The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSome buildersThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Some buildersAuthor: Amy Le FeuvreIllustrator: Elizabeth BellowsRelease date: May 25, 2024 [eBook #73696]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: Cassell and Company, Ltd, 1913*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME BUILDERS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Some buildersAuthor: Amy Le FeuvreIllustrator: Elizabeth BellowsRelease date: May 25, 2024 [eBook #73696]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: Cassell and Company, Ltd, 1913
Title: Some builders
Author: Amy Le FeuvreIllustrator: Elizabeth Bellows
Author: Amy Le Feuvre
Illustrator: Elizabeth Bellows
Release date: May 25, 2024 [eBook #73696]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Cassell and Company, Ltd, 1913
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME BUILDERS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
image002
"There's a man smoking the other side of the wall,"said Chuckles, springing up in the boat. "Why, it's Cousin Ran!"
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BYELIZABETH EARNSHAW
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1913
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. SIDNEY
2. A CRONY AND A CLIMB
3. MONICA'S REQUEST
4. ON A SANDBANK
5. THE WIDOW
6. LETTERS
7. THE SHADOW OF A CLOUD
8. RIVALS
9. JOCKIE'S ARRIVAL
10. JOCKIE'S FRIEND
11. AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT
12. FRONTIER NEWS
13. THE MAJOR'S NEWS
14. A DIFFICULT TIME
15. THE GUNS
16. LEAVING THE OLD HOME
17. STRUCK DOWN
18. AUSTIN SPEAKS
19. RANDOLPH'S RETURN
20. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
SOME BUILDERS
SIDNEY
"OH, God, teach me to forget! Teach me to forget!"
The cry was passionate and tense, as the girl clenched the newspaper in her slender hands.
The man overheard the cry by pure accident. He was lying lazily in a punt moored at the bottom of his hostess's garden, and the girl was leaning over a broad low wall, screened from view by a thick bush of syringa. She had come down to the river to be alone with her grief. He lay motionless, afraid to betray his presence; but she voiced the dreary bitterness in his own heart. He had come down from town to try to forget too. He had only arrived about an hour or two before, and was told that his cousin, Lady Fielding, had gone out for the afternoon. As he lay in his boat and heard the crackle of the newspaper in the girl's hand, he wondered dully why she, as well as he, had received a blow through the Press on the same day.
He saw the announcement in his mind's eye which had staggered him that morning, when he opened the "Times" at his club.
"HUGHES—KEITH. On July 29, in Bombay, by the Rev. Owen Keith, M.A., cousin of the bride, Archibald Thomas Hughes, only son of the late General Thomas Hughes, to Eva Mary, youngest daughter of Colonel William Keith, C.B., of Omeraymore, N.B."
Eva had been his betrothed for over two years, and had written to him only three weeks previously, mentioning her probable return to England in the autumn. He had already been house-hunting within an easy reach of town, and was making preparations for his marriage. And he had been very deeply in love with the pretty girl who had dealt him such a bitter blow.
Manlike, he had taken it silently, and was now making an effort to bear it philosophically; but the wound was too recent to be healed in such a way.
"Teach me to forget," he murmured. "Only time does that, and time is a laggard when one wants him to hurry."
And then he began to wonder who the girl was that was so close to him, and whether she was one of his cousin's guests.
After a time she moved away, and he caught glimpses of her white gown through the shrubbery path as she wended her way back to the house.
He lay on in the boat. He was tired of the strenuous life he had lived in town, and the afternoon was one that invited sleep.
An hour later he woke up with a start. Lady Fielding's merry laugh as she discovered his whereabouts, and the chaff of two of her young sisters, made him leap up in a moment, and for the time forget his trouble. When dinner-time came, he wondered if he would see the owner of that passionate voice. He asked his cousin if any of her guests had been left at home that afternoon.
"Yes," she answered promptly, "Sidney Urquhart. She left by the five o'clock train. Have you never met her? She's a dear girl, the life of any house-party; but she was summoned home unexpectedly. Her uncle was ill. She would have gone with us otherwise. Did you see anything of her?"
"No. I went straight down to the boat when I was told you were out."
Lady Fielding was alone with him in the drawing-room as they talked; the other guests were still in their rooms. Her face grew grave as she said almost in a whisper:
"Oh, Randolph, I am so horrified! What an awful blow for you!"
He winced as if he had been struck.
"Yes; it has hit me hard; but spare me any words of sympathy, or I shall flee back to town."
"Well, I always think that when a girl behaves like that it is a merciful escape. I will not speak of it again. You can trust me."
By neither word nor look did Randolph Neville show to the world at large what he felt at this juncture of his life. But cynicism and bitterness tinged his speech; he had been an easy-tempered, optimistic man; now he began to develop critical faculties, and certain hard lines imprinted themselves about his lips. A week of boating with his cousin's guests was enough for him.
"I am going away," he informed her one morning when she was walking round her well-ordered garden with him and asking his advice about certain alterations she wished to make in the autumn.
"Not back to town? It is August; not a soul will be there."
"If I thought that, I would return to-morrow. I want more solitude—"
"Than I can give you here? Oh, I quite understand, but I don't believe it will be good for you. What wilds will hold you?"
"I'm going to look up Monica Pembroke."
"Good heavens! You will rusticate with a vengeance! I hear she's never out of an apron and nailed boots. But she makes her farm prosper, which is something in these days. Monnie is a good woman spoiled. Has she that imp of a nephew with her still?"
"I believe so, and Aunt Dannie."
Lady Fielding shrugged her shoulders.
"If you prefer their company to mine, I have nothing more to say."
"Don't be cross, Molly. I must get away from conventionality for a bit, and try the simple life. Your French chef is spoiling my digestion and laying the foundation for gout. May I catch the three o'clock train this afternoon?"
"Yes. I will order the car. I'm not cross with you, Randolph; but you have sealed my lips, so you can expect no sympathy. I understand, and that is all I can say."
About six o'clock that evening Randolph Neville alighted from the train at a quiet little sleepy station bright with roses, carnations and stocks. It had been a hot afternoon. Heat still simmered in the air, and no cloud softened the brilliant blue sky above. The old stationmaster was struggling into his official coat as the train steamed up. He came forward, mopping his brow with a red and white handkerchief.
"Any luggage, sir? Miss Pembroke be awaitin' outside. Her mare won't be handled by none but herself."
