Sidney read the greater part of this aloud to her father.
"Men always take things so lightly," she complained. "Now, if that had been a woman who had written, we should have had the fighting in awful reality. She would have drawn a vivid picture of the whole; but Mr. Neville dismisses it in a few words."
As she was speaking, Gavine was ushered into the room. She brought up a letter from George Lockhart which she had received by the same mail, so Sidney had her desire given her, for George gave many details about his chief, and told exactly how he was shot in carrying a wounded soldier to safety.
"All has quieted down," he wrote, "and the colonel saw that no more troops would be needed. Mr. Neville holds the whole place in the hollow of his hand. The natives were rather shy and uncertain of him before; now they look upon him as a god. He has gradually and quietly got them in hand, and this upset has brought matters to a crisis and shown them that he will be master. But I believe he has had some bad moments himself, when he was expecting a recall. In fact, all one day wires were hard at work undoing slanderous reports. He never says much, but he let out to me when we were having a pipe together that if he was not allowed a free hand, and if they were suspicious of his motives at home, he would clear out at twenty-four hours' notice. And he would, too. And the Government would lose one of the best men out."
"I thought you would like to hear this," said Gavine simply. "George is very enthusiastic over Mr. Neville, but he knows him better than anyone else."
Sidney thanked her warmly for her news, and for some time the Admiral and the two girls discussed the situation. Then Sidney asked Gavine about herself. There had been delay about her going up to town, and she had not yet left her mother, but she was hoping to leave the very next day.
"I never thought I should be so sorry to go," she confided to Sidney as she stood on the terrace outside the house wishing her friend good-bye. "I felt I should miss Jockie, but I shall miss you a thousand times more."
Sidney did not laugh at her girlish infatuation, she kissed her tenderly.
"We will write to each other, and you must come and stop with us next time you visit this part."
For an instant Gavine looked as if she were about to say something; then she checked herself, and it remained unsaid.
Yet, as she went down the drive a few minutes later, she murmured to herself:
"I wonder if she guesses. I could not tell her my fears, for, after all, I may be mistaken, and I am not the one to talk of my own mother."
THE MAJOR'S NEWS
THE very next day Jockie burst in upon Sidney like a whirlwind.
"Oh, Miss Urquhart, haven't you a contempt for women who scratch each other? Mrs. Norman and I have been doing it with smiling faces, and I feel disgusted with myself, and yet I would do it again gladly if she were here to provoke me. Do let me confess to you. First of all, of course, you know that the Major and she are on the eve of making their engagement known?"
"Oh, Jockie!"
"Yes; and I ought to cut off my right hand, for I, and no other, have brought it all to pass. If I once begin confessing, there will be no end to it. You remember that Austin got the wrong letter sent to him, and it had the effect of choking him off? Well, one afternoon I was cycling down to see if I could get hold of Gavine, when I saw Mrs. Norman flying up the road without a hat on, and looking perfectly distracted.
"'What is the matter?' I said.
"'Oh,' she gasped, 'I want to catch the postman. I have enclosed a letter in a wrong envelope.'
"'I'm afraid you're too late,' I said. 'I passed the postman ages ago.'
"'Oh,' she cried, 'it is so important; I must try to get it back from the post office. Could you—would you help me. You could cycle in a few minutes to the office. A mile would be nothing to you.'
"'All right, I'll go,' I said, and I cycled off. Neither she nor I thought of mentioning the address or the letter, so when I got to the post office I was quite in ignorance. But the postman was very obliging. I caught him up before he got to the post office, and he opened his bag and took out two letters addressed in Mrs. Norman's writing. One was to Austin, the other to Whiteley's, in London.
"For one moment I hesitated, and then I knew that she would not be in such a ferment over a tradesman, and I felt that if Austin got the letter it might possibly show him what a fool he was, and so I deliberately took Whiteley's, and slowly made my way back to the cottage. Now don't be disgusted with me! I thought the end would justify the means. I really almost felt sorry for her when I saw her face. But she couldn't say much, except that I had brought the wrong letter, and that in her agitation she omitted to tell me which one it was.
"Now I see what I have done, and I have brought trouble on the one I love best. But I didn't realise that if it was not Austin, it would be the Major. Of course, since Austin has gone off, the Major has been down there every day, and Gavine has tried her utmost to keep out of their way, but was unfortunate yesterday, as she surprised them in the midst of an embrace. Oh, perhaps I had better not go on. I am paining you."
Jockie's blunt speech was like salt on a raw wound to Sidney's soul. She could not bear hearing of her uncle's infatuation for the widow; though she was conscious of the truth of it. But she said very quietly:
"I should like to hear all you have to tell me."
"Well," said Jockie, "I come back to where I started. I had to take a message about some committee meeting to Mrs. de Cressiers this afternoon. Uncle John sent me. I found Mrs. Norman there before me. She had evidently been telling Mrs. de Cressiers how she had refused Austin, for as I came in she was saying:
"'I will not say that I did not think of you in it, dear Mrs. de Cressiers, for I knew that his continued absence from home must be most trying to his father. And I thought the sooner it was stopped the better. The whole thing was foolishness. I regarded him, and shall always regard him, as I should if I had a son of my own. But young men are so rash and headstrong that they cannot, and will not, see themselves as others see them.'
"Then I came in and gave my message. Mrs. de Cressiers is always nice to me. I like her. Then Mrs. Norman asked me if I had been with Gavine.
"'I see so little of her that I am afraid I shall not miss her so much as I ought when she leaves me. It is quite a characteristic of the young people nowadays, is it not, Mrs. de Cressiers, to be happiest away from home with strangers? If girls have parents, they will not be content to live with them.'
"I knew she was hitting at me, as well as at Gavine, so I said:
"'It depends on the parents, Mrs. Norman. Parents nowadays are always on the look-out for a second marriage, and find their daughters in the way. Gavine and I have had pretty much the same experience.'
"Mrs. de Cressiers was quite shocked at my rudeness.
"'Respect to parents is dying out,' she said with a little sigh. 'I am afraid Austin does not care for his home.'
"'He will be different now when he comes home,' I said consolingly. 'He told me he was thankful he had had his eyes opened, for he had been the biggest fool out. And he means to be a model son, Mrs. de Cressiers. We had a lot of talk together at Christmas time. It will do him good going abroad.'
"Then Mrs. Norman began to talk about the parish, and how unfortunate it was that Uncle John had no woman to advise him, and how many mistakes there seem to have been made this Christmas, and then I said—"
"My dear Jockie, please spare me any more. It is not interesting or edifying, and if you are going to indulge in such petty, spiteful retaliation with people whom you do not like, you will do yourself more harm than you will do them."
Sidney spoke severely. Jockie kissed her impulsively.
