CHAPTER XI

AUSTIN'S ENLIGHTENMENT

CHRISTMAS came with its festivities; and though Thanning Dale was not a very gay neighbourhood, there was enough going on to keep everyone occupied. Sidney was freer now that her father was convalescent, and she and Jockie pressed Gavine into their service, for there were parish teas and entertainments and a Christmas tree for the children. And somehow or other, Austin was always with them. Sidney noticed that he did not mention Mrs. Norman's name, and there was something in his feverish gaiety and forced ring of cheerfulness, that made her wonder if anything had gone wrong in their friendship.

She was too busy to seek for his confidence; and, indeed, there was little opportunity for quiet talk between them. Gavine and he were good friends, but nothing more. Jockie made fun of him, laughed at him, and contradicted him whenever she got a chance, but Austin held his ground with her, and Sidney listened to their gay talk and laughter with relief of mind. This was Austin in his wholesome boyish state again. What had occasioned the change?

She was enlightened at last. Austin was seeing her home after the village children's prize-giving and treat. It was a windy night.

"Take my arm," he insisted; "you are tired out with the romping. Are you my friend still, Sid?"

"Is it my way to change?" Sidney said quietly.

"Oh, no, but women are beyond me. And it's my fate to have my ideals shattered."

"You'd better tell me," Sidney suggested.

"I want to. But you're the only one on earth I'll speak to about it; for I know you won't crow, and say 'I told you so.' It's only—only I've had a nasty shock about that little woman. I really can't bring myself to tell you, but it's all up between us, and I'm going to clear out for a bit. The mother condescended to say that I could have a holiday, and I'm off to Cairo next week. I know a fellow going out, and I've fixed it up with him."

"That is very wise of you," said Sidney, hardly knowing what to say.

"You don't ask questions? But I'll try to tell you. She sent me a letter intended for your uncle. 'Pon my honour, I feel sorry for her, but she began, 'My dearest,' and dashed if I didn't read it right through before I twigged she had put it in the wrong envelope. And she told him not to be angry with her, for the 'poor boy' would not keep away, and she could not make him see how he bored her. Then she went on to hint that if this poor infatuated youth still frequented her cottage, the Major must take into consideration that there was her girl ready to amuse him, and young people liked each other's company. Now what do you think of that? After assuring me that the Major was a daily purgatory to her. It bowled me over, I can tell you."

"I am sorry for you," Sidney said, "but you would take no warnings. She has wanted to keep you both as friends."

"Oh!" cried Austin with a little groan. "I tell you it has been a pretty stiff eye-opener to me! I sent the letter back to her, and told her she need not trouble to send the letter she originally meant for me, and, of course, I haven't been near her since. She wrote an abject apology, saying she could explain if I called, but mum's the word! And I shall be out of it soon. And I'm jolly well cured of a leaning towards your sex, Sid. If it were not for you, I'd never believe in a single woman again. By George! How she's taken me in, and befooled me. Do you think the Major got my letter?"

"No, I don't think he did," said Sidney, stifling a sigh. "I almost wish he had. I don't think his eyes will ever be opened."

"I shouldn't like to tell you of the jeers and jibes she has flung at his courting. But she may pull it off with him. And I say, do befriend that poor girl; she does have a time of it."

"Do you mean Gavine?"

"Yes, I put my foot in it several times trying to stand up for her. Don't think I'm a broken-hearted youth, Sid. I tell you, I rode by the cottage on purpose to-day, and whistled merrily. But all the same, I shall be glad to turn my back on this place for a time."

When they parted, Sidney looked at him gravely.

"Austin, you ought to be thankful to have had your eyes opened. She never would have made you happy."

But when she got indoors she said to herself:

"And now I feel that Uncle Ted is doomed. She will not let him escape her."

And that feeling hovered about her like an angry looming cloud. The more cheerful her uncle became, the more anxious she was. The uncertain future seemed to menace her. It needed all her faith and fortitude to go about with a bright and smiling face.

About the same time Monica had a visit from Mrs. Norman. She was the first to inform her that Austin was leaving home for a time.

