When her letter had gone, Sidney began to wish it back; there was so much she wished to alter in it; and then she laughed at the importance it was assuming in her eyes.
"What does it matter? Why should I think so much about it? I wish he were here. I loved talking to him. And yet I am glad he is away, for he would follow the others down to Mrs. Norman's cottage and give her the benefit of all his ideas. What a jealous creature I am getting! Mrs. Norman seems to creep into all my thoughts."
But Mrs. Norman did figure in Sidney's life a good deal, and she could not get away from her. The day after Mrs. de Cressiers' return from town, Austin appeared. It was after dinner, and Sidney and her father had retired to the study to have a cosy time together. The Major had strolled down to Mrs. Norman's with a magazine he had promised her. Austin came in rather breathlessly.
"I want to speak to you," he said, addressing Sidney.
"Am I in the way?" asked the Admiral.
Austin looked a little embarrassed; so, without a word, Sidney took him into the drawing-room.
"Have you been getting into any scrape?" she asked him.
"No; it's only—Dash it all! I won't beat about the bush. I want you to persuade the mother to call upon Mrs. Norman soon—to-morrow. She's so on her high horse with me. It's ridiculous! You can influence her; she is fond of you. It's a shame! The poor little woman is connected with us. Why should she be snubbed because she is poor and unknown? It's rank snobbery. You know what mother is like: 'I may call on her when I have time. There is no hurry. She is a complete stranger to me,' etc. etc. Do go up to-morrow and make her see reason."
Sidney smiled at his eagerness.
"My dear boy, your mother won't be driven. Does it make a vast difference to Mrs. Norman whether your mother calls at once or a little later? She means to do it, which is something."
"I should rather think she did," said Austin hotly. "She ought to have done it before she went away. Now, be a brick, and tell the mother what a good sort Mrs. Norman is. Women are always so queer when a man praises one of their own sex. But you're different; you're generous, and she'll listen to you and take your word for it."
Sidney was touched by his faith in her.
"I will do my very best," she said, "but don't blame me if I fail."
Austin looked relieved. He sat back in a chair and commenced to talk. He had not been to the house for a long time, and Sidney was glad to have him back on the old lines. But his talk was chiefly of Mrs. Norman, and Sidney listened and tried to give him her sympathy.
"Can't think why your uncle is always poking about down there. He's making her a fence now, but I told her it wasn't necessary; she has a nice iron railing. What else could she want? And he strikes me as getting quite doddery—makes eyes at her. Don't laugh! She finds him rather a bore, between ourselves; but he turns up nearly every day, she tells me."
"Poor Uncle Ted! Why shouldn't he like to talk to her as much as you do?"
Sidney's eyes were mischievous, but for once Austin did not join in her humour.
"I hope I shan't be so garrulous when I get to his age," he muttered.
In accordance with her promise, Sidney went up to Thanning Towers the next morning, but though Mrs. de Cressiers was unfeignedly glad to see her, nothing would induce her to call upon Mrs. Norman that same day.
"It's perfectly ridiculous, Sidney. Of course, I know that Austin has sent you to me. He seems quite infatuated with her. And it is a thousand pities. I have heard all about her in town. She married her husband for the sake of a home, neglected him whilst alive, and now poses as a broken-hearted widow. She couldn't be bothered to bring up her own child; found her an encumbrance when travelling about, and she has been brought up entirely by her father's family. Why she has come down here, I cannot fathom. She has five hundred a year of her own, but has very extravagant tastes. Now, is she a suitable wife for Austin?"
"I should see her and judge for myself," said Sidney craftily. Then she added quietly:
"I think if you oppose Austin in the matter you will perhaps hurry him into an engagement with her, when otherwise the acquaintance may die a natural death."
Mrs. de Cressiers sighed.
"I wish you and Austin would make a match of it. He is really fond of you, Sidney."
Sidney laughed gaily.
"As a sister, nothing more. I am much too old for him. He is a mere boy. I couldn't marry anyone younger than myself."
"Isn't this woman older than you?"
"I don't think it will come to anything. Uncle Ted is as often there as Austin. It's most amusing. But I'm afraid they're beginning to dislike each other heartily."
"Oh, I know her kind."
Mrs. de Cressiers' tone was contemptuous. Then she said with deliberation:
"I shall call on her to-morrow afternoon, and you must come with me."
"Oh, please not! I can't help thinking that she doesn't like me."
"Her likes or her dislikes cannot affect you. I will call for you in the carriage at three o'clock, and I shall stay ten minutes with her, not a moment more; and then you must come back to tea with me."
"You are so masterful," murmured Sidney.
She told Austin later of the result of her visit. He was satisfied.
"I said to her the mother was generally rather done up by her visits to town, so if she goes to-morrow it will be all right. And I'm glad you're going too, for you will prevent mother from being ''igh and 'aughty,' as our old nurse used to say."
Sidney did not relish what was before her, but she made the best of it, and the next afternoon joined Mrs. de Cressiers at the time appointed.
"Oh, dear!" she said with her bright laugh, as she looked at Mrs. de Cressiers in her most imposing attire, "I am glad I am not the poor victim of your visitation."
Mrs. de Cressiers smiled very slightly. Sidney was a favoured person, and perhaps the very fact that she had never been afraid of Mrs. de Cressiers was a point in her favour, for it was the fearful and timid who suffered most from that lady's masterful spirit.
"I am visiting her as a neighbour," she said.
"And as a friend," Sidney put in.
"That remains to be seen."
Lovelace's Cottage was fast assuming a neat and pretty aspect. A respectable-looking maidservant opened the door and ushered them into the tiny drawing-room, where they found Mrs. Norman sitting by a bright fire with needlework in her hand. She had discarded her loud-coloured cardigans and short skirts, and was in a dark green cloth gown which fitted her to perfection. The room was dainty and fresh. Yellow chrysanthemums were in bowls on the table. Her greeting to Mrs. de Cressiers was quiet and simple.
"It is very kind of you to come to see me. I did not expect it. I think I have made acquaintance with your son. Major Urquhart brought him in one day. What a nice fresh boy he is! He told me he felt quite lost when you were away. I don't expect to see him now you are back; but he seemed so lonely that I quite pitied him."
"Then I am afraid you wasted your pity," said Mrs. de Cressiers in her most frosty tone, "for Austin and I have our interests entirely apart, and we are hardly ever together."
Sidney's cheeks got quite hot, but Mrs. Norman was quite serene. She turned towards Sidney with a smile.
"I can't tell you, Mrs. de Cressiers, how very good and kind Miss Urquhart and her people have been to me. I came as a stranger to a strange land, and they befriended me from the very first day. I have always heard that country neighbours are real friends, and now I have proved it. Major Urquhart is my great stand-by. I think hardly a day passes without his coming down to give me some bit of advice or counsel. And one really feels that a man of that age can help one tremendously without any unseemly gossip following his kindness."