"Don't be angry with me. She brings out all the evil in me. You always make me feel ashamed of myself. And I honestly own that it was a beastly trick to play her when I took back the wrong letter, but I went down under the temptation."
"I could not have believed you would do such a thing," said Sidney, still unappeased.
"No; scold me well! I'm awfully repentant. But if I went and confessed it to her, she would be still more furious, would she not? For, of course, she does not know I saw the other letter. I could tell her I knew all about it. Shall I?"
"Jockie, are you an imp in disguise? Do you think you are fitted to teach Chuckles?"
"No, that I'm not."
And this time Jockie spoke quite humbly.
"But, oh, Miss Urquhart, I have done you an awful lot of mischief. Gavine says her mother told her that she was thinking of marrying again, and she said that the Major was an honourable kindhearted man. I should hate to have Mrs. Norman enter my family, and if I had left well alone, she would have become Mrs. Austin de Cressiers, and you would have been well rid of her. I never, never shall forgive myself!"
"Now, look here, Jockie, I am going to speak seriously to you. You must not talk so wildly. Sometimes it is best not to put our feelings into words, and you are old enough to understand this. If Mrs. Norman becomes engaged to my uncle, you and I will be told in due time. It is mere conjecture now. And if the engagement is announced, I shall trust to your discretion not to go stamping all over the village saying you are so sorry for me. If my uncle is happy, I shall be glad for his sake; and you may be sure that neither now, nor at any other time, would I wish to say anything that might hurt his feelings or estrange him from us. You see, I am talking to you quite confidentially. If this thing happens, for my sake keep quiet, and don't make a moan about it. And if—" here Sidney spoke with some hesitation—"if it may not turn out as happily as we could wish, it is perhaps better that an old life should suffer than a young one. So do not reproach yourself too much. Do you understand?"
"I understand that I'm a beast, and you're an angel!" exclaimed Jockie fervently. "And I'll shut my lips and never say a word more on the subject."
Sidney smiled, but her heart failed her at the prospect that lay before her. She chatted to Jockie on different village matters, and sent her home to the Rectory quite happy. Then she went to her father.
She found her uncle smoking a pipe with him in the study, and such an occurrence in the afternoon meant that something of importance was under consideration.
Her father looked up at her with a little relief in his eyes.
"Come along, little woman," he said cheerfully. "Give your Uncle Ted your good wishes. You can guess the news."
Sidney's face blanched. It had come quicker than she expected.
Then she pulled herself together with an effort. "Are you really going to marry Mrs. Norman?" she said with a smile, turning to her uncle.
Major Urquhart looked her steadily in the eyes.
"Yes," he said, with a mixture of shyness and defiance in his tone. "Don't you think she's very good to take such an old crock as I am?"
Sidney bent and kissed his forehead.
"I think she is fortunate in getting such an awfully nice man to take care of her."
The Admiral laughed.
"Women congratulate women, Ted. Men congratulate men."
"Ah, well," said the Major, drawing in a long whiff of his pipe, "I know I'm not a catch in any way. I'm not one of those fools that don't know their own value. I must thank you both for taking my news so well. We've lived together these many years very happily, and I shan't wish for any changes. There's room enough for us all in the old house, eh?"
Just for a second Sidney's eyes sought her father's anxiously, then she said gently:
"I don't expect we shall wish for any change, Uncle Ted."
"Will you write her a little friendly note, Sid? I am dining with her this evening. I thought perhaps you'd ask her up to dinner to-morrow night?"
"Yes; most certainly," said the Admiral, and Sidney added her assent.
A little silence fell on them. Sidney stood on the hearthrug, looking into the blazing fire in front of her. Then her uncle got up.
"Have my chair," he said. "I'm off to the workshop for half an hour."
He left the room. Sidney dropped into the big leather chair he had vacated, and drew a long sigh: "Well, dad dear?"
The Admiral looked at her with a little whimsical smile.
"Our fears have turned into certainty. Now we must buck up, and take it as happily as we can."
"Does he expect to bring her here, and make us into one happy family?"
"We can but give it a trial."
"Oh, we can't—we can't!"
Sidney's forced composure gave way. She almost wrung her hands.
"Oh, dad dear, how shall we stand her? It's impossible! She must not be brought here. It's bad enough to have to ask her to dinner, but to live in the house with us is awful! Never to be able to get away from her! And it will mean misery to Uncle Ted. She does not really care for him; it must be to get a comfortable home and a position. Think how she has been going on with Austin! She was determined to get one of them, and she really cares for neither of them, or she could not have acted so! What can we do?"
The Admiral leant back in his chair and half-shut his eyes.
"If it is not pleasant, we can go away and leave her in possession."
"But, dad dear, will it come to that? Is the house really not yours? Oh, why won't Uncle Ted go, and start a house of his own somewhere?"
"He is quite willing to do so, but she is not. I have gathered that from his talk this afternoon. She will be the ruling spirit, I expect."
The tears came to Sidney's eyes. She had been expecting—dreading this blow, yet now it had fallen she felt quite stunned and unprepared for it.
"I know she has determined to turn us out." Then she stiffened in her chair.
"Dad, you and I must not wait to give her a chance of doing it. We must go at once, before the wedding."
Her father shook his head at her, with a sad little smile.
"That would be unfair to Ted. He doesn't want us to go. I somehow think that even now there are times when his heart fails him, when he questions the wisdom of taking such a momentous step at his age. He begged me to stay, and let things be as they are."
"But if Uncle Ted considers this his house, how can things remain the same? Don't you see that she will be mistress?"
The Admiral looked quite startled.
"I never thought of that. Well, Sidney, my child, we have each other, and I think we could find a snug little home somewhere else. Wouldn't you be content to live alone with your old father?"
Sidney left her chair and went over to the Admiral. Getting down on the hearthrug by his side, she rested her head against his knee. It had been her favourite position as a little child, when she had felt a craving for companionship and solace.
"You and I would be happy in a walnut shell," she said, laughing, and wiping her tear-stained cheeks with her handkerchief. "I think you would feel leaving this house more than I."
"I dare say I should," said the Admiral; "but my training in the Service has taught me to view change as promotion, and if it be to an unpopular station now, our Great Commander makes no mistakes."
He laid his hand caressingly on Sidney's soft hair as he spoke.
And then Sidney's eyes glowed with understanding and appreciation, but she could not trust herself to speak. At length she broke the silence.
"I will be thankful for our mercies," she said in her bright natural voice. "Why, there was an awful time soon after she made her first appearance, when I thought she was setting her cap at you. And imagine—don't laugh—let us imagine my feelings when you told me you were giving me such a stepmother. Oh, dad dear, a house—even a dear old house like this—is nothing to give up—nothing! But don't let us wait for her to humble us. My pride is up in arms. I don't think we are called upon to make ourselves into doormats for her feet! Don't say that will be necessary!"
