Uncle Max. Rosa Nouchette Carey
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.
CHAPTER V
'WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY'
Aunt Philippa had one very good point in her character: she was not of a nagging disposition. When she scolded she did it thoroughly, and was perhaps a long time doing it, but she never carried it into the next day.
Jill always said her mother was too indolent for a prolonged effort; but then poor Jill often said naughty things. But we all of us knew that Aunt Philippa's wrath soon evaporated; it made her hot and uncomfortable while it lasted, and she was glad to be quit of it: so she refrained herself prudently when I spoke of my approaching departure; and, being of a bustling temperament, and not averse to changes unless they gave her much trouble, she took a great deal of interest in my arrangements, and bought a nice little travelling-clock that she said would be useful to me.
Seeing her so pleasant and reasonable, I made a humble petition that Jill might be set free from some of her lessons to help me pack my books and ornaments. She made a little demur at this, and offered Draper's services instead; but it was Jill I wanted, for the poor child was fretting sadly about my going away, and I thought it would comfort her to help me. So after a time Aunt Philippa relented, after extorting a promise from Jill that she would work all the harder after I had gone; and, as young people seldom think about the future except in the way of foolish dreams, Jill cheerfully gave her word. So for the last few days we were constantly together, and Fräulein had an unexpected holiday. Jill worked like a horse in my service, and only broke one Dresden group; she came to me half crying with the fragment in her hand—the poor little shepherdess had lost her head as well as her crook, and the pink coat of the shepherd had an unseemly rent in it—but I only laughed at the disaster, and would