THE MAJOR'S NEWS
THE very next day Jockie burst in upon Sidney like a whirlwind.
"Oh, Miss Urquhart, haven't you a contempt for women who scratch each
other? Mrs. Norman and I have been doing it with smiling faces, and I
feel disgusted with myself, and yet I would do it again gladly if she
were here to provoke me. Do let me confess to you. First of all, of
course, you know that the Major and she are on the eve of making their
engagement known?"
"Oh, Jockie!"
"Yes; and I ought to cut off my right hand, for I, and no other, have
brought it all to pass. If I once begin confessing, there will be no
end to it. You remember that Austin got the wrong letter sent to him,
and it had the effect of choking him off? Well, one afternoon I was
cycling down to see if I could get hold of Gavine, when I saw Mrs.
Norman flying up the road without a hat on, and looking perfectly
distracted.
"'What is the matter?' I said.
"'Oh,' she gasped, 'I want to catch the postman. I have enclosed a
letter in a wrong envelope.'
"'I'm afraid you're too late,' I said. 'I passed the postman ages ago.'
"'Oh,' she cried, 'it is so important; I must try to get it back from
the post office. Could you—would you help me. You could cycle in a few
minutes to the office. A mile would be nothing to you.'
"'All right, I'll go,' I said, and I cycled off. Neither she nor I
thought of mentioning the address or the letter, so when I got to
the post office I was quite in ignorance. But the postman was very
obliging. I caught him up before he got to the post office, and he
opened his bag and took out two letters addressed in Mrs. Norman's
writing. One was to Austin, the other to Whiteley's, in London.
"For one moment I hesitated, and then I knew that she would not be
in such a ferment over a tradesman, and I felt that if Austin got
the letter it might possibly show him what a fool he was, and so I
deliberately took Whiteley's, and slowly made my way back to the
cottage. Now don't be disgusted with me! I thought the end would
justify the means. I really almost felt sorry for her when I saw her
face. But she couldn't say much, except that I had brought the wrong
letter, and that in her agitation she omitted to tell me which one it
was.
"Now I see what I have done, and I have brought trouble on the one I
love best. But I didn't realise that if it was not Austin, it would be
the Major. Of course, since Austin has gone off, the Major has been
down there every day, and Gavine has tried her utmost to keep out of
their way, but was unfortunate yesterday, as she surprised them in the
midst of an embrace. Oh, perhaps I had better not go on. I am paining
you."
Jockie's blunt speech was like salt on a raw wound to Sidney's soul.
She could not bear hearing of her uncle's infatuation for the widow;
though she was conscious of the truth of it. But she said very quietly:
"I should like to hear all you have to tell me."
"Well," said Jockie, "I come back to where I started. I had to take
a message about some committee meeting to Mrs. de Cressiers this
afternoon. Uncle John sent me. I found Mrs. Norman there before me.
She had evidently been telling Mrs. de Cressiers how she had refused
Austin, for as I came in she was saying:
"'I will not say that I did not think of you in it, dear Mrs. de
Cressiers, for I knew that his continued absence from home must be
most trying to his father. And I thought the sooner it was stopped the
better. The whole thing was foolishness. I regarded him, and shall
always regard him, as I should if I had a son of my own. But young
men are so rash and headstrong that they cannot, and will not, see
themselves as others see them.'
"Then I came in and gave my message. Mrs. de Cressiers is always nice
to me. I like her. Then Mrs. Norman asked me if I had been with Gavine.
"'I see so little of her that I am afraid I shall not miss her so much
as I ought when she leaves me. It is quite a characteristic of the
young people nowadays, is it not, Mrs. de Cressiers, to be happiest
away from home with strangers? If girls have parents, they will not be
content to live with them.'
"I knew she was hitting at me, as well as at Gavine, so I said:
"'It depends on the parents, Mrs. Norman. Parents nowadays are always
on the look-out for a second marriage, and find their daughters in the
way. Gavine and I have had pretty much the same experience.'
"Mrs. de Cressiers was quite shocked at my rudeness.
"'Respect to parents is dying out,' she said with a little sigh. 'I am
afraid Austin does not care for his home.'
"'He will be different now when he comes home,' I said consolingly. 'He
told me he was thankful he had had his eyes opened, for he had been the
biggest fool out. And he means to be a model son, Mrs. de Cressiers. We
had a lot of talk together at Christmas time. It will do him good going
abroad.'
"Then Mrs. Norman began to talk about the parish, and how unfortunate
it was that Uncle John had no woman to advise him, and how many
mistakes there seem to have been made this Christmas, and then I said—"
"My dear Jockie, please spare me any more. It is not interesting or
edifying, and if you are going to indulge in such petty, spiteful
retaliation with people whom you do not like, you will do yourself more
harm than you will do them."