"I don't think we gossip in these parts," said Sidney. "Do we, Mrs. de Cressiers? There are so few to be interested in the doings of their neighbours. The rector is an old bachelor, and the doctor has a family of ten children, who keep their mother more than busy, and our other neighbours live too far-away to know anything about our daily life."
"Are you making a home here for your daughter?" asked Mrs. de Cressiers abruptly.
Just a glint of light seemed to pass over Mrs. Norman's eyes as she replied with a little laugh.
"I wish I could say 'Yes,' but she finds it dull to be with me. She is one of these modern girls who must have their hockey and golf and young companionship. And she gets it all at her aunt's house. But I mean to have her down as soon as she will come. And I will bring her to see you, if I may. She is considered a very handsome girl. Let me show you her photo."
She rose and went to a side table, producing a cabinet photo of a singularly interesting-looking girl, with broad intellectual brow and earnest wistful eyes. Sidney gazed at it with pleasure.
"She has a beautiful face," she said warmly.
"So people say," said Mrs. Norman. Then she turned to Mrs. de Cressiers: "I have heard so much of your goodness to the village people that I fancy there is not a small corner which I could occupy, is there? I do so want to do something to help my poorer neighbours. You see, I am an idle woman, and after a busy life the days will seem rather empty here unless I fill them with work and local interests. I used to help the secretary of the G.F.S. in Norfolk. I have always been interested in that society. I wonder if a branch has been started here?"
Sidney almost smiled as the big fish at last rose to the bait. Mrs. de Cressiers had been keenly anxious for a long while to have a branch of the G.F.S. in the villages surrounding her property. It had been tried, but for lack of proper organisation it had failed, and she could persuade no lady to take it. Sidney had enough already on her hands, and her father did not want her to take up anything more. She had her Sunday scholars, and a weekly working party amongst the fisherwomen, and was a district visitor as well. In fact, she was the rector's right hand in most of his parish work.
Now Mrs. de Cressiers began to thaw. In a few minutes she and Mrs. Norman were having an animated discussion upon the merits and advantages of the G.F.S., and the visit of ten minutes lengthened into nearly half an hour. Tea appeared, but that Mrs. de Cressiers would not stay for. When she and Sidney at last drove away, she said thoughtfully:
"Perhaps I was prejudiced. She is a lady, and evidently sees more of your uncle than of Austin. He is a mere boy, of course. I must have some girls down to stay in the house; they will employ his spare time. And I really shall be very thankful if Mrs. Norman will work up the G.F.S. in this part."
Sidney wisely said nothing, but she confided in her father that evening that Mrs. Norman was the cleverest woman she had ever met.
THE SHADOW OF A CLOUD
IT was a wild wet November afternoon. Rain and wind were making havoc of the few late flowers in Sidney's sheltered garden. Petals of dahlias, chrysanthemums, and even late roses were flying through the air; the trees and shrubs were swaying and bending under the gale, and every window and chimney in the house creaked and whistled in company with the wind outside.
The Admiral sat with his head in his hands over the study fire. He had caught a slight chill, and a bout of toothache completed his discomfort and depression. He had had words with his brother at luncheon, a most unusual occurrence, and Major Urquhart had sworn and flung out of the room, leaving his food unfinished upon his plate. It was over a trifle: the Admiral did not want some trees cut down in the garden, the Major did, and the altercation was sharp and bitter. Sidney was astonished at the Major's virulence, and when he got up from the table, he shouted:
"By —, we'll see who's master here!"
She puzzled over his words. Major Urquhart had been proverbial for his good nature and easy temper. He had never, since Sidney could remember, asserted his wishes above those of his brother's, but lately he had become irritable and restless, and much more argumentative than of old. They had always been a very peaceful household, so that it was bewildering to Sidney now. She had gone after her uncle to try to make peace, but he shut himself up in his workshop, and told her he did not wish to be disturbed. Then she came into her father's study and softly touched him on the shoulder.
"Dad dear!"
The Admiral looked up. It was not only pain that had brought such a shadow across his face, but he tried to smile.
"I shan't be good company this afternoon," he said, with an effort to speak cheerfully.
"I don't know what possesses Uncle Ted! He is quite unlike himself." Sidney spoke resentfully.
"I think there's something going on down at the Cottage," said the Admiral a little wearily.
"But it would be too ridiculous if he were in love with Mrs. Norman," said Sidney; "and I think she aspires higher than poor Uncle Ted. She is making a fool of him, and he knows it, and that makes him angry. Why, Austin would be a much better match for her, for he will come into a big property!"
"If she wants a comfortable home, Ted could give it to her."
"By bringing her here? Oh, don't suggest such a thing! It would be too awful! I am sure she would not agree to it. She must be mistress wherever she is."
"But she would be!" said the Admiral. "Do you think this house belongs to me?"
Sidney stared at him. She thought for a minute that her father had taken leave of his senses.
And then the Admiral put his arm round her.
"Come and sit down. I have never told you, for there seemed no need; but when my father died, he left this house and property to Ted. He gave me extra money in lieu of it. He fancied that as a seafaring man I would never settle down. You know your uncle and I are twins, but he is my senior by a few minutes. Well, at the time of my father's death, Ted was abroad, and much in need of money. He wrote to me saying that he did not care for this part of the world, and that he would never elect to live here. If I liked to have the house, and send him some of the extra money that had been left me, we would be quits. I agreed, sent him a big cheque in a very unbusinesslike fashion, and took up my abode here.
"Then he got wounded and left the Army. He travelled abroad for a short time, but drifted back here and settled down. We mutually agreed to live together, but I was to run the house, and he to pay me so much yearly towards the household expenses. There has never been a hitch till the other night. He came back late from the Cottage. You had gone to bed. He told me he much regretted giving over this house to me, and added, 'Of course, it is still legally mine.' I asked him why he should talk so, and he muttered something about a man wishing to settle down, and it was a mistake to have a divided household."
Sidney's face blanched.
"Why, dad, this is dreadful! He can turn us out! If she means to marry him—and I believe she does—she will make him do it! Our sweet pretty home! I can't believe it!"
Quick tears sprang to her eyes.
"It's awful! I never imagined the house was not yours. It is, it must be. He gave it to you. He could not be so despicable as to say he did not."
"I'm afraid it's a question of pride with me," said her father, holding up his head sternly. "If he wishes to dispute the fact of ownership, you and I must make our best bow and walk out!"
Sidney's face was full of horror at the thought.
"It will never come to that, it cannot! We have been such a happy family, and I'm really fond of Uncle Ted, and he likes me. He couldn't be such a brute! Oh, dad, dear, you don't feel well, and facts have become distorted in your mind. It is only the merest, most shadowy possibility! It will not come to pass!"
"We will hope for the best."
But there was no hope in the Admiral's voice, only tired depression.
Sidney looked at him with affectionate anxiety; then she persuaded him to move to his couch, which she drew up near the fire.