"I think we must wait and see," said the Admiral very firmly.
And Sidney dropped her head upon his knee again and was very silent.
They did not talk much more about it. Both their hearts were full of the impending change in their lives, and each was trying to discover bits of cheer which might be passed on to the other.
At last Sidney moved.
"I must go, dad. I suppose I had better write a note for Uncle Ted to give her. Will you write, too?"
"Just a line, perhaps. I have been thinking, dear, that she may prefer a house in town. I am sure she will find this very dull."
"Yes," said Sidney bravely, "perhaps she will. In any case, they are not married yet, and 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"
She left the room, and did not take long to write her note:
"DEAR MRS. NORMAN,"Uncle Ted has just told me the news. I hope you and he will be very happy together. He has been a most kind uncle to me ever since I can remember him, and I am glad for his sake if he has got someone besides us to love and care for him now. Will you come up to dine with us to-morrow night?"Yours very sincerely,"SIDNEY URQUHART."
She went to the workshop and gave this into her uncle's hand. He looked a little wistfully at her.
"I hope my news has not annoyed you—worried you?"
"Oh, Uncle Ted, why should it? I don't grudge you your happiness. If I was sure, quite sure, that it would be for your lasting happiness, I would be delighted."
"You have my word that it will. And if Ethel comes to-morrow, you will be nice to her, will you not? She has an idea you don't like her, and no one has ever disliked her before, she says."
"Is Gavine going to-morrow?"
"Yes, I—I think so. I heard her mother say something about it, but I did not take much notice."
"If she does not go, will you ask her to come with her mother? She is a dear girl. I am very fond of her."
He shook his head.
"Rather too headstrong for me. She has not the sweet clinging nature of her mother."
Sidney turned away.
"Thank God, no!" she murmured to herself.
The next morning, as soon as she was set free from her housekeeping duties, she tramped off to see Monica. She had a great difficulty in finding her, but eventually came upon her looking after some ewes with their tiny lambs. It was a cold day, and she was superintending a rough shelter being put up for them in a field.
"Poor mites!" said Monica, looking at the tiny bleating creatures ambling round their mothers, who did not seem to know how to protect them properly from the wind. "What an unfriendly world they have come into! How they must long to go out of it again."
"Yes," said Sidney gravely. "But if we were all granted our wishes, what a lot of hurried exits there would be from this world."
"What has happened?" Monica asked, pulling on her leather gloves and taking Sidney's arm. "Let us get out of this field and tramp the high road for a bit, shall we? I have nothing particular to do at this present moment."
"I want you to come to dinner to-night. You must not fail me. I never shall be able to get through alone. It is to welcome the future Mrs. Edward Urquhart into our family."
"Really? Oh, Sidney dear, I am sorry."
"You must not express regrets. We must carry it off happily and cheerily."
"Then I think you had better have Jockie, not me."
"It is you I want. Jockie is the last person who will be asked to meet her. She is very naughty about her."
"She does not hide her dislike to her, I own. Well, Sidney, our fears have come true. You see, there was never anything between her and Austin. I always felt that she was much more attracted to your uncle. Don't you think they will make their home somewhere else? If so, it will not affect you much."
Sidney shook her head.
"It will be us who will have to make our home elsewhere. I am perfectly certain she covets the old house and grounds. I don't say so to father. I think it will break his heart if he has to go. He loves his grandfather's guns on the terrace."
"I have never heard the history of them."
"Oh, they were the guns of his ship that he commanded under Nelson. And when the ship was broken up, and the guns became obsolete, he got possession of them. I see father stroking them down sometimes, as if they were live creatures. One thing is certain—that we shall never be able to live all together in one house. I know you think me prejudiced, Monnie, but Mrs. Norman has disliked me from the very first moment she saw me. There is some instinctive antipathy between us. I felt it, too."
Monica looked very grave.
"Jockie has been saying something of the same sort. She is like a little tiger where you are concerned."
"You see," Sidney went on, feeling it a relief to unburden her mind to someone; "it is not only from a selfish point of view that I dislike the thought of the marriage, but she is not true or sincere, and does not really care for Uncle Ted. She only cares for the home and the position that he can give her. She has laughed at him, and made fun of his failings to Austin in a most heartless way. She has called him an old bore. What chance is there of her making him a good wife? And Uncle Ted is too nice a man to be so deceived. It is such a miserable outlook for us all. I know you rather like her, and so does Mrs. de Cressiers. She has made you both believe that she refused Austin and sent him away. Now I know for a fact that he gave her up because he found her out. That makes a lot of difference."
"Yes, it does," said Monica slowly. "Well, I will come if my presence helps you, Sidney dear. It seems rather a disaster; it certainly will be a terrible one, if you leave your home. Is it quite an established fact that the house is your uncle's, and not your father's?"
"They both went into Pegborough the other day to see their lawyer about it. Legally it is Uncle Ted's; morally, I say, it belongs to dad. But in any case, father would not turn Uncle Ted out, and it will be quite an impossibility to live together when once they are married. How is the boy?"
"He is pegging away at his lessons. He told me yesterday that he won't be a farmer."
"Oh, Monnie, don't look so tragical!"
Sidney began to laugh. For a moment she forgot her own troubles.
"Why do you pay so much attention to a baby's words?"
"Because I'm so dreadfully in earnest, I suppose. If he grows up with a dislike to farming, what am I to do?"
"I think it will be a good thing when you send him to school. You will find that when he comes back in the holidays, he will love every stick and stone in the place."
Monica smiled a little.
"Aunt Dannie has been depressing me to-day. She says Chuckles hates coming the round of the farm with me. I always like him to be with me in the afternoon."
"I think," said Sidney slowly, "I should let him consider that a treat, not an obligation. Send him to the Rectory some afternoons for a change."
"I will," said Monica firmly. "I am coming to the conclusion that I am too old a woman to have the care of a little child. He wants someone brighter and younger."
"He is a very fortunate little boy, Monnie, and he has a young bright governess. What else does he want? Good-bye. Don't torture your old head with your delinquencies as an aunt. You are all that you ought to be. Good-bye till to-night."
She waved her hand as she parted from her friend, and went her way, softly singing to herself Longfellow's lines:
"Ah! what would the world be to usIf the children were no more?We should dread the desert behind usWorse than the dark before."What the leaves are to the forest,With light and air for food,Ere their sweet and tender juicesHave been hardened into wood."That to the world are children,Through them it feels the glowOf a brighter and sunnier climateThan reaches the trunks below."
