Sydney saw considerably less of her cousin after the arrival of Sir Algernon.
He announced that he had come to spend Christmas, much to the relief of Lady Frederica, who declared it would be “such a comfort to have somebody to amuse St. Quentin.” He himself acquiesced in the arrangement without saying much, or expressing pleasure or the reverse.
The new inmate of the Castle was distinctly an addition to its liveliness. He and Lady Frederica had several acquaintances in common, and Sydney and Miss Osric, sitting quietly at the dinner-table, found their ideas of various distinguished persons most uncomfortably disarranged. Sir Algernon had a knack, however, of suiting his conversation to his company. When he overtook Sydney and her governessreturning from taking soup to a sick child in the village, he walked between them, talking very pleasantly of the historical associations and romantic stories connected with St. Quentin Castle—a subject particularly interesting to Sydney, who was beginning to feel a certain pride in the past of the grand old house to which she belonged.
It may be presumed that his conversation pleased St. Quentin also, for his guest was shut up with him a good deal in the library, smoking and talking.
In other ways besides amusing conversation, Sir Algernon’s presence was a boon to the ladies. He was a first-rate whip, and the four-in-hand which St. Quentin used to drive was had out from the stables—where it and his shattered motor-car had stood so long idle together—for the benefit of Sir Algernon. He took Lady Frederica and Sydney out in it: one day they even went as far as Donisbro’ and lunched at the principal hotel there.
Sydney wished to lunch at the Deanery, that she might return a book Miss Morrell had lent her, but this Lady Frederica would not allow.
“If you will solemnly swear not to go into the Deanery drawing-room on any excusewhatsoever, I shall be delighted to escort you to the door, Miss Lisle,” Sir Algernon suggested good-naturedly, noticing the way her face fell at Lady Frederica’s refusal. “We shouldn’t take above twenty minutes getting there and back, if you only leave the book at the door. If Lady Frederica will allow us, we will go directly after lunch, while she is choosing those cards she spoke of.”
Lady Frederica agreed readily enough to this arrangement, and the two set out together when their lunch was over, with a parting direction on her part, “Be sure you hurry, for the afternoons are so short, and we must start early on our homeward drive.”
They left the parcel with the Deanery footman, and retraced their steps through the Close and up the steep High Street of Donisbro’.
The shops were very gay with Christmas cards and presents: Sir Algernon inquired if Miss Lisle still retained a taste for turkey and plum-pudding? She answered absently, for the Christmas preparations brought back home with a painful clearness. She thought of the shopping expeditions which became so many as Christmas Eve drew on, and the numberless secrets with which the tall oldhouse seemed packed from garret to cellar, and the wild excitement of Christmas Eve; when all the boys and girls who might be trusted to be quite conformable, went out to see the brilliant show of Christmas shops under the guardianship of Hugh and Mildred.
“What’s the girl thinking of?” Sir Algernon asked himself, a little piqued, for he was not used to having his remarks received with inattention or indifference.
Then suddenly a light dawned on him, for Sydney’s eyes, which had been fixed rather absently upon the sloppy pavement before her, grew bright with recognition. She broke into a cry of joy, and in a second had sprung forward to seize both the outstretched hands of a young man, who was hurrying down the street towards her. “Oh, Hugh! Hugh!”
“By Jove!” Sir Algernon let out between his teeth, as he stood aside, forgotten by both.
“Hugh! whatareyou doing at Donisbro’?”
“Sir Anthony had an operation to perform here,” Hugh explained, “and, like the brick he is, took me as his anæsthetist. I never thought of this luck!”
“Oh, Hugh! how are they all? How ismother? Oh, dear! there are such hundreds of things I want to ask you!”
“I’m just the same. How are you, dear? Your letters are jolly, but they don’t tell a quarter that we want to know. You’re looking well.” The old brotherly approval in his eyes was replaced, the girl saw, by a new expression. “Who are you with? Are you driving, or what? Can I walk with you? You mustn’t stand in this cold.”
“No, I am sure Miss Lisle should not,” Sir Algernon interpolated suavely. “Mr. Chichester, I suppose?”
Hugh bowed and apologised. Sydney introduced the two in form, with a loving pride in speaking Hugh’s name which did not escape the baronet.
“We ought to be rejoining Lady Frederica, don’t you think?” he said to her; “we were ordered not to linger.”
“I forgot,” said Sydney. “Yes, we must go. Hugh, come too. I want to show you to Lady Frederica.”
And Hugh, against his better judgment, came. It was hard to refuse Sydney anything when the sweet face looked at him so earnestly. Besides, at home they would be hungry for news; how could he help saying yes.
He walked beside her, but confidences were impossible in the presence of Sir Algernon, although that gentleman made himself exceedingly agreeable according to his wont. Still, Hugh could look at Sydney and hear her speak, and that was something.
They reached the hotel all too soon. Lady Frederica was looking out for them and the introduction was made. She was civil, but by no means cordial, and conveyed an accent of disapproval into her polite surprise at seeing Mr. Chichester so far from town.
Sydney explained eagerly, but Lady Frederica’s “Indeed!” was discouraging, and there was a pause. Hugh felt he was expected to take his leave, and took it.
“Good-bye, Sydney, I’m—awfully glad to have seen you.”
“Good-bye! Good-bye, Hugh—my love to them at home, a greatdealof love, you know, Hugh. Good-bye!”
Oh, dear! how much there was that Sydney wanted to say to him! If only Lady Frederica would have left them for a little time alone! If only Sir Algernon had not been there when they met! She wanted—oh, so much!—to hear the little things that letters never tell; those little items of everyday home news for which shefelt so sick with longing suddenly. Why hadn’t she asked this, that, and the other? She seemed to have said nothing but good-bye. She was very quiet upon the homeward drive, so quiet that Sir Algernon looked curiously at her more than once. And when they reached the castle, and the girl had gone up to the school-room, he went into the library to St. Quentin.
“Got any views for that little girl, Quin?” he asked carelessly, when he had answered his host’s inquiries as to the conditions of the roads, the “pace of the greys,” and other details of their day.
“Possibly, but none that I need your advice upon, thanks,” was the answer.
“Don’t get riled, old man, I wasn’t offering it.” Sir Algernon lit a cigarette with great care and sat down by the fire. “It strikes me that she has views of her own, as well,” he concluded.
