JOAN WAS DEEP IN THOUGHT AND PRAYER WHEN A
WELL-KNOWN VOICE MADE HER START.
"He did not think of it, nor more did I. Did Mr. Gascoigne want to see me?"
"At first he did. But we got into very interesting talk. He knows the Riviera so well that we had a lot in common. I like him. It's an education to hear him talk. And I have given over Mother's book to him. I feel he is the right person to undertake it. It is very good of him to do it. He looked through a lot of it and liked it immensely."
"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"
Joan's bitter, passionate cry escaped her unawares. It had been her great hope to do it herself. She felt that she could do it, and Cecil had almost agreed that she should.
"I don't think you should have done such a thing without asking Father's advice, or—or mine."
Cecil tossed her head.
"My dear Joan, what does Father know about such things? And do you think for a moment that you could do it better than a clever literary man who knows the country in which it has been written? Why, you have never been abroad. Your experience is as narrow as Father's. I consider we are very lucky in having such a friend to take it off our hands."
"I don't think you know Mr. Gascoigne as well as I do, Cecil. I am very, very sorry you have given it to him. To begin with, he has too many irons in the fire already. He has not finished the Gascoigne book yet; and we really do want Mother's book to be taken in hand and finished. I am bitterly disappointed that you have done such a thing."
"I suppose you thought you could have made a name for yourself over it," said Cecil; "but I haven't confidence in you. Because you have been successful with a short magazine article, it does not follow that you could compile and edit a book like Mother's. I am ambitious for her sake. I don't want it to be a failure."
"Well," said Joan, struggling to speak gently, "it is done now, so there is no use in talking about it. We must hope he will do it well. Did you arrange anything with him about the profits from it?"
"Of course not. There is time for that when the book has been finished and accepted by some publisher."
Joan did not speak.
Cecil got up from her chair.
"I thought you would like to hear about it," she said airily. "Are you coming down to tea? It is ready."
"Yes. Don't wait for me."
Joan felt desperately that she must have a little quiet to digest this heavy blow.
When Cecil had left her, she pushed open her window and knelt by it.
The fresh spring air, the scent of the violets and sweet brier hedge below rose to greet her.
Her whole spirit resented Cecil's summary proceeding. She knew now from experience that Wilmot Gascoigne was not wholly to her liking as a writer. She had waged war with him more than once over certain passages descriptive of Nature's beauty. He belittled and scoffed at the recognition of a Divine hand in it, and she could not bear to think that her mother's book should be placed in his hands to be cut up and revised as he judged fit. And she felt that she had it in her to bring out all the best in that book. She also had fears now that Wilmot would not make a profitable sum out of it, and this was a very important matter to them all.
"Why do things go so crooked?" she sighed to herself.
But when she rose from her knees, she was able to go downstairs with a serene face, and, if her laugh was not quite so frequent or her smiles so bright, there was nothing in her demeanour to show vexation or resentment.
When Mr. Adair heard about it, he looked annoyed.
"You should have asked me first, Cecil," he said. "You had no right to give your mother's book to a stranger."
"Mother gave me her book," said Cecil, with a wilful curve to her lips. "I am not a fool, and I have full confidence in Motty, as they call him."
Joan wondered if she should hear any more of the book she and he were writing together. She hoped that Derrick would not interfere too much about it, and consoled herself by thinking that he would be too full of his own feelings to approach the subject that night, as he had threatened to do.
It was of no use to argue with Cecil about the wisdom of her impulsive action, and Joan appeased her father by saying that Wilmot was certainly very clever, and was in touch with several of the leading publishers of the day.
The next morning, her small pupils being still away, Joan betook herself to the garden. There was always a great deal more to do there than the odd man could possibly get through. She was very busy weeding a patch of ground, when a voice close to her startled her.
"I can't keep away, you see, even after our talk yesterday; but I want to tell you about my interview with Motty."
Of course, it was Derrick. Joan greeted him quite cheerfully.
"Tell me," she said; "but don't expect me to stop weeding. I can do that and listen too."
"It won't hurt you to rest for a bit. Here, sit on this old hen-coop. Now, then, where shall I begin? I nearly went for him at the dinner-table last night. What a conceited ass he is! But I bided my time, and old Jossy helped me, for he actually left us alone in the smoking-room together to enjoy a brand of his best cigars."
"Derrick, I asked you not to interfere."
"I had to take my thoughts off the gnawing ache in my heart. Isn't that the phrase they use in books? And I was longing to pitch into someone. I was in the right mood for it, and he was the right man for me. What on earth has the Malingerer been doing? We were at cross purposes at first, for he thought I had come to take away your mother's MS. from him. He is very keen on that now, and means to run the Malingerer for a bit. It seems she and he are going to do it together."
Joan almost laughed, though she felt sore at heart. "Why, Cecil is too restless to stay at her writing-desk for more than half an hour at a time."
"Just so. Well, he thinks, of course, you have treated him badly and have left him in the lurch. So that gave me my innings, and I told him what I thought about him. Oh, yes, I did; and if we were in France, I suppose there would have been an early morning duel to-day. He is coming down to have a personal interview with you; but I rather think he will back out of that, and write instead. We went at each other like hammer and tongs. How I wish you and Cecil would keep clear of him."
Joan looked distressed. Derrick was unusually grave.
"I wish you could talk to Cecil about it; but I am afraid she has already committed herself; and we do not want to quarrel with Mr. Gascoigne, Derrick. He has been very kind and good."
Derrick shrugged his broad shoulders.
"I'll go straight in and have it out with the Malingerer. I had better see where she stands. I know you think me an interfering fool, but women are so helpless in the clutches of a man like Motty; and you've no brother."
He was off. Joan went on with her weeding with a distracted mind. Half an hour later Derrick came back to her.
"I've done no good," he confessed ruefully. "The Malingerer is infatuated with him, as you were; but I'll keep an eye on him, and if he gets the book ready for publication, I'll have my say as to the publisher and the price. I know a man in town who will look after it for me."
He did not stay, for he told Joan he was going up to town by the twelve o'clock express. They took farewell of each other very quietly.
Late that afternoon Wilmot made his appearance and asked to see Joan. She went into the drawing-room with a beating heart, but he was perfectly courteous.
"I want to talk to you about our book. Did you think I had forsaken you for good and all? The fact is I called directly I came back from town, which was only yesterday. You were not in, and your sister, as you know, begged me to undertake the compiling and editing of your mother's notes on the Riviera. I suppose you were vexed that I had undertaken a fresh book without first finishing the other; but, as I told you before, I can work best when I have two or three books going. They supply a vent for my every mood and serve to quicken my faculties. I had no intention of stopping my work with you. You can picture my astonishment when Colleton attacked me like a fury. I won't tell you all he said. It was unrepeatable! I could only imagine he had found you hurt and indignant, and inclined to say hastily that you would have nothing more to do with me. His passion was too impotent and childish to touch me in the least. I could only think he had made a little too free with my cousin's old port. He seems to regard himself as your protector and guide, but I hardly think he was speaking with your consent upon matters which were strictly confidential between ourselves."