"You said you had a sleepless night, so do try and have a nap now. I will cover you up warmly. There's nothing so depressing as toothache. You will feel quite differently about everything when you wake. You and I will have a cosy tea together. Oh, dad, dear, nothing on earth matters if you and I have each other."
Sidney bent down and kissed her father passionately as she spoke, then she slipped out of the room, and for a moment her cheerfulness deserted her. Then she pulled herself together.
"I shall go out and battle with the elements. I feel I must fight someone! And Uncle Ted is keeping out of my way."
She ran upstairs to equip herself for her walk, and in a few minutes was walking briskly out of the house. She had no umbrella, only a walking-stick; indeed, she could not have kept an umbrella open, the wind was so violent. But her waterproof tweed coat and cap were impervious to the wet, and she liked to feel the rain sting her cheeks. For one wild moment she meditated climbing the Beacon, and then she realised that she would have no chance of keeping her footing in the gale, so she tramped along the country roads. They were bordered by woods for a couple of miles, and the smell of the wet leaves underfoot and the moist earth gave her a sensation of pleasure. She had plenty to think about. The prospect hinted at by her father hung like a heavy black cloud in front of her; but she resolutely tried to push it out of her thoughts. Her uncle's present state of irritability more concerned her.
"I wonder if I have been neglectful of him," she mused. "He always has lived his life pretty much to himself. Perhaps he has felt lonely, and Mrs. Norman's eager sympathy has made him feel the want of it at home. Father and I are always together; but he has had his carpentering and fishing, and we have generally been together in the evenings. I will try in future to be more with him, to interest myself in what he is doing."
Then her thoughts, in an inexplicable fashion, flew to Randolph; she began to picture him in his lonely life, to wonder if he ever longed for a woman to speak to, for she remembered the statement that the doctor made to him on board ship. "Not a single European woman in the station."
"He is too good to go to pieces," she said to herself. "I don't know how it is, but I always felt that he was a tower of strength to lean against. I wish he were here now. I believe he would be able to manage Uncle Ted."
She had come to a turn in the road, and suddenly met Monica walking briskly towards her. The young women stared at each other. Monica was also in suitable country garb; she scorned umbrellas at all times, but it was not her usual custom to take walks by herself, and Sidney knew that this particular road led to no place or house to which business might call her.
"How nice to meet you!" Sidney cried. "Where have you been?"
"I've been tramping off my temper," Monica replied stolidly.
Sidney's merry laugh rippled out.
"How delicious! I've come out on pretty much the same errand, only it is a fit of the blues, not temper, which I wish to get rid of. You're not going back yet!"
"I'll turn and walk a bit farther with you. I've had a rasping day, and that imp Chuckles is at the bottom of it. You know I'm having some new pigsties built; well, one was finished this morning, or pretty nearly—the masons had done their part and gone. What did that child do but deliberately slip out in the driving storm and demolish the whole building. How he did it I don't know; he kicked and beat and tore the bricks off one after the other. I caught him standing in the ruins. He seemed beside himself with exultation. He yelled when he saw me:
"'It hadn't a funation, Aunt Monnie; Higgs wouldn't build it on a piece of rock, and so, of course, it has all come down with a crash. The wind and storm and me didded it altogether! I telled Higgs he would find it all gone away! He'll have to build another on a rock!'
"I was so exasperated that I did not argue the point with him, but gave him bread and water for his dinner for that piece of deliberate mischief. I left him to Aunt Dannie for the afternoon, and then, as I discovered the sheep had escaped out of their proper field, I thought to myself that he might like to help me drive them back. He never bears malice—that's one of his good points—and I hate being out of friends with him. So I went indoors and called him. He was in an arm-chair by the dining-room fire, drawing with pencil and paper. Aunt Dannie was opposite, nodding off to sleep. When he heard why I wanted him, he looked up calmly:
"'No, fanks; I'm more comfable here.'
"Then my anger rose, for I am determined to bring him up hardily.
"'You'll come out at once,' I said, 'or go straight to bed. I'm not going to have you turn into a little mollycoddle, sitting by the fire and letting your aunt go out in the rain. A man would be ashamed to do such a thing.'
"That touched him, but unfortunately Aunt Dannie woke and gave a shiver.
"'Ugh!' she said. 'It's not fit for a dog to be out in such weather!'
"And then the imp pursed up his mouth and defied me.
"'I won't come, fanks,' he said.
"So I carried him, kicking and screaming, upstairs, undressed him, and put him into bed; and then, as I shut the door and came downstairs, he burst it open and shouted after me:
"'I hates you, Aunt Monnie, I hates you!'
"I heard the thud of his bare feet as he scampered back into bed. It may seem ridiculous, but I was in such a tumult that I came straight out of the house, drove the sheep back, and then tramped the roads to bring myself into order. For, Sidney, I cannot show it, but I dote on that child! He is all I live for, work for! Do you think he will learn to hate me? I do want to bring him up a self-disciplined industrious man; but am I making him my enemy by so doing?"
"Poor baby!" said Sidney, the soft tender look stealing into her eyes, the look that all mothers have, and that some single women have, too. "His heart is yours, you need not trouble, but your methods are drastic with him. I own he is a pickle, but I'm afraid I'm to blame for his demolishing your pigsty. I have filled his mind with the necessity of a foundation, and he applies it at once in a practical fashion to the first fresh-made building he sees!"
"Oh, I don't mind that so much, but I will not have him choose ease rather than duty."
Sidney laughed.
"You do amuse me, Monnie, though I own your principles are right; but you make duty a terrible bugbear!"
"It's a stern reality with me."
"You have the spirit of the old Puritans. You're quite a generation or two behind your time."
"I may be behind most of you, but I'm not a Puritan. I wish sometimes I had a little of their faith. I live in a material world, and I'm of a material nature."
"And you build on the sand," said Sidney softly; "but, of course, your building is only for this life, so you do not expect it to last."
"I expect it to last over my time, and for Chuckles, too. I'm building for him and no other."
"And if at any time anything happened to him? Suppose he did not live to grow up?"
Monica gripped her arm fiercely.
"Don't say such horrible things! His life and mine are bound up in each other. Let us talk of other matters."
"No," said Sidney, "this is so interesting; but we won't suppose anything dreadful will happen to Chuckles. You don't really mean, Monnie, that your whole life will be given to providing a prosperous farm for Chuckles? Do you see no other goal ahead?"
"None. I want to be a success in the line I have mapped out for myself. I care for nothing else. My epitaph can be:
"'She made earth give her its best,And earth demanded her best in return.'"
"No, that's heathenish. It isn't worthy of you. Earth is our servant, not our master."
"Look at the churchyards."
"I see nothing there but worn-out caskets, waiting till their owners come back. Oh, Monnie, look up and believe!"
"It's too much trouble."
Monica seldom spoke so unreservedly, but Sidney was not shocked. She remembered her daily in her prayers, and believed that she would see differently one day. Then Monica gave herself a little shake.
"We have talked enough of my concerns. Tell me yours. Something is troubling you. What is it?"
