LEAVING THE OLD HOME
"IT is never you!"
"Why shouldn't it be? How's the world wagging down here?"
Jockie had been taking a walk, and had suddenly come face to face with
Austin, who, with an overcoat slung over his shoulder, and a cap pushed
back from his forehead, was pelting along the road at a rapid rate.
"Things are awful for most of us," Jockie said, looking at him
gloomily, "but your people are all right. Do they know you're coming?
They hadn't an idea of it yesterday."
"My boat arrived a day earlier than expected, so I thought I'd walk
up and take them unawares. Left my baggage at the station. I've had
a stunning time. Now, just turn back with me, and tell me the 'awful
things,' as you call them."
"I don't know where to begin. How much do you know?"
"I heard of the wedding," said Austin, taking off his cap and letting
the spring breeze fan his heated brow.
"I do wish with all my heart that it had been your wedding," said
Jockie viciously. "I wish with all my heart I had never tried to do you
a good turn. I don't know what possessed me to do it. It was only to
spite her. I have brought disaster to everyone."
"What the d—dickens have you to do with it?" asked Austin.
Jockie told him of the episode outside the post office.
"She came back from her honeymoon determined to slight and insult the
Admiral and Sidney all she could. Oh, I can't tell it all to you; it
would take too long. She began to be mistress before she married, so
you can imagine what it was like afterwards. She has always hated
Sidney, and she couldn't forgive the Admiral for not being smitten by
her charms, and falling down and worshipping her, as all the rest of
you did."
"But," interrupted Austin, "the Admiral isn't it a fool. Surely he can
be master in his own house?"
"No, the Admiral isn't a fool," said Jockie solemnly, "he is now a
saint in heaven."
Austin stopped still in the middle of the road. "You don't mean to tell
me that the dear old chap is dead?"
"She killed him—murdered him—just as surely as if she had shot him. Do
let me tell the story in my own way. I hardly know the ins and outs of
it, but it seems that the house really belongs to Major Urquhart—at
least, she gives out that it does, and your mother told me that the
Admiral would not fight his brother about it, but that it was morally,
if not legally, his. Mrs. Ted has turned Sidney out of her place at the
head of the table. She took the reins of the whole house in her own
hands; she moved and changed everything in it on purpose to annoy them.
She took the Admiral's books and pictures away from his study, and said
they belonged to the Major, and she furnished a new smoking-room with
all his treasured things. The Admiral and Sidney at last, in despair,
went up to London. They were driven out of the house by her. When they
came back she was worse than ever. She had cut down all the Admiral's
favourite trees, and in spite of the Major's protests, got some
labourers to come up and clear away the guns from the lawn. That was
the last straw! The poor old Admiral went out the morning after he came
home, and found them half buried in an old rubbish ditch. It broke his
heart, and he was found dead, clasping his arms round one of them. Now,
what do you call that but murder?"
Austin drew in a long breath of dismay.
"Gracious, child, go more slowly! I can't quite believe that Mrs.
Norman would act so."
"Mrs. Edward Urquhart, please. And you need not address me as 'child.'
I shall shut up if you do."
"Beg pardon. Go ahead."
"Well, of course, dear Sidney has behaved like an angel. We wanted her
to leave the house at once, but she would stay on until the lawyer
and she had sorted out all her father's papers and put the business
straight. What she's gone through no one knows! She's a marvel to all
of us. I have heard Mrs. Ted stinging at her like a gnat, and Sidney
speaks to her in the most gracious and sweet way, but in a lovely
remote tone, as if she hardly knows who she is, and she lives in
another world just now. She looks lovelier than ever in her black, but
so frail and delicate. And then sometimes she puts her hand on my arm
and laughs in her old fascinating way, and then the dreamy sad veil
falls over her eyes again. Miss Pembroke wants to have her, and your
mother wants to have her, but neither has got her yet. Sometimes I
think she stays on for the Major's sake. He's awfully unhappy—I can see
it in his eyes; he's a broken-down old man since the Admiral's death,
and his wife does nothing but whip him on, as if he were a tired old
horse. Oh, she's an awful woman! If only you had married her!"
