Joan did not reply.
When Sunday evening came, Lady Alicia, who had been struggling with a headache all day, told Joan that she was afraid she would not be up to the walk.
"But there is no reason why you should not go," she said; "and then you will be able to tell me about it when you return."
So when, at half-past five, Major Armitage drove up in his car, only Joan awaited him. He tucked her up comfortably in the rugs, and they started. It was a lovely evening, and as they sped through the lanes, bordered by verdant green meadows, and hedges over which the wild rose and honeysuckle rioted in lovely profusion, Joan drew a long breath of delight.
"This will be a Sunday to remember," she said. "This day week I hope to be home again."
"Are you really going so soon?"
There was regret in Major Armitage's voice.
"I want to go back, and I don't," said Joan, with her happy laugh. "This has been such an easy, peaceful time that I should like to prolong it; but I am well and strong, and feel able to tackle all my small difficulties with a light heart. Cecil wrote yesterday wanting me back. She is going up to town, for Wilmot Gascoigne will be there for some weeks, and she wants to go about with him."
"I hardly like to ask you, but do you like that engagement?"
"I suppose I must. Honestly, I am afraid of how it will turn out. But at present they appear very happy."
It was odd, she thought, how few men liked Wilmot. She had never heard anyone praise him in a warm-hearted fashion.
Major Armitage was silent for a few minutes; then he said, more as if he were speaking aloud his thoughts:
"He is, at all events, better suited to her than to you."
Joan was rather amused.
"There was nothing of that sort between us," she said, "though I dare say the village gossiped over our employment together. The world in general cannot understand an ordinary business-like, matter-of-fact friendship between man and woman."
"Oh, I heard no gossip," said Major Armitage hastily. "I rarely had intercourse with the outside world when I was at home. Looking back now, I see it was a mistake. I got wrapped up in visions and dreams, to my own detriment and hurt. Now I believe in the wisdom of the Almighty: 'It is not good for man to be alone.'"
"I don't believe a lonely life is good for any of us," said Joan slowly; "and it is so unnecessary. There are always so many who would be the better for our help and friendship, and for whom we should be the better too."
"My sister has shaken into me a little of her practical sense. You see, since I left the Service and my trouble connected with my sight came to me, I shrank from everyone, and after a time, isolation became a habit which I could not break. I always count it as one of my blessings that your father was brought to my gates and laid up in my house. I think if I had not had your friendship, things would have gone badly with me later on. And—and, Miss Adair, I don't want to lose your friendship, for I have learnt to value it."
Joan's heart gave a little throb. It told her then how much she valued his friendship; but she answered very simply:
"You have it."
There was silence between them. The car took them away now from the lanes across a wide expanse of moor; then hills appeared, and very shortly after they came to a standstill.
A cluster of small cottages round a very dilapidated inn was the end of their drive. Major Armitage was welcomed by the landlord of the "Black Pig," who showed him a big shed, into which he could run his car.
"Sure an' you'll be goin' to hear the praycher?" he ejaculated. "He's a holy sowl, if there be wan on this airth; but a powerfu' scaldin' hot dressin' he gives to the people, Oi can tell ye!"
Joan and the Major were not long in starting up a narrow sheep-track across the hills. Here and there were little groups of the peasantry crossing the rough moorland. The sun was sending slanting rays across the hills, touching up here and there a little cluster of trees with golden glory.
The stillness of the summer evening made Joan say thoughtfully:
"I always think a summer Sunday evening the most delicious time in all the year. We might be away from the world altogether up here—caught up to receive a heavenly vision."
Major Armitage looked at her with a smile.
"That's rather good," he said. "I do hope you won't be disappointed in him."
It was rough walking, but at last they emerged from their irregular stony pathway upon a level bit of ground; and there, tucked away in a copse of trees and brushwood, with a high cliff behind it, was a tiny iron church.
"What an extraordinary place to build a church in!" exclaimed Joan.
"It was built and endowed by a rich farmer. You will see the tablet to his memory in the church."
They went inside. It was fast filling, and they took a seat just inside the door. The music was not very good. There was a wheezy harmonium, and no pretence at a choir. The congregation took a hearty part in singing and responses. It was just a very plain, simple little building; and John Dantman was at first sight a very commonplace little man.
Yet when he mounted the pulpit, Joan saw that his eyes were magnetic in their compelling power, and his preaching thrilling in its force and reality. He did not rant or rave, he leant over his pulpit quietly, and seemed to search and speak to every individual soul before him. He took for his text:
"'Knowing the terror of the Lord, we persuade men.'"
Very stern, unflinchingly true, and convincingly earnest was the first part of his sermon, but suddenly his voice broke and softened.
"We persuade men," he said; "that is our vocation, we are not here to scold, to upbraid, to frighten. We have told you stern facts, that is all."
And then followed such loving, persuasive pleading that Joan listened herself with a swelling heart, and when it was all over and she came out into the soft, summer air, she exclaimed:
"Oh, Major Armitage, I feel a burning desire now to exercise a little of my persuasion upon others. It is quite true what you say. If we all believed earnestly what we profess to believe, we could not live so indifferently, and selfishly ignore the needs of those who have not grasped the truth. If I were a man! Oh, if I were a man!"
She stopped, a little ashamed of her emotion.
"What would you do?"
"Oh, I don't know, the field would be so wide. I think I have wanted all my life to impart knowledge, to influence, to take a part in moulding the characters of the next generation. Teaching those younger than myself has always been before me. I have been distinctly shown that my sphere is to be in my own home, in a country village, learning lessons myself instead of teaching."
"What kind of lessons?" asked Major Armitage, wishing to draw her out.
"Lessons of patience and endurance and long-suffering with joyfulness," she said in a low tone.
Major Armitage was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"Those are hard lessons for any of us. And very few of us attempt to learn them."
They lapsed into silence.