“Suppose we leave Sydney out of the conversation, altogether!” said St. Quentin.
“Oh, just as you please, of course. Do you want the people who brought her up—the Chichesters—to be a tabooed subject as well?”
“What of them?”
“Oh, a son is at Donisbro’, that’s all.”
“One of the Chichesters?”
“Yes; she called him Hugh.”
Sir Algernon leaned back luxuriously in his chair, stretching out his feet to the cheerful blaze.
“You don’t mean to say that my aunt allowed the child to enter into conversation with him?” St. Quentin’s tone was very sharp; Sir Algernon laughed lightly.
“Don’t look so fierce, old chap. I was the guilty party, I’m afraid. I was escorting her back to Lady Frederica after leaving a parcel with some girl or other, when we ran across this young chemist’s assistant, or whatever he is. They fairly rushed into each other’s arms. I couldn’t interfere very well, you see, though I did venture to suggest, after a lengthy period of patient freezing, that therewasa limit to the time he ought to keep her standing in the street. He walked with us to the hotel, and there Lady Frederica choked him off. You needn’t look so furious, Quin, there wasn’t much harm done; only I fancy Miss Sydney isn’t quite the pliable little wax saint you think her, she——”
“Leave her name alone, please!”
“Oh, very well! You’ve grown uncommonly stand-offish of late, my dear chap; you’ll beshowing me the door next, eh?” His laugh was not particularly pleasant.
St. Quentin was frowning heavily. “You might leave me quiet a bit,” he said. “I’m not in the best of humours, to-night.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Sir Algernon, rising and flinging his cigarette away; “it’s quite unnecessary, I assure you.” And he went to Lady Frederica in the drawing-room.
“Would you go to his lordship in the library, please, ma’am, if quite convenient,” a footman said, a little later, coming to the school-room, where Sydney and Miss Osric, undeterred by the approach of dinner, were thoroughly enjoying a very late tea.
Sydney put down her cup and got up at once.
“Are you quite rested now, dear?” asked Miss Osric. “You looked tired when you came in, and I am sure, if you are tired still, Lord St. Quentin would excuse you.”
“I don’t think I’m tired,” Sydney said, and went down the wide stairs and across the hall to the library.
St. Quentin was alone, but she knew Sir Algernon had been there by the smell of smoke. Her cousin’s eyebrows were drawn close together, and there was a look uponhis face which was new to her. He seemed to have forgotten to smile at her entrance to-day.
“Come here, Sydney,” he said sharply. “I have something to say to you. I hear you met that young Chichester this afternoon.” His contemptuous tone made the colour flame into her face.
“Yes, I did,” she said a little bit defiantly; “of course I was going to tell you about it.”
“Were you?” said St. Quentin. “Now, Sydney, we had better understand each other. The Chichesters brought you up, and of course you owe a debt of gratitude to them in consequence. I have no objection whatsoever to your paying it—in any reasonable way. I spoke to Braemuir on the subject when he was staying here, and he promised me to use his influence towards getting some of those boys a start in life. I don’t suppose you know that, though the estate is by no means as unencumbered as I could wish, I offered to refund your doctor what he spent on you in your childhood, and——”
“He said ‘No,’ of course!” Sydney cried, with flashing eyes. “Why, I was father’s child—of course he wouldn’t be paid for keeping me!”
“Don’t indulge in heroics, please; they bore me,” St. Quentin observed drily. “Yes, Dr. Chichester—try to drop the expression ‘father,’ please, in speaking of him; it only makes you sound ridiculous—Dr. Chichester, I say, refused my offer with some heat. Like you, he appeared to consider it insulting. Tastes differ; mine is, as you know, for common sense. Now, I should be obliged if you would kindly give me your attention for five minutes. You are going to occupy a great position, and I donotintend to have those Chichesters hanging round you. Those brother-and-sister friendships are charming in theory, but they don’t work. I know what they lead to. I should be obliged if you would correspond less frequently with the doctor’s family, and shall request Aunt Rica to see to it. And I distinctly forbid you to have anything to do with that young man when next hehappensto be staying in these parts. Do you understand me?”
“Do you mean you want me toforgetmother and father, and all the rest of them at home?” Sydney cried. There was an odd expression on St. Quentin’s face, as he watched the growing indignation upon hers.
“Well, something like it—you won’t findit very difficult in time, I assure you,” was his answer.
“I don’t mean to do it!” she said with a trembling voice. “I shall have to obey you about not writing so often, or speaking to Hugh if I meet him, but I can’t and I won’t forget them! I hate this place! I wish I had never come, and when you talk like that I hate you!... I was beginning to care about you, but I don’t now at all!” She was fighting to keep back her sobs. “Doyouforget the people you have cared for, that you want me to?” she asked him fiercely, and went quickly out.
St. Quentin turned his head and looked after her.
“Do I forget?” he muttered; “no, I wish I did!”
On the morning following the expedition to Donisbro’, Lady Frederica received an apologetic note from Herr Felsbaden, Sydney’s music-master, regretting his inability to give Miss Lisle her lesson that day, owing to a severe cold. If convenient to Lady Frederica and Miss Lisle, he would come to the Castle on Friday afternoon instead.
The note was sent in to Miss Osric, when Lady Frederica had glanced through it over her early cup of tea, and governess and pupil read it together.
Sydney was looking pale and heavy-eyed this morning, Miss Osric saw, and guessed that Lord St. Quentin had said something to distress the girl. It was a bright sunny morning, with that exhilaration in the air which only a perfect winter’s day has the power to give.
“Suppose, as you have no master comingthis morning, we go out for a walk as soon as we have read a little, Sydney dear?” Miss Osric suggested. “It is such a lovely morning, and you look tired. I think the air would do you good.”
“I have a little headache,” Sydney owned, and they set out for their walk at about 10.30.
The frost was thick in the park, and every little twig upon the great bare trees outlined clearly against a sky of pale cloudless blue. Sydney wondered why she did not feel the old exhilaration that a morning such as this would have once awakened in her, even in smoky London.
But if she could not enjoy the perfect morning, they soon met somebody who could!
As they passed the gate of the Vicarage, Mr. Seaton came out, holding Pauly by the hand. The child was in a state of absolutely wild delight, dancing and jumping by his father’s side, and his eyes glittering like two stars under the tangle of red hair.
