LEAVING THE OLD HOME
"IT is never you!"
"Why shouldn't it be? How's the world wagging down here?"
Jockie had been taking a walk, and had suddenly come face to face with Austin, who, with an overcoat slung over his shoulder, and a cap pushed back from his forehead, was pelting along the road at a rapid rate.
"Things are awful for most of us," Jockie said, looking at him gloomily, "but your people are all right. Do they know you're coming? They hadn't an idea of it yesterday."
"My boat arrived a day earlier than expected, so I thought I'd walk up and take them unawares. Left my baggage at the station. I've had a stunning time. Now, just turn back with me, and tell me the 'awful things,' as you call them."
"I don't know where to begin. How much do you know?"
"I heard of the wedding," said Austin, taking off his cap and letting the spring breeze fan his heated brow.
"I do wish with all my heart that it had been your wedding," said Jockie viciously. "I wish with all my heart I had never tried to do you a good turn. I don't know what possessed me to do it. It was only to spite her. I have brought disaster to everyone."
"What the d—dickens have you to do with it?" asked Austin.
Jockie told him of the episode outside the post office.
"She came back from her honeymoon determined to slight and insult the Admiral and Sidney all she could. Oh, I can't tell it all to you; it would take too long. She began to be mistress before she married, so you can imagine what it was like afterwards. She has always hated Sidney, and she couldn't forgive the Admiral for not being smitten by her charms, and falling down and worshipping her, as all the rest of you did."
"But," interrupted Austin, "the Admiral isn't it a fool. Surely he can be master in his own house?"
"No, the Admiral isn't a fool," said Jockie solemnly, "he is now a saint in heaven."
Austin stopped still in the middle of the road. "You don't mean to tell me that the dear old chap is dead?"
"She killed him—murdered him—just as surely as if she had shot him. Do let me tell the story in my own way. I hardly know the ins and outs of it, but it seems that the house really belongs to Major Urquhart—at least, she gives out that it does, and your mother told me that the Admiral would not fight his brother about it, but that it was morally, if not legally, his. Mrs. Ted has turned Sidney out of her place at the head of the table. She took the reins of the whole house in her own hands; she moved and changed everything in it on purpose to annoy them. She took the Admiral's books and pictures away from his study, and said they belonged to the Major, and she furnished a new smoking-room with all his treasured things. The Admiral and Sidney at last, in despair, went up to London. They were driven out of the house by her. When they came back she was worse than ever. She had cut down all the Admiral's favourite trees, and in spite of the Major's protests, got some labourers to come up and clear away the guns from the lawn. That was the last straw! The poor old Admiral went out the morning after he came home, and found them half buried in an old rubbish ditch. It broke his heart, and he was found dead, clasping his arms round one of them. Now, what do you call that but murder?"
Austin drew in a long breath of dismay.
"Gracious, child, go more slowly! I can't quite believe that Mrs. Norman would act so."
"Mrs. Edward Urquhart, please. And you need not address me as 'child.' I shall shut up if you do."
"Beg pardon. Go ahead."
"Well, of course, dear Sidney has behaved like an angel. We wanted her to leave the house at once, but she would stay on until the lawyer and she had sorted out all her father's papers and put the business straight. What she's gone through no one knows! She's a marvel to all of us. I have heard Mrs. Ted stinging at her like a gnat, and Sidney speaks to her in the most gracious and sweet way, but in a lovely remote tone, as if she hardly knows who she is, and she lives in another world just now. She looks lovelier than ever in her black, but so frail and delicate. And then sometimes she puts her hand on my arm and laughs in her old fascinating way, and then the dreamy sad veil falls over her eyes again. Miss Pembroke wants to have her, and your mother wants to have her, but neither has got her yet. Sometimes I think she stays on for the Major's sake. He's awfully unhappy—I can see it in his eyes; he's a broken-down old man since the Admiral's death, and his wife does nothing but whip him on, as if he were a tired old horse. Oh, she's an awful woman! If only you had married her!"
"Thank you," said Austin stiffly; then he added: "How women hate one another! I can hardly recognise Mrs. Norman under your description. I never heard her say an unkind word to anyone."
"Oh, if you're going to believe in her still, I'll stop. There's such a thing as poison coated with sugar. But you'll never see her in her true colours. Men are as blind as bats where women are concerned."
Jockie gave her head a little toss and walked on.
Austin looked at her. If he had not been so perturbed, he would have laughed, as Jockie on her dignity was like some saucy sparrow aping a swan.
"Poor dear old Sid!" he murmured. "I didn't think she was having such a bad time! She was quite swallowed up in her father. I can't believe I shall never see him again."
"No," said Jockie in a grandmotherly tone, "we never know how soon old people will be taken from us. I hope you're going to be very good to your father now you have come back. He has missed you frightfully. If I had been a man, I should have had enough grit to stop at home where I was wanted, instead of running away from my trouble."
"You seem to have a remarkable knowledge of our private affairs," said Austin witheringly.
"Yes; I know them all," said Jockie cheerfully. "I have been trying to be your substitute, since you have been away. Your father and I talk over lots of things together, and I went round with your horrid agent the other day to see a farmhouse which wants repairing. I reported it to your father the next day, and I told him what a sneak and bully the agent was. I've heard some stories about him in the village, and Cousin John and I can prove the truth of them. Mr. de Cressiers is almost willing to dismiss him now he takes in what kind of a man he is."
"I think it is high time I was back," said Austin loftily.
"It is," assented Jockie.
The two young people walked on for a minute in silence, then Jockie burst forth again:
"It's no good for you to defend her! She's a clever unscrupulous woman, and Sidney can't cope with her. What do you think she is saying to everyone now? She pulls down her mouth and drops her eyes and sighs forth: 'Yes, most sad; but the Admiral's sudden death must wholly be attributed to that London trip. His daughter did not realise that he was not strong enough to drag about after her. She, like most girls, wanted to have a good time, and her poor old father could not keep pace with her. He returned home a perfect wreck, and the very next day he collapsed.' Now, what do you think of that?"
"I suppose she thinks it true," said Austin loyally.
"Does she? Now, I'll tell you something else, for you deserve to know it. Do you know what she told everybody when you went away? That you had proposed to her, and that she had refused you, for the very idea was preposterous. She had only taken pity on you and talked to you like a mother for your good, and you had simply made a fool of yourself."
"I think I'll be walking on," said Austin, in dangerously quiet tones. He was white with rage, and Jockie's audacity for once deserted her:
"Oh, forgive me! What would Sidney say? I promised her I would try to control my tongue."
Then, as Austin's long legs outwalked her, she called out:
"All right, then. You need not think I am going to run by your side. You're much more disagreeable than when you went away."
Austin looked back, and raised his cap.
"I prefer sugar to vinegar. You won't keep any friends with that tongue of yours."
And Jockie walked home humbly, for she felt the truth of his words.
