STRUCK DOWN
"AUNT MONNIE, do take me with you."
Monica was driving off in her high dogcart one afternoon in May. She
was going over to see a neighbouring farmer, who lived nine miles off,
about some business matter. Chuckles, in his holland overall, came
tearing across the garden.
For a moment Monica hesitated. In after years, she often wondered if it
had been her good angel who tried to intervene. Then, seeing the eager
expectancy in the child's eyes, she told him to climb up. For a moment
she thought of telling him to put on an overcoat, but the sun was
bright, and she had a warm plaid over her knees, so she drove off with
him, saying dryly:
"I hope we shall not meet anyone, for a more smutty nephew I think no
one could possess!"
"It's the waterbutt; I'm sailing my walnuts in it. They're the Channel
fleet on an island of water."
"There's no such thing as an island of water."
"Isn't there? What is it when the land comes round the water?"
"The water is then a lake."
Chuckles tipped his hat back on his head and thought hard. Then his
mind took another turn.
"Aunt Monnie, I feel I was born a sailor."
"You were born to be a farmer," said Monica firmly. "You were born on
a farm abroad. Your father brought you home and meant to farm himself,
and bring you up to it. He was taken from you, and I am bringing you up
in the way he wished."
"I think father is very happy to be an angel instead. I'd rather be an
angel than a farmer."
"Why don't you like farming? You never used to talk like this?"
Chuckles considered.
"I always did like water better than earth," he said solemnly. "I
remembers when I was a baby I liked it. And everybody ought to fight
for their country—Miss Jockie says so—and farmers don't fight. Aunt
Monnie, if you promise you'll change me from a farmer into a sailor,
I'll bring you back a red and green parrot the first day I come back
from sea!"
"No," said Monica, trying to speak lightly; "I can't be bribed,
Chuckles. You must grow up a good man, and carry out your father's
wishes."
Chuckles said no more. His aunt drove on through the sunshiny green
lanes feeling a heavy weight on her heart. Her farm had not been
prospering lately; her new man was careless and untrustworthy. She
feared she would not be able to keep him, but she dreaded another
change. Chuckles always depressed her when he talked of his dislike to
farming. She wondered as he grew older if he would take his own way
instead of hers. He had a stubborn will and much tenacity of purpose;
but she told herself that she had not toiled all these years to give up
the fruits of her labour at a child's bidding.
And then, dismissing the subject from her mind, she talked quite
happily to the small boy till she reached her destination. Her business
did not take her very long. She left Chuckles the proud possessor
of the reins outside the house, and when she joined him again, he
relinquished them very reluctantly.
"I can drive Nellie. She turned her head to look at me, for she meant
to bolt, but I showed her the whip and she was afraid of me!"
Monica drove home a different way. She was not quite certain of the
road, and missed her bearings, but when the river came in sight she was
reassured, for she knew she had only to follow it. Some tall yellow
flags attracted Chuckles' attention. He begged to be allowed to get
down and gather them.
"You must be quick, then," his aunt said to him, "or we shall be very
late home."
He scrambled down. Monica dreamily gazed before her, enjoying the
beauty of the scene. The river banks were shrouded with scenery: wild
roses, honeysuckle, and the white meadow-sweet climbed in riotous
profusion over the bushes. Here and there clumps of blue forget-me-nots
brightened the edge of the water. On the farther side of the river was
a wooded hill, and in a dip at one side was a glimpse of the distant
sea. Clouds were rolling in from it, and Monica began to fear that a
storm was on its way.
She was about to call to Chuckles, when a sharp scream and a heavy
splash broke the silence reigning. In an instant Monica sprang down and
dashed to the bank. She saw Chuckles struggling in the water. There was
a rapid current, and he was being carried down the river. In one second
she plunged in just as she was. She could swim, but her clothes were
heavy, and in one agonising moment, when the little figure sank, she
feared she had lost him. Then he rose, she was able to get hold of him,
and in another moment she struggled to the bank with him and landed
herself and him safely on shore. Chuckles was frightened and exhausted,
but quite conscious. She rapidly wrung his clothes as dry as she could,
and then wrapped him tightly round in the warm plaid and laid him in
the bottom of the trap.
"There!" she exclaimed. "That is a cold pack! Lie still, and I will
drive to the nearest house and get you dried and warm."
Then she wrung her wet garments, got into the trap, and drove as fast
as she could homewards. It was a lonely bit of country, and after
satisfying herself that Chuckles was well and warm, she did not go out
of her way to look for any houses. Her nerves were strong, but the
realisation how near the child had been to death that afternoon set
her face in tense lines, and made her strong capable hands tremble.