Randolph pointed to his bags, then went through the tiny booking-office to the white dusty road. There, in a high dogcart, was seated his cousin Monica. She was clad in brown holland coat and skirt and a large shady hat. She looked cool and fresh, and every inch a lady. When she turned her face to him and smiled her welcome, her skin might be tanned by outdoor life, but her bright blue eyes and wealth of soft golden hair rolled back from a broad, intellectual forehead, and her frank smile proclaimed her a good-looking attractive woman.
"It's delightful to see you, Randolph."
"Ah!" he said, climbing up to the seat beside her, "I was sure of a welcome, and so I came. You won't expect me to go out to tea-parties and picnics and the like, I know."
She glanced at him with twinkling eyes.
"I hope I shan't. This is a busy time with me; so if you can entertain yourself, and be content with our simple ménage, your visit will be a success. Aunt Dannie was horrified when I told her you were coming. 'My dear, I do hope he will not be disgusted by our very poor quarters. Randolph is accustomed to the best. These London men must be humoured. I hope you will dine at the usual hour, not put him down to a square meal at half-past twelve or one o'clock.' Then she worried herself to fiddlestrings with training our village girl to valet you. I can see poor Polly doing it!"
She laughed, and Randolph joined her.
"I've always wanted to see how you run your place," he said. "Are you coining money over it?"
"No; but I'm not losing it, which is something."
They were driving up a steep hill now, edged with shady trees. In the distance lay the blue ocean, and a winding tidal river curved in and out at the bottom of wooded heights.
Suddenly a yell close to them made the chestnut mare throw back her ears and begin to dance.
A small figure in a stained holland overall and a large straw hat darted down a bank.
"I've been waiting for you for simply years," the little creature cried. "Take me up, Aunt Monnie, take me up!"
"No, that I shall not do," was the calm reply, "because I have told you many times that you are not to spring out and frighten Sunbeam."
Disappointment and dismay was in the pair of brown eyes raised so beseechingly.
"Oh, Auntie Monnie, do forgive me, do! Sunbeam isn't frightened of me. She's quite grave now."
But Monica drove steadily on, leaving the little boy in a tempest of tears upon the road.
"May I not intercede for the small culprit?" Randolph said. "It seems rather—"
"Heartless and hard-hearted, eh? But a little discipline is good for Chuckles. He never gets it from Aunt Dannie, so I must make up her deficiencies. And it is no hardship for the imp to run home. We shall be there in five minutes."
They were turning up a drive now, and soon arrived at a red bricked gable house. The sun-blinds were down at every window; a lawn in front was gay with flower-beds, and Randolph could not help exclaiming:
"This is not my idea of a genuine farmhouse."
"No? You must wait till you see my dairies and all my live stock. Here is Aunt Dannie."
A frail little white-haired lady stood at the door.
Randolph stooped down and kissed her. She was his mother's sister, and he was her favourite nephew.
She led him into a long low room, dark and cool after the glare of the sunshine outside. The table was laid for supper. There was a sense of peace and restfulness in the house that charmed Randolph. He cut short his aunt's profuse apologies.
"My dear boy, we wait on ourselves; there seems so much to do, and so few to do it. But you will not expect a well-ordered country mansion. Not that Monica is a bad housekeeper. She is here, there, and everywhere—in the dairy, in the kitchen, in the fields; but she has method, and everything goes by clockwork. I will take you to your room. It is our only spare room, and the roof slopes and the floor is uneven, but—"
"Now, look here, Aunt Dannie, I've come down here for quiet and peace of mind. I have begun to feel the atmosphere already, so don't you point me out the drawbacks. I call this the picture of a prosperous homestead."
Left alone in his room, Randolph leant out of the low window taking in the extensive view beyond the garden.
"Thank heaven!" he ejaculated to himself. "There will be no Society girls to entertain. I'm sick of them all!"
When he came downstairs he found a clean, demure-faced Chuckles waiting for him.
"We're having a chicken for supper," Chuckles whispered to him; "the poor fing was made to die yesterday. And I put pins in your pincushion for you. Did you see them?"
"How did you get home so quickly?" Randolph asked, hoisting him on his shoulder, to his delight, and carrying him into the dining-room. He was very light and small, with a shock of flaxen curls which consorted strangely with his blazing brown eyes and dark curling lashes.
"Oh, I stopped crying and ran for my life," he retorted. "I knewed I must wash before I came to supper; and will you ask for the wishbone and then pull it with me? And be sure to leave just a bite of the chicken on it for me."
Randolph shook his head as he deposited him on a chair.
"How can you eat a person you have known in life?" he asked.
Chuckles heaved a sigh.
"I can pretend I never knowed her, like I does Johnny Barton, who frew my ball down the well."
Monica sat at the head of the table behind an old-fashioned silver urn. She and her little nephew seemed to be on the best of terms with each other, but more than once she checked the child's tongue. Miss Darlington—who was called "Aunt Dannie" by all who knew her—had a ready flow of conversation, and was amusing in her description of the country round them and their neighbours. Randolph and she kept the ball of conversation rolling. Monica herself was singularly silent.
When the meal was over, Randolph sauntered out of doors to smoke a pipe, and presently Monica joined him and took him round the premises. He could not but admire the order and prosperity of it all.
"What makes you such a good farmer, I wonder?" he said presently. "None of your forbears went in for it."
"Ah," she said, "I have lighted on a good man to superintend it. John Bayley is a farmer born, only he had the misfortune to own an unhealthy farm. He gave it up when he had four children taken from him by diphtheria, and having lost heavily in three or four bad years, was willing to come to me. He has taught me all I know. My time at an agricultural college has been of benefit to me; and I love outdoor life, as you know. I think I should have sickened and died in a town. I loathe it so!"
Randolph was silent for a few minutes, then he said:
"Well, I'm going to laze for a bit in your country air. What are your plans for to-morrow? Not harvesting yet, are you?"
"Not till next week, unless we have a break in this weather. I shall leave you to amuse yourself, for I'm rarely indoors till five o'clock. But—"
Here she hesitated and looked at him doubtfully.
"Would you mind very much dining out with me to-morrow night? I'm afraid I have let you in for it. It is old Admiral Urquhart who wants to see you. He knew your father. He and his brother live about a mile from here. He has a very pretty house stretching down to the river."
"I was told you had banned Society. Why, Monnie, I believe you are a fraud, after all!"
"I like my fellow-creatures," said Monica firmly. "I am not a recluse, and country neighbours are not to be despised. As a matter-of-fact, I have not worn my best dinner-gown for over a year. But it will be only a family party. You will not mind, will you?"