Joan's cheeks were hot, yet she spoke with her natural sweet dignity.
"Derrick is like a brother to us. I am sorry there was any friction between you. It was wrong of him. Of course, I did not wish him to attack you in such a way. I am very glad you have come round, because I was going to write to you, and it is so much easier to talk than to write. You must disabuse your mind of the idea that I was hurt or indignant with you. Why should I be? Frankly, as I have often told you lately, I don't feel I can help you in this joint book of ours, and I do want to get out of it."
"But this is a very serious thing! If you had not been such a friend, I should have drawn up an agreement, and got you to sign it. You could not have then withdrawn without giving me some compensation for doing so."
He looked straight at her as he spoke and snapped his lips together in an ill-tempered way.
"Don't you see," he went on, "that, unless I am able to finish that book single-handed, you have made me waste my strength and mind and time on a task that you make useless?"
"But I am sure you will be able to finish it yourself," said Joan, eagerly seizing upon the loophole he gave her of extricating herself from his toils. "I am a drag on you; I feel that I am. We are not suited to work together. I pull you back, and you fetter me. And I want you to release me. I cannot hold to my principles and write as you wish. If you desire compensation, I will try and meet you, but it is impossible to go on writing with you."
"Very well," said Wilmot very stiffly, "we will say no more. I was mistaken in my estimate of your powers and in your adaptability to my methods. I cannot force you to continue working with me. Only, it is a pity that you did not know your own mind—or, shall I say, principles?—when we first started. I hope your sister will not treat me in the same way over this MS. of your mother's. Have you any objection to offer on that score?"
Joan was so overwhelmed with his reproaches that she could say nothing for a moment.
"My sister gave it to you without consulting me," she said quietly.
"Which means that you would have prevented her doing it if you could?"
Joan hesitated.
He gave a little bitter laugh.
"It is a case of being wounded in the house of one's friends," he said. "I wonder what I have done to turn you so against me? I suppose I have to thank Colleton for it. He is madly jealous of anyone poaching on his preserves."
"That is quite unjust and untrue," said Joan warmly. "I had better be entirely frank with you. I was looking forward to editing my mother's book myself. It would have been a keen pleasure to me to do so, and I was naturally disappointed when Cecil told me that she had given it to you. It is nothing personal against you; I am simply disappointed, that is all. I know you have more experience of the scenes in which the book is laid, and I am sure Cecil is much happier in the thought of your undertaking it than if I were to do it."
"You place me in a very unpleasant position. I think I had better see your sister, and suggest that I should hand it back again to you. I really have such a lot of literary work in hand that I shall be relieved than otherwise. It is a thankless task—editing other people's books."
Deep annoyance underlay his words. Joan began to apologise and protest. He stopped her abruptly and asked her if he could see Cecil.
Joan went to find her. She felt miserable, and knew that nothing would make Cecil take back the MS. Hastily she explained the situation to her sister, who was lying on the couch in her bedroom reading.
"Wilmot Gascoigne here! Why was I not told? Came to see you? What about?"
Then, when explanation had been given, she hastily left the room.
"I never shall forgive you, Joan, if you have tried to force him not to undertake it. He must do it, and he shall."
Joan left her to talk to him. She wandered out into the garden.
"Oh, how I love peace! And how I bungle and stir up strife! Everything seems going wrong. I wish—I wish I had never tried to write."
She began to tie up some straggling rose branches. She felt she did not want to meet Wilmot again, and yet was too proud to keep out of his way. She knew he must pass her as he went home. He was not very long in coming. To her surprise, he stopped when he reached her and held out his hand with one of his transforming smiles.
"Be friends with me," he said. "Your sister won't hear of my returning the MS., and she says her mother gave it into her hands to do as she thought best with. I promise you that I will give my most careful attention to it. And you will be able to reap laurels on your own account. If I have spoken unkindly this afternoon, forgive me; but I was hurt and sorely—bitterly disappointed in your casting me off and refusing to work with me any more. I must come down very often and consult your sister about this book. She knows your mother's mind, and can supply many blanks in her notes. How can I do this if I feel you are unfriendly towards me?"
"Indeed I am not that," poor Joan protested. "I am very grateful to you for all the help you have given me. I want to be one of your friends still."
"Then we will shake hands upon it and wipe our slate clean," he said almost gaily.
Joan shook hands with him, but watched his quick steps down the drive with a heavy heart. Certainly, Cecil was bringing discord into their hitherto peaceful life, yet she wondered if the fault was in herself.
CHAPTER XVI
JOAN'S ILLNESS
WHEN the holidays were over, and her pupils came back to her, Joan grew happier. Her life was too busy to allow her much time for brooding. She found more and more to interest her in the parish, and began to have a real liking for those she visited. She always made a point of absenting herself from the house after tea, for Wilmot was incessantly there and shut up in the drawing-room with Cecil. Sometimes she felt amused at the quick ending to her own intercourse with him, and the easy way in which he had transferred his society to Cecil. If she met him, she always said a pleasant word to him. In a way she was thankful for the interest and occupation brought into Cecil's life, who looked forward eagerly to Wilmot's visits, and, if irritable and exacting the rest of the day, was always her gay sweet self when with him.
Sophia shook her head over the visits.
"'Twas well enough with you, Miss Joan, my dear. You meant business, you did; and if you'd worked all day and night with him I wouldn't have had a tremor, but I've eyes in my head, and I've been into the room at times on messages, and Miss Cecil she doesn't mean business—she means amusement! And if she plays with fire, she'll get burnt. There's too many smiles, and arch looks, and playful ways, and honeyed words to please me. It's my belief 'tis just flirtation over the inkpot, there! 'Tis plain words, but just the truth."
"Oh, Sophia, you're a foolish old dear, but you don't understand," Joan would say.
"Don't I? I know Mr. Gascoigne has a level head and a still heart, but Miss Cecil haven't, and she'll be the one to suffer."
Joan felt a little uneasy, but could not do anything. She knew if she warned Cecil in any way, she would only make matters worse.
And then an epidemic of a bad type of influenza swept through the village, and Joan herself became one of the victims.
She kept up as long as she could, but at last went to bed, and stayed there for nearly three weeks. When she got up again, she felt very weak and depressed.
