JOCKIE'S ARRIVAL
SIDNEY'S next letter from Randolph Neville was as follows:
"DEAR MISS URQUHART,
"The mail is just in, and yours with it. Ever so many thanks. You have
inspired and braced me, for I can tell you one wants bracing in this
awful hole, and I don't wonder at so many giving up. But I'm starting a
few innovations, and am turning teetotaller, at small cost to myself,
for I've never been inclined in the opposite direction, and it's
digging your grave to drink in this climate. I'm rather keen on giving
a hand up to a young chap out here. For six months after he came out,
he went straight as a die, and then he began to go down; the forces
against him were too strong. I met him when out riding about four days
after my arrival. I had lost my bearings, and he put me straight, going
out of his way considerably to do so. When I asked him to come back to
dine with me, he first refused, then I pressed him, and he said with a
little gulp:
"'I haven't dined in decent society for two years; no one will have me
now.'
"'Well,' I said, 'I give you fair warning. I'm not going to have
whiskies and sodas ad lib. I don't take anything myself, and only have
a little light claret for my guests.'
"He wrung my hand.
"'For God's sake keep it up,' he cried, 'for it is my curse, and we're
all tarred with the same brush in this hole.'
"He came, and I liked the boy, and I've taken him in hand. If you'll
remember him in your prayers, I believe we'll set him on his feet
again. He has grit, and purpose, and principles, but his will power has
been weakened and deadened by alcohol and this climate.
"How I smelt the salt sea breezes and saw the leaves fly from off your
high trees as I read your letter! I have some nice pictures stored in
my memory of the time I was at Thanning Dale. Yes, I suppose I'm a
builder of a sort, but just as some erections have to be overthrown to
be rebuilt, so I realise that my work at present is to overturn rather
than continue to build. And one gets no thanks for it: only abuse and
ill-will.
"I have been wondering as I think over the problem of building whether
I had better not take myself in hand as well as my small kingdom here.
I expect you would tell me that there needs to be an overthrow in many
an individual, for they have been piling bricks upon straw and stubble
and sand, and until what Chuckles calls a satisfactory 'funation' be
established, the building won't stand the stress of life.
"You see what a moral philosopher I am becoming. But I and my pipe
have some long hours together when work is done, and if the heat is too
great for much physical effort I don't mean to let my mental capacities
rust for lack of using. I work out many a problem, I assure you, and my
last one is how far does the Almighty go in working miracles nowadays?
I seem to remember a saying: 'Is anything too hard for the Lord?' Can
you tell me whence it comes?
"I am glad you have put your boat by. I should not like to think of you
stranded again, as I found you that wet dark night; but we did have a
very snug walk home, did we not? And you don't know how your words then
have rung on, and are ringing still with an undying echo in my soul. We
are getting Home, and the thought of all that will be ours when we get
there makes us think lightly of the present.'
"So be it with me, I pray. Remember me to your father. I see you ask me
to give you my setting. How can I do it? I am neither poet nor painter.
I see hard brilliant skies of blue, mountains clad with thorns and
cactuses, and evil beasts crouching in the thick jungles that are below
them, some quaint relics of ancient heathen temples, and there are
rather squalid settlements dumped down behind a stone fortress, with
the inevitable bazaar and the noisy native quarters, and the European
club, which is nothing more nor less than a very unsavoury drinking
saloon. There are five miles of straight hard road, with parched turf
by the side, and this is where I ride for my morning and evening
exercise. We are too lethargic to play polo, or even tennis; there are
not enough of us with healthy British blood in our veins to do so.
Cards and billiards seem the only recreations that are popular. But I
mean to start cricket or tennis if I can, more for the sake of young
George Lockhart than myself.
"May I call myself your fellow builder—
"RANDOLPH NEVILLE."
"He's a good man," murmured Sidney as she folded her letter up. "I
don't believe he would ever fail his friends. And I do like his remarks
about building."
She thought over one of her buildings which had been overthrown, the
one which had occupied the citadel of her heart, and though the smart
and anguish of it had not yet left her, she dimly began to see the why
and wherefore of its overthrow.
The foundations were not worthy.
She was thinking this out when a little later she walked over to the
Rectory about some parish matters which she wished to lay before the
Rector. He was an old man, but hale and hearty for his years, and lived
with his housekeeper. Mrs. Lunn had been with him over twenty years,
and was of the old-fashioned school. Sidney and she were great friends,
and would have long talks together, comparing the past generation with
the present. Mrs. Lunn considered that nothing ever came up to the
"good old times that were gone."