More than once she bent over the child to listen to his breathing. She
caught herself picturing her return home with a little drowned body at
her feet, and she shuddered at the vista it opened out before her of a
purposeless future and a wasted past.
A strong keen wind blew in from the sea; the clouds rolled up and
obscured the sun, and Monica shivered with cold. She found driving
in drenched garments a very miserable experience. She had not even a
rug over her knees, nothing to protect her from the rising storm. And
about two miles from home, the storm broke full upon her. She drove
into her own gates with a blue face and chattering teeth, but in spite
of all Aunt Dannie's expostulations, she would not change her wet
garments till she had put Chuckles to bed with her own hands, given him
something hot to drink, and seen him drop off into a quiet sleep. Then,
she thought of herself, and went off to her own room to get into dry
clothes.
The next morning she was too racked with pain to get out of bed, and
before another day dawned she was in the throes of rheumatic fever.
Sidney did not hear of it till the evening, and then she left Thanning
Towers and went over to help nurse her friend. Jockie carried off
Chuckles to the Rectory, and Aunt Dannie and Sidney, with the doctor's
help, fought hard to keep death at bay. Monica was a strong woman, but
for once she had presumed too much upon her hardy constitution, and
Nature asserted itself with a vengeance. She was wrapped in cotton-wool
from head to foot, and fever ran high. It was pitiful to hear her
repeating over and over again:
"Save the child! It does not matter about me. He must live. Oh, leave
me, and help him! Don't you hear his cries for help?"
Dr. Lanyard was indefatigable in his care and attention.
"We can't spare her yet, Miss Urquhart," he would say to Sidney; "hers
is a valuable life. We must not let her slip!"
And Sidney prayed earnestly for her recovery, and nursed her with
fervent devotion. The doctor at last insisted upon a nurse, for he saw
that Sidney was wearing herself out.
Aunt Dannie was not of much use in the sickroom, and when Monica was
conscious, the poor old lady's nervous fussy movements seemed to
irritate her. So Sidney persuaded her to remain downstairs and try to
superintend the many daily duties of the servants and farm hands.
Three weeks, four weeks passed, and only then did Monica slowly creep
back to convalescence. This was the most trying part of her illness,
for she began to fret and worry over her farm. Sidney tried to keep
things from her, for matters had not improved during her illness. Her
head man was more unsatisfactory than ever; he absented himself for
days together from the farm without any ostensible reason, except that
he was doing business in the neighbouring town, and the labourers were
becoming slack. They could not work without a head. The hay was left
uncut too long, and a wet month ensued, ruining some most promising
crops of rich meadow-grass.
One morning Sidney stood looking out of the sitting-room window in deep
dejection of mind.
The doctor had paid his usual daily visit, and had shaken his head when
he had come out of the sickroom. He had followed Sidney downstairs, and
had blurted out:
"Cheer her up, Miss Urquhart! She is a strong woman. She ought not to
lie worrying there over inevitable circumstances. She must use her
strength of will now to some purpose, to help her to endure what is
before her, for her farming days are over. I fear she will not walk
round her fields for many months to come—perhaps never!"
Sidney stared at him with pallid cheeks.
"Oh, don't say that! Give her hope, or she will die. She has been so
strong, she has had such no outdoor life! Surely her iron constitution
will save her from chronic rheumatism!"
"I have seen too many like her. She will be crippled for the rest of
her life, I fear. This rheumatism has seized hold of her like a vice,
and attacked every joint. When she gets stronger she might try some
baths, or the electrical treatment, but her age is against her."
"She is in the prime of life."
"If she were ten years younger she would have a better chance," said
the doctor grimly.
Sidney could not speak. Her heart ached for her friend. She shook hands
with the doctor in silence as he went away, and now stood at the window
and watched a grey mist roll in like smoke from the sea.
The trees and grass were sodden with wet, but the dreariness outside
did not equal the dreariness within. Aunt Dannie wandered up and down
the house with tear-stained cheeks, murmuring weakly to herself:
"What shall we all do! Everything is going to pieces for want of a
head!"
The three young maids quarrelled with each other, and, realising that
their mistress's tight hand was for the time withdrawn, spent most of
their time in gossip and surmises about the future. Chuckles' absence
brought an unusual quiet and stillness into the atmosphere, and Sidney,
standing in her deep mourning by the window, began to feel that deeper
trouble than her own seemed to be brewing in the farm.
She thought of Monica, who had boasted that she could never remember a
day's illness in her life; Monica, strong and active, whose greatest
joy was striding over her fields in all weathers; whose greatest
penance was to sit still for any given time indoors; and who was now
condemned by the doctor to be a cripple for life and never walk again.