"It seems such a mare's nest," said Sidney. "It's undefined trouble in the future, and, yet I don't know, I have something definite to worry me. You are so safe that I will tell you."
And Sidney told her friend of what her father had said to her that afternoon.
Monica's face grew grave as she listened.
"I don't quite share your fears. I think Mrs. Norman is one of those women who must be friendly with all men. Look at young Austin de Cressiers! They rode up to me yesterday; he had mounted her! She strikes me as being interested in everybody and everything. She talks most sensibly about poultry and farming, and really enjoys the subject. I heard them talking a good deal of the hunting field. She is a first-rate horsewoman, and if that engrosses her, your uncle won't see much of her, poor man!"
"No," said Sidney reflectively, "I suppose not; and if she wants another husband, there are plenty of men about who would suit her better than Uncle Ted. She will meet them if she hunts. But I am sorry for Mrs. de Cressiers. She won't see much of Austin now; she told me she hoped he would not hunt so much this winter as he did last, for the estate business wanted his attention. Of course, I think this weather and father's little chill has made both him and Uncle Ted a little teasy. I am sure Mrs. Norman will not be mistress of our home at present! It's quite ridiculous to imagine it. Oh, how good the wind and wet air is! I feel a different creature, don't you?"
"Yes," assented Monica. "We get apt to exaggerate trifles when we shut ourselves up within four walls. I'm going back to my imp now, and I don't feel that his fit of temper is likely to bring dire consequences upon us. Now we part ways. My advice is to you, treat your uncle's infatuation lightly, and be just and generous to Mrs. Norman. You are such a sympathetic little soul that you ought to see her side and make allowances for her accordingly. I'm not one to take to strangers, but I must say I like what I have seen of her."
Sidney walked back feeling that there must be something very wrong with her not to have the same regard for the young widow as had everyone else. "Even Mrs. de Cressiers is beginning to sing her praises, only I doubt if she will like Austin providing her with a hunter."
When she reached home she went straight to her uncle's workshop, and this time she was successful in gaining admission. He was not working, but sitting over his fire smoking his pipe. Sidney came in like a fresh genial breeze.
"Well, Uncle Ted, have you been in all this afternoon? It's really delicious out, if you don't mind a wind. I wish you'd been with me to enjoy it."
"I've been busy," her uncle said curtly. "Only just finished my job. How do you like it?"
He pointed to a wooden bench daintily turned and panelled.
"I think it's charming," said Sidney, stooping down to examine it. "It's for Mrs. Norman, I suppose?"
"Yes."
There was a hint of defiance in the Major's tone. Then Sidney took the bull by the horns.
"Dear Uncle Ted, I want to talk to you. We have been so happy together, that a breeze between you and dad is dreadful to me! Why were you so cross at luncheon? Now, tell me why."
She was down on her knees by his side, her hand affectionately on his shoulder. Few could resist Sidney when she exercised her charms.
The Major looked into her sweet pleading face and melted.
"It was my d-dashed leg again!" he said contritely. "This weather plays 'Old Harry' with it, and I've had red hot wires pulling at my nerves! And your father is so d-dashed conservative that he won't uproot a tree, even if it's blocking out an exquisite view. It's the one corner in the garden that would give us the mouth of the river and the sea. Mrs. Norman called my attention to it."
"Yes, we'll see what we can do. I think dad fancied you wanted more timber for your work, and you've had several trees this year, haven't you?"
"Well, and if I'd had fifty, is there any reason why I shouldn't have fifty-one?" demanded the Major, getting choleric again. "Whose are the trees, I'd like to know?"
"I always thought they were father's till to-day," said Sidney quietly. "You've given us quite a shock. I never knew properly how things stood between us. Of course, legally you can turn us out."
"Is it likely I'm going to do that?" said the Major, calming down. "I had no intention of saying what I did. Vernon is a fool to take notice of it. He had no right to repeat it to you."
"But it places us in a very awkward position, Uncle Ted, dear. Father is proud, and so am I. If you say you have the right to the house, and want to live alone, we shall walk out of it—to-morrow, if necessary."
The Major shot an almost frightened look at his niece; then he said humbly:
"We won't quarrel, Sid. We've lived fair and square together, only sometimes I feel I'd like to have a wife and a home of my own. It's not likely to happen. No one would put up with a lame, maimed creature like me, but I own I did have a bout of temper this morning."
"Then we won't say any more about it; but come into father's study with me, and we'll have a cosy tea together."
"I can't do that. I saw the hounds come back half an hour ago. That puppy is out with her, and she asked me to come down and hear about her first day out. It's lonely for a woman to turn into an empty house after a hard run and have no one to speak to. I wish to heavens that young cub had never lent her a mount! She'll break her neck with some of his half-trained hunters, but she told me her doctor strongly recommended her to ride for the sake of her health. It makes one feel the loss of one's legs when one remembers bygone days and what hard hunting one had."
Sidney gave a little caressing pat to his shoulder.
"We'll let bygones be bygones," she said half pityingly, half cheerily. "And when you meet father again, do be nice to him. He isn't at all well to-day."
"Nice," muttered the Major. "Wonder how often women make mention of that feminine adjective! I always loathed 'nice' behaviour!"
But his growl was no longer surly, and Sidney knew that peace had been restored.
RIVALS
MAJOR URQUHART went off to Lovelace's Cottage.
Yes, Mrs. Norman was in, the maid told him. Would he come in and wait? She was upstairs, but would be down directly.
So in he came, and scowled when he saw upon the mantelpiece a cabinet photo of Austin, in his pink coat, on his favourite hunter.
"Insolent puppy!" was his muttered imprecation.
In about ten minutes' time Mrs. Norman appeared. She was clad in a russet-brown velvet tea gown; a cluster of tea roses was fastened in some old point lace at her breast. Her face was flushed with her riding, the little curls about her forehead still damp with the rain. The Major had never seen her look more beautiful.
"How kind of you, Major!" she said, extending one white hand, and looking up at him with pleased eyes. "You see, I have not come to grief, as you prophesied, but I did wish you had been with us. We had such a splendid run. May I tell you about it, or would you rather not? Will it bore you?"
"Anything that interests you interests me," responded the Major gallantly.
"Ah, that is your unselfishness! When I think of what it must be to you to be deprived of the sport you once loved so much, it makes me marvel at your cheeriness. And instead of sitting still and developing into an irritable whining gouty invalid, you choose a hobby which not only employs your odd time, but is of such inestimable benefit to your fellow-creatures. And you're always busy, always contented. I often think you are not half appreciated by your relatives, but, as we were saying the other day, three in family is rather an awkward number—one invariably goes to the wall. And, of course, Miss Urquhart is wrapped up in her father, and he in her. It is only natural! Well, I am digressing. Now I will describe our run."
Mrs. Norman was a good reconteuse. Nothing escaped her quick observation; she had humour, and knew how to seize the humorous points of the hunting field. The Major listened and chuckled and laughed till the tears came into his eyes. Then he broke in with some of his hunting reminiscences, and Mrs. Norman was a woman who could take interruption with equanimity, and be as interested in his stories as in her own.