Austin had a warm welcome from his parents. His mother corroborated much of what Jockie had told him, but her plain dignified statements had more effect upon him than Jockie's bitterness. Early the next morning he went down to The Anchorage to see Sidney. It cost him some effort, but he knew that he must meet Mrs. Urquhart soon, and wanted the first plunge to be over.
He came across her in the garden giving directions to the gardeners. She was looking as sweet as ever, and greeted him with perfect ease.
"So glad to see you back. Your father has been wanting you badly. What do you think of the sunny East?"
"Oh, tolerable! Is Sidney in? I'm awfully upset over the Admiral's death, and came down to see her."
"Poor girl! She is wonderful. It has been so sad, for they both intended this London visit to be one of keen enjoyment. We little thought—"
"I have heard about it," said Austin abruptly. "Excuse me going in. This place has always been like a second home to me, and I'm bewildered at all these changes."
He heaved a sigh of relief as he got past her.
"Thank goodness that's over! Jockie was quite right. I did make a fool of myself."
He noticed at once the changes in the house; but when he was shown into the morning-room, and Sidney held out both hands with a bright smile of welcome, he almost broke down.
"Oh, Sid! My little chum! What can I say? How we shall miss him!"
Sidney's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"That's good to hear, Austin! He was very fond of you."
"Can you speak about it? Would you rather not?"
"I should love to tell you all about him, but I expect you have heard."
"Not details. I want them."
So, in a soft steady voice Sidney went over those last precious days, which would always be beloved in her memory.
Austin had been so truly fond of her father, that his sympathy was more to her than that shown by others. And then he drew her on to talk of herself and her own plans. He was aghast when she told him of her altered circumstances.
"I shall have enough to live on," she told him; "but, of course, father's pension is gone, and the house with all its contents seems to belong to Uncle Ted. He has promised to furnish a small cottage for me from any bits that I like to pick out. Ethel suggests my going to Lovelace's Cottage, which is still unlet; but I can't bring myself to do that. It is a matter of pride, I am afraid."
"But you don't mean that they're going to turn you out?"
"No, I am choosing to go myself. I have been too long my own mistress to be happy here now. Uncle Ted has besought me to stay; but it is neither good for him nor her that I should do so. Your mother has very kindly asked me to stay with her till I can find a house. I don't want to leave neighbourhood."
"And you're coming to us? That's the first bit of good news I've heard since I came back! It has been blow upon blow! That imp of a girl met me yesterday on the way from the station and poured a black recital into my ears."
"Do you mean Jockie? I thought you were good friends."
"So we were. She's a pretty little thing, too, but she piled it on too strong, and did not spare me, I can tell you! How on earth has she got hold of my father? She manages him like no one else, my mother tells me. And he is actually going to get rid of Dobbs!"
"Jockie has great tenderness under that careless exterior; and patience, too. I have seen her with sick people, and she is a different being at once. Poor Jockie! She espouses my cause with too much zeal. She will learn wisdom later on. And now tell me all about yourself. We have talked enough of me and my troubles!"
So Austin leant back in a lounge chair, crossed his legs, and for an hour discoursed to Sidney about all he had seen and heard. When he at last rose to go, he said:
"Come to us as soon as you can, won't you, Sid?"
Sidney nodded cheerfully.
They had not discussed Mrs. Urquhart at all; but Austin encountered her again in the hall on his way out.
"I want to speak to you for a minute," she said, turning wistful eyes upon him.
Austin followed her like a lamb into the drawing-room, with an uneasy sense of walking into a snare.
"I want you to forgive me," she said, laying her hand gently on his arm. "You went off so suddenly; you would listen to no explanations. I was forced to act so. Your mother implored me. And you know how often I reminded you of the difference in our ages. It is a great mistake for a middle-aged woman to tie a young fellow to herself. It would have ruined your life. If I had consulted my own feelings—"
She paused, and her eyes finished her sentence.
"Oh, that's all right," said Austin awkwardly; "that chapter is closed. Don't for goodness' sake try to open it again."
"Ah, you are hard and unforgiving! Let us close it, by all means, but let us be friends. We live in the same neighbourhood; don't let there be ill-feeling between us. You say you have looked upon this house as a second home. I want you to look upon it in that light still. Come in when you want cheer, or comfort, or advice; let me feel that I can still be a friend to you. I will not speak of myself. I have many lonely hours, and the Major, as you know, does not shine in conversation. But I cannot bear to live amongst you, if you are going to give me the cold shoulder. It is my misfortune to be over-sensitive, and I feel things so much and so deeply!"
What could Austin say? He could never be anything but courteous to a woman; so he murmured something about the past being the past, and having no cause for resentment, and then he slipped away.
"'Pon my soul," he muttered, "she's one too much for me. I don't know where I am, but I'll keep clear of her for all I'm worth; for I'll play the game with the old Major! And I'm honestly sorry for the poor beggar!"
After Austin had left her, Sidney sat with her head in her hands. In spite of her bright brave spirit, she had times of real darkness and depression, and no one but herself knew what an effort it was to live through her days.
She now was doing what she seldom allowed herself to do—looking back into the past. It was hardly a year ago that she had lost the one who was her all in all: not by death—she could have borne that better—but by his own treachery. Her soul writhed at the very thought of the valley of humiliation into which he had cast her, and through which she had struggled with soreness and anguish of heart. Now she had lost both her father and home. Like Job, she felt inclined to say: "My days are past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart."
Her future seemed to stretch away from her in one dreary monotonous line. The purpose in her life had been snapped. The care of her father had been her absorbing thought since the end had come between herself and Archie Hughes. Now that was gone! How could she gather up the broken fragments of her life to the best advantage?
She lifted up her heart in earnest prayer:
"Thou will teach me how to glory in tribulation. Thou will not quench the smoking flax! It is Thine hand upon me. Show me what Thou wouldest have me to do."
This was the gist of her prayer. And when Sidney went to her knees, she always rose with serene and steadfast eyes.
"As long as I am left in the world, I am wanted there," she said to herself. "If my own personal life is not all that I desire, there are other people's lives around me to be thought of. And I am absolutely free to help wherever my help is needed most."
It seemed at present to be needed at Thanning Towers. Mrs. de Cressiers, with tears in her eyes, had begged her to come to her.
"I have never urged you before, Sidney, because of your dear father; but now your way seems clear. After all, I am your nearest relation in this county. I may be able to help you about getting a small house if you are still determined to live alone; you certainly will help me. As one gets older, one feels less equal to bearing the strain and anxiety alone. You are the only one I can talk to about my husband and boy, and you don't know what your sympathy and companionship will be to me."
Sidney arranged to go. The evening before she went she spent in tidying the Admiral's desk. Her uncle crept into the room almost stealthily.
"Sid," he said dejectedly, "is it too late now to beg you to change your mind? Our happy old days have slipped away, but I would do all I could to make you comfortable, if you stayed with us. You don't know what this house is without you! You used to be fond of your old uncle. Are you going to cast him off altogether?"
There was something so pathetic in his eyes that Sidney almost cried. She put her hand on his shoulder caressingly.
