A DIFFICULT TIME
MONICA, in a grey silk gown, and Sidney, in a russet-brown velvet with
old point lace, stood in the drawing-room, warming their feet on the
fender and waiting for Mrs. Norman's arrival. The Admiral met her in
a friendly fashion in the hall, and brought her in. Her gown was of a
heliotrope satin; it fitted her like a sheath; her dark hair was bound
with silver braid and an aigrette; her complexion was, to even Monica's
eyes, slightly made up with rouge and powder. But her manner was sweet
and gracious, and had a touch of deference in it to the Admiral.
She took hold of both Sidney's hands, but did not offer to kiss her.
"You are a dear girl to send me such a sweet note! It took away all
hesitation on my part about coming to-night. How nice to see you, Miss
Pembroke! This is quite an unexpected pleasure."
"I hope you don't consider I shall be in the way," said Monica, with
her grave smile. "I told Sidney that I had qualms about inserting
myself into such a family party. But she and I are almost like sisters,
so you will understand that I am glad to have an opportunity of
offering you my congratulations."
"Thank you very much. I have really known you as long as I have Sidney,
have I not?"
The easy way in which she uttered Sidney's name made the girl
start, but she said nothing. The ice was broken, and, sitting down,
conversation became general. Major Urquhart was the only one who was
rather silent, but his eyes followed every gesture of the widow's,
and his ears were only open to her words. When the ladies were in the
drawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Norman seated herself on the sofa by
Monica.
"I can't tell you how this has upset my quiet monotonous life! I had so
little idea when I came here what would happen. And my heart is still
in my little cottage, which I have made so pretty. It will be a great
blow to leave it."
Sidney got up and moved about the room rather restlessly, putting
things straight. Why was it, she wondered, that Mrs. Norman always
tried to ignore her in conversation?
"But why should you leave it?" asked Monica in her quiet decided tones.
"I should have thought it was an ideal home for two people."
Mrs. Norman heaved a slight sigh.
"Men require more room than women, do they not? The Major will not
hear of it. And his impatience almost irritates me, if it were not so
touching. He wants our marriage to be at once. I believe he thinks a
week or so is quite long enough to wait. We mean to go up to town very
quietly, and walk into one of the City churches one day, without any
following at all, except the necessary witnesses."
Sidney came across the room and re-seated herself.
"I am sure you are wise in coming to that decision. Poor Uncle Ted has
hated crowds all his life. Have you fixed the day yet?"
"Not at present. You may be sure I will tell you when we have."
Sidney gave a little laugh. She could not help it. Then Mrs. Norman
addressed herself to her:
"Can you spare time to-morrow to show me over the house, Sidney dear?
Your uncle is very anxious that I should have the choice of rooms. He
wants me to have a little boudoir of my own upstairs, but you are not
cramped for room at all, are you? So there will be no difficulty about
that. He wanted me to come over yesterday, but I said 'No, I will speak
to Sidney first.'"
"I will take you over the house whenever you like," said Sidney.
"Thank you. It is a dear old rambling place, is it not? And your
old-fashioned bits of furniture seem to suit it. Don't be afraid that
I shall make any changes. I am not fond of these comfortless modern
rooms. As long as my own room is according to my taste, I shall leave
the rest of the house as it is, and I hope, my dear Sidney, we shall be
very happy together. I do not see any reason why we should not be. You
will have your father to look after, and to be with; I shall have my
dear Ted, and if I relieve you of the housekeeping, you will have the
more time for your outdoor pursuits. Perhaps we shall be able to induce
Gavine to spend more of her time at home; a house with young people in
it is always cheerful, and I know you like her and she likes you."
Just for a moment Monica's eyes met Sidney's, and she had a glimpse of
the misery that was in them. Her friends always said that Sidney's eyes
betrayed her.
Sidney was almost breathless with the assurance and sweet determination
of the widow, but she held her head high, and smiled as she responded:
"It is early days to talk of our combined households yet, Mrs. Norman.
Perhaps it may never come to pass."
"Has Gavine gone away?" Monica called hastily, feeling that the
atmosphere might get electric.
And in talking of that young lady, they veered away from the subject of
the house and housekeeping.
Major Urquhart was the first to return from the dining-room, and he
proposed some music.
Sidney sat down and sang with such warmth and sweetness that Monica
marvelled at her. But she and the Admiral were the chief audience, for
the Major and his ladylove retired to the farther end of the room,
where they conversed in low tones until the party broke up.
It was not a comfortable evening, but as Sidney whispered to Monica in
the hall as she was helping her into her cloak, "We have got through it
amicably, and that was the most that I hoped."