The time flew, and when seven o'clock struck by the little silver chiming clock on Mrs. Norman's writing table the Major got reluctantly upon his feet.
"Oh, must you be going? Now, won't you take pity on me and stay to my frugal little supper? It will be such a treat to have company. I am sure the Admiral will spare you to-night. Just to celebrate my first day with the Thanning hounds. And that dear boy Austin sent me in a brace of partridges, so there will be just a picking for each of us. You don't know what distaste I have for my food when I invariably sit down to eat it alone. I picture your cheerful dinner going on, and the amicable and interesting conversation upon the sayings and doings of each one of you during the day, and then I sigh and try to be content with my lonely lot."
"We hadn't a very amicable luncheon to-day," said the Major with a short laugh.
He looked round the cosy firelit room, and at the pretty bewitching little woman before him, and he contrasted it with the big dining-room at home, and the Admiral's politics. He saw Sidney linking her arm in her father's, and going off to the study with him after dinner and throwing a laughing word at him over her shoulder:
"Now, Uncle Ted, don't shut yourself up the whole evening in your workshop. And don't burn it to the ground, for I know you have a nap over your pipe."
The words of Mrs. Norman rang in his ears: 'Three in family is rather an awkward number—one invariably goes to the wall.' Why should he trudge home to make the outside third, when here was one who wanted, who appreciated, him?
Mrs. Norman saw his hesitation.
"Now you're going to say 'Yes.' I won't be refused."
She pulled her bell. The maid appeared.
"Major Urquhart is staying to supper," she said.
And the Major sat down again, with a smile and a shake of his head, but relief plainly discernible in his face.
"They won't miss me," he said. "They never wait, for they say I'm always late."
"Do tell me what happened at lunch. That is, if it is not very inquisitive," Mrs. Norman said, re-seating herself in an easy chair opposite to him and stretching out her slender satin-slippered foot upon the fender.
"Oh, it was a tirade of my brother's against timber cutting. He refused to have that old elm touched!"
"The one that blocks that exquisite view? Oh, what an old duffer he is! Why don't you insist a little more upon your rights, Major? You are too good-natured, too easygoing. You have allowed your brother for so long to think of the house as his that he is an absolute tyrant regarding it."
"Well, you know," the Major said, uneasily twisting himself in his chair, "it is his virtually—he paid me a big sum, as I told you."
"Don't tell me any more," said Mrs. Norman impatiently, tapping her foot on the ground. "It is Jacob and Esau over again; making you sell your birthright! I don't mean to liken you to Esau, but I think the Admiral intensely mean in taking advantage of a young soldier's difficulties! Could he not have helped you out of those difficulties without making such a bargain? It would have been only brotherly to do it."
"I must say that I proposed it," said Major Urquhart. "You see, I was a gay young dog, had run through a lot—ah, well, best not talk about it."
"No, we won't. And, of course, as we said the other day, an estate, however small, cannot be handed over from one brother to another in such an easy illegal fashion. I am quite sure the Admiral in his heart realises that the house is yours, though you were ready to make such an amicable arrangement with him. Virtually, it does not matter much, as long as you are content to sink your own individuality and live together as you have been doing. But I must say I cannot bear to see you put aside as you are. You ought to have a voice in the management of your own place, and if a time ever came when you wanted to be master of it, you ought to have the pluck and stand up and tell them so. There! I have relieved my feelings, and I know it is most impertinent of me to give my opinion on such a private family matter. You must forgive me. But you are so kind and unselfish that you do not seem able to stand up for yourself, and it makes me angry. Now, shall we go in and have supper? I hear the bell, and we will talk of lighter subjects."
She chatted with great ease and graciousness; her supper table was dainty with flowers and well-kept silver; the soup, partridges, and sweet omelette that followed were well cooked, and the Major found himself wondering what he would feel like if he could sit down to dinner every day with this pretty vivacious little woman, who seemed to understand and feel for him in a way that no one else had ever done.
She let him smoke in her drawing-room afterwards, and still they talked; they seemed to have so much to say to each other. Once the Major pointed to the photo on the mantelpiece.
"Did he give you that?"
She smiled.
"Yes; he is such a boy, isn't he? So proud of himself when he is in his pink. I sent him home to his mother to-day; he does rather bore me, entre nous, with his youthful aggressiveness and self-assertion. But he's a nice boy for all that. I wish my girl was home; they would be great chums, I know. I feel so very old when I am talking to him. I'm afraid his mother is not very sympathetic, is she? The young want an interest shown in them, and a patient tolerance for their youthful failings. I am glad to mother him a little, for I never forget my own youth—and I had a baby son once. He died when he was two; I always feel tenderly towards boys. He would have been such a big son by now if he had lived."
She sighed heavily, and a wistful look came into her eyes. The Major's spirits rose. How foolish he had been to think that Austin de Cressiers could stand in his way! What was he but a bumptious boy, who bored this kind little soul to distraction! He looked almost kindly at the photo at which a short time ago he had gnashed his teeth.
It was past ten o'clock when he let himself in with his latchkey. Sidney, candle in hand, was just going up the wide staircase. She turned at his entrance.
"Oh, you truant! Why didn't you tell us you were dining out? But we guessed. Go in and see dad, won't you? Good-night!"
He nodded a good-night to her, and marched off rather surlily to the smoking-room.
Admiral Urquhart greeted him pleasantly:
"What kind of night? Rain before long, eh?"
"Begun already," the Major said shortly.
"Look here!" the Admiral said. "I was a bit hot tempered at lunch, old fellow. Chop down your elm, if you like. Don't let us cut up rough with each other over such a trifle!"
"Oh, it's all right," said the Major, appeased at once. "We'll have a walk round to-morrow and discuss it."
He dropped into a chair, took his pipe out, and peace was restored. For the time, even Mrs. Norman's gentle insinuations had faded from his mind. His evening had been a delightful one. Austin was relegated to the background; the Major and the lady moved alone through a succession of dreams. Her personality possessed him, and he was content.
There was another household in which peace had been made that night.
Monica went back to her farm refreshed in soul and spirit. Yet a lurking fear was in her heart that she might find Chuckles still harbouring resentment against her for such summary chastisement. She found Aunt Dannie still dozing over the fire.
"Have you heard or seen anything of the child?" Monica asked a little anxiously.
"Eh, my dear? No. Why, you sent him to bed, did you not? I always think you are a little too bard upon him. But he is very obedient; he has not made a sound."
Monica went upstairs. It was dark, and there was a great stillness in Chuckles' small room. A sudden fear seized her. Had he defied her after all, and made his escape downstairs, perhaps into the kitchen, knowing she had left the house? She hoped there would be no need for further scolding. Under her reserved, rather stern manner there beat a very soft heart where her small nephew was concerned. She stood on the threshold of the door, listening. It was an intense relief to hear a whispered, lisping voice proceeding from the bed.