The Rector was in the hall, preparing to go out. He took Sidney's hand
with fervour.
"I believe you have been sent to me," he said. "I am in great trouble.
I was just coming out to find either you or Miss Pembroke. Come into my
study. No, not into the drawing-room."
Then turning to his parlourmaid, who stood by, he said with some
agitation:
"Will you tell Miss Borlace that I am engaged for the present and
cannot be disturbed."
"Who is Miss Borlace?" asked Sidney, with interest, as she followed him
into his study. "Is it some relative of yours?"
Mr. Borlace sat down heavily in his big arm-chair, and shook his head
in rather a helpless fashion.
"My dear Sidney, I'm sadly afraid she is—sadly afraid."
Sidney could not help smiling.
"You seem quite bowled over. What has she done?"
"I am shaken, and for once in my life I don't know how to act. I want a
woman to advise me. Mrs. Lunn refuses to do it. She says it is not her
place, but she will be the most affected by it—she and I together."
"It is quite mysterious. Do begin at the beginning."
"It began yesterday, but upon my word it seems like a year ago. I was
nailing up my William Allen Richardson—the wind of these last few days
has played havoc with it—and suddenly I heard a voice behind me:
"'I believe I am speaking to my cousin.'
"I turned and there she was! Her bicycle was leaning against the gate,
and she told me she was taking a cycle tour through these parts, and
thought she would look me up. I couldn't remember who she was at first,
but she soon enlightened me. I asked her to stay to lunch, and then
she stayed to tea, and she talked hard the whole afternoon, and in the
end I offered her a bed for the night, and this morning we have had
tears, and a burst of confidence, and she wants me to keep her here
altogether, and, of course, it is very upsetting, for I have been a
bachelor for so long that I prefer my own ways, and yet she seems to
have some claim upon me. I don't know what to do. I wish you would go
into the drawing-room and have a talk with her, and come back and tell
me what you think of her."
"She might resent my interference," said Sidney.
"Oh, she isn't that sort. She is too anxious to be helped."
So Sidney left the room. She expected to see some hysterical woman of
middle age, so that it was rather a surprise to confront a radiant
specimen of girlhood. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, whistling;
her hands were in the pockets of a short tweed coat; her hair was done
up rather untidily, with a broad plait encircling her head, but her
face was bewitching in its fresh beauty and sparkling animation, and
her eyes seemed alive with mischief.
She jumped off the chair and looked up at Sidney with a mixture of
bashfulness and assurance.
Sidney held out her hand at once.
"We have been left to introduce ourselves. I am Sidney Urquhart, a
close neighbour of your—your cousin's. And he has asked me to come and
have a chat with you."
"And to find out what kind of species I am," said the girl, with a
laugh. "I'm Jockie—that's who I am—Jockie Borlace. And I've cycled
forty miles to see if he can do anything for me."
"Tell me all about it," said Sidney, smiling into Jockie's eyes with
instant friendliness.
"You will help me, won't you? I remember mother saying before she died
that there was only one member of father's family whom she believed in,
and that was Cousin John Borlace, and he was a clergyman. And she told
me if I got into any difficulty to go to him or to write, and he might
help me to earn my living. And now I've come, and he seems frightened
to death at the sight of me.
"I only came home from school a year ago. I wish I could go back, but
they won't have me. They say I upset the earnest atmosphere of the
house. I can't be earnest, can you? But I've had an awful year. Father
knows people whom mother would have never let inside the door. And last
week, he married a music-hall girl, and they're coming home the end
of this week. I won't eat a meal in the house with her. I told father
I wouldn't. And I've come straight off, and I told our housemaid to
send my luggage after me when I wired her my address. Now, ought not
parsonages to be places of refuge? I don't see how Cousin John can turn
me out, especially as he has a nice spare bedroom ready for use. I
slept in it last night. And I shall be awfully useful to him if he will
let me stay. I can do anything from cooking to typewriting, and I'll
run the whole parish for him, too."
"There's nothing like self-advertisement," said Sidney, laughing.
Jockie joined her in the laugh.
"Well, I could help him to do it, then. I want to be useful, Miss
Urquhart—I really do. And I love children. Do go back and tell him that
you like the looks of me extremely, and that you think he'd better take
me on a month's trial. After that, we'll make other plans if necessary,
but a month will give me time to look round. Perhaps you know someone
who wants their library books sorted out and mended up and re-bound.