“Going up the great big ’normous tower!” he informed Sydney, as she stooped to kiss him. “Going to walk miles and miles and miles up ladders, almost to the sky!”
The Vicar laughed and shook hands with both the girls.
“I have to give some orders about new bell-ropes; ours were rotten, and I’ve had them taken down,” he explained. “And it was an old promise I should take this monkey up the tower next time I had to go there. Do you two feel inclined, I wonder, to come with us, and walk ‘miles and miles and miles up ladders, almost to the sky’?”
Sydney looked at the tower, standing grey and tall outlined sharply on the blue, and then at Miss Osric. “Should you like it? It would be lovely, I think.”
“We should like to go up very much indeed, if Mr. Seaton doesn’t mind the bother of us,” said Miss Osric, and the four went on together to Lislehurst Church at the farther end of the village.
The church itself had been rebuilt in the eighteenth century, when the black oak panelling had been removed as “dirty-looking” and replaced by whitewash, and relieved at intervals by the St. Quentin Arms painted on it in the gaudiest colours. At the same time, the few bits of exquisite stained glass which had survived a visit from the “root and branch” men of the Commonwealth days had been taken away to make room for a complete set of crudely coloured windows, which vexed the soul of Mr.Seaton whenever his eyes fell upon them. But the old tower had been left intact, and was considered by the learned to be one of the finest specimens of fourteenth century architecture left in England.
There was a tradition that the saintly Bishop Ken had once climbed it, and had pronounced the view from the top to be “a foretaste of Heaven.”
Sydney, when she saw the perpendicular ladders tied together, which those who went beyond the belfry chamber were compelled to climb, doubted privately the probability of anyone so old and frail as the non-juring Bishop had grown when he came to Blankshire, having strength or breath to reach the summit!
“You are not frightened, are you?” asked the Vicar, when he had given his orders to the man awaiting him in the belfry chamber, now emptied of its dangling ropes. “Don’t try it, if you feel in the least bit nervous, for itisa stiffish climb!”
To be quite honest, Sydney did not particularly like the look of the many ladders to be scaled, but she would have died sooner than own her fears.
After all, this was not so very much more difficult than going up the ladders in that oast-housein Kent, where they had gone to see the men stamp out a hop-pocket, when the whole family had spent that happy fortnight in a Kentish farm-house last summer. Only then Hugh had been there to help her, and pull her up that awkward step where two rungs had gone from the ladder. Her back was to the Vicar, but Miss Osric saw the sudden wistfulness in the girl’s grey eyes.
“Well, come on, if you really don’t feel nervous,” Mr. Seaton said. “Oh, Hiram,” as the old clerk came stumbling down the ladders at the sound of their voices, “you here? That’s just as well. Now you can go up in front and get the little tower door open for the ladies.”
“Gentleman up the tower now, sir,” Hiram said, touching his battered hat.
“All right; he won’t interfere with us,” the Vicar said. “Now, Miss Lisle, will you go first, and take Hiram’s hand where the ladders cross. Miss Osric, you next. Then Pauly. Hold tight, you little monkey, or I’ll take you down again! I’ll bring up the rear, and then if anybody slips, I’ll catch them.”
The procession started, Mr. Seaton keeping a firm grip of his small son’s blouse the whole time, and calling at intervals directions to the others.
Up, up they went, clinging to the ladders set perpendicularly against the rough grey walls, worn with the lapse of time. Higher and higher still they went, till Sydney and Miss Osric felt as though they had been climbing for hours instead of minutes.
The elders had no breath for speech, but little Pauly chattered unceasingly. “Did these funny stairs go right up into Heaven? Would there be angels at the top of the tower? Would there be stars? Would there be at least a hole through which Pauly might look into Heaven when he came so near it?”
Sydney could hear his shrill little voice talking on, and his father’s grave tones answering him now and then. As they came higher the echoes caught up the two voices and made the old tower ring with them in a way that sounded strange and very eerie, Sydney thought.
“Getting tired, Miss Lisle?” called the Vicar cheerily, as she set foot on the highest ladder.
His words must have been heard by “the gentleman” of whom old Hiram had spoken, for a square of blue and sunshine opened suddenly above her, and, as she toiled up the final rungs, a hand, whose touch was certainlyfamiliar, grasped hers, and swung her over that last awkward step, where she seemed to hang over a yawning black gulf for a moment, before landing upon terra firma outside the tower.
“Hugh!” She had forgotten everything for the moment, except the joy of seeing him again, but in an instant, like a bitter wind, her cousin’s words swept back upon her—“I forbid you to have anything to do with that young man.”
Hugh could not think why she withdrew her hand, and went back to the little low tower door with a cloud on the face that had been so bright a minute since. “How slow the others are in getting up!” she said.
Hugh watched her uneasily, as she gave her hand to Miss Osric and helped her through the doorway; then proceeded to the same office for little Pauly. Surely it was very unlike Sydney to have nothing to say to him, to be absorbed in these comparative strangers, when he was at her elbow. Surely her manner had changed with extraordinary speed since yesterday.
She on her part had been rapidly considering the situation. It was plainly impossible to go down the tower again the very minuteafter she had come up it. What excuse could she make that had the slightest sound of reason? None, she was quite aware. Plainly the only thing that she could do was to obey her cousin’s order in the spirit though not in the letter.
She was rather pale, but her voice was steady as she bent over little Pauly, devoting herself to answering his many questions.
Mr. Seaton talked to Miss Osric and to Hugh, who answered him a little absently. His eyes were fixed on Sydney. The Vicar looked from one to the other in a rather puzzled way from time to time, as he did the honours of the splendid view that lay before them.
Glimpses of the Castle showed through its encircling trees, but in summer, Mr. Seaton said, when all the leaves were out, it was completely hidden.
He pointed out in succession the quaint little villages, dotted at intervals about the valley, with some interesting comment upon each. There was Loam, which boasted the finest chancel-screen in the county. Miss Lisle and Miss Osric ought to see it one of these bright days: it was most distinctly worth the trouble of a visit. That tiny church, with a tower that looked as though some giant had sat upon it long ago, was Marston. Did Mr.Chichester remember a humorous account in the papers two or three years back, of a famous “kill” which had taken place in Marston churchyard, when the fox had taken refuge in one of the old stone box tombs, and held the narrow entry, worn by age and weather in the stone, for full an hour?