"And so you see, God, I'll just step up as quick as anyfing the minute you call. I'd like to. I know all about it. And Jesus is my very special Friend. Why, I know Him almost as well as Miss Sid, and when Aunt Monnie come she'll look and look, and will never find me nevermore, and she'll say to herself: 'Why, I spec' he's just been taken to heaven becorse I was cross!'"
The little chuckle that gave Chuckles his name came at the close of his speech. He was evidently gloating over his aunt's supposed remorse when she found him gone.
Monica suppressed a smile, and called out:
"Chuckles, are you awake?"
There was no answer. The whispering was over. She advanced into the room, and lighted a candle. Matches were not allowed in the child's room, but she carried a silver fusee case in her pocket. Then she saw that the bedclothes were pulled tightly over the small boy's head, and the little figure was rigidly still.
"Chuckles, it's nearly supper time. Would you like to come down?"
No answer or movement.
"I believe there's a hot baked apple for a little boy who is going to be good."
Then the bedclothes were thrown back, and Chuckles' curly head was thrust upwards. Not yet would he entirely capitulate.
"I'm very busy saying my p'ayers. God and me don't want to be 'asturbed!"
"I'm sorry," said Monica meekly. "I'll wait."
She sat down on a chair near the window and there was silence.
Chuckles regarded her reflectively; then he lifted up his voice:
"And, please God, perhaps we'd better wait till nex' time, becorse supper is ready. Amen."
Then he sat up and began eagerly to put on his socks. Monica came to assist him.
"God and me have been talking," he assured her with a grave nod. "God has quite forgiven me for not going with you. He's purfeckly pleased with me now."
Then Monica lowered her head and pressed her lips on the curly head.
"And so have I forgiven the little boy who told his aunt he hated her."
"That was Satan," said Chuckles in the same solemn voice. "He tolded me to say that, and he hurried me to say it, so I did it quick as anyfing."
"But you are sorry now?"
He looked at her with a little twinkle in his eyes. "Could I have two baked apples, do you fink?"
"No, only one. Are you sorry, Chuckles?"
He threw his arms round her neck and hugged her.
"I loves you! Let's hurry downstairs!"
They walked downstairs hand in hand, and Monica's soul was at peace.
But there was trouble at Thanning Towers that night. Mother and son were talking late into the night. Mrs. de Cressiers first scolded, then threatened, then expostulated with Austin for neglected estate business and being out with the hounds day after day.
"I understand you've told the grooms you mean to hunt four days a week; who is going to do the work which you came home from college to do?"
"If I hunt four days that leaves me two for business, and I should be a rotten slacker if I couldn't tackle all that there is to do in that time."
"You know your father likes to see you at a certain hour every morning and talk over things with you. If he does not do it, he worries the whole day. How can he do this when you leave the house every morning before he's out of bed?"
"He worries anyhow. There is no necessity for him to be like clockwork. I can talk over things with him in the evening."
"You come home dead tired and very cross, and your father's patience has given out, waiting all day for you. If he discusses business late at night, he sleeps badly in consequence. You know this as well as I do, Austin."
Austin began to get heated.
"I always have hunted, mother. I'm not going to give up every healthy exercise and be a household drudge and slave. I'll throw the whole thing up and go abroad; you expect too much from me."
"You promised me a month ago you would only have an occasional day out. What has made you so keen about it? I understand you are mounting Mrs. Norman. Is she the attraction?"
"If she is, it's no one's business but my own. You all seem determined to run her down."
"You cannot accuse me of that. I have had her to luncheon several times. I admit she is a bright sensible little woman—too fond of affecting to be young, for she's old enough to be your mother; but she ought not to come in the way of your duties. Your father ought to come first with you."
"He doesn't, then," muttered Austin rebelliously.
"I don't want to make mischief," pursued Mrs. de Cressiers relentlessly; "but if you will neglect the estate and pay no regard to our wishes, I shall go down to Mrs. Norman and tell her the harm she is doing you."
Austin laughed.
"I am not a baby to be coerced by such threats. You will do yourself more harm than you will do her or me if you venture to mix her up with it."
So it went on. Mrs. de Cressiers had an iron will, but so had her boy when roused, and she soon saw that opposition was making him like adamant. She adopted a milder tone; she reminded him how all their hopes were centred in him, how he was their only son, and the only one who could take his father's place.
Austin listened and tried to carry it off with a high hand, but he grew uncomfortable, and finally departed to bed without wishing his mother good-night.
He rode off obstinately the next morning, and found Mrs. Norman waiting for him at the four cross-roads. The meet was not a great distance off, so they jogged slowly along the roads together. He confided to her that he had had a row with his mother the previous night.
"She always has kept a tight hand on the reins in our household. My father is absolutely under her thumb, so she cannot understand my independence."
"Mothers never can," said Mrs. Norman softly. "I sometimes wonder, if my boy had lived to grow up, whether I should have tried to manage him. I don't think I should. I have a great belief in men being placed in a right position. Young men must have freedom of thought and action; they can't be tied to their mothers' apron strings, if they're to be men at all. But we poor women can't understand it. Now let us enjoy our day. We won't think of disagreeable things."
"Were you awfully tired yesterday?"
"No; I had that poor old Major down to inquire after me. Don't glare so, you silly boy! He bored me to death. I couldn't get rid of him; he was so garrulous. But I do feel so intensely sorry for him. He is old and crippled, and seems to have so few pleasures."
"He can't keep away from you, it seems," said Austin a trifle curtly.
"I always notice that old men must have some woman as a recipient for all their egotistical reminiscences. You need not be jealous. I look upon him as a father—a grandfather, if you like. There's the horn! We must hurry up."
At four o'clock that afternoon Sidney met Austin riding home. He stopped when he saw her, and dismounted.
"Sid, do come up to dinner to-night. I tell you I can't stand any more of the mother's jaw. She was at it all last night, and now I'm going back to begin it again. I mean to hunt, so she must make up her mind to it. It's absurd to attempt to tie me down to an old woman's life and make me into a sick-nurse to my father. I won't do it. I have told her so. I very nearly accepted Mrs. Norman's invitation to dinner, but I won't be a funk, and I know I must see the governor about some letters. Can't you come back now, just as you are?"
Sidney shook her head.
"I never accept invitations to dine from the men of a household. Your mother would not be pleased."
"Rot! You know she would be delighted. Well, come back to tea. I'll manage the rest."
Sidney wavered, then said she would.
"Only I must run in and tell them I shall be out to tea. Don't wait for me. I shall come later."
She was as good as her word. Mrs. de Cressiers was delighted to see her, and kept her to dinner. Afterwards she sang to Mr. de Cressiers, and kept them all in a good humour. She put a word in for Austin when she was alone with Mrs. de Cressiers.
"Don't go against him, and give him credit for some feeling for you and his father. You'll find he will buckle to work the two days he is home, and I don't believe he will continue his four days' hunting for very long. Mrs. Norman is not very strong, and she won't keep it up. When she gives it up, he will."
