CHAPTER XXII.
UNCLE KEITH.
I had been obliged to defer my visit to Aunt Agatha for more than a fortnight, and it was not until an early day in October that I could find a leisure afternoon. I believe that only very busy and hard worked people really enjoy a holiday—listless and half occupied lives know nothing of the real holiday feeling and the joyousness of putting one’s work aside for a few hours of complete idleness.
I felt almost as buoyant and light-hearted as a child when I caught sight of the old bridge and the grey towers of All Saints. The river looked blue and clear in the October sunshine; there were barges floating idly down the stream; a small steamer had just started from the tiny pier; two or three clumsy-looking boats with heavy brown sails were moored to the shore; there was a man in a red cap in one of the boats; two or three bare-legged urchins were wading in the water. There was a line of purple shadow in the distance, little sparkles of sunlight everywhere, yellow and red leaves streaming, a little skiff with a man in white flannel coming rapidly into sight, omnibuses, cabs, heavy waggons clattering over the bridge. Beyond the white arches of the new bridge the busy hum of workers, the heaving of great cranes, the toil and strain of human activity.
The sight always fascinated me, and I stood aside with others to watch until a well-known figure in the distance recalled me with a start. Surely that was Aunt Agatha crossing the road by the bridge; no one else walked in that way—that quick, straightforward walk, that never seemed to linger or hesitate, that could only belong to her. Yes, it was she, for there was the dear woman holding out her hands to me, with the old kind smile breaking over her face.
“I came to meet you, Merle; I did not want to lose one minute of your company, but I was a little late after all, dear child. What a stranger you are, all these months that we have not met!”
“It has seemed a long time to me, Aunt Agatha, so much seems to have happened since I was last here.”
“You may well say so,” she returned, gravely; “we have both much for which to be thankful. Your accident, Merle, which might have had such grave results, and——” here she checked herself, but something in her manner seemed strange to me.
“We need not walk quite so fast, surely,” I remonstrated. “How these people jostle one, and I want to talk to you so.”
“And I to you. Never mind, we shall find a quiet corner under the shadow of St. Mary’s.” And as she spoke we turned into the narrow flagged path skirting the church, with the tombs and grey old headstones gleaming here and there. There were fewer people here.
“Are you sure you are quite well?” I began, rather anxiously. “You are looking paler than usual, Aunt Agatha, and, if it be not my fancy, a little thinner.”
“Yes, and older, and perhaps a trifle graver,” she returned, rather briskly; but I thought her cheerfulness a little forced. “We have not yet learnt how to grow younger, child. Well, if you must know, and this is why I came to meet you, that we might have our little talk together. I have not been without my troubles; your uncle has been very ill, Merle, so ill that, at one time, I feared I might lose him; but Providence has been good to me and spared my dear husband.” And here Aunt Agatha’s voice trembled and her eyes grew misty.
I was almost too shocked to answer, but my first words were to reproach her for keeping me in ignorance.
“You must not blame me, Merle,” she replied, gently. “I wanted you dreadfully; I felt quite sore with the longing to see you, but I knew you could not come to me. Mrs. Morton was in Scotland; you were in sole charge of those children. Unless things grew worse I knew I had no right to summon you. Thank God I was spared that necessity; the danger only lasted forty-eight hours; after that he only required all the nursing I could give him.”
“Aunt Agatha, it was not right; you ought to have told me.”
“I thought differently, Merle; I put myself in your place—you could not desert your post, and you would only have grown restless with the longing to come and help me—the same feeling that made you hide your accident from me led me to suppress my trouble. I should only have burthened your kind heart, Merle, and spoiled your present enjoyment. I said to myself, ‘Let the child be happy; she will only fret herself into a fever to help me, and she must do her duty to her employers.’ If Ezra had got worse I must have written; when he grew better I preferred telling you nothing until we met.”
“I shall never trust you again,” I burst out, for this reticence wounded me sorely. “How am I to know if things are well with you if you are always keeping me in the dark?”
“It will not happen again, Merle; indeed, my dear, I can promise you that it shall never happen. If you had been at Prince’s Gate I should have summoned you at once, but, in your position, how could I ask you to desert your post, Merle, when those who placed you there were hundreds of miles away?”