I know a girl who got a job like that, and it lasted her three years,
with board and lodging and seventy pounds a year. Not bad, was it? And
I've learnt bookbinding, and love reading, so I would have the time of
my life if you knew of such a billet."
"You're a thoroughly modern young woman," said Sidney, looking at her
with twinkling eyes. Then she put her hand caressingly on her arm.
"If I promise to plead for you, will you promise to be very good to Mr.
Borlace, and not upset his methodical, orderly household? I am very
fond of him, and shouldn't like him to be worried at his time of life."
Jockie gave Sidney an impulsive hug.
"I know you'll be an angel to me! You show it in your face. I'll do
anything and everything that Cousin John tells me, if he'll only give
me a home pro tem."
So Sidney left her and joined Mr. Borlace in his study. He was pacing
up and down the room in great perplexity of spirit; but Sidney's
persuasion was always successful. She soothed and comforted him, and
finally told him that if Jockie proved a trial to him, he could send
her to the Admiral's.
"We will take her in for a time, for she wants befriending, poor child!"
"Her father is a ne'er-do-well," said Mr. Borlace, with a sigh.
"Charlie was never anything but a trouble to his family, and broke his
wife's heart. She was too good for him. I only saw her once, but this
girl is not a bit like her. She takes after her father in her audacious
spirits. I suppose I must keep her for the time, but, of course, her
father's house is the proper place for her."
"I don't think his marriage can be a good thing for her," Sidney said.
"But I will tell her you will have her on a visit, or come and tell her
yourself. That will be the best way."
She led him into the drawing-room.
Jockie almost flew into his arms directly she saw him.
"You're going to keep me! I see it in your face. I promise I'll be a
very angel of goodness. And now, dear Cousin John, tell me where I can
wire home for my luggage. Do they send off wires in the village post
office?"
Sidney slipped away; she thought they would settle down together best
if left to themselves.
But she was to see a great deal of Jockie Borlace. Early the next
morning she arrived and marched in upon Sidney before the Admiral had
finished his breakfast. Sidney was discussing the morning's post with
him. Jockie was not in the least abashed at the early hour she had
disturbed them.
"We had our breakfast at the unearthly hour of eight," she said; "and
I haven't known what to do with myself since. Cousin John wouldn't let
me order the dinner, or do a bit of gardening, and now he has got an
old women's club up at the house, and says he prefers to do it alone.
And he looked so worried that I promised to make myself scarce till
luncheon, and so I've come off to you."
The Admiral eyed her critically.
"I am sorry for your poor cousin," he remarked.
"Are you? For having me, I suppose you mean? But I'm not a worry—really
I am not. I can amuse myself in heaps of ways, and if only he would let
me into his study, I would be as happy as a king. I love reading, and
he has his walls lined with books."
"I can lend you books," said Sidney, getting up from the table. "Come
with me, and when I have done my housekeeping we will go out for a walk
together."
She took the girl into the morning-room, which was her special domain.
To her surprise, she found it already tenanted. Austin de Cressiers was
seated calmly at the table writing a note.
He looked up and laughed, then, when he saw Jockie, rose to his feet.
Sidney introduced them.
"How cheeky of you!" she said. "My notepaper, too! What are you doing?"
"I came in through the French window; knew you were at breakfast. And I
wanted to leave a note, and hadn't any paper in my pocket. I've had to
stay at home to-day, but meant to have hunted. The governor is in one
of his ramps! I'm an ill-used, cock-and-henpecked son!"
His eyes sought Jockie's. They both laughed.
"So you're a fresh importation?" Austin said. "I hope you'll like us."
"I like Miss Urquhart already," said Jockie promptly and emphatically.
"I adore her! She's—she's so fascinating!"
"Yes," Austin said, cocking his head on one side and regarding Sidney
through half-shut eyes; "she is that, and when she sings she's a
siren—and when she comforts you she's an angel—and when she scolds you
she's a duck!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Sidney put in. "Have you finished with my pen
and paper?"
Austin turned back to his seat, signed his name with a flourish, sealed
his envelope, and stuck it in his breast-pocket, which he then patted
affectionately.
"Now I'm off to Lovelace's Cottage."
"To leave your note? I saw Mrs. Norman ride by an hour ago."
