THE GUNS
A FORTNIGHT in town soon slipped away; and then the fortnight
lengthened into a month. The Admiral and his daughter found many old
friends, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They stayed at a quiet
private hotel, and took life more easily than did most of those around
them. Sidney saw a great deal of Gavine, who spent all the time she
could spare away from her work with them. She did not talk much of her
mother; it had never been her way to do so; but one day, when she was
wishing Sidney good-night, she clung to her for a minute and whispered:
"Oh, do tell me—is it because of her that you have come away? I can't
tell you what torture it is to me to think that we have brought trouble
into your family."
"My dear Gavine, nothing has happened except that which God has
overruled. I am quite positive of this, and you have nothing in the
world to do with it. I am only too delighted to have a holiday from
housekeeping, and my father is thoroughly enjoying himself."
"But you will never be able to stand it when you go back. I have been
through a little of it, so I know."
Sidney smiled bravely as she kissed her.
"I feel I can stand anything as long as dad and I are together. A
house, after all, is not the chief happiness in one's life. And if we
were to move into another place, it would still be home to me."
Gavine said no more, and never referred to the subject again.
Spring was already showing its hand in the London squares and parks
when Sidney and her father turned their steps homewards. As they sped
through the fresh green meadows, and noted the budding copses and woods
by the side of the railway line, the Admiral said:
"It is good to be going home, little girl. I have already my old
craving for the salt sea breeze and the sweet smell of the country."
Sidney nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. Her heart felt as
heavy as lead. She gazed out of the carriage window with misty eyes,
and longed that the end of their journey should come, so that her fears
might either be certainties or be proved groundless.
The hired fly was at the station to meet them, and the stationmaster,
as usual, had a little pleasant chat with the Admiral.
"Saw the Major down here yesterday, sir. A deal of company since you've
been away."
"I wonder if the company has departed," Sidney said to her father, as
they were driving up together.
"I should hope so," her father said; then he turned to her with his
cheeriest smile. "Remember, little woman, we have quite made up our
minds that we are going home to pack up our things and flit. We'll be a
happy party till then, I hope."
"We will try to be," said Sidney valiantly.
Mrs. Urquhart met them in the hall, and welcomed them back in her
sweet gracious way. But when the Admiral went into his study,
which—manlike—was the first room he entered, he drew in a long breath
of surprise and consternation. It was almost entirely transformed. A
whole row of some of his choicest books had disappeared, some old oil
paintings—family portraits—had been taken away and cheap prints hung in
their places on the wall. Two big lounge chairs and an old curiosity
cabinet had gone, and only his writing table had remained as he had
left it. There was no fire in the room, and it looked cold and dreary.
Hearing her father exclaim, Sidney stepped in after him, and her eyes
flashed with indignation.
"How dare she interfere with your room!"
"Won't you come to tea?" said Mrs. Urquhart, following them in. "I know
you won't mind, Vernon, but I took the opportunity when you were away
to make a few alterations in your room. You see, when we have visitors
it is so very awkward to have no smoking-room apart from your study,
so with a little manipulation I have made a very cosy smoking-room out
of the lumber-room at the end of the passage. I wanted to leave you
undisturbed in your own room, but as the Major seemed to dislike the
idea of buying new furniture for my venture, I have had to collect a
few odd bits from different rooms. I don't think I have taken anything
that you will really miss."
"My books," said the Admiral.
"I thought I had been most careful in what I chose. I have not taken a
single one with your name in it—only your grandfather's and a few of
your father's. Of course, those are really the Major's, are they not?
They went with the house. I am longing to show you the smoking-room. It
looks so cosy! But come and have some tea first. You must be tired with
your journey."
"Come along, dad; we will soon get things to rights," said Sidney
brightly, linking her arm into her father's and drawing him after
her into the cheerful, firelit drawing-room. Then, turning to the
parlourmaid, she said quietly: "Light the fire in the Admiral's study
at once, Jane. It is too cold for him to be without it."
Jane glanced at Mrs. Urquhart, and then left the room.
"I told her not to light it, Sidney, for we have one in the new
smoking-room, and I thought your father would like a chat and smoke
with the Major there to-night. Ted is devoted to the new room."