"Dear Uncle Ted, you know I am fond of you still, but I am quite sure I do not add to your happiness by staying here. I shall be in the neighbourhood, and will often pop in and see you."
He gave almost a groan.
"I am being justly punished, but I was a blind fool! I never meant to oust you and poor Vernon. I'll never hold up my head again, Sid. But one thing I've done: I've ordered those guns back to where they were taken from, and there they shall stay till my time comes to quit! I can assert myself sometimes, but it's confoundedly hard!"
Sidney kissed him. Her heart ached for him as she saw what a cipher he was in his own house. And though she could not tell him so, she knew that his wife resented her talking much with him alone.
Mrs. Urquhart showed the only impatience she ever showed anyone towards her husband. Sidney saw that there was no love to help her to endure his bachelor ways; she had no real interest in his workshop. Her one idea was to fill the house with company; and company of any sort the Major thoroughly disliked. They had hardly any tastes in common.
The Major spent half his days wandering through the house looking for Sidney, and this was why Sidney was anxious to leave. She knew the only chance for the ill-matched couple to draw closer to one another was to leave them alone. As long as there was a third person, the breach would widen between them; for the Major was perplexed and frightened by his wife's masterful methods, and avoided being with her. Her manner was now coldly civil to him; her sweet graciousness was only for outsiders. If she by chance said a kind word, the poor old Major would become almost hilarious with joy; then a little curl of his wife's upper lip would send him shrinking into his shell again. And he could not understand why he should not seek Sidney's society in preference to his wife's. When the time came for her to leave for Thanning Towers, he accompanied her to the gate.
"You'll remember that anything out of the house can be moved to your new home," he said, waxing bold as soon as he got out of earshot of his wife. "You have only to tell me, and I'll see that they're sent off. And, Sid, my dear child, just assure me the past is forgiven. You don't bear me malice for the—the step I took? And will you come to me, if I'm taken ill; one can't have good health for ever; and I sometimes think that I'm beginning to break up. You won't cut us, will you?"
"Why, Uncle Ted, you are quite morbid! Of course I won't! And if you're ill, send for me at once. I will run over and tell you directly I have made my plans. I am not going very far-away, you know. Good-bye, dear."
She gave him one of her old hugs, then turned quickly away, for there were actually tears in the Major's eyes. He coughed them down, and as Sidney watched his retreating figure out of the carriage window, she noted that his shoulders seemed extra bent and his limping gait more discernible.
"He is getting an old man," she said to herself. "Oh, I hope she will be kind to him."
To Thanning Towers she went, and took with her there an atmosphere of sunny content which was felt by all who came near her. Mrs. de Cressiers' troubled brow relaxed; she could speak to Sidney, and to Sidney alone, of her fears about her husband's state of mind and body. And the very speaking of it seemed to lift a weight off her spirit. Mr. de Cressiers liked to hear her sing. It was the keenest delight left to him to listen to any music, and Sidney's wonderfully sweet and thrilling voice brought messages of peace and comfort to his soul. Austin shouldered his burden in gay spirits when Sidney was near at hand. She was the recipient of confidences from father, mother and son, and her presence in the house was joy to all.
Jockie still came and went. At first she said she would be wanted no longer, but Mr. de Cressiers was always ready to listen to her lively chatter, and Sidney told Mrs. de Cressiers that her gay spirits were better than any amount of doctor's visits for the invalid. Mrs. de Cressiers assented. She had no objection to the pleasant intercourse that existed between her husband and Jockie, but when it came to that between her son and the girl, she became alarmed.
Sidney laughed at her.
"You must expect young people to be friendly; Jockie is the last girl in the world to mean anything serious by it. And if it did come to anything, you would gain a dear little daughter-in-law!"
"She is a perfect hoyden, and not at all the style I approve of. I want Austin to marry in his own class, not beneath him."
"But," expostulated Sidney, "Jockie is a little lady. Her father is Mr. Borlace's cousin, and you have always said that it was an advantage to us to have a rector who was really well born."
"Oh yes; the rector is a gentleman, but the Borlaces are not county; and I don't know who the girl's mother was. Austin must marry well."
"There is no one about here who is good enough for him," said Sidney with a mischievous smile. "You despise titles, so you would not care for a titled daughter-in-law. I think Jockie would suit him very well."
Mrs. de Cressiers' head was a few inches higher than usual.
"She would not suit me. I do not want to be connected with our rector. If I thought that there was anything between them, I should stop her coming to the house altogether."
"Well," said Sidney, "the surest way to make them care for each other is to keep them apart now. Don't try it, dear Mrs. Cressiers."
Mrs. de Cressiers looked unconvinced; but she kept her own counsel after that, and never mentioned the subject again. And Jockie and Austin continued to chaff each other, and were a great deal more together than either Mrs. de Cressiers or Sidney imagined.
STRUCK DOWN
"AUNT MONNIE, do take me with you."
Monica was driving off in her high dogcart one afternoon in May. She was going over to see a neighbouring farmer, who lived nine miles off, about some business matter. Chuckles, in his holland overall, came tearing across the garden.
For a moment Monica hesitated. In after years, she often wondered if it had been her good angel who tried to intervene. Then, seeing the eager expectancy in the child's eyes, she told him to climb up. For a moment she thought of telling him to put on an overcoat, but the sun was bright, and she had a warm plaid over her knees, so she drove off with him, saying dryly:
"I hope we shall not meet anyone, for a more smutty nephew I think no one could possess!"
"It's the waterbutt; I'm sailing my walnuts in it. They're the Channel fleet on an island of water."
"There's no such thing as an island of water."
"Isn't there? What is it when the land comes round the water?"
"The water is then a lake."
Chuckles tipped his hat back on his head and thought hard. Then his mind took another turn.
"Aunt Monnie, I feel I was born a sailor."
"You were born to be a farmer," said Monica firmly. "You were born on a farm abroad. Your father brought you home and meant to farm himself, and bring you up to it. He was taken from you, and I am bringing you up in the way he wished."
"I think father is very happy to be an angel instead. I'd rather be an angel than a farmer."
"Why don't you like farming? You never used to talk like this?"
Chuckles considered.
"I always did like water better than earth," he said solemnly. "I remembers when I was a baby I liked it. And everybody ought to fight for their country—Miss Jockie says so—and farmers don't fight. Aunt Monnie, if you promise you'll change me from a farmer into a sailor, I'll bring you back a red and green parrot the first day I come back from sea!"
"No," said Monica, trying to speak lightly; "I can't be bribed, Chuckles. You must grow up a good man, and carry out your father's wishes."
Chuckles said no more. His aunt drove on through the sunshiny green lanes feeling a heavy weight on her heart. Her farm had not been prospering lately; her new man was careless and untrustworthy. She feared she would not be able to keep him, but she dreaded another change. Chuckles always depressed her when he talked of his dislike to farming. She wondered as he grew older if he would take his own way instead of hers. He had a stubborn will and much tenacity of purpose; but she told herself that she had not toiled all these years to give up the fruits of her labour at a child's bidding.