Styles and Hurstleigh lay out yonder; it was in Hurstleigh that the Manor stood, which a loyal lady of the Civil Wars had defended against General Ireton, till relieved by her husband just as the little garrison were reduced to the last straits.
At another time Sydney would have been immensely interested in the story, but to-day somehow she could not care even to see the place where Madam Courtenay caught the first glimpse of the scarlet mantled horsemen, riding to her succour only just in time.
She could not put herself to-day into the place of the cavalier lady and rejoice with her; she could only feel herself, Sydney Lisle, behaving in a horrid, stiff, unkind way to the brother Hugh, who kept looking at her with those troubled, questioning eyes.
Miss Osric was the only member of the party who really enjoyed Mr. Seaton’s explanations, for little Pauly thought them dull to thelast degree. He wanted to know several things, and no one would attend to his shrill questions. Sydney was looking where Mr. Seaton pointed, with unseeing eyes, and his father took no notice of various impatient tugs at his hand. Pauly wanted dreadfully to know why the sky had gone away again, instead of being quite near as he had expected, and whether mother and the angels would hear him if he were to call up to them very loudly, now this minute, and whether a big man, who was big enough to lean over the stone parapet of the tower which his own head barely reached, could see “In Memory of Rose” on the white marble cross in the churchyard down below.
Hugh, to pacify him, looked over, and pronounced that he could see “no end of crosses.”
But this by no means satisfied Pauly. Hugh must see that special grave where Daddy took him every Sunday, after service.
“Tell me where to look,” Hugh said; “but you keep still, young man, if you please. Don’t you go trying to lean over!”
He stared down. “Is your cross a tall one, near a tree?” he asked presently. Pauly gave a bound of delight.
“Yes, that’s where ‘In memorwy of Wose’ is. Do you see the lovely holly on the grave?I stuck lots in the tin, I did weally, and my fingers was all bleedy after. I didn’t mind. Boys don’t mind being bleedy. ’Spect that big girl that you keep on looking at would mind. Girls cwy when they’re bleedy, don’t they? Do you cwy? I s’pose not,’cause you’re a big man. Did you see my lovely holly? No, you won’t see where you are. Oh, look! You can see my lovely holly this side of the tower as well.”
“I say—stand still!” Hugh said sharply, turning his head round. Pauly, in a state of wild excitement, was climbing up the three-foot parapet as nimbly as a cat. “Get down!” Hugh shouted, springing to his feet, and darting over to the child. He spoke too late.
Pauly had reached the top, and was kneeling on it, peering down upon his “lovely holly.” “Oh, I can see it! I can see my holly!” he screamed joyfully, clinging and laughing.
Whether the height turned him giddy, or he lost his balance by leaning too far, no one knew. There was only time for a cry of horror, and a frantic grasp into emptiness upon Hugh’s part. The child had fallen from the parapet!
The poor father staggered backward, his hand to his head—the two girls clung together, speechless; only Hugh was able tolook over. The next moment he was shaking Mr. Seaton fiercely by the shoulder.
“Quick, sir! Down and cut the belfry ropes. Please God, we’ll save him yet!”
The Vicar, scarcely able to believe his ears, looked over.
Some nine feet down the tower, at each corner, a large projecting gargoyle served the purpose of a water-spout, and it was on one of these little Pauly had fallen—the creature’s stone ear having caught his blouse as he bumped against it in his fall. He was lying on his back across the gargoyle’s neck, his legs and head swinging into space, his frock hitched half across the hideous head. He was still at the moment, but how long would he remain so? Below him was a drop of seventy feet.
Hugh flung off his coat, and put his leg over the parapet. “Hurry with the ropes; I’ll go to him.”
“No, no, not you!” the Vicar cried. “I must.”
But Hugh was already letting himself down. “Quick with the ropes!” was all he said.
“‘Quick with the ropes!’ was all he said.”(Page 128)
“‘Quick with the ropes!’ was all he said.”
(Page 128)
Sydney and Miss Osric looked at one another. “The belfry ropes are gone!”
Before they had finished speaking, Mr. Seaton was tearing in a neck-or-nothing fashiondown the ladders. It was well for him that he was forced to act, and not wait to think. Ropes must be got, and immediately, for what ladder would be long enough? He did not even cast one glance back at the tower as he rushed through the churchyard in search of a rope.
There was nothing that Miss Osric and Sydney had the power to do but wait and pray. They clung to one another silently, with set, white faces, as Hugh commenced his difficult and dangerous descent, with one eye on the little figure, which might move and be dashed from its precarious resting-place at any moment. Was the child stunned? Hugh almost hoped he might be. Any movement must almost certainly be fatal to his balance.
But as the young man felt carefully his third step in that perilous climb, there was a quiver in the dark blue bundle on the gargoyle, and a scared little face was uplifted to his. The hearts of the girls above stood still.
Hugh was struggling desperately for a foothold which it seemed impossible to find. Would the child move, or look down? Should he do so, nothing could save him.
“It’s all right, old chap!” Hugh called in his cheeriest tone. “You just keep still where you are. Yes, that’s right; now look at me.I’m coming down to take you up again. No, don’t try and sit up—you can see me splendidly from where you are.”
His voice broke off, as he all but lost both hold and footing. He regained it with a frantic struggle and descended another step. “Look at me, Pauly!”
Pauly’s round eyes gazed up wonderingly. Hugh neared the gargoyle, and set his teeth for a mighty effort.
Pauly was a particularly large and strong boy for not quite five years old, and, even on firm ground, would be no joke to lift in one hand. But the thing must be done. Hugh strengthened his hold with his right hand, and took an anxious downward glance. Some of the village men were trying to join ladders, but they were far too short. Mr. Seaton was running frantically up the road beyond the churchyard, with a coil of rope on his arm. In the clear air Hugh could see his upturned face, dead white, with eyes staring wildly.
He could not possibly get through the churchyard and up the tower in less than ten minutes—Hugh thought he would probably take longer. It was not therefore possible to risk leaving Pauly on the gargoyle till he himself should have the help of a rope.
He took the firmest grip he could of the roughened stonework of the tower with feet and right hand, and loosed cautiously the other, reaching with it towards the blue bundle on the gargoyle. “Steady, Pauly, keep quite still, old chap!”
