CHAPTER XVI

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.