"Thank you," said Austin stiffly; then he added: "How women hate one
another! I can hardly recognise Mrs. Norman under your description. I
never heard her say an unkind word to anyone."
"Oh, if you're going to believe in her still, I'll stop. There's such a
thing as poison coated with sugar. But you'll never see her in her true
colours. Men are as blind as bats where women are concerned."
Jockie gave her head a little toss and walked on.
Austin looked at her. If he had not been so perturbed, he would have
laughed, as Jockie on her dignity was like some saucy sparrow aping a
swan.
"Poor dear old Sid!" he murmured. "I didn't think she was having such a
bad time! She was quite swallowed up in her father. I can't believe I
shall never see him again."
"No," said Jockie in a grandmotherly tone, "we never know how soon old
people will be taken from us. I hope you're going to be very good to
your father now you have come back. He has missed you frightfully. If I
had been a man, I should have had enough grit to stop at home where I
was wanted, instead of running away from my trouble."
"You seem to have a remarkable knowledge of our private affairs," said
Austin witheringly.
"Yes; I know them all," said Jockie cheerfully. "I have been trying to
be your substitute, since you have been away. Your father and I talk
over lots of things together, and I went round with your horrid agent
the other day to see a farmhouse which wants repairing. I reported it
to your father the next day, and I told him what a sneak and bully the
agent was. I've heard some stories about him in the village, and Cousin
John and I can prove the truth of them. Mr. de Cressiers is almost
willing to dismiss him now he takes in what kind of a man he is."
"I think it is high time I was back," said Austin loftily.
"It is," assented Jockie.
The two young people walked on for a minute in silence, then Jockie
burst forth again:
"It's no good for you to defend her! She's a clever unscrupulous woman,
and Sidney can't cope with her. What do you think she is saying to
everyone now? She pulls down her mouth and drops her eyes and sighs
forth: 'Yes, most sad; but the Admiral's sudden death must wholly be
attributed to that London trip. His daughter did not realise that he
was not strong enough to drag about after her. She, like most girls,
wanted to have a good time, and her poor old father could not keep pace
with her. He returned home a perfect wreck, and the very next day he
collapsed.' Now, what do you think of that?"
"I suppose she thinks it true," said Austin loyally.
"Does she? Now, I'll tell you something else, for you deserve to know
it. Do you know what she told everybody when you went away? That you
had proposed to her, and that she had refused you, for the very idea
was preposterous. She had only taken pity on you and talked to you like
a mother for your good, and you had simply made a fool of yourself."
"I think I'll be walking on," said Austin, in dangerously quiet tones.
He was white with rage, and Jockie's audacity for once deserted her:
"Oh, forgive me! What would Sidney say? I promised her I would try to
control my tongue."
Then, as Austin's long legs outwalked her, she called out:
"All right, then. You need not think I am going to run by your side.
You're much more disagreeable than when you went away."
Austin looked back, and raised his cap.
"I prefer sugar to vinegar. You won't keep any friends with that tongue
of yours."
And Jockie walked home humbly, for she felt the truth of his words.
Austin had a warm welcome from his parents. His mother corroborated
much of what Jockie had told him, but her plain dignified statements
had more effect upon him than Jockie's bitterness. Early the next
morning he went down to The Anchorage to see Sidney. It cost him some
effort, but he knew that he must meet Mrs. Urquhart soon, and wanted
the first plunge to be over.
He came across her in the garden giving directions to the gardeners.
She was looking as sweet as ever, and greeted him with perfect ease.
"So glad to see you back. Your father has been wanting you badly. What
do you think of the sunny East?"
"Oh, tolerable! Is Sidney in? I'm awfully upset over the Admiral's
death, and came down to see her."
