JOCKIE'S FRIEND
JOCKIE settled down at the Rectory in a surprisingly quick time. She
took a Sunday class of boys, and helped as much as she was allowed in
the parish. The Rector before long began to trust her, and discovered
that she was not the flighty damsel that her words had led him to
expect. She was devoted to Sidney, and gave her a young girl's worship,
but she was of too energetic a nature to be satisfied with her quiet
life at the Rectory.
She marched up to Monica one day.
"I want work, Miss Pembroke. Miss Urquhart says you can give me some. I
can't fill my days. Cousin John has too many servants. There is nothing
to do. The gardener won't let me touch the garden; the housekeeper
orders the house; when I'm not running about the village, I read; but
I know that my friend Gavine would say that if I take in, I must give
out. She is great on work. I had a letter from her the other day. She
implores me to make myself of use to my fellow-creatures. What can I
do?"
Monica looked at her thoughtfully.
"I believe you can help me," she said; "not by outdoor work—I could
give you a lot of that—but by taking Chuckles in hand."
"Oh, how heavenly!" gasped Jockie. "Tell me quickly!"
"Could you give him steady teaching from nine to twelve every morning,
and then take him for an hour's walk. I am not at all satisfied with
his school. It is a small private one in Pegborough, and the few boys
who go to it are tradesmen's sons. I don't mind that, but the teaching
is indifferent, and he is not improving in manners or principles. I
want to send him to a good boarding-school next year, and I want him
coached in Latin, as well as French and English. Of course, if you
take him, we must do it on business terms. I should regard you as his
governess."
Jockie's face was radiant.
"Miss Pembroke, you are a witch! Who told you of my secret longings to
earn something? You know, I arrived with two shillings and twopence in
my pocket. My father has not sent me a penny as yet, and I can't go to
Cousin John. I was wondering what I should do. And then you offer me
the job that I should like above all others. I'm sure I know enough
Latin to satisfy you, and I assure you I'll be as stern as you are in
school-time. When can I start?"
"I think at once. This is the second time this term I have had to
have him home. They seem to have perpetual epidemics at the school.
Of course, I trust you to teach him thoroughly, and have no games in
school-hours. He is not very strong, and he will be out of doors with
me in the afternoons."
Jockie could hardly express her gratitude. Terms were arranged, and
lessons were started in earnest the very next day. Jockie was a clever
girl and had a knack of teaching; Chuckles was as good as gold, and
everything went smoothly.
One fine frosty afternoon Jockie came in upon Sidney with her usual
flow of spirits.
"I've been enjoying myself so much," she said. "I met Mr. Austin, and
we've actually climbed the Beacon together. He was very grumpy at
first, but he couldn't keep it up. How hunting people hate frost. I'm
rather glad I don't ride. If I did, I think I should neglect everything
else for it, like Mr. Austin. He's great fun when you get him alone,
isn't he? And then, on the way home, we met his ladylove—Mrs. Norman.
I know all about it. He was singing her praises most of the way. Well,
she stopped and asked to be introduced to me, and, Miss Urquhart, we
only chatted together for about ten minutes, but it's going to be war
to the knife between us!"
"My dear Jockie, don't say such things!"
"But I must. I tell you everything. And I made a most astonishing
discovery; that's why I have come to tell it to you. But I'll give you
our conversation first. She began by commiserating Austin—I can't help
calling him by his Christian name to you—upon the frost, and then I
spoke up.
"'It will keep him more at home, Mrs. Norman, and that will be a good
thing,' for Austin had been telling me a little of his home affairs.
She gave me a nasty gleam out of her eye, and then, ignoring me, went
on to talk about people in the hunting field, whom, of course, I didn't
know; and then, looking at her, it suddenly flashed across me, and I
said: 'I've seen you before, Mrs. Norman, and I know someone whom you
know.'
"She gave a little start, but smiled and said:
"'I'm afraid I don't remember you.'
"'But your daughter is my greatest friend,' I said, 'and I saw you once
when we travelled to town together, and you told her that you could not
have her with you for the Christmas holidays. It was a blow to her,
poor girl, for her aunts were abroad, and you sent her to an old nurse
who kept lodgings in some fusty London square. Poor Gavine had an awful
Christmas; she wrote and told me all about it.'
"'Oh,' she said, 'do you really know my dear Gavine? Yes, I remember,
poor child. I don't know who felt it most, she or I. That was a
dreadful Christmas. And so you are one of her schoolfellows! How
delightful! You must come and see me, and we will have great talks
together.'
"'I'm going to get Cousin John to invite Gavine down here,' I went on.
'She never has any pleasures with her invalid aunts.'
"'I think when her aunts can spare her, she will come to me,' she said,
and she tried to speak very haughtily. So I laughed and said:
"'But you never want her, do you? There's always some reason why you
can't have her.'
