"Why, Joan, dear, I don't think I should have known you. You are looking bonny," was the greeting she gave her goddaughter.
"Yes; I am always in rude health," said Joan laughing. Then, as she led her to the fly, she added: "I still feel as I always used to feel, that you are a kind of fairy godmother, quite different from the usual people I am accustomed to mix with."
"I dare say you will find me stepping down from that pedestal before long," said Lady Alicia smiling.
Then they talked about Mrs. Adair and Cecil, and they arrived at the rectory just after four.
Mr. Adair came out into the porch to meet them. Lady Alicia delighted him by expressing herself charmed with the old rectory. Joan took her up to the spare room, which looked dainty and bright with its blazing fire, and fresh flowers on the dressing-table.
"Ah," said Lady Alicia, as she sat down in the easy chair by the fire; "your father has his right setting at last, Joan. I always told him a country rectory would be his fate one day. I'm sure he is much happier in the country; is he not?"
"Yes, he certainly is. He loves this place, and is only disappointed that Mother finds it too cold to stay here."
"She must stay here in the summer, then. I told her so. You will have her back in May, I hope, Joan. I want to ask you ever so many questions, but they will keep. What a dear, quaint, little house you have! I love its dark oak and low rooms. There is such a sense of peace and quiet in it!"
"Do you feel it so?" Joan asked eagerly with a flush on her cheeks. "It impressed me like that the first time I saw it. In the rush and hurry of every day, I lose that sense, except when I have been out and come in; then it always strikes me as a haven. And rectories ought to have restful, peaceful atmospheres, ought they not? So many who have lived and died in them have been in close touch with heaven."
"Yes," assented Lady Alicia gravely; but her eyes softened as they rested on Joan's fair, happy face.
Joan left her to see that tea was ready, and old Sophia, beaming in her best black dress, slipped upstairs to "wait on" her ladyship.
Lady Alicia shook her by the hand.
"Well, Sophia, your young lady is turning into a beauty. She was a gawky schoolgirl when I saw her last."
"Ah, my lady, she's the best of the bunch; nothing comes irksome to her. And she shoulders her burdens with a joke and a laugh. The master would be lost without her. He's getting to lean upon her. I always do say, my lady, that women be the props of the nation. A man has no common sense to guide him without her."
"I think we can stand alone better than they can," said Lady Alicia smiling.
She and Sophia understood each other thoroughly, and Sophia now bent forward with an anxious look in her old eyes.
"Ah, my lady, could you not get the mistress to be more here now? She's wanted. The master fair pines for the sight of her."
Lady Alicia shook her head.
"No, Sophia. How often have you asked me that before! But I sometimes think it is a little kink in her brain. She will not settle down in her own home. And don't you see that now, when she has a daughter who so well fills her place, she will be less likely than ever to come back and work in her husband's parish?"
"If she were only to bide in the house along with the master, 'twould ease his dear mind. She were never cut out for parish visiting."
"That she was not!" said Lady Alicia with her pleasant laugh. "You are a good creature, Sophia. I see you are determined to unpack me; but, I assure you, since I have travelled about the world as a lone woman, I am quite accustomed to maid myself. I'm in love with your old house. I feel as if I were transplanted back a hundred years."
She came into the drawing-room a little time later, and the rector and Joan and she had a very cosy tea and chat together. Then the rector went off to his study, and Joan and Lady Alicia sat on in the firelight talking of many things. Joan described the neighbours, the villagers, and the life surrounding the rectory. She told Lady Alicia of the offer which had been made to her and which she had refused.
"You think I was right? I hope you don't think I ought to have gone. I do not feel that my college education has been wasted, for I am always hoping that the time may come when I shall be able to profit by it. In any case, knowledge is never waste, is it?"
"Not unless you bury it in a napkin," said Lady Alicia. "My dear Joan, I think you could not have acted otherwise, but I gave your mother a good scolding when I saw her in Edinburgh. She is ruining Cecil. That girl is no more delicate than I am; it is just a case of nerves and fancies."
"She will never be different," said Joan.
"I don't know," Lady Alicia rejoined, looking thoughtfully into the coal fire in front of her. "I felt that I should like to take possession of her and see if I could not wake her into life. She has brains."
"Yes," said Joan; "I often wish she would use the brains she has. But I don't think sisters can ever help one another. Cecil laughs at me and calls me old-fashioned."
"Poor little Joan!"
Joan was sitting on a low chair, and Lady Alicia for a moment laid her hand caressingly on her head.
Then Joan turned a flushed face and tearful eyes towards her.
"Oh, Lady Alicia, I do want to work; I do want to do something with my life. There is so much that we women can do nowadays. This is such a small sphere for an able-bodied woman! I feel sometimes as if anyone could potter in and out of the cottages and talk to the old women. It sounds conceited if I say it isn't worth my while, but I really do fear lest this easy, monotonous country life should paralyse my powers. Do comfort and help me, if you can. Sometimes I feel as if I can never go on."
"And I have helped you to test the power of your wings. I wonder if it was wise."
Lady Alicia looked affectionately at her as she spoke.
"I can never thank you enough. You lifted me into another atmosphere altogether."
"Yes, I am not going to regret sending you to Girton. But, Joan dear, you and I believe in the ordering of our lives by One Who never makes mistakes. Why fret over this bit of your life, even if it seems to you somewhat inactive? It fits in all right with the plan. If we don't have the key to it, it does not signify. There may be some soul here whom God has purposed shall be helped by you. I know a good woman who was sent out all the way to India to help a gay young bride. Of course, she did not know the reason of it at the time—she hated Anglo-Indian society, and she was placed in the midst of it for four months—but she understood afterwards, and was so thankful that she had not yielded to her inclinations to stay at home with congenial friends. There may be some troubles which are hard to bear, but I never think the plain force of circumstances, however uncongenial, ought to fret us in the least. Instead of spending our time in useless repining, let us look about and discover the bit of work which we are meant to do. The best tools are used for the simplest work. If you have an aptitude for teaching and moulding and influencing, there is somebody in this part of the world who is waiting for you to begin on them."
"That is delightful to think of," said Joan slowly. "Somehow or other I have felt it must be to shape my own character and make me patient in the day of small things, and though I have prayed to be made willing, yet it has been a constant struggle to be so. I am ashamed of myself as I think of this sweet home. I love the country, too, and if I could feel sure that I was not missing better opportunities, I would settle down contentedly here. You have done me such a lot of good."
"Settle down," said Lady Alicia. "It may seem a small life to you, but 'Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit.' Do you remember that wise saying of Solomon's? You do not know from what you may be saved. I know you are ambitious, and feel that you have powers that are not being used at present. A public life for a woman very often brings great strain. You have a 'handful with quietness' here. It is God's will for you; glorify Him in it."