"Poor girl! She is wonderful. It has been so sad, for they both
intended this London visit to be one of keen enjoyment. We little
thought—"
"I have heard about it," said Austin abruptly. "Excuse me going in.
This place has always been like a second home to me, and I'm bewildered
at all these changes."
He heaved a sigh of relief as he got past her.
"Thank goodness that's over! Jockie was quite right. I did make a fool
of myself."
He noticed at once the changes in the house; but when he was shown into
the morning-room, and Sidney held out both hands with a bright smile of
welcome, he almost broke down.
"Oh, Sid! My little chum! What can I say? How we shall miss him!"
Sidney's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"That's good to hear, Austin! He was very fond of you."
"Can you speak about it? Would you rather not?"
"I should love to tell you all about him, but I expect you have heard."
"Not details. I want them."
So, in a soft steady voice Sidney went over those last precious days,
which would always be beloved in her memory.
Austin had been so truly fond of her father, that his sympathy was
more to her than that shown by others. And then he drew her on to talk
of herself and her own plans. He was aghast when she told him of her
altered circumstances.
"I shall have enough to live on," she told him; "but, of course,
father's pension is gone, and the house with all its contents seems to
belong to Uncle Ted. He has promised to furnish a small cottage for
me from any bits that I like to pick out. Ethel suggests my going to
Lovelace's Cottage, which is still unlet; but I can't bring myself to
do that. It is a matter of pride, I am afraid."
"But you don't mean that they're going to turn you out?"
"No, I am choosing to go myself. I have been too long my own mistress
to be happy here now. Uncle Ted has besought me to stay; but it is
neither good for him nor her that I should do so. Your mother has very
kindly asked me to stay with her till I can find a house. I don't want
to leave neighbourhood."
"And you're coming to us? That's the first bit of good news I've heard
since I came back! It has been blow upon blow! That imp of a girl met
me yesterday on the way from the station and poured a black recital
into my ears."
"Do you mean Jockie? I thought you were good friends."
"So we were. She's a pretty little thing, too, but she piled it on too
strong, and did not spare me, I can tell you! How on earth has she got
hold of my father? She manages him like no one else, my mother tells
me. And he is actually going to get rid of Dobbs!"
"Jockie has great tenderness under that careless exterior; and
patience, too. I have seen her with sick people, and she is a different
being at once. Poor Jockie! She espouses my cause with too much zeal.
She will learn wisdom later on. And now tell me all about yourself. We
have talked enough of me and my troubles!"
So Austin leant back in a lounge chair, crossed his legs, and for an
hour discoursed to Sidney about all he had seen and heard. When he at
last rose to go, he said:
"Come to us as soon as you can, won't you, Sid?"
Sidney nodded cheerfully.
They had not discussed Mrs. Urquhart at all; but Austin encountered her
again in the hall on his way out.
"I want to speak to you for a minute," she said, turning wistful eyes
upon him.
Austin followed her like a lamb into the drawing-room, with an uneasy
sense of walking into a snare.
"I want you to forgive me," she said, laying her hand gently on his
arm. "You went off so suddenly; you would listen to no explanations. I
was forced to act so. Your mother implored me. And you know how often I
reminded you of the difference in our ages. It is a great mistake for
a middle-aged woman to tie a young fellow to herself. It would have
ruined your life. If I had consulted my own feelings—"
She paused, and her eyes finished her sentence.
"Oh, that's all right," said Austin awkwardly; "that chapter is closed.
Don't for goodness' sake try to open it again."
"Ah, you are hard and unforgiving! Let us close it, by all means, but
let us be friends. We live in the same neighbourhood; don't let there
be ill-feeling between us. You say you have looked upon this house
as a second home. I want you to look upon it in that light still.
Come in when you want cheer, or comfort, or advice; let me feel that
I can still be a friend to you. I will not speak of myself. I have
many lonely hours, and the Major, as you know, does not shine in
conversation. But I cannot bear to live amongst you, if you are going
to give me the cold shoulder. It is my misfortune to be over-sensitive,
and I feel things so much and so deeply!"