"I'll try not to. He was a contemporary of my father's, was he not? And isn't there something queer about his brother?"
"No. He hurt his leg in the Boer War, that was all. He goes in for carpentering—a most useful hobby. He has made a lot of things for me, and we are great pals."
"No ladies, I hope?"
"Only the Admiral's daughter. You have met her, have you not? She was staying with your cousin, Lady Fielding, the other day."
"Molly is always running girls by the dozens. That is why I fled down here; they were too many for me."
Randolph relapsed into gloom, and Monica wisely left him and went into the house. She knew why he disliked all girls at this juncture, but made no comment upon his speech.
He paced the gravel path, enjoying his pipe and the cool, still evening air. Suddenly a small head shot out of an open window overhead.
"Cousin Ran, I'm going to be a poacher when I grows up!"
The head was as quickly withdrawn. Aunt Dannie could be heard expostulating with the small boy.
And Randolph smiled.
"The love of intrigue and sport begins early," he muttered. "I meant to be a poacher once."
His thoughts went back to a lonely boyhood, then swiftly turned to his more recent experiences of life, and as he remembered his wrongs, the peacefulness of his surroundings did not bring peace to his soul.
The next evening found him walking down the road, a light overcoat covering his dress-suit, and Monica by his side.
"You don't mind walking?" she was saying. "My mare is dead tired. I had to send her on an errand of five-and-twenty miles to-day. And, selfishly, I enjoy a tramp at this hour of the day."
"I mind nothing except the anticipation of our evening," he said somewhat grimly.
"I know you are a martyr; but it's good to do some things we don't like, Ran, especially if it gives pleasure to others."
They walked through a shady lane, then turned down a road flanked by beech woods, and went steadily downhill for half a mile. Then they saw the river. It was high tide, and some fishing smacks, with their red-brown sails, were floating slowly down to the sea. They came to a high, tarred wooden fence, and Monica stopped at a small gate in it.
"We'll go in this way. It is a short cut. I am allowed a key."
A short walk through a dense shrubbery brought them out under a group of trees to the side of the house. The garden stretched away in terraces down to the river. On the lower lawn were a row of ship's guns mounted, and trees and flowering shrubs stretched down to the water's edge. They turned a corner sharply, and the long low, white house lay before them. It was a pretty spot; but Randolph's gaze was not on the house or the grounds.
A girl stood outside the open hall door, leaning against a stone pillar. She was dressed in a clinging black gown, her neck and arms were bare, and she was standing with her arms up and head resting on her clasped hands behind it. Very soft dusky dark hair surrounded a delicately pale oval face. Her eyes were grey, with black curling lashes and eyebrows. Her skin was as white as alabaster. It was a proud, high-bred little face, with determination stamped upon the round, prominent chin and sensitiveness about the curved lips and straight, Grecian nose. But her expression now, as she gazed up into the evening sky, was one of abject misery and helpless appeal.
Monica gave a loud cough. It seemed as if they were intruding upon sacred ground.
In a moment the girl dropped her arms and came forward. Her face was alight with pleasure and interest.
"Monica, is it you? Oh, my dear Uncle Ted has insisted upon going down to Yalstone for fish. He went off in his boat at two o'clock and hasn't yet returned. Cook is tearing her hair, and father is growling and swearing under his breath. But we can exist without a fish course, can't we? Is that Mr. Neville? I have heard of you often, but we have never met, I think."
She held out her hand to Randolph in a friendly fashion, and as he encountered her mirthful glance, he began to think that his first impression of her had been an optical delusion. Her voice had a peculiarly sweet lilt in it. He saw now that she was not a very young girl. There was the grace and ease of a woman in her manner. She led them into a low wide hall, scented with roses and heliotrope, which filled great china bowls. Monica, in a businesslike fashion, slipped off goloshes and cloak and stood upright in a dark green silk gown with some priceless lace upon neck and sleeves. Then they entered the drawing-room. It was quaint and dainty with its chintz hangings. A rounded bay window looked over the river, and beyond was a glimpse of the sea. Sitting in the twilight was the Admiral. He rose and welcomed Randolph heartily.
"Now, father, we will not wait for the dilatory culprit. He and his fish may arrive as we are having our coffee. I have explained to our guests, and they are quite resigned to their fate."
She rang the bell, told the maid that dinner was wanted at once, and a few minutes after they were seated in the dining-room. The soup was hardly finished before there was a bustle in the hall and the tapping of a stick along the beeswaxed floor. Major Urquhart put a rather dishevelled head inside the door.
"That confounded boat sprung a leak; and the young fool—Harding's eldest—brought me a conger eel; said there was nothing else. Don't wait for me. I shan't be a second."
The Admiral muttered something under his breath. He was a hale hearty-looking man, clean-shaven, and with the same well cut features as his daughter, only more pronounced. Randolph found him a keen politician, and interested in every subject that was touched upon.
"I get most of my information from printers' ink," he said with a short laugh. "I haven't been to town for five years, and it's precious few of my own sex that come down my way; but Sidney and I are book-lovers, and there's not much that we don't thrash out together."
He glanced across the table at his daughter with a certain amount of quiet pride in his eyes. When Major Urquhart appeared, his niece chaffed him unmercifully. Her spirits never flagged, and the dinner, in spite of the absent fish, was a great success.
When Randolph eventually joined the ladies, he found them pacing up and down the terrace outside the house.
Sidney turned to him at once.
"Well, Mr. Neville, how long will our quiet country satisfy you? Are you a fisherman? Do you like sailing? Because there is nothing else for your entertainment. I have seen a few men—very few—endure a fortnight in this part, but never longer."
"You want to drive me away," Randolph said lightly; "but I assure you I have learnt to be independent of my environment."
"Now, that's a nasty one, isn't it, Monnie? He is all in all to himself, and we count for nothing. Like old Bob the shepherd in our village. He has got pensioned off and been given an almshouse. I went to see him the other day, and pitied him for the loss of his occupation. 'Bless 'ee, miss, 'tis no' to be pitied I am. All my life I have had to think an' mix wi' crowds o' creeturs, an' now I can do very well to myself. No such good company as oneself arter all, but one hasn't a chance commonly o' finding it out.'"
Monica laughed, but Randolph took the bantering speech quite gravely.
"I don't think I bore myself quite as much as other people bore me," he said.
"No," said Sidney quickly; "but there's one disadvantage one has to reckon with, and that is, that we can run away from other people, but never from ourselves."
