for a serious love-affair, and I might well be content to leave Jill in her mother's care.

Now and then a doubt of Aunt Philippa's wisdom came to me,--on the last evening, for instance, when I was speaking to Jill about Heathfield, and when I rather incautiously mentioned Lawrence Tudor's name.

I recollected then that Jill had never once spoken of him since the night of the accident. It had dropped completely out of our conversation. I forget what I said then, but it was something about my seeing him at Heathfield.

We were standing together on the balcony, and as I spoke Jill stooped suddenly to look at a little flower-girl who was offering her wares on the pavement below. For a moment she did not answer. But I could see her cheek and even her little ear was flushed.

'Oh yes, you will see him,' she returned presently. 'What a little mite of a child! Look, Ursula. Please remember us to him, and--and we hope he is quite well.' And Jill walked away from me rather abruptly, saying she must ask her mother for some pence. It was then that a doubt of Aunt Philippa's policy crossed my mind; Jill was so different from other girls; and Lawrence Tudor had saved her life.

I had other things to occupy my mind just then,--a fresh anxiety that I could share with no one, and which effectually spoiled the last few days of my London visit.

The sight of Leah had somewhat disturbed me. It had brought back memories of the perplexities and mysteries of Gladwyn. Strange to say, I saw her again the very next day.

Mr. Tudor was calling at the door to inquire after Jill: he had his bag in his hand, and was on his way to the station. I was just going out to call on Lesbia, and we walked a few yards together. Just as I was bidding him good-bye, two women pa.s.sed us: as I looked at them casually, I saw Leah's flickering light-coloured eyes; she was looking in my direction, but, though I nodded to her, she did not appear to recognise me. The other woman was a stranger.

I was sitting alone on the balcony that afternoon. Aunt Philippa and Jill and Miss Gillespie were driving. I took advantage of their absence and the unusual quiet of the house to finish a book in which I was much interested.

I was very fond of this balcony seat: the awning protected me from the hot June sun, and the flower-boxes at my feet were sweet with mignonette.

I could see without being seen, and the cool glimpses of the green Park were pleasant on this hot afternoon.

The adjoining house was unoccupied: it was therefore with feelings of discomfort that I heard the sound of workmen moving about the premises, and by and by the smell of fresh paint made me put down my book with suppressed annoyance.

A house-painter was standing very near me, painting the outside sashes of the window: he had his back turned to me, and was whistling to himself in the careless way peculiar to his cla.s.s. It was a clear, sweet whistling, and I listened to it with pleasure.

A sudden noise in the street caused him to look round, and then he saw me, and stopped whistling.

Where had I seen that face? It seemed familiar to me. Of whom did that young house-painter remind me? Could I have seen him at St. Thomas's Hospital? Was it some patient whose name I had forgotten during my year's nursing? I had had more than one house-painter on my list.

I was tormented by the idea that I ought to recognise the face before me, and yet recognition eluded me. I felt baffled and perplexed by some subtile fancied resemblance. As for the young painter himself, he looked at me quietly for a moment, as though I were a stranger, touched his cap, and went on painting. When he had finished his job, he went inside, and I heard him whistling again as he moved about the empty room.

It was a beautiful face: the features were very clearly cut and defined, like--Good heavens! I had it now: it reminded me of Gladys Hamilton's.

The next moment I was holding the balcony railing as though I were giddy; it was like Gladys, but it was still more like the closed picture in Gladys's room. I pressed my hands on my eyelids as with a strong effort I recalled her brother Eric's face, and the next moment the young painter had come to the window again, and I was looking at him between my fingers.

The resemblance could not be my fancy; those were Eric's eyes looking at me. It was the same face, only older and less boyish-looking. The fair moustache was fully grown; the face was altogether more manly and full of character. It must be he; I must go and speak to him; but as I rose, my limbs trembling with excitement, he moved away, and his whistle seemed to die in the distance.

It was nearly six o'clock, and there was no time to be lost. I ran upstairs and put on my bonnet and mantle. I thought that Clayton looked at me in some surprise,--I was leaving the house without gloves; but I did not wait for any explanation: the men would be leaving off work. The door was open, and I quickly found my way to the drawing-room, but, to my chagrin, it was empty, and an elderly man with gray hair came out of a back room with a basket of carpenter's tools and looked at me inquiringly.