Sidney spoke severely. Jockie kissed her impulsively.
"Don't be angry with me. She brings out all the evil in me. You always
make me feel ashamed of myself. And I honestly own that it was a
beastly trick to play her when I took back the wrong letter, but I went
down under the temptation."
"I could not have believed you would do such a thing," said Sidney,
still unappeased.
"No; scold me well! I'm awfully repentant. But if I went and confessed
it to her, she would be still more furious, would she not? For, of
course, she does not know I saw the other letter. I could tell her I
knew all about it. Shall I?"
"Jockie, are you an imp in disguise? Do you think you are fitted to
teach Chuckles?"
"No, that I'm not."
And this time Jockie spoke quite humbly.
"But, oh, Miss Urquhart, I have done you an awful lot of mischief.
Gavine says her mother told her that she was thinking of marrying
again, and she said that the Major was an honourable kindhearted man. I
should hate to have Mrs. Norman enter my family, and if I had left well
alone, she would have become Mrs. Austin de Cressiers, and you would
have been well rid of her. I never, never shall forgive myself!"
"Now, look here, Jockie, I am going to speak seriously to you. You
must not talk so wildly. Sometimes it is best not to put our feelings
into words, and you are old enough to understand this. If Mrs. Norman
becomes engaged to my uncle, you and I will be told in due time. It is
mere conjecture now. And if the engagement is announced, I shall trust
to your discretion not to go stamping all over the village saying you
are so sorry for me. If my uncle is happy, I shall be glad for his
sake; and you may be sure that neither now, nor at any other time,
would I wish to say anything that might hurt his feelings or estrange
him from us. You see, I am talking to you quite confidentially. If this
thing happens, for my sake keep quiet, and don't make a moan about it.
And if—" here Sidney spoke with some hesitation—"if it may not turn
out as happily as we could wish, it is perhaps better that an old life
should suffer than a young one. So do not reproach yourself too much.
Do you understand?"
"I understand that I'm a beast, and you're an angel!" exclaimed Jockie
fervently. "And I'll shut my lips and never say a word more on the
subject."
Sidney smiled, but her heart failed her at the prospect that lay before
her. She chatted to Jockie on different village matters, and sent her
home to the Rectory quite happy. Then she went to her father.
She found her uncle smoking a pipe with him in the study, and such an
occurrence in the afternoon meant that something of importance was
under consideration.
Her father looked up at her with a little relief in his eyes.
"Come along, little woman," he said cheerfully. "Give your Uncle Ted
your good wishes. You can guess the news."
Sidney's face blanched. It had come quicker than she expected.
Then she pulled herself together with an effort. "Are you really going
to marry Mrs. Norman?" she said with a smile, turning to her uncle.
Major Urquhart looked her steadily in the eyes.
"Yes," he said, with a mixture of shyness and defiance in his tone.
"Don't you think she's very good to take such an old crock as I am?"
Sidney bent and kissed his forehead.
"I think she is fortunate in getting such an awfully nice man to take
care of her."
The Admiral laughed.
"Women congratulate women, Ted. Men congratulate men."
"Ah, well," said the Major, drawing in a long whiff of his pipe, "I
know I'm not a catch in any way. I'm not one of those fools that don't
know their own value. I must thank you both for taking my news so well.
We've lived together these many years very happily, and I shan't wish
for any changes. There's room enough for us all in the old house, eh?"
Just for a second Sidney's eyes sought her father's anxiously, then she
said gently:
"I don't expect we shall wish for any change, Uncle Ted."
"Will you write her a little friendly note, Sid? I am dining with her
this evening. I thought perhaps you'd ask her up to dinner to-morrow
night?"
"Yes; most certainly," said the Admiral, and Sidney added her assent.
A little silence fell on them. Sidney stood on the hearthrug, looking
into the blazing fire in front of her. Then her uncle got up.
"Have my chair," he said. "I'm off to the workshop for half an hour."
He left the room. Sidney dropped into the big leather chair he had
vacated, and drew a long sigh: "Well, dad dear?"
The Admiral looked at her with a little whimsical smile.
"Our fears have turned into certainty. Now we must buck up, and take it
as happily as we can."
"Does he expect to bring her here, and make us into one happy family?"
"We can but give it a trial."
"Oh, we can't—we can't!"
Sidney's forced composure gave way. She almost wrung her hands.
"Oh, dad dear, how shall we stand her? It's impossible! She must not be
brought here. It's bad enough to have to ask her to dinner, but to live
in the house with us is awful! Never to be able to get away from her!