Austin walked back with her at ten o'clock, but his talk was chiefly of Mrs. Norman and of her horsemanship, which was astonishing the field. Sidney listened and tried to sympathise, and Austin did not notice any want of enthusiasm in his subject. When they parted, he wrung her hand gratefully.
"You're a trump, Sid. I'm eternally grateful to you. But, I say, do keep the old Major from trotting down all hours and boring Mrs. Norman to death. She can't stand him."
Sidney nodded and laughed, but as she turned into the house, she again murmured to herself reflectively:
"She is very clever; most appallingly so, and no one seems to see it but me."
JOCKIE'S ARRIVAL
SIDNEY'S next letter from Randolph Neville was as follows:
"DEAR MISS URQUHART,"The mail is just in, and yours with it. Ever so many thanks. You have inspired and braced me, for I can tell you one wants bracing in this awful hole, and I don't wonder at so many giving up. But I'm starting a few innovations, and am turning teetotaller, at small cost to myself, for I've never been inclined in the opposite direction, and it's digging your grave to drink in this climate. I'm rather keen on giving a hand up to a young chap out here. For six months after he came out, he went straight as a die, and then he began to go down; the forces against him were too strong. I met him when out riding about four days after my arrival. I had lost my bearings, and he put me straight, going out of his way considerably to do so. When I asked him to come back to dine with me, he first refused, then I pressed him, and he said with a little gulp:"'I haven't dined in decent society for two years; no one will have me now.'"'Well,' I said, 'I give you fair warning. I'm not going to have whiskies and sodas ad lib. I don't take anything myself, and only have a little light claret for my guests.'"He wrung my hand."'For God's sake keep it up,' he cried, 'for it is my curse, and we're all tarred with the same brush in this hole.'"He came, and I liked the boy, and I've taken him in hand. If you'll remember him in your prayers, I believe we'll set him on his feet again. He has grit, and purpose, and principles, but his will power has been weakened and deadened by alcohol and this climate."How I smelt the salt sea breezes and saw the leaves fly from off your high trees as I read your letter! I have some nice pictures stored in my memory of the time I was at Thanning Dale. Yes, I suppose I'm a builder of a sort, but just as some erections have to be overthrown to be rebuilt, so I realise that my work at present is to overturn rather than continue to build. And one gets no thanks for it: only abuse and ill-will."I have been wondering as I think over the problem of building whether I had better not take myself in hand as well as my small kingdom here. I expect you would tell me that there needs to be an overthrow in many an individual, for they have been piling bricks upon straw and stubble and sand, and until what Chuckles calls a satisfactory 'funation' be established, the building won't stand the stress of life."You see what a moral philosopher I am becoming. But I and my pipe have some long hours together when work is done, and if the heat is too great for much physical effort I don't mean to let my mental capacities rust for lack of using. I work out many a problem, I assure you, and my last one is how far does the Almighty go in working miracles nowadays? I seem to remember a saying: 'Is anything too hard for the Lord?' Can you tell me whence it comes?"I am glad you have put your boat by. I should not like to think of you stranded again, as I found you that wet dark night; but we did have a very snug walk home, did we not? And you don't know how your words then have rung on, and are ringing still with an undying echo in my soul. We are getting Home, and the thought of all that will be ours when we get there makes us think lightly of the present.'"So be it with me, I pray. Remember me to your father. I see you ask me to give you my setting. How can I do it? I am neither poet nor painter. I see hard brilliant skies of blue, mountains clad with thorns and cactuses, and evil beasts crouching in the thick jungles that are below them, some quaint relics of ancient heathen temples, and there are rather squalid settlements dumped down behind a stone fortress, with the inevitable bazaar and the noisy native quarters, and the European club, which is nothing more nor less than a very unsavoury drinking saloon. There are five miles of straight hard road, with parched turf by the side, and this is where I ride for my morning and evening exercise. We are too lethargic to play polo, or even tennis; there are not enough of us with healthy British blood in our veins to do so. Cards and billiards seem the only recreations that are popular. But I mean to start cricket or tennis if I can, more for the sake of young George Lockhart than myself."May I call myself your fellow builder—"RANDOLPH NEVILLE."
"He's a good man," murmured Sidney as she folded her letter up. "I don't believe he would ever fail his friends. And I do like his remarks about building."
She thought over one of her buildings which had been overthrown, the one which had occupied the citadel of her heart, and though the smart and anguish of it had not yet left her, she dimly began to see the why and wherefore of its overthrow.
The foundations were not worthy.
She was thinking this out when a little later she walked over to the Rectory about some parish matters which she wished to lay before the Rector. He was an old man, but hale and hearty for his years, and lived with his housekeeper. Mrs. Lunn had been with him over twenty years, and was of the old-fashioned school. Sidney and she were great friends, and would have long talks together, comparing the past generation with the present. Mrs. Lunn considered that nothing ever came up to the "good old times that were gone."
The Rector was in the hall, preparing to go out. He took Sidney's hand with fervour.
"I believe you have been sent to me," he said. "I am in great trouble. I was just coming out to find either you or Miss Pembroke. Come into my study. No, not into the drawing-room."
Then turning to his parlourmaid, who stood by, he said with some agitation:
"Will you tell Miss Borlace that I am engaged for the present and cannot be disturbed."
"Who is Miss Borlace?" asked Sidney, with interest, as she followed him into his study. "Is it some relative of yours?"
Mr. Borlace sat down heavily in his big arm-chair, and shook his head in rather a helpless fashion.
"My dear Sidney, I'm sadly afraid she is—sadly afraid."
Sidney could not help smiling.
"You seem quite bowled over. What has she done?"
"I am shaken, and for once in my life I don't know how to act. I want a woman to advise me. Mrs. Lunn refuses to do it. She says it is not her place, but she will be the most affected by it—she and I together."
"It is quite mysterious. Do begin at the beginning."
"It began yesterday, but upon my word it seems like a year ago. I was nailing up my William Allen Richardson—the wind of these last few days has played havoc with it—and suddenly I heard a voice behind me:
"'I believe I am speaking to my cousin.'
"I turned and there she was! Her bicycle was leaning against the gate, and she told me she was taking a cycle tour through these parts, and thought she would look me up. I couldn't remember who she was at first, but she soon enlightened me. I asked her to stay to lunch, and then she stayed to tea, and she talked hard the whole afternoon, and in the end I offered her a bed for the night, and this morning we have had tears, and a burst of confidence, and she wants me to keep her here altogether, and, of course, it is very upsetting, for I have been a bachelor for so long that I prefer my own ways, and yet she seems to have some claim upon me. I don't know what to do. I wish you would go into the drawing-room and have a talk with her, and come back and tell me what you think of her."
"She might resent my interference," said Sidney.
"Oh, she isn't that sort. She is too anxious to be helped."