"And self is a big tyrant sometimes," said Monica gravely.
"Now we're moralising," cried Sidney gaily; "let us come down to the lower lawn, it is so lovely close to the water."
"Bring your guitar down and sing to us," suggested Monica; "I hear so little music, and you know how much I love your singing."
Without any demur, Sidney slipped into the house for that instrument.
Randolph could not but enjoy the scene before him. It was a still soft moonlight night; the river rippled below, only making a slight lapping sound at the stone terrace wall. Roses climbed over a rustic fence—and flowering trees and shrubs seemed to scent the air around them. The old ship's guns looked strangely out of keeping on the soft turf, but chairs were drawn up round them, and Monica and Randolph took possession of them. Sidney sat on the broad low terrace wall. Without any hesitation or apology, she broke into song, and her voice, though not a powerful one, was wonderfully sweet and thrilling. She gave them a gay little troubadour song and an evening lullaby, then with her face towards the river and her back to them, she seemed to forget their presence, and sang her soul out in the following words: *
"This is the way of it, wide world over:One is beloved, and one is the lover,One gives and the other receives,One lavishes all in a wild emotion,One offers a smile for a life's devotion,One hopes and the other believes,One lies awake in the night to weep,And the other drifts off in a sweet, sound sleep."One soul is aflame with a god-like passion,One plays with love in an idler's fashion,One speaks and the other hears,One sobs 'I love you,' and wet eyes show it,And one laughs lightly and says 'I know it,'With smiles for the other's tears.One lives for the other, and nothing beside,And the other remembers the world is wide."This is the way of it, sad earth over:The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover,And the other learns to forget.For what is the use of endless sorrow?Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-morrow,And life is not over yet.Oh! I know this truth, if I know no other:That passionate Love is Pain's own Mother!"
* From "Poems of Pleasure." Ella Wheeler Wilcox. (Gay & Hancock, Ltd.)
Sidney's voice was a naturally sad one, and though she recovered herself in the last verse, and her notes rang out in gay defiance, Randolph felt he had received a distinct shock. It flashed across him as she was singing why he had instinctively been feeling that he recognised her voice and must have heard her speak somewhere before. Now he knew that she had been his unseen neighbour down by the river in his cousin's grounds.
"Teach me to forget" rang through his ears as clearly as her words were doing now. He was so engrossed in his thoughts, that he made no comment when the song was finished.
Monica wiped her wet eyes.
"My dear Sidney, you make me feel a perfect fool. Why do you revel so in sadness? Sing us one of your 'coon' songs."
But Sidney would sing no more; she turned to greet her father and uncle, who had sauntered down to join them; and talk was of the lightest description for the rest of the evening.
A CRONY AND A CLIMB
"WELL, what do you think of Sidney?" asked Monica as they were walking home together.
"A very self-controlled young woman," replied Randolph promptly.
Monica eyed him sharply.
"You are more observant than most men," she said. "Sidney is very good company at all times; but she is not phlegmatic by nature, and is thinner skinned than most people, so is apt to be misunderstood. She is of the make of French aristocrats in the Revolution, who went to the guillotine with a jest upon their lips."
"You speak as if a tragedy is hers."
"Oh, no; we have no tragedies in this village."
"Nor suitors to carry off your heroines?"
Again Monica glanced at him, but she said nothing.
It was the next day that he was enlightened, and it was Aunt Dannie who did it.
She came out into the garden with him and paced up and down by his side as he was smoking his pipe.
"Tell me about your dinner party. Such a little amuses us in this quiet neighbourhood. I suppose you fell in love with Sidney Urquhart on the spot. Most people do, I believe. She might have married over and over again had she been so minded. But I always said that her cousin, Archie Hughes, was the favoured man."
"You're a veritable gossip," said Randolph, looking at the old lady with twinkling eyes.
Aunt Dannie nodded her head, well pleased with the accusation.
"Of course I am. Country people must be gossips, unless they're recluses. You see, Archie lived all his life close here. His father was one of the Admiral's cronies. He died two years ago. Archie and Sidney grew up together, and there was a kind of boy and girl engagement between them. We all expected a marriage, but I fancy Sidney could not make up her mind to leave her father. She was content to drift along. Then General Hughes died, and Archie grew restless, and the next thing we heard was that he was going out to India as secretary to a distant relative of his out there, who was Governor in some outlandish province. And then the other day, to our great surprise, we heard of his marriage. So I suppose, after all, there was nothing but cousinly feeling between him and Sidney. He was a second cousin of hers. She and Monica are great friends, but it is a pity she does not marry. She is not like Monica; she has not half such a self-reliant nature."
Randolph did not speak. He was wondering at the coincidence of his coming down to this place to hear of the man who had stolen his fiancée from him. And he alone—unless Monica knew her friend's secret—had by mere accident discovered that Sidney had suffered as well as himself in that transaction.
Aunt Dannie continued:
"I am interested in Sidney; she is a little different from most girls; it comes of being chiefly associated with men. Her mother died when she was five. She had a brother two years younger than herself. He was in the Navy, and a rollicking sailor he was, but he died of fever a few years ago. It was a great grief to the Admiral. She is straight and blunt at times, and has no airs or graces, but she is not quite so masculine as Monica."
Then the old lady rambled on about some of Monica's misdemeanours, and Randolph hardly heeded her.
The sudden appearance of Chuckles, demanding his presence at the sheep-shearing, made him change his company, and for a time his thoughts.
Sidney, if he had only known it, was at the same time discussing him with her father. Admiral Urquhart spent most of his afternoons on the lower lawn by the river. Sidney established him there, with his pipe and newspaper, with clockwork regularity directly luncheon was over. He had his own chair, and Major Urquhart had his, but the Major was not a slave to his afternoon nap as was the Admiral. He was a restless man by nature, and generally had more on hand than he could possibly get through. He seldom sat down till tea-time. It was half-past three now, and in her white linen dress and cool shady hat, Sidney approached her father with her work-basket under her arm.
"Now, dad, I'm ready if you are. The leading article first of all, please, and then details after."
Admiral Urquhart turned over the sheet of the "Times" with alacrity. There was nothing he enjoyed more than reading the paper to his daughter and discussing the degeneracy of old England. But he paused for a moment, paper in hand.
"A nice fellow, Neville is; very like his father, who was the most ultra-conscientious beggar that I ever came across. But it was his own undoing. He never did much in politics."
