"Then you come up, and I'll turn you on to mother, whilst Sid and I enjoy ourselves."
He caught up his cap, waved it at them, and dashed out of the window like a schoolboy.
Jockie laughed delightedly.
"What a nice boy! Tell me who he is?"
So Sidney told her, and then left her, whilst she went to her cook, and Jockie amused herself by drawing caricatures of people on a sheet of notepaper. On one she made a solemn-looking dog regarding a chicken emerging from an egg, and the words underneath were: "Will it bite me?" The dog had a great look of her uncle, and the pert chicken a slight resemblance to herself.
When Sidney returned to her, she wore her hat and coat.
"Now I have done all my duties, and I'll take you out; we'll go and see Monica. If you want to garden or to farm, she's the one who will teach you. And then we'll lunch with the de Cressiers. I'm sorry for Austin, for he is being pulled two different ways every day of his life."
"Pleasure versus duty," said Jockie knowingly. "It's the way with me. My chief chum is a girl—oh, she is grand! I would like you to know her. We did everything together at school, and she inspired me. She's chock full of enthusiasm and earnestness, and life is all nobility and grandeur, and work is our vocation, and we tread in the air, with our souls in heaven when we're together, and then when we part, I tumble down to earth, and have been grovelling on it ever since I last heard her speak. But she's trained me to have an uncomfortable feeling when idle the whole day through, so I know what it is to be tugged two different ways."
Jockie knew how to talk; her tongue was at it hard till the farm was reached. They came upon Chuckles swinging upon the gate.
"Can't come in!" he cried. "This is my castle, and everybodies outside is enemies!"
Jockie caught him up in her strong young arms, then seated herself upon the gate and began to swing herself and him together.
"Now this is our castle," she said, "and two are better than one to keep the gate!"
Chuckles was enchanted. It was some minutes before Sidney could persuade them to get down and walk on quietly with her to the house.
"We're ploughing the five-acre field to-day," said Chuckles importantly. "Aunt Monica will be back soon. We must see the men works, you know. And then we're going to see the frashing!"
"You are a jolly little farmer," said Jockie admiringly. "Isn't he a duck, Miss Urquhart? Isn't it a pity that they grow up?"
Chuckles frowned upon her.
"It's a pity you growed up. If you were a nice little girl, you and me would play marbles at once. I got twopence of them yesterday."
"Why aren't you at school, Chuckles?" asked Sidney.
He twinkled all over.
"They has the mumps."
"Happy boy!" said Jockie. "I can play marbles. Let's have a game now."
Chuckles seized hold of her, and they ran off together. Sidney caught sight of Monica coming across the yard, and went to meet her. They always had a good deal to say to each other, and Monica was interested to hear of the new arrival.
"I don't understand girls, nor care for them," she said; "but if she likes to come over here sometimes, I can always give her a job. She will be very dull at the Rectory, I should think."
"You must see her. I like her. She is frank and natural. We are going to lunch with the de Cressiers. Austin is not getting on well, Monica. He ought to be more at home, and this hunting has bewitched him."
"Or Diana!" said Monica, laughing.
"Well," said Sidney, with a little sigh, "I am pulled two different ways. When she is not with him, she is with Uncle Ted. I don't know which I dislike most."
"You are hard upon her."
"I suppose I am, but she will make no man happy, Monnie. She demands too much and gives too little."
"That will make a man unselfish," said Monica thoughtfully. "People say men are selfish, but it is the women who make them so, and a selfish woman is a boon to the race of men."
"Oh, Monnie!" remonstrated Sidney, laughing.
"I mean it. If I am not very careful, I shall rear Chuckles into a selfish man. Let me tell you our fracas at breakfast. I told him I wanted him to come and watch the ploughing.
"'I don't want to,' he said promptly.
"Then Aunt Dannie said in shocked tones:
"'Little boys must never say that. If we only do what we want to do, that is selfish.'
"Chuckles gazed at her with his big eyes.
"'And I want you to come with me, so you're coming,' I said quickly and decidedly.
"'Then you're selfish, Aunt Monnie,' the imp said. 'If you weren't, you'd let me do what I like.'
"So then I had to read him a long lecture, and finally took him off with me. But isn't the training of a man fatiguing?"
Sidney and Jockie stayed at the farm for a good hour, then walked on to Thanning Towers.
"I shall have Chuckles to spend the day with me," announced Jockie. "He is quite charming!"
"He is a dear little boy," said Sidney, rather absently.
Her thoughts were straying to Austin and to Mrs. Norman. She honestly did not want him to become engaged to her, and yet it seemed to her that if that happened, she would have no longer any anxiety about her uncle. She was, as she said, torn two ways. And then she impulsively turned to Jockie.
"I wish you were a man, Jockie—a good-looking, wealthy man on the look-out for a wife, a man who would be quick and successful in his wooing, and who would insist upon a speedy marriage!"
Jockie stared at her.
"You don't want him for yourself, do you?"
"Rather not; but I know of someone who would make him a very sweet bride."
Then she laughed.
"I am talking nonsense, Jockie. You must forget it."
"I'll try," said Jockie; but she knew she would not, and she made a mental note of Sidney's strange speech, and determined to keep her eyes open for the possible "sweet bride."
They reached Thanning Towers. Mrs. de Cressiers welcomed them cordially, but she looked careworn and anxious. Mr. de Cressiers was not at all well, and in an irritable frame of mind. Austin and he had been having a difference of opinion, and Mrs. de Cressiers had been called in to intervene. Austin came to lunch gloomy and self-absorbed, but in Jockie's vicinity, it was impossible to remain grave for long. She soon had him laughing, and before the meal was over a happy easy camaraderie had been established between them. He insisted upon taking her out into the grounds, and Mrs. de Cressiers, with relief in her face, swept off Sidney into the drawing-room.
"Oh, my dear, I am so troubled! George is getting quite unfit to discuss business affairs, and he will insist upon doing it! I don't know what we shall do. Austin has neither patience nor tact. He expects his father to understand what he cannot. He does not realise his brain power is failing. We have had dreadful scenes this morning. And, of course, Austin has been careless and negligent lately. I can hardly ever get hold of him to have a quiet talk. He shuns being with me. He is wrapped up in his hunting."
Mrs. de Cressiers had seldom spoken so freely to Sidney as she did now. Her reserve and pride seemed to have been crushed in her real anxiety about her husband and son.
Sidney's face was grave and sympathetic as she listened.
Mrs. de Cressiers continued:
"I had got it into my head that Mrs. Norman was the attraction in the hunting field, but she happened to call late yesterday afternoon, and from what she said I see my fears were quite unfounded. In fact, she assured me that Austin was quite offended with her because she talked to him for his good, and told him his duty was to stay at home and help his father and me. You used to have influence with him, Sidney dear; can't you exert it now? It's a bitter confession for a mother to make, but it is true. My words make no impression upon him. He will listen to a stranger rather than to me."
"I think if Mrs. Norman cannot influence him in the right direction, I cannot," said Sidney slowly.
