CHAPTER II.
UNCLE TOM.
e came from the darkness without into the warmth and brightness of the hall, and threw back his heavy Inverness cape, revealing a square, bearded face, a broad, well-knit figure, and a pair of shrewd and not unkindly brown eyes.
“You are our Uncle Tom,” said Oscar, going forward to meet him. “We are very glad to see you. It is kind of you to come.”
“Well, well, boy, duty is duty all the world over. I would have come a fortnight ago, but it was impossible. No disrespect meant to your father, you understand. So you are poor Maud’s children, are you? We always called her ‘poor Maud’ at home, though I scarcely know why. She was happy enough, I know, but she seemed like one dead to us somehow. You are a bit like what she was as a girl, I can see. Perhaps the sister favours her more,” and he looked across at Sheila, who now came forward with outstretched hand.
“How do you do, Uncle Tom? I hope you are not very cold. It has been quite warm till yesterday, and then the cold came back. We are very glad to see you,” and Sheila held up her face for the kiss of the strange uncle.
“Thank you, my dear. I hope we shall be good friends. Oh, I am too seasoned a traveller to mind cold or darkness or anything like that. No, you are not so like your mother as the boy. I am sorry for that. John and I rather set our hearts on having another little Maud back again. Are you called after your mother, my dear?”
“No, my name is Sheila. I was called after my grandmother,” answered the girl, and her uncle dropped her hand, saying—
“Ah, I am sorry for that! Somehow we had got into the way of calling you little Maud. I suppose we knew the right name; but none of us remembered it.”
Sheila felt a little damped; she hardly knew why. Oscar took the guest to his room, and he shortly returned without having made any attempt to dress himself for dinner, and his apology for the omission was of the briefest, as though he considered the matter quite immaterial. He was not at all a bad-looking man, though there was something in his appearance different from what the girl had been used to in the life of her secluded home. In his travelling clothes he certainly looked a good deal rougher than those friends of her father who sometimes used to drop in for lunch or dinner; and his voice was louder than theirs; and there was a little indescribable accent about his speech, which suggested a lack of polish if not of education. But there was no fault to be found with his deportment, and he was rather interesting in his talk at dinner. He described to Oscar some of the new processes in the works, and in particular how they were utilising electricity for lighting their buildings and driving some of the engines. And Oscar’s rather keen and intelligent interest in this made a visible and favourable impression upon their new relation.
Sheila did not sufficiently understand the matter to be much interested; but she studied her uncle’s face, and decided that she should like him, although she thought she might stand a little in awe of him too. She fancied he could be pretty stern if he were angry, and that though a just man, he would be a rather exacting one, and would allow no loitering or shirking in any place where he was master.
She was left rather long alone in the drawing-room after she had left her brother and uncle together; but when they came to her, she thought that Oscar looked pleased and animated, whilst her uncle’s face wore a quietly satisfied expression.
He came and sat down beside her and looked her all over with an air of taking her measure, which half amused and half vexed her.
“Yes, you will do very well up at the big house. It will suit you, and you will suit it. We are not fine enough for you in River Street; but you will find a good setting in Cossart Place.”
“But I would rather go with Oscar, Uncle Tom, if I might,” said Sheila, with a coaxing note in her voice.
“Ah, so you think now; but you might change your mind if you were to see the two houses. You’ve not been used to live in a street; and besides we haven’t too much room to spare. But they will make you quite comfortable at Cossart Place; and besides you are specially wanted up there to be a companion for poor Effie.”
“Who is Effie?” asked Sheila, half ashamed that she did not even know the names of her cousins. Her mother had now and then spoken vaguely of these relatives; but Sheila had not felt any keen interest, and if ever she had heard of them individually, it was all forgotten long ago; and for the last five years she had almost ceased to remember the existence of her mother’s kindred.
“She is the only child my poor brother has reared out of a fine young family of six,” answered the uncle gravely. “I can’t think what came to all the young ones. Whilst mine grew and throve, his would begin to pine away and dwindle when they got to be about twelve years old—sometimes before. Their mother has always been rather a delicate woman to be sure; but there doesn’t seem enough in that to account for it. Anyway that’s how they all went, and they buried them one after the other. All but Effie, the youngest, and she’s grown up a fairly healthy girl till the last year or two; and now she seems delicate, and you can guess how they feel about her.”