With a struggle that brought beads of perspiration out upon his forehead and nearly sent him flying into space, he grasped the child, and raised him slowly from his resting-place; then stepped down on to the gargoyle, and stood there, clasping Pauly closely, and leaning back against the wall with closed eyes.
He was too physically exhausted with the terrible anxiety and effort of the last few minutes to make any further movement then. Besides, it was now a necessity to wait for the rope. The upward climb would be impossible when burdened by the well-grown boy.
He had to concentrate all his powers on keeping steady on the slender foothold, which was all the gargoyle afforded, and waiting for the help which Mr. Seaton would bring.
It seemed hours before a shout from above came down cheerily to him, and a rope end struck him on the shoulder. “Now, Pauly,” he said, “hold on round my neck for all you’re worth, there’s a good little chap!”
He took a firm grip of the child’s blouse in his teeth, and, steadying himself with infinite difficulty, fastened the rope beneath his own arms, in the strongest knots that he could make. Then, using his hands as a trumpet, he called “Ready!”
His left arm was round Pauly, his right grasped the rope above his head. “Now hold tight, little chap, and don’t be frightened!”
Pauly carried out this order by taking as good a grip as the hair-cutter allowed of Hugh’s head, and it was in this position that the two were at length hauled over the parapet by the united strength of the Vicar, Hiram, and the Vicarage gardener, whom Mr. Seaton had met while searching for a rope.
Mr. Seaton wrung Hugh’s hand in silence, and held his son to him, in silence also. No one seemed to have much voice for speech just then; even Pauly was subdued and shaken by his fall, though he had escaped with nothing worse than grazed knees.
The descent from the tower was very quiet and sober. A strong shudder went through the party as they passed the belfry chamber and thought about the awful moment when they had realised that the ropes were gone.
His father carried Pauly, and Hugh wentin front of Sydney and Miss Osric, and gave them his hand where the ladders turned. He and Sydney never spoke the whole way down.
They were in the churchyard at last, and Pauly was demanding to be shown “the funny little step where me and him was standing.” The Vicar, shivering, hushed him, and turned to Hugh. “You’ll come in and lunch with me?” he said, a little huskily, his hand upon the young man’s shoulder.
“Thank you, I will,” Hugh answered gravely.
“And, Sydney, we must hurry back,” Miss Osric suggested. “I am sure it is getting late.”
Sydney moved a step away; then took a sudden resolution.
She went to Hugh and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Hugh.Pleaseunderstand,” she said very low.
Hugh took the little gloved hand in his, and read rightly the trouble in her eyes.
“It’s all right—don’t you bother, Syd,” he said. “I understand.”
“What a lot of times I seem to have said ‘Merry Christmas’ this afternoon!” Sydney remarked as she and Miss Osric went round the village in Sydney’s little pony carriage with the pair of lovely little bay ponies she so much enjoyed driving. “And the sad thing is, that nobody here seems to feel particularly happy,” she went on. “Mrs. Andrews, to whom I took that crossover just now, said—‘It was hard enough to feel joyful when her man was bent double with rheumatism from the dampness of his cottage!’ Miss Osric,arethe cottages in very bad repair here? Lord Braemuir seemed to think so, and so do the people who live in them. But when I asked Lady Frederica she said—‘Poor people always grumbled; if it wasn’t one thing, it was sure to be another!’ What do you think?”
Miss Osric hesitated for a little while before replying.
“Well, Sydney,” she said at length, “I don’tknow whether I ought to tell you this, but it seems to me right you should know something of the cottages on the estate. It will be your business to know by-and-by. You know my father is chaplain to the hospital at Donisbro’, and he has often told me that the amount of cases coming from the cottages on this estate is appalling. People have been brought to the hospital from Loam and Lislehurst, and even Styles, where the ground is higher, simply crippled with rheumatism, and off and on there have been a good many cases of diphtheria and fever. That doesn’t speak well for the cottages, you know.”
Sydney pulled up the ponies in the middle of the road.
“I shall ask Mr. Fenton,” she said slowly; “I don’t think I could ask St. Quentin.”
“I think asking Mr. Fenton is not at all a bad idea,” Miss Osric said cordially; “but, my dear Sydney, we mustn’t dawdle here in the cold even to discuss points of duty. Have you any more presents to distribute?”
“Just one for Pauly at the Vicarage,” the girl said, gathering up the reins again; “that is the parcel underneath the seat that you said took up as much room as we did. It’s a horse and waggon—a horse with real hair—and Ithink Pauly will be able to get himself into the waggon if he tucks his legs up. I’m sure he will be pleased—the darling!”
“I wonder how long that quarter’s allowance is going to last,” laughed Miss Osric, as they turned the ponies’ heads up the drive to the Vicarage. “You’ve been so lavish over Christmas presents, Sydney; that parcel for London alone must have nearly ruined you!”
“Iamrather near bankruptcy,” owned Sydney. “It is shocking to confess, but I never had such a lot of money to spend in my life, and I went and spent it. But I am not a bit sorry,” she concluded, “for, just for once, they will have at home exactly what they wanted.” Pauly had seen them coming from the window of his father’s study, against which he was flattening his small round nose till it looked exactly like a white button. He flew to the door and cast himself upon them in the hall with a shriek of delight.
“Oh, do you know, it’s going to be Chwistmas Day to-morrow!” he exclaimed, “and I am going to church in the morning like a big man, and Santa Claus is coming in the night, daddy finks, to put fings in my stocking, ’cause I’ve been a very good boy for years and not runned away or been lostened!”
The Vicar, too, was not behindhand in his welcome, though he was not quite so conversational as his little son.
“Come into the study, both of you,” he said; “we’ve got a real Yule log there, haven’t we, Pauly?—such a monster!—and I’m sure you must be frozen.”
The Sydney of six weeks ago would have accepted Mr. Seaton’s offer, but the Sydney of to-day had learned to think what would annoy her cousin and Lady Frederica.
“I am afraid we must hurry back, mustn’t we, Miss Osric?” she said. “We shall be rather late as it is. We have been all round the village, wishing ever so many people a happy Christmas, so we must only just wish the same to you, and ask you to tell Santa Claus to see if he can’t find a rather large, knobby parcel in the corner of the hall for Pauly, when he comes to visit you to-night.”
