CHAPTER XIX

RANDOLPH'S RETURN

"HE will come home."

"Do you think he will?"

"Sure to. It's a most splendid appointment."

It was a year later. Monica and Sidney were sitting in the garden. Sidney was working, whilst Monica was reading the newspaper; and it was Randolph Neville whom they were discussing. There was a short paragraph in the paper, mentioning the good work he had done on the frontier, and the appointment that was offered to him of an important Government post in Central India.

Monica had had a terrible year of suffering and struggling against her fate. She had been through many treatments, but with very little result as regards improvement to her health. She could walk a little with the help of a stick, and use her hands; but she would never be a strong active woman again; and she had at last grasped this fact and accepted it. Sidney had never left her. Monica had told her that if she did, she would not endure her life a day longer; and though her rash words were unconvincing, Sidney had not the heart to leave her alone.

The months had been testing times for all, for Monica's courage deserted her, and she was a captious irritable impatient invalid. Aunt Dannie worried her so much, and realised that she did, that she finally left her and went to make a home with an old friend of hers in London. Sidney took the household into her care, a good working bailiff was found for the farm, and the routine of life went on pretty much as before.

Chuckles came home for his holidays, and gladdened the place with his presence. But his aunt never spoke to him about being a farmer now. She had decided to sell the place as soon as she got a good offer for it and retire into a town, where Chuckles could attend a good day school. Her hair was grey, and her face lined like an old woman; for this upheaval in her life had met and conquered all her fighting strength, and her agonising and futile efforts to get the better of it had left scars behind which would not ever be effaced.

Sidney's sweetness and patience with her, her unfailing cheerfulness, and unswerving trust in One Who is Lord of circumstances, did much to soften her lot; but though Monica had accepted her fate, she was not resigned to it. She had been very slowly, from constant intercourse with Sidney, learning a few lessons that were not of her own materialistic school; but though she was seeing through a glass darkly, she was still outside that circle of rest and assurance in which:

Though "the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls," yet the bereaved one is able to "rejoice in the Lord," and "joy in the God of his salvation."

She was still her determined practical self; very quiet about her deep feelings, coldly undemonstrative to everyone but Sidney. But she was beginning to take more interest in the outside world, and to bear the visits of her friends without the resentment she had showed at first.

Sidney's heart beat quickly at the thought that she might possibly see Randolph soon.

Their letters had insensibly altered in character from the time when they had first started their correspondence. She felt she could not greet him now as a mere acquaintance. He was a good deal more to her than that. And as she mused upon the probability of an early meeting, the flush deepened in her cheeks, and the light came to her eyes.

About four days afterwards, Monica received a wire.

"Can you put me up? Landed in London last night.—RANDOLPH."

And Sidney felt as if she were walking on air after it came.

It was a most exquisite evening in August when he arrived. The dogcart had been sent to the station for him, and Monica and Sidney greeted him from their seat on the lawn. He strode towards them, looking thin and sunburnt; but his eyes were on Sidney's face and no other.

"How good to see you here," he said, as he took her hand in his. "I hardly dared to hope it."

Monica smiled at his outspokenness.

"She is where she always is," she said,—"where her help is needed. Since I have become such a crock, she has supplied all my deficiencies."

And then Randolph turned to her.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he murmured.

"Well, if you are, you mustn't say so. Because I am not yet able to endure pity. Here is Chuckles coming to greet you. He was hoping to drive you back from the station, but arrived home too late from the Rectory."

Chuckles had flung himself delightedly on Randolph. His school had not as yet robbed him of his impulsive affectionate ways.

"I'm simply longing to hear about India, Cousin Ran."

"Well, give me breathing space, old chap. I'll do my best later on. Now I want to hear all the news round here; my news can wait."

Sidney had slipped into the house. It was more than she could bear to stay quietly there. The touch of his hand, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, were all too much for her. She felt like breaking down. She would have given worlds to have had her first meeting with him alone, but Monica hardly realised how things were between them. And Sidney had hardly realised it herself until she was brought face to face with him.

Randolph's eyes followed her to the house. And then Monica, looking up, caught the hungry unsatisfied look in his eyes, and understood. She promptly resolved to give him his opportunity later on.

Meanwhile, with Chuckles on his knee, he sat and asked after Major Urquhart.

"Oh, he is pretty well; but he is not a happy man, and is in complete subjection to his wife. She fills the house with visitors whenever she gets a chance; but I have nothing to say against her. She is sweetness itself to all outsiders, and is always doing little kindnesses to her neighbours. Her role is to be popular. As a matter-of-fact, people round here take her existence very quietly, and do not have much to do with her. They can't get over Sidney's dethronement."

His lips met together in a stern line.