And then there was silence between them. Both were occupied with their own thoughts.
For the rest of that evening Lady Alicia touched on more general topics. She was a good talker, and had the gift of suiting her conversation to her company. Mr. Adair always enjoyed a talk with her, and, when dinner was over, he did not retire to his study, as was his usual custom, but came into the drawing-room, where he and Lady Alicia had a long and interesting discussion on Church methods.
Joan listened, and enjoyed it; and whilst she listened, she pondered over Lady Alicia's words.
"Settle down." Yes, she determined she would, and Wilmot Gascoigne should not make her dissatisfied with her sphere. There was no stagnation where there was life—and if village life was to be her opportunity for work, she must do it with a glad heart.
CHAPTER X
OFF TO THE RIVIERA
LADY ALICIA threw herself heart and soul, for the time being, into the village circle in which she found herself. She walked out with Joan, and visited the old and sick; she took a Sunday school class of girls, she attended the choir practices, covered library books, checked club accounts, and was as keen as Joan herself over the welfare of the parishioners. One evening after Joan had been practising Major Armitage's carol, they began to talk about him.
"He must be a real musician," said Lady Alicia. "I should like to hear him play. I know his brother in Yorkshire, and have often heard about him."
"He has been in London for the last fortnight," said Joan. "He often comes round for a chat with Father when he is at home, but I have never had the courage to ask him to play. He is a very reserved man in many ways, and I always think he has a history."
She then told Lady Alicia of the gossip about the place and of what Maria had confided to her sister.
"Poor, lonely man!" said Lady Alicia softly.
"For what and whom is he waiting?" Joan asked. "I have never forgotten the quiet, determined way in which he said to me: 'My house and I wait.' Somehow I cannot believe that his unseen companion is simply an ideal of his imagination."
"No," said Lady Alicia very quietly. "I think I can tell you that that is not so."
"You know his story?"
"I do. Would you like to hear it?"
A faint flush rose in Joan's cheeks.
"I can't help feeling an interest in him. But I do not want to be curious. He told me the unlucky history of his house, but no more."
"I do not think there would be any harm in your knowing what I know. I happen to be acquainted with the girl. She was a Miss Irene Waldborough. They met at the house of a friend of mine before he went to the war in South Africa. She was only about nineteen then. They were not engaged; I suppose there was mutual attraction between them. He was foolish, I think, not to speak. In any case, she thought he did not care for her, and when her mother, who was of French extraction, and believed in arranging things for her daughter, pressed a certain young and rich American upon her, Irene yielded and became engaged to him.
"I saw her when the news of Major Armitage's wounds reached home. Everybody thought he would be blind for life. I knew then that he still held her love. She was in great distress of mind; and when he eventually returned home, she wanted to go and see him. Her mother prevented this and urged Frank Denbury the American to marry sooner than was proposed. The marriage was hurried on, and was about to take place, when Major Armitage and Irene met. He had sent in his papers and was staying with his brother. He had not even heard of the engagement.
"I don't know how it was done, as you may be very certain Major Armitage would never have spoken. But young people have instincts. She came to her mother and refused to marry. Mrs. Waldborough was furious. There was a great disturbance, and I suppose in the end her will got the better of her daughter's, for the marriage took place. It was one of those things that one cannot understand. Three days after the wedding, the bridegroom was summoned back by cable to America. He could not take her with him, and he has never been heard of since. About two years ago there was a report of his death, but though all the best detectives were set to work, and no amount of money was spared in trying to trace evidence of his movements, the inquiry did not prove satisfactory. Irene was married five years ago, and seems now neither maid nor wife."
"And did she meet the Major again? Does she know he has recovered his sight?"
"Yes. You see she lives only five miles from his brother in Yorkshire. I saw her about a month ago. She told me all this herself, and told me, too, that she is determined to wait seven years if necessary, but that she can bring nobody else into her life until she has more definite proof of her husband's death."
"If I were Major Armitage," said Joan slowly, "I should go out and find proofs."
"That was the first thing he tried to do. He went out two years ago, directly there was this indefinite report; but he could find nothing beyond the facts already known, that one night Frank Denbury had ridden away from a certain small town with two friends. These both swore that he parted with them at a certain point and went in another direction towards a village which he never reached."
"And so Major Armitage is waiting for the seven years to pass," Joan said meditatively. "What a romantic story! Tell me what she is like, Lady Alicia."
"Irene is small and slight and dark, rather like your Cecil, but with a great deal of sweet dignity about her and a certain dainty shyness that makes it difficult to believe that she is a married woman."
"And he comforts himself in his solitude by imagining that she is with him," said Joan almost under her breath. "I do pity him more than ever, but he seems very sure of her. He has got his house ready for her."
"Everyone firmly believes the husband is dead," said Lady Alicia. "It is the doubt in her own mind that makes her wait for him. It is a very unfortunate story, and I think you had better keep it to yourself."
"I will," said Joan. "Is she fond of music?"
"She plays the violin most beautifully. It is that which drew them together."
Joan said no more, but Major Armitage and the girl he loved, and for whom he was waiting, were constantly in her thoughts.
The day before Lady Alicia left, Banty arrived to see Joan. At first she rather seemed to resent Lady Alicia's presence in the room, but before very long, her brusque manner left her, and she began confiding eagerly in the gentle lady before her.
"It's so beastly dull in frosty weather," she said. "I'm quite glad to come down here, and Joan is always cheerful and good tempered. The very sight of her does me good."
Joan had been called out of the room for a moment when Banty made this remark.
"She's a dear girl," said Lady Alicia warmly. "It is a great talent, I consider, to be able thoroughly to enjoy the little comforts in our daily life. Joan loves the scent of a flower, the breeze on the moor, the sight of a sunset, a fire-lit room, and a hundred other details which would escape some people's observation altogether."
"They wouldn't mean much to me," said Banty frankly. "I love sport, you know. That comes first with me. The country, with all its scents and sights, is only a background. Joan scolded me the other day. I've been puzzling over her words. She told me to wake up, and said there was a part of me that wanted to be stirred into life. Now I consider I'm alive to my finger-tips. I can spot a fox two or three fields off, and there isn't much going on out of doors that I don't know about!"
"You must ask Joan one day what she did mean," said Lady Alicia, looking at her kindly.
"I don't think she's one of that preaching lot. I couldn't stand any of that. She's too jolly in herself to mean anything canty."
Lady Alicia wisely changed the subject. After Banty had gone, she said to Joan:
"There's a girl who needs a helpful woman friend. I am so glad that she likes you, and that you have begun to influence her."
"I don't know that I have. I tried to say something the other day, but she did not respond. Banty is very difficult, Lady Alicia. I feel, in talking with her, that unless you're on the subject of sport, you might as well be bumping your head against a stone wall for all the impression you will make."