"And then she glared at me and went on talking very fast to Austin, and
presently I said good-bye and left them. Now, isn't it funny that I
did not connect her with Gavine before, as, of course, it is the same
name? And do you know, Miss Urquhart, that her daughter doesn't know
where she is? She hardly ever writes to her, and Gavine thought she was
abroad."
Jockie paused for breath, and Sidney looked quite mystified.
"How very strange! Then is the girl you talk so much about Mrs.
Norman's daughter?"
"Yes; and she has treated her abominably. She hardly ever sends her
any money, and always writes as if she is at her last penny. Fancy!
Since Gavine left school, she has only been allowed twelve pounds a
year! It's a kitchenmaid's wages when she first goes out. Gavine has
two aunts who are not at all well off, and one of them is paralysed;
but they have given her a home until her mother can settle down and
have her. She has always said she would do it, and now she has taken a
cottage here, there's no reason why Gavine should not come to her. Only
if she lives with her, I know she'll be perfectly miserable. I'll get
her to come to me; that will make her mother feel ashamed of herself."
"Oh, Jockie, dear, you must not talk so. She is her mother. If your
friend is a nice girl, she must feel attached to her own mother."
"So she does. Gavine is an angel. But I know what her life has
been—continual disappointments. She's always hoped and longed to live
with her mother, and Mrs. Norman won't have her. She likes to pose as a
young woman; and Gavine is much handsomer than she is, and wants to do
good, and Mrs. Norman hates good people. She hates you, Miss Urquhart.
She mentioned your name to Austin.
"I'll tell you what she said. 'Do come and deliver me from that poor
old Major. He has come down every day for the last week. I feel so
sorry for him. It is a great pity he has such an unhappy home. I cannot
understand Miss Urquhart; but then I don't know her. She seems to me
such a pleasant girl to outsiders, but she does not show much affection
to her poor old uncle.'
"I flared up, of course. 'Miss Urquhart adores him, and he adores her,'
I said.
"And then Austin laughed. 'You have got hold of the pig by the wrong
ear, Mrs. Norman,' he said. 'The old Major is a confounded bore, but
his niece has always been most awfully good to him. I've had the run of
the house since I was quite a small boy, so I know.'
"Now, don't you think that ought to have squashed her? Not a bit.
She looked quite perturbed and sorry. 'Oh, dear! What a dreadful old
humbug the Major is!' she said. 'He gave me to understand quite the
contrary. I suppose he was wanting to get my pity. Old men love to have
a grievance, don't they?'
"It was then I said good-bye to them and walked on. Yes, it is war to
the knife between us, Miss Urquhart. I feel it in my bones. And, of
course, I understand why you want another man to come upon the scene
and carry her off. I wish he would."
"You take my breath away, Jockie!" Sidney said with a distressed look
in her eyes. Jockie's recital had cut her to the quick, and the girl
perceived it. She flung her arms round her and kissed her.
"Don't look like that! My tongue runs away with me. We won't think any
more about her. She isn't worth it. But I shall write and tell Gavine
where her mother is."
Jockie was as good as her word, and came to tell Sidney the result.
"Gavine says she has just heard from her mother, and she wants her
down here at once. Isn't it exciting? I shall love to have her. I want
her to see you, and you are sure to like her—everyone does—but keep a
little bit of your heart for me."
Sidney laughed at her.
"You won't want me when your friend comes."
"I've just met Mr. Austin," Jockie continued; "so I told him the
news. He didn't look best pleased. I think this frost is making him
very cross. When I told him that Gavine ought to live with her mother
always, he said curtly:
"'I don't see why she should.'
"So then I said an awful thing! I can't help my tongue, Miss Urquhart.
I wish I could. It is past my control entirely. I said: 'I suppose you
wouldn't care to have so old a stepdaughter?'
"He looked as if he could bite my head off, and turned bang round and
walked off without saying good-bye, or even raising his cap. He can be
very rude when he likes. So then my temper was up, and I called after
him: 'You had much better let the Major have his innings. His age is
much more suitable.' And, of course, you'll say I was rude and vulgar.
I thought I was myself when he had gone."
"I don't see why you should try to quarrel with Austin," said Sidney
very quietly.
"He annoys me. He is so idiotically infatuated with Mrs. Norman. And
she is Gavine's mother, I never can forget that."
Gavine Norman soon arrived, and Sidney went down to Lovelace's Cottage
with some curiosity, to see Jockie's bosom friend. The frost still
held. Sidney herself was grateful to it. Austin was much more at home,
and his mother rejoiced accordingly. Mrs. Norman took long walks; she
did not hide her disappointment at the hunting ending so soon. Major
Urquhart wandered down to her cottage about every other day. Sidney
wondered as she walked if her uncle were down there now. But she was
overtaken by Austin, whose steps were bound the same way.