And it will mean misery to Uncle Ted. She does not really care for him;
it must be to get a comfortable home and a position. Think how she has
been going on with Austin! She was determined to get one of them, and
she really cares for neither of them, or she could not have acted so!
What can we do?"
The Admiral leant back in his chair and half-shut his eyes.
"If it is not pleasant, we can go away and leave her in possession."
"But, dad dear, will it come to that? Is the house really not yours?
Oh, why won't Uncle Ted go, and start a house of his own somewhere?"
"He is quite willing to do so, but she is not. I have gathered that
from his talk this afternoon. She will be the ruling spirit, I expect."
The tears came to Sidney's eyes. She had been expecting—dreading this
blow, yet now it had fallen she felt quite stunned and unprepared for
it.
"I know she has determined to turn us out." Then she stiffened in her
chair.
"Dad, you and I must not wait to give her a chance of doing it. We must
go at once, before the wedding."
Her father shook his head at her, with a sad little smile.
"That would be unfair to Ted. He doesn't want us to go. I somehow
think that even now there are times when his heart fails him, when he
questions the wisdom of taking such a momentous step at his age. He
begged me to stay, and let things be as they are."
"But if Uncle Ted considers this his house, how can things remain the
same? Don't you see that she will be mistress?"
The Admiral looked quite startled.
"I never thought of that. Well, Sidney, my child, we have each other,
and I think we could find a snug little home somewhere else. Wouldn't
you be content to live alone with your old father?"
Sidney left her chair and went over to the Admiral. Getting down on
the hearthrug by his side, she rested her head against his knee. It
had been her favourite position as a little child, when she had felt a
craving for companionship and solace.
"You and I would be happy in a walnut shell," she said, laughing, and
wiping her tear-stained cheeks with her handkerchief. "I think you
would feel leaving this house more than I."
"I dare say I should," said the Admiral; "but my training in the
Service has taught me to view change as promotion, and if it be to an
unpopular station now, our Great Commander makes no mistakes."
He laid his hand caressingly on Sidney's soft hair as he spoke.
And then Sidney's eyes glowed with understanding and appreciation, but
she could not trust herself to speak. At length she broke the silence.
"I will be thankful for our mercies," she said in her bright natural
voice. "Why, there was an awful time soon after she made her first
appearance, when I thought she was setting her cap at you. And
imagine—don't laugh—let us imagine my feelings when you told me you
were giving me such a stepmother. Oh, dad dear, a house—even a dear
old house like this—is nothing to give up—nothing! But don't let us
wait for her to humble us. My pride is up in arms. I don't think we are
called upon to make ourselves into doormats for her feet! Don't say
that will be necessary!"
"I think we must wait and see," said the Admiral very firmly.
And Sidney dropped her head upon his knee again and was very silent.
They did not talk much more about it. Both their hearts were full of
the impending change in their lives, and each was trying to discover
bits of cheer which might be passed on to the other.
At last Sidney moved.
"I must go, dad. I suppose I had better write a note for Uncle Ted to
give her. Will you write, too?"
"Just a line, perhaps. I have been thinking, dear, that she may prefer
a house in town. I am sure she will find this very dull."
"Yes," said Sidney bravely, "perhaps she will. In any case, they are
not married yet, and 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"
She left the room, and did not take long to write her note:
"DEAR MRS. NORMAN,
"Uncle Ted has just told me the news. I hope you and he will be very
happy together. He has been a most kind uncle to me ever since I can
remember him, and I am glad for his sake if he has got someone besides
us to love and care for him now. Will you come up to dine with us
to-morrow night?
"Yours very sincerely,
"SIDNEY URQUHART."
She went to the workshop and gave this into her uncle's hand. He looked
a little wistfully at her.
"I hope my news has not annoyed you—worried you?"
"Oh, Uncle Ted, why should it? I don't grudge you your happiness. If I
was sure, quite sure, that it would be for your lasting happiness, I
would be delighted."
"You have my word that it will. And if Ethel comes to-morrow, you will
be nice to her, will you not? She has an idea you don't like her, and
no one has ever disliked her before, she says."
"Is Gavine going to-morrow?"
"Yes, I—I think so. I heard her mother say something about it, but I
did not take much notice."
"If she does not go, will you ask her to come with her mother? She is a
dear girl. I am very fond of her."
He shook his head.
"Rather too headstrong for me. She has not the sweet clinging nature of
her mother."
Sidney turned away.
"Thank God, no!" she murmured to herself.