"I think you will make way in time. Pray a lot before you speak."
"Oh, I wish you were going to stay longer," said Joan impulsively.
"I wish I could. One day you must come and stay with me. I should like to take you abroad. But I shall like to look back and remember this visit of mine. Your environment is the right one for you, Joan, and I am quite content that for the time your literary powers should be in abeyance."
When Lady Alicia had left, Joan felt rather lonely. But the rush and bustle of Christmas was upon her, taxing all her powers. And when it was over, Mrs. Adair wrote saying that she and Cecil would be coming home for a couple of weeks before they went abroad. Those two weeks brought a mixture of pleasure and pain to Joan. Cecil was in high spirits, and Mrs. Adair much less captious and difficult to please. But the rector grew very depressed, and confided to Joan that he did not know where the money would come from for all that was needed. And it seemed to Joan that every post brought parcels from town with expensive gowns and wraps, and odds and ends, from shoes and boots to soap and veils and gloves.
She remonstrated with Cecil when she showed her a delicately painted chiffon scarf that had cost four guineas.
"Do you forget that Father is a poor man? This will never come out of your allowance, and he has already a sheaf of bills which he does not know how to pay. It is not honest or right, Cecil. I could not do it if I were in your place."
"My dear old strait-laced Joan, your mouth is drawing itself down till your lips meet your chin! Do, for pity's sake, mind your own business! Bills can wait. It isn't cash on delivery with us. And Father is too fussy! He always makes a moan over his poverty—always has! And he is not a poor man now. Now just tell me if you think these blue feathers match that blue cloth gown of mine. I'm not satisfied with them. I think I shall send them back."
Joan curbed her impatience. She shook her head at her.
Cecil continued in a different tone.
"Of course you live in such a hole here that you can have no idea how people in society dress nowadays. I'm simply nowhere and nobody—in the swim. Why, your old black evening dress was made six years ago, now wasn't it? But it does quite well for the frump parties in Old Bellerton. Have you been to any more dinner parties? And have you got to know the proud scholar and the hermit major?"
"Yes," said Joan quietly. "I know them both. Mr. Wilmot Gascoigne is still in town. He has been there for some weeks, and Major Armitage has just come home. He took the service last Sunday evening and played exquisitely."
"Get him to play this next Sunday and come to supper afterwards. I like him. He's a mystery."
"He won't do that."
Joan spoke with conviction. She had rather timidly suggested to Major Armitage that he should come to dine when her mother returned, and he had promptly though courteously refused.
"Ah, well," said Cecil, "thank goodness in another week we shall be in another clime."
A day or two after this, Joan approached her mother on the subject of expense. She dreaded speaking, but her father had asked her to try to make her mother understand that it was not meanness on his part, but sheer inability to produce what was required. And she knew that her father shrank from all altercations about money affairs.
Joan plunged into the subject with heightened colour. She was packing a trunk in her mother's bedroom—a trunk of miscellaneous articles which was also to contain a good many books.
"I wish Cecil would pack a few more books and a few less gowns," she said. "She seems to have no idea of economy in dress."
"She is rather extravagant," said Mrs. Adair. "But I was like it at her age; I hope she will require less as time goes on."
"She does not realise how really poor we are, Mother. Do you know that Father has overdrawn two hundred pounds from his bank this year already? And he has a big bundle of bills all waiting to be paid. I don't know what we are to do. I feel I must make money if I can in some way; but how to do it in this village is the difficulty!"
After a moment's pause Mrs. Adair replied:
"I think I shall be able to help him more in future. I am thinking of writing a book on the Riviera. I have had it formulated in my own mind for a long time—not a guide book, but a chatty history of the sunny shores of the Mediterranean. And this, in addition to my reason for taking Cecil, is why I wish to go abroad this year; I want to locate some of my facts. There is nothing that pays so well, or so quickly, as writing books. If this one is successful, there will be no money difficulties in future. I tell you this in confidence. I do not want it talked about until it is accomplished."
"I do hope it will be a success," said Joan warmly. "It is sure to be, Mother, if you write as you talk."
This idea of Mrs. Adair's did much to bring comfort and hope to Joan's heart. And the last days were, on the whole, pleasant to them all.
On the evening prior to their departure, they gathered round the drawing-room fire for a last talk together. Mr. Adair patted his wife's hand affectionately as he sat next to her.
"I shall look forward to having you back very soon, Cecilia. When the early summer comes you will lose your heart to this place, and, please God, we shall have a happy summer together."
Mrs. Adair smiled. She was in one of her softest moods that night, and Joan was glad afterwards to be able to look back and remember it.
"It is a pity you cannot take a chaplaincy abroad in the winter, then we could be together."
"Ah! But I could not leave my parish, and I do not think I am cut out for that kind of billet. I love my poor folk, and am very happy here. I think you would like it, if you would try to settle down. We must hope Cecil will grow stronger. She looks very well just now."
"'Her looks never pity her,' as your poor folk say. I wish she could outgrow her delicacy."
"We must be thankful we have one daughter who does us credit," said Mr. Adair, looking across at Joan with much pride and affection.
Cecil laughed:
"For mercy's sake, don't pit Joan and me one against the other. This talk is much too personal: I hope you will pursue the friendship of the Major, Joan. I must tell you a very interesting fact. You know what the people say of his property, that no heir will be born in it till it reverts to its old owners?"
"Yes, I have heard it quite lately."
"Well, at Uncle Robert's we were looking up some of the family genealogies one evening, and, lo and behold! We have an ancestress, a certain Gertrude Rolleston, who was the only daughter and heiress more than a hundred years ago. She married a Lovell, and her cousin came in for the property. I can't think why she did not. She seems to have dropped out of the running. Now, if you and the Major would only make a match of it, the spell of bad luck would be broken, and Rolleston Court would be flourishing once more."
"Don't be ridiculous, Cecil."
"Tell him you are a direct descendant of the last of the Rollestons and see what he says."
"But I think from what I hear," put in the rector, "that the Major's affections are engaged elsewhere."
"Then he must promptly break it off and bestow his affections on Joan," said Cecil. "He will if he knows she will bring luck to him again."
"Some people value love more than luck," said Joan lightly. She knew it was of no use taking Cecil seriously.
Cecil made a grimace.
"Who thinks of love nowadays! People who go in for it are simply cultivating misery for themselves. If there's no love, there's no jealousy or grief in separation. It's the greatest mistake in the world to let your heart govern your life."
"My dear child," said her mother, feeling obliged to remonstrate, "don't affect such misanthropy. Be simple and natural, and don't pretend you believe what you say."
A slight flush came to Cecil's cheeks. Her mother so seldom reproved her that she hardly knew how to take it.
"I should be sorry to be as soft and sentimental as Joan is," she said a little scornfully.