And then, dismissing the subject from her mind, she talked quite happily to the small boy till she reached her destination. Her business did not take her very long. She left Chuckles the proud possessor of the reins outside the house, and when she joined him again, he relinquished them very reluctantly.
"I can drive Nellie. She turned her head to look at me, for she meant to bolt, but I showed her the whip and she was afraid of me!"
Monica drove home a different way. She was not quite certain of the road, and missed her bearings, but when the river came in sight she was reassured, for she knew she had only to follow it. Some tall yellow flags attracted Chuckles' attention. He begged to be allowed to get down and gather them.
"You must be quick, then," his aunt said to him, "or we shall be very late home."
He scrambled down. Monica dreamily gazed before her, enjoying the beauty of the scene. The river banks were shrouded with scenery: wild roses, honeysuckle, and the white meadow-sweet climbed in riotous profusion over the bushes. Here and there clumps of blue forget-me-nots brightened the edge of the water. On the farther side of the river was a wooded hill, and in a dip at one side was a glimpse of the distant sea. Clouds were rolling in from it, and Monica began to fear that a storm was on its way.
She was about to call to Chuckles, when a sharp scream and a heavy splash broke the silence reigning. In an instant Monica sprang down and dashed to the bank. She saw Chuckles struggling in the water. There was a rapid current, and he was being carried down the river. In one second she plunged in just as she was. She could swim, but her clothes were heavy, and in one agonising moment, when the little figure sank, she feared she had lost him. Then he rose, she was able to get hold of him, and in another moment she struggled to the bank with him and landed herself and him safely on shore. Chuckles was frightened and exhausted, but quite conscious. She rapidly wrung his clothes as dry as she could, and then wrapped him tightly round in the warm plaid and laid him in the bottom of the trap.
"There!" she exclaimed. "That is a cold pack! Lie still, and I will drive to the nearest house and get you dried and warm."
Then she wrung her wet garments, got into the trap, and drove as fast as she could homewards. It was a lonely bit of country, and after satisfying herself that Chuckles was well and warm, she did not go out of her way to look for any houses. Her nerves were strong, but the realisation how near the child had been to death that afternoon set her face in tense lines, and made her strong capable hands tremble. More than once she bent over the child to listen to his breathing. She caught herself picturing her return home with a little drowned body at her feet, and she shuddered at the vista it opened out before her of a purposeless future and a wasted past.
A strong keen wind blew in from the sea; the clouds rolled up and obscured the sun, and Monica shivered with cold. She found driving in drenched garments a very miserable experience. She had not even a rug over her knees, nothing to protect her from the rising storm. And about two miles from home, the storm broke full upon her. She drove into her own gates with a blue face and chattering teeth, but in spite of all Aunt Dannie's expostulations, she would not change her wet garments till she had put Chuckles to bed with her own hands, given him something hot to drink, and seen him drop off into a quiet sleep. Then, she thought of herself, and went off to her own room to get into dry clothes.
The next morning she was too racked with pain to get out of bed, and before another day dawned she was in the throes of rheumatic fever. Sidney did not hear of it till the evening, and then she left Thanning Towers and went over to help nurse her friend. Jockie carried off Chuckles to the Rectory, and Aunt Dannie and Sidney, with the doctor's help, fought hard to keep death at bay. Monica was a strong woman, but for once she had presumed too much upon her hardy constitution, and Nature asserted itself with a vengeance. She was wrapped in cotton-wool from head to foot, and fever ran high. It was pitiful to hear her repeating over and over again:
"Save the child! It does not matter about me. He must live. Oh, leave me, and help him! Don't you hear his cries for help?"
Dr. Lanyard was indefatigable in his care and attention.
"We can't spare her yet, Miss Urquhart," he would say to Sidney; "hers is a valuable life. We must not let her slip!"
And Sidney prayed earnestly for her recovery, and nursed her with fervent devotion. The doctor at last insisted upon a nurse, for he saw that Sidney was wearing herself out.
Aunt Dannie was not of much use in the sickroom, and when Monica was conscious, the poor old lady's nervous fussy movements seemed to irritate her. So Sidney persuaded her to remain downstairs and try to superintend the many daily duties of the servants and farm hands.
Three weeks, four weeks passed, and only then did Monica slowly creep back to convalescence. This was the most trying part of her illness, for she began to fret and worry over her farm. Sidney tried to keep things from her, for matters had not improved during her illness. Her head man was more unsatisfactory than ever; he absented himself for days together from the farm without any ostensible reason, except that he was doing business in the neighbouring town, and the labourers were becoming slack. They could not work without a head. The hay was left uncut too long, and a wet month ensued, ruining some most promising crops of rich meadow-grass.
One morning Sidney stood looking out of the sitting-room window in deep dejection of mind.
The doctor had paid his usual daily visit, and had shaken his head when he had come out of the sickroom. He had followed Sidney downstairs, and had blurted out:
"Cheer her up, Miss Urquhart! She is a strong woman. She ought not to lie worrying there over inevitable circumstances. She must use her strength of will now to some purpose, to help her to endure what is before her, for her farming days are over. I fear she will not walk round her fields for many months to come—perhaps never!"
Sidney stared at him with pallid cheeks.
"Oh, don't say that! Give her hope, or she will die. She has been so strong, she has had such no outdoor life! Surely her iron constitution will save her from chronic rheumatism!"
"I have seen too many like her. She will be crippled for the rest of her life, I fear. This rheumatism has seized hold of her like a vice, and attacked every joint. When she gets stronger she might try some baths, or the electrical treatment, but her age is against her."
"She is in the prime of life."
"If she were ten years younger she would have a better chance," said the doctor grimly.
Sidney could not speak. Her heart ached for her friend. She shook hands with the doctor in silence as he went away, and now stood at the window and watched a grey mist roll in like smoke from the sea.
The trees and grass were sodden with wet, but the dreariness outside did not equal the dreariness within. Aunt Dannie wandered up and down the house with tear-stained cheeks, murmuring weakly to herself:
"What shall we all do! Everything is going to pieces for want of a head!"
The three young maids quarrelled with each other, and, realising that their mistress's tight hand was for the time withdrawn, spent most of their time in gossip and surmises about the future. Chuckles' absence brought an unusual quiet and stillness into the atmosphere, and Sidney, standing in her deep mourning by the window, began to feel that deeper trouble than her own seemed to be brewing in the farm.
She thought of Monica, who had boasted that she could never remember a day's illness in her life; Monica, strong and active, whose greatest joy was striding over her fields in all weathers; whose greatest penance was to sit still for any given time indoors; and who was now condemned by the doctor to be a cripple for life and never walk again.
"Oh!" cried Sidney, raising her sweet face to the sky. "I wish it had been me. I wish I could bear it for her. I have no ties now, nothing to demand my health and strength, and I should be able to draw comfort from the One Monica does not know. I don't see how she will be able to endure. It's a terrible verdict."