The going down was more difficult in the waning light than coming up. Joan was glad to take Major Armitage's offered arm. To her the memory of that evening would always remain with her. She had enjoyed every bit of it; she hardly liked to acknowledge to herself how happy she was in company with the man who walked beside her. From having had a deep pity for him, she found herself taking an absorbing and increasing interest in him. He never disappointed her in anything he said or did. They were very silent on their return journey. Just before they reached Lady Alicia's house Major Armitage said:
"I am afraid this will be good-bye for the present. I have to go away for a few days on business for my sister, and when I return I shall find you flown, shall I not?"
"Yes, I leave on Wednesday."
"Will you remember me to your father? I wonder if you would send me occasional news of Old Bellerton? It would be a great pleasure to hear from you."
"Certainly I will."
Joan's voice had a little tremor in it.
"Thank you."
He said no more.
And then they went indoors, and found Lady Alicia waiting to hear about their service.
When Major Armitage took his departure a little later, he looked rather wistfully at Joan as he took her hand.
"How glad your father will be to have you back again!" he said with emphasis.
Joan laughed.
"Yes, I think he will. He and I have lived so long together that we know each other's ways, and he says he is lost without me."
"But he can't expect to keep you with him always."
"Why not? I don't think anything will call me away from him. I feel my life is meant to be in that quiet corner, and I am going to be content."
He looked at her, seemed as if he was about to speak, then shut his lips sternly and wrung her hand.
And Joan felt when he had left, as if the sunshine had gone out of her heart, leaving it grey and empty and cheerless.
CHAPTER XIX
CECIL'S ENGAGEMENT
JOAN arrived home to find a good deal awaiting her. Cecil was in a fever to be away. She was going to stay with some friends of her mother's. Wilmot was already in town; Mr. Adair was not very well. He had got wet one day, and bronchitis, his old enemy, was hovering over him. Jenny had had words with Cecil, and had given notice. She was sullen when Joan spoke to her; and Sophia said that she was determined not to stay. Benson, the odd man, had become very slack in his work. The garden had suffered from having no superintendence, and weeds had grown apace. There had been friction between Miss Borwill and the schoolmistress at Sunday school, and two steady members of the choir had resigned.
Joan found life bristling with difficulties; but she was her bright, capable self again, and tackled everything with a cheery spirit. She had expected to find a slack household under Cecil's rule, and so was not dismayed in consequence. Upon the night of her arrival, Cecil came into her room when she went up to bed, and regardless of Joan's fatigue kept her talking till past one o'clock.
The question Joan asked at once was:
"Is Mother's book finished?"
"My dear Joan, how ridiculous! Of course it is not. Wilmot thinks that he must go out to the Riviera with a camera and get some snapshots. He says a book of that sort must be prettily illustrated, or it will not be attractive. And if—if we are married in November, we could go together to the Riviera. I shall never be able to winter in England, I know."
"But is the writing of the book finished?"
"Oh, no—not nearly. It shows how little you know about writing a book like that! We have done about half. I am persuading him to throw over these Gascoigne Chronicles. It is a never-ending task, and he works better in town, he tells me. I can quite believe it. The rush and throb of life there must stimulate and quicken your brains. This deadly country life paralyses one! He and I are thoroughly agreed upon that point."
"Have you seen anything of Banty?"
"Oh, of course. I was asked to the Hall to be thoroughly inspected and criticised. Banty has no manners—she is like a new-fledged schoolgirl. She never has a word to say for herself. Wilmot says she has no intelligence at all."
"And you are really happy, Cecil?"
"My dear Joan, I am not overwhelmed with ecstasy because I am going to be married. I have seen too much of men to expect much from them. But Wilmot and I understand each other, and I shall have the life that suits me; that is the main thing. I want you to speak to Father about money. I can't go up to town without a penny in my pocket; I may go to other friends whilst I am there. Everyone will soon be leaving town, and I want to take advantage of my opportunities. I can't possibly make my allowance cover my travelling expenses. And I dare say I shall be able to get some of my trousseau in town. I suppose Father intends to give me that, doesn't he?"
"Oh, dear!" sighed poor Joan. "I do not see how Father can give you money at present. But I will talk to him and see what we can do."
When Cecil eventually left her, Joan buried her face in her pillow with determination.
"I won't worry. I'm going to trust. God will guide and provide."
And her sleep was sound, unshadowed by any difficulties or troubles looming ahead.
Mr. Adair found he was able to give Cecil what she required, and she left home in high spirits. She did not often write, so Joan was quite satisfied that she was enjoying herself, and went her way happily, helping her father in parish matters, making peace between those who were quarrelling, and finding time to send up to her editor one or two more short sketches from rural life.
And then one day Derrick appeared. He walked in at luncheon time. Mr. Adair was away at a clerical meeting in the neighbouring town, and Joan, being alone, was lunching off bread and cheese and salad. But Sophia, who was always ready in an emergency, produced two grilled mutton chops and a savoury omelette, and Derrick did justice to both.
"I'm not going to desert you, Joan, though you won't have anything to say to me. And as you look upon me as a brother, I have come down to give you a brother's hint. Have you heard from the Malingerer?"
"Not for more than a fortnight. Why?"
"Oh, I've been seeing a lot of her. And that rat Motty is going, in vulgar phrase, to chuck her!"
"Oh, Derrick, don't speak so!"
Pride for her sister, and hot indignation at such a supposition, made Joan's cheeks burn.
"I tell you it's true! Why was she such a fool as to get infatuated with him? Now don't rear your head and look so lofty. I'm talking like a brother. I want you to warn her. Motty is as fickle as the wind! You found him out, didn't you? I was pretty sick when I heard the Malingerer had taken him on, for I knew it could only end one way. Have you seen Banty lately?"
"No, she is away. I have not met her since I came home."
"Well, I was asked down for a week-end whilst you were away, and old Jossy was in a fine stew. He couldn't get Motty to finish up his Chronicles. He has been at them three years, and they never get any forrarder. He runs some other book at the same time, and that gets all his time and attention. I think your mother's Riviera notes were too absorbing; those and the love-making together, and old Jossy spoke out straight, and told Motty unless he would stick to his work with him, he could go. So Motty packed his bag and walked off for good, leaving the Chronicles behind him."
"Cecil never told me he had left his uncle's," said Joan, a troubled look coming into her eyes.