"I was to have met her at Three Crows Inn. Isn't it scandalous of
the parents? Well, what I want you to do is to come up to lunch. I'm
to be up to my eyes in business till one. Then it's the workman's
dinner hour, and I want you, Sid, to act as a buffer between me and
the mother. For she won't remember that a man's digestion plays the
dickens with him if he's harried between every mouthful. And bring up
Miss—Miss—"
"Jockie," said that young lady, with sparkling eyes. "Oh, I shall be
delighted to come, and Cousin John will be more delighted still, for he
told me he has always been accustomed to have a luncheon tray brought
to him in his study. He doesn't like sitting down to the table with me,
and yet he won't dispense with ceremony. I should love to picnic on his
study floor with him, and told him so, but he didn't see it."
"Then you come up, and I'll turn you on to mother, whilst Sid and I
enjoy ourselves."
He caught up his cap, waved it at them, and dashed out of the window
like a schoolboy.
Jockie laughed delightedly.
"What a nice boy! Tell me who he is?"
So Sidney told her, and then left her, whilst she went to her cook,
and Jockie amused herself by drawing caricatures of people on a sheet
of notepaper. On one she made a solemn-looking dog regarding a chicken
emerging from an egg, and the words underneath were: "Will it bite me?"
The dog had a great look of her uncle, and the pert chicken a slight
resemblance to herself.
When Sidney returned to her, she wore her hat and coat.
"Now I have done all my duties, and I'll take you out; we'll go and see
Monica. If you want to garden or to farm, she's the one who will teach
you. And then we'll lunch with the de Cressiers. I'm sorry for Austin,
for he is being pulled two different ways every day of his life."
"Pleasure versus duty," said Jockie knowingly. "It's the way with me.
My chief chum is a girl—oh, she is grand! I would like you to know
her. We did everything together at school, and she inspired me. She's
chock full of enthusiasm and earnestness, and life is all nobility and
grandeur, and work is our vocation, and we tread in the air, with our
souls in heaven when we're together, and then when we part, I tumble
down to earth, and have been grovelling on it ever since I last heard
her speak. But she's trained me to have an uncomfortable feeling when
idle the whole day through, so I know what it is to be tugged two
different ways."
Jockie knew how to talk; her tongue was at it hard till the farm was
reached. They came upon Chuckles swinging upon the gate.
"Can't come in!" he cried. "This is my castle, and everybodies outside
is enemies!"
Jockie caught him up in her strong young arms, then seated herself upon
the gate and began to swing herself and him together.
"Now this is our castle," she said, "and two are better than one to
keep the gate!"
Chuckles was enchanted. It was some minutes before Sidney could
persuade them to get down and walk on quietly with her to the house.
"We're ploughing the five-acre field to-day," said Chuckles
importantly. "Aunt Monica will be back soon. We must see the men works,
you know. And then we're going to see the frashing!"
"You are a jolly little farmer," said Jockie admiringly. "Isn't he a
duck, Miss Urquhart? Isn't it a pity that they grow up?"
Chuckles frowned upon her.
"It's a pity you growed up. If you were a nice little girl, you and me
would play marbles at once. I got twopence of them yesterday."
"Why aren't you at school, Chuckles?" asked Sidney.
He twinkled all over.
"They has the mumps."
"Happy boy!" said Jockie. "I can play marbles. Let's have a game now."
Chuckles seized hold of her, and they ran off together. Sidney caught
sight of Monica coming across the yard, and went to meet her. They
always had a good deal to say to each other, and Monica was interested
to hear of the new arrival.
"I don't understand girls, nor care for them," she said; "but if she
likes to come over here sometimes, I can always give her a job. She
will be very dull at the Rectory, I should think."
"You must see her. I like her. She is frank and natural. We are going
to lunch with the de Cressiers. Austin is not getting on well, Monica.
He ought to be more at home, and this hunting has bewitched him."
"Or Diana!" said Monica, laughing.
"Well," said Sidney, with a little sigh, "I am pulled two different
ways. When she is not with him, she is with Uncle Ted. I don't know
which I dislike most."
"You are hard upon her."
"I suppose I am, but she will make no man happy, Monnie. She demands
too much and gives too little."
"That will make a man unselfish," said Monica thoughtfully. "People say
men are selfish, but it is the women who make them so, and a selfish
woman is a boon to the race of men."
"Oh, Monnie!" remonstrated Sidney, laughing.
"I mean it. If I am not very careful, I shall rear Chuckles into a
selfish man. Let me tell you our fracas at breakfast. I told him I
wanted him to come and watch the ploughing.
