THE TRAVELLERS
JOAN was having a busy day. Her mother and sister were expected that
afternoon. She had been up since daybreak; both she and her father were
nervously anxious that the old rectory should make a good impression
upon the travellers. With the assistance of the odd man, Joan had swept
and rolled the lawn and paths, tied up straggling chrysanthemums,
and brought a fair amount of order and tidiness into the sweet
old-fashioned garden.
Sophia, after cleaning and scouring everything in the kitchen that she
could lay her hands upon, was now immersed in cooking. The house fairly
revelled in smells of hot cakes, hot tarts, hot bread, and a variety of
other indications that the oven was doing its work in a satisfactory
manner. Derrick had been as good as his word. A brace of pheasants
had arrived at two o'clock, and Sophia seized them with a cook's
delight. When Joan remonstrated, telling her they were too fresh, she
triumphantly showed her the label with the date attached.
"Three days old, Miss Joan, and just what is wanted for the mistress.
The joint of beef will come in hot to-morrow and will eat cold on
Sunday."
So Joan let her have her way. She herself was in every room, assisted
by the young housemaid; there were beds to make, linen and plate to
be brought out of store cupboards; fresh cushions, and curtains, and
tablecloths to take the place of shabby ones, flowers to be arranged,
brass to be brightened, furniture to be polished. By half-past three
in the afternoon Joan's feet were aching, but her heart dancing. As
she piled the wood logs on the drawing-room fire, and looked round the
dainty little home-like room, she said to herself, "Mother will fall in
love with it. We have never lived in such a sweet house before!"
She had worked hard at the drawing-room. She had bought some faded
chintz curtains and hangings cheap at a country sale a few weeks
before, and her clever fingers had cut out and made covers for the
shabby, old, town furniture they had brought with them.
Bowls of red and gold chrysanthemums brightened the dark corners; some
framed water-colours, the handiwork of Mrs. Adair when a girl, covered
the walls, which had been freshly hung with a delicate cream paper; the
high, narrow, white marble mantelpiece held a few choice bits of china,
and all the newest and brightest books filled the low bookcases in
the recesses on either side of the fireplace. Joan's work-basket, the
local paper, and some loose magazines on a small table gave a sense of
homeliness to the room.
Joan pulled up two easy chairs to the fire; she rearranged the cushions
on the chintz couch; then she glanced out of the window, and saw her
father pacing up and down the gravel path. He was waiting for the
country fly which was to take him to the station to meet his wife. He
looked very bent and old, and leaned more on his stick than he had ever
done before; and yet she knew, although she could not see his face,
that his eyes were shining with hope and expectancy, that the wrinkles
were smoothed out upon his brow, that his soul was having one of the
happiest times in his life. They had had several home-comings of this
kind before, but never one under such favourable circumstances as this.
As Joan watched him, sudden tears filled her eyes.
"Why, oh why are there so many unfulfilled desires!" she exclaimed
passionately. "Why are we such an ill-assorted family? Oh, God!"—And
her whole soul rose up in its breathless longing—"Oh, God, don't let
him be disappointed this time!"
Mr. Adair, walking up and down with a smile upon his lips, was living
in the past. Step by step he was watching himself as a young man from
the time he went to his first curacy. How well he remembered the
beautiful old abbey church in which he was so fortunate as to find
himself! Would he ever forget the first time he was introduced by his
rector, at a little evening gathering, to old General Lovell and his
three beautiful and clever young daughters? He remembered now the
little thrill that ran through him when, after some conversation in
which the General did most of the talking and he the listening, he was
clapped heartily on the shoulder by the old soldier, with the words:
"Quite glad to speak with a black coat or two; am sick of the red ones.
Come and see me, young fellow—come and dine with us to-morrow night!"
How shyly and delightedly he had gone! How his simple soul was dazed at
first by the bright brilliance of the Misses Lovell, and then attracted
and then bewitched by the fascination of the one who always seemed to
understand him and to make allowances for his awkwardness! Cecilia
Lovell had been very good to him in those days.
At first he had felt he was an outsider, a stranger in their set. The
Lovells had always been a race of soldiers, and very distinguished
ones. His forbears for centuries had been quiet churchmen, not very
clever, not very gifted, but men of simple gentle lives and unselfish
aims—perhaps of narrow prejudices and small, one-sided views. He could
not look at life as the Lovells did; they could not look at life as he
did. But Cecilia always seemed to fill the breach; and then, on one
unforgettable day, he had breathed in her ear the old, old question,
and, with shy averted face, she had given him his answer and the desire
of his heart.