In a few days the neighbourhood received the news, and Mrs. Norman was
recognised as the Major's fiancée. Mrs. de Cressiers could not conceal
from Sidney the relief which this turn of affairs had brought to her.
"So much more suitable than my poor dear Austin! She was quite true
in all she told me. She never had cared for my boy. It was a very
one-sided attachment."
And Sidney and her father just waited on, saying very little to
outsiders, but feeling all the more. It was a difficult time to them,
and Sidney's spirits, though generally good, fluctuated occasionally.
After her inspection of the house, Mrs. Norman did not trouble them
much with her company, but the Major talked of nothing but her wishes
and her views and her likings, until even the Admiral began to lose his
equanimity of temper. One day there was a question raised about the
guns on the Terrace.
"Ethel wants to know if you would mind very much if they were moved.
She says they spoil that bit of lawn. I told her you were attached to
them, but they wouldn't look bad in the field on the edge of the cliff.
She says they would show a more imposing front there to the public up
and down the river."
Then the Admiral turned upon his brother.
"Look here, Ted, if those guns go, I go too. You know they've been
part of the soil for a couple of generations. For goodness' sake, man,
let your future wife keep to her own province, and not meddle with our
family trophies. And let her have a right to our name before she begins
to turn our household topsy-turvy."
Major Urquhart said a bad word and flung himself out of the room. From
being good-tempered and in high spirits, he relapsed into sullenness
and gloom, and spent all his days down at the cottage. Sidney guessed
that Mrs. Norman was quietly and steadily exerting all her powers to
estrange him from her and her father. But her heart ached for him, as
she knew he was being used as the widow's mouthpiece, and did not like
the business.
The wedding-day was fixed, and Sidney packed her uncle's portmanteaux
and thought of everything him. By Mrs. Norman's wish, none of the
family were to come up to it. They were going to Paris for a fortnight,
and then coming straight to The Anchorage.
Just before the Major left the house, he found Sidney tidying in his
dressing-room. She put her hands affectionately on his shoulders.
"Oh, dear Uncle Ted, I do wish you happiness." He looked at her
wistfully.
"I do believe you do," he said. "I'm—I'm rather too old for this kind
of thing. It makes me feel nervous. But I wish you felt nicer in your
heart towards Ethel. It always gives me an uncomfortable feeling when
you are talking together."
He shook his head as he spoke.
"Now, look here," said Sidney with earnestness, "if we aren't a happy
family when we all settle in together, you must let father and me slip
away from you, and then there will be no friction. We mustn't live at
warfare with one another. We will see how things work. You have told
father you don't want him to go, but I won't have him stay here, if he
is miserable."
"No, no," the Major said hastily. "We will see, as you say. Why
shouldn't we go on as we have done all these years? And I won't have
those guns moved. I have told her so. We've been very good friends,
little Sid, have we not? We shall pull together all right."
But when he had gone Sidney went away to her room and had a good cry.
She knew that the old days were gone, and would never come back again;
that nothing would ever be the same when Mrs. Norman came to live in
their midst.
And then she poured out her soul in prayer, and rose from her knees
with a bright and steadfast spirit. "I will make father happy anywhere.
I must. If it were not for his feelings, I would set to work at once
to find a fresh home. But he will break his heart, if he has to leave
this. God knows about it, and He loves dad better than I do. I will
trust Him to do what He sees best. And meanwhile we shall have a very
happy fortnight together."
Jockie kept Sidney bright at this juncture. She was always popping in
at unexpected times and giving her news of Chuckles, or of the village,
and no one could be in her presence long without being infected by her
spirit of mirth. She learnt to be very silent on the subject of the
absent bride and bridegroom, for she saw her outspoken remarks were
neither palatable to Sidney nor her father, and, as she wisely remarked
to Monica:
"Now the thing is done, it's no good to sit down and moan about it. We
must all grin and bear it."
Gavine had said very little in her letters about her mother. She wrote
to Sidney long details of her work, and said she was very happy.
"Yet the work would not have made me happy," she wrote; "there is so
much that is depressing and disheartening. But after that wonderful
talk I had with you, I see things so differently. And I really do feel
now that one's Foundation is the only comfort in life. When I visit
the sick, and realise how little I can relieve their pain, I know I
can tell them of the certain cure for their weary, sin-stained souls.
And hope, glad hope, of our good time by and by, is better than any
doctor's tonic."
Sidney kept up a brisk correspondence with her, for she felt that she
had been brought into touch with her to help her. And Gavine wrote to
Jockie that "Miss Urquhart's letters were like 'angels' messages.'"