"Well, something will have to be done. I cannot go through such scenes as we had this morning. They are bad for all of us, especially for my poor husband. I believe this will be his last winter with us. Is it too much to ask of his son that he should give up his hunting and help and comfort us?"
"No," said Sidney firmly; "I think Austin ought to do it. I will talk to him again, if I get a chance. But you must forgive me for saying it—if you were to meet him half-way and show him as much affection as you really feel for him, Austin would respond at once."
Mrs. de Cressiers' head was instantly raised haughtily and stiffly.
"I think, my dear Sidney, I do not require you to teach me my duty as a mother."
"I am sorry."
Sidney spoke penitently, and then Mrs. de Cressiers said in a different tone:
"That is a nice little girl you brought with you. Shall we walk out into the garden and join them?"
They did so, but Sidney got no chance of a word alone with Austin. He avoided her, and as soon as they had left the house, he went to the stables and ordered his horse. His mother did not see him again till dinner-time.
JOCKIE'S FRIEND
JOCKIE settled down at the Rectory in a surprisingly quick time. She took a Sunday class of boys, and helped as much as she was allowed in the parish. The Rector before long began to trust her, and discovered that she was not the flighty damsel that her words had led him to expect. She was devoted to Sidney, and gave her a young girl's worship, but she was of too energetic a nature to be satisfied with her quiet life at the Rectory.
She marched up to Monica one day.
"I want work, Miss Pembroke. Miss Urquhart says you can give me some. I can't fill my days. Cousin John has too many servants. There is nothing to do. The gardener won't let me touch the garden; the housekeeper orders the house; when I'm not running about the village, I read; but I know that my friend Gavine would say that if I take in, I must give out. She is great on work. I had a letter from her the other day. She implores me to make myself of use to my fellow-creatures. What can I do?"
Monica looked at her thoughtfully.
"I believe you can help me," she said; "not by outdoor work—I could give you a lot of that—but by taking Chuckles in hand."
"Oh, how heavenly!" gasped Jockie. "Tell me quickly!"
"Could you give him steady teaching from nine to twelve every morning, and then take him for an hour's walk. I am not at all satisfied with his school. It is a small private one in Pegborough, and the few boys who go to it are tradesmen's sons. I don't mind that, but the teaching is indifferent, and he is not improving in manners or principles. I want to send him to a good boarding-school next year, and I want him coached in Latin, as well as French and English. Of course, if you take him, we must do it on business terms. I should regard you as his governess."
Jockie's face was radiant.
"Miss Pembroke, you are a witch! Who told you of my secret longings to earn something? You know, I arrived with two shillings and twopence in my pocket. My father has not sent me a penny as yet, and I can't go to Cousin John. I was wondering what I should do. And then you offer me the job that I should like above all others. I'm sure I know enough Latin to satisfy you, and I assure you I'll be as stern as you are in school-time. When can I start?"
"I think at once. This is the second time this term I have had to have him home. They seem to have perpetual epidemics at the school. Of course, I trust you to teach him thoroughly, and have no games in school-hours. He is not very strong, and he will be out of doors with me in the afternoons."
Jockie could hardly express her gratitude. Terms were arranged, and lessons were started in earnest the very next day. Jockie was a clever girl and had a knack of teaching; Chuckles was as good as gold, and everything went smoothly.
One fine frosty afternoon Jockie came in upon Sidney with her usual flow of spirits.
"I've been enjoying myself so much," she said. "I met Mr. Austin, and we've actually climbed the Beacon together. He was very grumpy at first, but he couldn't keep it up. How hunting people hate frost. I'm rather glad I don't ride. If I did, I think I should neglect everything else for it, like Mr. Austin. He's great fun when you get him alone, isn't he? And then, on the way home, we met his ladylove—Mrs. Norman. I know all about it. He was singing her praises most of the way. Well, she stopped and asked to be introduced to me, and, Miss Urquhart, we only chatted together for about ten minutes, but it's going to be war to the knife between us!"
"My dear Jockie, don't say such things!"
"But I must. I tell you everything. And I made a most astonishing discovery; that's why I have come to tell it to you. But I'll give you our conversation first. She began by commiserating Austin—I can't help calling him by his Christian name to you—upon the frost, and then I spoke up.
"'It will keep him more at home, Mrs. Norman, and that will be a good thing,' for Austin had been telling me a little of his home affairs. She gave me a nasty gleam out of her eye, and then, ignoring me, went on to talk about people in the hunting field, whom, of course, I didn't know; and then, looking at her, it suddenly flashed across me, and I said: 'I've seen you before, Mrs. Norman, and I know someone whom you know.'
"She gave a little start, but smiled and said:
"'I'm afraid I don't remember you.'
"'But your daughter is my greatest friend,' I said, 'and I saw you once when we travelled to town together, and you told her that you could not have her with you for the Christmas holidays. It was a blow to her, poor girl, for her aunts were abroad, and you sent her to an old nurse who kept lodgings in some fusty London square. Poor Gavine had an awful Christmas; she wrote and told me all about it.'
"'Oh,' she said, 'do you really know my dear Gavine? Yes, I remember, poor child. I don't know who felt it most, she or I. That was a dreadful Christmas. And so you are one of her schoolfellows! How delightful! You must come and see me, and we will have great talks together.'
"'I'm going to get Cousin John to invite Gavine down here,' I went on. 'She never has any pleasures with her invalid aunts.'
"'I think when her aunts can spare her, she will come to me,' she said, and she tried to speak very haughtily. So I laughed and said:
"'But you never want her, do you? There's always some reason why you can't have her.'
"And then she glared at me and went on talking very fast to Austin, and presently I said good-bye and left them. Now, isn't it funny that I did not connect her with Gavine before, as, of course, it is the same name? And do you know, Miss Urquhart, that her daughter doesn't know where she is? She hardly ever writes to her, and Gavine thought she was abroad."
Jockie paused for breath, and Sidney looked quite mystified.
"How very strange! Then is the girl you talk so much about Mrs. Norman's daughter?"
"Yes; and she has treated her abominably. She hardly ever sends her any money, and always writes as if she is at her last penny. Fancy! Since Gavine left school, she has only been allowed twelve pounds a year! It's a kitchenmaid's wages when she first goes out. Gavine has two aunts who are not at all well off, and one of them is paralysed; but they have given her a home until her mother can settle down and have her. She has always said she would do it, and now she has taken a cottage here, there's no reason why Gavine should not come to her. Only if she lives with her, I know she'll be perfectly miserable. I'll get her to come to me; that will make her mother feel ashamed of herself."
"Oh, Jockie, dear, you must not talk so. She is her mother. If your friend is a nice girl, she must feel attached to her own mother."
"So she does. Gavine is an angel. But I know what her life has been—continual disappointments. She's always hoped and longed to live with her mother, and Mrs. Norman won't have her. She likes to pose as a young woman; and Gavine is much handsomer than she is, and wants to do good, and Mrs. Norman hates good people. She hates you, Miss Urquhart. She mentioned your name to Austin.