A DIFFICULT TIME
MONICA, in a grey silk gown, and Sidney, in a russet-brown velvet with old point lace, stood in the drawing-room, warming their feet on the fender and waiting for Mrs. Norman's arrival. The Admiral met her in a friendly fashion in the hall, and brought her in. Her gown was of a heliotrope satin; it fitted her like a sheath; her dark hair was bound with silver braid and an aigrette; her complexion was, to even Monica's eyes, slightly made up with rouge and powder. But her manner was sweet and gracious, and had a touch of deference in it to the Admiral.
She took hold of both Sidney's hands, but did not offer to kiss her.
"You are a dear girl to send me such a sweet note! It took away all hesitation on my part about coming to-night. How nice to see you, Miss Pembroke! This is quite an unexpected pleasure."
"I hope you don't consider I shall be in the way," said Monica, with her grave smile. "I told Sidney that I had qualms about inserting myself into such a family party. But she and I are almost like sisters, so you will understand that I am glad to have an opportunity of offering you my congratulations."
"Thank you very much. I have really known you as long as I have Sidney, have I not?"
The easy way in which she uttered Sidney's name made the girl start, but she said nothing. The ice was broken, and, sitting down, conversation became general. Major Urquhart was the only one who was rather silent, but his eyes followed every gesture of the widow's, and his ears were only open to her words. When the ladies were in the drawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Norman seated herself on the sofa by Monica.
"I can't tell you how this has upset my quiet monotonous life! I had so little idea when I came here what would happen. And my heart is still in my little cottage, which I have made so pretty. It will be a great blow to leave it."
Sidney got up and moved about the room rather restlessly, putting things straight. Why was it, she wondered, that Mrs. Norman always tried to ignore her in conversation?
"But why should you leave it?" asked Monica in her quiet decided tones. "I should have thought it was an ideal home for two people."
Mrs. Norman heaved a slight sigh.
"Men require more room than women, do they not? The Major will not hear of it. And his impatience almost irritates me, if it were not so touching. He wants our marriage to be at once. I believe he thinks a week or so is quite long enough to wait. We mean to go up to town very quietly, and walk into one of the City churches one day, without any following at all, except the necessary witnesses."
Sidney came across the room and re-seated herself.
"I am sure you are wise in coming to that decision. Poor Uncle Ted has hated crowds all his life. Have you fixed the day yet?"
"Not at present. You may be sure I will tell you when we have."
Sidney gave a little laugh. She could not help it. Then Mrs. Norman addressed herself to her:
"Can you spare time to-morrow to show me over the house, Sidney dear? Your uncle is very anxious that I should have the choice of rooms. He wants me to have a little boudoir of my own upstairs, but you are not cramped for room at all, are you? So there will be no difficulty about that. He wanted me to come over yesterday, but I said 'No, I will speak to Sidney first.'"
"I will take you over the house whenever you like," said Sidney.
"Thank you. It is a dear old rambling place, is it not? And your old-fashioned bits of furniture seem to suit it. Don't be afraid that I shall make any changes. I am not fond of these comfortless modern rooms. As long as my own room is according to my taste, I shall leave the rest of the house as it is, and I hope, my dear Sidney, we shall be very happy together. I do not see any reason why we should not be. You will have your father to look after, and to be with; I shall have my dear Ted, and if I relieve you of the housekeeping, you will have the more time for your outdoor pursuits. Perhaps we shall be able to induce Gavine to spend more of her time at home; a house with young people in it is always cheerful, and I know you like her and she likes you."
Just for a moment Monica's eyes met Sidney's, and she had a glimpse of the misery that was in them. Her friends always said that Sidney's eyes betrayed her.
Sidney was almost breathless with the assurance and sweet determination of the widow, but she held her head high, and smiled as she responded:
"It is early days to talk of our combined households yet, Mrs. Norman. Perhaps it may never come to pass."
"Has Gavine gone away?" Monica called hastily, feeling that the atmosphere might get electric.
And in talking of that young lady, they veered away from the subject of the house and housekeeping.
Major Urquhart was the first to return from the dining-room, and he proposed some music.
Sidney sat down and sang with such warmth and sweetness that Monica marvelled at her. But she and the Admiral were the chief audience, for the Major and his ladylove retired to the farther end of the room, where they conversed in low tones until the party broke up.
It was not a comfortable evening, but as Sidney whispered to Monica in the hall as she was helping her into her cloak, "We have got through it amicably, and that was the most that I hoped."
In a few days the neighbourhood received the news, and Mrs. Norman was recognised as the Major's fiancée. Mrs. de Cressiers could not conceal from Sidney the relief which this turn of affairs had brought to her.
"So much more suitable than my poor dear Austin! She was quite true in all she told me. She never had cared for my boy. It was a very one-sided attachment."
And Sidney and her father just waited on, saying very little to outsiders, but feeling all the more. It was a difficult time to them, and Sidney's spirits, though generally good, fluctuated occasionally.
After her inspection of the house, Mrs. Norman did not trouble them much with her company, but the Major talked of nothing but her wishes and her views and her likings, until even the Admiral began to lose his equanimity of temper. One day there was a question raised about the guns on the Terrace.
"Ethel wants to know if you would mind very much if they were moved. She says they spoil that bit of lawn. I told her you were attached to them, but they wouldn't look bad in the field on the edge of the cliff. She says they would show a more imposing front there to the public up and down the river."
Then the Admiral turned upon his brother.
"Look here, Ted, if those guns go, I go too. You know they've been part of the soil for a couple of generations. For goodness' sake, man, let your future wife keep to her own province, and not meddle with our family trophies. And let her have a right to our name before she begins to turn our household topsy-turvy."
Major Urquhart said a bad word and flung himself out of the room. From being good-tempered and in high spirits, he relapsed into sullenness and gloom, and spent all his days down at the cottage. Sidney guessed that Mrs. Norman was quietly and steadily exerting all her powers to estrange him from her and her father. But her heart ached for him, as she knew he was being used as the widow's mouthpiece, and did not like the business.
The wedding-day was fixed, and Sidney packed her uncle's portmanteaux and thought of everything him. By Mrs. Norman's wish, none of the family were to come up to it. They were going to Paris for a fortnight, and then coming straight to The Anchorage.
Just before the Major left the house, he found Sidney tidying in his dressing-room. She put her hands affectionately on his shoulders.
"Oh, dear Uncle Ted, I do wish you happiness." He looked at her wistfully.
"I do believe you do," he said. "I'm—I'm rather too old for this kind of thing. It makes me feel nervous. But I wish you felt nicer in your heart towards Ethel. It always gives me an uncomfortable feeling when you are talking together."
He shook his head as he spoke.