The old General had been delighted. His motherless daughters were both
a care and anxiety to him. Gout was troubling him. He was impatient
to go abroad and try a cure, so he pushed on the marriage, and in
three months' time, Cecilia Lovell became Mrs. Adair. Her father was
generous, and gave her a liberal allowance.
In spite of a curate's pay, the young couple were very fairly
comfortable, until children began to arrive. Then John Adair gave up
his curacy for a better stipend, and settled in the white cottage in
Old Bellerton village. Two boys and two girls played with the orphan
grandson of the rector, and for a time life dealt gently with the
curate and his family. But Cecilia did not make a good curate's wife;
she had an impatient intolerance of a small village life, and never
rested till she got her husband to one of the large Midland towns.
The rector looked back to his life there with regret that he had
not been able to make his wife happy and content in the work which
he loved. He was a simple man, and not a clever one; he read only
theology; his wife's broader culture puzzled and distressed him. She
made no secret of her dislike to the parishioners, and when her elder
boy developed delicacy in one of his lungs, she took him for months at
a time to her old home in the south.
Gradually she stayed less and less with her husband. An elderly
governess taught the girls and looked after the house when she was
away. Then the boys were placed at school. Their mother's idea was for
them to enter the Army; her husband objected because of expense, and
because he was a man of peace and had a horror of war.
Eventually the elder passed into Sandhurst, went out to India, and died
of enteric six months afterwards. The younger one was now his mother's
hope. But he developed the same delicacy of lung when nineteen, and
though his mother, helped by her father, was able to take him out to
Davos, he died of a rapid decline.
Mrs. Adair returned to her husband and girls like a woman without heart
and hope. Joan was always strong, but Cecil was as delicate-looking as
the boys had been, and, nervously fearing she would go the same way,
Mrs. Adair took her continually to Switzerland and to the Riviera by
turns. The taste for continental life crept into her veins; she rarely
was at home for more than three months in the year, and though doctors
assured her that Cecil's lungs were absolutely sound, she refused to
believe them.
The death of General Lovell made it easier for her to gratify her love
for sunny climes and dry, bracing air. But she had never been able to
economise, and John Adair had the greatest difficulty in sending her
as much money as she wanted. To ease the strain, he took pupils and
coached them for college.
When Joan's education was nearly finished, her godmother, Lady Alicia
Fairchild, a lifelong friend of her mother's, determined to give her
a chance of making an independent career. She was brilliantly clever,
and her governess could teach her nothing more. So Lady Alicia sent
her to Girton, and she had worked hard and successfully there. Then,
at twenty-two, she came back to her father, and took the household
reins into her hands. She did not anticipate staying at home, but
circumstances kept her there. The old governess had left, and the house
was sadly needing a mistress.
Mr. Adair got the offer of his present living, and then Joan threw
her heart and soul into the move. Mr. Adair had always been painfully
conscious that his wife could not adapt herself to the shabby terraced
house and the economical life of a poor parson. Now his heart swelled
with thankfulness. This living was worth £500 a year, and the rectory
was a roomy, comfortable house.
As he paced up and down the gravel path, he felt that good times were
coming, that he and his wife would settle down in this quiet spot, and
draw closer together than ever they had done before. His loyalty and
admiration for his wife had never swerved. He knew she was impatient
and irritable at times; he could never forget one revelation which she
made to him in a moment of furious passion—and that was that she had
married him partly to please her father, partly out of pique, as the
man she really loved had jilted her; but in spite of this, he trusted
that time and his undying love would win her and compel her to come
closer to him.
Joan's clear, keen insight showed her both her father's and mother's
point of view. Mrs. Adair was distinctly her husband's superior in
intellect; she tried, when young, to introduce him to a wider and a
higher level of thought, but a certain denseness, some obstinacy, and
the firm conviction that a man: and moreover a clergyman, could not
and ought not to let his wife dictate or attempt to teach him, made
all such attempts a dead failure. She now treated her husband with
good-natured indifference. Sometimes Joan felt angry at her mother's
attitude; sometimes she felt sorry for her. Now, her sympathies were
mostly with her father.
When the fly arrived, she ran out, buttoned up his greatcoat for him,
and besought him not to wait about on the cold, draughty platform of
the little station.
"Take care of yourself, Dad. I know you will be hours too early for the
train."
Mr. Adair had a horror of being late for anything, and his daughter
often told him laughingly that his waiting hours consumed a good many
days in the course of a twelvemonth.
When the fly was off, Joan ran back into the house. Sophia came out of
the kitchen.
"Has the master gone? He be in a dreadful rumpus to-day, Miss Joan."