"I'll tell you what she said. 'Do come and deliver me from that poor old Major. He has come down every day for the last week. I feel so sorry for him. It is a great pity he has such an unhappy home. I cannot understand Miss Urquhart; but then I don't know her. She seems to me such a pleasant girl to outsiders, but she does not show much affection to her poor old uncle.'
"I flared up, of course. 'Miss Urquhart adores him, and he adores her,' I said.
"And then Austin laughed. 'You have got hold of the pig by the wrong ear, Mrs. Norman,' he said. 'The old Major is a confounded bore, but his niece has always been most awfully good to him. I've had the run of the house since I was quite a small boy, so I know.'
"Now, don't you think that ought to have squashed her? Not a bit. She looked quite perturbed and sorry. 'Oh, dear! What a dreadful old humbug the Major is!' she said. 'He gave me to understand quite the contrary. I suppose he was wanting to get my pity. Old men love to have a grievance, don't they?'
"It was then I said good-bye to them and walked on. Yes, it is war to the knife between us, Miss Urquhart. I feel it in my bones. And, of course, I understand why you want another man to come upon the scene and carry her off. I wish he would."
"You take my breath away, Jockie!" Sidney said with a distressed look in her eyes. Jockie's recital had cut her to the quick, and the girl perceived it. She flung her arms round her and kissed her.
"Don't look like that! My tongue runs away with me. We won't think any more about her. She isn't worth it. But I shall write and tell Gavine where her mother is."
Jockie was as good as her word, and came to tell Sidney the result.
"Gavine says she has just heard from her mother, and she wants her down here at once. Isn't it exciting? I shall love to have her. I want her to see you, and you are sure to like her—everyone does—but keep a little bit of your heart for me."
Sidney laughed at her.
"You won't want me when your friend comes."
"I've just met Mr. Austin," Jockie continued; "so I told him the news. He didn't look best pleased. I think this frost is making him very cross. When I told him that Gavine ought to live with her mother always, he said curtly:
"'I don't see why she should.'
"So then I said an awful thing! I can't help my tongue, Miss Urquhart. I wish I could. It is past my control entirely. I said: 'I suppose you wouldn't care to have so old a stepdaughter?'
"He looked as if he could bite my head off, and turned bang round and walked off without saying good-bye, or even raising his cap. He can be very rude when he likes. So then my temper was up, and I called after him: 'You had much better let the Major have his innings. His age is much more suitable.' And, of course, you'll say I was rude and vulgar. I thought I was myself when he had gone."
"I don't see why you should try to quarrel with Austin," said Sidney very quietly.
"He annoys me. He is so idiotically infatuated with Mrs. Norman. And she is Gavine's mother, I never can forget that."
Gavine Norman soon arrived, and Sidney went down to Lovelace's Cottage with some curiosity, to see Jockie's bosom friend. The frost still held. Sidney herself was grateful to it. Austin was much more at home, and his mother rejoiced accordingly. Mrs. Norman took long walks; she did not hide her disappointment at the hunting ending so soon. Major Urquhart wandered down to her cottage about every other day. Sidney wondered as she walked if her uncle were down there now. But she was overtaken by Austin, whose steps were bound the same way.
They were both shown into the tiny drawing-room, where mother and daughter were sitting. Mrs. Norman was writing at her davenport; Gavine was sitting by the fire reading. She looked up as they entered, and Sidney was struck at once by her face. She was dressed in a dark red gown. The colour suited her. She had a very white skin; her soft, dusky black hair was parted in the middle, it fell away in ripples over her ears, and a thick plait encircled her head. Her eyes were dark blue, and a steady, rather sombre light seemed to glow in their depths, whilst thick eyebrows and very long curved lashes lent a touch of heaviness to her otherwise fragile and delicate oval face. Her nose was straight and sensitive, her lips had a wistful droop at the corners, but her square, determined chin, and broad intellectual brow showed that she had mental force and ability.
Mrs. Norman was her usual gay charming self. She greeted Sidney warmly, her eyes welcomed Austin.
"How kind of you, Miss Urquhart! Let me introduce my big daughter. She quite frightens me by her size, but time flies, and she has grown much since I last saw her. I must get accustomed to take the back place when I have her with me."
Gavine made no reply. She dropped her book, and sat silently listening to the chatter around her. When talk got on the frost, and the signs of it yielding, Sidney left Austin to Mrs. Norman, and turned to the girl.
"I have heard so much about you from Jockie, that I have longed to meet you," she said.
Gavine smiled, and when she smiled, her face was beautiful.
"Jockie is a dear; she sees no fault in her friends."
"Have you seen her yet?"
"Yes; she came over yesterday. We are going to take a long walk together to-morrow if fine."
"Do you hunt?"
"I have never been on horseback in my life."
"I was wondering if you would find it dull here. But I expect you have resources."
"I never want to kill time," said Gavine, looking at Sidney with glowing eyes; "it is too precious for that."
"I hear you are a great reader."
"I love it—as a relaxation."
Sidney began to wonder if she were priggish or in deadly earnest.
Her mother turned round at that moment.
"Mr. de Cressiers is asking whether you skate, Gavine. He says the ice is bearing."
"Yes," she said a little indifferently. "I have skated up in the north."
Austin looked across at her with some eagerness.
"We are going to open our grounds to-morrow, for we have some big fish-ponds which are in first-rate condition. You will come, won't you? We'll adjourn to the house for lunch."
"I don't think she has any skates with her," said Mrs. Norman slowly.
"That doesn't matter, we will turn out ours. I know we have a lot of odd pairs. And you'll come too, and if you don't know how to skate, I will teach you."
He turned an adoring eye upon the young widow. Gavine regarded him gravely for a minute, then she said to Sidney:
"Will you be there, Miss Urquhart?"
"I—I hope so, and Jockie must come too."
"I thought Jockie taught in the morning."
"Oh, I dare say Miss Pembroke will give Chuckles a holiday."
"I should hope she won't, for Jockie's sake," Gavine said earnestly. "When she does undertake a thing, she ought to stick to it. That was her great fault at school, she was brilliantly clever, but would never persevere."
"And perseverance comes easily to you?" Sidney asked with a smile.
"Yes, I lack in initiative. I can't start things, but when once started I'm all right. Jockie is a very good starter."
Sidney was interested in the girl; not so much in what she said, but in the smouldering fires which shone in her deep blue eyes, and in the changing expression of her face. She said to her:
"You take life earnestly, Miss Norman."
"Who wouldn't? Oh, Miss Urquhart, it is a tremendous thing, isn't it? There is so much to gain, and so much to lose."
Her lips quivered. She touched the volume she had been reading.
"These are some essays by Carlyle, and Macaulay, and Emerson. I am only dipping into them, but they make you think, don't they? And they make me long to work. I have had so much time to think and to read. I am simply yearning to do—"
"You must come and see me, and we will have a good talk together," said Sidney, being almost startled by the vehemence in the girl's tone.
Mrs. Norman had caught a bit of the conversation.