"Am I?" Joan returned good-naturedly. "The other day I was visiting an invalid dressmaker in the village who feeds her mind on penny novelettes, and when I suggested a different kind of literature she said: 'Eh, Miss Adair, 'tis easy to see that you carry no feelin' heart, for there be no wrinkles on your brow. You would smile—now wouldn't you?—if all your lovers were languishin' and dyin' for reciprocation from you. It wouldn't make so much as your eyelashes flutter!'"
"I can't conceive how you can let the villagers speak to you so," said Cecil, crossly refusing to laugh.
"Well, you see what my character is in their eyes."
Conversation then turned on other things. When the sisters separated for the night, Joan said affectionately:
"I wish you and I saw more of each other, Cecil. We hardly know each other, do we?"
"No," said Cecil, looking at her half curiously, half wistfully. "You are an enigma to me. You seem to feel some things so intensely and others not at all. If I had to live your present life, I should die of the dumps within six months. I suppose your requirements are fewer than mine, and yet Mother tells me, she considers that I haven't half your brain."
Joan was silent for a moment, then she said slowly:
"Content can be cultivated, Cecil."
Cecil shrugged her shoulders.
"Content would make a beggar live and die in a ditch."
They went the next morning. Both Joan and her father drove to the station to see them off. They were all cheerful up to the last minute; but as Joan was driving her father home again in the little jingle, he said to her:
"These dreadful partings are a sore trial to me. I feel now as if your mother and I will never live together again. It is hoping against hope. I never thought they would go away this winter. I did expect that our altered circumstances would induce them to stay at home."
"It is the cold, Father, dear. Cecil has been so accustomed to winter out of England that she does not seem as if she can endure our cold."
The rector shook his head, and it was days before he could overcome his depression. Joan needed all her cheerful spirits to make the wheels go round. Even Sophia was cross and grumpy.
"The mistress will repent it one day, when the dear old master be taken from her," she said to Joan.
"Hush, hush, Sophia! It is not your place to criticise my mother." Joan's head was held high as she spoke.
Sophia gave a sniff.
"'Tis like the rest of the world—'tis most of it mixed wrongly. There be women who don't know the value of men, and then there be men who make havoc of faithful women's hearts. The single are the blessed of the earth, as I tell M'ria. If he only knew it, the Major is courtin' disaster when his heart is so full of a wife."
Joan was wise enough to make no reply. She occupied herself more than ever in the parish, and in a week or two her father had recovered his usual equanimity of mind, and had settled down into his customary groove.
CHAPTER XI
LITERARY ATTEMPTS
"JOAN, will you entertain Major Armitage? Our smoke and chat have been interrupted, for John Veale has come up to have a talk about the bell-ringers."
The rector ushered the Major into the drawing-room as he spoke. Joan was sitting by the fire, a big work-basket by her side; she was mending house linen with a skilful hand, but her thoughts were far-away. She was in a thin blue-grey gown, which became her fairness and intensified the deep blue of her eyes. Her thoughtful, abstracted air vanished, her smile and dimple appeared, as she rose to greet the guest.
"I did not know you were here," she said. "I have heard voices in the study, and concluded it was John Veale, who was expected. I am so glad you have been having a chat with Father; he does so enjoy it. But he and I generally separate after dinner for an hour. He very often has a nap."
"I hope I am not an interruption to you."
"Indeed you are not." Joan sat down and took up her mending again. "I can work as well as talk."
"I don't doubt that, but it was interruption of thoughts which I meant."
Joan looked up at him and smiled.
"They were unprofitable," she said. "The fact is, I was worrying over things, and I am glad to be interrupted."
"And that was what brought me out and down to your organ," said the Major; "and after I had quieted myself, I turned in here. The rector has good, sound, wholesome views of life. He did me good in five minutes."
Joan did not answer for a moment.
The Major looked across at the piano, a semi-grand, belonging to Mrs. Adair. "May I play to you what I played in church just now?" he asked simply.
"Oh, please. I shall like to hear it."
He sat down and played Sullivan's "God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."
His liquid and exquisite touch, the expression and tone which he got from the instrument, and the sweet melody itself, brought tears of delight to Joan's eyes. She was emotional and impressionable where music was concerned, and when the last notes died away, she sat with misty eyes gazing into the blazing fire. Then she roused herself.
"Don't stop," she said. "It is heavenly!"
Major Armitage ran his fingers over the keys and began to improvise. From discord to harmony, from unrest to peace—that seemed the burden of his theme. He stopped rather abruptly at last, and came and re-seated himself by the fire.
"Feel better?" he inquired cheerily.
"Ever so much," said Joan. "How well I can understand Saul being soothed by music. It lifts one right outside oneself and up into infinity. How I wish I had your gift!"
He shook his head in disapproval.
"I don't think it has brought me any good. It makes one unfit to mix with one's fellow-creatures, and fosters unsociability and the habits of a recluse. And I am not the musician I ought to be. I give so much time to composing that I leave little time for practising."
"You have published a good deal, have you not?"
"Chiefly songs. I want to instil a love for melody into the present generation. It is despised nowadays—our grandfathers and grandmothers loved it—and it touches the emotions and heart like nothing else."
"Yes," said Joan, thoughtfully; "I know what you mean. One hears so much brilliant and hard playing, such good technique, and such weird harmonies that music does anything but soothe; it needs all one's brain to understand and follow it. And, somehow or other, people are afraid of playing anything else. There is so little music in the average home now. Girls are not able to attain to the standard put before them, and so they refuse to play at all. Even Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn are out of fashion, though they will never lose their charm."
Then she added in an impulsive tone: "That is what I was wishing when you came into the room, that I could originate—compose—not music, but books. My mother says it pays so well. I am half inclined to try."
"There are a good many in the field," said Major Armitage, doubtfully. "Don't turn yourself into a writer, Miss Adair; so many want you in your capacity of general adviser and comforter. You will become like me, self-absorbed and isolated, and indifferent to your fellow-creatures."
"Oh, why should I?"
"I don't know. I suppose the creatures of one's brain are dearer to one than those of flesh and blood. One lives in imagination, and not in fact."
"I don't think I could write stories," said Joan; "but I was always good at essay writing, and I thought of trying a few articles on country life and Nature. I want money badly, Major Armitage, though perhaps I should not say so to you. I feel I must try and earn something, and it is difficult when one is tied to a country village like this."
"Have you tried your hand at poetry?"
"No," said Joan, slowly; "at least, I suppose I am not an exception to most girls. When we are very young, we all try to be poets! But it is not my line."
"I wish it were mine," said the Major, with a little sigh. "I get ideas at the piano for which I want words. I make a few bungling attempts, but I am not cut out for it."
Joan thought of the sweet little poem she had returned, but said not a word.