Cecil had not helped much during her illness. She was so afraid of being infected with it herself that she had spent most of her days out of doors, only returning to the house to sleep. It was beautiful weather, too dry to be healthy, for rain had not fallen for over a month. Cecil would take her books and luncheon to the pine woods, and there Wilmot would often meet her, with his roll of MS. under his arm.
Naturally, when Joan came downstairs again, she found a great many things demanding her attention, and she had little strength to give to them. Her father, like a man, did not realise her weakness, and was so glad to get her help again in parish matters that he spared her little and made greater demands than she had the strength to fulfil. But she made every effort to please him.
One afternoon Sophia came into the dining-room and found Joan literally sobbing over some parish club accounts. She tried to laugh when she met Sophia's concerned gaze.
"I'm such a fool! I think I must have left half my brains in my bed. I can't add the least sum, and poor Father is hopeless with accounts. The books are so muddled that I can't make head or tail of them. I've been a whole hour over them, and the figures are now swimming in a thick haze before my eyes."
Sophia swept the books up with her arm, and carried them off.
"If you look at them again to-day, I'll put you straight to bed, Miss Joan, and keep you there. You come into the drawing-room and lie down for an hour. You're as weak as a baby."
"I can't do it, Sophia. I have the schoolmistress coming to see me about some school difficulty. Here she is, coming up the drive."
Sophia snorted, then went out to the kitchen and seized hold of pen and ink.
"Jenny," she said sharply, as that young person came past her, "you go out of this kitchen, and don't come into it for half an hour. I've business to do which will take all the head I possess, and I won't be scatterbrained by you fussing round!"
In half an hour's time a letter was written, and then Jenny was sent to the post office with it. It was addressed to "The Lady Alicia Fairchild."
Three days after, Mr. Adair received a wire:
"Can you put me up for a few days?—ALICIA."
He was rather perturbed at first.
"I suppose we must say 'Yes,' my dear? I was hoping to get a little more of your time and attention now that you are well again. It has been a strain whilst you have been laid aside. Cecil seems as if she cannot give any help, and there are so many things that have got out of gear. But, of course, we cannot refuse to have Lady Alicia, and it will be only for a few days."
Joan felt rather pleased. There was a triumphant gleam in Sophia's eyes when she was told that the spare room must be got ready. And Cecil acknowledged that a visitor would be very acceptable.
Joan dragged herself about the house, feeling everything an effort, but determined to have all as dainty and fresh as possible for her godmother.
Banty happened to call upon her the afternoon when Lady Alicia was expected, and exclaimed at Joan's white face and tired eyes:
"What have you been doing to yourself? You ought to be in bed! You aren't fit to be up!"
Joan's eyes filled with tears. Then she laughed. "I cry like a baby at nothing," she said, meeting Banty's surprised gaze. "The 'flu' has knocked me all to pieces. I feel quite aged. But I suppose I shall get all right in time."
"You never will, if you slave away like this. What are you doing? Flowers? Why doesn't Cecil do them? There's nothing more tiring. I never touch them at home."
When Banty took her leave, she said bluntly to Cecil, who walked to the gate with her:
"You should make your sister rest, and run the show yourself for a bit. She's knocked all to pieces—couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her. Are you like me—no good in the house at all?"
"Joan is a difficult person to manage," said Cecil sharply. "She will fuss about, doing everything herself, and will allow nobody to help her."
"I'd pack her back to bed and lock the door," said Banty, as she walked off; but Cecil did not take the hint.
When Lady Alicia eventually arrived she was met, as usual, at the station by Joan, whose white, strained face moved her to instant pity; but she said nothing to her about herself. When she was having a cup of tea in the drawing-room, Lady Alicia noted that Joan's hand visibly trembled when she lifted the teapot, and that she had a way of passing her hand over her eyes when anyone spoke to her. When Cecil dropped a teaspoon, she started with a little cry.
In a few minutes, Jenny appeared at the door. "If you please, miss, the master wants to know if you've found the key of the poor-box?"
Joan got up at once. Turning to Lady Alicia, she said, with a laugh:
"I do believe that whilst I was ill, Father lost every key he ever possessed, as well as making hay of all the parish accounts and registers. We haven't reached our normal state yet."
She left her tea untasted. Lady Alicia turned to Cecil at once when Joan had left the room.
"Cecil, dear, do you know why I came down? I see I was right to come."
"To see Joan, I suppose. I know you wouldn't come so far to see me."
"To take her away with me for a rest and change. Don't you realise that she is badly needing it?"
Cecil's laughing face grew grave.
"Father pesters her so! He seems as if he is perfectly lost without her. She will never leave him."
"You must help her to do so by promising to take her place."
"I couldn't. It would be an impossibility. I am not cut out for parish work. I hate the lower orders, and they, of course, know it, and hate me back!"
"Well, many of us have to do things we dislike, and you are going to prove your courage by doing it, too."
Lady Alicia laid a gentle hand on her arm.
"My dear child, you must, unless you want Joan to have a serious relapse. Don't pretend to be more selfish than you really are."
"Father won't hear of Joan's leaving. He can't even let her have her tea in peace. Here they come, together. By their faces I should say the key is found."
Mr. Adair came in beaming.
"Found in the lining of my hat," he said. "Joan remembered that I have a trick of putting things there. Now I can enjoy my tea."
"Joan's tea is quite cold," said Cecil severely.
But Mr. Adair could never take a hint. He was quite unaware that he was inconsiderate in his continual demands for Joan's help.
Joan sat down at the tea tray again and gave her father his tea, then leant back in her chair and listened to the conversation with an absent air, forgetting to take her own.
JOAN HEARD A CHILD'S SHRILL CRY FOR HELP, AND LOOKING OUT
UPON A ROCK CLOSE To THE SEA, SHE SAW A SMALL FIGURE
WAVING A HANDKERCHIEF.
"I am on my way to Ireland," said Lady Alicia. "I dare say you may remember that I have an old house there, which for the last ten years has been let to a retired colonel and his wife. They have become alarmed at the prospect in front of them, for she has delicate health, and gave me notice to leave last quarter. They have actually left now, and I have an empty house on my hands. I am afraid, in the unsettled state of poor Ireland, that tenants will not be forthcoming, so I must go up there and see what I had better do about it. People tell me it may be needed as a hospital or convalescent home, but I pray that even yet some settlement may be arrived at to prevent the awful cloud of war coming down upon our unhappy land."
"I never knew you had Irish property," said Mr. Adair. "Unless you live there yourself, you will, as you say, have no chance of letting it in these days."
"No; it is in Ulster, and that fact alone, all agents tell me, is enough to keep people away from it."
"Are you going to the choir practice to-night, Joan?" asked Mr. Adair.
Joan started. She swallowed down her cold cup of tea.
"I suppose I must. I had forgotten it."