“It’s very good of you,” said the Vicar. “Pauly, don’t tear Miss Lisle’s clothes to pieces in your joy. You spoil him, you know, Miss Lisle, if you will allow me to say so. Well, if you must go, a very happy Christmas to you both! You are going the right way to make it a happy one, I think.”
“Mr. Seaton, one thing,” Sydney askedas they went through the hall together. “Are the people miserable here because their cottages want rebuilding?”
Mr. Seaton looked at the earnest face beside him, and wondered if the wish to help her poorer neighbours would continue when she had the power.
“Yes,” he said, “I am sorry to own that most of the cottages here are in a very neglected condition. But landlords have no easy time of it, I know, and often lack the means to do all they want.”
“Thank you,” said Sydney, and then she kissed little Pauly, and she and Miss Osric got into the carriage and drove away, the Vicar watching them, with his small son, riotous and conversational, on his shoulder, till they turned out into the road again.
“I don’t think I ever knew anybody more devoted to a child than that man is,” said Miss Osric, as they reached the lodge gates. “What would he have done if he had lost him the other day?”
“Oh, don’t talk about that dreadful morning!” said Sydney with a shiver.
Lady Frederica had no love for Christmas.
“One is expected to be so aggressively cheerful and social,” she complained, “whenone is really feeling bored to extinction! And now St. Quentin’s illness casts a gloom over everything; it is most absurd to attempt any feeling of festivity. He wouldn’t like it at all.”
“Did Cousin St. Quentin care for Christmas when he was well?” Sydney asked a little wistfully.
“Well, I remember one year, when both his father and mother were alive, they had the regular old-fashioned sort of Christmas, and he certainly seemed to enjoy it. The Dean of Donisbro’ and his daughter Katharine were here, I remember. The Dean had slipped upon a slide some tiresome boy had made when he came over to dine here the week before Christmas, and he fell and sprained his ankle. Of course Dr. Lorry wouldn’t let him travel, so St. Quentin got poor dear Alicia, his mother, to go to Donisbro’ herself and bring back Miss Morrell to spend Christmas with her father. There were only those two, you see. My dear, Katharine Morrellwasa pretty girl in those days! You’ve seen her, haven’t you? but she has gone off a good deal. I fancy St. Quentin admired her rather, but it didn’t come to anything, though we all thought it would that Christmas-time. Butshe was a good deal too strait-laced for him, I expect; not that he was worse than other young man, but he ran through a lot of money on cards and racing, and annoyed his poor father very much. Oh! Sir Algernon, is that you?” (Sir Algernon had entered at the moment). “I was telling Sydney of that Christmas when the Dean and Miss Morrell were here. I forget if you have met Katharine Morrell?”
Sydney saw a strange expression cross the handsome face for a moment. But in a second he had answered in his usual rather languid accents, “Yes, I know her slightly; very slightly.”
Christmas Day dawned clear and sunny and Sydney, as she stood beside Lady Frederica in the Castle pew at Lislehurst Church, felt something of the joy of Christmas coming to her, even in this strange place. She smiled across at little Pauly, who, standing beside Mr. Seaton’s housekeeper, was singing, “Hark! the herald angels sing” with all his might, and to a time and tune quite his own.
Mr. Seaton’s sermon was very short; he said he thought the Christmas hymns and carols preached a better sermon than he had the power to do. He only asked his peopleto remember that next to God’s glory, the angels had set peace and goodwill upon earth. The second followed on the first. He wanted all those who had to-day been glorifying God for His great Christmas Gift, to see to it that peace and goodwill was not lacking in that small part of God’s earth that concerned each—his or her own home.
Sydney had not seen her cousin since her outburst on the subject of the Chichesters, and her conscience pricked her. It was true that St. Quentin had expressed no wish to see her, but she had made no attempt to find out if he had one unexpressed. Surely the first move towards that peace and goodwill of which Mr. Seaton spoke should come from her!
She and Lady Frederica drove home together; Sydney full of eagerness for the post, which would have come while they were at church.
Lady Frederica laughed, and said Sydney was “the most childish girl for her age she had ever known”; but when they reached the Castle, she fastened a dainty little pearl brooch into the collar of the girl’s frock, with a “There, my dear, is a Christmas present for you!”
Sydney was a good deal touched by this kindness from one who generally seemed dissatisfied with her, but still she was undoubtedly relieved when Lady Frederica told her that she might take her parcels and letters to her rooms and amuse herself as she liked till luncheon. Lady Frederica, it appeared, was going to rest after the tremendous exertion of getting up sufficiently early to attend eleven o’clock service!
Sydney and Miss Osric spent a blissful hour over the letters and presents. I think Sydney cried a little over those with the London post-mark, for Christmas-time with its associations had made her more homesick than she knew.
They had all written to the absent one, and there were presents from everybody. No one had forgotten her, from old nurse down to Prissie. Sydney and Miss Osric undid parcels and munched home-made toffee with a noble disregard for the spoiling of their appetites, until the luncheon gong sounded, by which time the morning-room where they were sitting looked exactly like a Christmas bazaar.
But Sydney had not forgotten her morning’s resolution, and when lunch was over and Lady Frederica, exhausted, doubtless, by her unaccustomed early rising, had fallen asleep inher chair, Sydney got up and moved softly from the gold drawing-room, crossed the hall, and tapped lightly at the door of the library.
“Come in,” said St. Quentin’s voice.
Sir Algernon was with his host, and both men looked up as she entered. The excitement of the home letters had brought a flush to her face, and her eyes were very bright. Sir Algernon let his cigarette drop from between his fingers as he looked at her. “By Jove!” he muttered.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” said Sydney, flushing under his cool survey. “I only”—with an unconsciously appealing glance in the direction of the sofa—“I only came to give my Christmas wishes to you, Cousin St. Quentin.”
“Thanks,” said St. Quentin, holding out his hand to her. “You’re going for a stroll in the park, aren’t you, Bridge?”
“Ah, yes, of course I am,” his friend answered. “Have a look round at the timber, eh, Quin? Miss Lisle, I hope you made my humble apologies to the Vicar for not attending church this morning. Oh, all right!” in answer to a rather impatient sound from the sofa. “I’m off, old man. Ta-ta!”
