Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "There's a man smoking the other side of the wall,"
said Chuckles, springing up in the boat. "Why, it's Cousin Ran!"]
SOME BUILDERS
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
ELIZABETH 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
CHAPTER I
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.