"I don't know anything about the Nevilles. Tell me about them."
Sidney settled herself with her work under the shady beech that grew down so close, to the river. Her father responded:
"Charles Neville was a school chum of mine. He came into a nice little property in Hampshire, and was member in the House for a good number of years. He had talent and interest, and we expected him to do great things; but he was one of those independent thinkers, and though he made good speeches, he never secured a good office for himself under his Government. This son of his is going the same way, I fear. He was in the Army, and, I expect, might have got on; but on his father's death, the constituents insisted that he should take his father's seat, and Randolph chucked the Service. He was telling me about it last night, and, upon my soul, I don't blame him. He was returned all right, and was in Parliament for five years, but at the last election, he retired. He was dead sick of the party discussions, and tricks, and subterfuges. Told me a clean pair of hands was impossible if you climbed the ladder. I don't agree with him, but, of course, things are different from what they were. The class of member is different, to begin with, and now this payment system has been started, the old patriotic spirit will die out."
"What is he doing now? He looks too keen to be an idler."
"He is waiting for a job; has been promised a post of some importance in India or the Colonies. I hope he'll get it. He's a strong man; too conscientious for the present time."
"Oh, dad, don't! I hate to hear you talk so."
Sidney's grey eyes flashed fire.
"Do you think we're to follow the multitude, and to abjure all the traditions of our race?"
"Why cast pearls to swine?" said the Admiral, "or take up pebbles with a silver spoon? There are only two professions, my dear, where dirty tricks don't prosper, and those are soldiering and sailoring."
"I'm sure every profession wants good clean-handed men in it," retorted Sidney.
Then she laughed.
"It is too warm to argue, or I would suggest that the War Office and the Admiralty have diplomatic ways sometimes. Mr. Neville looks more of a soldier than anything else. But he's not so keen as he has been. He speaks so indifferently of people and things in general."
"He classes himself amongst the failures in life," said the Admiral. "That's what he said to me; but he's not the fellow to sit down under it."
"I should hope not."
Sidney's lips curled a little, then mischief stole into her eyes.
"Let us hope Monnie will take him in hand, dad. I long that some inferior man should come along and capture her proud heart. It would be glorious to see her knuckle under and have to defer to her lord and master. And he looks as if he would manage the woman he cared for."
"I think he has more grit than his father," said Admiral Urquhart, puffing out a thin column of smoke and watching it ascend in the still air.
"I'm waiting for your news," said Sidney. "We won't dissect Mr. Neville too thoroughly."
So her father turned to his "Times;" but he was very comfortable, and the atmosphere was a sleepy one. His voice began to waver, the paper slipped from his fingers, and a gentle snore told Sidney that further reading was over for the present. She dropped her work in her lap and gazed dreamily over the water; shadows gathered and deepened in her eyes. Then she sprang up and slipped quietly down some broad steps close by. There was a light boat moored to the stone wall. With deft fingers she loosened the rope, stepped in, and taking up the light pair of oars, rowed gently away from the garden and down the river towards the sea.
Then, alone at last, she raised her head with a passionate gesture.
"Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it! What is life to me now? It's finished—absolutely done! There is nothing to hope for, nothing to wait for! Nothing will ever come to me now!"
She went back in thought to the years that stretched behind her. One figure, one personality, was prominent in them all. Archie Hughes had been a playmate first, then a friend, then a lover. She and he latterly had been separated by distance, but it had only made the future brighter to her, for would it not bring them together? In all she planned, Archie took a prominent part. She did not now seem able to adjust her life without him. Never had she looked forward to the years stretching away in front of her without a happy thrill, the certain hope that she would have Archie to advise her, comfort her, and be her stand-by.
Sidney was no modern young woman with an assurance and independence of thought which made a single life appear so attractive. She had grown-up amongst men who still held chivalrous ideas of women. She was accustomed to little attentions from them, and perhaps queened it over them rather more than was good for her.
"Oh," she moaned, as she pulled in her oars and let herself drift for a little with the tide, bowing her head in her hands in abject misery, "if it had been anyone but Archie! He must have tired of me. Perhaps I showed him too much how I cared. And yet when he wished me good-bye, he whispered, 'Good-bye, little wifie!' What can have happened to make him change so?" She recalled his letters; but a pang went through her as she remembered how few and far between they had been of late.
It was bitter to her to feel that he had flung her aside without a word, without giving her any reason for doing so. "Perhaps," she soliloquised, "he was tired of waiting for me. Men are not like women. I tried his patience. But how secure I felt! How implicitly I trusted him!"
Then she sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead, and the proud little poise of her head told that there was still some spirit left in her.
"I must have pluck and courage. Others have gone through as bad a time as I am having now. Some women seem to be happy without husbands or lovers. Monica is. She never seems to have a thought about them, except to like a friendly chat with them occasionally. I must rise above my trouble. I will not brood over it. I shall never be tempted to leave dad now. I must learn to look at life differently. God will help me. My life belongs to Him, and He has arranged it so. I will try not to pity myself any more. If only I could forget!"
She caught up her oars again and swung the boat round. Rowing back against the tide was hard work, but the exercise to muscle did her good, and the desire to battle with difficulty was realised.
When she brought the boat back to its mooring-place she saw that visitors were with her father. A young fellow, seeing her, sprang towards her.
He was a curly-haired merry-faced boy of twenty-two, a special crony of hers.
"It isn't often the mother and I drive out paying calls," he said, as he assisted in mooring the boat to her anchor, "but I was as dull as ditch-water. When I'm like that my mind always veers to you! Buck me up. I'm as flabby as a codfish. This heat, and life as it is seen from our house, is pretty deadly, I can tell you."
"You're too idle," Sidney said, looking at him with laughing eyes. "Hot weather and idleness naturally sap all your energy and spirit out of you. But if you had come down early this morning and told me you would take me for a day's sail in your new boat, we should both be returning now, enormously hungry, and ready for anything."
"Oh, why didn't I! But this scandalous little agent keeps me pottering over fusty musty documents on purpose to annoy. And the governor had a bad night, and so, of course, he insisted upon an extra lot of business being done; and first I had to be shut up with Dobbs, and then I had to be shut up with him, telling him every item of our conversation. The doctor is an old fool; he won't let Dobbs come near the governor; as if my bungling recital isn't fifty times worse than the genuine article! I assure you I wasn't done till one o'clock, and then I don't know who was exhausted most, the governor or myself."
Sidney went up the garden and greeted a tall, handsome woman who was talking to her father.