"Now, look here," said Sidney with earnestness, "if we aren't a happy family when we all settle in together, you must let father and me slip away from you, and then there will be no friction. We mustn't live at warfare with one another. We will see how things work. You have told father you don't want him to go, but I won't have him stay here, if he is miserable."
"No, no," the Major said hastily. "We will see, as you say. Why shouldn't we go on as we have done all these years? And I won't have those guns moved. I have told her so. We've been very good friends, little Sid, have we not? We shall pull together all right."
But when he had gone Sidney went away to her room and had a good cry.
She knew that the old days were gone, and would never come back again; that nothing would ever be the same when Mrs. Norman came to live in their midst.
And then she poured out her soul in prayer, and rose from her knees with a bright and steadfast spirit. "I will make father happy anywhere. I must. If it were not for his feelings, I would set to work at once to find a fresh home. But he will break his heart, if he has to leave this. God knows about it, and He loves dad better than I do. I will trust Him to do what He sees best. And meanwhile we shall have a very happy fortnight together."
Jockie kept Sidney bright at this juncture. She was always popping in at unexpected times and giving her news of Chuckles, or of the village, and no one could be in her presence long without being infected by her spirit of mirth. She learnt to be very silent on the subject of the absent bride and bridegroom, for she saw her outspoken remarks were neither palatable to Sidney nor her father, and, as she wisely remarked to Monica:
"Now the thing is done, it's no good to sit down and moan about it. We must all grin and bear it."
Gavine had said very little in her letters about her mother. She wrote to Sidney long details of her work, and said she was very happy.
"Yet the work would not have made me happy," she wrote; "there is so much that is depressing and disheartening. But after that wonderful talk I had with you, I see things so differently. And I really do feel now that one's Foundation is the only comfort in life. When I visit the sick, and realise how little I can relieve their pain, I know I can tell them of the certain cure for their weary, sin-stained souls. And hope, glad hope, of our good time by and by, is better than any doctor's tonic."
Sidney kept up a brisk correspondence with her, for she felt that she had been brought into touch with her to help her. And Gavine wrote to Jockie that "Miss Urquhart's letters were like 'angels' messages.'"
The fortnight flew by, and then came the arrival of the bride and bridegroom.
Major Urquhart looked bright, but there were times when a nervous flicker of his eyelids and an anxious look in his eyes betrayed a want of ease in his wife's society. She was, as usual, sweetness itself, and expressed herself delighted with her rooms and all the preparations made for their arrival. Only Sidney noticed that a certain sharp inflection of tone had crept into her conversations with her husband. Major Urquhart had never taken the initiative in household matters, and was with the greatest difficulty prevailed upon to do so now. He could not understand his wife's continual hints and suggestions, and would say bluntly:
"Well, ask Vernon; he'll see to it, or else Sidney will."
The situation was a tense and difficult one to all.
One thing Major Urquhart utterly refused to do, and that was to sit at the head of the table. Sidney relinquished her seat at once, and Mrs. Urquhart promptly took it, but the Admiral faced her.
Before very long Sidney came to her father:
"We cannot continue to live here, dad dear. It will be a ceaseless fret to all of us. I have given over the housekeeping to her, and she is altering all the hours of everything, just for the mere sake of changing our ordinary routine. There is no reason in it. I asked for the pony carriage yesterday, and could not have it. To-day I have asked again, but she has again ordered it for her own use. She is pulling down the outside greenhouse, and a conservatory is going to be built on to the hall. I don't know where the money is coming from. And she has just told me that some friends of hers are coming down for the week-end, and she is afraid she will have to ask me to give up my room and move up to the top floor whilst they are here. I never make a single objection to anything she says, but the more I acquiesce the more she demands. What are we to do?"
The Admiral looked at his daughter with troubled eyes.
"I am afraid she resents our presence here. Well, little girl, if we have to go, we must. Would You like to come up to town for a month or two before We settle down again?"
Sidney's face flushed and sparkled with pleasure. She had never been able to induce her father to stay long in London at any time. She had often longed to see a little more life, and renew her friendship with old school friends and distant relations, but would not leave her father. Such a prospect before her seemed to take all the sting out of her present circumstances.
"Why, dad, that will be delightful! Let us go at once! We can say it is for a visit, and it will be better for them to settle down alone together."
They planned it all out, and at dinner that evening, after the servants left the room, Mrs. Urquhart again mentioned her coming visitors.
"They are such charming people. Surely you have met them? She is a niece of Lord Berrydown's, and her sister, who lives with her, is quite one of Society's beauties. I met them abroad a few years ago, and we were the greatest friends. They have just let their flat in town. He is ordered into the country for a rest. He has had a kind of nervous breakdown—so sad for a man! But he is a scholar, and has been working too hard at deciphering some old Persian books. I thought you would let him have the run of your study, Vernon. He will enjoy your library, and he will be able to lie on your couch by the window, and read and smoke by the hour together, looking out on that lovely peep of the river."
The Admiral smiled; he could not help it. It was his turn now, he felt, to be ousted from his quiet retreat, which had hitherto been monopolised solely by himself and his daughter.
Sidney never betrayed a sign of vexation. Her father marvelled at her perfect self-control.
"That will be very pleasant for him," she said, meeting Mrs. Urquhart's eyes with serene equanimity. "I hope the change down here will do him good, poor man! It will fit in very well, for father and I are going up to town the end of this week."
"To town!" the Major blurted out. "Why, Vernon, you hate it! You never told me you meant to go. I—I don't see how we're to get on without you here to entertain these people."
He looked helplessly at his wife. If Sidney's statement was news to her, she never showed her surprise, but went on peeling her walnuts with an unconcerned air.
"My dear Ted," she said, "I would not think of troubling Vernon to entertain my friends. That is the last thing I should wish or expect. If Sidney wants her father to go to town with her, I should not dream of raising any objections to it."
"The fact is," the Admiral said pleasantly, "we have come to the conclusion that we would like a little change. Sidney has been such a thorough housekeeper that she was always chary of leaving her duties up to now, but she is free from that, and Ethel and you, Ted, will be quite equal to run the house in our absence. It is good for me to be routed out of my quiet groove. And I think Sidney and I will get much enjoyment out of our little jaunt together."
"I should think we would!" murmured Sidney, smiling contentedly to herself.
It was arranged very easily. Sidney went over to see Monica before she went, and her news was received with much approbation.
"It's the best thing that you can do," said Monica heartily. "I think you are all in very difficult circumstances at present. Things will shake down, and you will be able to see much more clearly when you return how to act for the best."