"Ah, Miss Urquhart," she said, laughing. "It is the young people who teach us in the present day. They are so wise, so full of enthusiasm, so intense in what they feel and hope for. When I listen to my girl, it reminds me of my hot-headed youth, and I pray she may not be awakened so quickly as I was."
Gavine looked at her mother.
"How were you awakened?" she asked gravely.
"My dear child. You will know how later on. Life has hardly touched you yet. You are only on the threshold."
"You talk as if you were Methuselah!" said Austin. "How can you be so absurd?"
"Am I absurd!"
Mrs. Norman lowered her voice and turned her head away from Sidney and her daughter. "My dear boy, Gavine makes me feel a frivolous doll; she is the essence of lead. Her heaviness and stolid matter-of-fact sense have a most depressing effect upon me. I feel bound with chains when she is in the room. And when we go about together, I have the awful desire to shock her. Isn't it dreadful of me? For she's such a good earnest girl, and her good worthy aunts are so much more to her than her own mother is. She is never happy till she gets away from me. And I assure you she would be scandalised if she saw me tumbling about on the ice to-morrow. She thinks I ought to be dressed up in a lace cap and spectacles and sit over the fire knitting shawls for the poor. That is her ideal mother!"
Austin laughed. He could not help it; but he felt a little uncomfortable. Gavine's good looks impressed him. He was inclined to talk to her, and when presently her laugh rang out at one of Sidney's speeches, he moved across the room and joined them.
"What is the joke?"
"I was only describing some of our characters here," said Sidney, and then she rose to go.
Austin stayed behind. He did not offer to accompany her, but she was accustomed to that now. She went home wondering what kind of intercourse there was between mother and daughter.
"I don't know which I pity most," she said to herself. "The girl wants more gaiety in her, the mother less. But I like the looks of Gavine, and hope I shall see something of her."
There was no skating the next day. A sudden thaw set in. Sidney did not see either of the girls for some time, as her father was in bed with a slight attack of bronchitis, and she hardly left the house. The Major was in very low spirits as he watched Mrs. Norman riding off to the meets with Austin. He shut himself up in his workshop, and growled at everyone who came near him.
Gavine and Jockie took long walks together every afternoon. One day Gavine's face was unusually grave.
"Jockie, dear, I must go back to the aunts. I can't stay here."
"Why?" Jockie's horrified face made Gavine smile.
"I don't think mother wants me."
"She never has," said Jockie indignantly; "but I want you. Have you had a row? You needn't mind telling me."
"Oh, it never comes to that. Mother never loses her temper, you know. I sometimes wish she did. But I annoy her. I blurt out truths which are best not expressed, and I can't understand what I'm expected to say, and what I am not. Major Urquhart came yesterday, and mother asked him to tea to-day, as there was no meet anywhere. Mr. de Cressiers happened to come in this morning, and wanted us to go motoring with him this afternoon. Mother accepted, and, thinking she had forgotten, I said quickly: 'Oh, we can't do that, can we, mother? You asked Major Urquhart to tea to-day, and you asked him to come early, for you had not seen him for such a long time.'
"Now why should that speech of mine be such a crime? Mother carried it off all right at the time, but she was most annoyed with me afterwards. She told me I was like an awkward child, had no manners, and she really thought I was better in my 'northern wilds' than in decent society. I honestly think I am. I hate the chitter-chatter of society. It leads to nothing, and I am living a lazy idle life here. It doesn't suit me. I have been accustomed to attend to my two aunts, and do some sick-nursing. There is nothing to do here, and Jockie, dear—it is not her fault. We have lived our lives apart since I was four years old, but mother has no more affection or feeling for me than that stone.'"
She struck a wayside stone with her stick as she spoke, but there were tears rising in her blue eyes. Jockie linked her arm in hers.
"No, dear, you two will never hit it off together, never! Has your mother disappointed the old Major again?"
"I took up a note to him, asking him to dinner instead. She is out now motoring, but I did not want to go. It is no fun to me."
"No. You're gooseberry!" said Jockie.
Gavine stared at her.
"I sometimes think I am very dense. What do you mean? You don't know mother as I do, Jockie. She is friends with everybody. She always has been, but never anything more."
There was an anxious look in Gavine's eyes, and Jockie did not enlighten her further. They began to talk of "work," which was Gavine's favourite topic.
"I want to work somewhere in London, Jockie. If only mother would give me a little more money, I could do it. I should like to go to one of those settlements, where everybody is doing something for others. There is so much to be done, so few to do it. I don't want to hide my talents in a napkin. It is the next life that matters, not this. We are in a school of discipline here. We must make efforts towards heaven, and I do not want to fail in getting there, do you?"
"I don't know," said Jockie soberly. "I don't incline towards the strenuous disciplined life. I have often told you so. I want to enjoy everything as it comes. It always seems to me that in preference you cross the street to the shady side. Now I like to walk in the sun."
"I want to keep my body in subjection," said Gavine, with earnest shining eyes, "so that it will not be a hindrance to me when I am working. I sometimes think I should like to join a sisterhood. I was very nearly doing it a year ago, and then I promised someone I would not."
"Who?" Jockie asked bluntly.
A soft pink colour stole into Gavine's cheeks.
"Oh, it's only someone who has gone abroad."
Jockie's eyes twinkled.
"I'm waiting to be told his name."
But Gavine kept her own counsel and would say no more.
AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT
CHRISTMAS came with its festivities; and though Thanning Dale was not a very gay neighbourhood, there was enough going on to keep everyone occupied. Sidney was freer now that her father was convalescent, and she and Jockie pressed Gavine into their service, for there were parish teas and entertainments and a Christmas tree for the children. And somehow or other, Austin was always with them. Sidney noticed that he did not mention Mrs. Norman's name, and there was something in his feverish gaiety and forced ring of cheerfulness, that made her wonder if anything had gone wrong in their friendship.
She was too busy to seek for his confidence; and, indeed, there was little opportunity for quiet talk between them. Gavine and he were good friends, but nothing more. Jockie made fun of him, laughed at him, and contradicted him whenever she got a chance, but Austin held his ground with her, and Sidney listened to their gay talk and laughter with relief of mind. This was Austin in his wholesome boyish state again. What had occasioned the change?
She was enlightened at last. Austin was seeing her home after the village children's prize-giving and treat. It was a windy night.
"Take my arm," he insisted; "you are tired out with the romping. Are you my friend still, Sid?"
"Is it my way to change?" Sidney said quietly.
"Oh, no, but women are beyond me. And it's my fate to have my ideals shattered."
"You'd better tell me," Sidney suggested.
"I want to. But you're the only one on earth I'll speak to about it; for I know you won't crow, and say 'I told you so.' It's only—only I've had a nasty shock about that little woman. I really can't bring myself to tell you, but it's all up between us, and I'm going to clear out for a bit. The mother condescended to say that I could have a holiday, and I'm off to Cairo next week. I know a fellow going out, and I've fixed it up with him."
"That is very wise of you," said Sidney, hardly knowing what to say.