"Oh!" cried Sidney, raising her sweet face to the sky. "I wish it had
been me. I wish I could bear it for her. I have no ties now, nothing
to demand my health and strength, and I should be able to draw comfort
from the One Monica does not know. I don't see how she will be able to
endure. It's a terrible verdict."
"Sidney, my dear, she is asking for you."
Aunt Dannie broke in upon her musings, and as Sidney went upstairs in
obedience to the summons, her heart was saying:
"Oh, God, help me to help her. Do Thou help her Thyself."
Monica lay on her bed, a wreck of her former self. She could not move
without pain, but she tried to smile when she saw Sidney.
"How soon shall I be about again?" she said. "The doctor looks so
mysterious when I question him. Did he say anything to you this
morning?"
"It will be a long business, dear, we are afraid."
Sidney spoke cheerfully, but her eyes could not meet Monica's.
"Does he not think I am going to recover?"
The words came like a pistol shot, so sharp and incisive they were.
"Oh, yes—yes—you are getting on splendidly, but you have had a very
severe attack, and it will take time."
There was silence for a few minutes, then Monica said:
"Chuckles must go to school as soon as possible. I meant him to go
after Easter."
"After the midsummer holidays will be time enough, dear. Jockie is
teaching him and looking after him. He is very happy and good."
"How long have I been ill?"
"Six weeks."
"And the hay. Has it all been saved?"
"Not all," said Sidney evasively. "You really must not worry over
anything just now, Monnie, or you will never get well."
"But I can't continue to lie here," said Monica in feverish excitement.
"I must be getting about to look after things."
She tried to rise, but the excruciating pains in her limbs made her
sink back amongst her pillows with a groan.
Sidney tried to soothe and comfort her, but it was hard work. Monica
made an exceedingly bad patient. And as her mind grew clearer and
stronger, her irritability and impatience seemed to increase. Even
Sidney felt a desire at times to go away and leave her to herself. No
one had the courage to tell her of the doctor's gloomy fears. But as
time went on, and she found that strength did not come to her crippled
limbs, Monica began to have her dark hours of doubt. When she was well
enough to be put into a wheeled chair, she was brought downstairs.
Sidney had arranged that a friendly farmer near should take over the
bulk of the crops and superintend all necessary farming operations for
the time. This was highly resented by Frank Edge, the head man, but
he had been absent so much from his work that he had little cause for
complaint. Austin de Cressiers had helped Sidney a great deal when
appeal to Monica had been impossible, but his advice was not always
followed.
"Chuck Edge if he doesn't do his work! Chuck them all; it's the only
way! I'd chuck anyone who didn't serve me faithfully, in the twinkling
of an eye!"
But Sidney did not feel she had the authority to "chuck" any of
Monica's people, and Aunt Dannie was hopeless and helpless about any
practical issue.
When Monica was downstairs, it was impossible to keep things from her.
She insisted on interviewing her man, and the interview was a trying
one to both of them. She dismissed him at once.
Sidney went back to Thanning Towers for a week or two, as Mrs. de
Cressiers was not very well. Once away, she found it very difficult
to get back to the farm, and Monica was forced to meet and fight her
battles alone. Chuckles was packed off to a private boarding-school,
and he departed in high spirits. Childlike, he had little notion of his
aunt's self-sacrificing devotion to him, and did not seem to take in
that her illness was due to her care and love of him.
Sidney had a very long Sunday talk with him before he went.
"I won't forget I'm a building," said Chuckles, looking into her face
with great earnestness. "And I've got to build and God has to build,
and we're going to do it wiv each other."
"No, Chuckles; God must put His Hand over yours and teach you how to
lay every brick."
"Should I put them on crooked?"
"Very crooked; so crooked that they would never hold together, and only
come to the ground with a crash!"
"But that's only when a storm comes, and I'm not on the rocks. I mean
to be quite, quite steady, I 'sure you, for I aren't on the sand. What
do you think my school bwicks will be?"
"The same as at home. Truth is one, obedience another. Industry—"
Chuckles jumped up and put his small hand over her lips.
"Don't say them all. They're so dis-disinter-westing."
Yet his last words to her were:
"I shall have gwown into a strong tower when you see me nex'. A very
high one indeed."
And Sidney kissed him with laughing eyes. "You dear little man! I shall
expect to see and hear great things now you are a genuine schoolboy."
It was a lovely autumnal morning. Sidney was walking along a terrace of
roses at Thanning Towers, reading a letter from Randolph Neville. It
was the first one she had received since she had left her old home, and
her eyes devoured each line with an eagerness which surprised herself.