"Sidney, my dear, she is asking for you."
Aunt Dannie broke in upon her musings, and as Sidney went upstairs in obedience to the summons, her heart was saying:
"Oh, God, help me to help her. Do Thou help her Thyself."
Monica lay on her bed, a wreck of her former self. She could not move without pain, but she tried to smile when she saw Sidney.
"How soon shall I be about again?" she said. "The doctor looks so mysterious when I question him. Did he say anything to you this morning?"
"It will be a long business, dear, we are afraid."
Sidney spoke cheerfully, but her eyes could not meet Monica's.
"Does he not think I am going to recover?"
The words came like a pistol shot, so sharp and incisive they were.
"Oh, yes—yes—you are getting on splendidly, but you have had a very severe attack, and it will take time."
There was silence for a few minutes, then Monica said:
"Chuckles must go to school as soon as possible. I meant him to go after Easter."
"After the midsummer holidays will be time enough, dear. Jockie is teaching him and looking after him. He is very happy and good."
"How long have I been ill?"
"Six weeks."
"And the hay. Has it all been saved?"
"Not all," said Sidney evasively. "You really must not worry over anything just now, Monnie, or you will never get well."
"But I can't continue to lie here," said Monica in feverish excitement. "I must be getting about to look after things."
She tried to rise, but the excruciating pains in her limbs made her sink back amongst her pillows with a groan.
Sidney tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was hard work. Monica made an exceedingly bad patient. And as her mind grew clearer and stronger, her irritability and impatience seemed to increase. Even Sidney felt a desire at times to go away and leave her to herself. No one had the courage to tell her of the doctor's gloomy fears. But as time went on, and she found that strength did not come to her crippled limbs, Monica began to have her dark hours of doubt. When she was well enough to be put into a wheeled chair, she was brought downstairs.
Sidney had arranged that a friendly farmer near should take over the bulk of the crops and superintend all necessary farming operations for the time. This was highly resented by Frank Edge, the head man, but he had been absent so much from his work that he had little cause for complaint. Austin de Cressiers had helped Sidney a great deal when appeal to Monica had been impossible, but his advice was not always followed.
"Chuck Edge if he doesn't do his work! Chuck them all; it's the only way! I'd chuck anyone who didn't serve me faithfully, in the twinkling of an eye!"
But Sidney did not feel she had the authority to "chuck" any of Monica's people, and Aunt Dannie was hopeless and helpless about any practical issue.
When Monica was downstairs, it was impossible to keep things from her. She insisted on interviewing her man, and the interview was a trying one to both of them. She dismissed him at once.
Sidney went back to Thanning Towers for a week or two, as Mrs. de Cressiers was not very well. Once away, she found it very difficult to get back to the farm, and Monica was forced to meet and fight her battles alone. Chuckles was packed off to a private boarding-school, and he departed in high spirits. Childlike, he had little notion of his aunt's self-sacrificing devotion to him, and did not seem to take in that her illness was due to her care and love of him.
Sidney had a very long Sunday talk with him before he went.
"I won't forget I'm a building," said Chuckles, looking into her face with great earnestness. "And I've got to build and God has to build, and we're going to do it wiv each other."
"No, Chuckles; God must put His Hand over yours and teach you how to lay every brick."
"Should I put them on crooked?"
"Very crooked; so crooked that they would never hold together, and only come to the ground with a crash!"
"But that's only when a storm comes, and I'm not on the rocks. I mean to be quite, quite steady, I 'sure you, for I aren't on the sand. What do you think my school bwicks will be?"
"The same as at home. Truth is one, obedience another. Industry—"
Chuckles jumped up and put his small hand over her lips.
"Don't say them all. They're so dis-disinter-westing."
Yet his last words to her were:
"I shall have gwown into a strong tower when you see me nex'. A very high one indeed."
And Sidney kissed him with laughing eyes. "You dear little man! I shall expect to see and hear great things now you are a genuine schoolboy."
It was a lovely autumnal morning. Sidney was walking along a terrace of roses at Thanning Towers, reading a letter from Randolph Neville. It was the first one she had received since she had left her old home, and her eyes devoured each line with an eagerness which surprised herself.
"DEAR FELLOW BUILDER,"Not one word will I tell you of my surroundings or work till I have talked of your heavy trouble. Blow upon blow seems to have fallen upon you. I have written before of my deep sympathy for you in the loss of your dear father; but why need there have followed such an uprooting? Surely your uncle's house is yours? You say little about his bride, and I have to read between the lines. I feel a tremendous longing surge up within me to come straight home and learn how it is with you. When I return, shall I find that Thanning Dale knows you no more? I cannot see it without your light active figure flitting along the roads, climbing the beacon, gathering flowers in your quaint old garden by the sea."Will you write me a letter in answer to this and tell me all about yourself, and your feelings and outlook, and about no one else at all? I am greedy for news of you. I cannot see you at Thanning Towers. You ought to be in a setting of your own. Don't, I beseech you, go away and try to forget your troubles in the seething turmoil of city life. I have been too long without a real home of my own to wish you a similar fate. You write so calmly about being a single woman with no ties, but you are not a woman to be without a home; you are essentially the ideal home-maker. I cannot separate you from all that brings peace and rest and cheer to any toil-worn, weary traveller."Who is looking after you, guarding and advising you? Have you anyone who notes whether you are weary or tired, anyone whose joy it is to watch every passing emotion on your face, to awake smiles, and still tears? Oh, I expect you will say I am writing like some sentimental boy; but I do not feel like one. I have been hardened and roughened in the school of life, but I am like a traveller who has trodden tracts of desolation and dreariness and has suddenly found an oasis in the desert, with such a cluster of pure and sweet-scented blossoms growing there that long after he has left it the scent and refreshment and delight of that moment remains with him still. Would the traveller hear unmoved that the sweet centre of that spot had been ruthlessly torn from its setting, and the oasis would know it no more? Write to me, I plead again, of yourself, for it is you who pass and repass in my thoughts night and day."Your far-away friend,"RANDOLPH NEVILLE."
Sidney's face was flushed as she folded up the letter and slipped it into her pocket. She stood leaning against the low terrace wall, a picture of dainty grace and sweetness, and in her eyes was a dreamy glow of expectation.
"Oh," she said half aloud, "if I could only see him walking up this path, I should never feel lonely again. He has never written me such a letter before. What does he mean by it, I wonder?"
Her answer was not long in the sending.