The next morning, as soon as she was set free from her housekeeping
duties, she tramped off to see Monica. She had a great difficulty in
finding her, but eventually came upon her looking after some ewes with
their tiny lambs. It was a cold day, and she was superintending a rough
shelter being put up for them in a field.
"Poor mites!" said Monica, looking at the tiny bleating creatures
ambling round their mothers, who did not seem to know how to protect
them properly from the wind. "What an unfriendly world they have come
into! How they must long to go out of it again."
"Yes," said Sidney gravely. "But if we were all granted our wishes,
what a lot of hurried exits there would be from this world."
"What has happened?" Monica asked, pulling on her leather gloves and
taking Sidney's arm. "Let us get out of this field and tramp the high
road for a bit, shall we? I have nothing particular to do at this
present moment."
"I want you to come to dinner to-night. You must not fail me. I never
shall be able to get through alone. It is to welcome the future Mrs.
Edward Urquhart into our family."
"Really? Oh, Sidney dear, I am sorry."
"You must not express regrets. We must carry it off happily and
cheerily."
"Then I think you had better have Jockie, not me."
"It is you I want. Jockie is the last person who will be asked to meet
her. She is very naughty about her."
"She does not hide her dislike to her, I own. Well, Sidney, our fears
have come true. You see, there was never anything between her and
Austin. I always felt that she was much more attracted to your uncle.
Don't you think they will make their home somewhere else? If so, it
will not affect you much."
Sidney shook her head.
"It will be us who will have to make our home elsewhere. I am perfectly
certain she covets the old house and grounds. I don't say so to
father. I think it will break his heart if he has to go. He loves his
grandfather's guns on the terrace."
"I have never heard the history of them."
"Oh, they were the guns of his ship that he commanded under Nelson.
And when the ship was broken up, and the guns became obsolete, he got
possession of them. I see father stroking them down sometimes, as if
they were live creatures. One thing is certain—that we shall never be
able to live all together in one house. I know you think me prejudiced,
Monnie, but Mrs. Norman has disliked me from the very first moment she
saw me. There is some instinctive antipathy between us. I felt it, too."
Monica looked very grave.
"Jockie has been saying something of the same sort. She is like a
little tiger where you are concerned."
"You see," Sidney went on, feeling it a relief to unburden her mind to
someone; "it is not only from a selfish point of view that I dislike
the thought of the marriage, but she is not true or sincere, and does
not really care for Uncle Ted. She only cares for the home and the
position that he can give her. She has laughed at him, and made fun of
his failings to Austin in a most heartless way. She has called him an
old bore. What chance is there of her making him a good wife? And Uncle
Ted is too nice a man to be so deceived. It is such a miserable outlook
for us all. I know you rather like her, and so does Mrs. de Cressiers.
She has made you both believe that she refused Austin and sent him
away. Now I know for a fact that he gave her up because he found her
out. That makes a lot of difference."
"Yes, it does," said Monica slowly. "Well, I will come if my presence
helps you, Sidney dear. It seems rather a disaster; it certainly will
be a terrible one, if you leave your home. Is it quite an established
fact that the house is your uncle's, and not your father's?"
"They both went into Pegborough the other day to see their lawyer about
it. Legally it is Uncle Ted's; morally, I say, it belongs to dad. But
in any case, father would not turn Uncle Ted out, and it will be quite
an impossibility to live together when once they are married. How is
the boy?"
"He is pegging away at his lessons. He told me yesterday that he won't
be a farmer."
"Oh, Monnie, don't look so tragical!"
Sidney began to laugh. For a moment she forgot her own troubles.
"Why do you pay so much attention to a baby's words?"
"Because I'm so dreadfully in earnest, I suppose. If he grows up with a
dislike to farming, what am I to do?"
"I think it will be a good thing when you send him to school. You will
find that when he comes back in the holidays, he will love every stick
and stone in the place."
Monica smiled a little.
"Aunt Dannie has been depressing me to-day. She says Chuckles hates
coming the round of the farm with me. I always like him to be with me
in the afternoon."
"I think," said Sidney slowly, "I should let him consider that a treat,
not an obligation. Send him to the Rectory some afternoons for a
change."
"I will," said Monica firmly. "I am coming to the conclusion that I am
too old a woman to have the care of a little child. He wants someone
brighter and younger."
"He is a very fortunate little boy, Monnie, and he has a young bright
governess. What else does he want? Good-bye. Don't torture your old
head with your delinquencies as an aunt. You are all that you ought to
be. Good-bye till to-night."
She waved her hand as she parted from her friend, and went her way,
softly singing to herself Longfellow's lines:
"Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
"What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood.
"That to the world are children,
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below."