It was said in the neighbourhood that the de Cressiers were the proudest people in the county. They had lived at Thanning Towers since the Norman Conquest, and had refused several peerages, for their menkind had been of great service to their country and king. The present Henry de Cressiers had been stricken down a year ago in the hunting field, and he lay a helpless paralysed invalid; but his voice was left him, and his brain, though the latter was enfeebled. The eldest son and heir had been drowned out in America in that same year, and Austin, the second one, had been summoned home from the university to manage his father's estate and try to keep an eye upon a very unsatisfactory agent, whom Mr. de Cressiers would not discharge. Nearly all the de Cressiers were good-looking, dark men, with strong wills and stern self-repressed natures.
Austin often declared he must be a changeling, for his pride was nil, and he was one of the sunniest and most warm-hearted of mortals. As a small boy he had been devoted to Sidney, who was a distant cousin, her mother having been a de Cressiers, and his devotion was still as great.
Mrs. de Cressiers kissed Sidney affectionately. There were few people round who did not like the girl. Perhaps her attraction was chiefly in her intense interest in everyone and their affairs. Her nature was essentially a sympathetic one.
"My dear Sidney, I want to borrow you for a couple of nights. We have two big dinners on, and I want your help at them."
Sidney made a little grimace.
"Eating is such a farce this hot weather. Why don't you turn them into moonlight suppers up the river?"
Austin chuckled. His mother looked scandalised.
And then Sidney laid her hand caressingly on her arm.
"Of course I will come, if dad thinks he can spare me. Is he to be asked?"
"I have asked him already. He won't come. We must have your uncle."
"You won't get him, I am afraid. He is going up the river for a week's fishing to-morrow."
"I want another man badly."
"Monnie has a cousin staying with her. Ask him."
"But then I should have to include her, and I don't want another woman."
"I'll stay at home. Why did you ask me?"
"Sidney, don't be silly. I really need you."
A little pucker of Mrs. de Cressiers' eyebrows made Sidney drop her bantering tone.
"Monnie won't dine with you. She hates a lot of people, and she'll be very glad to get rid of her visitor. Just explain it to her; she will understand."
"But what is her cousin like?"
"Is he county or cockney?" interrupted Austin. "Has he a long enough pedigree to eat salt with us, and has he an immaculate dress-suit?"
"He is one of the Nevilles," said Sidney, shaking her head reprovingly at him, for one of his mother's failings was a lack of humour. "Dad will tell you his pedigree. He's an ex-M.P. and a failure."
"That he's not!" contradicted the Admiral with warmth. "He is too good for his party, that's what he is. Take him and be thankful, Clarice. But I doubt if he'll go to you; he told me he wanted to rusticate."
"I'll drop in on Monica on my way home," said Mrs. de Cressiers.
"And I'm going to plant myself firmly here till bedtime," said Austin.
His mother looked at him reproachfully, and he added heartily: "I really ought to be canonised, mother, so don't overdo it. Think of my busy day, and let me have a little recreation now. I really will come home before the small hours of the morning."
Mrs. de Cressiers rose to go. Her son accompanied her to the gate, where the carriage was waiting; then he came back joyously to Sidney.
"Now, Sid, what shall we do?"
"Go and tell them to bring down tea to us here," said Sidney, sitting down by her father's side and taking up her work again.
He made a grimace, but obeyed. Admiral Urquhart looked after his retreating figure with twinkling eyes.
"If he were a few years older I should take myself off, my dear. As it is, I don't intend to move. He'll never make a good landlord, and his mother knows it. When he comes into the property he'll spend all his father has saved."
"Now, dad, you shall not abuse him. He is a dear boy, and will be more popular than any former de Cressiers. They are so alarming as a rule."
Austin returned and flung himself into a hammock under the trees.
"The mother is as keen as mustard on these dinners. They are to introduce Sir Walter Rame as possible member."
"I thought he refused to be canvassed," Sidney said.
"He is in doubtful mind. Our first dinner is for the cream of Thanning Dale, our second for the ordinary. Now, which is this new arrival? The mother will sort him with her eye in a twinkling."
"I don't think he is ordinary," said Sidney slowly.
"I wish you would enlighten me as to this Monica Pembroke. She has only appeared since I left home. Everyone seems to know her, but I don't."
"I suppose not; but she used to live at Crawford Manor, only after her parents' death she lost all her money and left the neighbourhood. She had one brother abroad in New Zealand. He wrote to her, telling her his wife was dead, and he wanted to come home. He said he would take a farm in England if she would join him. And she worked hard at an agricultural college and was full of it, and then on his way home, her brother died, and a small imp of a boy arrived alone. Monnie has, of course, adopted him, has put her brother's money into a farm, as he wished, and means to bring up the imp to work it. Meanwhile, she's master, and is making a huge success of it. She's a dear. She succeeds in everything she puts her hand to. I wish I had half her energy and capability."
"What would you do with it?"
Sidney's eyes grew wistful.
"I should like to be of use to my generation," she said.
"Be content with being useful to your old father and uncle," said the Admiral. "I hate these rampaging public women, and pray you may never be one of them."
"I don't care a button for my generation," said Austin—"wish I did. I loathed all the mangy chaps at Oxford. There were a few who were rather decent chaps, but I would always rather people were useful to me than the other way about. I say, Sid, will you come up Rock Beacon with me after tea? It will be cool enough for a climb. You see how your society is beginning to invigorate me!"
"Yes; I am longing for bracing air. We'll go."
They started when tea was over. It was not the first time they had climbed the Beacon together. It lay about a mile from them, and as they went, Austin plunged into confidences about his home and the work that was so distasteful to him.
"You understand," he said; "I've no one else to grouse to. If I was given a free hand I would work from morning to night and be as happy as a sand-boy, but I have to see all kinds of inane things being done. I know Dobbs is a rogue, and is an adept at cunning and lining his own nest, but the mother implores me to keep worries from the governor, and he, poor chap, thinks that Dobbs is an angel of goodness, and tells me that I'm not to do a thing unless he agrees. I'd chuck it all to-morrow except for the mother. I'm wasting my days, and doing no good."
"What good would you be doing if you weren't at home!"
Austin looked at Sidney's grave face and laughed.
"I'd be storing honey like the busy bees: imbibing knowledge and having a good time generally. No, I wouldn't! It was a mistake going to Oxford. I'm not a scholar. I want to travel. The de Cressiers are as narrow as—as—give me an apt simile!—A thread of silk! I want my mind broadened."