"You don't ask questions? But I'll try to tell you. She sent me a letter intended for your uncle. 'Pon my honour, I feel sorry for her, but she began, 'My dearest,' and dashed if I didn't read it right through before I twigged she had put it in the wrong envelope. And she told him not to be angry with her, for the 'poor boy' would not keep away, and she could not make him see how he bored her. Then she went on to hint that if this poor infatuated youth still frequented her cottage, the Major must take into consideration that there was her girl ready to amuse him, and young people liked each other's company. Now what do you think of that? After assuring me that the Major was a daily purgatory to her. It bowled me over, I can tell you."
"I am sorry for you," Sidney said, "but you would take no warnings. She has wanted to keep you both as friends."
"Oh!" cried Austin with a little groan. "I tell you it has been a pretty stiff eye-opener to me! I sent the letter back to her, and told her she need not trouble to send the letter she originally meant for me, and, of course, I haven't been near her since. She wrote an abject apology, saying she could explain if I called, but mum's the word! And I shall be out of it soon. And I'm jolly well cured of a leaning towards your sex, Sid. If it were not for you, I'd never believe in a single woman again. By George! How she's taken me in, and befooled me. Do you think the Major got my letter?"
"No, I don't think he did," said Sidney, stifling a sigh. "I almost wish he had. I don't think his eyes will ever be opened."
"I shouldn't like to tell you of the jeers and jibes she has flung at his courting. But she may pull it off with him. And I say, do befriend that poor girl; she does have a time of it."
"Do you mean Gavine?"
"Yes, I put my foot in it several times trying to stand up for her. Don't think I'm a broken-hearted youth, Sid. I tell you, I rode by the cottage on purpose to-day, and whistled merrily. But all the same, I shall be glad to turn my back on this place for a time."
When they parted, Sidney looked at him gravely.
"Austin, you ought to be thankful to have had your eyes opened. She never would have made you happy."
But when she got indoors she said to herself:
"And now I feel that Uncle Ted is doomed. She will not let him escape her."
And that feeling hovered about her like an angry looming cloud. The more cheerful her uncle became, the more anxious she was. The uncertain future seemed to menace her. It needed all her faith and fortitude to go about with a bright and smiling face.
About the same time Monica had a visit from Mrs. Norman. She was the first to inform her that Austin was leaving home for a time.
"It is an immense relief to me. In fact, I may tell you in confidence that it is chiefly through my instrumentality that he is going. It was bad enough to have him in and out of my house all hours of the day, before Gavine came to me. I was sorry for the boy. He seemed so lonely and miserable, so misunderstood at home. But you know a woman's pity is sometimes mistaken for something else, and I found he was presuming too much, so I had to stop it. You see, I do not mind what people say of myself. I am quite impervious to idle gossip. I think if one has a clear conscience one is perfectly indifferent to the wagging of tongues. But I have my daughter to think of now, and I was afraid if he was never out of our house, that her name might be a subject of gossip. A woman is always supposed to have matrimonial plans, if she has a pretty daughter. So I wrote him a letter which has effectually quenched him. I have acted rightly, have I not? I believe you would have done the same, had you been in my place."
Monica could not but agree. She did not know how much went on at Lovelace's Cottage; she was too busy a woman to meddle much in her neighbours' affairs; but when Sidney came next to see her, she told her what she considered were "the rights of the story." Sidney listened, and felt hopeless and helpless to put the matter straight, so did not try to do so.
"We had better take Mrs. Norman at her own valuation, Monnie. It will be only a fret and annoyance to ourselves if we don't. How do you like her daughter?"
"I have hardly seen her, but she happens to be coming to tea this afternoon. Will you stay to meet her? Jockie is going to bring her in here after their walk."
"Yes, I shall like to stay. Father and Uncle Ted have actually gone out driving together. It is some business they want to do with their lawyer in Pegborough."
Something in Sidney's tone made Monica look at her sharply.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Nothing, I believe; but I am full of fears, Monnie."
"And I am afraid Austin's absence will not mend matters."
"We shall see. How is Chuckles? Do you think his Sunday lessons are impressing him?"
"He is still mad on building. Some of his remarks are very funny. He asked Aunt Dannie if God had not nearly finished building her yet; and when she said she did not know, he informed her that when the top stone was put on, God would take her to heaven. I really enjoy listening to him. I will bring up the subject at tea-time, and you will see for yourself if he does his teacher credit."
Sidney gave a little sigh.
"It is so easy to talk, so difficult to live. Life is very perplexing, Monnie."
"But you don't find it perplexing," said Monica with a dry little smile. "You tell me that your foundation is so sure that you are never affected or moved by difficulties and troubles. Isn't there a verse in the Psalms, 'I shall never be moved'? That is your position, is it not?"
Sidney looked wistfully out of the window.
"It ought to be my realisation." Then a light came into her eyes. "But it doesn't say 'I shall never be shaken'; only 'never be moved.' It's the buffeting I find so trying. It isn't the building's fault when the wind and storm attack it."
She visibly brightened up.
"I like to tease you sometimes," said Monica, smiling at her.
"Yes, you brace me up, Monnie. I feel very slack at present. I have all kinds of presentiments, and I honestly don't like living near anyone who is not friendly to me. I see the girls are coming in. They are a handsome couple, are they not?"
Chuckles was dancing up the garden after them. He was in a very dirty overall, and brandished a trowel in one hand.
Monica carried him off to make him tidy for tea; the girls joined Sidney in the cosy sitting-room. Both were genuinely glad to see her there.
"We've been up the Beacon," said Jockie. "It's our favourite walk. Oh, dear! I shall be glad of some tea. Talking and climbing are rather exhausting, and our tongues have been hard at it. Gavine says she's going away soon; isn't it a shame of her, when I want her so much?"
"Does your mother want you to leave her so soon?" Sidney asked, turning to Gavine.
"Yes," the girl answered simply; then she added, with a little effort: "We have been talking together, and mother is quite willing that I shall go and do something. You see, my aunts do not really need me. They told me so when I came away; they thought my duty was to stay with my mother."
"And is it not?" asked Sidney.
"Not when it is her wish that I should leave her," said Gavine quietly. "I am going up to London to stay with a clergyman and his wife; he has a curacy in the slums somewhere, and they say they can give me plenty of work. She was at school with me. Jockie knows her."
"Yes; she's not a bit like a clergyman's wife; much too fond of dress and society," said the outspoken Jockie; and then she laughed.
"I expect people say much the same of me—not a bit like a clergyman's cousin; much too fond of fun. I tell Gavine we can give her plenty of parish work, can't me, Miss Urquhart? But I know what she wants—a more rigorous, self-denying life; she wants to live in a kind of cell and be short of food and fires, and go out to early services at six o'clock in the morning, and make herself very ill and bad-tempered."
Monica came back at this juncture, leading a very clean Chuckles by the hand. Then she asked them to come to a sit down tea in the dining-room.
When they were at the table, Sidney asked the small boy what he had been doing with himself all the afternoon. His eyes gleamed.
"I've been building a real house, me and Mr. Rudge togever."
"It's a labourer's cottage being erected," said Monica. "You can fancy that he discovered it very quickly."