"Yes," Sidney replied. "But, oh, Monica, I never quite imagined it would be as bad as it is. You see, Ethel never loses her temper, and I think I keep mine in pretty tight control; but my feelings and my bottled-up anger inside are terrible! She knows how to cut, and she seems to delight in picking out the weak points in one's armour. Dad and I have not a corner in the house now where we can retire and be undisturbed. Her energy is ceaseless; so is her passion for altering furniture and every habit of our quiet household."
Monica looked distressed.
"I am afraid you will not be able to live together."
"I am certain we shall not. Well, as you say, we shall see, and meanwhile dad and I are going to town, and it will be enchanting! One gets the sun with the clouds, doesn't one? They come after each other in pretty quick succession. I don't think you're looking very well, Monnie. Tell me how things are going with you."
"I'm having an anxious time. My right hand, as I call him, is leaving me. He is going to set up for himself in Canada."
"Not John Bayley?"
"Yes. Of course, I can get another man to take his place, and I know enough myself to see that he does all that is required, but I shall be busier than ever. John has saved me so much."
"I think that is quite a disaster," said Sidney.
Monica laughed.
"No, it's a set-back. I'm going through all the accounts with John. This last year has not been a prosperous one, but the previous ones have, and it will only mean harder work for me till the new man has learnt my ways. There is nothing to be anxious about, only sometimes a wave of doubt seems to sweep over me; and when I doubt myself and my powers, the outlook seems very black."
"I did not know that you could doubt your powers," said Sidney, laughing.
Monica smiled, too.
"You always have thought me too self-sufficient, haven't you? But I don't often get a fit of blues. I have quite decided to send Chuckles to boarding-school after Easter."
"I believe that is at the bottom of your depression. You don't like losing him. I'm sure I shall miss him on Sundays dreadfully. And just while I am away, will you let Jockie teach him on Sunday afternoons? It will do her good as well as him."
"If she is willing to be saddled with him, I shall be very glad."
After a little more talk, Sidney said good-bye and left. She paid one more visit, and that was to Mrs. de Cressiers, but she did not confide in her. She simply stated the fact that she and her father were going up to town.
Mrs. de Cressiers thought it a very good plan.
"Your dear father moves about so seldom that the change will do him good. And now, Sidney, what is this about your handing over the reins of government to your uncle's wife? Is that wise of you? You are not a very young girl, and are undoubtedly the proper mistress there. I cannot imagine why your uncle does not get a house for himself and his wife. He must do so before long. A joint household is always a failure."
"If it is," Sidney said quietly, "father and I mean to go and leave them in possession."
"My dear girl, what do you mean?"
"It is something we have discovered lately—the house is legally my uncle's. I cannot go into details. We have lived together many years without any necessity for making this known; in fact, we were not aware of it ourselves till lately."
"But I happen to remember and to know more than you do, Sidney," said Mrs. de Cressiers gravely. "I remember when your grandfather died, and when your uncle was 'sowing his wild oats,' as people say. He sent word he did not want to take the house and would not settle down, and then sold it to your father."
"I did not know you remembered it all," faltered Sidney. "Well, there was no legal transaction between them, it seems, and—"
"But your uncle is an honourable man."
"Oh, yes—yes; but please don't talk of the past or refer to it. Mrs. Urquhart does not see it as we do; she worries him till he begins to look at things in a different light; and we have decided that we had better go—at least, I think we shall do so. Nothing is absolutely settled yet."
Mrs. de Cressiers looked almost dazed.
"I shall begin to think as hardly of her as Jockie does. That girl is a strange mixture. Do you know she has been coming up and playing draughts with my poor husband, and chatting away to him so entertainingly that he quite enjoys her visits. But, my dear Sidney, you and your father must not leave this neighbourhood. You really must not. Why, it will break your father's heart. He is bound up with that house and those old guns. I shall have to go down and have a talk with your uncle, I think."
The colour mounted in Sidney's cheeks. She raised her head proudly.
"I hope you will do nothing of the sort. If we go, it will be because we prefer to do it. There is no question of expulsion."
Mrs. de Cressiers smiled, and patted Sidney on the shoulder.
"I always like to see your de Cressiers blood come to the fore. Go to London, my dear, and things will be different when you return."
So Sidney and her father departed, having the sanction of their dearest friends; and Mrs. Ted Urquhart watched them go with a triumphant heart, for she meant to reign supreme, and she knew that this step would further her resolve.
THE GUNS
A FORTNIGHT in town soon slipped away; and then the fortnight lengthened into a month. The Admiral and his daughter found many old friends, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They stayed at a quiet private hotel, and took life more easily than did most of those around them. Sidney saw a great deal of Gavine, who spent all the time she could spare away from her work with them. She did not talk much of her mother; it had never been her way to do so; but one day, when she was wishing Sidney good-night, she clung to her for a minute and whispered:
"Oh, do tell me—is it because of her that you have come away? I can't tell you what torture it is to me to think that we have brought trouble into your family."
"My dear Gavine, nothing has happened except that which God has overruled. I am quite positive of this, and you have nothing in the world to do with it. I am only too delighted to have a holiday from housekeeping, and my father is thoroughly enjoying himself."
"But you will never be able to stand it when you go back. I have been through a little of it, so I know."
Sidney smiled bravely as she kissed her.
"I feel I can stand anything as long as dad and I are together. A house, after all, is not the chief happiness in one's life. And if we were to move into another place, it would still be home to me."
Gavine said no more, and never referred to the subject again.
Spring was already showing its hand in the London squares and parks when Sidney and her father turned their steps homewards. As they sped through the fresh green meadows, and noted the budding copses and woods by the side of the railway line, the Admiral said:
"It is good to be going home, little girl. I have already my old craving for the salt sea breeze and the sweet smell of the country."
Sidney nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. Her heart felt as heavy as lead. She gazed out of the carriage window with misty eyes, and longed that the end of their journey should come, so that her fears might either be certainties or be proved groundless.
The hired fly was at the station to meet them, and the stationmaster, as usual, had a little pleasant chat with the Admiral.
"Saw the Major down here yesterday, sir. A deal of company since you've been away."
"I wonder if the company has departed," Sidney said to her father, as they were driving up together.
"I should hope so," her father said; then he turned to her with his cheeriest smile. "Remember, little woman, we have quite made up our minds that we are going home to pack up our things and flit. We'll be a happy party till then, I hope."
"We will try to be," said Sidney valiantly.
Mrs. Urquhart met them in the hall, and welcomed them back in her sweet gracious way. But when the Admiral went into his study, which—manlike—was the first room he entered, he drew in a long breath of surprise and consternation. It was almost entirely transformed. A whole row of some of his choicest books had disappeared, some old oil paintings—family portraits—had been taken away and cheap prints hung in their places on the wall. Two big lounge chairs and an old curiosity cabinet had gone, and only his writing table had remained as he had left it. There was no fire in the room, and it looked cold and dreary. Hearing her father exclaim, Sidney stepped in after him, and her eyes flashed with indignation.