"Can't you let it slip to-night?" pleaded Lady Alicia. "You are not fit to do it, Joan dear. Do you know, Mr. Adair, I find Joan looking very ill?"
"She has been very poorly," said Mr. Adair, quite cheerfully, "but she is well again now, thank God."
Cecil laughed.
"Oh, Father, Lady Alicia will not think much of your powers of observation! Now, Joan, you sit still for once in your life, and I will step across to the church and dismiss those choir boys."
She sauntered out of the room. After rather a feeble protest, Joan remained in her seat.
"I do feel frightfully lazy," she said, "and perhaps it will not matter missing a practice for once."
Mr. Adair put on his spectacles and looked across at Joan with a puzzled air.
"Joan, dear," said Lady Alicia, "could you let me speak to your father alone for a few minutes?"
Joan looked surprised, but immediately left the room. She went upstairs to see if Lady Alicia's luggage had been carried to her room.
She found Sophia there unstrapping the boxes, and when Joan said that that was Jenny's work, the old servant shook her head.
"I'm waiting to see her ladyship, Miss Joan."
"How fond you are of her!"
"She is my only hope," said Sophia, "for she's a sensible woman, and never lets the grass grow under her feet."
Joan sat down in the easy chair.
"Oh, Sophia, I wish I did not feel so tired. What is the matter with me, I wonder?"
"The matter! Have you given yourself a chance? Haven't you just left your bed to run up and down everywhere, after everybody and everything? You're just tempting Providence—that's what you're doing."
Joan did not answer.
Sophia was down on her knees, unpacking now. It was not very long before they heard the drawing-room door open, and in a moment or two Lady Alicia was in the room. She held out her hand to Sophia.
"It is all settled," she said. "Miss Joan is coming over to Ireland with me next Tuesday, and I shall keep her there till she is her bonny self again!"
Sophia's face glowed with pleasure, but Joan protested in amazement.
"How can I leave home! It's impossible!"
"It's perfectly easy. Your father has consented to part with you, and it will be Cecil's opportunity to prove her abilities."
Joan could hardly believe her ears. The prospect of a change and a holiday with her beloved godmother almost overwhelmed her. She still would not believe that it could be realised.
"Cecil will never take my place," she said. "Father will get miserable and ill, and the whole parish go to pieces."
"Perhaps you over-estimate your powers," said Lady Alicia dryly.
Joan flushed crimson.
"Oh, ask Sophia what it was like when I was ill. She said she could never go through it again!" Sophia looked a little abashed.
"I may have spoken rash, Miss Joan, but I'm willing to do it again, for if I don't, you'll just sink into your grave. I want to see your face smile and hear you singing as you go about. It's been a dreary time of late. Her ladyship has my full sanction, as she knows, to take you away, and glad I'll be to see you go!"
With that, Sophia stumped out of the room; and, looking up at Lady Alicia, Joan cried, between tears and smiles:
"I believe it is a plot between you."
"It is, my dear. Sophia wrote to me asking me to come and look after you. Now, Joan, you must help me by making it easy for them to spare you. Your father is willing; that is the one thing that matters. I am going to have a long talk with Cecil to-night. I think she will rise to the occasion."
At mention of Cecil's name, Joan's face clouded.
"I am afraid I cannot, ought not to leave her. You know what she is, Lady Alicia. So difficult to influence and restrain. Yesterday I heard some unpleasant gossip in the village about her. She and Wilmot Gascoigne are going to publish my mother's book. I wrote to you about it, did I not? They spend hours together in the woods over it—Cecil never does conform to convention—and the village will have it that they are 'courting,' to use their own expression. Don't you see that if I go away, matters may get worse? There will be nobody to look after Cecil; she does want looking after. Mother shielded her and lived for her; she is quite unaccustomed to stand alone. And if she wants to do a thing, she will do it, regardless of appearances or consequences."
"My dear child, your absence will prove her salvation. She will be kept too busy in house and village to have the time for long rambles with this young man. Is he not the one with whom you were going to write a book?"
"Yes—oh, I have so much to tell you, and so much to talk about!"
Lady Alicia noted again the weary gesture of the hand across the eyes.
"We shall have plenty of time for talk by and by. It will all keep for the present."
"I can't believe I shall go with you. I haven't thanked you yet. It seems too like a dream to be true. I wonder if it will be possible for me to leave?"
"I can tell you, my dear, that I do not intend to leave this house without you."
"But my pupils! Oh, dear Lady Alicia! There are such crowds of objections to my going. You see, my illness has been such a set-back. Harry and Alan are running wild; it isn't fair to them."
"I think, if I may say so, you ought not to continue to teach them. Surely, my dear Joan, there is not such pressing need now for money?"
"I am afraid we have still back bills troubling us. You are no stranger, Lady Alicia; you know what a struggle it was when Mother and Cecil were abroad. My Father has never got straight since the expenses of our move, and Cecil will not realise the necessity for economy. I have now in my possession bills to the amount of thirty pounds which she has incurred since Mother's death, and nearly all of them are for clothes. I dare not let Father see them; he would worry so!"
"But, my dear Joan, this must be stopped. I am very glad you have told me—I always feel I come next to your mother with regard to you two girls, and Cecil is a little influenced by me, I know. Does not your father give her a settled allowance?"
"No. You see, Mother and she were always together, and Mother gave her a free hand."
"I will try and get him to do it at once, and then, if she exceeds it, she will be responsible for her own bills. You will not mind my helping you in this matter? You know I am fond of Cecil, though I see her faults. And I will call on your doctor's wife and put the case before her. Perhaps she can manage to teach her boys herself till you come back. Be strong-minded, my dear. Refuse to worry, and things will smooth themselves out."
Lady Alicia certainly worked wonders. She went out into the village the next day, arranging what part of Joan's duties should be undertaken by the schoolmistress, and enlisting Miss Borfield's help as well. Mrs. Blount was flattered by a visit from her, but announced her intention of sending her boys to school.
"Their father fully meant them to go this term, but we did not like to take them away from Miss Adair. She has taught them splendidly, and I am very grateful to her. My husband was only saying yesterday that she ought to go away for a thorough rest and change. He met her on her way to station, and thought her looking shockingly ill. I am sure he will be very glad to hear that you are taking her away."
Then Lady Alicia came back to the rectory, and had a very long talk with Cecil about helping her father in Joan's absence and keeping down expenses.
Cecil was at first airily indifferent; then she grew hot and indignant, and, finally, her better self prevailed.
"I never can make money go far—it slips through my fingers like water; but I'll just keep things going till Joan comes back. She does deserve a holiday; I know she ought to have it. I dare say it will be easier to do things when she is away than when she is here. Anyhow, I am not a fool, and Sophia is a host in herself. We shall manage."