The fortnight flew by, and then came the arrival of the bride and
bridegroom.
Major Urquhart looked bright, but there were times when a nervous
flicker of his eyelids and an anxious look in his eyes betrayed a want
of ease in his wife's society. She was, as usual, sweetness itself, and
expressed herself delighted with her rooms and all the preparations
made for their arrival. Only Sidney noticed that a certain sharp
inflection of tone had crept into her conversations with her husband.
Major Urquhart had never taken the initiative in household matters, and
was with the greatest difficulty prevailed upon to do so now. He could
not understand his wife's continual hints and suggestions, and would
say bluntly:
"Well, ask Vernon; he'll see to it, or else Sidney will."
The situation was a tense and difficult one to all.
One thing Major Urquhart utterly refused to do, and that was to sit at
the head of the table. Sidney relinquished her seat at once, and Mrs.
Urquhart promptly took it, but the Admiral faced her.
Before very long Sidney came to her father:
"We cannot continue to live here, dad dear. It will be a ceaseless
fret to all of us. I have given over the housekeeping to her, and she
is altering all the hours of everything, just for the mere sake of
changing our ordinary routine. There is no reason in it. I asked for
the pony carriage yesterday, and could not have it. To-day I have asked
again, but she has again ordered it for her own use. She is pulling
down the outside greenhouse, and a conservatory is going to be built
on to the hall. I don't know where the money is coming from. And she
has just told me that some friends of hers are coming down for the
week-end, and she is afraid she will have to ask me to give up my
room and move up to the top floor whilst they are here. I never make
a single objection to anything she says, but the more I acquiesce the
more she demands. What are we to do?"
The Admiral looked at his daughter with troubled eyes.
"I am afraid she resents our presence here. Well, little girl, if we
have to go, we must. Would You like to come up to town for a month or
two before We settle down again?"
Sidney's face flushed and sparkled with pleasure. She had never been
able to induce her father to stay long in London at any time. She had
often longed to see a little more life, and renew her friendship with
old school friends and distant relations, but would not leave her
father. Such a prospect before her seemed to take all the sting out of
her present circumstances.
"Why, dad, that will be delightful! Let us go at once! We can say it
is for a visit, and it will be better for them to settle down alone
together."
They planned it all out, and at dinner that evening, after the servants
left the room, Mrs. Urquhart again mentioned her coming visitors.
"They are such charming people. Surely you have met them? She is a
niece of Lord Berrydown's, and her sister, who lives with her, is quite
one of Society's beauties. I met them abroad a few years ago, and we
were the greatest friends. They have just let their flat in town. He
is ordered into the country for a rest. He has had a kind of nervous
breakdown—so sad for a man! But he is a scholar, and has been working
too hard at deciphering some old Persian books. I thought you would let
him have the run of your study, Vernon. He will enjoy your library, and
he will be able to lie on your couch by the window, and read and smoke
by the hour together, looking out on that lovely peep of the river."
The Admiral smiled; he could not help it. It was his turn now, he
felt, to be ousted from his quiet retreat, which had hitherto been
monopolised solely by himself and his daughter.
Sidney never betrayed a sign of vexation. Her father marvelled at her
perfect self-control.
"That will be very pleasant for him," she said, meeting Mrs. Urquhart's
eyes with serene equanimity. "I hope the change down here will do him
good, poor man! It will fit in very well, for father and I are going up
to town the end of this week."
"To town!" the Major blurted out. "Why, Vernon, you hate it! You never
told me you meant to go. I—I don't see how we're to get on without you
here to entertain these people."
He looked helplessly at his wife. If Sidney's statement was news to
her, she never showed her surprise, but went on peeling her walnuts
with an unconcerned air.
"My dear Ted," she said, "I would not think of troubling Vernon to
entertain my friends. That is the last thing I should wish or expect.
If Sidney wants her father to go to town with her, I should not dream
of raising any objections to it."
"The fact is," the Admiral said pleasantly, "we have come to the
conclusion that we would like a little change. Sidney has been such a
thorough housekeeper that she was always chary of leaving her duties
up to now, but she is free from that, and Ethel and you, Ted, will be
quite equal to run the house in our absence. It is good for me to be
routed out of my quiet groove. And I think Sidney and I will get much
enjoyment out of our little jaunt together."
"I should think we would!" murmured Sidney, smiling contentedly to
herself.
It was arranged very easily. Sidney went over to see Monica before she
went, and her news was received with much approbation.
"It's the best thing that you can do," said Monica heartily. "I think
you are all in very difficult circumstances at present. Things will
shake down, and you will be able to see much more clearly when you
return how to act for the best."