"It is an immense relief to me. In fact, I may tell you in confidence that it is chiefly through my instrumentality that he is going. It was bad enough to have him in and out of my house all hours of the day, before Gavine came to me. I was sorry for the boy. He seemed so lonely and miserable, so misunderstood at home. But you know a woman's pity is sometimes mistaken for something else, and I found he was presuming too much, so I had to stop it. You see, I do not mind what people say of myself. I am quite impervious to idle gossip. I think if one has a clear conscience one is perfectly indifferent to the wagging of tongues. But I have my daughter to think of now, and I was afraid if he was never out of our house, that her name might be a subject of gossip. A woman is always supposed to have matrimonial plans, if she has a pretty daughter. So I wrote him a letter which has effectually quenched him. I have acted rightly, have I not? I believe you would have done the same, had you been in my place."

Monica could not but agree. She did not know how much went on at Lovelace's Cottage; she was too busy a woman to meddle much in her neighbours' affairs; but when Sidney came next to see her, she told her what she considered were "the rights of the story." Sidney listened, and felt hopeless and helpless to put the matter straight, so did not try to do so.

"We had better take Mrs. Norman at her own valuation, Monnie. It will be only a fret and annoyance to ourselves if we don't. How do you like her daughter?"

"I have hardly seen her, but she happens to be coming to tea this afternoon. Will you stay to meet her? Jockie is going to bring her in here after their walk."

"Yes, I shall like to stay. Father and Uncle Ted have actually gone out driving together. It is some business they want to do with their lawyer in Pegborough."

Something in Sidney's tone made Monica look at her sharply.

"Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Nothing, I believe; but I am full of fears, Monnie."

"And I am afraid Austin's absence will not mend matters."

"We shall see. How is Chuckles? Do you think his Sunday lessons are impressing him?"

"He is still mad on building. Some of his remarks are very funny. He asked Aunt Dannie if God had not nearly finished building her yet; and when she said she did not know, he informed her that when the top stone was put on, God would take her to heaven. I really enjoy listening to him. I will bring up the subject at tea-time, and you will see for yourself if he does his teacher credit."

Sidney gave a little sigh.

"It is so easy to talk, so difficult to live. Life is very perplexing, Monnie."

"But you don't find it perplexing," said Monica with a dry little smile. "You tell me that your foundation is so sure that you are never affected or moved by difficulties and troubles. Isn't there a verse in the Psalms, 'I shall never be moved'? That is your position, is it not?"

Sidney looked wistfully out of the window.

"It ought to be my realisation." Then a light came into her eyes. "But it doesn't say 'I shall never be shaken'; only 'never be moved.' It's the buffeting I find so trying. It isn't the building's fault when the wind and storm attack it."

She visibly brightened up.

"I like to tease you sometimes," said Monica, smiling at her.

"Yes, you brace me up, Monnie. I feel very slack at present. I have all kinds of presentiments, and I honestly don't like living near anyone who is not friendly to me. I see the girls are coming in. They are a handsome couple, are they not?"

Chuckles was dancing up the garden after them. He was in a very dirty overall, and brandished a trowel in one hand.

Monica carried him off to make him tidy for tea; the girls joined Sidney in the cosy sitting-room. Both were genuinely glad to see her there.

"We've been up the Beacon," said Jockie. "It's our favourite walk. Oh, dear! I shall be glad of some tea. Talking and climbing are rather exhausting, and our tongues have been hard at it. Gavine says she's going away soon; isn't it a shame of her, when I want her so much?"

"Does your mother want you to leave her so soon?" Sidney asked, turning to Gavine.

"Yes," the girl answered simply; then she added, with a little effort: "We have been talking together, and mother is quite willing that I shall go and do something. You see, my aunts do not really need me. They told me so when I came away; they thought my duty was to stay with my mother."

"And is it not?" asked Sidney.

"Not when it is her wish that I should leave her," said Gavine quietly. "I am going up to London to stay with a clergyman and his wife; he has a curacy in the slums somewhere, and they say they can give me plenty of work. She was at school with me. Jockie knows her."

"Yes; she's not a bit like a clergyman's wife; much too fond of dress and society," said the outspoken Jockie; and then she laughed.

