you, my dear? Well, it was his, and take my word for it, he’ll be a noted man one of these days. He’s clever, promising, a deep thinker, observes keenly; you’ll be proud to see him here, Amyce, and it will fall to you to entertain him, for an old man like myself can’t do much. You must take the trouble off my hands, and make yourself very agreeable.”
I sat in bewilderment. My poor old uncle’s thoughts travelled far more rapidly than did his tongue. He evidently believed he had given me full explanations, whereas he had only imparted the fact of a visit from some public man, whose entertainment would devolve on me. I cannot say I felt comfortable under the disclosure. Not daring to ask further questions, I ran my eye down the columns of the “Times,” endeavouring to decide which was the speech to which my uncle had referred. How I wished then that I had paid more attention to my reading!
Who could it be? Mr. Cobden’s name was mentioned—could it be he? or Mr. Bright, perhaps? Or, let me see, who were people of note—Lord Palmerston? ah, but he could hardly be called a rising man—or was it?—but I paused, for the footman had summoned Mrs. Butterworth and she was already in the doorway.
My uncle did not notice her low tap, and I had to attract his attention. Glancing hurriedly round and observing her, he suddenly grew confused and uncomfortable, fidgeted his poor rheumatic hands about, threw down his cane, wondered what she had come for, or if anything was the matter.
I had to recal to him his own desire to consult her about my dress.
Oh, yes, he remembered; and he rambled off into childish abuse of my gown and hair-dressing; scolded Mrs. Butterworth about it, scolded me, and ended with a few weak tears because he said nobody cared for pleasing him and he never had things as he liked.
In the midst of all this, Nurse Butterworth had stolen round to the back of his chair and was busily arranging the pillows. It struck me that he shrunk from her eye and was unusually restless under her observation. He kept blustering on about this unfortunate muslin, and from time to time the old woman put in a soothing word.
“Yes, the frock wasn’t a nice one. Miss Amyce should have something smarter for Sunday, there then; wasn’t it almost bed-time?”
“No,” he growled out, turning his back upon her, “he wasn’t going to bed; he wasn’t going to be ordered about like a child, and Amyce should have a proper dress before Sunday—she must have one by to-morrow.”
“Well—well, we’ll see about it, but hardly by to-morrow,—day after, mebbe.”
“But it must be to-morrow. I will have her dressed properly with company in the house.”
“Company?”
Nurse Butterworth stopped short and glanced with curiosity from me to him. She, even better than I, knew that her master had refused to see anyone for long and dreary years.
Poor old Uncle John drew the fold of a tartan shawl close to his face, and seemed inclined to cover himself up altogether. I wondered what there was in the mere word company to discompose him so strangely. In half compassion to him, as well as the half hope of enlightening Butterworth, I ventured to say that a gentleman was coming to-morrow, and that Uncle John wished her to see that the Alcove room was made ready for his reception.
“A gentleman,” she enunciated slowly and drily, “and can you tell me what his name is, Miss Amyce?”
“No, I don’t think Uncle John said,” I was replying, when with an effort, Uncle John himself dropped his tartan shawl, and still averting his face from the housekeeper, explained:
“You’ll remember the name, Butterworth, it is Mr. Hedworth Charlton.”
“So?” and the sound which the old woman’s lips emitted was something between a whistle and a sigh.
Uncle John turned round quickly, and their eyes met. His dropped immediately, hers sparkled with intelligence; but the next moment she was saying something in her every-day voice about them new coals making a deal of nasty white ashes in the grates; and when we both directed our gaze to the fireplace, the old woman beat an unceremonious retreat from the room.
After she had left us my uncle leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, and, fancying that he had fallen asleep, I laid aside the “Times,” and drew from under the heap of papers at my side a certain large-printed volume with “Mudie’s” name on the cover, which I had concealed there when I heard his step in the hall after dinner. Like all young girls, I dearly loved a novel; but, having a shy conviction that this light kind of reading would scarcely be in accordance with my uncle’s peculiar views, I carefully kept my studies from his observation. I should scarcely have ventured to bring out the book now, had I not firmly believed him to be unconscious, and, moreover, been myself extremely interested in the tale.
Now, having once or twice glanced hastily up to assure myself he was sleeping, I luxuriously resigned myself to follow the adventures of my heroine.
About an hour passed away, and the silvery-voiced clock on the mantelpiece arousing me to the fact of having already outstayed my usual bedtime, I closed the volume and turned round to my uncle’s arm-chair.
To my surprise, he was wide awake, resting his chin on his hand, and gazing intently at me with his keen black eyes.
“What are you reading, Amyce?” he questioned, in a softer voice than it was his wont to employ, and his hand was out-stretched to receive the book.
I felt my cheeks burning, and instinctively my fingers folded tightly over the volume.
“Oh, Uncle John! you will think it such foolish reading.”
“Why should I, Amyce? I’ve been young myself, and enjoyed a novel, too—come!” and I had no alternative but to resign the treasure.
He spread it open on his knees, turned over a page or two, I standing at his side in shame-faced