He lounged out, and Sydney felt relieved by his absence.
“You don’t like Bridge?” her cousin asked her quickly.
Sydney was uncompromising in her views at all times. “Not at all,” she said.
If she had been looking at St. Quentin at the moment she would have seen an expression of relief on his face at her answer. But she was looking round the room, which certainly was rather untidy.
“Wouldn’t you like the hearth swept, and these cards put away in their case, and the papers in a drawer?” she asked her cousin. “I don’t believe Dickson has been in here since this morning, has he?”
“No, Bridge and I were talking private business.”
“Shall I put away the papers, Cousin St. Quentin?”
“Yes, in the second drawer of the writing-table, left hand side. Lock it, please, and give me the key.”
She obeyed him, then swept up the hearth, regardless of his “Ring for Dickson!” and finally sat down in the great brown leather chair by the fireside.
“Cousin St. Quentin, may I ask you one or two questions?”
“Yes.”
“Mustyou do business with Sir Algernon? I am sure it can’t be very good for you. You are looking much more ill. I don’t think Dr. Lorry would like it.”
He smiled a little at her grandmotherly tone.
“Is it to do with money?” she asked, with a remembrance of a certain pucker on father’s brow, which Christmas bills brought with them.
“Partly; not all. Let’s talk of something else, instead of boring you with my affairs,” her cousin said.
“They don’t bore me. Of course I care to know your bothers!” she declared.
He raised his eyebrows and looked at her in a considering kind of way. “Do you? I wonder why?” He laughed a little. “Go ahead and talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve done to-day. I suppose you had letters by the ream from your beloved Chichesters?”
Sydney reddened, remembering their last interview upon that subject. Her cousin seemed to recollect it too.
“Has it ever struck you that you’ll have a much better time of it when I’m gone?” he said. “As long as you look pretty and walkinto a room the right way, Aunt Rica won’t interfere with you much.”
“How can you?” the girl cried, with hot indignation. “I hate to hear you talk like that! Why, you’ve been very kind to me—except about the Chichesters!”
“And that’s a rather big exception, isn’t it?” St. Quentin said. “You haven’t got much cause to like me, Sydney.”
Something in the sadness of his tone appealed to her pity.
“Idocare about you!” she said. “You say those horrid things about the Chichesters just because you don’t understand, that’s all. Some day, perhaps, you will know that onecouldn’tgive up loving people, even if one tried. But I do care about you, really! I think you are the very bravest person that I ever met!”
St. Quentin did not answer for a minute, and when he spoke, though it was lightly, his voice was not quite so steady as usual.
“Is it very rude to suggest to a lady, who is going to reach the advanced age of eighteen in a few days’ time, that her experience of life may possibly be limited?” he said. “My dear child, I regret to say you’re out in your conception of my character. I am acoward. Of course, I hope one is enough of a man not to make a fuss over the inevitable, by which I mean the consequences of my motor-smash. What is, is, and only fools whine over it. But for all that, I’m a coward. There, let’s talk of something else!” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Tell me what you like.”
And Sydney told him about Lady Frederica and her present; about Pauly and the hymn; and everything else she could think of that might amuse or interest him.
She told of the knobby parcels they had taken round the village in the pony-carriage yesterday, and of the fright of one old woman when a rolled-up pair of thick stockings had slipped from Sydney’s over-laden arms, and gone rolling across the kitchen floor to her very feet.
Suddenly she stopped her merry talk, and her eyes took a thoughtful expression.
“What are you thinking of?” her cousin asked, looking across at the creamy-gowned figure in the brown chair.
“I was thinking of the cottages,” she answered. “They are so wretched and so damp, St. Quentin, and the people told me there could be no ‘Merry Christmas’ for them!”
“That meddling parson has been putting you up to that idea, I suppose!” he said sharply.
“No, I saw the cottages for myself. Oh, St. Quentin, can’tsomethingbe done?”
“Nothing!”
She looked at him with troubled eyes. “I expectIcost a good deal of money. Couldn’t I have fewer frocks and things of that kind? Or perhaps,” with an effort, “we might sell Bessie: keeping a horse is so expensive, I’ve heard father say.”
St. Quentin’s voice was stern as he stopped her. “Don’t talk of what you do not understand. I can do nothing for the cottages at present. If it’s any consolation to you, I will tell you this—I wish I could. There; talk of something else, for goodness’ sake!”
She talked on, though feeling little in the mood for conversation, and was rewarded by his exclamation of astonishment on learning the lateness of the hour when Dickson came in to light the lamp.
“Why, I’ve kept you here two mortal hours, forgetting all about the time; you must be sick of me! A nice way to make you spend your Christmas Day! However, you’ve made mine a bit more cheerful.”
As the girl passed his sofa on the way to the door, he took her hand, saying, “Have you forgiven me for what I said about the Chichesters the other day?”
And Sydney, remembering that morning’s sermon, said “Yes,” with all her heart.
“What’s the matter, Hugh?”
Dr. Chichester flung the question suddenly into the deep silence which had fallen on himself and his son, as they sat together by the study fire on a cold night shortly after Christmas.
They had done a little talking.
Dr. Chichester had said it was a bitter night, and Hugh had assented. The doctor had remarked that a fire and a book were wonderfully soothing after a long day’s work, and Hugh had owned the fact. The doctor had opined that if the frost lasted, there would shortly be skating on the Serpentine. Hugh had agreed to that as well, but in so absent and spiritless a manner that his father plainly saw he took no interest whatever in the skating prospects at the present moment.
And after these attempts at conversation, silence had fallen on them, and the doctor,forgetful of the book upon his knee, closely scrutinised the young face before him, with its dark, sad eyes fixed on the glowing fire.
Hugh had been curiously silent ever since that visit to Donisbro’, his father thought to himself.
And yet, how pleased he had been at being singled out by Sir Anthony to go with him! And he had come back, having done everything required of him successfully enough, so far as his father could make out. But he had been very uncommunicative over his adventures in the quaint cathedral city.
It had been left for Sir Anthony to catch the doctor on the staircase of Blue-friars’ Hospital, and ask him if “the boy had remembered to tell his father that Sir Anthony had said he was a credit to the medical profession.” Hugh had not even mentioned the great man’s rare commendation.