They were both shown into the tiny drawing-room, where mother and
daughter were sitting. Mrs. Norman was writing at her davenport; Gavine
was sitting by the fire reading. She looked up as they entered, and
Sidney was struck at once by her face. She was dressed in a dark red
gown. The colour suited her. She had a very white skin; her soft, dusky
black hair was parted in the middle, it fell away in ripples over her
ears, and a thick plait encircled her head. Her eyes were dark blue,
and a steady, rather sombre light seemed to glow in their depths,
whilst thick eyebrows and very long curved lashes lent a touch of
heaviness to her otherwise fragile and delicate oval face. Her nose was
straight and sensitive, her lips had a wistful droop at the corners,
but her square, determined chin, and broad intellectual brow showed
that she had mental force and ability.
Mrs. Norman was her usual gay charming self. She greeted Sidney warmly,
her eyes welcomed Austin.
"How kind of you, Miss Urquhart! Let me introduce my big daughter. She
quite frightens me by her size, but time flies, and she has grown much
since I last saw her. I must get accustomed to take the back place when
I have her with me."
Gavine made no reply. She dropped her book, and sat silently listening
to the chatter around her. When talk got on the frost, and the signs of
it yielding, Sidney left Austin to Mrs. Norman, and turned to the girl.
"I have heard so much about you from Jockie, that I have longed to meet
you," she said.
Gavine smiled, and when she smiled, her face was beautiful.
"Jockie is a dear; she sees no fault in her friends."
"Have you seen her yet?"
"Yes; she came over yesterday. We are going to take a long walk
together to-morrow if fine."
"Do you hunt?"
"I have never been on horseback in my life."
"I was wondering if you would find it dull here. But I expect you have
resources."
"I never want to kill time," said Gavine, looking at Sidney with
glowing eyes; "it is too precious for that."
"I hear you are a great reader."
"I love it—as a relaxation."
Sidney began to wonder if she were priggish or in deadly earnest.
Her mother turned round at that moment.
"Mr. de Cressiers is asking whether you skate, Gavine. He says the ice
is bearing."
"Yes," she said a little indifferently. "I have skated up in the north."
Austin looked across at her with some eagerness.
"We are going to open our grounds to-morrow, for we have some big
fish-ponds which are in first-rate condition. You will come, won't you?
We'll adjourn to the house for lunch."
"I don't think she has any skates with her," said Mrs. Norman slowly.
"That doesn't matter, we will turn out ours. I know we have a lot of
odd pairs. And you'll come too, and if you don't know how to skate, I
will teach you."
He turned an adoring eye upon the young widow. Gavine regarded him
gravely for a minute, then she said to Sidney:
"Will you be there, Miss Urquhart?"
"I—I hope so, and Jockie must come too."
"I thought Jockie taught in the morning."
"Oh, I dare say Miss Pembroke will give Chuckles a holiday."
"I should hope she won't, for Jockie's sake," Gavine said earnestly.
"When she does undertake a thing, she ought to stick to it. That was
her great fault at school, she was brilliantly clever, but would never
persevere."
"And perseverance comes easily to you?" Sidney asked with a smile.
"Yes, I lack in initiative. I can't start things, but when once started
I'm all right. Jockie is a very good starter."
Sidney was interested in the girl; not so much in what she said, but
in the smouldering fires which shone in her deep blue eyes, and in the
changing expression of her face. She said to her:
"You take life earnestly, Miss Norman."
"Who wouldn't? Oh, Miss Urquhart, it is a tremendous thing, isn't it?
There is so much to gain, and so much to lose."
Her lips quivered. She touched the volume she had been reading.
"These are some essays by Carlyle, and Macaulay, and Emerson. I am only
dipping into them, but they make you think, don't they? And they make
me long to work. I have had so much time to think and to read. I am
simply yearning to do—"
"You must come and see me, and we will have a good talk together," said
Sidney, being almost startled by the vehemence in the girl's tone.
Mrs. Norman had caught a bit of the conversation.
"Ah, Miss Urquhart," she said, laughing. "It is the young people who
teach us in the present day. They are so wise, so full of enthusiasm,
so intense in what they feel and hope for. When I listen to my girl, it
reminds me of my hot-headed youth, and I pray she may not be awakened
so quickly as I was."
Gavine looked at her mother.
"How were you awakened?" she asked gravely.
"My dear child. You will know how later on. Life has hardly touched you
yet. You are only on the threshold."
"You talk as if you were Methuselah!" said Austin. "How can you be so
absurd?"
"Am I absurd!"