"Try your hand at writing, Miss Adair, if you want to do so. I have a great friend. He is editor of 'English Thoughts,' and he is very fond of country articles and Nature studies. If you would allow me to submit one of your ventures to him, he would say at once whether he could use it or not."
"I am afraid it would be a quick refusal, but you inspire me to try, and I should be most grateful for the introduction." Then she added: "Of course, I need not say that I want my efforts to be unknown."
"I will respect your confidence, but—" and here a little smile came to his lips—"I am not a talker, so I shall not be dangerous in that way." Then he said: "I have an invitation to Ireland, and I do not know that I ought not to accept it; but I can't leave home for another month, for I have work that must be finished. I have a widowed sister, with one child, living in the country near Donegal."
"Of course, you will go?"
"Yes; I am the only one who can. I have no responsibilities. My other brothers are all married men."
They were interrupted in their talk by the rector's entrance, and soon afterwards Major Armitage went. But Joan found her thoughts straying after him. She was becoming very interested in his affairs, and mused upon the strange mixture that was in his composition—the dual nature of a dreamy and imaginative musician and a keen soldier.
The very next day she started her first attempt at literature. Her father was so increasingly anxious about ways and means that she felt desperate. But she found it extremely difficult to get quiet time for writing. It was an impossibility throughout the day as she had incessant interruptions. But after dinner, in the evening, when her father retired to his study for a nap, she seized her pen and paper, and, sitting by the drawing-room fire, tried to produce some of the thoughts and impressions of her brain. It was difficult work at first. She wrote, and destroyed, revised, and destroyed again; and when, eventually, she accomplished a short article, which she entitled, "An Autumn Afternoon on our Heath," she was strangely dissatisfied with it. She was shy of mentioning it to her father, and the more she read it, the less she liked it. At last, plucking up her courage, she sent it over to Major Armitage, with the following note:
"DEAR MAJOR ARMITAGE,—I send you my first attempt. If it is too crude,
too uninteresting and amateurish, do not send it to your friend. I will
wait till I can do better. Is it troubling you too much to ask you to
read it, and act according to your judgment?—Yours sincerely,—
"JOAN ADAIR."
She received an answer in two hours' time:
"DEAR MISS ADAIR,—Pluck up heart! It is first-rate, and I have
dispatched it by this evening's post. May it prosper in the hands of
the editor.—Your sincere friend,—
"R. ARMITAGE."
Joan resigned herself to patient waiting. Meanwhile fortune favoured her, for one morning Mrs. Blount, the doctor's wife, arrived to ask her advice about a governess for her two little boys. Joan promptly proposed herself as teacher, and Mrs. Blount was delighted. She agreed to send the children to the rectory every morning from nine to twelve. Mr. Adair made no objections, and Joan took the children into the dining-room, where they were busy all the morning. It was not liberal pay, for the doctor was not a wealthy man, but two pounds per month was well worth to Joan the few hours of her time, and she did not grudge the extra work thrown upon her shoulders in the afternoon. The boys were already devoted to her, and they proved docile and intelligent pupils.
One morning Wilmot Gascoigne appeared, and was very much annoyed when Sophia told him that Joan was engaged and could not see him. He came round again about tea-time, and reproached Joan with having treated him so.
She explained, but the frown did not leave his brow.
"What waste of good material! How can you bring yourself to do it?"
"I love it. They are dears. Besides, I want the money."
"Oh, what a curse the—the want of money is! I should be in America now if it were not for that reason. And poverty is a shameful incentive to talent or genius. It is so degrading—the matter of pounds, shillings and pence!"
"I don't know," said Joan, impulsively. "Poverty is an incentive to me—to attempt! I am trying my hand at writing."
Wilmot smiled and held out his hand.
"Shake hands. I always thought you would be a success in that line. May I see the attempt?"
"Major Armitage has it—or, rather, a friend of his has it by this time, I hope."
The disgust, as well as astonishment, depicted on Wilmot's face made Joan laugh.
"That music crank! Well, I did think, considering our friendship and intercourse, that you would have come to me first for advice about a literary effort."
"You have been away," faltered Joan.
"Then could you not have written? Is it a case of being out of sight out of mind?"
Joan hardly knew what to say.
"The fact is I have too many friends," she said lightly, "and I am perfectly certain that this poor attempt of mine is doomed to failure. It is just as well that you have had nothing to do with it, Mr. Gascoigne."
"Have you any of your writing which you could show me?" Wilmot asked eagerly.
"I am such a beginner. I am simply doing it to get money, not from love of producing. I don't even know if there is anything inside me that is worth producing."
"If there is, and I believe there is," said Wilmot, looking at her thoughtfully, "you and I will produce something together. I'll stay down here on purpose. It will be worth it."
"I couldn't think of working with anyone else," said Joan, quickly. "Why, all my ideas would run dry at once!"
"You never know what you can do till you try. You must have a copy of what you have sent up. Do prove yourself a friend and show it to me."
Very reluctantly, Joan left the room to get her much corrected and very untidy MS. Wilmot frowned impatiently when she had left the room.
"It's always my luck to be too late on the field. Plague take that dotty Major! Why on earth does he poach on my preserves! And what a Hebe she is! I haven't seen a woman in town who can hold a candle to her! She's utterly wasted in this hole. If she is to be a literary success—and she has no average woman's intellect—I'm determined that mine shall be the hand to lead her to fame, and no other!"
Fate was against Wilmot at present, for Joan entered the room again much more hurriedly than she left it.
"Oh, I am so sorry, but they have sent for me; I shall have to fly. Little Johnnie Craddings has scalded himself, and his mother is out for the day. Do you care to come down the village with me, or would you like a chat with my father?"
"I will come with you, if you are not going to adopt motor speed."
"Poor little Johnnie!" gasped Joan.
She was literally running down the drive, and Wilmot Gascoigne, with a face as black as night, was trying to keep pace with her.
He endeavoured to turn the current of her thoughts to literature again, but it was hopeless. Johnnie's accident engrossed Joan's mind to the exclusion of every other subject.
He accompanied her to the door of the cottage, then took a surly farewell of her, and returned to the Hall, feeling furious with Major Armitage and with poor Johnnie.
Joan did not see him till a fortnight later, and, meantime, she had the joy of hearing that her article was accepted and that others of a similar character could be taken.
With her two small pupils and literary work in addition to her usual household and village duties, Joan was now more than busy, but she enjoyed it all; and when she handed the cheque for her first article to her father to help pay some of the numerous bills which were so distressing him, it was the happiest hour in her life.
He was at first reluctant to take it. "It is yours, my dear child. Why should I rob you of your first earnings?"
"Ah! But I am earning to help you; and, after all, Dad, dear, the bills are as much mine as yours. We cannot separate ourselves from our joint expenses."
"They are mostly your mother's debts—and—and Cecil's."