Lastly, Lady Alicia talked to Mr. Adair, and before she left, he arranged with Cecil that he should give her a dress allowance, which allowance she was not to exceed.
On Tuesday, Lady Alicia and Joan set off for Ballyclunny, in the north of Ireland.
CHAPTER XVII
A VISIT TO IRELAND
IT had been raining all day, but when the little local train drew up at the station, the sun was shining through the clouds, and every tree and bush held thousands of diamond points of wet glistening in the golden rays.
The soft, moist air was refreshing to the travellers, who were both tired. An antiquated landau was waiting outside for them, and when Lady Alicia suggested that it should be opened, the old coachman looked very troubled.
"The colonel's lady has never ridden with her head bare to the heavens, me lady. Sure, the fastenin's will be rusted entoirely; but if so be that Mr. Murdoch here will put his shoulder to the cratur, we'll be able to open her between us."
Then, in a loud aside, he ejaculated: "May the Holy Virgin kape a hold of me coat tails, for me body as it is be burstin' through!"
Joan laughed out, and Lady Alicia said that she would not trouble them to open it if it was so difficult. But the station-master, Mr. Murdoch, was hot and impetuous; he called two porters, and the four men threw themselves upon the vehicle, where they wrestled and talked and swore to such an extent that Joan thought they were indulging in a free fight. At last it was wrenched open, and Pat McQuick, the old coachman, mounted his box again in triumph. But the seams of his coat justified his fears, and the neck of it was ripped open in more places than one.
"We are true to our traditions," said Lady Alicia, laughing softly. "After our immaculate English servants, these give us rather a shock. I have lived so little in Ireland that I have not had much personal experience of it; but my friends tell me it is impossible to keep their servants tidy. Of course, in the towns it is different, and in the big houses; but my house is very old and very primitive. I wonder what you will think of it?"
"I shall love every inch of it," said Joan enthusiastically.
They drove along a flat, marshy moor; the wild duck and peewits seemed to have it to themselves. Then they came to woods, climbed a steep hill, and there had the most lovely view of the blue ocean below them.
"I did not know you were near the sea."
"Three miles from it."
Then they descended into a green valley, twisted in and out of some very narrow lanes, and eventually came to a cluster of cottages and a small church. Some barefooted children raced after the carriage cheering and gesticulating wildly.
"That's a welcome to us," said Lady Alicia, smiling. "We are only just outside the village."
They stopped at a very imposing-looking iron gate, flanked with massive pillars. There was a little lodge inside, and an old woman, curtsying deeply, opened the gate.
Joan looked out with great interest as they drove up the avenue. Rather an overgrown shrubbery flanked it on either side, then they turned the corner and came out upon a large grass lawn. Two goats and a flock of chickens were perambulating across it. The house faced them. It was a little grey stone building, with a rose-covered veranda running along the front of it.
To Joan it seemed very unassuming after the long avenue and pretentious entrance. The door was opened by a very stout, smiling woman in a red striped cotton dress and a large, coarse, white apron. She wore no cap. Lady Alicia knew her, and called her Biddy.
"Glad we are to see you, me lady," she said; "but there's few enough to greet ye. The kornel an' his lady, well they just ran the house with meself an' me niece Mary; but sure it wasn't the kornel that was masther, but his valet—just a sojer man. And then there was the foine English maid that turned her nose upwards and her lips down, an' she an' the kornel's man—they just had very clever heads an' lazy bodies—for 'twas orders here and orders there, an' even Larry was under the cratur's thumbs!"
Talking all the time, she led them into a stone-flagged hall, and then into a long, rambling room at the back of the house with quaint corners and recesses, and three casement windows opening into an untidy flower garden. There was a small fire lighted, and the room looked comfortable. It was furnished more for comfort than show, though it had some good pictures and china on the walls.
"This is, or was, the drawing-room, Joan," said Lady Alicia. "You see we shall not be in luxury, but it makes a cosy living-room. We have a dining-room and small morning-room besides; but if the weather is fine, we must spend most of our time out of doors. Now, Biddy, how soon can you give us something to eat? And then we will go to bed early, for we are very tired."
Biddy assured them that dinner could be served in half an hour, and then she took them up a broad, shallow flight of stairs to the bedrooms. They lay on both sides of a wide corridor running the length of the house, and Joan was delighted with her room. She could catch a glimpse of the sea from her windows, and roses were climbing the wall outside and scenting her room with their fragrance. When she came down to dinner later, Lady Alicia said:
"Why, Joan, you are already looking rested; what have you been doing to yourself?"
"Nothing," said Joan, laughing, "except that I have thrown off the burden of housekeeping and responsibility, and mean to enjoy every minute of my time here."
"We will lead the simple life. I have great confidence in Biddy, for I have known her since she was a girl. I really came over to see who I could place here as caretakers. If she and her niece will stay on, I could not do better. But I see I shall have to have some repairs done. It is an old house, and wants a good deal of attention from time to time."
They enjoyed their simple little dinner, and then, as the evening was fine, they wandered round the old garden. Joan felt as if she were in a dream. She had not left home for so long that she loved the very novelty of a fresh atmosphere and environment. And it was a real treat to be able to confide in her godmother and receive her sympathy and counsel. It almost seemed unreal to her to be absolutely detached from duty, and be able to indulge in rest and recreation just as she felt inclined.
Lady Alicia looked after her well. She sent her early to bed, and told her that breakfast would be served to them in their rooms.
"Then you can sleep on, if you like. We need not meet till lunch time."
But, tired though she was, Joan was not fond enough of her bed to stay there. And very early the next day found her out in the garden, making friends with the horses and dogs in the stable, listening to old Larry's yarns of bygone days, and at last settling down on a charming old seat on a knoll overlooking a wide expanse of country and the ocean upon the horizon. Here she sat for a full hour with her hands loosely clasped in her lap and her eyes and thoughts far-away.
The soft air fanned her brow. There was the scent from a sweet brier hedge close to her, and a waft of burning peat and wood from the chimneys of the house.
Her thoughts flew back home. "What was Cecil doing? Would she remember that this was the day for ordering the groceries and that the village women came to the vestry to pay in their club money? Would Mr. Adair remember that clerical meeting in the afternoon? And would Benson remember to earth up the potatoes and mend the orchard fence?"
Then she gave herself a mental shake and began to think of some nature studies that were simmering in her mind. But very soon her mind was back in the old rectory. Would Wilmot Gascoigne be continuing to come there? Was there a fragment of truth in the village gossip? Was it possible that Cecil was learning to care for him? And if Wilmot really cared for her, would it be a good match for them both? Again she determined not to worry. Lady Alicia came out in a few minutes to find her.
"I wonder if you would like to drive out to the sea this afternoon," Lady Alicia said. "I must go over the house with Biddy and do a good deal of business with her; but Larry could drive you down in the pony trap. There is a fat pony out at grass who wants to be exercised, and the coast is lovely; I am sure you would enjoy it."
Joan was delighted at the idea, and at two o'clock she set off in a jingle. Larry used a good deal of whip and tongue before the pony could be persuaded to settle into a steady trot; but time was no object, and Joan was so interested in everything which she saw that she was in no hurry to end the drive.
Once a motor whizzed past them.
Larry gave an indignant snort.
"Bad luck to those that use 'em!" he said vindictively. "Me son's wife have lost foive pigs this very year, an' sorra a bit did the craturs giv' her for the slaughter of 'em, for she were seven mile from town, an' the police never got in toime to tak the number, an' they just tore on for all they were worth! 'Tis one of the things we hope for when this Home Rule comes, that them motors be kep' under strict control of police."
"But I thought they were! What else do you expect Home Rule to do for you, Larry? I thought you were all against it up here."
"'Tis like this, Miss. There be a lot of injustice to us Oirish, and I were born in Cork and be a strict Catholic. The priests tell us the good old times be comin' back, an' I believe 'em. An' we shall have a king an' parlyment all of our own one day, an' money will run the streets like water, they say. A gran' toime be comin'!"
He shook his head slowly from side to side.
Joan did not attempt to argue with him; she drew him on to talk, and when they came out upon miles of rough moorland by the sea, she left off talking to enjoy the scene before her.
At last, she got out of the jingle, told Larry to wait for her, and made her way down to the beach. The tide was out. Great waves in the distance dashed and foamed over long reefs of rock; the golden sand with its seaweed and shells proved an enticing place to Joan. She wandered on, meeting nobody, and revelling in her solitude.
Suddenly she turned a corner, and heard a child's shrill cry for help. Looking out upon a rock close to the sea, she saw a small figure waving a handkerchief. She set off running towards it, and saw it was a tiny girl quite surrounded by the sea. The tide was evidently on the turn, and had crept in round her before she had noticed her peril. She was tugging at something which was evidently caught in a wedge of the rock. Joan wasted no time in thought. She pulled off her shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirts, and walked right in, till she reached the child. She was surprised to find the water reach her knees.
"My fis' net! My fis' net! A nas'y cwab has got it in his teef!" the child cried excitedly.
Joan made a grab at the stick, and with a jerk pulled up a shrimping net; then she lifted the little girl in her arms and waded back into safety. Putting her down on the sand, she said:
"Now, where's your nurse? You might have been drowned."
"Yes," nodded the small girl. "I screamed and screamed because the wicked sea ran at me so quick, and I couldn't and couldn't get my fis' net out of that hole! And then I see'd you, and I waved my hanky, and then you comed. And now I'll go back and sit down where Uncle Randal putted me. He'll be coming soon, but poor Rory hurted his foot and it bleeded, and he was carrying him to the car."
"Your uncle ought not to have left you on the beach alone," said Joan severely.
"I did pwomise him I wouldn't move; but then—why then—well, I had to, for a little cwab ran away from me, and I followed him, and then I forgot!"
She trotted across the sand—a dear little barefooted mite in white jersey and cap and a rough serge frock, with a crop of golden curls and mischievous, sparkling face.
Joan stayed to slip into her shoes and stockings, then leisurely followed her. By the time she reached her, a tall man had appeared down an opening in the cliff, and the little girl was gesticulating wildly in Joan's direction.
Joan came up, then started in amazement, for the man strode towards her in no less surprise.
It was Major Armitage.
"Miss Adair, have you dropped from the skies?"
"No, indeed I have not; have you?"
"I brought my small niece for a motor ride. She inveigled me down to the sea; then our dog cut his foot, which necessitated my taking him back to the car, which is waiting for us above; and I find, as usual, she has nearly brought catastrophe upon herself by not doing as she was told. How on earth do you happen to be in these parts?"
Joan told him. He listened with the greatest interest. He seemed more animated and in better spirits than when she had seen him last; but he did not compliment her upon her appearance.
"You must have been ill," he said to her, "to lose your colour so! I have never seen you anything but radiant and blooming."
"And now I am a haggard wreck," said Joan, laughing, the colour and light coming into her eyes and cheeks. "This is a very surprising encounter. Of course, I knew you had gone to Ireland; but my mind has been so engrossed with difficulties at home that I never thought of associating you with this part. You know Lady Alicia, do you not?"
A shadow came over his face at once.
"I have never met her, though she has often stayed at my brother's. She is charming, I believe. We are about twenty miles away; that is nothing to us, for my sister keeps a car. We will come over and call."
Then he looked down upon his little niece. "Sheila, this lady who rescued you just now is an old friend of mine. Kiss her and thank her for what she has done for you."
"I don't call her old at all, at all!" responded Sheila quickly, then she sprang lightly up and seized hold of Joan round the neck, and gave her a hug. "She's my fren' as well as yours, Uncle Randal, but I shan't call her old as you do. She's young—quite young, like Mummy!"
"May I say what a pleasure it is to see you again," said Major Armitage, letting his eyes dwell on Joan in almost a tender way. "The one bright memory of Old Bellerton is my evenings in the church on Sunday, and supper at the rectory afterwards. I have felt such a long way off from you all that the sudden sight of you is a very delightful experience."
"We have missed you very much," Joan said quietly, looking up; and then she turned again to the child, for somehow or other she was shy of meeting his eyes.
"I can't conceive how Lady Alicia managed to spirit you away. What will they do without you? You were indispensable to everybody."
"I'm afraid I thought so; but I'm not at all, and Cecil is home now, and she is looking after things. I was cross, and slack, and very unpleasant after my attack of 'flu,' and I dare say they are glad to get rid of me!"
"Look here, how are you going back? Can't I offer you a seat in my car? I'll run you to Ballyclunny in no time."
"Thank you, but I must return the same way I came. Old Larry would feel quite hurt if I were to desert him. He is the old coachman, and has driven me here in a small jingle. He let me know that it was a great favour to have his company; and said that it was only because I was fresh to 'Oireland' that he had come with me himself instead of sending the boy. I can't give you his accent, but he said I was the very divil for getting information, and he was the only one in that part of the country who could give it to me!"
She laughed merrily as she shook hands with the Major. He smiled, then grew grave.
"I hope you did not get wet in rescuing this naughty child? I blame myself for having left her. I am really deeply grateful to you, and so will her mother be, when she hears of her escapade."
"I did very little."
Then glancing at the laughing, dancing child, she said:
"I am so glad you have a small niece, Major Armitage. Children are an exhilarating tonic."
"And you think I wanted one? I am not a man who sits down with a broken backbone when life deals him blows. When I left your part of the world, I closed and sealed a chapter in my life. Here I am in a fresh one."
He spoke bravely, but in the tired, weary lines upon his face he carried the stamp of suffering. And when Joan had left him and was jogging home behind the fat pony, she wondered if he would ever be quite the same man again.
Lady Alicia was very interested when she heard of the encounter.
"You are not able to get away from your Old Bellerton friends even here. I had forgotten he had a married sister. What is her name?"
"I think she married a Mr. Donavan."
"Oh, I know! The Donavans have a beautiful old place about twenty miles away. Well, how strange! But I am not sure that I like your being drawn back into your old atmosphere. I wanted you to have a complete break from it."
"Oh, we are not likely to meet very often. Major Armitage is not fond of society."
Lady Alicia looked in a meditative fashion at Joan, then shook her head.
To herself she said:
"The man that prefers one woman to many is dangerous!"
Two days afterwards a car drove up.
Mrs. Donavan and Major Armitage were announced. Meta Donavan was a bright, vivacious little woman. She took hold of Joan by both hands and said:
"I feel inclined to kiss you! You saved my darling from what might have been a watery grave. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Of course, I have heard of you, and I pictured you a Madonna and a saint. You look quite like an ordinary being! Saints don't have dimples. I congratulate you upon that possession!"
Joan could not help laughing. Then, as Major Armitage was talking to Lady Alicia, Mrs. Donavan gave a little nod in his direction.
"How do you think he is looking? I flatter myself Sheila and I have done him a world of good. Be came up here looking like a ghost. I could hardly get a word out of him; but I never rested till I got him at my piano, which happens to be a very good one, and then he relaxed, and I won a smile out of him!"
Joan wondered if she was her brother's confidante. She hardly thought so, but she could well understand that she would win her way with anybody.
And then presently whilst tea was being got ready, they sauntered out into the untidy garden, and Joan and Major Armitage were thrown together.
"Are you coming back to us again?" she asked when he had been asking for village news.
He gave a little shudder.
"God forbid! I told you that bit of my past is sealed."
"But what are you going to do about your house?"
"I'm never going to live in it again."
Joan looked grave.
"Your tenants will be sorry. Are you going to sell it?"
"No; at least, I have not made up my mind."
"I am very inquisitive," said Joan apologetically; "you must forgive me. I get so very interested over everyone that I almost regard their affairs as mine, which is most foolish."
"Not at all," said Major Armitage quickly. "You are a friend. You have a right to ask me questions. If things became quieter over here, my sister would like to leave Ireland for a time. Then I thought she might like to have my old house. And I shall perhaps go abroad or drift into club life in London."
"Oh!" said Joan impulsively. "You talk as if you have no object in your life."
"I don't think I have."
"But your music! Your music!" she cried. "You must not lay that gift aside. If you do not compose, you can play. And you like Church music. If I had your gift, I would take some big post as organist and would speak to souls with my music. Oh, Major Armitage, you have not given up your music?"
He looked down upon her and smiled.
"I wish I could have you always near me to rouse me from my lethargy and inspire me! I think one needs to be very happy, or very miserable, to produce good music. And over here I have been living a day at a time, refusing to think at all deeply, or do more than enjoy the present. But I don't mean to give up my music. You are quite right there. And already I am being pestered to return to town and undertake several things there. But for the present, I am looking after my sister's estate for her. It badly needs a man upon it."
"And brains," said Joan, smiling. "I do acknowledge the superiority of your sex. I might have known you would not be idle. Forgive my impertinence."
Then the others joined them, and they went indoors to tea.
Mrs. Donavan insisted that they should come over to lunch in two days' time, and this they did. Joan thoroughly enjoyed the day. It was one of the very few old houses in Ireland which had not been allowed to suffer decay, and the gardens were beautifully kept. She thought Mrs. Donavan must be a very happy woman till she took her up to the top of a turret tower to see the view, and then leaning her arms on the parapet the young widow gazed away to the distant country with misty eyes.
"Oh!" she cried. "For a log cabin and a man to take care of me! Miss Adair, you were saying just now you envied me my home. I have come to see that no environment compensates for the loss of close companionship. I have been a lonely miserable woman since my husband died, and if civil war comes to our poor country, I will almost welcome the opportunities I shall have of doing and denying myself in the great cause. I am tired and sick of comfort and prosperity. I am not made for it, unless I have someone I love to share it with me."
"You have your brother now."
"Yes," and her face sparkled through its tears. "I can't tell you what he has been to me! He has had his trouble, poor fellow! The world is full of it, but as I tell him, his bliss was snatched away from him before he tasted it. I tasted mine to the full, and the miss of it is agony!"
Then she shook off her emotion, and after that one glimpse of a hidden self, Mrs. Donavan relapsed into her usual sparkling and charming gaiety. Major Armitage was in a quiet, grave mood. Joan did not see much of him, for Sheila claimed her as an old friend, and carried her off to see her pets and her own little garden.
When they were driving home, Joan said to Lady Alicia:
"I think if I were given very favourable circumstances, I should live a very lazy self-indulgent life. I do love spending my days in idleness."
"You are resting now. I should not be afraid for you, Joan. Life is too real to you to waste."
Joan shook her head doubtfully.
"I don't want to go home and settle down in the old routine. You don't know how I chafe against it, Lady Alicia. I am so weary of it, and Cecil tries my patience, and I even get fretted by my father's continual cheerful optimism!"
"You must remember you have been ill. You will feel quite differently soon. I would remind you of a favourite text of yours which will be made your experience, and has been, has it not? 'Strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness.'"
Joan drew a long sigh.
"My dear child, 'being' is as important as 'doing' in God's sight. A life lived consistently is a sermon in itself. Think of Cecil and of Banty Gascoigne. Both watching you, both keenly conscious when you fail in gentleness and patience. Are they not worth winning?"
"I feel it would need a miracle to alter Cecil," Joan said despondently.
There was a pause, then Lady Alicia said: "I want you to go back invigorated and refreshed, and I expect you will. But you are not ready yet either in mind or body."
And Joan found that Lady Alicia was right. As the days sped on and she found her keenness and energy return to her, thoughts of her home duties no longer oppressed her. She revelled in the simple outdoor life she was leading, and drew fresh health from her surroundings. When next Major Armitage met her, he complimented her on the improvement in her appearance.
"It is the Irish air," she said, laughing. "I can no longer pretend that I am an invalid."
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CHURCH IN THE HILLS
"SUCH a long letter from Cecil!"
Joan spoke joyfully. The post had come in rather later than usual. It was a lovely morning in June. Joan had met the postman in the avenue, and had just settled herself under a shady beech tree on the lawn to enjoy her letters. Lady Alicia took a chair, too, under the tree. She had a fair-sized packet of letters in her hand.
Joan had troubled over Cecil's silence. She had only written to her once, and that was a hurried line. Mr. Adair was not a good correspondent, and though he gave her parish news, the little details of daily life at the rectory were not mentioned. She glanced at the closely written sheets in delight, and then caught her breath in astonishment and almost dismay.
Lady Alicia looked up.
"No bad news, I trust?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it is only my fears come true. Cecil writes to tell me that she is engaged to Wilmot Gascoigne."
Lady Alicia did not speak. Joan went on hurriedly reading her letter. None of the details for which she craved were there; only a long dissertation on love and marriage and the description of Wilmot in the light of a devoted lover.
"We are convinced that there is mental affinity between us," Cecil wrote. "I inspire him, he tells me, and to be the inspiration of such a genius is enough for me. It is not the common foolish love we feel for each other. It is intellectual appreciation, that soul to soul intercourse which is only understood by ourselves."
Joan almost laughed as she read it. Then an anxious look came into her eyes.
She finished her letter.
"I don't think I shall be betraying confidence if I let you see it," she said to Lady Alicia. "Cecil has no reserve in her nature. I expect she has told everyone by this time all she thinks and feels about her engagement."
"I don't know that it is such a misfortune," said Lady Alicia. "They may suit each other. Cecil wants waking up. This may do it."
"I am afraid I have lost my confidence in him," said Joan in a troubled voice. "I would not say this to anybody, but I know you will not misunderstand me. He came perilously near making love to me at one time. He would have done it in a moment if I had encouraged him. Oh, I hope, I hope he will be true to Cecil. I feel awfully afraid for her. And she is not accustomed to yield her will to another. He will be master. I am convinced of that."
"Love makes all things easy," said Lady Alicia. "Yes; but Cecil's letter hardly gives me that hope. It is all so wordy, so analytical."
Lady Alicia read the letter and handed it back in silence.
Joan looked beseechingly at her.
"Do tell me what you think."
"I don't know Mr. Gascoigne, and I don't know what to think. It may be the best thing for Cecil. I don't think she would ever have settled down happily and contentedly in Old Bellerton."
"No; I am sure she would not. She told me by hook or crook she would go abroad again in the autumn. I must write and offer my congratulations, I suppose."
It was quite natural that Joan should feel a little sore at heart. It was not so very long ago that she was assured most fervently that she inspired and uplifted Wilmot's soul. Now he had transferred his liking to Cecil; and she could fancy from past experience that the passionate outpourings of his heart would be very pleasing and convincing to Cecil.
She shook off forebodings which descended upon her, and wrote an affectionate, sisterly letter to Cecil. For the rest of the day she was distrait and depressed. Lady Alicia wisely left her alone. She knew that if Joan wished to talk to her, she would do it.
In the afternoon, Major Armitage and his small niece arrived in the car. It was Sheila's birthday, and she had elected to come and tell Joan of it, for, as usual, Joan had won the child's heart.
They all had tea together on the lawn. Joan watched the uncle and niece with amusement and astonishment. Sheila was a little autocrat, and the Major was as wax in her hands.
She persuaded her elders to play hide and seek with her, and the formerly gloomy and solitary man was as agile in pursuing and being pursued across the lawn as his small niece.
At last both Major Armitage and Joan refused to play any more, and they sank exhausted upon the garden seat.
Sheila surveyed them pityingly.
"You poor fings! I'm not a bit tired."
Then, looking at them with her head on one side, she announced:
"I've a picture of Daddy and Mummy sitting on a seat just like you; only Daddy has his arm round Mummy's neck."
"Yes," said Joan hastily; "but we're not daddy and mummy, you see."
"But couldn't you be another daddy and mummy and have a little girl just like me?" demanded Sheila.
Joan's sense of humour overcame her embarrassment. She laughed outright, then jumped up and chased Sheila across the lawn to the house.
Lady Alicia, from her chair under the tree, looked across at Major Armitage and smiled.
"That is what I wish for you," she said. "You must forgive my impertinence."
Major Armitage did not resent her speech, as he would have done a few months ago.
"I have used up all my affections and emotions over an empty fancy," he said in a low, husky voice. "I have nothing left to give a woman now."
"I don't know," Lady Alicia rejoined. "You have respect and liking; that is a good foundation for love. And as I get older, I see many happy marriages take place amongst very matter-of-fact, unemotional people."
He made no reply, but his eyes followed Joan's figure in the distance; he watched her seat herself upon the low steps of the veranda and take Sheila in her arms.
Lady Alicia said no more. When Joan and the child joined them again, conversation turned on Irish affairs.
Presently Major Armitage said:
"Where do you go to church on Sunday?"
"We have to drive six miles," said Lady Alicia. "We go into the town."
"Have you ever heard of a certain parson called Dantman? He has a little church away in the hills, and is a most remarkable preacher. My sister told me his story. He is a bit hot-tempered, and got into trouble with the priests in the south. I think it was in Cork that he drew crowds to hear him; and then there was a shindy of some sort, and the bishop gave him this little living and let him know he must accept it. They say the people walk for miles to hear him, and he has the most wonderful influence over them. My sister says he would draw tears from a stone. You ought to hear him. I believe it is as near you as it is to us—a matter of about fifteen miles."
Lady Alicia laughed.
"It always does amuse me to hear the airy way motorists speak of distances. How do you think we could manage to drive fifteen miles there and fifteen miles back?"
"The fat pony would do it in a week," said Joan, laughing.
"Let me call for you in the car next Sunday. The evening is the best time to hear him; only the car can't get to his church. There is a mile and a half walk across the hills, and the scenery is wild in the extreme."
"Then what do you do with the car?"
"We put it up at an inn the last time we went."
"Your sister may want to go elsewhere."
"Oh, I think she doesn't go out in the evening, as a rule. She did come with me once; but I shall drive the car myself; she's very good in letting me have it when I want it."
"What do you say, Joan? It is very kind of Major Armitage to propose taking us. Would you like to go?"
"It sounds delightful," Joan replied. "I should enjoy it very much."
"Then I'll call for you at half-past five next Sunday," said Major Armitage.
"Come to tea, won't you?"
"Uncle Randal can't do that," said Sheila, shaking her curls disapprovingly. "He an' me spread each other's toast on Sunday. I couldn't do without him."
"Then we will expect you to supper on our return," said Lady Alicia.
"Thank you."
The matter was settled, and when they had left Joan said:
"I love to see Major Armitage with that child. He is almost boyish. It is a much better life for him than shut up alone with his music."
"He ought to get married," Lady Alicia rejoined gravely. "I hope he will."