Sheila was interested at once in the story of these little dead children, and of the cousin who had lived to grow up.
“How old is Effie now?”
“Twenty-two, but you wouldn’t think it. She seems a good bit younger; she’s been made a baby of, you see. They are anxious to have a companion for her to keep her amused, and take care of her in her walks and drives and all that kind of thing. My girls go up as often as they can; but that isn’t the same thing as being always in the house. Directly we heard about your loss, and that you would have to leave your present home, we all said that it would be a fine thing for Effie to have a cousin to be a sister and playfellow.”
“Perhaps she won’t like it so much herself,” said Sheila, with a little upward glance through her long eye-lashes. “People don’t always like a new sister thrust down their throats. I’m not sure that I should have liked it myself; though papa used sometimes to say that he wished I had one.”
“Effie is a bit spoiled, I won’t deny that,” answered Uncle Tom in his straightforward fashion. “What could you expect after such a family history? She is not always the easiest person to please or amuse; but you will be patient with her, I daresay, my dear, and try to do her good.”
Sheila was just a little taken aback. She had always been the petted darling at home. It seemed rather a turning of the tables to expect her to study the caprices and whims of another spoilt child. Sheila knew that people called her that sometimes. There had been moments in her life when it had come over her with a certain sense of uneasiness that it might be true. But it was very pleasant, and she had a sunny, happy temperament. She was seldom vexed or angry even if things did not go quite right, and she had heard people say of her that she was “unspoilt in spite of spoiling,” so she had got into the way of thinking that it had not hurt her to be an only daughter, ruling the house beneath the mild sway of an indulgent father.
But that was a very different thing from being expected to play the part of companion and sister to a cousin in uncertain health, who appeared to have had everything her own way all her life.
“What is the matter with Effie, Uncle Tom?”
“Well, my dear, I am not quite sure what it is. Sometimes I think she might be less ailing if there were less fuss about her symptoms. She was a lively little puss enough till about two years ago, and then she began with asthma, and got thin, and had a cough, and ever since then there has been a regular panic about her—doctors by the dozen, and new prescriptions every month. It’s enough to make any girl fanciful; but the poor child does have bad bouts sometimes—there’s no mistaking that. We strong folks must not be too hard on the ailing ones. Perhaps we should have our fads and fancies too if we were in their shoes. When I heard about what would have to happen here, I said to my brother, ‘The best thing in the world for Effie will be to have her cousin to be a sister and companion for her.’”
“And what did Effie say to it?” asked Sheila.
“Well, I never asked. Effie is a bit what nurses call contrary. She doesn’t always take kindly to what is settled for her; but she has a good heart at bottom. You will get on with her all right enough. Raby and Ray always say that her bark is worse than her bite.”
“Who are Raby and Ray?” asked Sheila, who felt the subject of Effie to be a little discouraging.
“Why, my two girls, to be sure. Rebecca and Rachel are their right names; but that’s what they get called at home. Lydia is married, and so is my eldest boy, Tom. He went off to Australia, and is doing well. But we have four at home still—the two girls and two boys, North and Cyril. North (he was called after his mother’s family name) is my right hand at the works. He’s a good steady fellow is North, and works hard. Cyril is the fine gentleman of the family. Nothing would serve him but a university education. He has been at Cambridge, and took his degree at Christmas. He can’t quite make up his mind now between the Church and the Bar. He’s having a spell at home to think about it. You’ll get on with Cyril, you two; he’s quite your style, you’ll see.”
Mr. Tom Cossart spoke with evident pride of this son. Oscar and Sheila were both interested in hearing of their cousins and the home that awaited them in Isingford. Sheila saw that there was no chance of getting taken in at Uncle Tom’s with Oscar. Everything had plainly been settled with a view to her being companion and sister to Effie. She tried to think it would be pleasant to have a sister, and consoled herself with the promise that Oscar should come and see her regularly on Saturdays, and perhaps stay for the Sunday too. It was plain that the Cossarts meant to be kind to them, although they intended to arrange their lives for them in their own fashion.
The days which followed were very busy and rather sorrowful. It was one long good-bye to familiar persons and possessions.