"And has she no home but this?"

"Not at present. I assure you it's not a bad one, taking everything into consideration. She has had bad times with me, but we're really fond of each other, and she says she is happy and content."

"And what about young Austin? Is he married yet? I haven't seen the young lady, have I?"

"No; she arrived in this part after you left. Well, of course, people shook their heads at first; but, really, it seems turning out remarkably well. They were married last May, and Jockie is perfectly happy living under the wings of her mother-in-law. She has a most astonishing capacity of adapting herself to her surroundings, and from a rather noisy hoyden, she is shaking down into a very fascinating and sweet little daughter of the house. Old Mr. de Cressiers is pretty much the same. He is devoted to Jockie; and Austin has settled down in great content."

Chuckles had kept silent as long as he could. Now he burst forth:

"And I go to school, Cousin Ran, and I'm in the eleven, and I gets more runs than any other chap."

"Wonderful!" said Randolph absently; then he turned to Monica. "She's looking so frail. Has she been ill?"

There was no need to ask who "she" was.

"I think I have worn her out a good deal," said Monica gravely. "But, of course, she's been through a lot since you saw her last. And though her spirit is not broken, nor her bright hopefulness taken from her, yet the loss of her father and home has told upon her physically."

Randolph was silent for a moment or two. Then he rose from his seat, and stood looking down upon his cousin with pity in his eyes. Chuckles dashed away into the house. He could never be still for very long.

"You won't let me say how sorry I am for what has befallen you," he said.

"No. Please don't try to. It is just what I cannot stand. Talk to me as you would in the old days. Try to feel that my individuality is as strong and unimpaired as ever. It is only my outer shell that is the crock."

"It is strange that such trouble should come upon you both in the same year," said Randolph musingly.

"Yes," said Monica, with a little dry smile. "I tell Sidney we are the two builders who built their houses side by side, one on the rock, the other on the sand. The storms have come and beaten upon us; hers still stands firm, but mine has gone under. And I tell you honestly that I would give anything sometimes to have Sidney's faith. Something to which I could cling, some light beyond the present. I'm sitting amongst the ruins of my plans and hopes, and though I've given up the struggle at last of trying to erect my building again, I'm not what you call resigned or happy. It's a cruel fate to overtake me, is it not?"

"I should start building again," said Randolph, looking at her meditatively. "It may have to be a different style of building, and upon a different foundation, but you can still be a builder of sorts."

Monica made no reply. Then she made a move towards the house, and quiet talk was for the time postponed. Sidney appeared when the evening meal was ready. She wore a simple white gown. She might be thin, and her face somewhat transparent, but the flush on her cheeks and light in her eyes made her look very radiant.

Randolph could hardly keep his eyes off her, but he was led to talk of his experiences, and he had a good deal of interesting news to give, so that Sidney lost her momentary fit of self-consciousness and was an eager listener. Young George Lockhart had got promotion besides himself, and had already written to Gavine to ask her to come out and share his life.

"He's as steady as a rock now," said Randolph, "and has a good future in front of him. I hope she is the kind of girl to be a help to him."

"She will be a tremendous help to him if she goes," said Sidney warmly.

And then, with a little hesitation, Randolph said:

"I came down here with a Major Hughes and his wife. He used to live in this neighbourhood, did he not? They're visiting the Woods. We got into conversation. I knew her before she married."

His eyes never left his plate as he spoke. He felt, much as he longed to meet Sidney's eyes as he hurled this bolt upon her, that it would be more honourable on his part not to do so.

Sidney's tone was easy and assured.

"Yes; Archie Hughes is an old friend. I thought he was still in India."

"His wife was ordered home by doctors, so he has come with her to spend his long leave."

"You never told me that you knew his wife," said Monica, eyeing him anxiously.

"Did I not? I used to be often at her father's house in town."

Sidney was slightly distrait for the rest of the meal. But when it was over, Monica asked her to show Randolph some new farm buildings which had been erected since he had been there.

"They were a good investment," said Monica quietly, "though I shan't have the use of them much longer. I am putting up the place for sale shortly."

Randolph walked out into the sweet evening air, feeling that his opportunity was close at hand. What were farm buildings to him when Sidney was by his side? How hungrily he had longed for the sound of her voice, the sight of her smile, in those distant lands which had held him!

Sidney trod lightly by his side.

"What is Mrs. Hughes like?" she asked.

"She looks ill and worn now, but she used to be a pretty girl when I knew her." Then, in rather a stern tone, he added: "She was engaged to be married to me before she went out to India." Sidney drew her breath in sharply.

"And I was engaged to him," she said simply, "or thought I was."

They were crossing the old orchard. He turned round quickly, and, before Sidney realised it, both her hands were imprisoned in his.