"Uncle Ted can come into the study and smoke," said Sidney a little
shortly. "My father must always have his room and his fire."
"Where is Ted?" asked the Admiral, sitting down by the fire and
speaking in his usual pleasant tone.
"He is in the grounds somewhere, directing the gardeners. We are having
a good many alterations, which I hope you will consider improvements."
A little later the Major came in. He seemed nervous and ill at ease,
and made conversation in jerky tones. Sidney saw that he was manifestly
afraid of his wife, for when she left the room for a few moments his
whole manner changed. He leant forward eagerly to Sidney:
"I hope you don't mind the changes, Sid? She's a wonderful woman! Such
energy and enterprise. But I sometimes wish I could pull her in a
bit. But you and she together will put things straight. I don't want
anything altered myself. I hope you believe me?"
There was a little wistfulness in his tone.
Sidney reassured him. She was her gay bright self that evening,
resolutely suppressing all the tide of anger that rose within her, and
trying with all her might to keep her father cheerful. She did not
like the look of patient endurance upon his face, the weary dejection
in his eyes. She sang some of her old songs to him after dinner, she
related their town experiences with great animation, and never let the
conversation flag for a moment. Then, when her father went back to his
study, she went with him, and sat down on the hearthrug, leaning her
head on his knee.
"I did not think it would be so difficult," said her father slowly.
"To leave this, dad? It won't be. We must find a nice little house
somewhere in the neighbourhood."
"They say a woman is wrapped up in her possessions," said her father in
the same slow, grave way, "but I begin to feel I must be getting like
her. If we go, Sidney, all of it will be new. I don't know why my heart
fails me. I had hoped to carry away my books and some of our family
heirlooms—my mother's picture amongst them, and my wife's miniature.
She evidently does not know who it is. But she is quite right—the
house, with its contents, was left to Ted. If he has it, he has it all."
"You have me," said Sidney, trying to laugh, but a lump rose in her
throat, and a choke was in her voice.
Her father caressed her hair gently with his hand.
"Yes, my little Sid. You will never fail me. What is that verse? 'A
man's life consisteth not in what he hath.' Is that how it goes?"
"'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he
possesseth,'" quoted Sidney. "But, father dear, there are quantities of
things in the house which are really yours, and which we can take. We
won't worry about it to-night. You are looking so tired. Don't sit up
late, will you? And if you would rather stay on here, don't think of
me. I will willingly do it."
"No; it is only that I feel my age to-night. I have not the buoyancy
I had. The thought of a move into a strange house is not a cheerful
one. But I dare say I am tired with the journey. I shall be more myself
to-morrow, and we can discuss the question then."
Sidney kissed her father passionately when she wished him good-night.
She was very near tears herself. She could bear slights to herself, but
not to her father, and when she met Mrs. Urquhart in the hall her head
was high and her voice remote and distant in its tone.
"I shall be glad if you will return my mother's picture. It was over
the mantelpiece in the study. That does not belong to Uncle Ted."
"Oh, I am so sorry. The picture of a young girl in white? I thought Ted
told me it was a sister who died. She is rather like your father in
face, don't you think so? You mustn't be vexed with me, my dear Sidney,
for trying to improve this old house. It really was sadly in want of a
little renovation and change. I know old people don't like change as a
rule, but I have always found men better than women in that respect,
and I think that if you show a little of your good sense, you will soon
persuade your father to welcome my improvements."
"I don't think that will be necessary," said Sidney, looking at her
with quiet dignity, "for we shall not be here much longer. My father
and I are going to make ourselves another home."
"That is very sensible of you. It is a mistake to have amalgamated
households, and quite as difficult for me as for you. I am sure Ted
will be pleased to hear of that arrangement. Are you going to bed?
Good-night."
And as she swept off to join her husband in the smoking-room, triumph
was in her eyes.
Sidney went upstairs and cried bitterly.
The next morning, when she came down to breakfast, she heard that
her father had gone out into the garden. For a moment she thought of
joining him, but did not do so, as she knew he sometimes liked a quiet
smoke before breakfast, and the morning was a lovely one.
Major Urquhart came to the table more like his old self.
"We have missed you, Sid—haven't we, Ethel? And I always feel a lost
dog without your father. He must help me in these new garden plans of
ours. I'm always a duffer about flower-beds and vegetables."