Mrs. Norman lowered her voice and turned her head away from Sidney and
her daughter. "My dear boy, Gavine makes me feel a frivolous doll; she
is the essence of lead. Her heaviness and stolid matter-of-fact sense
have a most depressing effect upon me. I feel bound with chains when
she is in the room. And when we go about together, I have the awful
desire to shock her. Isn't it dreadful of me? For she's such a good
earnest girl, and her good worthy aunts are so much more to her than
her own mother is. She is never happy till she gets away from me. And I
assure you she would be scandalised if she saw me tumbling about on the
ice to-morrow. She thinks I ought to be dressed up in a lace cap and
spectacles and sit over the fire knitting shawls for the poor. That is
her ideal mother!"
Austin laughed. He could not help it; but he felt a little
uncomfortable. Gavine's good looks impressed him. He was inclined to
talk to her, and when presently her laugh rang out at one of Sidney's
speeches, he moved across the room and joined them.
"What is the joke?"
"I was only describing some of our characters here," said Sidney, and
then she rose to go.
Austin stayed behind. He did not offer to accompany her, but she
was accustomed to that now. She went home wondering what kind of
intercourse there was between mother and daughter.
"I don't know which I pity most," she said to herself. "The girl wants
more gaiety in her, the mother less. But I like the looks of Gavine,
and hope I shall see something of her."
There was no skating the next day. A sudden thaw set in. Sidney did not
see either of the girls for some time, as her father was in bed with a
slight attack of bronchitis, and she hardly left the house. The Major
was in very low spirits as he watched Mrs. Norman riding off to the
meets with Austin. He shut himself up in his workshop, and growled at
everyone who came near him.
Gavine and Jockie took long walks together every afternoon. One day
Gavine's face was unusually grave.
"Jockie, dear, I must go back to the aunts. I can't stay here."
"Why?" Jockie's horrified face made Gavine smile.
"I don't think mother wants me."
"She never has," said Jockie indignantly; "but I want you. Have you had
a row? You needn't mind telling me."
"Oh, it never comes to that. Mother never loses her temper, you know.
I sometimes wish she did. But I annoy her. I blurt out truths which
are best not expressed, and I can't understand what I'm expected to
say, and what I am not. Major Urquhart came yesterday, and mother asked
him to tea to-day, as there was no meet anywhere. Mr. de Cressiers
happened to come in this morning, and wanted us to go motoring with
him this afternoon. Mother accepted, and, thinking she had forgotten,
I said quickly: 'Oh, we can't do that, can we, mother? You asked Major
Urquhart to tea to-day, and you asked him to come early, for you had
not seen him for such a long time.'
"Now why should that speech of mine be such a crime? Mother carried it
off all right at the time, but she was most annoyed with me afterwards.
She told me I was like an awkward child, had no manners, and she really
thought I was better in my 'northern wilds' than in decent society. I
honestly think I am. I hate the chitter-chatter of society. It leads
to nothing, and I am living a lazy idle life here. It doesn't suit
me. I have been accustomed to attend to my two aunts, and do some
sick-nursing. There is nothing to do here, and Jockie, dear—it is not
her fault. We have lived our lives apart since I was four years old,
but mother has no more affection or feeling for me than that stone.'"
She struck a wayside stone with her stick as she spoke, but there were
tears rising in her blue eyes. Jockie linked her arm in hers.
"No, dear, you two will never hit it off together, never! Has your
mother disappointed the old Major again?"
"I took up a note to him, asking him to dinner instead. She is out now
motoring, but I did not want to go. It is no fun to me."
"No. You're gooseberry!" said Jockie.
Gavine stared at her.
"I sometimes think I am very dense. What do you mean? You don't know
mother as I do, Jockie. She is friends with everybody. She always has
been, but never anything more."
There was an anxious look in Gavine's eyes, and Jockie did not
enlighten her further. They began to talk of "work," which was Gavine's
favourite topic.
"I want to work somewhere in London, Jockie. If only mother would give
me a little more money, I could do it. I should like to go to one of
those settlements, where everybody is doing something for others. There
is so much to be done, so few to do it. I don't want to hide my talents
in a napkin. It is the next life that matters, not this. We are in a
school of discipline here. We must make efforts towards heaven, and I
do not want to fail in getting there, do you?"
"I don't know," said Jockie soberly. "I don't incline towards the
strenuous disciplined life. I have often told you so. I want to enjoy
everything as it comes. It always seems to me that in preference you
cross the street to the shady side. Now I like to walk in the sun."
"I want to keep my body in subjection," said Gavine, with earnest
shining eyes, "so that it will not be a hindrance to me when I am
working. I sometimes think I should like to join a sisterhood. I was
very nearly doing it a year ago, and then I promised someone I would
not."
"Who?" Jockie asked bluntly.
A soft pink colour stole into Gavine's cheeks.
"Oh, it's only someone who has gone abroad."
Jockie's eyes twinkled.
"I'm waiting to be told his name."
But Gavine kept her own counsel and would say no more.