"How dare she interfere with your room!"
"Won't you come to tea?" said Mrs. Urquhart, following them in. "I know you won't mind, Vernon, but I took the opportunity when you were away to make a few alterations in your room. You see, when we have visitors it is so very awkward to have no smoking-room apart from your study, so with a little manipulation I have made a very cosy smoking-room out of the lumber-room at the end of the passage. I wanted to leave you undisturbed in your own room, but as the Major seemed to dislike the idea of buying new furniture for my venture, I have had to collect a few odd bits from different rooms. I don't think I have taken anything that you will really miss."
"My books," said the Admiral.
"I thought I had been most careful in what I chose. I have not taken a single one with your name in it—only your grandfather's and a few of your father's. Of course, those are really the Major's, are they not? They went with the house. I am longing to show you the smoking-room. It looks so cosy! But come and have some tea first. You must be tired with your journey."
"Come along, dad; we will soon get things to rights," said Sidney brightly, linking her arm into her father's and drawing him after her into the cheerful, firelit drawing-room. Then, turning to the parlourmaid, she said quietly: "Light the fire in the Admiral's study at once, Jane. It is too cold for him to be without it."
Jane glanced at Mrs. Urquhart, and then left the room.
"I told her not to light it, Sidney, for we have one in the new smoking-room, and I thought your father would like a chat and smoke with the Major there to-night. Ted is devoted to the new room."
"Uncle Ted can come into the study and smoke," said Sidney a little shortly. "My father must always have his room and his fire."
"Where is Ted?" asked the Admiral, sitting down by the fire and speaking in his usual pleasant tone.
"He is in the grounds somewhere, directing the gardeners. We are having a good many alterations, which I hope you will consider improvements."
A little later the Major came in. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, and made conversation in jerky tones. Sidney saw that he was manifestly afraid of his wife, for when she left the room for a few moments his whole manner changed. He leant forward eagerly to Sidney:
"I hope you don't mind the changes, Sid? She's a wonderful woman! Such energy and enterprise. But I sometimes wish I could pull her in a bit. But you and she together will put things straight. I don't want anything altered myself. I hope you believe me?"
There was a little wistfulness in his tone.
Sidney reassured him. She was her gay bright self that evening, resolutely suppressing all the tide of anger that rose within her, and trying with all her might to keep her father cheerful. She did not like the look of patient endurance upon his face, the weary dejection in his eyes. She sang some of her old songs to him after dinner, she related their town experiences with great animation, and never let the conversation flag for a moment. Then, when her father went back to his study, she went with him, and sat down on the hearthrug, leaning her head on his knee.
"I did not think it would be so difficult," said her father slowly.
"To leave this, dad? It won't be. We must find a nice little house somewhere in the neighbourhood."
"They say a woman is wrapped up in her possessions," said her father in the same slow, grave way, "but I begin to feel I must be getting like her. If we go, Sidney, all of it will be new. I don't know why my heart fails me. I had hoped to carry away my books and some of our family heirlooms—my mother's picture amongst them, and my wife's miniature. She evidently does not know who it is. But she is quite right—the house, with its contents, was left to Ted. If he has it, he has it all."
"You have me," said Sidney, trying to laugh, but a lump rose in her throat, and a choke was in her voice.
Her father caressed her hair gently with his hand.
"Yes, my little Sid. You will never fail me. What is that verse? 'A man's life consisteth not in what he hath.' Is that how it goes?"
"'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth,'" quoted Sidney. "But, father dear, there are quantities of things in the house which are really yours, and which we can take. We won't worry about it to-night. You are looking so tired. Don't sit up late, will you? And if you would rather stay on here, don't think of me. I will willingly do it."
"No; it is only that I feel my age to-night. I have not the buoyancy I had. The thought of a move into a strange house is not a cheerful one. But I dare say I am tired with the journey. I shall be more myself to-morrow, and we can discuss the question then."
Sidney kissed her father passionately when she wished him good-night. She was very near tears herself. She could bear slights to herself, but not to her father, and when she met Mrs. Urquhart in the hall her head was high and her voice remote and distant in its tone.
"I shall be glad if you will return my mother's picture. It was over the mantelpiece in the study. That does not belong to Uncle Ted."
"Oh, I am so sorry. The picture of a young girl in white? I thought Ted told me it was a sister who died. She is rather like your father in face, don't you think so? You mustn't be vexed with me, my dear Sidney, for trying to improve this old house. It really was sadly in want of a little renovation and change. I know old people don't like change as a rule, but I have always found men better than women in that respect, and I think that if you show a little of your good sense, you will soon persuade your father to welcome my improvements."
"I don't think that will be necessary," said Sidney, looking at her with quiet dignity, "for we shall not be here much longer. My father and I are going to make ourselves another home."
"That is very sensible of you. It is a mistake to have amalgamated households, and quite as difficult for me as for you. I am sure Ted will be pleased to hear of that arrangement. Are you going to bed? Good-night."
And as she swept off to join her husband in the smoking-room, triumph was in her eyes.
Sidney went upstairs and cried bitterly.
The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, she heard that her father had gone out into the garden. For a moment she thought of joining him, but did not do so, as she knew he sometimes liked a quiet smoke before breakfast, and the morning was a lovely one.
Major Urquhart came to the table more like his old self.
"We have missed you, Sid—haven't we, Ethel? And I always feel a lost dog without your father. He must help me in these new garden plans of ours. I'm always a duffer about flower-beds and vegetables."
Sidney made some vague response. As she glanced out of the window opposite her, she saw a flock of finches and thrushes breakfasting off the green lawn. The lilac and laburnums were coming into full flower, a cherry tree was white with blossom, and the beds round the house were full of narcissus and daffodils. Beyond the sloping lawns was the river, edged with young larches and copper beech. What a sweet house to leave, she thought; and then she rose from her seat, feeling as if her food would choke her.
"Excuse me," she said to Mrs. Urquhart; "I must go and bring father in. He is forgetting the time."
"I don't think he slept too well," the Major said. "He was pacing his room half the night. My room is just below his, so I heard him."
Sidney stepped out of the French window.
"Oh," she said to herself, "how could he sleep? I believe he will be pretty nearly broken-hearted when it comes to leaving his old home."
She wandered round the garden walks, but nowhere could she see her father. At length she went down to the lower lawn, and there she stood aghast. The turf had been cut and taken up, and the guns which had stood there for so many years were gone! Two or three men were at work. The old gardener was not there. Sidney knew the men—they were labourers in the village.
"Have you seen my father?" she asked.
One of them rubbed his head rather ruefully.