"I expect people say much the same of me—not a bit like a clergyman's cousin; much too fond of fun. I tell Gavine we can give her plenty of parish work, can't me, Miss Urquhart? But I know what she wants—a more rigorous, self-denying life; she wants to live in a kind of cell and be short of food and fires, and go out to early services at six o'clock in the morning, and make herself very ill and bad-tempered."

Monica came back at this juncture, leading a very clean Chuckles by the hand. Then she asked them to come to a sit down tea in the dining-room.

When they were at the table, Sidney asked the small boy what he had been doing with himself all the afternoon. His eyes gleamed.

"I've been building a real house, me and Mr. Rudge togever."

"It's a labourer's cottage being erected," said Monica. "You can fancy that he discovered it very quickly."

"Yes," said Chuckles, with a self-satisfied nod. "Mr. Rudge holded my hand and showed me how to put the mortar atween the bwicks. He was very like God this morning. I tolded him so."

Gavine stared at the child with her grave eyes.

Jockie giggled.

"How was he, Chuckles?" she asked. "Tell us."

"He helped me to build," said Chuckles with great gravity. "That's what God does to me every day, doesn't He, Miss Sid?"

Monica looked across at Sidney with a smile.

Chuckles was never better pleased than when he had got an audience. He lifted up his voice and continued:

"I'm just about middle built now."

"What do you mean?" asked Jockie.

"Well, fust, you see, God builded me a baby; that's when I couldn't do nuffin myself, and God builded me all by Hisself. Then He went on building me taller, a little bit at a time, until I was builded into a boy; now I've got to build a little myself, and build all kinds of bwicks on me; and God just hold His hand over mine so I don't make no mistakes. He's building me up gooder every day."

"Oh," said Monica, "I hope I see the goodness coming, Chuckles; but you don't grow in that direction very fast."

Chuckles cocked his head on one side like some saucy sparrow.

"The bwicks don't stick always," he asserted; "sometimes they tummles off; 'specially the bwick this week—it's to do what you're told quick, and it won't stick."

"Did you teach him all this, Miss Urquhart?" asked Gavine, a light leaping into her eyes.

"Yes," said Sidney; "we're doing a course of building every Sunday, and we find out a lot about it, don't we, Chuckles? We're all builders—of a sort."

"Of a sort," repeated Monica slowly.

"When I'm builded into a man, I shall begin to build other people," asserted Chuckles.

And the important tone with which he said it made the girls laugh.

They had a merry tea. Jockie was overflowing with fun and spirits, but when the time came for them to go, she said to Sidney:

"Will you let Gavine walk a part of the way with you. I have promised to be home in time for the choir practice; and she's dying to talk to you."

Sidney was only too delighted. She had wanted to see more of Gavine, but seemed to have had no opportunities with her.

When they were left alone together Gavine said:

"What a quaint child that boy is. He seems such a mixture. Jockie says he is a regular pickle, and yet he talks like a little saint."

"He is far from a saint," said Sidney; "but real religion is as natural to children as their daily food. They only want teaching, and Chuckles has a bright intelligence and a vivid imagination. I love having him on Sunday."

"I want to be a builder," said Gavine earnestly. "I really think I'm going to get my wish. But I wish I could think with Chuckles that God would put His hand over mine to prevent mistakes."

"He will if you ask Him," said Sidney earnestly. "Only, if you want to be a successful builder, be sure about your foundation."

"How do you mean?"

"Chuckles and I began with the stories of the houses on the rock and sand. Don't build on sand; it will only court disaster. It says in the Bible: 'Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ.'"

"Oh, do talk to me, Miss Urquhart," said Gavine in a voice which vibrated with earnest longing. "Jockie said you would. I want to know so much. I want to get satisfied."

Sidney gave a little happy laugh as she tucked Gavine's arm within hers.

"You poor child! Talking is easy, but the right talk is what we want. And I don't quite know where you are."

"I don't know where I am myself," said Gavine, "except that long ago I felt that life would not bring me sunshine, so I determined that it should bring me work. But I seem thwarted on all sides. Now, it is true, I feel light is coming, but it has been obtained at tremendous cost. My mother has been long in coming round to my point of view, and she has told me definitely that, as I wish to take up work, I must look upon it as my profession or vocation in life, and never count again upon her house as my home. It makes me feel bitter, but it is happier to have a complete understanding between us. We haven't an idea in common. She says I am my father's daughter, and she never cared about him; it is no good to pretend she did. All my life I have been hoping she would have me with her, and let me take care of her and work for her. It has been one series of hopes and disappointments. Now it has come to a crisis, and it is better so. I can learn to stand alone.