"Yes," said Chuckles, with a self-satisfied nod. "Mr. Rudge holded my hand and showed me how to put the mortar atween the bwicks. He was very like God this morning. I tolded him so."
Gavine stared at the child with her grave eyes.
Jockie giggled.
"How was he, Chuckles?" she asked. "Tell us."
"He helped me to build," said Chuckles with great gravity. "That's what God does to me every day, doesn't He, Miss Sid?"
Monica looked across at Sidney with a smile.
Chuckles was never better pleased than when he had got an audience. He lifted up his voice and continued:
"I'm just about middle built now."
"What do you mean?" asked Jockie.
"Well, fust, you see, God builded me a baby; that's when I couldn't do nuffin myself, and God builded me all by Hisself. Then He went on building me taller, a little bit at a time, until I was builded into a boy; now I've got to build a little myself, and build all kinds of bwicks on me; and God just hold His hand over mine so I don't make no mistakes. He's building me up gooder every day."
"Oh," said Monica, "I hope I see the goodness coming, Chuckles; but you don't grow in that direction very fast."
Chuckles cocked his head on one side like some saucy sparrow.
"The bwicks don't stick always," he asserted; "sometimes they tummles off; 'specially the bwick this week—it's to do what you're told quick, and it won't stick."
"Did you teach him all this, Miss Urquhart?" asked Gavine, a light leaping into her eyes.
"Yes," said Sidney; "we're doing a course of building every Sunday, and we find out a lot about it, don't we, Chuckles? We're all builders—of a sort."
"Of a sort," repeated Monica slowly.
"When I'm builded into a man, I shall begin to build other people," asserted Chuckles.
And the important tone with which he said it made the girls laugh.
They had a merry tea. Jockie was overflowing with fun and spirits, but when the time came for them to go, she said to Sidney:
"Will you let Gavine walk a part of the way with you. I have promised to be home in time for the choir practice; and she's dying to talk to you."
Sidney was only too delighted. She had wanted to see more of Gavine, but seemed to have had no opportunities with her.
When they were left alone together Gavine said:
"What a quaint child that boy is. He seems such a mixture. Jockie says he is a regular pickle, and yet he talks like a little saint."
"He is far from a saint," said Sidney; "but real religion is as natural to children as their daily food. They only want teaching, and Chuckles has a bright intelligence and a vivid imagination. I love having him on Sunday."
"I want to be a builder," said Gavine earnestly. "I really think I'm going to get my wish. But I wish I could think with Chuckles that God would put His hand over mine to prevent mistakes."
"He will if you ask Him," said Sidney earnestly. "Only, if you want to be a successful builder, be sure about your foundation."
"How do you mean?"
"Chuckles and I began with the stories of the houses on the rock and sand. Don't build on sand; it will only court disaster. It says in the Bible: 'Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ.'"
"Oh, do talk to me, Miss Urquhart," said Gavine in a voice which vibrated with earnest longing. "Jockie said you would. I want to know so much. I want to get satisfied."
Sidney gave a little happy laugh as she tucked Gavine's arm within hers.
"You poor child! Talking is easy, but the right talk is what we want. And I don't quite know where you are."
"I don't know where I am myself," said Gavine, "except that long ago I felt that life would not bring me sunshine, so I determined that it should bring me work. But I seem thwarted on all sides. Now, it is true, I feel light is coming, but it has been obtained at tremendous cost. My mother has been long in coming round to my point of view, and she has told me definitely that, as I wish to take up work, I must look upon it as my profession or vocation in life, and never count again upon her house as my home. It makes me feel bitter, but it is happier to have a complete understanding between us. We haven't an idea in common. She says I am my father's daughter, and she never cared about him; it is no good to pretend she did. All my life I have been hoping she would have me with her, and let me take care of her and work for her. It has been one series of hopes and disappointments. Now it has come to a crisis, and it is better so. I can learn to stand alone.
"Many girls would glory in such freedom. I have £80 a year of my own now, for I was twenty-one last week. But though work is coming to me, it has not as yet made me really happy, and I am wondering if it will. I suppose it doesn't matter about being happy, does it? But you carry it about in your face. I was watching you to-day. I know you feel sad sometimes. I—don't laugh—but Jockie and I love looking at your face. It is so beautiful, and has so many changes in it. Before Chuckles began to talk, conversation was a little effort to you, and your thoughts were far-away; then, when he began to talk about building, light and gladness crept into your eyes and the merry ring into your voice. You looked as if you were brimming over with happiness, and I felt as if I was outside a house in the cold and rain, looking into a cosy firelit room. Do help me."
Quick tears had sprung into Sidney's eyes. She exclaimed impulsively:
"You shall not go to London till you know how you can be happy, dear. You will want the deep fountains of content inside you to tide you over all the sin and misery that you will see in London's slums. I wish you could come back to dinner with me this evening. Do you think you could? We will send you home."
Gavine's eyes looked very wistful.
"I wish I could. But I don't know whether mother would like it."
"Oh, yes, she will. I will send a note down and say I have kept you; that is the best way. Now let us go on talking. I wonder what foundation you have under your feet? I mean what do you rely on when things go wrong? What is your aim, your hope, your inspiration?"
Gavine's young pulses throbbed, yet her eyes were troubled.
"I think I'm like a watch without a mainspring. I have great ideas of what can be done, what ought to be done, and of what I mean to do, but I don't seem to get the power to do it. I'll confess to you, Miss Urquhart. Jockie has been giving me sick poor to go and see in the village. I've all my life wanted to visit the poor. I've had to content myself with waiting on a sick aunt, and I've felt all my talents were hidden and wasted. Well, I've visited the poor; but, do you know, my tongue has been dumb. What can I say to help or comfort a mother who is doing her share of wage-earning by days out at farms, a mother who gets from her husband thirteen shillings a week, and has eleven children to bring up and fit out in life upon it? What can I say to a partially paralysed old woman who lies in bed day after day alone with her thoughts, and only a dirty, cracked ceiling and a dingy coloured wall to feast her eyes upon? It makes me wonder, now I have got the desire of my heart, whether that will turn to dust and ashes when I touch it."
"Why do you want to work so much?" said Sidney softly.
"Why? I don't know, except that I've always had a contempt for wastelings, for idlers, for cumberers of the ground. We're put into the world to make it better, aren't we? We have to work our way to heaven. That is my goal. I do think it is. I want to be inside its gates one day. And a lifetime here is only a fragment of eternity, is it not?"
Gavine's eyes were glowing, her heart was in her words.
"Yes," said Sidney. "You want to be a builder with the rest of us."
"I do, I do. I have all the longings for it in the abstract, but I am beginning to doubt myself, to wonder what practical value I am going to be in the world."
"Oh, Gavine dear, you will be all right if you build on the right foundation. But a creed of good works erected on the sand will topple over before they reach heaven. And it is such dreary work wondering if one has done enough, or will do enough to pay for what has already been paid for. Don't you know from your Bible that eternal life can never be bought—that it is a gift?"