"Yes—well, that is what I mean. You and I are going to try to pay them off. They belong to our family."
It was a day or two after this that Joan was invited with her father to dine at the Hall. It was not a dinner party; only themselves, another neighbouring rector (who was a bachelor), and a General and Mrs. Thane. There was a sister of Lady Gascoigne's staying in the house. Wilmot took Joan in to dinner, and talked hard about literature as a profession the whole time.
"It is the most satisfying life on earth," he said enthusiastically. "Singers lose their voices, actresses their charm, when age creeps on; but the brain only mellows and ripens, and gains in experience with every added year. You are great on influence, Miss Adair. Think of the wide-reaching influence of the pen! No other profession can touch it in its infinity of power and scope."
Joan felt her heart throb as she caught some of his enthusiasm. She, who had longed to impart knowledge and mould character, now had a vision of a wide and never-ending stream of influence flowing from her pen.
Then he came to more personal details.
"I read your little article, and see much promise in it. You have the faculty of seeing with your own eyes, and describing with quaint freshness your own impressions; and they are original. We do not want platitudes or mediocre writing in these days. There is a lack of style and finish which can soon be remedied. If you would allow me to look at your next attempt, I could show you in a moment what I mean."
Joan murmured her thanks. She was grateful for the interest which Wilmot showed in her first effort and for the encouragement which he was giving her.
When dinner was over, and the ladies were in the drawing-room, Banty came brusquely up to her.
"Now, look here, don't you get too thick with Motty, for he has a way of preying on likely subjects who minister to his self-love and become his willing and devoted slaves. He took up a poor cousin of mine who thought she could write poetry. I believe she could have done so if he had left her alone, but he altered and clipped her work to suit his own ideas, and subjugated her mind to his, till it became a mass of confused pulp, and then, when her writing turned to insipid rot, he shrugged his shoulders and cast her from him in contempt."
Joan looked at Banty in surprise. She had never heard her talk on any subject but hunting, and was for a moment silent.
Banty gave a nervous laugh.
"Yes, I can see through Motty, though he considers me on a level with the lower animals. 'A good old cow,' I have heard him call me. But cows perhaps notice more than we give them credit for. You're too good a sort to be crushed by him. He is mostly gas, you know! And all his big talk won't make me believe in him. Now, let us put him out of our thoughts. I want another tea amongst the pines with you."
"The weather is too wet at present, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think under the trees we shan't feel it. But I expect you're not quite so weather-proof as I am. I'll come round to you. Will you be in the day after to-morrow? I'm not hunting, so I'll look in about four."
"All right. I shall expect you then."
"And now you must talk to Aunt Hetty. Ask her to play. She rather fancies herself as a musician. Motty says it's like a cat scrambling over the keys; but she attends every concert going in town, and is up in all the musical jargon of the day."
Joan was then introduced to Miss Parracombe, who was a tall and angular lady, with a very large nose and a small chin.
"I hear you play the organ in church?" she began at once. "I hope it is from choice, and not from duty, that you do it. It's a sad pity this is such an unmusical house. I feel like a fish out of water. I was hoping to meet a Major Armitage. Do you know him? They tell me he shuts himself up in the country. But I know friends of his in town, and, as a composer of a certain style, he is well-known. I asked my sister to have him to dinner. She says he always refuses to dine out. But I can quite understand that he finds no kindred soul in this house, and does not want to spend the precious hours of his time in uncongenial society. I find it a trial myself. This perpetual talk of hunting and sport bores me to death. Will you play to us, Miss Adair? I am sure you are musical."
Joan shook her head, but asked Miss Parracombe if she would play herself, and she went to the piano with much alacrity. She began a fugue of Bach's, which she certainly played correctly, though without an atom of expression. Joan listened with interest. She had expected the old lady to play some of the old-fashioned "fireworks" of her young days.
Banty yawned, and Lady Gascoigne exchanged whispered remarks with Mrs. Thane. It was a relief to all when the gentlemen came into the room, and very soon afterwards Mr. Adair and Joan took their departure. Wilmot accompanied them into the hall.
"Will you be in on Friday afternoon?" he asked Joan.
"Yes. Banty is coming to tea. Do come with her."
"Dash her!" he muttered. "The next day, then?"
"I am afraid I am engaged. Father and I are going over to a neighbouring rectory to tea."
"When will you be disengaged?"
His voice was coldly quiet.
Joan looked up at him and laughed. "I'm a very busy person!"
"So I gather. I'll drop in on Saturday evening, after dinner. I shall be in town to-morrow for a night. I must see you soon. I want a talk with you."
"Very well. I shall be at home."
Joan and her father drove home in their little jingle. They could not afford the village fly, for Joan was economising in every direction. She was silent for some minutes; then she said:
"Do you like Mr. Gascoigne, Dad? Do you think him a reliable man? I always think you're a judge of character."
"He does not appeal to me," said Mr. Adair, promptly. "He is a man who can only talk shop, and if anyone is not interested in his tastes, he will not trouble to make himself pleasant to them. Naturally, I prefer Major Armitage's society, for I know nothing of literature, especially of the literature that Wilmot Gascoigne likes to talk about. With Armitage I am at home. He doesn't discuss music, but village topics and politics—anything which he knows interests me."
"Yes," said Joan, slowly. "I suppose Mr. Gascoigne is one-sided; but it is difficult to suppress the fullness of one's heart. He is so enthusiastic! Perhaps he may be selfish and intolerant; Banty thinks he is. But he carries me away when once he begins to talk."
She wondered, as she lay awake that night reviewing the evening that was past, whether he would, as Banty said, seek to subjugate her mind to his, and fetter and clip her originality.
CHAPTER XII
TROUBLE AT ROLLESTON COURT
BANTY arrived on Friday afternoon.
"My aunt has been putting her foot in it," she informed Joan. "Would you believe it, she forced her way into Rolleston Court yesterday afternoon? She went out for a constitutional, and a shower of rain came on. She was told that the Major was engaged.
"'Oh, never mind, I am sure he won't object to my taking shelter for a short time,' she said, and in she went.
"His housekeeper took her into the drawing-room and entertained her for about half an hour. She gave her tea, and though it was getting dusk, Aunt Hetty wouldn't budge. She talked away to the housekeeper, and I expect made her giddy with her talk. I know she does me! Then she heard the sounds of music upstairs.
"'Yes, 'tis the Major playing in the music-room,' she was told. Then she got up, and I can fancy her excitement.
"'I am a musician myself—a fellow artiste. We are kindred spirits. I must hear him. He will not mind.' She stole upstairs, and listened outside the door at first, then boldly opened it and crept in behind a screen. His music was so exquisite, she told us, that she forgot herself and clapped her hands loudly. She said he sang a perfectly lovely little song about some invisible lady love, and it was that which bowled her over. In an instant he appeared; and she says his eyes flashed fire and he was white with rage. He took her by the arm and marched her downstairs.