So Sidney left the room. She expected to see some hysterical woman of middle age, so that it was rather a surprise to confront a radiant specimen of girlhood. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, whistling; her hands were in the pockets of a short tweed coat; her hair was done up rather untidily, with a broad plait encircling her head, but her face was bewitching in its fresh beauty and sparkling animation, and her eyes seemed alive with mischief.
She jumped off the chair and looked up at Sidney with a mixture of bashfulness and assurance.
Sidney held out her hand at once.
"We have been left to introduce ourselves. I am Sidney Urquhart, a close neighbour of your—your cousin's. And he has asked me to come and have a chat with you."
"And to find out what kind of species I am," said the girl, with a laugh. "I'm Jockie—that's who I am—Jockie Borlace. And I've cycled forty miles to see if he can do anything for me."
"Tell me all about it," said Sidney, smiling into Jockie's eyes with instant friendliness.
"You will help me, won't you? I remember mother saying before she died that there was only one member of father's family whom she believed in, and that was Cousin John Borlace, and he was a clergyman. And she told me if I got into any difficulty to go to him or to write, and he might help me to earn my living. And now I've come, and he seems frightened to death at the sight of me.
"I only came home from school a year ago. I wish I could go back, but they won't have me. They say I upset the earnest atmosphere of the house. I can't be earnest, can you? But I've had an awful year. Father knows people whom mother would have never let inside the door. And last week, he married a music-hall girl, and they're coming home the end of this week. I won't eat a meal in the house with her. I told father I wouldn't. And I've come straight off, and I told our housemaid to send my luggage after me when I wired her my address. Now, ought not parsonages to be places of refuge? I don't see how Cousin John can turn me out, especially as he has a nice spare bedroom ready for use. I slept in it last night. And I shall be awfully useful to him if he will let me stay. I can do anything from cooking to typewriting, and I'll run the whole parish for him, too."
"There's nothing like self-advertisement," said Sidney, laughing.
Jockie joined her in the laugh.
"Well, I could help him to do it, then. I want to be useful, Miss Urquhart—I really do. And I love children. Do go back and tell him that you like the looks of me extremely, and that you think he'd better take me on a month's trial. After that, we'll make other plans if necessary, but a month will give me time to look round. Perhaps you know someone who wants their library books sorted out and mended up and re-bound. I know a girl who got a job like that, and it lasted her three years, with board and lodging and seventy pounds a year. Not bad, was it? And I've learnt bookbinding, and love reading, so I would have the time of my life if you knew of such a billet."
"You're a thoroughly modern young woman," said Sidney, looking at her with twinkling eyes. Then she put her hand caressingly on her arm.
"If I promise to plead for you, will you promise to be very good to Mr. Borlace, and not upset his methodical, orderly household? I am very fond of him, and shouldn't like him to be worried at his time of life."
Jockie gave Sidney an impulsive hug.
"I know you'll be an angel to me! You show it in your face. I'll do anything and everything that Cousin John tells me, if he'll only give me a home pro tem."
So Sidney left her and joined Mr. Borlace in his study. He was pacing up and down the room in great perplexity of spirit; but Sidney's persuasion was always successful. She soothed and comforted him, and finally told him that if Jockie proved a trial to him, he could send her to the Admiral's.
"We will take her in for a time, for she wants befriending, poor child!"
"Her father is a ne'er-do-well," said Mr. Borlace, with a sigh. "Charlie was never anything but a trouble to his family, and broke his wife's heart. She was too good for him. I only saw her once, but this girl is not a bit like her. She takes after her father in her audacious spirits. I suppose I must keep her for the time, but, of course, her father's house is the proper place for her."
"I don't think his marriage can be a good thing for her," Sidney said. "But I will tell her you will have her on a visit, or come and tell her yourself. That will be the best way."
She led him into the drawing-room.
Jockie almost flew into his arms directly she saw him.
"You're going to keep me! I see it in your face. I promise I'll be a very angel of goodness. And now, dear Cousin John, tell me where I can wire home for my luggage. Do they send off wires in the village post office?"
Sidney slipped away; she thought they would settle down together best if left to themselves.
But she was to see a great deal of Jockie Borlace. Early the next morning she arrived and marched in upon Sidney before the Admiral had finished his breakfast. Sidney was discussing the morning's post with him. Jockie was not in the least abashed at the early hour she had disturbed them.
"We had our breakfast at the unearthly hour of eight," she said; "and I haven't known what to do with myself since. Cousin John wouldn't let me order the dinner, or do a bit of gardening, and now he has got an old women's club up at the house, and says he prefers to do it alone. And he looked so worried that I promised to make myself scarce till luncheon, and so I've come off to you."
The Admiral eyed her critically.
"I am sorry for your poor cousin," he remarked.
"Are you? For having me, I suppose you mean? But I'm not a worry—really I am not. I can amuse myself in heaps of ways, and if only he would let me into his study, I would be as happy as a king. I love reading, and he has his walls lined with books."
"I can lend you books," said Sidney, getting up from the table. "Come with me, and when I have done my housekeeping we will go out for a walk together."
She took the girl into the morning-room, which was her special domain. To her surprise, she found it already tenanted. Austin de Cressiers was seated calmly at the table writing a note.
He looked up and laughed, then, when he saw Jockie, rose to his feet.
Sidney introduced them.
"How cheeky of you!" she said. "My notepaper, too! What are you doing?"
"I came in through the French window; knew you were at breakfast. And I wanted to leave a note, and hadn't any paper in my pocket. I've had to stay at home to-day, but meant to have hunted. The governor is in one of his ramps! I'm an ill-used, cock-and-henpecked son!"
His eyes sought Jockie's. They both laughed.
"So you're a fresh importation?" Austin said. "I hope you'll like us."
"I like Miss Urquhart already," said Jockie promptly and emphatically. "I adore her! She's—she's so fascinating!"
"Yes," Austin said, cocking his head on one side and regarding Sidney through half-shut eyes; "she is that, and when she sings she's a siren—and when she comforts you she's an angel—and when she scolds you she's a duck!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Sidney put in. "Have you finished with my pen and paper?"
Austin turned back to his seat, signed his name with a flourish, sealed his envelope, and stuck it in his breast-pocket, which he then patted affectionately.
"Now I'm off to Lovelace's Cottage."
"To leave your note? I saw Mrs. Norman ride by an hour ago."
"I was to have met her at Three Crows Inn. Isn't it scandalous of the parents? Well, what I want you to do is to come up to lunch. I'm to be up to my eyes in business till one. Then it's the workman's dinner hour, and I want you, Sid, to act as a buffer between me and the mother. For she won't remember that a man's digestion plays the dickens with him if he's harried between every mouthful. And bring up Miss—Miss—"
"Jockie," said that young lady, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, I shall be delighted to come, and Cousin John will be more delighted still, for he told me he has always been accustomed to have a luncheon tray brought to him in his study. He doesn't like sitting down to the table with me, and yet he won't dispense with ceremony. I should love to picnic on his study floor with him, and told him so, but he didn't see it."