"Didn't she? Well, I've seen a good bit of her in town, and I can tell you Motty is conspicuous by his absence. She can't understand it, and is getting restive. I happen to know that a rich American girl has got hold of him, and is running him for all she is worth. He goes about everywhere with her, but the Malingerer has only seen them together twice. Motty told her when she questioned him about it that she was a most clever photographer, and he had hopes of enlisting her in the cause of your mother's book. She had promised to give him some of her snapshots of the Riviera for it. I don't think the Malingerer quite swallowed it. Motty always has been wild to get to America, and I believe he'll be on the briny before the Malingerer knows where he is."
"Do stop calling her the Malingerer," said Joan. "She is so much stronger now that we hear nothing about her health. Poor Cecil! I do hope that he will be true to her. It will break her heart."
Derrick laughed.
"Not a bit of it. Her heart isn't in it. I could tell that from the way she discussed him with me. I should like to get hold of Motty by the neck and shake him as a terrier does a rat!"
"What can I do?" asked Joan helplessly.
"Get her home again."
"She won't come."
"Can't you get an attack of the 'flu' again and go to bed and then wire to her?"
"Oh!" said Joan impulsively. "How I wish you would marry her, Derrick!"
Derrick's eyes danced.
"Do you think she would have me? You know who I want to marry."
"Oh, that is past. And just think, Derrick, how nice it would be to have you as a real brother! That is the position I want you to be in."
"Your morals are deficient. She is an engaged girl at present."
"I will write to her by this post," said Joan; "but I hardly know what to say."
Joan never wrote that letter, for before Derrick left her that afternoon, she received a wire:
"Coming home this evening. Arrive six o'clock.—CECIL."
Derrick was quite relieved.
"They've had it out, then. He was to take her to some gallery yesterday. He had failed to keep two appointments with her, and I could see she meant to bring matters to a point. I might have spared myself the trouble of coming down, except that you're always such a 'sight for sore e'en.' Sophia says you're like a breeze in the house; I should say you stilled it. I suppose I had better make myself scarce. I'm sleeping at the Hall for a few nights. But if I can do anything for you, let me have a line before I go back to town. A horsewhipping or a ducking in the round pond would be too mild for him!"
"You are thinking the very worst of him," said Joan. "They may have drawn closer together after meeting. I hope so."
"Never!" said Derrick with conviction.
Joan drove slowly along the leafy lanes to the station, thinking deeply. The old pony would not be hurried, and Joan let him take his own pace.
She was wondering if Cecil had been disillusioned, and, if so, whether it would be a blessing to her or the reverse. She dreaded having her back embittered and disappointed. A rush of sympathy for her welled up in her heart. Cecil had gone to London careless, gay, and perfectly sure of her future; she was coming back perhaps empty and forlorn. Yet, when the train came in and the sisters met, Cecil looked much as usual. She was dressed in a grey linen dress, and wore a shady hat with violet pansies round it. She was already lightening her mourning for her mother. Joan was still in black.
"Well, Cecil dear, welcome home! You have returned very suddenly."
"Yes; it's too hot and airless in town. I can't stand it; and, of course, everybody is leaving."
"Derrick made his appearance yesterday. He told me he had been seeing a good bit of you."
"Yes. He is rather nice, isn't he? And knows the right people in town, which is a great thing."
They chatted together on the way home on trivial matters. Cecil gave no hint of being disappointed or unhappy, and Joan came to the conclusion that all must be right with her.
Mr. Adair was away for the evening, taking some festival service at a neighbouring church, so the girls had a quiet dinner, and, pleading fatigue, Cecil retired early to bed.
One thing Joan noticed, and that was that Cecil did not mention Wilmot's name. She had not the courage to ask after him. She waited up for her father, who returned about ten o'clock. At half-past ten, just before finally bolting the front door, Joan stepped out upon the gravel path to inhale the sweet night air. Then she noticed that a light was still burning in Cecil's room, and knew that, though she had retired an hour and a half previously, she was still awake.
As she went upstairs to bed, she debated with herself as to whether she should go to her sister.
If Cecil had anything to tell, night was the best time for her to tell it.
After a little hesitation, she went across the passage and knocked gently at her door.
There was silence for a moment. The light was being extinguished, and then Cecil's voice spoke:
"Come in."
Joan slipped in and felt her way to the bedside in the dark.
She put out her hand and touched Cecil's head.
"Cecil dear."
In a moment Cecil's arms, to her surprise, were put round her neck, drawing her down to her, and Joan was conscious that her own cheek was touching a very tear-stained one on the pillow.
"I felt I must get back to you. You're always the same, and you'll understand and feel for me. It's all over between us. But I have broken it off, I'm thankful to say."
A little sob broke her voice.
"Tell me, dear. I was afraid of it."
Cecil steadied her voice.
"He treated me abominably, shamefully! I think when he was turned away from the Hall, he began to weigh me in the balance, and he certainly found me wanting in the matter of pounds, shillings and pence! Then he was taken up violently in town by some Americans, who have accepted him at his own valuation, and believe that he is a genius. He was more and more with them, and less and less with me. They are going to take him over to America, and arrange a tour of lectures for him, and, of course, he means to marry the daughter. I suppose I have discovered, as you did, that he is a gasbag, and has no grit or purpose in him. I am thankful for my escape, but oh, Joan, it humiliates and hurts! And I feel alone. I miss Mother, and—and—well, I'm desperately miserable!"
Joan felt it all so pathetic that she mingled her tears with Cecil's. She asked presently about Mrs. Adair's notes.
"He has really done very little to them. We must get them back. I did say something to him, but he says he will not let all his labour go for nothing. He says he has been spending his time and brains on other people's property, and will not be treated by us as he has been by his relations. As a matter-of-fact, I know Sir Joseph paid him handsomely. But what can we do, Joan? Could Derrick—?"
"Yes; Derrick will tackle him," said Joan confidently; "and, if he goes to America, we must hope that we shall never see him again. Don't worry, dearest. I am glad that you have found him out before you were married to him. It would be so awful to be disillusioned afterwards."
"I suppose everybody here will laugh at me, but 'I' have broken it off, Joan, remember!"
"Yes," said Joan, almost smiling at Cecil's eagerness for that fact to be known. "I am afraid Wilmot has not many friends in this part, so I do not think you will be blamed."
She stayed with her some time. She had never before seen Cecil so softened and affectionate, and longed to improve the occasion. Yet she felt tongue-tied until, just as she was saying good-night, Cecil said:
"I felt quite thankful that you were at home, and not in Ireland. Oh, Joan, sometimes I wish I were good like you! Whatever comes to you makes you content and happy, and life is not happy to me. I hate my surroundings here; they make me miserable, and this dreadful want of money cripples one so. Don't you ever want to break away from it all?"
"Often and often," was Joan's frank reply. "But it is good to be able to trust one's life to God, Cecil dear."
If Joan expected Cecil to be a different girl after that evening's conversation, she was much mistaken. Cecil was exceedingly irritable and exacting in the days which followed. She would not leave the house or grounds, and shrank from seeing visitors. She lay in bed late, and spent most of her days in a hammock in the garden, complaining of the heat, and flies, and other annoyances.
Derrick paid a flying visit before leaving for town, and, though Cecil tried to escape him, they met in the hall. He put out his hand at once.
"My fervent congrats.!" he said. "Joan has told me. I never could congratulate you before, you know. I admire your pluck. My fingers, figuratively, are tingling to be at his throat. May I call on him in town and get that book of your mother's from him? I was able to help Joan in her difficulty with him, and I'll do the same for you."
Cecil at first received his speech with haughty head and stony face, but Derrick's sunny, genial manner always won his cause. Her whole demeanour softened; she threw her pride to the winds.
"Oh, Derrick, I'll love you for ever if you get it from him! He'll never finish it! I know he never will."
Derrick nodded.
"You must have someone to do battle for you, and Motty and I understand each other perfectly. What a good for nothing scoundrel he is!"
In a fortnight's time, Cecil received a registered packet by post. It was the MS. And without another word she put it into Joan's hands.
"Don't let me see it again. Do what you like with it without asking me."
So Joan had her heart's desire, and put all her spare time to it.
Then one day she received from Ireland a packet of roughly scored music and a note.
"DEAR MISS ADAIR,—I am still waiting to hear from you. I want you to
try enclosed upon the organ, and tell me what you think of it as an
anthem. We shall not soon forget the words. Does the music represent
the force and beauty of them sufficiently? I wish I could hear you
take the soprano part. Remember me to your father. Music seems out
of place in this country at present. It is seething with discord and
hot rage. The memory of our evening walk together is like a far-away
melody.—Yours in true friendship,—
"RANDAL ARMITAGE."
Joan took the anthem down to the church when her day's work was over.
The music, as she expected, was lovely. First, the crashing thunder, then the exquisitely soft and beautiful pleading. Joan felt her heart stirred and swayed by its power and pathos. And when she tried to sing it, she felt a longing to sing it to some tired, wayward hearts. "Knowing the terror of the Lord, we persuade men."
"What a gift he has!" she thought, when at last she closed the organ and came through the dusky garden to the house. "And now I must write to him. I ought to have done so before."
She wrote a bright, natural, chatty letter, telling him all the village news which she thought might interest him; and then she mentioned the anthem:
"I can't tell you how much I like it and how much it brings back to
me! As I hear the music, I shall always see that little Irish church
amongst the hills, with the ignorant, expectant faces all round us,
and the wonderful stillness, with the one human voice speaking to and
stirring our souls. Are you going to have it printed? I do hope you
will.—Yours most sincerely,—
"JOAN ADAIR."
CHAPTER XX
BANTY'S ACCIDENT
"MISS JOAN, have you heard the news?"
Sophia burst into the dining-room one morning about eleven o'clock. Joan was busy dressmaking. She was not a very good hand at it, but she was now, with knitted brows, cutting out a serge skirt for herself, and she looked up just a little impatiently at the interruption.
"Is it another baby, or has one of the villagers come in for a fortune?"
"Miss Gascoigne at the Hall has been killed by a horse she was riding!"
Joan dropped her scissors on the table with a clatter.
"Sophia! What do you mean? It can't be true!"
"It is, then. The butcher's boy brought the news, and he has come straight from the Hall. They were carrying her in before he left."
Joan's face was absolutely colourless. She stood staring at Sophia in horror.
"Banty? She was only here yesterday, and she asked me to have tea in the pine wood with her to-morrow! Oh, Sophia, it must be a mistake."
Sophia shook her head gloomily.
"She was exercising a young horse in the paddock, the boy said, and he bucked and threw her against the stone wall."
"I don't believe it," said Joan.
"Don't believe what?"
Cecil asked the question as she sauntered into the room. She had only just left her bedroom.
Joan blurted out Sophia's news, and Cecil was stricken dumb for a moment. Then she recovered herself.
"It's only a report. She is, most likely, stunned for the time. Is Father in?"
"No. I shall go and inquire at once."
Joan dashed out of the room, seized her garden hat, which was hanging up in the hall, and set off at a quick run down the village.
Bad news travels fast. There were knots of women at their doors; two men she met both assured her it was a terrible accident, but knew no more; everybody was conjecturing and discussing the event. It was long since the quiet village had been thrown into such a ferment.
"I seed two magpies only this morning; I knowed somethin' were comin'."
"'Twas strange her passin' the remark to me only yesterday when she saw gran'ma: 'Well,' she says, 'I only hope,' she says, 'I shan't live till I can do nothing but sit and smile in a chair,' she says. She be always so blunt in her way, but she had a good heart, that she had!"
Scraps of conversation like this came to Joan's ears as she passed by. She was determined to get at the truth, and would not even stop at the lodge, but pressed on up the drive as fast as her breath and feet could carry her. She saw the old family butler.
"She's alive, miss," he said in answer to her question, "but we don't know how long she will be. There is complications, they say. We've wired for two nurses and a London doctor, and Dr. Blount is upstairs now."
"I will call again," said Joan. "Will you tell Lady Gascoigne that I am ready to do anything for her if she wants help in any way?"
Then she went home with lingering steps. It seemed so impossible for Banty to be ill: Banty, who had always boasted of her superb health, and had never stayed indoors in the roughest weather! Joan longed to know details.
Later in the day her father called at the Hall, and Lady Gascoigne saw him. She told him as much as she knew herself: how Banty was exercising a young hunter, and was thrown against a stone wall as she cantered round the field. She was picked up unconscious; her head was badly bruised, her right wrist broken, but the most serious injury was to her right leg and thigh. They hoped now there were no internal injuries. The London doctor was hopeful of her recovery, but feared she might have to lose her leg.
When Joan heard this, her heart sank within her. If Banty lost her leg, she would never be able to ride and hunt again; and that was her life.
As the days went on, it seemed very doubtful whether poor Banty would pull through; and when her leg was finally amputated above the knee, she turned her face, like Ahab, to the wall, and refused to eat. "Let me die! I want to die!" was her cry.
At last, in despair, her parents sent for Joan. She obeyed the summons promptly, but was shocked at the change in Lady Gascoigne, who was bent and feeble and seemed ten years older. Tears were in her eyes as she greeted Joan.
"Oh, Joan, you must help us! She is our only child. She won't try to live. She seems as if she is stricken dumb. She will not answer us or take the slightest notice of anything we say to her. But this morning I said, 'I must get Joan Adair to come and persuade you,' and she turned her poor eyes round and looked at me.
"'Get her,' she said; and those are the first words she has spoken for two days.
"She was so fond of you. Perhaps you may be able to influence her."
"May I see her alone?" Joan asked.
"Of course you may if you wish it. But she seems quite oblivious as to whether there are few or many in the room."
"I would rather be alone with her," Joan persisted.
She was led upstairs to Banty's bedroom. A nurse opened the door.
"I think she is sleeping," she said softly. "I want her to take some beef tea, but it is difficult."
"Will you let me be alone with her for a little?" Joan asked.
The nurse demurred, then gave way, but asked Joan not to stay long and not to excite her.
Then into the sick room Joan went. Banty was lying back on her pillows. Her face was sharpened by suffering, her eyes were closed. Joan bent down softly and kissed her forehead. Then, as Banty's eyes opened slowly, she smiled at her.
"Here I am, Banty."
Banty gazed at her in silence. Joan's fresh, fair face, with her sunshiny, dimpling smile, seemed quite out of place in that room. But Banty found her voice.
"Lock them all out!" she said tersely and sharply.
Without any demur, Joan walked to the door and tuned the key in the lock. Then she drew up a chair to the bedside, and seated herself upon it.
"Now we are alone," she said.
A flicker of a smile passed over Banty's face. "They've never left me, night or day," she said.
Joan put out her hand and took hold of Banty's caressingly.
"And I've been thinking of you night and day," she said quite cheerfully. "But, before we have a chat together, do drink this beef tea, will you, or else the nurse will be back to give it to you."
Banty raised herself a little on the pillows. Joan tucked another pillow behind her, and saw every drop of the beef tea disappear. She was not in a hurry to speak, so she waited in silence till Banty said, slowly and haltingly:
"They talk over me, and cry over me, and bewail my lot till I feel nearly mad. The parents' faces nearly reach to the ground! The nurses put on their nurse's cheeriness and talk to me as if I am just born!"
Joan laughed. She could not help it, though her heart was aching for the girl in bed.
Banty looked up gratefully.
"Laugh again! I'd forgotten there was any laughter left in the world. I've been tied up in this bed at their mercy. I can't—can't get away from them."
A rebellious, untamed soul looked out of her anguished eyes.
Joan pressed her hand sympathetically. Then she spoke:
"Look here, Banty, I've promised not to excite you. I'll talk as much as ever you like, but if I'm to come again, I must not make you worse. I haven't told you yet—"
"Don't you pity me! Don't you say you're sorry for me. I'm fed up with that."
"I won't. It goes without saying."
"Thank goodness you can speak in your natural voice!"
"Well, now, I'm going to be quite natural. You have to get out of this bed as quickly as you can. I can quite imagine the prison it has been to you. I shall expect you very soon to come along to the pine woods in a bath-chair, and then we can spread a rug on the ground, and you shall lie on it and throw cones at the squirrels, whilst I make a fire and boil the tea."
Banty drew a quick breath. She looked up at Joan with wistful longing.
"Will you manage it for me?"
"You will have to do that. Feed yourself up, get strong and cheerful, and send your nurses about their business. As long as you are weak, they must be with you. The remedy is in your own hands."
Banty gazed at Joan without speaking; then she said:
"Do you know what Father did when he was last in my room? Crept to that drawer over there, and took away my pet revolver. He thought I didn't see him. I did. It was my one hope from the time they told me my fate."
"Then I'm glad he took it," said Joan stoutly. "You never have been a coward, Banty, and you won't be one now."
Banty did not reply.
Then came a knock at the door. She scowled.
"Let them knock! This is the first bit of peace I've had. They had me in their power."
Joan crossed the room and unlocked the door. It was one of the nurses.
"I shan't stay much longer, nurse; but the beef tea is taken, and Miss Gascoigne is quite quiet and comfortable."
The nurse glanced suspiciously round. Joan looked at her with one of her irresistible smiles.
"Miss Gascoigne and I are old friends. We wanted to pretend she was not ill, and had no doctors or nurses. She is going to get well as quickly as she can."
The nurse understood, and wisely gave way. "Ten minutes more, then; and you will find me in the little room at the end of the corridor."
Joan nodded; then came over to Banty again.
"It's better to coax than to force," she said. "Oh, Banty, dear, you must get well quickly. I want you, and so do your parents."
"Do you know what my being well means?"
"Yes; we won't shirk it. It means, possibly, an artificial leg, a stick, and a slight limp; but there's the wide world waiting for you outside and wanting you. It will mean no riding or hunting; but the country isn't taken from you. You will drive yourself about, and I believe a new world will dawn for you, a world which you have never entered, and which is very fair indeed."
Banty lay still. Not a word did she say, and very soon Joan took her leave.
"Come again soon," was the request.
"Yes; and soon you will be sitting up by your open window."
In the hall Joan met Lady Gascoigne.
"How did you leave our poor darling? Did you talk to her about resignation and patience? I hoped you would do her good."
Joan shook her head.
"I've only tried to shake and wake her," she said; "and I think, dear Lady Gascoigne, I should leave her a good deal to herself. Banty has always liked being alone."
"But not now. I assure you we don't leave her a minute for fear she should want something."
"I think she would like to be alone sometimes."
But though Joan had not talked to Banty of the things she loved, she had been silently praying for her the whole time; and, as she walked home, her whole heart went out towards her in sympathy and love.
Joan had accomplished what none of Banty's family had been able to do. She had shaken her out of her despairing lethargy and had given her the desire to live.
Banty's wonderfully healthy and strong constitution stood her in good stead now. When once her will was exercised on the side of recovery, she began to make rapid strides towards convalescence, and, if she made exacting demands on Joan's time, Joan was cheerfully anxious to comply with them. She put in an hour with Banty nearly every day, and they talked of many things; but for a long while Banty would not touch upon her own helplessness, and Joan always fell in with her mood.
As autumn came on, and the days became shorter and colder, Joan felt unutterably sad for the girl who would necessarily be so much shut up in the house this first winter.
She hated needlework of every kind, she rarely read; indoor occupation of any sort was intolerable to her.
"She had much better have been killed outright," said Cecil one day when Joan was talking about her. "When the hunting comes on, she'll be desperate. There is nothing for her to live for."
"Oh, Cecil, think how full life is! Hunting is, after all, a very small matter."
"Hunting was her life."
"It's a good thing we are made up of different parts," said Joan. "Banty has only developed one part of her nature up to now. She has still others lying dormant."
"She has no intellect," said Cecil sharply. "Even your partiality to her cannot own that."
"I believe she has," said Joan. "Time will show."
The day came when Banty could propel herself in a wheel-chair, and after that she was seldom found indoors. Perhaps the worst time to her was the day of the opening meet. At first her father said he would not go, but Banty urged him to do so.
"As I'm making up my mind to live, the sooner you slip into your old ways the better. You go your way and I will go mine. I suppose I shall enjoy hearing about your run by and by!"
The people round were wonderfully sympathetic with poor Banty, but were all so shy of seeing her suffer, that they wrote their condolences and shrank from seeing her personally.
One afternoon, Joan's suggestion was carried out, and Banty drove herself to the pine wood in the low cart that was now set apart for her use.
When she was comfortably settled, Joan produced some needlework.
"Now we'll enjoy ourselves," she said.
"Joan, if you hadn't been here, I should have put an end to myself," Banty said suddenly. "I couldn't have gone through these awful months without you."
Joan shook her head at her.
"Don't try to think of what you might have done in other circumstances. Everything was planned out and arranged for you."
"I believe it was," said Banty in an awed voice. "Joan, I must take up religion. All cripples do, don't they? They always lie on couches, with saintly smiles, and their corner is the haven of peace and refuge for the rest of the house."
Banty spoke so gravely that Joan wondered whether she were in jest or earnest.
"I want you to have the religion that will make your life fuller than it has ever been," said Joan earnestly.
"As full as yours?" queried Banty in a bantering tone. Then with sudden gravity she burst out: "Joan, I tell you honestly, I've envied you ever since you came to live here. You never go about and enjoy yourself; you're half a servant, half a parson, half a teacher, half a housekeeper. You look after everybody, and keep them all in a good temper, and yet you're as happy as a sandboy through and through. It isn't on the surface, for I've watched you closely. How do you manage to do it?"
"It's the realising that you're just doing what you are meant to do," said Joan, "that brings content and happiness to me. I have a motto; have I told you it before? Three words: 'Patience, long-suffering, with joyfulness.' That's what I aim at. And, may I say, Banty, that I think your courage and patience now are wonderful!"
"Oh, stow it!" said Banty, colouring. "Of course, I show my best to you, and, out here in the fresh air, who could be cantankerous?"
Another silence fell on them. Then Joan jumped up and got tea ready.
"What does Cecil do with herself every day?" Banty asked presently.
"She has driven into the town to-day to do some shopping."
"Is she going abroad this winter?"
"I—I don't think so. She wants to go, but I'm afraid it can't be managed."
"I should like to think she would be away. She worries you."
"Oh no, she doesn't. We understand each other perfectly."
Joan led the conversation to other subjects. She never criticised Cecil to others.
They stayed in the woods an hour longer, and then, very reluctantly, Banty allowed herself to be tucked up again in the trap, and her small groom, who had been amusing himself by gathering blackberries, took her home.
CHAPTER XXI
A CHANCE FOR CECIL
AUTUMN passed. To Joan it seemed that her life was very full. Banty demanded a great deal of her time, but she did not grudge it to her. Talks with Lady Alicia came back to her in which she had been told that she might be kept in her rather narrow sphere with the object of helping one particular person; and Joan could not but feel that Banty's sad misfortune had opened the way for a good many real talks on the deep things in life. Banty repeatedly told her that she had been a refuge to her in a raging storm, and, slowly and almost imperceptibly, Banty was feeling her way towards the real Refuge. But, though learning lessons of patience and endurance, and dimly seeing as 'through a glass darkly' the glories of the new world opening to her soul, Banty did not always exercise self-denial in her dealings with her friend.
Joan had come to her help in a dark hour; then it was Joan's purpose in life at present to continue that help and come to her aid at any time. When fits of depression seized her, she sent for Joan. When she had been cross and unreasonable to those around her, and was in a contrite, repentant mood, Joan must come and be her father confessor, and make peace with those she had vexed and hurt. When the hunt was meeting in the close vicinity of the Hall, and she was driven frantic by the hooting of the horn and the baying of the hounds, Joan must come up immediately, and sit with her, and amuse and entertain her till she was able to regain her fortitude and composure. And Joan rarely failed her; but it was at the cost of much effort and self-denial on her part to respond so willingly, and Cecil was very wroth at her prompt compliance with Banty's unreasonable demands.
Cecil herself, at home, was another unceasing trial to her sister. She was angry with Banty for her selfishness, yet failed to see that she, in her turn, was continually making demands upon Joan's time and attention. She had her black moods of depression and contrariety, when nothing would please or cheer her, and, as the weather became stormy and cold, she would incessantly grumble at the English climate.
One rainy afternoon, as dusk was falling, Joan came in from a visit to the Hall to find Cecil crouched by a dying fire in the drawing-room, looking the picture of woe.
"My dear, what a miserable room!" Joan said brightly, shaking up some untidy cushions on the couch with much energy and then stirring the fire. "Why, you look blue with cold! And you have let the fire nearly out. Have you been asleep?"
"Oh, I don't know. I have rung three times for coal. I never saw such servants, and Sophia had the impertinence to put her head in at the door and tell me I ought to have made the coal-scuttle last till tea-time! She said she was in the middle of making a cake, and if I wanted more coal, I could get some logs from the wood cupboard! I really wonder you don't give her notice to leave. She's getting quite unbearable."
"I would as soon think of asking Dad to leave!" said Joan, laughing. "Sophia is always cross on her cake days, and Maggie has gone out. Her mother is ill and wants her. I'll go and get some wood."
She was out of the room and back again in a minute. Cecil went on grumbling.
"I've a great mind to apply for a post as companion to someone to get away from home. I shall be ill if I stay on here longer. I must get abroad. Why don't you help me, Joan? Tell Father I can't, and won't, stay here all the winter. I never saw such a benighted place. We haven't had a visitor inside the house for a fortnight, at least. My bedroom wall is reeking with damp. Haven't you finished Mother's book yet? If only you could get it done, Derrick says he will get it taken by some publisher friend of his, and that will bring enough money in to make it easy for me to go abroad."
"I have so little time to write it, Cecil dear; but I am very nearly at the end of it. I should like to sit down and write it now, but I promised Father to do some accounts with him after tea. I think I'll go out and bring the tea in myself. We won't wait for Sophia. You will feel quite another being after it."
Cecil listened to her singing under her breath as she went out to the kitchen. It never entered her head to offer to help. She had a headache; that was quite sufficient excuse to remain idle.
When Joan came back, Cecil looked up at her.
"Joan, you 'must' help me. You are so absorbed in Banty that you can think of nobody else. I will and 'must' get away. You will have me dying on your hands if I don't. I woke last night, and could hardly breathe. I am getting back all my old breathlessness and my cough."
Joan looked at her a little anxiously, but she could not see any appearance of delicacy about her.
"You fret yourself ill," she said. "I wish you would make up your mind to get through a winter here. Be patient, and we will hope great things from Mother's book."
She made a mental resolve that she would work in her room at night. It was the only opportunity she had for quiet. She was as anxious as Cecil was that the book should be finished, but her days seemed too full for any time to write.
For the next few weeks Joan kept this resolve. She came down to breakfast in the morning with tired eyes and brain, but with a lightened heart. The book was progressing. And then came the day when it was packed off to Derrick. He did not keep them waiting long to hear its fate. It was accepted. A few alterations were deemed necessary, and Joan had a good deal of correspondence with the publisher over it.
About the end of November she received the sum of fifty pounds for advance royalties, and Cecil went joyfully to her father to demand permission to go abroad. To her amazement, he refused.
Mr. Adair was not a very strong-minded man, and very obstinate on some points. Joan could not persuade him to give way. He had suffered too much in the past from having his wife and daughter away when he could not afford to send them. Now that Cecil was fairly strong, and had not her mother to back her up, he considered that it would be weakness on his part to give way to her.
"I cannot afford it. You ought to be helping Joan at home. Everyone tells me she is wearing herself out. Why should you expect this sum of money to be spent on you? If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to Joan, who has had all the labour of producing it. And there are still debts of ours to be paid. Until I am actually free from debt, I will not incur the fresh expense of sending you abroad."
"If the money got by Mother's book is not spent according to her wishes, it is abominable injustice!" said Cecil passionately. "You know how she wished me to spend every winter abroad. It is why she commenced to write, to earn money for our comfort there. And, if the money belongs to Joan, I know she will give it to me gladly. When I am dead and in my grave, you will reproach yourself. You're killing me fast."
She flung herself out of the room, and went off to Joan. It was not often she spoke so passionately to her father. He was much hurt and indignant, and Joan had to receive the confidences of both, and try to make peace between them. But she could not move her father from his standpoint, nor alter his decision. Cecil raged and sulked by turns, would not eat, and spent most of her days in bed. In despair, Joan wrote to Lady Alicia. She saw that Cecil was making herself really ill, and she hardly knew how to act for the best.
In a few days she had Lady Alicia's reply, and it was astounding in its force and brevity:
"MY DEAREST JOAN,—Smooth the creases out of your brow. I have written
to your father and to Cecil by this same post. I leave for Nice this
day fortnight, and hope that Cecil will accompany me as my guest.—In
greatest haste, your loving godmother,—
"ALICIA."
Joan received this letter at the breakfast-table. Her father and she were alone, and they looked up simultaneously at each other. He had been reading his communication from Lady Alicia at the same time she had been reading hers.
"Well, Joan, the difficulty is solved. I am glad, for I was beginning to dread these winter months for that refractory girl."
"Isn't it noble of Lady Alicia? I am so delighted. I must go up and see Cecil, and hear what she thinks of it."
She slipped upstairs. Cecil was in bed; her breakfast-tray lay beside her, but she was still heavy with sleep, and had not looked at her letters.
"Cecil, Cecil! Wake up! You can go abroad in a fortnight, if you like!"
Cecil opened her eyes. She was generally very cross the first thing in the morning, and had a great dislike to anyone entering her room before she was up. Joan's smiling, eager face roused her.
"What is the matter?"
Joan pounced upon a letter lying upon her tray addressed in Lady Alicia's handwriting.
"Here! Read this, and you will have the news!"
Cecil sat up in bed and took the letter.
"I don't know why you are so excited. Can't you speak?"
But Joan stood silent, letting the letter tell its own tale.
Cecil did not show any excitement. She read the letter through very calmly, and then handed it to Joan.
"I suppose she has written to you, too? I dare say Father will object, and I am not sure that I should like to go abroad with Lady Alicia. She is rather prudish and dull. She says she's ordered to go by her doctor, and must have a companion. Why doesn't she ask you? Does she expect me to be a kind of maid to her? I shouldn't fancy that."
"Well," said Joan, "if you don't jump at her kind offer, you mustn't expect any more sympathy from me. I really think you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cecil!"
Cecil laughed. Her good humour came back.
"Of course I shall accept it," she said. "I would rather go with a tinker than not at all. Does Father know?"
"Yes; he is quite willing."
Cecil attacked her breakfast with vigour.
"It's rather short notice," she said. "I must get some things down from town."
"Now don't be running up bills! You always look nicely dressed, and Lady Alicia is very simple and quiet herself."
"I am not going to be a duplicate of Lady Alicia! How pleased you will be to get rid of me!"
Joan bent down and gave her a quick little kiss. "You know it is for your sake. I am so glad."
Cecil looked up at her with laughter in her eyes. "You're a trump, Joan! But we do not fit together very well. You are always such a saint that you provoke me to be a devil!"
Joan looked at her gravely and a little tenderly. "Lady Alicia considers you have the making of a fine woman in you."
With which diplomatic remark she left the room.
The fortnight that ensued was a very busy time for both sisters. Cecil did at times feel ashamed of herself when she saw how Joan slaved for her, and the night before she left home she said to her:
"I wonder you don't hate me, Joan! However much you may deny it, I know that when I am gone, you and Father will settle down with the greatest happiness and peace together. Sophia will thank Heaven she has seen the last of me. There isn't a soul here who would care if they never saw me again. I think it is this that makes me so bad tempered. Nobody wants me or likes me. I feel I am a very big fly in the small pot of ointment. The only one who really cared for me and wanted me is in her grave!"
"Oh, Cecil, you mustn't talk so! You don't know how I care, but you don't encourage me to show you any affection, do you?"
"No; I hate all that kind of thing. Some day, perhaps, I shall turn to you for what I now seem to spurn. In my heart I know that your view of life is the right one, and mine is wrong. But everything will have to be taken from me before I shall be content with what you are. My health and strength and powers of enjoyment will have to go before I can hope to settle down into such a narrow groove."
Joan did not speak; she felt tongue-tied. Her face showed how Cecil's words distressed her.
"Don't look so shocked. Perhaps Lady Alicia will work a wonderful change in me. Who knows? I may come back to you a perfect miracle of goodness and unselfishness. You can hope for it. Anyhow, you're a dear old thing, and I'm very grateful for all you've been doing for me!"
She put up her face for a kiss, and Joan had misty eyes as she gave it. In spite of all her waywardness, Cecil did occupy a big place in her heart.
When she had gone, the house seemed strangely silent and empty. Mr. Adair openly expressed his relief at his younger daughter's absence; and, as the days slipped by, Joan found that Banty and the parish more than occupied her time and thoughts.
Mrs. Adair's book was published in the new year, and it was a keen pleasure to Mr. Adair as well as to Joan to read it through and discuss every page of it. Banty received a copy. She was becoming a great reader, and though, as a rule, her reading was of the lightest description, she took the greatest interest in this special book.
"I have been telling Father," she said to Joan, "that he had better get you to finish our ridiculous Chronicles. Would you be above completing Motty's leavings?"
"I couldn't do it satisfactorily, I am afraid," said Joan. "Why don't you try it yourself, Banty? It would be such an interest to you!"
"It wouldn't be the smallest interest to me, except—" here her eyes brightened—"to ferret out all the Gascoignes who followed the hounds."
"Where is your cousin now?"
"He is still hanging on the skirts of those rich Americans. If he doesn't get engaged quickly to the girl, they will find him out, and it will be all 'UP' with him."
A few days afterwards, Banty told Joan that she had been looking over the MSS. already written about their family.
"Of course, I'm not a writer, and never shall be. Motty has put together all the papers and letters connected with us up to 1700; so he really has done the worst of it. And I have told father I will string together some of the letters and papers since. It is only to put them according to date, isn't it? I'm actually getting interested in my great-grandfather. He kept a pack of hounds and wrote the raciest letters to his lady love. In one he says 'I toasted you last night, and found the port a sorry substitute for your sweet lips!' It sounds as if he meant to drink them. I dare say his metaphor was mixed, like his brains, at the time, for they say he was a hard drinker."
Banty spoke with animation. Joan encouraged her all she could to persevere in the task.
"Your father will be so pleased if you can do it, Banty."
"I shall want something to keep me going," said Banty. "I get a sick longing to be on a horse again, Joan. It's all very well to talk of the glories of the future world; but if I can't ride there, it won't be any pleasure to me!"
On the whole Banty was meeting her misfortune with great pluck and fortitude.
"I know you think the hunting-field a very poor place, Joan," she said one day, "but I can tell you it gives you lessons in discipline and self-control like nothing else. It teaches you to bear fatigue without a whine, to take a few ugly bumps and tumbles as all in the day's work, and to wait patiently half a day, if necessary, when the hounds can't find. I've been well schooled in endurance all my life, and it helps me not to pull a poor mouth now."
As the spring came on, she grew wonderfully stronger, and could soon walk about with the help of a stick. She refused to use a crutch, and her nimbleness in moving surprised even the doctor.
It was a very happy day for Joan when Banty asked her rather awkwardly whether she would like her help in the Sunday school.
"I'd like to do something. I can tell them what you've told me. If I'd been taught by you as a child, what a saint I might have been!"
Joan gladly gave her a class of boys, and Banty not only developed a genius for managing them, but for interesting them; and she very soon became quite enamoured of her work.
Lady Gascoigne said rather pathetically to Joan:
"That dreadful accident has given me a daughter of whom I am proud. I was so afraid that she would be an unhappy, lifelong invalid. As it is, she does more for me and her father now, with her one leg, than she ever did with her two! And we never hear a complaint from her lips." Which was great testimony for such a high spirited, wilful girl as Banty had always been.