"'If a man cannot have privacy in his own house,' he spit out, 'where can he have it? I don't know who you are, nor do I care; but this is an unwarrantable intrusion!'
"She tried to explain who she was, but he firmly and quietly ejected her, and she came home boiling and spluttering with rage.
"I left her writing a long letter of explanation to him this afternoon. She seems to think her appreciation of his music is sufficient excuse for an impertinence on her part. What awful tempers these writers and musicians have! It's the artistic temperament, isn't it? That's what they call it. I must say I'm thankful not to possess it. It takes a good bit to rouse my ire; but Motty is awful to live with, and they're all so restless and excitable. Of course, I don't know much of Major Armitage, but he's queer. I expect my aunt will come down and victimise you pretty soon. She wants to get up a village concert. Do put her off it if you can. I'm morally certain Major Armitage won't appear at it, and you and she will have to do the whole of it."
Banty paused for breath.
"I'm sorry for poor Major Armitage," said Joan feelingly. "Maria told Sophia that he is most tenacious over his privacy. When Dad was ill in his house, I never saw the inside of that music-room. It is his sanctum in every sense of the word."
"Well, don't let us talk any more about him. I'm amused at Aunt Hetty's set-back. Let's talk about ourselves. Only first of all, I wish you'd tell me why you've turned yourself into a governess. Is it from sheer love of teaching?"
"No; want of money," said Joan frankly.
"I'm sorry. Don't think me a meddler, but isn't this a fairly good living? I'm sure nobody could accuse you of extravagant living."
"I hope not," Joan said with her happy laugh. "But we had heavy expenses before we came here."
"How is your sister Cecil?" Banty asked abruptly. "I always think she ought to make a good marriage; she is just the sort that men admire. I think a girl who hunts hasn't the same chances as one of these feminine, alluring girls who give men such copious admiration. We become good chums with men, but no more. Only a few care for open-air wives—you know what I mean. You'll think I'm always talking about marriage, but I feel sore. I thought it well out and have sent Mr. Nugent about his business. I came to the conclusion I couldn't run in harness with him. I should jib! Yesterday I heard he is just engaged to Molly Lambert. She lives in the next county. So much for deep attachment! I expect he only wants a housekeeper, and in that case, Molly will suit him better than I, for she has managed her father's house since she was twelve years old. But he didn't lose much time, did he? And Mother is quietly furious. Do you think I have a miserable time ahead of me if I remain single?"
"Of course not; but—"
"Yes; give me your 'buts.' I loved your little preach some time ago. I think you almost made my soul—as you call it—flutter, for, do you know, I'm beginning to believe I have one."
"I can only repeat what I said before, that there is one side of us—and the only side that can bring us lasting happiness—which needs to be cultivated."
"The religious side, I suppose you mean? If church doesn't cultivate it, what will? And I'm a most regular attendant at church, let me tell you. But it has never made the least difference to me."
"You want to be in touch with God Himself," said Joan softly.
Banty leant back in her chair and stared at her perfectly uncomprehendingly.
"That wouldn't make 'me' happy," she said with conviction, "quite the reverse. Now I'll be quite honest with you. There's nothing in me that responds in the least bit to religion. I don't see the need for it. I don't want to live my life up in the clouds. This world is good enough for me."
There was silence. Banty frowned, then said:
"I've got enough, thanks, for to-day."
Joan smiled, then laid her hand caressingly on her arm.
"I shall end by getting very fond of you, Banty."
The colour actually deepened in Banty's cheek.
"Same with me," she said a little gruffly.
They talked of other things then, and when Mr. Adair came in, Banty lapsed into her usual abrupt and rather dull style of talk. Before she went, she said to Joan, in the hall:
"I'm getting interested in you. I'm planning out your future."
"As you wish it to be, or as you think it will be?"
"As I wish it. I mean to frustrate one possible future for you if I can."
She gave her a nod, and went without another word.
Joan gazed after her with a smile and a sigh.
"There are depths in her after all. What bunglers we are!"
Wilmot Gascoigne did not forget to appear on Saturday night. He sat over the fire with Joan and fascinated her with his talk. Just before he left, he said:
"I have left the main object of my visit till now. I feel that you and I have the same intuition about certain phases of life. For a long time I have been anxious to write a book which will do more than amuse the public—that kind of novel has a run for a year, then disappears as quickly as it came. I want to write for futurity. Now, my theory is that a woman writer can never write naturally and effectively about a man in all his various stages, nor can a man gauge a woman's fluctuating moods correctly, for each can only judge of the minds of the opposite sex by what they see and hear, never from the fount of their own experience. I want to instruct and to awaken the dormant intellects of my readers. To do this, the book must be strong; it must have no weak points; it must not flag in interest; it must stimulate the curiosity, and, in short, I need a woman collaborator. Now, will you be that woman? Down in this quiet hole, we shall have plenty of time and opportunity for discussion and suggestions. I have already simmering in my mind a dozen plots. I want a woman's delicate intuition, her feminine instinct, to help me in evolving a creation of what a woman should be in our present generation. I don't want to create one of the shrieking sisterhood—a mockery of all that is truly feminine and uplifting—nor do I want a flimsy, insipid Early Victorian doll. I know you are the one woman in the world who can help me at this juncture—will you do it?"
"It is rather a startling proposition," said Joan, with a long-drawn breath. "I suppose I ought to feel flattered. I do. I thank you for thinking of me. Writing is so new to me that I feel like a duckling on the edge of a pond trying for the first time the element of water. But I am afraid I shall have no time. I can hardly get through my days as it is. And how about you? Are you nearly through your Chronicles? Won't they have to be finished first?"
Wilmot gave a little snort.
"They'll never be finished," he said. "I'm already bored to tears with them. There's nothing in the dull, monotonous lives of the Gascoignes to make the book live. It will be a series of births, marriages, and deaths, and of dates. I would like to make a bonfire of the whole."
"Why don't you finish them up?"
"Because I'm always hoping to rake out something racy from the piles of dusty manuscripts and letters I have given to me. They won't let me invent. It would be easy sailing then. I tell you the Gascoigne Chronicles are dulling my powers and fettering my genius. You can't live for ever on dry bread. I want to sandwich my book in; it will be jam and butter to me!"
Joan laughed. She felt strangely stirred. Wilmot's society was delightful to her. He talked of books and of subjects of which she had heard and talked at college. He had theories on every fact of life, and opened vistas of new thought and conjecture to her. She longed to throw herself heart and soul into this project of collaboration with him, but she felt, under her circumstances, that it would prove too engrossing an occupation.
"You must give me time to think about it," she said. "I will give you an answer in a few days, but I doubt if I could really help you."