"'I don't want to,' he said promptly.
"Then Aunt Dannie said in shocked tones:
"'Little boys must never say that. If we only do what we want to do,
that is selfish.'
"Chuckles gazed at her with his big eyes.
"'And I want you to come with me, so you're coming,' I said quickly and
decidedly.
"'Then you're selfish, Aunt Monnie,' the imp said. 'If you weren't,
you'd let me do what I like.'
"So then I had to read him a long lecture, and finally took him off
with me. But isn't the training of a man fatiguing?"
Sidney and Jockie stayed at the farm for a good hour, then walked on to
Thanning Towers.
"I shall have Chuckles to spend the day with me," announced Jockie. "He
is quite charming!"
"He is a dear little boy," said Sidney, rather absently.
Her thoughts were straying to Austin and to Mrs. Norman. She honestly
did not want him to become engaged to her, and yet it seemed to her
that if that happened, she would have no longer any anxiety about her
uncle. She was, as she said, torn two ways. And then she impulsively
turned to Jockie.
"I wish you were a man, Jockie—a good-looking, wealthy man on the
look-out for a wife, a man who would be quick and successful in his
wooing, and who would insist upon a speedy marriage!"
Jockie stared at her.
"You don't want him for yourself, do you?"
"Rather not; but I know of someone who would make him a very sweet
bride."
Then she laughed.
"I am talking nonsense, Jockie. You must forget it."
"I'll try," said Jockie; but she knew she would not, and she made a
mental note of Sidney's strange speech, and determined to keep her eyes
open for the possible "sweet bride."
They reached Thanning Towers. Mrs. de Cressiers welcomed them
cordially, but she looked careworn and anxious. Mr. de Cressiers was
not at all well, and in an irritable frame of mind. Austin and he had
been having a difference of opinion, and Mrs. de Cressiers had been
called in to intervene. Austin came to lunch gloomy and self-absorbed,
but in Jockie's vicinity, it was impossible to remain grave for long.
She soon had him laughing, and before the meal was over a happy easy
camaraderie had been established between them. He insisted upon taking
her out into the grounds, and Mrs. de Cressiers, with relief in her
face, swept off Sidney into the drawing-room.
"Oh, my dear, I am so troubled! George is getting quite unfit to
discuss business affairs, and he will insist upon doing it! I don't
know what we shall do. Austin has neither patience nor tact. He expects
his father to understand what he cannot. He does not realise his brain
power is failing. We have had dreadful scenes this morning. And, of
course, Austin has been careless and negligent lately. I can hardly
ever get hold of him to have a quiet talk. He shuns being with me. He
is wrapped up in his hunting."
Mrs. de Cressiers had seldom spoken so freely to Sidney as she did now.
Her reserve and pride seemed to have been crushed in her real anxiety
about her husband and son.
Sidney's face was grave and sympathetic as she listened.
Mrs. de Cressiers continued:
"I had got it into my head that Mrs. Norman was the attraction in the
hunting field, but she happened to call late yesterday afternoon, and
from what she said I see my fears were quite unfounded. In fact, she
assured me that Austin was quite offended with her because she talked
to him for his good, and told him his duty was to stay at home and help
his father and me. You used to have influence with him, Sidney dear;
can't you exert it now? It's a bitter confession for a mother to make,
but it is true. My words make no impression upon him. He will listen to
a stranger rather than to me."
"I think if Mrs. Norman cannot influence him in the right direction, I
cannot," said Sidney slowly.
"Well, something will have to be done. I cannot go through such scenes
as we had this morning. They are bad for all of us, especially for my
poor husband. I believe this will be his last winter with us. Is it too
much to ask of his son that he should give up his hunting and help and
comfort us?"
"No," said Sidney firmly; "I think Austin ought to do it. I will talk
to him again, if I get a chance. But you must forgive me for saying
it—if you were to meet him half-way and show him as much affection as
you really feel for him, Austin would respond at once."
Mrs. de Cressiers' head was instantly raised haughtily and stiffly.
"I think, my dear Sidney, I do not require you to teach me my duty as a
mother."
"I am sorry."
Sidney spoke penitently, and then Mrs. de Cressiers said in a different
tone:
"That is a nice little girl you brought with you. Shall we walk out
into the garden and join them?"
They did so, but Sidney got no chance of a word alone with Austin. He
avoided her, and as soon as they had left the house, he went to the
stables and ordered his horse. His mother did not see him again till
dinner-time.