What could Austin say? He could never be anything but courteous to a
woman; so he murmured something about the past being the past, and
having no cause for resentment, and then he slipped away.
"'Pon my soul," he muttered, "she's one too much for me. I don't know
where I am, but I'll keep clear of her for all I'm worth; for I'll
play the game with the old Major! And I'm honestly sorry for the poor
beggar!"
After Austin had left her, Sidney sat with her head in her hands. In
spite of her bright brave spirit, she had times of real darkness and
depression, and no one but herself knew what an effort it was to live
through her days.
She now was doing what she seldom allowed herself to do—looking back
into the past. It was hardly a year ago that she had lost the one who
was her all in all: not by death—she could have borne that better—but
by his own treachery. Her soul writhed at the very thought of the
valley of humiliation into which he had cast her, and through which she
had struggled with soreness and anguish of heart. Now she had lost both
her father and home. Like Job, she felt inclined to say: "My days are
past, my purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart."
Her future seemed to stretch away from her in one dreary monotonous
line. The purpose in her life had been snapped. The care of her father
had been her absorbing thought since the end had come between herself
and Archie Hughes. Now that was gone! How could she gather up the
broken fragments of her life to the best advantage?
She lifted up her heart in earnest prayer:
"Thou will teach me how to glory in tribulation. Thou will not quench
the smoking flax! It is Thine hand upon me. Show me what Thou wouldest
have me to do."
This was the gist of her prayer. And when Sidney went to her knees, she
always rose with serene and steadfast eyes.
"As long as I am left in the world, I am wanted there," she said to
herself. "If my own personal life is not all that I desire, there are
other people's lives around me to be thought of. And I am absolutely
free to help wherever my help is needed most."
It seemed at present to be needed at Thanning Towers. Mrs. de
Cressiers, with tears in her eyes, had begged her to come to her.
"I have never urged you before, Sidney, because of your dear father;
but now your way seems clear. After all, I am your nearest relation in
this county. I may be able to help you about getting a small house if
you are still determined to live alone; you certainly will help me. As
one gets older, one feels less equal to bearing the strain and anxiety
alone. You are the only one I can talk to about my husband and boy, and
you don't know what your sympathy and companionship will be to me."
Sidney arranged to go. The evening before she went she spent in tidying
the Admiral's desk. Her uncle crept into the room almost stealthily.
"Sid," he said dejectedly, "is it too late now to beg you to change
your mind? Our happy old days have slipped away, but I would do all I
could to make you comfortable, if you stayed with us. You don't know
what this house is without you! You used to be fond of your old uncle.
Are you going to cast him off altogether?"
There was something so pathetic in his eyes that Sidney almost cried.
She put her hand on his shoulder caressingly.
"Dear Uncle Ted, you know I am fond of you still, but I am quite sure
I do not add to your happiness by staying here. I shall be in the
neighbourhood, and will often pop in and see you."
He gave almost a groan.
"I am being justly punished, but I was a blind fool! I never meant to
oust you and poor Vernon. I'll never hold up my head again, Sid. But
one thing I've done: I've ordered those guns back to where they were
taken from, and there they shall stay till my time comes to quit! I can
assert myself sometimes, but it's confoundedly hard!"
Sidney kissed him. Her heart ached for him as she saw what a cipher he
was in his own house. And though she could not tell him so, she knew
that his wife resented her talking much with him alone.
Mrs. Urquhart showed the only impatience she ever showed anyone towards
her husband. Sidney saw that there was no love to help her to endure
his bachelor ways; she had no real interest in his workshop. Her one
idea was to fill the house with company; and company of any sort the
Major thoroughly disliked. They had hardly any tastes in common.