"DEAR FELLOW BUILDER,
"Not one word will I tell you of my surroundings or work till I have
talked of your heavy trouble. Blow upon blow seems to have fallen upon
you. I have written before of my deep sympathy for you in the loss of
your dear father; but why need there have followed such an uprooting?
Surely your uncle's house is yours? You say little about his bride, and
I have to read between the lines. I feel a tremendous longing surge up
within me to come straight home and learn how it is with you. When I
return, shall I find that Thanning Dale knows you no more? I cannot see
it without your light active figure flitting along the roads, climbing
the beacon, gathering flowers in your quaint old garden by the sea.
"Will you write me a letter in answer to this and tell me all about
yourself, and your feelings and outlook, and about no one else at all?
I am greedy for news of you. I cannot see you at Thanning Towers. You
ought to be in a setting of your own. Don't, I beseech you, go away and
try to forget your troubles in the seething turmoil of city life. I
have been too long without a real home of my own to wish you a similar
fate. You write so calmly about being a single woman with no ties, but
you are not a woman to be without a home; you are essentially the ideal
home-maker. I cannot separate you from all that brings peace and rest
and cheer to any toil-worn, weary traveller.
"Who is looking after you, guarding and advising you? Have you anyone
who notes whether you are weary or tired, anyone whose joy it is to
watch every passing emotion on your face, to awake smiles, and still
tears? Oh, I expect you will say I am writing like some sentimental
boy; but I do not feel like one. I have been hardened and roughened in
the school of life, but I am like a traveller who has trodden tracts
of desolation and dreariness and has suddenly found an oasis in the
desert, with such a cluster of pure and sweet-scented blossoms growing
there that long after he has left it the scent and refreshment and
delight of that moment remains with him still. Would the traveller hear
unmoved that the sweet centre of that spot had been ruthlessly torn
from its setting, and the oasis would know it no more? Write to me,
I plead again, of yourself, for it is you who pass and repass in my
thoughts night and day.
"Your far-away friend,
"RANDOLPH NEVILLE."
Sidney's face was flushed as she folded up the letter and slipped it
into her pocket. She stood leaning against the low terrace wall, a
picture of dainty grace and sweetness, and in her eyes was a dreamy
glow of expectation.
"Oh," she said half aloud, "if I could only see him walking up this
path, I should never feel lonely again. He has never written me such a
letter before. What does he mean by it, I wonder?"
Her answer was not long in the sending.
"DEAR MR. NEVILLE,
"Your letter has already comforted me. It is such a wonderful thing
that my troubles and concerns are of more interest to you, so many
thousand miles away, than to any of my friends here with whom I talk
and live every day. I don't know that it is a good thing to write about
oneself. I have never been in the habit of doing so; nor do I wish to
spend much of my time in self-pity and self-introspection. Life has
changed to me, of course. But it had changed before my father died. The
glamour and joy of it had steadied down to quiet content. And so long
as I had him to live for, I wanted nothing else. Yet there were reasons
that made me thankful for his absence later on.
"And now I try not to think whether I am happy or not. What does it
matter? There are others who have as deep sorrows as I have had, and
are taking life as I am taking it—just a day at a time, to be lived,
not so much for oneself now, as for those who need our care and pity.
Mrs. de Cressiers will not let me leave her. I must do so before long.
But I do not think I will take refuge in towns. I love every inch of
these sweet country lanes, every ripple of the river that laps under
its green banks, always calling one down to the sea. My uncle asked me
wistfully yesterday, when I happened to meet him trudging down to the
river, where I was going to settle. He told me there was a small house
empty upon the cliffs at Yalstone. 'I could often turn in when I'm
fishing, and we'd have yarns together,' he said. But I had to shake my
head. Much as I love the sea, I could not live so close to it. I told
you in my last letter about Monica. Oh, isn't life perplexing and sad?
And she has not the key of Faith to unravel it. It is all dark to her.
I am going to see her this afternoon.
"Do, please, tell me a little of your doings when next you write.
I hear scraps about you from Gavine, who, of course, hears them from
George Lockhart. She says you have had an attack of fever. Are you over
it yet? Have you anyone—you see I am taking a leaf out of your book—who
looks after you and nurses you when ill?
"And now I'll answer some of your questions. I have Someone Who watches
over me and notes if I am weary or tired; Someone Who guards and
advises me; Someone Who brings smiles to my lips and stills the tears
that rise, and understands the very thoughts of my heart; Someone Who
daily makes that promise good: 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the
end of the world.'
"And isn't it good to think that He is guarding and guiding us both
at the same time—though the ocean may be between us—and shepherding us
through the wilderness that leads to our Home?
"Your fellow pilgrim,
"SIDNEY."