"DEAR MR. NEVILLE,"Your letter has already comforted me. It is such a wonderful thing that my troubles and concerns are of more interest to you, so many thousand miles away, than to any of my friends here with whom I talk and live every day. I don't know that it is a good thing to write about oneself. I have never been in the habit of doing so; nor do I wish to spend much of my time in self-pity and self-introspection. Life has changed to me, of course. But it had changed before my father died. The glamour and joy of it had steadied down to quiet content. And so long as I had him to live for, I wanted nothing else. Yet there were reasons that made me thankful for his absence later on."And now I try not to think whether I am happy or not. What does it matter? There are others who have as deep sorrows as I have had, and are taking life as I am taking it—just a day at a time, to be lived, not so much for oneself now, as for those who need our care and pity. Mrs. de Cressiers will not let me leave her. I must do so before long. But I do not think I will take refuge in towns. I love every inch of these sweet country lanes, every ripple of the river that laps under its green banks, always calling one down to the sea. My uncle asked me wistfully yesterday, when I happened to meet him trudging down to the river, where I was going to settle. He told me there was a small house empty upon the cliffs at Yalstone. 'I could often turn in when I'm fishing, and we'd have yarns together,' he said. But I had to shake my head. Much as I love the sea, I could not live so close to it. I told you in my last letter about Monica. Oh, isn't life perplexing and sad? And she has not the key of Faith to unravel it. It is all dark to her. I am going to see her this afternoon."Do, please, tell me a little of your doings when next you write. I hear scraps about you from Gavine, who, of course, hears them from George Lockhart. She says you have had an attack of fever. Are you over it yet? Have you anyone—you see I am taking a leaf out of your book—who looks after you and nurses you when ill?"And now I'll answer some of your questions. I have Someone Who watches over me and notes if I am weary or tired; Someone Who guards and advises me; Someone Who brings smiles to my lips and stills the tears that rise, and understands the very thoughts of my heart; Someone Who daily makes that promise good: 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'"And isn't it good to think that He is guarding and guiding us both at the same time—though the ocean may be between us—and shepherding us through the wilderness that leads to our Home?"Your fellow pilgrim,"SIDNEY."
AUSTIN SPEAKS
"WELL, Monica, dear, how are you?"
Sidney was bending over her friend, but the face that was raised to hers hardly seemed like Monica's. It was sharpened and lined with pain, and the misery and bitterness that flashed from her eyes struck Sidney with a fresh realisation of what she was enduring.
"I know the worst at last," Monica said in cold, biting tones. "That fool of a doctor could buoy me up with false hopes no longer. I made him tell me the truth."
"He wants you to try electrical treatment," faltered Sidney.
"Oh, don't tell me what he wants me to try! He knows, and you know, that if ever I walk again, it will be with crutches. He told me, in any case, my farming days were over."
Sidney could not speak.
"I wondered he dared say such a thing to me. I felt in such impotent fury. To tell me—I, who have never had a day's illness, who have been out of doors in all weathers, who cannot breathe with comfort indoors, who, a couple of months ago, was the strongest straightest hardiest woman in the county—that I am to spend the rest of my life on a couch by the fire, or, at the best, hobble out for an hour or two in the sun upon crutches! Why, Sidney, it is enough to turn my brain!"
Sidney's eyes filled with tears.
"I wish I could bear it for you."
"I made up my mind directly his back was turned to go straight up to London to get special advice, but the post came in and brought me this letter. You will laugh at me when I tell you that it is the last bitter drop to my cup of misery, and the climax of it all. I shall struggle no longer: The farm is going rapidly to pieces. My house, Sidney, has been destroyed. The storms have come and beat upon it, and great is the fall!"
Sidney took the letter offered to her. It was in Chuckles' best copper-plate handwriting.
"MY DEARE ANT,"We allways rites home on Sondays. I like my skool first rat. There is forteen boys, witch is all older than me. I have now quite sertenly made up my mind I will never—no, never—be a farmer. Willie Green seys no gentleman is a farmer, and we wud kick a farmer's sun out of our skule. I am going to be a saylor on the sea. Willie is a nice boy; he says you can allways run away and be a saylor; he thinks Nelson did; so please rite and tell me I can be like him. I hope you are kite well. With my best love—"Your loving"CHUCKLES."
Sidney had no heart to smile, for Monica's restless unhappy eyes never left her face.
"My dear Monica, such a baby's letter cannot really affect you. Next week you may hear he means to be a soldier. You don't really mean to tell me that this ridiculous letter has any weight with you?"
"Yes, it has. The child is growing rebellious already over my future for him. I know what boys are. I know what my brother was, and Chuckles is just like him. He has never hidden his dislike to farming. I don't know why. And now, as I lie here, I see things differently. It is not a promising profession in England. The least slacking off, the absence of superintendence, and a few mistakes, and the whole thing begins to slip downhill. My farming days are over. I keep repeating it to myself. All my efforts, my successes, have been fruitless. My time, my life, has been wasted, and I am doomed to a sofa and crutches for the rest of my days. Don't express any sympathy or talk religion to me. If you think that disaster and trouble will make me turn to religion, you are mistaken. It never suited me, and it never will. Your nature and mine are utterly different.
"You are fatherless and homeless; I acknowledge the storm has beaten and buffeted you, and you still go about serenely, with a smile in your eyes and on your lips. We illustrate the two builders about whom Chuckles is so fond of talking. You have built on the rock, you say, and your life is still steady, your spirit unbroken, your trust unshaken. I am lying amongst the ruins of mine. I ought to rise up and start building again, this time on the rock, but I won't do it. If I pray at all, it will be to death to come and finish off a useless, broken life. I am vanquished now, with a vengeance. Oh, how horribly cruel life is!"
Sidney listened in pained silence.
Then she put her hand gently on Monica's arm, and said with intense feeling:
"You can prevent my talking to you about the only One Who can comfort you, but you cannot prevent my praying for you. Your illness only makes me love you all the more and long to help you; and if I feel thus, what must God do, to Whom you naturally belong?"
"No more, please," said Monica, with furrowed brow. "Now let us put me and my misery aside for a time, and talk about the advisability of letting this farm while it is still worth its purchase."
Sidney humoured her, but before she left her, she persuaded her to try some baths that the doctor had recommended, and offered to go with her.
In the end Monica accepted the offer. Aunt Dannie was left behind to take care of the house, and for two months Thanning Dale was without Sidney's bright personality.
And whilst she was away, Jockie was more than ever up at Thanning Towers. Mrs. de Cressiers had tried to snub her, but it was of no use. Jockie was impervious to snubs.
"Don't you really want me to-day, Mrs. de Cressiers? Then I'll come to-morrow, instead. I want to tell Mr. de Cressiers a very good story I heard in the village to-day. It will make him laugh, and that always does him good, does it not? But if you're very busy, you had better let me stay a few hours, because I shall be able to take Mr. de Cressiers off your hands."
Then Austin would appear and carry her off in triumph to his father's study, whence Mrs. de Cressiers would hear gay laughter and chatter. If she went in, she would generally find Austin there, sometimes astride on the low window-sill that opened upon the terrace, sometimes pretending to sort over papers at his father's desk, but in reality listening to the gay young voice and having wordy skirmishes with audacious Jockie, when he could get a chance. Mr. de Cressiers would lie back amongst his cushions, well pleased, and would always say to his wife:
"We must keep Miss Jockie to lunch. I want her to read to me afterwards."
And Mrs. de Cressiers soon gave up trying to keep Jockie and Austin apart. The girl's bright natural ways and frank affection began to have effect upon her. She comforted herself with the thought that Austin was too perfectly at ease in Jockie's presence to have any warmer feeling for her than that of a comrade and friend. He teased her unmercifully, and sometimes she would lose her temper and take her departure with stiff dignity; but the next time they met, the past would be forgotten, and they would be greater friends than ever.
One lovely evening in September, Austin and Jockie were boating on the river together. Austin had been rather grave and silent, and Jockie was fond of relapsing into dreams when she was upon the water. She looked up at him presently, and her eyes began to twinkle.
"A penny for your thoughts, old sobersides."
"We'll exchange them; give me yours."
"I was thinking of dear Sidney. I do wish someone would come along and marry her, so as to prevent her shutting herself up in some poky house. But there isn't anyone near here good enough for her. Of course, women don't marry nowadays as they used to do; but Sidney is so enchanting that she ought not to be wasted."
"It's rather rum that both our minds should be running on matrimony. I was trying to make up my mind to 'come along,' as you term it, and 'marry somebody.' I think it is time I settled down."
Jockie looked at him with round eyes.
"You're too young," she said, with her head in the air; "boys like you couldn't be trusted with wives. You would not know how to take care of them."
"Girls don't want to be taken care of nowadays," he retorted; "more's the pity. They're too independent to suit me. And you talk as if I'm intending to have a batch of wives. One would be quite enough for me."
Jockie's laugh rippled out. She leant over the side of the boat and let her hand trail in the water. She looked at him through half-shut eyes.
"Go on," she said. "Tell me about your future wife. What is she going to be like?"
But Austin was silent. He compressed his lips. Then he blurted out suddenly:
"If you don't think I would make a good husband, we'll change the subject."
"Oh, don't be sniffy. I think you have, as dear Cousin John would say, some valuable qualities. You are a gentleman, and have a gentleman's ideas of truth and honour. You wouldn't do a dirty trick to save your life; and you're quite intelligent. Your father says you are no fool; and you buck up when obstacles crop up and bar your path. You learn how to jump awkward banks in the hunting field, don't you? And you're not one of those who are always looking for the gates. I admire the way you have dismissed the agent and are doing his work yourself till you can find someone else."
Austin grinned at her.
"'This is very pleasant,' as my mother says. I don't often hear my praises sung. Please proceed."
"I always spread the butter fairly thick," said Jockie gravely, "but your faults must be told."
"No, thanks, not to-day. I'm going to have my say now. This honourable, high-minded gentleman with intelligence and grit now proceeds to offer his hand and heart to the one who appreciates his noble qualities. Miss Jockie Borlace, will you do me the honour of accepting them?"
Jockie gave such a start that she nearly upset the boat. Then she said, a little reproachfully:
"What a humbug you are!"
Austin slipped in his oars, and, folding his arms, gazed at her with steady eyes.
"I'm in dead earnest."
Jockie went red and white with emotion which she could not conceal.
"But—but," she said, "we may like each other very much, but that's not enough to marry upon."
"It depends on the measure of the liking," said Austin.
Then he stretched out his hands and took hold of both hers.
"Sit still and listen to me. I've had this in my mind for a long while. I'd rather live with you, Jockie, than with anyone else on the face of the earth. We won't discuss each other's virtues and vices. You're no more perfect than I am; but I loathe perfection. I like you just as you are. Now, do you feel like that about me?"
Jockie's slim sunburnt hands trembled in his grasp. He was glad to see that she was perturbed; he dreaded lest she might show flippancy.
"Do you care for me a little bit? Now, on your honour! For this is no game; it means either that we're going to be all in all to each other, or nothing at all."
"I think you'll have to give me time," she said irresolutely. "There's a lot to be considered, and I'm sure Mrs. de Cressiers won't approve."
"No; I won't give you time. Hang consideration! You know your own mind as well as I do. Leave everyone else out of the question. Here are we alone—just we two. If there was no one else in the world but you and me, what would you feel like?"
Then Jockie looked up. Her mischievous eyes showed a deep clear light in them as she met his ardent penetrating gaze. She drew in a long breath.
"Gloriously happy," was her answer.
And he was more than satisfied.
An hour later they were walking up to the Rectory together, when two people stopped to speak to them. These were Major and Mrs. Urquhart.
"Is that Jockie?" said Mrs. Urquhart sweetly. "My dear girl, we have just been talking with the Rector. He was quite anxious about you. It is getting dark. Have you been on the river?"
"She has been with me," said Austin, with pride in his tone.
"So I gather. Well, we must not keep you. I suppose you have heard that Sidney returns to-morrow with poor Miss Pembroke? It is such a sad blow—that the baths have done her no good. I expect Sidney will make her home with her now. It will be very nice for her if she does so, as she will be able to help her a good deal."
"Sidney helps everyone," said Jockie with sudden heat. "The house is happy that has her, and those are fools who oust her from their lives."
"Hear, hear!" muttered the Major.
His wife responded with dangerous sweetness: "You are a warm-hearted champion, Jockie. I wish, for your own sake, that Sidney could be more with you. You certainly want someone to look after you. Good-night. The sooner you get home the better. Your poor cousin is much harassed by these late expeditions."
Austin was about to speak, but Jockie slipped her arm into his and dragged him on.
"Don't explain or protest. It will only be wasted on her. We won't spoil our evening by a wordy combat. Oh, Austin, do you think we shall look back to this lovely evening for the rest of our lives as a red letter day? I shall never forget it, will you?"
Austin insisted upon going into Mr. Borlace's study and informing the Rector of what had taken place. His distress and agitation was quite alarming, but Jockie laughed and soothed him into a peaceful state of mind.
"Don't you be afraid of Mrs. de Cressiers. Austin and I will manage her all right; and I'm not a child, Cousin John. And you can pretend you know nothing about it, if you would rather not. It has nothing to do with you, has it? And we have settled it up on the river, not even in this house, so you can't be in any way responsible."
She talked to him in the way that a modern girl would; as if she, and she alone, were the only one responsible for her future. And Mr. Borlace, who did not understand girls, and had come to look upon Jockie as a very original specimen of her race, at last sat back in his chair with a resigned sigh.
"Well, you must 'gang your own gait'; only don't ask me to express my opinion upon such an altogether unexpected and unsuitable union."
And then Austin laughed, shook him warmly by the hand, and departed, wondering how he would get through the coming interview with his mother.
Manlike, he hated scenes, and he knew that his mother's hopes did not rest upon Jockie as a daughter-in-law. He went straight to her boudoir, and found her writing letters at her davenport.
"Now, mother," he said gaily, "when do you intend to get old, and sit in an arm-chair before the fire knitting for the poor? Isn't that the role of all good old ladies?"
"Not when the thermometer stands at seventy-eight," said his mother dryly.