"You ought to have had a profession."
"It's the eldest son's role to be in the Service—a very stupid arrangement, for he never stays there long."
"I don't think it is wise to grumble at what you're doing now, for it is work. You must be a check on Dobbs, and you can't deny that you're a pleasure and comfort to your parents."
"Oh, Sid, don't be a stuffy prig!"
"Well, don't ask for my opinion then."
"Did I?"
"You invited it! Of course, you're very young, and you think that life ought to be your servant. You will discover that it may be your master."
"A de Cressiers is never mastered by fate!" His merry eyes flashed fire; then he gave a little chuckle. "Didn't I say that like my mother! I believe, after all, I've got the same pride of race at the bottom of my heart."
There was a little silence between them; then he said:
"Sid, you are changed. What has happened? Has life mastered you?"
Sidney laughed, but her laugh had lost its merry ring.
"I am climbing," she said, "and we won't philosophise any more. You know what I think about idle men. And I want you to have high ideals, Austin, not low selfish ones."
Heather and bracken were now under their feet; the wind came over from the ocean and fanned their faces. Soon they left the heather below them, and short turf with grey blocks of stone lay before them. Sidney presently spied a man's figure in front of them. He was just gaining the summit.
"Who is that? Some tourist? He is not a shepherd or anyone of our parts."
"What dogged shoulders! And what a pace! Come, Sid, buck up! We're awfully slack."
"We aren't climbing for a wager. Let us look back. I don't know why I feel inclined to moralise to-day, but I do."
"Oh, let me do it for you! I know the style. As we look back on the path of our feet, dear friend, we see here a picture of our life's journey. When we come to the top of the hill of life we shall see how small the things now look that once seemed so great—our all in all. As we—"
"Be quiet, Austin. I want to enjoy the view."
Sidney was gazing out towards the ocean which lay before them in the distance. The land below them, with its shining valleys and winding river, its wooded hills, and the cluster of cottages dotted here and there round a turreted church tower, or spire, presented a fair picture of English country.
Austin threw himself upon the ground to rest. His eyes were fixed on Sidney's slim upright young figure.
"I wonder some fellow has not stepped in and laid siege to your heart," he remarked meditatively. "I always thought that Hughes would be the lucky chap. You don't mind my mentioning it. He has got tied up now, hasn't he?"
"I believe he has," Sidney answered quietly. "Now let us finish our climb."
They started again, and in another ten minutes were at the top of the Beacon. There, leaning against a pile of rocks, the foundation for many a bonfire, was Randolph Neville.
MONICA'S REQUEST
HE looked as surprised as they when they met each other. Sidney introduced Austin at once.
"I came up here for a blow," said Randolph.
"And perhaps to get away from people," said Sidney with quick intuition. "We had no idea we were pursuing you, though we admired the purpose and energy of your long strides."
Randolph smiled.
"I was pursued by visions of dinners and crowded drawing-rooms. I have come from town to escape them."
"Then my mother wasn't successful in capturing you," said Austin; "she had a hard try, didn't she?"
"She was very kind. I am afraid I vexed her; but I should be no addition at present to any company."
Sidney looked at him with a mixture of amusement and interest.
"There are very few of us who refuse Mrs. de Cressiers anything," she said. "I don't think it was very kind of you. And these are very special occasions, aren't they, Austin? It is a political opportunity."
"So Mrs. de Cressiers said; but that is just one of the reasons why I fight shy of it."
Sidney, who knew his history, was silent.
"Shake hands!" cried Austin delightedly. "I loathe politics. My mother is too strong on them for my taste."
"I am ashamed of you both," said Sidney hotly, a warm colour creeping up into her cheeks. "If you love your country, you must be interested in them. It is sheer laziness with you, Austin, and you know it."
Randolph turned to her.
"What part are you going to take in these political dinners, Miss Urquhart?"
"Oh, I shall be a listener, and perhaps try a little persuasion with one or two stiff-necked old squires, for I want Sir Walter Rame to succeed. He isn't of this county, but he rents a big place here, and is honest and upright, I am sure."
Randolph was silent again. He doubted the sincerity of a would-be member.
Sidney looked at him a little deprecatingly.
"Forgive me, Mr. Neville; I don't know you well enough to scold you, do I? But I can't bear to think that there are some Englishmen who wash their hands of politics because they cannot purge them of all self-seeking and knavery. There is always good leaven in them, and we want to increase that, not decrease it. A good captain never deserts an old ship."
"It's only the rats," said Randolph, meeting her earnest gaze with twinkling eyes. "I'm a bad rat and a sad rat, and I shan't be missed."
"Look here," broke in Austin; "I didn't bring you up here, Sid, to talk politics. Let us try another subject. Look at the ocean. Are you keen on fishing? I'm going out to-night with an old salt—a great pal of mine. Will you make a third?"
Randolph and Austin plunged into an animated talk of fish in general. Sidney moved away. She loved the wide expanse of earth and sky, and the fresh keen air invigorated and refreshed her. Sitting down and leaning her back against a rock she wondered why, at a high altitude, the troubles and worries of daily life seemed so small and insignificant.
"I suppose," she mused, "it is because I feel so near Heaven, and deep down in my heart I know that my deepest love and interests are there."
When, a little later, Randolph and Austin joined her they were both conscious of an increased radiance and softness in her face. And Austin, who never could keep his thoughts to himself, said:
"Communion of the saints again, Sid? I'd like to know your thoughts when you get alone, but you never will tell me."
She roused herself with a light laugh.
"It is time we were going home. We will leave you to your solitude, Mr. Neville. I would love to spend a night up here by myself."
Randolph did not offer to accompany them down, and Austin took care to engage Sidney's attention for the rest of the way.
"The mother will be furious at Neville's refusal to come to her. A very decent chap, I should say, but quite equal to holding his own with anyone."
"He looks unhappy," Sidney remarked.
"Oh, you sentimental women! If a man has got a fit of indigestion, or the gout in his big toe, it is heartache with you. He is posing as a country-lover, and he's already bored to death. He jumped at the idea of an all night fishing. I'll tell you if he has had a disappointing love affair after our expedition is over. But I doubt it. He's bored to tears with the quiet here, and won't own up to it."
"We won't criticise him, Austin. He is a stranger and deserves our consideration."
When Sidney chose, a certain aloof inflection of tone had the effect of a severe snub upon Austin. He instantly demanded very weakly:
"Please tell me what to talk about now," and then with laughter, they resumed their usual happy intercourse together.