Sophia had been with them all since they were children; her tongue was
never checked, for her heart was loyal and true.
"I think you've been in the greatest fuss, Sophia. I've heard you
giving it unsparingly to poor Jenny."
"She's just one of these shiftless girls, Miss Joan. It's terrible to
think of the children unborn, when their parents are such worthless
stuff."
Joan's laugh rang out merrily.
"You dear old soul! Go back to your kitchen. Thank goodness, I don't
worry over non-existent beings. And don't begin to talk to Jenny of her
children when she's still unmarried."
"What do you take me for!" said Sophia, in a shocked tone. Then she
said: "Put on your pretty silk dress to-night, Miss Joan. Show the
mistress your best."
Joan shook her head. "Not to-night. They'll be tired with travelling.
We shall all have our dinner and go to bed."
Sophia disappeared. Joan went into the fire-lit drawing-room, and
surveyed herself for a moment in a long mirror there. She was clad in
a pale grey serge, rather Quakerish in style, with fine lace collar
and cuffs. It served to show off her golden-brown head and bright
colouring, but she shook her head at herself. "I always feel like a
milkmaid beside Cecil." Then she took some pink roses out of a bowl and
stuck them in her belt.
It was four miles to the station. The time of waiting seemed long. Joan
could neither read nor work; but at length the carriage wheels were
heard, and the next moment, Joan and the servants were out in the old
porch welcoming the tired travellers.
Joan led her mother straight into the drawing-room, and undid her fur
cloak before the fire.
Mrs. Adair looked about her, then held out her delicate, white hands
towards the fire and shivered.
She was slim and very tall, a woman who was growing old gracefully, and
more beautiful now than either of her daughters. Her snow-white hair,
clustering round her brow, seemed to soften the rather hard-cut contour
of her face. Her blue eyes were almost as deep and bright as Joan's,
though her dark brows and lashes made them more severe. When she smiled
at people, she could make them do anything, but she was hardly smiling
now.
"We have had a cold journey. Cecil is very tired. We slept the night in
town. Of course, we could not come right through. London welcomed us,
as usual, with a thick fog. And you seem bitterly cold down here."
"It's very healthy; we are on high ground."
"Oh, I know, my dear Joan, I know. I have not forgotten the terribly
long winters, when fires were a scarcity and it was doubtful whether
one was justified in buying warm gloves for all the tiny chilblained
hands. Your father speaks as if it is a new neighbourhood to which we
are coming. He forgets that I know every inch of every road only too
well."
"I suppose you remember this room?"
Joan determined to be cheerful.
Mrs. Adair looked round it in a critical sort of way.
"Yes. I give you credit for improving its looks. The poor curate's wife
was invited sometimes up to dinner, and sorely was she bored as she sat
in this room receiving good advice from the rector's wife!"
Then she smiled sadly.
"Don't torture me with recollections, Joan dear. When I was last here,
I had my boys. It cannot be otherwise than sad, returning to this part."
Joan's hopes sank. She felt she had no heart to show her mother over
the house. Was it a mistake coming back to the place which held such
unpleasant memories for her?
And then through the door came Cecil, like a flash of light.
"Is Mother here? Oh, what a dear, wee, cosy room! Sophia has given me
two smacking kisses, Mother, and Jenny—is that her name?—looked as if
she were going to follow suit. I tried to freeze her, but I haven't the
inches. Joan, you look blooming! My feet are like ice. How nice it is
to be home."
Cecil had drawn a low chair up to the fire as she talked, and was now
untying her shoes. Slipping them off, she held out silk-clad feet to
the fire.
Joan shook her head at her. "Of course you're cold in such flimsy
stockings—open-work, too! I'll lend you a pair of my sensible ones if
you come upstairs."
"Oh, I can't stand thick stockings."
Cecil spoke in the accents of a spoiled child. "Tell me when the
luggage is up," she said. "I'll toast myself here meanwhile."
Joan slipped away. Her father and Benson, the odd man, were struggling
in the hall with trunks, hat-boxes, portmanteaus, and every kind of
bundle and bag. Joan soon sorted out the light luggage, and made Jenny
help her in taking it up to the rooms. The trunks were gradually
brought up by the flyman and Benson. When the hall was clear, Mr. Adair
went into the drawing-room.
"Welcome home, my dear!" he said, stepping forward and kissing his
wife. Then, patting her shoulder, he added, with the tactlessness of a
man, "And I'm hoping, please God, that you won't be wanting to run away
from your poor old husband, now that you have such a pretty home as
this."
"My dear John," said Mrs. Adair, moving very slightly away from him,
"do you forget that our sojourn abroad has been by doctor's orders?"