But she left her writing and sat down in her easy chair. Austin stood on the hearthrug warming his back at an imaginary fire.
"Are you only just back?" she asked him. "I hope you have not been out with Jockie at this late hour?"
Austin did not answer; then he launched his bolt.
"I have asked her to marry me, mother. You do like her, don't you? The governor does. He was only saying to-day how good she was to him. I could not bring you a daughter-in-law whom you did not know. Jockie is like a daughter of the house already."
Mrs. de Cressiers visibly stiffened in her chair. "You might at least have given me some idea of your intentions, Austin. It will be a bitter disappointment to your father. He never anticipated this. Jockie is a good-tempered amusing schoolgirl, no more fitted to be a member of our family than any well-behaved village girl. I can hardly believe that you are in earnest. It was only a year ago that you were infatuated with Mrs. Urquhart."
Austin nodded in a shamefaced manner.
"Yes. Would you have preferred her as a daughter-in-law? I don't think you would. I own I was a fool. But fools can learn wisdom by experience, and Jockie and Mrs. Urquhart are as different as chalk and cheese. You'll find that Jockie will, under your tuition, grow into a de Cressiers under your very eyes. It only wants a great self-assurance, and a firm belief in one's own superiority to the rest of the human race, to stamp the de Cressiers look and tone upon one's face and tongue. I bet you that Jockie will do it easy."
"You have always been different from any of your race," said his mother bitterly. "It is only what I might have expected. She is your sort. I ought not to have hoped for anything different."
Austin, generally so easy going, said a bad word now, and flung himself out of the room. He could not go to his father, for he had retired to his room for the night, so he stamped off to the smoking-room, where he brooded over the unreasonableness and silly pride of some women, and the sweet audacity and warmheartedness and lovableness of one in particular.
"Ah," he said to himself, "Sid will be home to-morrow; she will pour oil on the troubled waters."
But it was not Sidney who brought the first signs of relenting to Mrs. de Cressiers' proud heart. Jockie met Austin the next morning riding off to one of the distant farms on a matter of business. They had a short confabulation together, and arranged to walk up the Beacon in the afternoon.
"How is your mother?" asked Jockie.
Austin tightened his lips.
"I'm dead certain I'm a changeling," he said; "was changed in my cradle by the nurse. Isn't that how it is done generally? Otherwise, shouldn't I have a little comprehension of my own mother's spirit? She's an enigma to me, and I ditto to her."
"I suppose you've had an awful row about me?" said Jockie, looking a little disconsolate.
"I didn't think my mother would take it lying down. But she'll be all right in a day or two. Don't you fret!"
"I never fret!" said Jockie scornfully. Then the light sparkled in her eyes. "You're rather an old blunderbuss with your mother. Go on like a good boy, and do your business, and don't come home before you can help it. You'll find a slight change in her, I venture to prophesy, before the day is over."
He shook his head, and after a few more words went his way. Jockie stood and watched him out of sight, then pelted away as fast as she could towards Thanning Towers. She was rather breathless when she arrived at the front door, but was shown at once into the morning-room where Mrs. de Cressiers was sitting.
Her face when she saw the girl was a study. But Jockie came forward with both hands outstretched, and such a radiant sunshiny face, that Mrs. de Cressiers could not maintain her icy remoteness. She never knew how she did it, or why she did it, but she had kissed the girl before she realised what she was doing.
"I know it's all wrong my coming to you like this," said Jockie humbly; "but I couldn't keep away, for you have been so awfully kind and good to me that I wanted to know how you were feeling; and, dear Mrs. de Cressiers, I'm so honestly fond of you and Mr. de Cressiers, that I promise you I won't bring discord in your family. I know I'm not what you would like as a daughter-in-law, and if you're dead against me, and are quite convinced that Austin will be happier with some other kind of girl, I shall just go away somewhere and hide myself till Austin forgets me. He is so self-willed and obstinate that it would be no good my remaining in the neighbourhood, for he would insist upon meeting me and worrying my life out. I can't help being fond of him, you know; he is such a dear. But I'm fond of you, too, and I do honestly believe I could make Austin a little bit more of a de Cressiers than he is. He doesn't think half enough of himself, does he?
"But since your last agent has gone, he has done a lot more in the way of business, hasn't he? I'm always talking to him about it. It's a funny thing to say, but if you could bring your mind to it, how do you think it would be to give me a month's trial as your daughter-in-law! Then, if we're miserable all round and you feel ashamed of me, I could break off the engagement. Now I promise on my honour to do it, but give me a month's trial first. You see, I've had no mother to look after me and tell me things. Comparing myself with Sidney, I see how rough and clumsy and slangy I am. But if you'll have patience and just mother me yourself for a bit, you don't know the good it will do me. And I'll try to my utmost limit to live up to your ideal of a daughter-in-law."
Jockie paused for breath. She was so much in earnest, and so full of her subject, that she did not notice a slight relaxation in Mrs. de Cressiers' stern set face.
"I don't think we shall gain anything by discussing the situation together," Mrs. de Cressiers said loftily.
"Oh, I think we shall, if we go on long enough," said Jockie cheerfully. "If you will tell me a few of your objections, I will try to meet them; and I'll do anything to please you. Of course, I don't mean in the cringing way. I could never cringe to anyone; but I'll try to cure my most glaring faults and curb my tongue."
Mr. de Cressiers' bell rang at this juncture.
"Oh, let me go to him!" Jockie exclaimed as Mrs. de Cressiers made a move. "Do think over what I have been saying. It would be so heavenly if Austin came home and found that you and I were the greatest friends."
She slipped away, and was soon making Mr. de Cressiers laugh at her confidences. Mrs. de Cressiers left them alone, but later on joined them. As she more than half expected, her husband turned to her at once:
"My dear, I think we must accept this little girl as a daughter. She is young, but time will mend that, and if she makes Austin a good wife, and reminds him of his duties towards us and the estate, she will be a help and not a hindrance in our home."
Jockie looked appealingly into Mrs. de Cressiers' face.
"I wish you liked me as much as I like you," she said.
The frank sincerity of her tone, and a little wistfulness in her eyes won the day.
Mrs. de Cressiers put her hand gently on her shoulder.
"We old people must learn to stand aside when young people come together," she said. "I cannot prevent your becoming my son's wife, but I will try to become accustomed to the prospect. It remains with you as to whether you will bring peace or discord amongst us."
Jockie seized her hand, and pressed it fervently.
"You must turn me out if I bring discord," she said. "Thank you, dear Mrs. de Cressiers, for withdrawing your objections to me. You will make Austin a happy boy to-day."
And when Austin returned home with a slight shrinking in his heart from another encounter with his mother, he found Jockie and her holding an animated conversation as they sat at luncheon together.
Jockie looked up at him as he came in, with her mischievous smile.
"I am quite one of the family now," she said; "and though your mother does think me not half good enough for you, she is going to train me herself to carry on and maintain the tradition of your race."
Austin was too dumbfounded to reply. He said to his father afterwards: