AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT
CHRISTMAS came with its festivities; and though Thanning Dale was not
a very gay neighbourhood, there was enough going on to keep everyone
occupied. Sidney was freer now that her father was convalescent, and
she and Jockie pressed Gavine into their service, for there were parish
teas and entertainments and a Christmas tree for the children. And
somehow or other, Austin was always with them. Sidney noticed that he
did not mention Mrs. Norman's name, and there was something in his
feverish gaiety and forced ring of cheerfulness, that made her wonder
if anything had gone wrong in their friendship.
She was too busy to seek for his confidence; and, indeed, there was
little opportunity for quiet talk between them. Gavine and he were good
friends, but nothing more. Jockie made fun of him, laughed at him, and
contradicted him whenever she got a chance, but Austin held his ground
with her, and Sidney listened to their gay talk and laughter with
relief of mind. This was Austin in his wholesome boyish state again.
What had occasioned the change?
She was enlightened at last. Austin was seeing her home after the
village children's prize-giving and treat. It was a windy night.
"Take my arm," he insisted; "you are tired out with the romping. Are
you my friend still, Sid?"
"Is it my way to change?" Sidney said quietly.
"Oh, no, but women are beyond me. And it's my fate to have my ideals
shattered."
"You'd better tell me," Sidney suggested.
"I want to. But you're the only one on earth I'll speak to about it;
for I know you won't crow, and say 'I told you so.' It's only—only I've
had a nasty shock about that little woman. I really can't bring myself
to tell you, but it's all up between us, and I'm going to clear out for
a bit. The mother condescended to say that I could have a holiday, and
I'm off to Cairo next week. I know a fellow going out, and I've fixed
it up with him."
"That is very wise of you," said Sidney, hardly knowing what to say.
"You don't ask questions? But I'll try to tell you. She sent me a
letter intended for your uncle. 'Pon my honour, I feel sorry for her,
but she began, 'My dearest,' and dashed if I didn't read it right
through before I twigged she had put it in the wrong envelope. And she
told him not to be angry with her, for the 'poor boy' would not keep
away, and she could not make him see how he bored her. Then she went
on to hint that if this poor infatuated youth still frequented her
cottage, the Major must take into consideration that there was her girl
ready to amuse him, and young people liked each other's company. Now
what do you think of that? After assuring me that the Major was a daily
purgatory to her. It bowled me over, I can tell you."
"I am sorry for you," Sidney said, "but you would take no warnings. She
has wanted to keep you both as friends."
"Oh!" cried Austin with a little groan. "I tell you it has been a
pretty stiff eye-opener to me! I sent the letter back to her, and told
her she need not trouble to send the letter she originally meant for
me, and, of course, I haven't been near her since. She wrote an abject
apology, saying she could explain if I called, but mum's the word!
And I shall be out of it soon. And I'm jolly well cured of a leaning
towards your sex, Sid. If it were not for you, I'd never believe in a
single woman again. By George! How she's taken me in, and befooled me.
Do you think the Major got my letter?"
"No, I don't think he did," said Sidney, stifling a sigh. "I almost
wish he had. I don't think his eyes will ever be opened."
"I shouldn't like to tell you of the jeers and jibes she has flung at
his courting. But she may pull it off with him. And I say, do befriend
that poor girl; she does have a time of it."
"Do you mean Gavine?"
"Yes, I put my foot in it several times trying to stand up for her.
Don't think I'm a broken-hearted youth, Sid. I tell you, I rode by the
cottage on purpose to-day, and whistled merrily. But all the same, I
shall be glad to turn my back on this place for a time."
When they parted, Sidney looked at him gravely.
"Austin, you ought to be thankful to have had your eyes opened. She
never would have made you happy."
But when she got indoors she said to herself:
"And now I feel that Uncle Ted is doomed. She will not let him escape
her."
And that feeling hovered about her like an angry looming cloud. The
more cheerful her uncle became, the more anxious she was. The uncertain
future seemed to menace her. It needed all her faith and fortitude to
go about with a bright and smiling face.
About the same time Monica had a visit from Mrs. Norman. She was the
first to inform her that Austin was leaving home for a time.
"It is an immense relief to me. In fact, I may tell you in confidence
that it is chiefly through my instrumentality that he is going. It was
bad enough to have him in and out of my house all hours of the day,
before Gavine came to me. I was sorry for the boy. He seemed so lonely
and miserable, so misunderstood at home. But you know a woman's pity
is sometimes mistaken for something else, and I found he was presuming
too much, so I had to stop it. You see, I do not mind what people say
of myself. I am quite impervious to idle gossip. I think if one has
a clear conscience one is perfectly indifferent to the wagging of
tongues. But I have my daughter to think of now, and I was afraid if he
was never out of our house, that her name might be a subject of gossip.
A woman is always supposed to have matrimonial plans, if she has a
pretty daughter. So I wrote him a letter which has effectually quenched
him. I have acted rightly, have I not? I believe you would have done
the same, had you been in my place."
Monica could not but agree. She did not know how much went on at
Lovelace's Cottage; she was too busy a woman to meddle much in her
neighbours' affairs; but when Sidney came next to see her, she told her
what she considered were "the rights of the story." Sidney listened,
and felt hopeless and helpless to put the matter straight, so did not
try to do so.
"We had better take Mrs. Norman at her own valuation, Monnie. It will
be only a fret and annoyance to ourselves if we don't. How do you like
her daughter?"
"I have hardly seen her, but she happens to be coming to tea this
afternoon. Will you stay to meet her? Jockie is going to bring her in
here after their walk."
"Yes, I shall like to stay. Father and Uncle Ted have actually gone out
driving together. It is some business they want to do with their lawyer
in Pegborough."
Something in Sidney's tone made Monica look at her sharply.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Nothing, I believe; but I am full of fears, Monnie."
"And I am afraid Austin's absence will not mend matters."
"We shall see. How is Chuckles? Do you think his Sunday lessons are
impressing him?"
"He is still mad on building. Some of his remarks are very funny. He
asked Aunt Dannie if God had not nearly finished building her yet; and
when she said she did not know, he informed her that when the top stone
was put on, God would take her to heaven. I really enjoy listening to
him. I will bring up the subject at tea-time, and you will see for
yourself if he does his teacher credit."
Sidney gave a little sigh.
"It is so easy to talk, so difficult to live. Life is very perplexing,
Monnie."
"But you don't find it perplexing," said Monica with a dry little
smile. "You tell me that your foundation is so sure that you are never
affected or moved by difficulties and troubles. Isn't there a verse in
the Psalms, 'I shall never be moved'? That is your position, is it not?"
Sidney looked wistfully out of the window.
"It ought to be my realisation." Then a light came into her eyes. "But
it doesn't say 'I shall never be shaken'; only 'never be moved.' It's
the buffeting I find so trying. It isn't the building's fault when the
wind and storm attack it."
She visibly brightened up.
"I like to tease you sometimes," said Monica, smiling at her.
"Yes, you brace me up, Monnie. I feel very slack at present. I have all
kinds of presentiments, and I honestly don't like living near anyone
who is not friendly to me. I see the girls are coming in. They are a
handsome couple, are they not?"
Chuckles was dancing up the garden after them. He was in a very dirty
overall, and brandished a trowel in one hand.
Monica carried him off to make him tidy for tea; the girls joined
Sidney in the cosy sitting-room. Both were genuinely glad to see her
there.
"We've been up the Beacon," said Jockie. "It's our favourite walk. Oh,
dear! I shall be glad of some tea. Talking and climbing are rather
exhausting, and our tongues have been hard at it. Gavine says she's
going away soon; isn't it a shame of her, when I want her so much?"
"Does your mother want you to leave her so soon?" Sidney asked, turning
to Gavine.
"Yes," the girl answered simply; then she added, with a little effort:
"We have been talking together, and mother is quite willing that I
shall go and do something. You see, my aunts do not really need me.
They told me so when I came away; they thought my duty was to stay with
my mother."
"And is it not?" asked Sidney.
"Not when it is her wish that I should leave her," said Gavine quietly.
"I am going up to London to stay with a clergyman and his wife; he has
a curacy in the slums somewhere, and they say they can give me plenty
of work. She was at school with me. Jockie knows her."
"Yes; she's not a bit like a clergyman's wife; much too fond of dress
and society," said the outspoken Jockie; and then she laughed.
"I expect people say much the same of me—not a bit like a clergyman's
cousin; much too fond of fun. I tell Gavine we can give her plenty of
parish work, can't me, Miss Urquhart? But I know what she wants—a more
rigorous, self-denying life; she wants to live in a kind of cell and be
short of food and fires, and go out to early services at six o'clock in
the morning, and make herself very ill and bad-tempered."
Monica came back at this juncture, leading a very clean Chuckles by the
hand. Then she asked them to come to a sit down tea in the dining-room.
When they were at the table, Sidney asked the small boy what he had
been doing with himself all the afternoon. His eyes gleamed.
"I've been building a real house, me and Mr. Rudge togever."
"It's a labourer's cottage being erected," said Monica. "You can fancy
that he discovered it very quickly."
"Yes," said Chuckles, with a self-satisfied nod. "Mr. Rudge holded my
hand and showed me how to put the mortar atween the bwicks. He was very
like God this morning. I tolded him so."
Gavine stared at the child with her grave eyes.
Jockie giggled.
"How was he, Chuckles?" she asked. "Tell us."
"He helped me to build," said Chuckles with great gravity. "That's what
God does to me every day, doesn't He, Miss Sid?"
Monica looked across at Sidney with a smile.
Chuckles was never better pleased than when he had got an audience. He
lifted up his voice and continued:
"I'm just about middle built now."
"What do you mean?" asked Jockie.
"Well, fust, you see, God builded me a baby; that's when I couldn't
do nuffin myself, and God builded me all by Hisself. Then He went on
building me taller, a little bit at a time, until I was builded into
a boy; now I've got to build a little myself, and build all kinds of
bwicks on me; and God just hold His hand over mine so I don't make no
mistakes. He's building me up gooder every day."
"Oh," said Monica, "I hope I see the goodness coming, Chuckles; but you
don't grow in that direction very fast."
Chuckles cocked his head on one side like some saucy sparrow.
"The bwicks don't stick always," he asserted; "sometimes they tummles
off; 'specially the bwick this week—it's to do what you're told quick,
and it won't stick."
"Did you teach him all this, Miss Urquhart?" asked Gavine, a light
leaping into her eyes.
"Yes," said Sidney; "we're doing a course of building every Sunday, and
we find out a lot about it, don't we, Chuckles? We're all builders—of a
sort."
"Of a sort," repeated Monica slowly.
"When I'm builded into a man, I shall begin to build other people,"
asserted Chuckles.
And the important tone with which he said it made the girls laugh.
They had a merry tea. Jockie was overflowing with fun and spirits, but
when the time came for them to go, she said to Sidney:
"Will you let Gavine walk a part of the way with you. I have promised
to be home in time for the choir practice; and she's dying to talk to
you."
Sidney was only too delighted. She had wanted to see more of Gavine,
but seemed to have had no opportunities with her.
When they were left alone together Gavine said:
"What a quaint child that boy is. He seems such a mixture. Jockie says
he is a regular pickle, and yet he talks like a little saint."
"He is far from a saint," said Sidney; "but real religion is as natural
to children as their daily food. They only want teaching, and Chuckles
has a bright intelligence and a vivid imagination. I love having him on
Sunday."
"I want to be a builder," said Gavine earnestly. "I really think I'm
going to get my wish. But I wish I could think with Chuckles that God
would put His hand over mine to prevent mistakes."
"He will if you ask Him," said Sidney earnestly. "Only, if you want to
be a successful builder, be sure about your foundation."
"How do you mean?"
"Chuckles and I began with the stories of the houses on the rock and
sand. Don't build on sand; it will only court disaster. It says in the
Bible: 'Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is
Jesus Christ.'"
"Oh, do talk to me, Miss Urquhart," said Gavine in a voice which
vibrated with earnest longing. "Jockie said you would. I want to know
so much. I want to get satisfied."
Sidney gave a little happy laugh as she tucked Gavine's arm within hers.
"You poor child! Talking is easy, but the right talk is what we want.
And I don't quite know where you are."
"I don't know where I am myself," said Gavine, "except that long ago
I felt that life would not bring me sunshine, so I determined that it
should bring me work. But I seem thwarted on all sides. Now, it is
true, I feel light is coming, but it has been obtained at tremendous
cost. My mother has been long in coming round to my point of view, and
she has told me definitely that, as I wish to take up work, I must look
upon it as my profession or vocation in life, and never count again
upon her house as my home. It makes me feel bitter, but it is happier
to have a complete understanding between us. We haven't an idea in
common. She says I am my father's daughter, and she never cared about
him; it is no good to pretend she did. All my life I have been hoping
she would have me with her, and let me take care of her and work for
her. It has been one series of hopes and disappointments. Now it has
come to a crisis, and it is better so. I can learn to stand alone.
"Many girls would glory in such freedom. I have £80 a year of my own
now, for I was twenty-one last week. But though work is coming to me,
it has not as yet made me really happy, and I am wondering if it will.
I suppose it doesn't matter about being happy, does it? But you carry
it about in your face. I was watching you to-day. I know you feel sad
sometimes. I—don't laugh—but Jockie and I love looking at your face. It
is so beautiful, and has so many changes in it. Before Chuckles began
to talk, conversation was a little effort to you, and your thoughts
were far-away; then, when he began to talk about building, light and
gladness crept into your eyes and the merry ring into your voice. You
looked as if you were brimming over with happiness, and I felt as if I
was outside a house in the cold and rain, looking into a cosy firelit
room. Do help me."
Quick tears had sprung into Sidney's eyes. She exclaimed impulsively:
"You shall not go to London till you know how you can be happy, dear.
You will want the deep fountains of content inside you to tide you over
all the sin and misery that you will see in London's slums. I wish you
could come back to dinner with me this evening. Do you think you could?
We will send you home."
Gavine's eyes looked very wistful.
"I wish I could. But I don't know whether mother would like it."
"Oh, yes, she will. I will send a note down and say I have kept
you; that is the best way. Now let us go on talking. I wonder what
foundation you have under your feet? I mean what do you rely on when
things go wrong? What is your aim, your hope, your inspiration?"
Gavine's young pulses throbbed, yet her eyes were troubled.
"I think I'm like a watch without a mainspring. I have great ideas of
what can be done, what ought to be done, and of what I mean to do,
but I don't seem to get the power to do it. I'll confess to you, Miss
Urquhart. Jockie has been giving me sick poor to go and see in the
village. I've all my life wanted to visit the poor. I've had to content
myself with waiting on a sick aunt, and I've felt all my talents were
hidden and wasted. Well, I've visited the poor; but, do you know, my
tongue has been dumb. What can I say to help or comfort a mother who is
doing her share of wage-earning by days out at farms, a mother who gets
from her husband thirteen shillings a week, and has eleven children to
bring up and fit out in life upon it? What can I say to a partially
paralysed old woman who lies in bed day after day alone with her
thoughts, and only a dirty, cracked ceiling and a dingy coloured wall
to feast her eyes upon? It makes me wonder, now I have got the desire
of my heart, whether that will turn to dust and ashes when I touch it."
"Why do you want to work so much?" said Sidney softly.
"Why? I don't know, except that I've always had a contempt for
wastelings, for idlers, for cumberers of the ground. We're put into the
world to make it better, aren't we? We have to work our way to heaven.
That is my goal. I do think it is. I want to be inside its gates one
day. And a lifetime here is only a fragment of eternity, is it not?"
Gavine's eyes were glowing, her heart was in her words.
"Yes," said Sidney. "You want to be a builder with the rest of us."
"I do, I do. I have all the longings for it in the abstract, but I am
beginning to doubt myself, to wonder what practical value I am going to
be in the world."
"Oh, Gavine dear, you will be all right if you build on the right
foundation. But a creed of good works erected on the sand will topple
over before they reach heaven. And it is such dreary work wondering if
one has done enough, or will do enough to pay for what has already been
paid for. Don't you know from your Bible that eternal life can never be
bought—that it is a gift?"
"We must work out our own salvation," murmured Gavine.
"Yes, work it out, but it must be given us first. That is such a
misunderstood verse. We work, for love compels more forcefully than
the desire to escape death. Do you remember St. Paul's words?—'And now
abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is
charity,' or Love. Christianity is the gospel of Love. Christ earned
heaven for you, He showed His love by dying, and by bearing your sins.
He could do no more. When God Himself said, 'It is finished,' do you
think it needs our puny attempts, even of a lifetime, to add to His
scheme of salvation? We can show our gratitude and love to Him by a
good life and good work; that is our absolute duty, but when every act
pleases the One you love, it is such happy work."
There was a little silence. Then Gavine squeezed Sidney's arm, and
there was a sound of tears in her voice.
"Oh, Miss Urquhart; I have never had anyone to talk so to me before.
Show me how to love Him."