I saw what she meant, and I could not deny that she had kept me in ignorance for my own peace of mind. It was just her unselfishness, for I knew how she must have longed for me; we were so much to each other, we were so sure of mutual sympathy and help. Aunt Agatha cried a little when she saw how hurt I was, and then, of course, I tried to comfort her, and I very soon succeeded. I never could bear to see her unhappy, and I knew it was only her goodness to me.
I begged her to tell me about Uncle Keith’s illness, and she soon put me in possession of the salient points. He had worked a little too hard, and then had got wet in a thunderstorm, and a sharp attack of inflammation had been the result.
“He considers himself well now,” she continued, “but he is still very weak, and will not be able to resume work for another week or two. His employers have been very kind; they seem to value him highly. Oh! he has been so patient, Merle, it has been quite a privilege to nurse him; not a complaint, not an irritable word. I always knew he was a good man, but illness is such a test of character.”
“But you have worn yourself out,” I grumbled; “you do not look well.” But she interrupted me.
“Do not notice my looks before your uncle,” she said, pleadingly; “he is so anxious about me; but indeed, I am only a little tired; I shall be better now I have told you and got it over. You have been on my mind, Merle, and then that horrid accident.” But I would not let her dwell upon that. We had reached the cottage by this time, and Patience was watching for us; she looked prettier and rosier than ever.
I found Uncle Keith sitting pillowed up in an armchair by the drawing-room fire. I thought he looked shrunken, and there was a pinched look about his features. He had not grown younger and handsomer to my eyes, but as he turned his prominent brown eyes on me with a kind look of welcome, and held out his thin hand, I kissed him with real affection, and my eyes were a little wet.
“Hir-rumph, my dear, I am pleased to see you—there, there, never mind my stupid illness; I am quite a giant now, eh, Agatha? It is worth being ill, Merle, to be nursed by your aunt; oh, quite a luxury I assure you! Hir-rumph.” And here Uncle Keith cleared his throat in his usual fashion, and stirred the fire rather loudly, though he looked a little paler after the exercise.
“But I am so dreadfully sorry, Uncle Keith,” I said, when Aunt Agatha had taken the poker from him and bustled out of the room to fetch him some jelly, “to think I never knew how ill you were.”
“That was all the better, child,” he returned, cheerfully. “Agatha was a wise woman not to tell you; but there are not many people in the world, Merle, who would come up to your aunt, not many,” rubbing his hands together.
“No indeed, Uncle Keith.”
“How do you think she looks?” he continued, turning round rather sharply. “Have I tired her out, eh?”
“She looks a little tired certainly.”
“Hir-rumph, I thought so. Agatha, my dear,” as she re-entered with the jelly, “I do not want all this waiting on now; it is my turn to wait on you! I must not wear out such a good wife, must I, Merle?” And though we both laughed at that, and Aunt Agatha pretended that he was only in fun, it was almost pathetic to see how he watched her busy movements about the room, and how he begged her again and again to sit down and not tire herself, and yet she loved to do it. I think we both of us knew that. I was not disposed to pity Aunt Agatha as I had done in former years. Perhaps I had grown older and more womanly in those eight months of service, and less disposed to be critical on quiet, matter-of-fact lives. On the contrary, I began to understand in a vague sort of way that Aunt Agatha was garnering in much happiness in her useful middle age, in her honest, single-eyed service. Love had come to her in a sober guise, and without pretension, but it was the right sort of love after all, no doubt. To youthful eyes, Uncle Keith was not much of a hero; but a plain honest man, even though he has fewer inches than his fellows, may have merit enough to fill one woman’s heart, and I ceased to wonder at Aunt Agatha’s infatuation in believing herself a happy woman.
We had not much talk apart that day. Aunt Agatha could not leave Uncle Keith, but I never felt him less in the way. I talked quite openly about things; he was as much interested as Aunt Agatha in listening to my description of Marshlands and Wheeler’s Farm, and had not a dissenting word when I praised Gay Cheriton in my old enthusiastic way, and only a soft “hir-rumph” interrupted my account of Reggie’s accident.
It was Aunt Agatha who walked back with me over the bridge in the soft October twilight. Tired as she was, she refused to part with me until the last minute.
“You must come again soon, Merle,” she said, as we parted; “Ezra and I are not young people now, and a bright face does us both good, and your face has grown a very bright one, Merle.”