The more closely Mr. Cholmondeley’s affairs were looked into, the less satisfactory they proved to be; and it was soon evident that almost everything would have to be sold before all the claims upon the estate could be cleared off.
Mr. Tom Cossart strove to avoid making severe remarks upon the shiftless methods of the dead man; but Oscar felt his disapproval, and could not be blind himself to the selfishness of the long course of indolent procrastination which had marked his father’s rule. The son and daughter would have been left almost penniless had it not been for the small fortune of their mother; and that was a mere pittance to the son and daughter reared in every luxury. The girl and boy were allowed to select such things as they specially treasured from the plenishings of the house; but the bulk must go to the hammer.
Everything was being wound up as quickly as possible; and Sheila soon began to wish it were all over. It was so trying and sorrowful; and she could not bear to see her uncle’s grim face as he looked about him and made arrangements. She knew he was feeling how hard it was that a fine property had been allowed to go to rack and ruin for want of a strong hand on the reins, and a managing and unselfish heart to dictate reforms and retrenchment in times of depression.
Sheila was not one who attached herself very greatly to inanimate objects; but she was devoted to her live pets. And her uncle found her in tears in the stable once, with her arms about the neck of her little mare Shamrock, who had been broken on the place, and had carried her young mistress ever since she had been a colt. She was quite young still, and a very pretty creature. The thought of parting from her was heartbreaking to Sheila.
“I would almost rather she was shot, Uncle Tom,” she said, with a little sob in her voice. “I can’t bear to think what may become of her. She will have a good home, I daresay, whilst she is young and handsome; but when she grows old she may be so badly treated. I can’t bear to think of it!”
“Tut, tut, my dear, don’t cry! Why, I don’t see why you and your horse shouldn’t go together. There is plenty of room at Cossart Place; and it would do Effie a world of good to put her on horseback. We’re not much of riders ourselves, we Cossarts; but Effie did have a pony once. She would take to it again. There, there, my dear, don’t smother me. You shall have your horse right enough. I’ll make that all square here, and with your uncle and aunt yonder.”
“Oh, Uncle Tom, you’re a darling!” cried Sheila in her impulsive way with her arms about his neck; and though Mr. Tom Cossart had probably never been called a darling since his babyhood, and was not at all used to being hugged, he found it amazingly pleasant to be so treated by his pretty little niece. Not that Sheila was really little; but she seemed so from her childlike appealing ways; and her uncle had slipped into the way of calling her “Baby,” which from him she did not mind a bit.
It was almost a relief at last both to Oscar and Sheila to say their final farewells, and feel they had left the old life behind them. As the train bore them away from the familiar country in which they had been born and brought up, Sheila was able to dry her wet eyes and look at her uncle with a brave little smile.
“I’m not going to cry any more, Uncle Tom,” she said; “I’m going to try and be happy and useful and good. I’ve made lots and lots of good resolutions. Don’t you think it’s a good plan when one is beginning a different sort of life? And it’s so nice of you to take me in at your house for a few days—just till I get used to being away! It won’t seem quite so strange if I am with you and Oscar for a little while.”
“Yes, yes, my dear; you shall stay with us the first night or two; and we shall always be pleased to see you down in River Street whenever you have a mind to come. But you’ll like Cossart Place when you get there. It’s a fine house, and has been made a good deal finer by my brother. It used to be called The Grange, and a lot of it is quite old and rambling and queer; but the new wing has made a different place of it, and it’s got a new name too. Very few people call it The Grange now.”
“I think the old name is nicer than the new,” said Sheila boldly, “and I like old houses better than new ones. I hope they will give me a room in the old part. I shall ask Aunt Cossart for one. And I shall call the house The Grange.”
Uncle Tom laughed and muttered something about “a wilful young puss,” but Sheila laughed and shook her head at him. She was not a bit afraid of her uncle now, though she still felt that she would not like to arouse his displeasure.
He presently folded up his paper and put his head out of the window.
“We are getting very near now. That is the river which runs through the works a little farther on. You will see the chimneys of the town very soon. It looks a dirty sort of place as we come in by rail; but you’ll not find it such a bad one to live in.”
Sheila’s heart beat rather fast as she looked out over the level flats dotted with houses. It was not pretty; but it was the new home, and on that account it was interesting—even exciting.
“I mean to like everything!” she said to herself bravely.
(To be continued.)