"Yes, yes, my dear—of course I know. But little Cecil is getting
stronger, and our bracing heath and pines will be the very thing for
her."
Cecil looked up at him from her seat by the fire and laughed. "I
believe, like Diogenes, you would be happy in a tub, Dad! I am sure
your letters led me to expect a mansion, a country seat! You see, I
never remembered the place; I was too small when we left. Mother tried
to prepare me. It's a duck of a place, and, for winter, very cosy, but
in summer, I should feel I couldn't breathe. The ceilings seem down on
one's head."
Mrs. Adair glanced quickly and anxiously at her daughter as she spoke.
"We must have the windows open," she said. "Do you feel this room
airless, Cecil? It is the contrast after our big rooms in the hotels."
"Oh, it's all right, Mother. Don't you worry. I'm too cold at present
to want anything but a hot fire. Dad, dear, would you mind bringing me
my handbag in the hall? I left my handkerchief in it. I'm so tired or I
would fetch it myself."
Mr. Adair left the room at once, and went upstairs to find the bag.
Joan would not let him take it down again. "I'll do it, Dad, dear.
Cecil is a lazy monkey not to fetch it herself. You must not spoil her.
Dinner will be ready in half an hour. You will find hot water in your
room."
"My dear Joan," said Mr. Adair, standing still in the passage, and
speaking in a dispirited tone, "they find the rooms too small and
airless!"
"Nonsense!" said Joan, laughing.
She ran downstairs, afraid to trust herself to say anything further.
She chatted gaily to her mother till she had seen her comfortably
established in her room upstairs. Then she went down to put final
touches on the dinner-table, and then she slipped into her black
evening dress.
They all met in the quaint oak-raftered dining-room, a little later, in
better spirits.
Sophia's soup, her pheasants, and her sweet omelette were beyond
reproach.
When dessert was on the table, Joan pointed to the apples and pears in
triumph.
"Out of our own orchard! We are self-supplying. All our vegetables,
chickens, eggs—and a fat pig to be made into bacon after Christmas—are
our very own. Isn't it delicious, Cecil?"
"It's rather a change after that smoky, grimy Nuthampstead," said
Cecil. She leant back in her chair looking exceedingly pretty. She was
very slight and small, with an ivory pallor, dark eyes and hair, and
delicate features. To-night a faint rose blush was on her cheeks.
"A regular little aristocrat from the top of her head to the soles of
her feet," Sophia said of her; and it was true.
Cecil was a reproduction of Mrs. Adair's own mother, who had been a
very noted beauty at Court. Her clothes were never anything but dainty
in the extreme, though her mother and she had the good taste to dress
very quietly. To-night she had a simple blue crepon gown, with old
lace softening the bodice. Her dark hair was bound round with a silver
braid, but her neck and arms were white as the driven snow, and her
face was almost ethereal in its delicate beauty.
Joan was rather silent. She let her mother do most of the talking. Mrs.
Adair had many amusing anecdotes to tell and talked of many people and
things.
"It was so strange," she said. "We met General Long in town, and he
brought his son to see us. He is now a captain in the 12th Hussars, and
just home from India. They dined with us. It was interesting hearing
about India again. But Harry Long gave an alarming account of the
sedition about the Bengal district. He says it is simply seething with
an undercurrent of hatred to British rule. People make light of it and
refuse to believe it—just as in the days before the Indian Mutiny. I
suppose we shall go on making light of it until a crisis comes, and
then there will be a lot of unnecessary suffering and bloodshed."
"Oh, I hope not," said Mr. Adair, looking across at his wife with
startled eyes. "I hope we shall not have another mutiny or war in
India. Mrs. White's son has just gone out to India. It would break the
poor old body's heart if anything happened to her boy."
A little smile flitted across Mrs. Adair's face. "We will hope young
White will have his life preserved, my dear John. But there are a few
more English to be considered besides him in our Indian Empire?"
"Yes, yes—of course. War is horrible. May God preserve us from it; and
Indian wars always seem worse than those nearer home. How thankful we
must be that we have no sons out there!"
Joan saw her mother wince and quiver as if someone had struck her
across the face. She stopped talking, and left the table almost
directly.
Mr. Adair was perfectly oblivious that, as usual, he had blundered. He
sat on in the dining-room and smoked his pipe over the fire, smiling
happily to himself.
"It's nice to have them home again. We shall be together now!"
Mrs. Adair and Cecil retired very early to rest, and Joan was nothing
loath to follow their example. She had had a tiring day, and foresaw a
good many tiring ones still to come.