"Isn't it a remarkable thing that the two who wrought havoc in our lives should be brought before us, to-night of all nights?"

"Why?" asked Sidney gently.

"Because I am hoping that we have both learnt not to regret the past. I know I have. Have you?"

Sidney raised her eyes to his, the eyes that Randolph loved so to meet, so clear and deep and sweet were they under their long curled lashes.

"Yes," she said. "I have no regrets."

Then he spoke, and strong man as he was, his voice was a little husky, and he paled under his emotion.

"I wonder if you guess why I have come home? By night and day your presence has been with me. I have closed my eyes and pictured you before me; I have dreamed so often that a rustle of your gown in passing, a whispered call, told me that you were with me. I got heart-sick for a sight of you, the sound of your voice. Oh, Sidney, sweetest, will you let me tell you how I long to take care of you for the rest of your life? You have been spending your life in looking after others, will you let me look after you? I want to love you, to guard you, to make it my one business in life to make you happy. Do you think I shall be able to do it? Will you trust yourself entirely to me?"

Sidney's hands trembled in his. Her lips quivered. Though this was an exquisite moment in her life, her eyes were blinded by a mist of tears. She allowed his strong arm to come round her, and with a little happy sigh leant her head against his shoulder.

"Oh!" she said softly. "If you have wanted me, I have wanted you. I believe I have missed you every day since you went."

"And I you. Do you remember, darling, the first night we came to dine at The Anchorage—Monica and I? You were standing outside the door, looking like some ethereal being who had come to earth, met with bitter disappointment and disillusion, and was already poised for flight. Your soul seemed reaching out to heaven. That picture of you has never left my heart. And now I will confess to you that same evening I discovered your trouble. Do you remember coming down to the river just before you left Lady Fielding's, and calling out in the anguish of your heart: 'Oh, God! Teach me to forget!' I was an unwilling listener, for I had just arrived, thought nobody was in, and was lying under the wall in a boat. And you uttered the words that were hammering away in my own brain. I had that morning received the same shock as you had, and was in great bitterness of soul. When I heard you sing, it flashed across me that I had heard your voice before, and then I remembered."

Sidney lowered her head a little.

"That dreadful day I hardly know what I did, and how I got home to father. Oh, it was dreadful! But it is past. Don't let us think of it. How wonderful it was that we were brought together! How strange that we each should have been dealt the same blow!"

"Yes, Fate plays many tricks, does she not? Oh, Sidney! Sweetheart, I can hardly believe I have won you! How often when I was here before, I longed to chase the sadness out of your eyes! How I have prayed for this moment to hold you in my arms, and tell you how I loved you! The time has been sweetened out abroad by your letters; I have carried them about; I have slept with them under my pillow. I have learnt them by heart, and kissed the writing night and morning, but they're a poor exchange after all for you, yourself. I got foolishly jealous at one time of young Austin. I was glad when you told me that he had gone abroad. It was torture to me when you left your home, and I knew that you had no longer any man to care for you or protect you. I know I'm out of date; but, thank God, you are! You don't want to go through life alone and independent, do you? You will be content to come to me, and let me have the joy of caring for you?"

Sidney's murmured assent was hardly needed. She felt the exquisite rest of soul that a good and strong man's love brings to one. She believed in him and she loved him. He would never disappoint her.

Presently she released herself, but the farm buildings were forgotten. They wandered round in the twilight talking over their letters, their experiences, their need of each other; and when they at last returned to the house, Monica received them in her matter-of-fact fashion.

"I am sure you have never been near my buildings. Well, it served its purpose, and now accept my congratulations. You are a very lucky man, Randolph, to have won her heart. But I don't like the idea of you carrying her off from us all. How shall we get on without her?"

"You can get on better without her than I can," said Randolph, with erect head and triumphantly happy eyes. "And I think it is her turn to be taken care of. You people down here seem to regard her as a general help, one whom you can send for at a moment's notice, if you get into any sort of trouble. I am going to stop all that, for she is worn-out in working for others."

"Never!" said Sidney, looking up at him with kindling eyes. "Don't you know that is a woman's highest ideal, to be wanted?"

"Then that ideal will be realised, for I have only half lived since I met you first, and then had to part from you."

"It's just another form of selfishness," said Monica dryly. "She will have to centre herself round one individual, instead of round many."

Randolph laughed lightheartedly.

"You have me there," he said; "but I'm not going to take her to a desert island. She is going to help me at Empire building."

A sharp line showed itself between Monica's brows.

"Oh, this building!" she exclaimed. "It is getting on my nerves."

Sidney bent over her and kissed her.

"We won't talk about it any more, Monnie, and you are not going to lose me yet, not for a long time."