Sidney made some vague response. As she glanced out of the window
opposite her, she saw a flock of finches and thrushes breakfasting off
the green lawn. The lilac and laburnums were coming into full flower,
a cherry tree was white with blossom, and the beds round the house
were full of narcissus and daffodils. Beyond the sloping lawns was the
river, edged with young larches and copper beech. What a sweet house to
leave, she thought; and then she rose from her seat, feeling as if her
food would choke her.
"Excuse me," she said to Mrs. Urquhart; "I must go and bring father in.
He is forgetting the time."
"I don't think he slept too well," the Major said. "He was pacing his
room half the night. My room is just below his, so I heard him."
Sidney stepped out of the French window.
"Oh," she said to herself, "how could he sleep? I believe he will be
pretty nearly broken-hearted when it comes to leaving his old home."
She wandered round the garden walks, but nowhere could she see her
father. At length she went down to the lower lawn, and there she stood
aghast. The turf had been cut and taken up, and the guns which had
stood there for so many years were gone! Two or three men were at work.
The old gardener was not there. Sidney knew the men—they were labourers
in the village.
"Have you seen my father?" she asked.
One of them rubbed his head rather ruefully.
"Yes, miss. The Admiral, he come down an hour ago, and he were proper
upset at this job, so he were!"
"Where is he? Where did he go?" Sidney asked impatiently. Oh, why had
she not been at hand to comfort him! she thought.
"He went towards the shrubberies, miss, but I reckon he's back at the
house long ago."
Sidney turned off at once, and as she walked she mechanically repeated
to herself:
"'I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord is my helper. I will not
fear what man shall do unto me.'"
The verses had formed part of her morning reading. She wondered
afterwards why they had recurred to her mind at that juncture, as she
was not conscious of actual fear, only a longing desire to be with her
father and comfort him. The shrubberies were gloomy even on this bright
morning. She called her father by name, but there was no response.
She was on the point of turning back when she heard the whining of
the Admiral's little terrier, and, coming out at the end of the
shrubberies, she saw the dog.
There was a rubbish heap against an old wall; half in and half out of
a ditch were the guns, and leaning against one of them, with his arms
tightly clasped round it, and his head bowed down upon his arms, was
her father. For a moment Sidney hesitated to disturb him. This private
grief was sacred; she felt she ought not to intrude. And then a well of
seething hot anger rose within her. How dared they go to such lengths
with these family treasures! She felt as if she could never forgive
Mrs. Urquhart for such a wanton proceeding.
"Dad dear!"
Lightly she placed her hand on her father's arm.
"Oh, dad dear, never mind; we can take them away with us, and you will
not be separated from them."
There was no movement, no response, and a sudden ghastly fear clutched
at Sidney's heart—a fear which was realised a moment later, when she
bent over her father and took his hand in hers. The Admiral's body
was guarding his beloved guns, but his soul was beyond all earthly
treasures. At first she could not believe it. She rushed back to the
house and summoned her uncle and the servants.
"Father has fainted; he is ill! Come quick-quick!"
The Major was on the spot first, in spite of his lame leg. He groaned
when he saw his brother, and exclaimed:
"These confounded guns! I wish I'd told him last night. I knew it would
upset him!"
Carefully and tenderly the Admiral was carried into the house and
laid upon his bed. The doctor was not long in coming, but he could do
nothing—only testified that it was sudden failure of the heart. He
asked if he had been agitated in any way. Sidney was too dazed and
stunned to reply, but Mrs. Urquhart was voluble with explanations:
"He has been a month in London, and it evidently has been quite too
much for him. He has always led such a very quiet life that the rush
and excitement and fatigue of it up there has told upon him. I noticed
how grey and drawn his face was when he returned yesterday. I said to
my husband that it was a pity his daughter had not brought him home
before. Of course, she would have done so, poor girl, if she had known
the harm town life was doing him, but he doted on her, and you know how
thoughtless young people are when they are enjoying themselves; they
don't realise that the old cannot keep pace with them."
Sidney heard all this as in a dream. She did not take it in.
Dr. Lanyard, an old friend of the family, raised his eyebrows, but the
Major burst forth excitedly, and it was the only time he ever let his
feelings get the better of him:
"It's all our doing! Oh, why was I such a fool as to give way about it!
His guns were cleared away. It was the last straw! I found him clinging
to one. I told Ethel it was a cruel thing to do. I'll never lift up my
head again!"
A choke came into his voice, and he hurried out of the room. The doctor
turned and followed him. Sidney crept back to her father's room. She
would not leave it. The blow had been so sudden, so unexpected, that
she could not realise it was true. She knew that her father had not
been strong, but he had seemed so much brighter and more active in town
that she had had no anxieties about his health, and had never known
that his heart was at all weak.
The news spread fast. That afternoon Monica came to the house. One of
the old servants begged her to go upstairs to Sidney.
"She's just breaking her heart, ma'am. You may be able to get her to
have some food. We've got her out of the room at last, but she's in her
own room, and won't come out of it."
Monica went up with a heavy heart. She realised that no earthly comfort
could ease Sidney's pain, and in a strange way the words of the parable
which Chuckles was so fond of repeating to her came into her mind:
"The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat
upon that house."
"'Twill be a terrible loss to Miss Urquhart," the old servant said, as
she followed her along the corridor to Sidney's bedroom. "Things have
all been turned upside down lately, and I for one don't wish our dear
master back. The new mistress has served him shamefully—and I gave her
notice this morning."
Monica hardly heard the muttered words; her thoughts were with the
storm-tossed one.
"I wonder," she murmured to herself, as she tapped gently at Sidney's
door; "I wonder if the house still stands?"
Monica gained an entrance. Sidney was sitting by the window, which was
open, her Bible was upon the broad ledge before her, and she was gazing
out, the tears fast dropping down her cheeks as she did so. She clung
to Monica when she kissed her.
"Oh, Monica, what a wonderful day this is to him! It has seemed a year
to me, but think of what he must be seeing and hearing! Come and sit
down. I don't mind you, but I cannot go downstairs and eat food. Could
you?"
Monica was tongue-tied. There was a radiance in Sidney's face which was
like a rainbow shining through rain.
"I came up here stunned," she went on softly, "and then I took my
Bible. Do you know the forty-sixth Psalm, Monnie? 'God is our refuge
and strength, a very present help in trouble.' That seemed to steady
me. And when I came to the verse: 'God is in the midst of her; she
shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early,' I took
the words and applied them to myself. You can do that with the Bible.
Words seem to give messages in so many different ways. And as I prayed
about it I got my answer. God has been raising my heart up above the
world altogether to where dad is. What does it matter about me? He is
with mother. I found his 'Daily Light' open on his dressing table. He
always read it, and the first verses he read this morning were these:
"'His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me;
Underneath are the everlasting arms.'
"And the last verse:
"'They shall never perish.'
"He went out straight into the garden after reading those verses, and
was gathered into God's arms to be comforted. He wanted it, poor dad!
It was a difficult homecoming last night. Let me talk, Monnie; it eases
me. I had a miserable hour to-day, thinking of dad's great sadness.
Uncle Ted said he was pacing his room half the night. If only I had
known! If only I had been with him! He was perplexed and troubled
about the future. People think that it is only women who cling to old
associations, but men do—even more. Father did! He could not make up
his mind to leave his books, his pictures, the old bits of furniture
that his father and mother had used. It was torture to him, and I
suppose when he found his guns torn up, rooted out of their place and
thrown in a ditch, that was the finishing stroke. I won't be bitter; I
won't think of the door through which he escaped. It does not matter
about the door, does it? It may be a narrow one, and an unpleasant
one to enter, but it is so quickly passed, and the other side is so
glorious!"
She paused, and again her eyes sought the blue sky outside her window.
Monica was silent. What could she say? She put her hand out and took
Sidney's in it. They sat for some minutes in silence. Then Sidney
turned to her, and the light still shone in her eyes.
"Oh, Monnie, it is at times like this that you learn the value of your
faith."
When, half an hour later, Monica left the house, she repeated the verse
again that was still sounding in her ears, but she was able to add the
conclusion, for Sidney had not disappointed her:
"'The rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat
upon that house; and it fell not; for it was founded upon a rock.'"