The Major spent half his days wandering through the house looking for
Sidney, and this was why Sidney was anxious to leave. She knew the only
chance for the ill-matched couple to draw closer to one another was to
leave them alone. As long as there was a third person, the breach would
widen between them; for the Major was perplexed and frightened by his
wife's masterful methods, and avoided being with her. Her manner was
now coldly civil to him; her sweet graciousness was only for outsiders.
If she by chance said a kind word, the poor old Major would become
almost hilarious with joy; then a little curl of his wife's upper
lip would send him shrinking into his shell again. And he could not
understand why he should not seek Sidney's society in preference to his
wife's. When the time came for her to leave for Thanning Towers, he
accompanied her to the gate.
"You'll remember that anything out of the house can be moved to your
new home," he said, waxing bold as soon as he got out of earshot of his
wife. "You have only to tell me, and I'll see that they're sent off.
And, Sid, my dear child, just assure me the past is forgiven. You don't
bear me malice for the—the step I took? And will you come to me, if I'm
taken ill; one can't have good health for ever; and I sometimes think
that I'm beginning to break up. You won't cut us, will you?"
"Why, Uncle Ted, you are quite morbid! Of course I won't! And if you're
ill, send for me at once. I will run over and tell you directly I have
made my plans. I am not going very far-away, you know. Good-bye, dear."
She gave him one of her old hugs, then turned quickly away, for there
were actually tears in the Major's eyes. He coughed them down, and as
Sidney watched his retreating figure out of the carriage window, she
noted that his shoulders seemed extra bent and his limping gait more
discernible.
"He is getting an old man," she said to herself. "Oh, I hope she will
be kind to him."
To Thanning Towers she went, and took with her there an atmosphere
of sunny content which was felt by all who came near her. Mrs. de
Cressiers' troubled brow relaxed; she could speak to Sidney, and to
Sidney alone, of her fears about her husband's state of mind and body.
And the very speaking of it seemed to lift a weight off her spirit.
Mr. de Cressiers liked to hear her sing. It was the keenest delight
left to him to listen to any music, and Sidney's wonderfully sweet and
thrilling voice brought messages of peace and comfort to his soul.
Austin shouldered his burden in gay spirits when Sidney was near at
hand. She was the recipient of confidences from father, mother and son,
and her presence in the house was joy to all.
Jockie still came and went. At first she said she would be wanted no
longer, but Mr. de Cressiers was always ready to listen to her lively
chatter, and Sidney told Mrs. de Cressiers that her gay spirits were
better than any amount of doctor's visits for the invalid. Mrs. de
Cressiers assented. She had no objection to the pleasant intercourse
that existed between her husband and Jockie, but when it came to that
between her son and the girl, she became alarmed.
Sidney laughed at her.
"You must expect young people to be friendly; Jockie is the last girl
in the world to mean anything serious by it. And if it did come to
anything, you would gain a dear little daughter-in-law!"
"She is a perfect hoyden, and not at all the style I approve of. I want
Austin to marry in his own class, not beneath him."
"But," expostulated Sidney, "Jockie is a little lady. Her father is Mr.
Borlace's cousin, and you have always said that it was an advantage to
us to have a rector who was really well born."
"Oh yes; the rector is a gentleman, but the Borlaces are not county;
and I don't know who the girl's mother was. Austin must marry well."
"There is no one about here who is good enough for him," said Sidney
with a mischievous smile. "You despise titles, so you would not care
for a titled daughter-in-law. I think Jockie would suit him very well."
Mrs. de Cressiers' head was a few inches higher than usual.
"She would not suit me. I do not want to be connected with our rector.
If I thought that there was anything between them, I should stop her
coming to the house altogether."
"Well," said Sidney, "the surest way to make them care for each other
is to keep them apart now. Don't try it, dear Mrs. Cressiers."
Mrs. de Cressiers looked unconvinced; but she kept her own counsel
after that, and never mentioned the subject again. And Jockie and
Austin continued to chaff each other, and were a great deal more
together than either Mrs. de Cressiers or Sidney imagined.