"Many girls would glory in such freedom. I have £80 a year of my own now, for I was twenty-one last week. But though work is coming to me, it has not as yet made me really happy, and I am wondering if it will. I suppose it doesn't matter about being happy, does it? But you carry it about in your face. I was watching you to-day. I know you feel sad sometimes. I—don't laugh—but Jockie and I love looking at your face. It is so beautiful, and has so many changes in it. Before Chuckles began to talk, conversation was a little effort to you, and your thoughts were far-away; then, when he began to talk about building, light and gladness crept into your eyes and the merry ring into your voice. You looked as if you were brimming over with happiness, and I felt as if I was outside a house in the cold and rain, looking into a cosy firelit room. Do help me."

Quick tears had sprung into Sidney's eyes. She exclaimed impulsively:

"You shall not go to London till you know how you can be happy, dear. You will want the deep fountains of content inside you to tide you over all the sin and misery that you will see in London's slums. I wish you could come back to dinner with me this evening. Do you think you could? We will send you home."

Gavine's eyes looked very wistful.

"I wish I could. But I don't know whether mother would like it."

"Oh, yes, she will. I will send a note down and say I have kept you; that is the best way. Now let us go on talking. I wonder what foundation you have under your feet? I mean what do you rely on when things go wrong? What is your aim, your hope, your inspiration?"

Gavine's young pulses throbbed, yet her eyes were troubled.

"I think I'm like a watch without a mainspring. I have great ideas of what can be done, what ought to be done, and of what I mean to do, but I don't seem to get the power to do it. I'll confess to you, Miss Urquhart. Jockie has been giving me sick poor to go and see in the village. I've all my life wanted to visit the poor. I've had to content myself with waiting on a sick aunt, and I've felt all my talents were hidden and wasted. Well, I've visited the poor; but, do you know, my tongue has been dumb. What can I say to help or comfort a mother who is doing her share of wage-earning by days out at farms, a mother who gets from her husband thirteen shillings a week, and has eleven children to bring up and fit out in life upon it? What can I say to a partially paralysed old woman who lies in bed day after day alone with her thoughts, and only a dirty, cracked ceiling and a dingy coloured wall to feast her eyes upon? It makes me wonder, now I have got the desire of my heart, whether that will turn to dust and ashes when I touch it."

"Why do you want to work so much?" said Sidney softly.

"Why? I don't know, except that I've always had a contempt for wastelings, for idlers, for cumberers of the ground. We're put into the world to make it better, aren't we? We have to work our way to heaven. That is my goal. I do think it is. I want to be inside its gates one day. And a lifetime here is only a fragment of eternity, is it not?"

Gavine's eyes were glowing, her heart was in her words.

"Yes," said Sidney. "You want to be a builder with the rest of us."

"I do, I do. I have all the longings for it in the abstract, but I am beginning to doubt myself, to wonder what practical value I am going to be in the world."

"Oh, Gavine dear, you will be all right if you build on the right foundation. But a creed of good works erected on the sand will topple over before they reach heaven. And it is such dreary work wondering if one has done enough, or will do enough to pay for what has already been paid for. Don't you know from your Bible that eternal life can never be bought—that it is a gift?"

"We must work out our own salvation," murmured Gavine.

"Yes, work it out, but it must be given us first. That is such a misunderstood verse. We work, for love compels more forcefully than the desire to escape death. Do you remember St. Paul's words?—'And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity,' or Love. Christianity is the gospel of Love. Christ earned heaven for you, He showed His love by dying, and by bearing your sins. He could do no more. When God Himself said, 'It is finished,' do you think it needs our puny attempts, even of a lifetime, to add to His scheme of salvation? We can show our gratitude and love to Him by a good life and good work; that is our absolute duty, but when every act pleases the One you love, it is such happy work."

There was a little silence. Then Gavine squeezed Sidney's arm, and there was a sound of tears in her voice.

"Oh, Miss Urquhart; I have never had anyone to talk so to me before. Show me how to love Him."