"Yes," Sidney replied. "But, oh, Monica, I never quite imagined it
would be as bad as it is. You see, Ethel never loses her temper, and
I think I keep mine in pretty tight control; but my feelings and my
bottled-up anger inside are terrible! She knows how to cut, and she
seems to delight in picking out the weak points in one's armour. Dad
and I have not a corner in the house now where we can retire and be
undisturbed. Her energy is ceaseless; so is her passion for altering
furniture and every habit of our quiet household."
Monica looked distressed.
"I am afraid you will not be able to live together."
"I am certain we shall not. Well, as you say, we shall see, and
meanwhile dad and I are going to town, and it will be enchanting! One
gets the sun with the clouds, doesn't one? They come after each other
in pretty quick succession. I don't think you're looking very well,
Monnie. Tell me how things are going with you."
"I'm having an anxious time. My right hand, as I call him, is leaving
me. He is going to set up for himself in Canada."
"Not John Bayley?"
"Yes. Of course, I can get another man to take his place, and I know
enough myself to see that he does all that is required, but I shall be
busier than ever. John has saved me so much."
"I think that is quite a disaster," said Sidney.
Monica laughed.
"No, it's a set-back. I'm going through all the accounts with John.
This last year has not been a prosperous one, but the previous ones
have, and it will only mean harder work for me till the new man has
learnt my ways. There is nothing to be anxious about, only sometimes a
wave of doubt seems to sweep over me; and when I doubt myself and my
powers, the outlook seems very black."
"I did not know that you could doubt your powers," said Sidney,
laughing.
Monica smiled, too.
"You always have thought me too self-sufficient, haven't you? But I
don't often get a fit of blues. I have quite decided to send Chuckles
to boarding-school after Easter."
"I believe that is at the bottom of your depression. You don't like
losing him. I'm sure I shall miss him on Sundays dreadfully. And just
while I am away, will you let Jockie teach him on Sunday afternoons? It
will do her good as well as him."
"If she is willing to be saddled with him, I shall be very glad."
After a little more talk, Sidney said good-bye and left. She paid one
more visit, and that was to Mrs. de Cressiers, but she did not confide
in her. She simply stated the fact that she and her father were going
up to town.
Mrs. de Cressiers thought it a very good plan.
"Your dear father moves about so seldom that the change will do him
good. And now, Sidney, what is this about your handing over the reins
of government to your uncle's wife? Is that wise of you? You are not
a very young girl, and are undoubtedly the proper mistress there. I
cannot imagine why your uncle does not get a house for himself and his
wife. He must do so before long. A joint household is always a failure."
"If it is," Sidney said quietly, "father and I mean to go and leave
them in possession."
"My dear girl, what do you mean?"
"It is something we have discovered lately—the house is legally my
uncle's. I cannot go into details. We have lived together many years
without any necessity for making this known; in fact, we were not aware
of it ourselves till lately."
"But I happen to remember and to know more than you do, Sidney," said
Mrs. de Cressiers gravely. "I remember when your grandfather died, and
when your uncle was 'sowing his wild oats,' as people say. He sent word
he did not want to take the house and would not settle down, and then
sold it to your father."
"I did not know you remembered it all," faltered Sidney. "Well, there
was no legal transaction between them, it seems, and—"
"But your uncle is an honourable man."
"Oh, yes—yes; but please don't talk of the past or refer to it. Mrs.
Urquhart does not see it as we do; she worries him till he begins to
look at things in a different light; and we have decided that we had
better go—at least, I think we shall do so. Nothing is absolutely
settled yet."
Mrs. de Cressiers looked almost dazed.
"I shall begin to think as hardly of her as Jockie does. That
girl is a strange mixture. Do you know she has been coming up and
playing draughts with my poor husband, and chatting away to him so
entertainingly that he quite enjoys her visits. But, my dear Sidney,
you and your father must not leave this neighbourhood. You really must
not. Why, it will break your father's heart. He is bound up with that
house and those old guns. I shall have to go down and have a talk with
your uncle, I think."
The colour mounted in Sidney's cheeks. She raised her head proudly.
"I hope you will do nothing of the sort. If we go, it will be because
we prefer to do it. There is no question of expulsion."
Mrs. de Cressiers smiled, and patted Sidney on the shoulder.
"I always like to see your de Cressiers blood come to the fore. Go to
London, my dear, and things will be different when you return."
So Sidney and her father departed, having the sanction of their dearest
friends; and Mrs. Ted Urquhart watched them go with a triumphant heart,
for she meant to reign supreme, and she knew that this step would
further her resolve.