"Yes, miss. The Admiral, he come down an hour ago, and he were proper upset at this job, so he were!"
"Where is he? Where did he go?" Sidney asked impatiently. Oh, why had she not been at hand to comfort him! she thought.
"He went towards the shrubberies, miss, but I reckon he's back at the house long ago."
Sidney turned off at once, and as she walked she mechanically repeated to herself:
"'I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord is my helper. I will not fear what man shall do unto me.'"
The verses had formed part of her morning reading. She wondered afterwards why they had recurred to her mind at that juncture, as she was not conscious of actual fear, only a longing desire to be with her father and comfort him. The shrubberies were gloomy even on this bright morning. She called her father by name, but there was no response.
She was on the point of turning back when she heard the whining of the Admiral's little terrier, and, coming out at the end of the shrubberies, she saw the dog.
There was a rubbish heap against an old wall; half in and half out of a ditch were the guns, and leaning against one of them, with his arms tightly clasped round it, and his head bowed down upon his arms, was her father. For a moment Sidney hesitated to disturb him. This private grief was sacred; she felt she ought not to intrude. And then a well of seething hot anger rose within her. How dared they go to such lengths with these family treasures! She felt as if she could never forgive Mrs. Urquhart for such a wanton proceeding.
"Dad dear!"
Lightly she placed her hand on her father's arm.
"Oh, dad dear, never mind; we can take them away with us, and you will not be separated from them."
There was no movement, no response, and a sudden ghastly fear clutched at Sidney's heart—a fear which was realised a moment later, when she bent over her father and took his hand in hers. The Admiral's body was guarding his beloved guns, but his soul was beyond all earthly treasures. At first she could not believe it. She rushed back to the house and summoned her uncle and the servants.
"Father has fainted; he is ill! Come quick-quick!"
The Major was on the spot first, in spite of his lame leg. He groaned when he saw his brother, and exclaimed:
"These confounded guns! I wish I'd told him last night. I knew it would upset him!"
Carefully and tenderly the Admiral was carried into the house and laid upon his bed. The doctor was not long in coming, but he could do nothing—only testified that it was sudden failure of the heart. He asked if he had been agitated in any way. Sidney was too dazed and stunned to reply, but Mrs. Urquhart was voluble with explanations:
"He has been a month in London, and it evidently has been quite too much for him. He has always led such a very quiet life that the rush and excitement and fatigue of it up there has told upon him. I noticed how grey and drawn his face was when he returned yesterday. I said to my husband that it was a pity his daughter had not brought him home before. Of course, she would have done so, poor girl, if she had known the harm town life was doing him, but he doted on her, and you know how thoughtless young people are when they are enjoying themselves; they don't realise that the old cannot keep pace with them."
Sidney heard all this as in a dream. She did not take it in.
Dr. Lanyard, an old friend of the family, raised his eyebrows, but the Major burst forth excitedly, and it was the only time he ever let his feelings get the better of him:
"It's all our doing! Oh, why was I such a fool as to give way about it! His guns were cleared away. It was the last straw! I found him clinging to one. I told Ethel it was a cruel thing to do. I'll never lift up my head again!"
A choke came into his voice, and he hurried out of the room. The doctor turned and followed him. Sidney crept back to her father's room. She would not leave it. The blow had been so sudden, so unexpected, that she could not realise it was true. She knew that her father had not been strong, but he had seemed so much brighter and more active in town that she had had no anxieties about his health, and had never known that his heart was at all weak.
The news spread fast. That afternoon Monica came to the house. One of the old servants begged her to go upstairs to Sidney.
"She's just breaking her heart, ma'am. You may be able to get her to have some food. We've got her out of the room at last, but she's in her own room, and won't come out of it."
Monica went up with a heavy heart. She realised that no earthly comfort could ease Sidney's pain, and in a strange way the words of the parable which Chuckles was so fond of repeating to her came into her mind:
"The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house."
"'Twill be a terrible loss to Miss Urquhart," the old servant said, as she followed her along the corridor to Sidney's bedroom. "Things have all been turned upside down lately, and I for one don't wish our dear master back. The new mistress has served him shamefully—and I gave her notice this morning."
Monica hardly heard the muttered words; her thoughts were with the storm-tossed one.
"I wonder," she murmured to herself, as she tapped gently at Sidney's door; "I wonder if the house still stands?"
Monica gained an entrance. Sidney was sitting by the window, which was open, her Bible was upon the broad ledge before her, and she was gazing out, the tears fast dropping down her cheeks as she did so. She clung to Monica when she kissed her.
"Oh, Monica, what a wonderful day this is to him! It has seemed a year to me, but think of what he must be seeing and hearing! Come and sit down. I don't mind you, but I cannot go downstairs and eat food. Could you?"
Monica was tongue-tied. There was a radiance in Sidney's face which was like a rainbow shining through rain.
"I came up here stunned," she went on softly, "and then I took my Bible. Do you know the forty-sixth Psalm, Monnie? 'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.' That seemed to steady me. And when I came to the verse: 'God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early,' I took the words and applied them to myself. You can do that with the Bible. Words seem to give messages in so many different ways. And as I prayed about it I got my answer. God has been raising my heart up above the world altogether to where dad is. What does it matter about me? He is with mother. I found his 'Daily Light' open on his dressing table. He always read it, and the first verses he read this morning were these:
"'His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me;Underneath are the everlasting arms.'
"And the last verse:
"'They shall never perish.'
"He went out straight into the garden after reading those verses, and was gathered into God's arms to be comforted. He wanted it, poor dad! It was a difficult homecoming last night. Let me talk, Monnie; it eases me. I had a miserable hour to-day, thinking of dad's great sadness. Uncle Ted said he was pacing his room half the night. If only I had known! If only I had been with him! He was perplexed and troubled about the future. People think that it is only women who cling to old associations, but men do—even more. Father did! He could not make up his mind to leave his books, his pictures, the old bits of furniture that his father and mother had used. It was torture to him, and I suppose when he found his guns torn up, rooted out of their place and thrown in a ditch, that was the finishing stroke. I won't be bitter; I won't think of the door through which he escaped. It does not matter about the door, does it? It may be a narrow one, and an unpleasant one to enter, but it is so quickly passed, and the other side is so glorious!"
She paused, and again her eyes sought the blue sky outside her window.
Monica was silent. What could she say? She put her hand out and took Sidney's in it. They sat for some minutes in silence. Then Sidney turned to her, and the light still shone in her eyes.
"Oh, Monnie, it is at times like this that you learn the value of your faith."
When, half an hour later, Monica left the house, she repeated the verse again that was still sounding in her ears, but she was able to add the conclusion, for Sidney had not disappointed her:
"'The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not; for it was founded upon a rock.'"