"I shall not allow you to refuse me," he said, with one of the smiles that always transfigured his face.
But when he had gone Banty's words recurred to her: "He has a way of preying on likely subjects who minister to his self-love and become his willing and devoted slaves."
They made her feel a little uncomfortable, and then she resolutely put them from her.
"Banty and he are at daggers drawn. She is unfair to him. I will not believe that she is right in such a statement."
Sunday came. It was a busy and a happy day with Joan. She loved her Sunday scholars, she loved her choir, and the music she produced from the sweet little organ. The services were always a rest and refreshment to her. Major Armitage came into the rectory after evening church and stayed to supper.
"I suppose you have heard of my iniquities?" he said to Joan. "I expect the Hall will be cuts with me now."
"No, I think they must all have felt that Miss Parracombe was to blame."
"Ah! You have heard about it, then? I lost my temper and manners, and showed her the door. But I have always believed that an Englishman's house is his castle. They say I have a bee in my bonnet. I will entertain ladies one day—at least, that is my hope—but never until I have one of their sex to help me do it."
The shadow fell upon his face.
Joan was silent for a minute; then she said gently:
"Miss Parracombe is a musician; she longs to meet you."
"Oh, yes, I know; and I don't like musicians, Miss Adair. Isn't that a bad confession? I have suffered from them in town, and I cannot take part in their ready jargon. It is the clash of sounding brass to me; I would rather shut my ears to it. Don't you think we all talk too much?"
"I don't know," said Joan a little wistfully. "I learn a good deal from other people's talk; and is not exchange of ideas always good?"
The hard, set lines about his face disappeared. He smiled.
"I like to talk to you," he said simply. "Well, Miss Parracombe has sent me a voluminous explanation and apology, and I a very short and curt one. She insisted upon shaking hands with me after church this morning, and I have again been invited to the Hall—to lunch, to tea, or to dinner. I have declined politely, and that is where we stand at present. How is the writing getting on?"
"I want to see myself in print," said Joan, laughing and colouring. "When do you think my article will appear?"
"Any time between this and next Christmas, I should say. Have you been paid for it?"
"Yes."
"Oh, you'll see it soon."
"I have written a few more on the same lines, and two have been accepted, one returned. The editor tells me not to go ahead too fast."
"Why does he return one?"
"He said it had too much of a religious element in it."
Joan's face was very grave as she spoke; then she turned towards him and her gaze was sweet and earnest.
"Major Armitage, if I cannot write about what is breath and life to me, I will not write at all."
"What is your object in writing?" he asked slowly.
"To make money, I am afraid."
"Then you must be guided by the taste of the public and the advice of your editor."
Joan's brows were furrowed with deep thought.
"I hear you sing in church," said Major Armitage; "will you sing to me now?"
She was rather glad to have a change of subject.
"I haven't much of a voice," she said, "but I will do my best."
"Will you sing 'O rest in the Lord.' I will play for you."
They went to the piano.
Joan's voice was true and very sweet; it had a pathetic ring in it which often brought tears to the eyes of those who heard her. The Major drew a long sigh when he had struck the last chord. Mr. Adair, who was always very tired on Sunday night, and who had been napping in his arm-chair whilst the talk had been going on, now roused himself to say:
"That is beautiful, my dear Joan. Will you sing the evening hymn now?—'Abide with me.'"
Major Armitage knew at once which setting it was, and ran his fingers over the keys.
When she had finished, he rose from his seat and held out his hand.
"I want that to be the last thing I hear," he said, smiling at her. "It will ring in my head as I walk home."
When he had gone, Joan sat down by the fire and relapsed into deep thought. If her voice was still in his ears, so was his in hers. "You must be guided by the taste of the public if you wish to make money."
"What do I wish?" she said to herself. "If I can write, how awfully responsible I am for what I write. I could make money, I suppose, in lots of ways that would be neither honourable nor consistent with my principles. Shall I throw my principles to the winds for the sake of money? I cannot. And yet, when I think of lifting the strain from Father's shoulders, of easing him of this dreadful wearing anxiety, I feel as if I must throw everything to the winds and do it."
A few days after this, Sophia called Joan into the kitchen in a mysterious way. It was six o'clock, and Joan at first thought that something had gone wrong with their simple dinner. But Sophia pulled the low arm-chair out for Joan to sit upon, and she knew then that a talk was forthcoming.
"You want a gossip, Sophia, I know you do; but it's a funny time to choose."
"Miss Joan, I never neglect my work. The steak pie is in the oven, and my pudding is in the steamer. My vegetables are ready to pop into the saucepans. I've sent Jenny upstairs to make herself tidy. There never was such a tousled, fuzzy head as hers in all the world before. M'ria has been to tea with me. She's in a sad way, M'ria is, for she says a body must get attached to the Major, with all his cranks. I told her he was here on the Sunday night, and he went off with such a cheery word to me as I held open the door!
"'Good-night,' he said; 'this house always seems like the gate of Heaven to me. The atmosphere and harmony and music to-night have put fresh life and hope into me.' Now, those were his very words—his very last words."
"Why, Sophia," cried Joan in a startled voice, "what has happened? Has Maria brought you bad news of her master?"
"Very bad, Miss Joan. Now, listen. Yesterday, at four o'clock, the second post came in. M'ria generally takes the letters and puts them on the table in the smoking-room. The Major sees them there directly he comes in. As it happened, yesterday he hadn't gone out; he was writing business letters. M'ria knows it was business, for he called her to ask about some new kind of lamps they had had down from town for the kitchens, and he told her he was going to pay for them."
"Oh, Sophia, do get on. I don't care to know about the Major's business."
"Now, don't you fluster me. Of course, as I said to M'ria, it's just a sign of the modern times, when folks write bad news without taking the trouble to put it into a becoming black-edged envelope. They won't reckernise affliction; 'tis just that; they won't pay respect to the dead, because it makes them feel bad; and tears and becoming grief and seclusion is all things of the past. Even widows—"
"Sophia, you're doing it on purpose! Leave the widows alone and get on with your story."
"Well, Miss Joan, M'ria she handed the letters to the Major without a thought, and then, as the curtains weren't drawn, she went across to the windows and occupied herself with them; and she threw, so to speak, a look over her shoulder, for she heard him draw a very heavy breath. M'ria says she never saw a living man before turn into stone. His face was white and blue and fixed. He held a letter and gazed at the air as if—well, M'ria says it came to her in a flash that Lot's wife must have looked like it when she was turned into salt. She was so scared, M'ria was, that she crept out of the room and left him standing there. She daren't go near him; but she heard him go straight upstairs and lock himself up in the music-room.
"When dinner-time came he didn't come out, and then M'ria got nervous and went to the door and knocked. You do hear of such dreadful things, Miss Joan, and, of course, she was fearing the very worst. But he answered her quick and sharp: