A QUIET HOUSE
MRS. DAUBENEY'S house was at the end of the street leading to the
cathedral. The oak door with the massive brass knocker, the mullioned
windows, and gigantic wistaria which covered the front of the house,
all betokened age. To Hope's eyes the interior was even more charming.
A low broad hall ran through the house and ended in glass doors leading
into the delightful garden, which consisted of a green lawn, flanked
on each side by ancient cedar-trees, a broad, old-fashioned terrace
of flowers, and a second walled garden beyond, containing fruit and
flowers.
To the right of the hall lay the drawing-room, and it was as great a
contrast to the town rooms to which Mrs. Daubeney was accustomed as
could be imagined. Deep recesses, quaint spindle-legged chairs, china
and old-fashioned chintz, a harpsichord, an old spinet, and a straight
high-back sofa, with bolster cushions—these delighted Hope's soul,
but brought dismay to her aunt's. The windows at the back of the room
looked out upon the garden, and one opened into a small conservatory.
On the other side of the hall was the dining-room and morning-room,
both good-sized rooms, and simply though suitably furnished. The stairs
were low and broad, and of solid oak, as were also the banisters.
Upstairs there was a delightful broad landing, and five or six
bedrooms. One of these, which Hope took for her own, had a charming
view of some buttercup meadows lying by the side of the river, and on
the opposite side, amongst some stately elms, was the cathedral.
And one sunny afternoon, about a week after their arrival, Hope sat on
her window-seat listening to the afternoon chimes and indulging for
the first time in a good "think." Mrs. Daubeney was lying down in her
room. The house was very still. As Hope sat there, the only sound that
broke the silence inside was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the
hall. Outside, the rooks building their nests in the old elms kept up
a continuous cawing. The murmur of the swift-flowing river and the
chirping of the birds had more of a soothing effect than a distracting
one. Hope opened her window, and leaning her elbows on the broad sill,
gazed over the buttercup meadows and river to the range of far-distant
blue hills.
"How delicious this sense of rest is! I wonder if our London life is a
good one. I am getting a little tired of the rush; but there is little
else to do, and, I must say, I love my fellow-creatures. If Canon
FitzRoy is right, we are very wrong. 'Lovers of pleasure more than
lovers of God.' Of course we are; but I did not realise I was destined
to be a lover of God. It is a terrible thought that God requires loving
service from every creature He has made. He does not get it, and we
really are a godless lot. The Canon was specially severe on Society's
Sundays. I thought if one went to early service, that was sufficient.
Sunday is a holiday; he makes it a holy day. Oh, in the bottom of my
heart I feel I am all wrong, and the world is all wrong! Why has no one
told me before?"
The cathedral bell began to toll for evensong. It interrupted her
meditation, and then a sudden impulse made her seize hold of her hat
and, slipping into her jacket, she went softly downstairs. In the hall
she met Nelson.
"Tell Aunt Gertrude not to wait tea. I am going to the cathedral."
She stepped outside into the old-fashioned street. There was little
traffic; a few people like herself were quietly making their way to the
cathedral.
As she entered it, the hush and calm struck her very forcibly. She
was shown into one of the stalls. The remembrance of that spring
evening never left her. The sun stealing in through the stained-glass
windows and colouring every spot upon which it rested, the deep soft
vibrating sound of the organ, the pure voices of the choir-boys, and
the reverence and quiet of the evening service, all combined to leave a
lasting impression upon her mind. She looked at the various occupants
of the stalls with some interest, and smiled as she recognised the
different stamp, in dress and appearance, from most of her town
acquaintances. One figure strangely attracted her. It was that of an
elderly woman—a tall stately figure, with a face of wonderful strength
and sweetness. By her side was a young man, who, by his likeness to
her, was evidently her son.
The mother looked as if she were accustomed to the cathedral, as if
she were a part and parcel of it herself. She was absorbed in the
service, and Hope knew that it was no empty form to her. The son
appeared interested, but his attention was more upon his mother than
the service. He moved a footstool for her, handed her the anthem-book,
and found the place in it for her. Once he bent down and asked her
something, and smiled as he received her low-toned reply. He looked
bronzed and weather-worn. Hope fancied that he had not been long home
from abroad. She felt, as she sat opposite them, that she would like to
know them, and wondered who they were. Then her mind turned back upon
herself, and faintly and dimly there rose up from the depths of her
heart a longing to see and understand the beauty of true religion.
The sense of shortcoming and of shame that had been slowly gathering
intensity, now surged upwards so overwhelmingly that she felt the hot
tears spring to her eyes. A wave of black depression seemed to take
possession of her.
"'A lover of self, a lover of pleasure, having the form of godliness,
but denying the power thereof.' That is me, and I am condemned, utterly
condemned by my life! I am really a hypocrite. I have no right to be
here. I am an outcast with all the rest of my world. We shall never
be anything but rank outsiders. A holy God must abhor us. We deny His
power. We think we can rule and fashion our lives. We are utterly
indifferent to His wishes, and independent of Him. Oh, I am absolutely
miserable!"
In the midst of these disquieting thoughts, the boys' sweet voices
suddenly sounded forth, echoing down the empty nave and returning with
vibrating sweetness and power:
"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"
Hope did not hear the remainder of the hymn. The tears she had been
restraining with such difficulty now fell so fast that she sat back
in her corner, and hoped that the gathering dusk would shield her
from all observation. She remained in her seat after the rest of the
congregation, and was the last to leave the cathedral.
When she reached home, she was composed and cheerful again, though the
first verse of the hymn still rang through her heart and brain.
She found her aunt receiving visitors.
"Hope, come here. Lady Chesney says she has met you once or twice in
town."
Lady Chesney greeted her kindly, and introduced her two daughters, one
of whom was about Hope's age, the other considerably older.
"I have not met you before, I think," Hope said, turning to the eldest
Miss Chesney.
"No, I have not been to town for several years, I dislike it so, and my
sister has been abroad studying music."
"Don't you find Kayminster very quiet?"
"We do not live in Kayminster. We are five miles out, at Landbeck
Abbey. I prefer country to town."
"Oh, Hester is a regular hermit! But we shall not give you a chance
of keeping quiet, Miss St. Clair. We have a bazaar next week for
our church organ, and we shall enlist you at once as one of our
helpers. What are you good at? Theatricals, music, games? We are
having a gymkhana; you must take part in that. We are going to have a
house-party for the occasion, and a friend of yours, Lady May Fosberry,
is coming to stay with us."
Minnie Chesney and Hope were soon talking away as if they had known
each other all their lives.
"You won't find many people to know in Kayminster," Minnie said. "The
Dean is nice, but his wife's a regular prude! The Moberly girls are
passable, their father is one of the canons, and then there are Mrs.
Dane and her sons. Of course there are a good many old maids and quiet
humdrum folk, who treat Kayminster as if it alone was the centre of the
universe, but you won't have much to do with them, I expect. Are you a
good bridge player? We always have bridge at home on Sunday afternoons.
And there's golf about two miles off, and we shall soon be beginning
tennis and archery. You will find enough to employ your time, I expect."
"I have never found it hang on my hands yet," said Hope, as soon as she
could get in a word. "I am surprised May Fosberry is coming down to
you. I thought she was working hard in the slums?"
"She has had a breakdown, I believe. Between ourselves, I expect she is
pretty sick of it, and wants a reasonable excuse for getting away from
it. I think we shall cure her of that little pastime."
Hope knew that May was a girl of impulses, who was always trying some
new experience, so she felt inclined to agree with Minnie Chesney. She
was startled to hear Hester say, in rather a deep gruff voice:
"Give her justice, Minnie! Slum work isn't all play, and I know
something of it."
"Do you?" questioned Hope eagerly. "Did you find it interesting or
depressing? It seems to me people either love it or hate it. I don't
think I could stand a day of it. Dirt and poverty are so offensive when
combined."
Hester's grey eyes quietly looked Hope up and down, then she smiled
rather cynically.
"No," she said, "I don't think you would stand it."
"By which you mean to infer that I am a very poor creature?" Hope's
eyes were mirthful as she spoke. She added:
"May I ask why you gave it up?"
Minnie had turned to talk to Mrs. Daubeney. Hester's clear-cut features
and rather unimpressionable countenance seemed to soften and sadden for
an instant.
"Because I did not believe in the remedies we were employing, and the
atmosphere of open sin sickened me. In our class we gild and paint it.
I prefer it so; do not you?"
Hope looked at her gravely.
Then Hester laughed, and her lips took their usually hard curve.
"Oh yes. I worked very hard in the slums for six months, and now I am
working just as hard bee-farming; I find the bees pay me better."
"I suppose they would, if your object is to be rewarded."
"One generally expects to get something for one's pains, else why make
any efforts? What is your goal in life—leaving the marriage question
alone? You look as if you have some ideas in your head? Do you act up
to your Puritan name?"
"My head," said Hope, in her pretty mischievous way, "is always too
full to be sorted out and catalogued. My chief idea is to enjoy the
thing I am doing tremendously till it is finished, and then the next
one. Just now I am going to enjoy this old house, and the quaint town,
and the cathedral atmosphere. I have never been in anything like it
before. If I cut your bazaar and send no excuses, you will know it
is because I am steeping my soul in Gothic architecture, and having
visionary dreams in the dim silence of the cathedral."
Conversation became general, but Hope was attracted by Hester.
"She is an original woman, aunt," she confided to Mrs. Daubeney
afterwards. "The youngest sister is a very ordinary type, but Hester
has thought and, I think, suffered."
"And what type are you?" asked Mrs. Daubeney good-naturedly. "For
goodness' sake, Hope, don't get into the habit of criticising and
generalising people! It is such bad form. Lady Chesney is one of my
oldest friends. They have been abroad so much that we have seen little
of each other the last few years. The only son is a sad scapegrace.
I don't believe he will ever inherit the Abbey, and it has been in
the Chesney family for centuries. I fancy his father finds it very
difficult to keep up the place as it is. There will be next to nothing
for those girls at his death. Hester used to be quite a beauty, but she
has quite gone off. I dare say it is as well that she is happy leading
a quiet country life. Minnie is sure to marry, and I can see that her
mother hopes great things from her."
After a pause, she looked at her niece rather keenly. "George Adair is
coming down to the Chesneys."
"Is he?" Hope's tone was supremely indifferent. "He will be a good
match for Minnie, aunt."
"He asked me before we left town whether we should be near the
Chesneys. I let you go your own way, Hope, and am too fond of you to be
sorry that you have been under my wing these four years, but I would
remind you that time is slipping away, and your fresh young years will
not be yours always. I should like to see you settled, and I know
George Adair would make you happy."
There was a little wistfulness in Mrs. Daubeney's tone. Hope had
disappointed her more than once, but she knew that to try to coerce her
was to court failure at once.
Hope did not answer. She hummed a little tune as she went about the
room whisking a few chairs into their place, then she disappeared in
the small conservatory, and emerged with a handful of heliotrope.
Holding it up to her aunt, she said playfully:
"Take a whiff, Aunt Gertrude, it will refresh you. You are looking
tired."
"I am anxious sometimes—about you."
"But why? I assure you there is not the slightest cause. You said when
you received my father's letter that you did not adopt me to lose me
when you needed my society most. Don't tell me that you want to get rid
of me."
"I want to see you married," said Mrs. Daubeney firmly.
Hope's shoulders shrugged themselves almost imperceptibly.
"Marriage doesn't seem a success in Society, aunt, except to give you
the wherewithal to clothe yourself and have a good time; and I am
having that with you, thanks to your generosity."
"George Adair—"
"Excuse me for interrupting you. George is a wealthy man, I know, but
he is an idle one; he will spend his married life exactly as he does
his single one, in society."
"Where else would you spend it?" asked Mrs. Daubeney with raised
eyebrows.
"I think I have a few old-fashioned notions. I should like a home. If
I married George, I know exactly what it would be like. He would rush
me round even faster than I am going at present; and do you know, Aunt
Gertrude, I am getting rather tired."
"You are a very silly child. Every married woman owns a home. You would
not expect George to retire from all his friends, and spend his life in
one long honeymoon with you."
"No, I shouldn't," said Hope, laughing merrily. "Poor George! It would
be hard lines to be tied to one woman like that. He is never happy
unless he is following about a dozen round, and his marriage would
never alter him."
"I hope you are not getting supercilious," said Mrs. Daubeney,
regarding her niece carefully. "There is nothing that tells your age
more than becoming cynical and intolerant of the failings of your
fellow-creatures. Young girls ought to have faith and trust in every
one, and you are not very old yet, my dear."
"I am sorry, aunt, but don't please quote George Adair to me again. I
hoped we had left him in town."
Mrs. Daubeney said no more. Hope was her bright sweet self for the rest
of the evening. It was not until she reached her bedroom and was again
alone, that her thoughts flew back to the cathedral service.
"I suppose," she mused, "it is the contrast to anything that I have
experienced before, that attracts me so. St. Paul's and Westminster
Abbey are finer buildings, and have more beautiful music, but they
never give one the sense of absolute peace and rest that this cathedral
does. How beautiful that hymn was! I felt quite thrilled with it. I
shall go there to-morrow. It is Sunday, and I shall have a legitimate
excuse. Oh dear! I wish George Adair were not coming to these parts!"
A little sigh escaped her. George Adair had nothing in himself to
recommend him, she considered. He was a heavily built man, inclined to
stoutness, not a sportsman, not a politician, but quite content to sit
in ladies' drawing-rooms and flatter pretty women. He never read; he
took his information entirely from conversation around him; he had the
reputation of being a "ladies' man," but Hope always considered that an
insult to her sex; and he was never happy unless he had a lot of people
round him.
He owned a castle in Scotland, a villa in Cannes, a yacht, and a motor;
and for the past five months he had been haunting Hope's footsteps.
Mrs. Daubeney liked him and encouraged him. His unfailing good-humour
and adaptability to people's moods made him a favourite with all old
ladies. Hope had not disliked him until he began to make his attentions
marked; then she took fright, and now evaded him whenever she got a
chance.
"Oh," she said, as for an instant she opened her window and gazed at
the dim ghostly outlines of the turreted towers of the cathedral, "why
is it I feel so restless and so discontented with life? Is it at the
possibility of passing most of it in company with George Adair? Or is
it that I feel there is something better in store for me, something
even more satisfying than marriage, which seems our only goal?"
She shut her window hastily and went to bed. Her last conscious
thoughts were of the dim, hushed atmosphere of the cathedral and the
boys' sweet voices singing:
"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?
The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"