What had he said about that visit? The doctor went over in his own mind the rather bald account which the united efforts of the family had with difficulty pumped out.
Yes, Hugh had seen Sydney. She was looking very well—this in answer to a question from Mrs. Chichester. She had sent her love to them all. There hadn’t been much time;Lady Frederica had been in a great hurry to be off. There was a man with Sydney, a Sir Algernon Bridge. Was he nice?—a query from Dolly. Well, Hugh hadn’t asked him, but considered that he looked a sneery brute, although not wishing to say anything against him. Yes, he had seen Sydney again: she was up the church tower with the Vicar, who seemed a good sort, and his boy, a jolly little chap. The incident of Pauly’s rescue somehow failed to transpire at all. No, he hadn’t been to the Castle—this in reply to some excited inquiries on the subject of merry-go-rounds from Fred and Prissie. He had lunched with the Vicar, who had said that Sydney was interested in the cottages, and took the people soup and things. Hugh didn’t think anything much else had happened. Oh, how was Sydney dressed? He didn’t know—something blue, he thought. No, something red, and fur—a lot of fur. Was she looking pretty? How should he know?
Hugh had become a little irritable at this point, his father recollected: a circumstance almost as unprecedented as his gravity and silence.
What was wrong with the boy?
The keen-eyed doctor noted his dejectedattitude, and the wistfulness of the gaze turned so persistently upon the fire. If Hugh was reading his future there it certainly was not a bright one.
Dr. Chichester watched in silence for full another ten minutes, then repeated his question with a hand upon the young man’s knee.
“Hugh, what’s the matter?”
Hugh started and flushed hotly, becoming conscious of his father’s scrutiny. Then he pulled himself together, and said, with a lightness of tone which was rather obviously assumed for convenience’ sake at the moment, “Oh, nothing, sir. I was thinking, that’s all.”
“Then thinking doesn’t seem to agree with you, my boy,” said the doctor.
Hugh raised himself in his chair, and bent forward with some eagerness.
“Father, do you mind if I go out to my chum, Haviland, in New Zealand? He wants a partner and—and—I want to go.”
Dr. Chichester considered.
“You have a very good position at the Blue-friars, Hugh,” he said at length. “Do you want to throw that up?”
Hugh rose, and walked about the room a little restlessly.
“I know it seems foolish,” he said, “butI’ve a fancy for trying new ground, and Haviland is beginning to establish a practice, and——”
“And you want to get as far away from England as you can?” his father quietly suggested.
Hugh’s back was turned towards him and he did not answer. The doctor went to his son, and put an arm through his.
“Sit down, my boy, and tell me all about it,” he said gently.
“Well, I see you know,” cried poor Hugh. “I always cared specially for Sydney, more than I did for Mildred, or Dolly, or the rest. I didn’t know why—just I did. And then she got carried off by this Lord St. Quentin, and you bet they mean to marry her to that idiot with a drawl and eye-glass, who was with her at Donisbro’. She was quite different on the church tower, but I saw that she minded, bless her! Of course I tried to make her think I was all right. I couldn’t have her worry herself thinking I was angry at the way she treated me.Shewasn’t to blame, anyway. I think she thought I was—all right; but Imustget right away from England and forget it all. There’s no other way.”
“There is,” said the doctor. “Look here,my boy. This is a hard thing for you, I know; but running away from a trouble is not the best way of getting over it, by any means. I’m not going to talk to you about the help you are at home with the younger boys, nor what it will mean to your mother and myself if we have to give up our eldest son. You are a man, making your own way in the world, and you have a perfect right to judge for yourself. More, if you find the struggle too hard for you to face, and face cheerfully, I counsel you to go abroad, and start a new life there. If at the end of a week you still want to go to New Zealand, I’m not the man to put difficulties in your path. My poor boy, I wish I could say to you, as they do in novels, ‘Make yourself worthy of our little girl’s acceptance, and then Love will win.’ I can’t say that, but I can tell you something finer still: Make yourself worthy to love her, and some day you’ll thank God, Who gave you the love, though not its earthly fulfilment. I wouldn’t wish you not to love the child, for love is God’s best gift. Only take it as God meant His gifts to be taken—thankfully, and not asking more than He is pleased to offer. Do you remember our little girl going wild over that copy of ‘Dorothy Osborne’s Letters,’which I got for her last birthday, and reading bits aloud whenever she could get a listener? Dorothy Osborne’s lover called himself her ‘servant.’ There, that’s something for you to think of, eh, my boy? True love wants to serve humbly and not grasp.”
“If I thought she’d ever need my service——” Hugh began impulsively.
“Who knows that she may not?” said the doctor with a smile. “But decide nothing in a hurry, dear boy; and go to bed now, for it’s after one.”
“Just one thing more?” Hugh said, his hand on the door. “You—you would rather that I stuck to the Blue-friars, I suppose?”
“I would rather you did what seems best to you when you have thought it over for a week,” the doctor said. “Good-night, and God bless you, my boy.”
“Good-night, father,” Hugh said, and so went thoughtfully upstairs to his attic bedroom, leaving the doctor to sit down again over the dying fire, and think sadly of his boy’s trouble, this cloud which seemed so little likely to roll away.
That week was a very long one to the doctor and to Hugh’s mother; the others werein ignorance of the decision in course of making.
Hugh was very quiet all the time, doing his work day by day, and when at home noting all that went on with a new observance.
But when the appointed day arrived, he seemed suddenly to have cast off his troubles.
His father and mother exchanged glances as he romped with Fred and Prissie before they went to bed, and seemed in all ways to have returned to his old cheery self.
“What shall we do without him?” was the thought in both their minds, for they could not doubt his high spirits to be caused by the thought of beginning on a new life with the old troubles left behind him.
The evening came to an end at last, and all the juniors except Hugh and Mildred had retired to bed.
Hugh fidgeted with the lamp for a minute, and then threw himself down upon the rug, his head upon his mother’s knee. She smoothed his hair with loving fingers. “Well, dear?”
“Well, I wrote to Haviland this morning and declined his offer,” Hugh answered; “told him I had too good a berth at the Blue-friars tothrow it up, but ‘thanked him kindly all the same,’ and——”
“You’re going to stay, my boy?” his father cried, in a voice that was not quite so firm as usual.
“Yes,” Hugh said steadily, “I’m going to stay.”