"We must work out our own salvation," murmured Gavine.
"Yes, work it out, but it must be given us first. That is such a misunderstood verse. We work, for love compels more forcefully than the desire to escape death. Do you remember St. Paul's words?—'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity,' or Love. Christianity is the gospel of Love. Christ earned heaven for you, He showed His love by dying, and by bearing your sins. He could do no more. When God Himself said, 'It is finished,' do you think it needs our puny attempts, even of a lifetime, to add to His scheme of salvation? We can show our gratitude and love to Him by a good life and good work; that is our absolute duty, but when every act pleases the One you love, it is such happy work."
There was a little silence. Then Gavine squeezed Sidney's arm, and there was a sound of tears in her voice.
"Oh, Miss Urquhart; I have never had anyone to talk so to me before. Show me how to love Him."
FRONTIER NEWS
GAVINE stayed to dinner, and afterwards Sidney retired with her over the drawing-room fire, where they had the talk that remained with Gavine for the rest of her life.
Major Urquhart was, of course, only too delighted to take her home, and Mrs. Norman welcomed him in so warmly that Gavine escaped to bed unnoticed. Sleep did not come very soon to her. She had always been a deeply religious girl, but there was now a quickening thrill and fire in her soul that had never been there before, for she had been shown the foundation stone, and simply as a little child she had planted herself upon it.
She opened her window and gazed up into the still blue heavens above her.
"What does anything matter?" she exclaimed in the rapture of her heart's adoration for the One who had become the centre of her life. "If I never get any slum work at all, I can find work to do at home. Wherever I am, I can be working, for it is just doing His will and following Him. That is what makes Miss Urquhart so contented and happy in her life. I wondered at it before. Now I understand."
To Sidney, that evening talk had been a tremendous lift and cheer. She had kept a bright face, but her heart had been saddened and fearful over her future. She was not a perfect woman by any means, and in pointing the way to another wayfarer, she had taken a firmer foothold herself. So the next day dawned for these two with a brighter outlook, and the little frets and chafings of life hardly touched them.
That afternoon the Admiral called Sidney to him.
"I've been reading about Neville's doings. Have you seen the paper? He is making things hum out there. I knew he would."
Sidney sat down at once by her father's side.
"Do read it to me," she cried. "I have neither heard nor seen anything."
"You had better read it yourself. He has been turning out a native collector or commissioner, and the place is up in arms. He found him out in 'bribery and corruption,' the usual thing with a native official. But this particular man was the son of a big gun out there, and I'm afraid he has raised a hornet's nest about his ears. What with the depredations of native robbers, and the corruption of many of the officials, those small outposts are not a treat, I can tell you. I know a little about them. And these Radicals in Parliament are, of course, thrusting their noses into the pie, and calling out that colour and the rights of the native are not being respected."
Sidney took the paper in her hand with beating heart. Why she was so agitated she could hardly explain to herself. She had written to her "fellow builder" only a week previously, one of her gay, sweet letters, ending with some earnest bracing words of cheer and stimulation. As she saw his name in print, and his actions criticised and questioned in the House, the warm colour crept into her cheeks. She read an extract from a letter of his which was quoted: "I will sooner resign my post than wink at a system of job and corruption." And she looked up at her father with glowing eyes.
"What a pity we have not a few more men like him, dad."
"I'll write him a line of congratulation," the Admiral said, turning to his writing table. "He is standing alone at present; but the Viceroy will back him up. People at home are so terribly afraid of the natives rising that they think nothing of recalling a man who is doing his simple duty. I know all about it. Those who have travelled round the world as I have, see a little farther than these country bumpkins who push themselves into Parliament, and think that any trouble with natives means unjust oppression on our part."
"I hope they will give him a free hand," Sidney said. "He told me he had been born under an unlucky star. It would be rather hard to recall him. They couldn't do it, could they?"
The Admiral shook his head.
"He'll win his way sooner or later. I always said so, and why not now?"
In a few days' time they saw from the papers that troops had been called out, and a horde of fanatics had swept down from the hills to join in the mêlée. Sidney watched for the news breathlessly. She was astonished when Gavine appeared one morning and begged to know if the daily paper had come.
"We don't get ours so soon as the Admiral, and I want to see something in it."
"It has not come yet. Sit down and wait. It won't be long now. What is it you want to see, Gavine?"
"Oh, only the account of this row on one of the Indian frontiers."
"Are you interested in it?"
"Very. I know someone out there."
Gavine was blushing. Sidney looked at her in amazement.
"Do confide in me. Father and I are interested too, in someone out there. Do you know Mr. Neville?"
"No, but I've heard of him."
The girl hesitated a little, then, meeting Sidney's affectionate and sympathetic gaze, she faltered.
"It's a young fellow who used to live close to my aunts in the north. We grew up together. We aren't engaged. I did not want to be, but I promised if he still wanted me in three years' time from the day he went out, I would think about it. I wanted him to make his way first. He has been out there two years now, and he writes to me constantly. I feel I could go down on my knees before Mr. Neville, if I were ever to see him, and thank him for all he has done. Because George could not keep straight, and I have suffered tortures as I gathered it in his letters. He is not a weak character, I should not care for him if he were; but he is one of those happy generous natures who love their fellow-creatures, and are too simple to suspect guile in anyone.
"He was essentially a home boy. His mother was a widow, and died just before he went abroad, so he has no home or home ties to keep him straight—only me. And he did struggle and try so hard when he went out there, but, as far as I can make out, there wasn't a single soul who gave him a helping hand. Everyone dragged him down. And I felt a month or two ago as if I had completely lost him. He had left off writing for five months. Then he wrote again. Such a letter, and such a confession of the past!
"But he had been taken hold of by Mr. Neville, and he said he felt he could die for him. I little thought how those words would nearly come true. I heard from him two days ago, and he was full of all this that is coming out in the papers, only, of course, he tells me much more. Do you really know Mr. Neville well? How awfully strange. I think he must be a splendid man—a regular hero."
"He was staying down here before he went out," Sidney said, trying to speak calmly. "He is a cousin of Miss Pembroke's. Do tell what you have heard. We are so—so interested in him, and all that is going on out there."
"Oh, George has been full of it. He has told me of all the improvements Mr. Neville has made, and how he has absolutely alone and unaided attacked all the abuses in the place, and pulled things together, and made a clean sweep of the scoundrels and rogues. But, of course, there has been a section dead against him, and furious with him for stopping so much of the drinking and gambling, so they have made mischief and stirred up the natives; and then he was the cause of the native collector at the neighbouring station being removed, and that was the last straw, and one night—the night before George wrote; he was dining with him fortunately—a crowd of natives surrounded his bungalow. His servants ran away, and the ringleader called out for Mr. Neville to show himself. He didn't want any calling, for he was out on the steps in a moment, and one man with a revolver dashed forward and fired full in his face. George was quicker still, and sprang forward and struck up his hand as he fired, so the shot went clear over the bungalow. He stood there before them bareheaded, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at them, George said.