Was Aunt Agatha right, I wondered? Had I really grown happier outwardly? Had the inward peace of satisfied conscience and a heart at rest cast its reflection of brightness? I was certainly very happy just then; my life was growing wider, friends were coming round me, interests were thickening, there was meaning and purpose in each opening day. I no longer thought so much of myself and my own feelings; the activities of life, the needs and joys of others seemed to press and crush out all morbid ideas. I had so many to love and so many who seemed to need me and care for me.
I went more than once to Putney during the next two or three weeks. My mistress was far too sympathising and unselfish to keep me from my own people when they needed me; on the contrary, she was always full of contrivances that I should be spared.
November passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Morton was recovering strength slowly but surely; she was no longer a prisoner to her dressing-room, but could spend the greater part of the day in the drawing-room or in her husband’s library.
But she still continued her invalid habits and saw few people. I still sat with her in the afternoon, and either Joyce or Reggie played about the room. When Mr. Morton was absent I came down to her in the evening, and read or talked to her. I prized these hours, for in them I learned to know my sweet mistress more intimately and to love her more dearly.
At the beginning of December Gay came to us. I was looking forward to her visit with some eagerness, though I knew my evenings would then be spent in the nursery, as Mrs. Morton would only need her sister’s society; but, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the drawing-room on the evening of her arrival. She had come just in time to dress for dinner, and we had not yet seen her. I could scarcely credit Travers’ message when she delivered it.
“Will you please go down to the little drawing-room, Miss Fenton? Miss Gay wants to see you, and my mistress does not care to be left alone.”
She started up and came to meet me with outstretched hands. She looked prettier than ever, and her eyes were shining with happiness.
“I am so glad to see you, Merle. I wanted to come up to the nursery, but this spoiled woman—how you have all spoilt her!—refused to be left. She said Hannah would be there, and that we could not talk comfortably.”
“Yes, but there was another reason,” returned my mistress, smiling; and Gay blushed and cast down her eyes.
“I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has happened.”
I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own tales.
“Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest who came oftenest to Marshlands?”
“There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking steadily into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I do not need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and kissed me in her impulsive way.
I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it.
“I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly. “Do you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was afraid of poverty?”
“Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook her head at that.
“I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take ‘No’ for an answer.”
“I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have despised him for giving it up.”
“He would never have done that,” replied Gay, with decision, “until I had married somebody else, and there was no chance of that. You are grave, Merle; do you mean to forbid the banns? Why do you not congratulate me?”
“I do congratulate you with all my heart; will that content you?”
“To be sure; but what then, Merle?”
“I ought not to say, perhaps, if you have made up your mind. I like Mr. Rossiter. He is young, but he seems very good. But do you remember what I said to you that evening, Miss Gay, when we were watching the moon rise over Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, that your environment just suited you; I can’t realise Marshlands without you.”
I saw the sisters exchange a meaning look, and then Gay said, in a low voice, “What should you say, Merle, if I am not to leave Marshlands—if my father refuses to part with me?”
“I do not think that would answer. Mrs. Markham would be mistress, and you have told me so often that she does not like Mr. Rossiter.”
“There are to be changes at Marshlands, Merle,” broke in my mistress; she had been listening to us with much interest, and I wished Mr. Morton could have seen her with that bright animated look on her face. “Adelaide will be mistress there no longer. A young cousin of ours, Mrs. Austin, who was with Adelaide in Calcutta, has just lost her husband. She is an invalid, is very rich, and very helpless, and has no one except ourselves belonging to her. She is very fond of Adelaide, and she has begged her to live with her, and superintend her establishment. She has a large house at Chislehurst, and so Adelaide and Rolf and Judson are to take up their abode with her.”
“Things have not been very pleasant lately, Merle,” observed Gay, gravely. “Adelaide has set her face against my marrying Walter, and she has worried father and tormented me, and made things rather difficult for all of us. It is quite true, as she says, that Walter is poor, and has no present prospects,” continued Gay, “and she has dinned his poverty so incessantly into father’s ear that he has got frightened about it, and has made up his mind that he will not part with me at all—that Walter must make his home with us. There was a terrible scene when Adelaide heard this; she declared she would not stop in the house under these conditions. And then Amy’s letter came, and she announced her resolution of living at Chislehurst. I do not like the idea of driving Addie away, but,” finished Gay, with an odd little laugh, “I think father and I will manage very well without her.”
We talked a little more on the subject until I was dismissed, and I had plenty of food for my thoughts when I went back to the quiet nursery.
(To be continued.)