The day after, Monica called for Sidney to drive into the nearest market town with her. Admiral Urquhart had a small trap, and a very fat lazy pony. Monica's cob was a fast one, and Sidney was always glad to go with her rather than drive herself. Friday was market day in Pegborough, and both of them liked to go there every week.
"Randolph has taken Chuckles off my hands for the day," Monica said. "I shall be glad when his holidays are over. He is rather a handful for poor Aunt Dannie, and I can't have him always with me."
"I wish you would send him up to me oftener. I adore him."
"Sidney, I'm going to ask a favour of you." Monica spoke abruptly, and a certain little frown appeared between her level eyebrows.
"Ask away; you know you will get it."
"Don't be rash. It's this. I want to know if you'll give Chuckles a little Sunday tuition on Sunday afternoons?"
If Sidney was surprised, she did not show it.
Monica flicked her cob a little nervously as she continued:
"I can't do it, as you know. It isn't in my line at all, and poor old Aunt Dannie tries and fails. Last Sunday the little imp chased her round the room with sofa cushions. I know you have a class in the morning, and it seems nasty of me to wish to spoil your quiet Sunday afternoons, but the fact is, I feel he wants something that I can't give him. He is growing up a godless little heathen, and seems lacking in moral principles. I don't know why I can't give them to him, but I can't. They're instinctive with me, but he seems morally deficient. And I'm anxious, awfully anxious, that he should grow up to be an upright honourable man. I know what you believe in, Sidney, and I want you to impart your faith to him."
Sidney was silent. Sudden tears sprang into her eyes.
"I would love to have him, Monica dear, but you ought to teach him, not I."
Monica looked before her with set lips.
"You know what my religion is. I never want to appear other than I am. I go to church once on Sunday. I practise honesty and live straight. I have a strong belief in leaving the world better than I find it. I believe in our Creator. That is the sum and substance of my faith. I get along very well. I have been successful in all that I have put my hand to, and I want no more. But I have failed so far in building up Chuckles' character. I can build my own; I can't build his."
"He wants a foundation stone, and so do you." Sidney's tone was soft and reflective.
"He may do so. I give you leave to do what you can in that direction. But I differ from you entirely about myself. I consider I have shaped my own life since I left school. I have firm ground under my feet—duty is my foundation; a good straight life springs up from it. This sounds conceited. It is only what I aim at. I sometimes fail in the practice, and I seem to fail with Chuckles. Duty is always shirked by him, and oh, Sidney! My hopes are centred in him. I want him to grow up a success, not a failure. I hope to hand him over a thriving, prosperous farm—his heritage; only regard it as a trust for him at present. They say single women make a mess of a boy's training, but I am determined that I shall not. No one can say I spoil him, and I think I have his love."
"Chuckles is very lucky," said Sidney warmly.
"I think he is," responded Monica with a little laugh; "not in his aunt, but in his surroundings. But I honestly would like him to have a little more religion. He hates church. When Aunt Dannie discourses to him on the love of God for good little boys, and how he ought to love back, he says he can't love a Person he never sees, and he doesn't want to be a good little boy. Then she shakes her head over him, and he laughs at her. I feel that his only hope in that direction is being taught by you."
Sidney did not answer for a moment; then she said slowly:
"You know, Monnie, I was of the same mind as you till I met that earnest-minded German woman abroad four years ago. I hope I inherited principles of duty and honour from dad, but I do assure you that there is something more in life than that; and she showed it to me. Duty is a good foundation, but it isn't the right one."
"It's good enough for me," said Monica dryly.
"But you are willing that Chuckles should have a better one?"
"No, I want him to have that, but I can't arrive at it."
"Oh, what a drab world for children and for all of us if duty filled our hearts to the exclusion of love!"
"Don't let us moralise; but I hand over Chuckles' spiritual education to you with pleasure."
Then they began to talk over Randolph Neville.
"It is strange," Monica said, "that he is content with my quiet life. He seems in no hurry to leave me. To-day he has taken Chuckles up the river, fishing. I expect he will be bored with the small imp before long. I was vexed that he refused Mrs. de Cressiers' invitation to dinner. She was astonished and annoyed. She is not accustomed to be denied anything."
"No," Sidney said, laughing. "We spoil her, don't we? And she was quite aware of her condescension in asking him at all, as she knew nothing of him. I like him, Monnie; I admire strong silent men, and I am sure he is one of them, but something has embittered and soured him."
"Yes, and I heard this morning what it is. His cousin mentioned it in a letter to me. The girl he was going to marry threw him over and married someone else."
"Oh!" said Sidney with a long-drawn breath. "If a man is real in his feelings, he takes that very badly."
"Yes, but it ought not to spoil his life."
"It won't spoil Mr. Neville's."
"I hope not. He ranks himself as a failure, but that's mere surface talk. He is keen now on getting a Government appointment abroad. I hope he will. He is too good to be an idler, and he unfortunately has enough money to be that."
They accomplished their marketing and returned home. Sidney had a busy afternoon. Her uncle carried her off to his workshop directly lunch was over. He was erecting a small teahouse in the garden, and wanted her advice about the dimensions and shape of it. Then her father told her he wanted to drive over to inquire for an old friend of his, a Sir Peter Wood, who lived six miles off, and he would like her to accompany him.
When they came home, a woman from the village was waiting for her. One of her little Sunday scholars was very ill and wanted to see his teacher. Sidney went off promptly, and returned only just in time for dinner. And after dinner, she played chess with her uncle, sang to her father, and got no time to herself till bedtime arrived.
When she was at last alone her thoughts turned to Chuckles. She was a true child-lover, and had often longed to have a bigger bit of his company than was possible. Here was an opportunity. And the thought of all that might result from it, made her open her Bible and pray earnestly for guidance.
"It is a bit of building," she thought as she read to herself. "'Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Christ Jesus.' God's building, and if Jesus and His Life and Love are left out in a child's training, how can he be expected to thrive on stern duty and self-repression? Love makes it all so easy."
And as her mind dwelt on the theme of the New Testament her heart glowed within her.
"What does it matter about my broken prospects when I serve One Who never disappoints, Who never fails? He is a rock under my feet, and that gives me an idea for to-morrow. I will tell Chuckles the story of the builders on the rocks and the sand."
She went to sleep that night with a happier heart than she had had for a long time, and with a little shamed feeling that she had not realised more of the wealth she possessed in the unseen things.