"'Next man!' he cried. 'I have no firearms about me, and am a good target.' And not a man moved. Then he spoke to them, and George said his speech was simply wonderful. He talked to them like a father might to his children. He told them they had only one life to live down here, and it ought to be a clean life. He was going to help them up, and not down. And then he reasoned with them and pleaded with them, and he reduced some to tears, and some pressed forward and prostrated themselves before him, and the scoundrels slunk away. George said it was like listening to a second Gordon, and Mr. Neville wound up by talking of the Indian and British Empires, which would rise or fall together, and he impressed them with the righteous power of a just nation. Oh, I am not telling it well, but I cried over the letter. It was all so splendid, so inspiring."
Sidney's eyes were moist too, and her heart beating strangely. Why should she be so moved? she asked herself. But, womanlike, she evaded—even to herself—the answer.
"Did he say anything about the troops coming down?"
"Yes; he said that was a very big blunder. Some well-meaning but mistaken fool had written off for them. Mr. Neville told George there would have been no more trouble if the troops had not arrived. As George was writing, he heard that the natives had risen in the hills. And that is why I'm so anxious to get news. I know George will be in the thick of it, for he refuses to leave Mr. Neville's side, and he is not the man to stay inactive."
"Here is the boy with the paper," said Sidney, and she darted out into the hall to get it. Together they bent their heads over it, but there were only two lines, saying that there had been sharp fighting, but the natives had been repulsed, with a few British losses. "Particulars would follow."
"They would have said if any officers or Commissioners had been wounded," said Sidney. "Now come and tell my father your news, Gavine. He will be so interested. It is such an extraordinary coincidence that you should know someone out there too. How quiet you have kept it."
"Well, he is only a friend," said Gavine shyly. "Nothing more at present. You can't wonder I like Mr. Neville, after all he has done for George."
She accompanied Sidney to the Admiral's study, and there told her story again. The Admiral was delighted.
"He'll do. I always said he'd do. And this fighting is nothing at all. It will clear the air and show that we are in earnest over our out-stations."
When Gavine had gone Sidney went straight to her writing-desk and wrote:
"MY DEAR MR. NEVILLE,"You don't know what a state of excitement we have been in over your small corner. Father and I have watched for the daily papers eagerly; but how much they omit and how much they misrepresent! Do sit down when you have time and give us a detailed account of all your doings. I have been hearing a lot about you through a girl who has come here lately and is a great friend of young George Lockhart's. You can understand what we have heard and how it has stirred us. How I wish I could peep through a telescope at you. I should like you to know Gavine Norman. She is such a fine splendid girl. And what you have done for George Lockhart, you have done for her. She was so miserable about him before you went out. Oh, how often I wish I were a man to go out into the world to do and dare! But it is good to be friends with the one who does it. And you must never forget that any detail from your seat of war is welcome. Father is stroking himself down with great complacency, saying he knew, and he foretold, and his intuitions were correct that you would do as you have done."Things have not gone on exactly the same since you have left us. Fresh personalities have come upon the scene, and have brought with them much interest, some conjecture and alarm, and a good deal of unrest. I feel as if I am on the brink of an earthquake, an upheaval that will lift father and myself right out of our old home and plant us down in some strange soil and surroundings. It may be a false alarm. If it is not, I will tell you where we are taken. Monnie tells me that my creed is, 'I shall never be moved.' Have you got your foundation so firm underfoot that you can give your assent to that? My earthquake is a very earthly one. I think—in fact, I know—that my foundation is immovable, so if one's inner man is anchored 'sure and steadfast' to it, it does not matter about the outer man, does it?"I think you are going ahead with your building faster than I am. But Empire building is a big thing. I do congratulate you with all my heart upon your success. You see, we have heard more of your doings through George Lockhart than through yourself."This is not a very interesting letter, but it will at least let you know that we think of you and talk of you, and look forward to your letters. I am always going to sign myself—"Your fellow builder,"SIDNEY URQUHART."
Sidney put her pen down when she had signed her name with a little sigh.
"Oh, how tied a woman is!" she exclaimed. "How she has to keep back all natural expressions of pleasure in what a friend does and says. My heart is too full of his heroism to trust my pen. It would run away with me. I feel I would like to see him. Letters are so stiff, so unsatisfying."
Then she relapsed into dreams—dreams which she had long thought dead, but which kept her wrapped in sweet oblivion of time and surroundings and brought a light to her eyes and a flush upon her cheeks. When she roused herself at last, she laughed at herself.
"I ought to know better than to waste my time in such silliness."
And she went downstairs and occupied herself with so many household duties that further dreams were impossible.
The papers for the next few days brought no fresh news except that the British had a complete victory over the rebels, with fifteen dead and thirty wounded. Then one day the names of the wounded were given, and amongst them was Randolph Neville, "slightly wounded in the shoulder." A letter arrived from him later. It was as follows:
"DEAR MISS URQUHART,"I am enjoying a lull after a storm. I don't know how much you may have seen in the papers from the telegrams sent, but we've been having rather a busy time here. I know I am an unknown quantity, but I suppose I have a better opinion of my powers in dealing with these natives than have my superiors, and I honestly think you would have heard nothing about us, if I had been left alone. However, there was a slight disturbance over the ejection of a scamp, and troops came rushing down; and then we had a bit of a shindy, as one of the hill tribes joined in. Now we are quiet again, and I have to nurse my right shoulder, which received a bullet at rather too close quarters to be pleasant. Young Lockhart quite distinguished himself. He will get promotion soon, if I have any influence at headquarters."Well, how are things going down your way? Your letters do more to keep me going, and keep me going cheerily, than any other mortal thing. How do you manage to instil such a breath of sweetness and vigour between such thin sheets of paper? Last night I dreamed that you were sitting in the shadows here singing to me. It was a hot, breathless night, but I could smell the syringa bushes in your garden shrubbery, and I seemed as if I were enveloped in your atmosphere. Some time ago I was cursing the gift of memory; now I am blessing it, for it brings me you. Am I receding farther and farther in the cells of your memory? But no; you are more than good in corresponding with me, and I will not think so meanly of your friendship, which you gave so frankly and warm-heartedly. Excuse this scrawl; my right arm is in a sling."Remember me to the Admiral. I would like a chat with him out here. I enjoyed the society of the soldiers whilst we had them. I put up the colonel and major in my quarters, and discovered that the major had been in my old regiment years ago. We had quite a gossip over old times. I always feel a pang when I think of my exit from the Service. Fighting in politics is such a different thing from real warfare."Now they have gone, and I am left undisputed king of my domain, with piles of correspondence to wade through, and reports to write to about twenty different departments. I am neither fish nor fowl, civilian nor soldier, and, ergo, I have a variety of masters to serve and can manage to please none. The chances are that I may come back like a bad halfpenny to old England. What would your welcome be like, I wonder? It opens a vista of conjecture and possibility to me. Well, I shall for the present go on with my building, and if I can get this spot wholesomely sweet before I leave it, I shall have done as much as I expected to do."Your rather weary fellow builder—"RANDOLPH NEVILLE."