A BUSY DAY
THE next day was Saturday, and if Joan had not had a fund of cheeriness
and good temper in herself and an unflinching amount of pluck and
patience, she would never have been able to get through it as happily
and easily as she did.
Mrs. Adair breakfasted in bed. Cecil arrived downstairs at ten o'clock
and expected Joan to sit and talk to her whilst she dawdled over her
cup of tea and eggs and bacon.
"What can you have to do? Let Jenny alone; you are always fussing after
her."
"My dear Cecil, I am due at the schoolhouse to receive club money at
ten. I must fly. I expect you will be busy unpacking this morning, so
you won't miss me. I wonder if you would mind putting your breakfast
things together on a tray. This is a busy morning with us. I shall be
back in an hour's time. Do you think you could darn a hole in Dad's
surplice? The laundress has torn it in the wash."
Cecil laughed a little.
"You are determined to set me to work; but I think after our hard
travelling you might allow me a day's grace. I haven't even been shown
over the house yet."
Joan was gone. Cecil saw her flying down the garden path, but she was
stopped at the gate by a small boy. Cecil wondered at the serene,
cheerful way in which Joan seemed to be talking to him. Then she went
on, but a little slower, for the small boy was trying to keep pace with
her. Cecil smiled to herself, then yawned.
"I can't take the yoke upon me yet. I do hate the ways of a parson's
house! But I'll go and unpack, and I suppose I might put up my
breakfast things, though why that small Jenny can't come in and do it,
is past my comprehension."
She gathered the crockery together, placed it on a tray, and actually
carried it out to the kitchen.
Sophia, as usual, was immersed in cooking, but her kitchen was
beautifully clean, and as tidy and bright as a new pin.
"Here I am, you see, Sophia—back into the midst of the daily drudgery!"
"And why should you not be?" demanded Sophia, rolling up the dough at
which she was Working with quick, deft hands, and looking up at Cecil
with her small, bright eyes. "Why should you not be here to bring a bit
of ease into the house by a pair of willing hands? 'Tis not right, Miss
Cecil, to make life a burden to Miss Joan."
"Joan! She never feels anything a burden."
"That's your mistake. What brings burdens into the world? 'Tis some
folks shifting their share of work to others' shoulders. If all did
their share, none would be overburdened."
Cecil put her tray down and swung herself up lightly on the old
dresser, where she sat swinging her feet, ready to argue. She loved a
good argument with Sophia upon any subject.
"But that is folly, Sophia; that is the mistake the Socialists make.
They want everyone to be equal. How can they be when some are weak and
some are strong? You want a dull, monotonous creation, which God did
not want, or He would have made it. You want everyone made after the
same pattern, with the same characters and dispositions, all taking the
same share of life's work. Imagine it! When a man who knows he can do
it, and has the ambition to bear big burdens comes along, he must never
want to do anything or bear anything more than his neighbour! Don't you
see what folly it would be?"
"You may be clever with your tongue, Miss Cecil, but you're too clever
to let all your powers rust, and sit still with folded hands whilst
others wait on you. You may not be as strong as Miss Joan, but you be
quite strong enough to take those cups and plates into the back kitchen
and wash them. It's what Miss Joan would do, were she in your place."
"But she isn't, and she never will be. And I live by principles of my
own, Sophia, and I never fold my hands, never! I don't know how to do
it. It's one of my principles never to interfere with anybody else's
business. I should say the washing up of these plates is Jenny's
business, is it not? Or is it yours? It certainly is not mine."
She slipped down from the dresser and went out of the kitchen humming
gaily to herself.
Sophia shook her head after her retreating figure.
"She has been spoilt all her life, and is just becoming one of these
useless creatures which are a curse to them that begat them."
Joan did not return to the house till nearly twelve.
"I've been delayed. I had to go and see a sick woman," she said,
meeting her sister sauntering up and down the garden. "I generally go
into the church and clean the brasses at this time. Will you come with
me, Cecil? And if you were to pick a few flowers and bring with you, I
should be glad. Where is Mother?"
"Well," said Cecil, laughing; "she is preparing a sad sheaf of bills
for Dad. She wants to go through accounts with him as soon as she can.
He has kept us terribly short of money, Joan! I can't tell you how
awkward it has been!"
"My dear Cecil, his bank balance is much overdrawn now. We have had
great expenses settling in here. Of course it will be better in time.
I do hope you and Mother will make a good long stay here now: You must
try and get her to do it. Then we shall pull round. It has been a great
strain on him to find the necessary money."
Cecil did not answer, but she accompanied Joan into the church and put
a few flowers into the vases there, and a little bunch of autumn roses
on the grave of the late rector, whose widow had requested that it
might be done. Then they came back to the house and found their father
and mother deep in accounts in the study.
Mr. Adair came to the lunch table with a harassed look upon his face
and a little extra stoop from his shoulders. Mrs. Adair had flushed
cheeks and bright eyes. It was rather a silent meal. Joan and Cecil did
most of the talking.
As the rector left the room after lunch, he said to his wife, with his
usual smiling face:
"I am not to be seen on Saturday afternoons till tea-time. But you know
my parson's habits, my dear. If Cecil would like to take you for a
drive, we have the pony and jingle ready for your use. Joan, you'll be
having the choir practice at three, I suppose?"
"Yes," responded Joan; "we'll respect your sermon-making, Dad, and
won't come near you."
"And you and I will finish and square up accounts on Monday," said the
rector, turning to his wife.
"Oh, very well. I am not in a hurry, I assure you."
They separated. Joan was conscious of disturbance in the atmosphere.
She went up to her room for a few minutes' quiet. She felt to-day as
if she could not overtake things. Her mother had asked her to come
and help her unpack. Sophia expected her to give out the linen to be
aired, Jenny was hopelessly behind with everything. It was a lovely
day, and apples ought to be picked in the orchard. The flowers in the
drawing-room and dining-room required to be freshened up.
"Oh!" she thought. "For six pairs of hands at least!"
And then she sat down by her window.
"I will not let my soul get chafed if I can help it!" she said.
She drew a well-worn little Bible to her. The quiet and fresh coolness
of her room soothed her. She turned to her morning reading, the lesson
for the day. She had read it hastily when she rose that morning, but a
whiff of its fragrance had been with her ever since; and now she looked
at the verse again which had been simmering in her mind:
"Strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power unto all
patience, and long-suffering with joyfulness."
"Yes!" she mused. "Patience, long-suffering, joyfulness—a strange
mixture, but just what I need!"
A soft, happy glow came into her blue eyes. Joan's religion was real
and very precious to her; but she could not talk about it. For a moment
she closed her eyes, and her lips moved. Then a robin perched on her
window ledge outside and burst into his autumn song.
Joan smiled happily as she got up from her seat.
"And that small scamp hasn't the least idea how he is going to be fed
through the winter!"
She sang under her breath as she went into her mother's room. For the
rest of the afternoon she was more than busy, but at tea-time she sat
down to enjoy a well-earned rest. They gathered in the low, quaint
drawing-room.
Mr. Adair asked that a cup of tea should be sent him. He was not a
clever man and sometimes found it very difficult not to repeat himself
from Sunday to Sunday. To-day he was nervously anxious that his sermon
should be appreciated by his intellectual wife. He sat looking over
some very old sermons of his, written with the fire and energy of
youth, if not with the mellowed experience of some of his later ones.
And at length, he remembered a sermon he had preached in the abbey
church in which he had first seen his wife. He remembered two or three
people had complimented him upon it, General Lovell amongst the number.
He had never preached from the same text again. He looked over it,
then determined to take it and improve upon it, if he could. He had
a longing in the depths of his heart that his wife should appreciate
and express her appreciation of his preaching. She was not given to
church-going; she hardly ever attended the weekday services, and when
she was home, had a habit of going to see some of her many friends, and
staying with them for the week-end.
Very carefully did the rector read over his old sermon. Very earnestly
did he pray, as he revised it, that it might not only be the means of
helping and blessing his flock, but in particular his wife and family.
After tea, Joan produced a large work-basket.
"You look like the mother of a family," laughed Cecil. She was sitting
on the hearth-rug doing nothing.
Her mother was at an old-fashioned davenport writing letters.
"The house linen is in a very ancient stage. Come, Cecil, help me. Here
is a thimble."
"I know you are going to hand me over the surplice I would not do this
morning. Do you always go on like this, Joan? It is sordid drudgery.
You are just an upper servant in the house."
"I won't quote a verse which I'm sure you know, about 'the trivial
round, the common task.' Things must be done, Cecil, dear. You would
not like to have come back to a dirty, untidy, uncared-for home."
"It's rather a poor, shabby one," said Cecil discontentedly.
She rubbed a slipper up and down the threadbare carpet and looked round
the room with a puckered brow.
"That's unkind of you," said Joan good-humouredly. "If you only knew
how hard I worked to make you like it! And though we've been here such
a short time, I have already learnt to love it. You haven't seen its
beauties. I look out of my window and watch the sunsets behind that
belt of pines. They are tipped with gold, and their straight, pure pink
trunks are edged with crimson. The owls begin to hoot. Sometimes I
put a shawl over my head and go out on that little hillock of heather
at the back of our orchard, and when I have inhaled all the delicious
odour of pines and heather, I turn back into the house. Its quaint
rooms and passages, and the country smell in it is joy to me."
"I feel as if I can hardly breathe here!" Cecil drew a long sigh, then
she coughed, shivered, and drew near to the fire. "I find it cold and
depressing. I'm not an out-of-door person like you. I don't revel in
open windows, and cold baths, and draughts all day long."
"Have you caught a fresh cold Cecil?" Mrs. Adair showed that she was
not oblivious of the conversation going on. Her tone was anxious.
"Oh, no," said Cecil carelessly. "I'm much as usual. Is my bedroom fire
lighted yet, Joan? I think I'll go up and have a laze before dinner."
Joan dropped her work and left the room. In a few minutes she came back.
"It is lighted now, Cecil, and the room does not seem cold."
Cecil nodded, then got up from the rug and went out.
Joan took up her work again.
Her mother left her writing and came to the fire.
"I want to have a little talk with you, Joan. You seem like a
will-o'-the-wisp—in and out of the house a dozen times in an hour."
"Saturday is a busy day, Mother; but I am quiet now."
Joan looked up, and her blue eyes encountered her mother's dark, bright
ones fixed upon her.
"I am writing to Lady Alicia; I had a letter from her to-day. She asks
me if you have snapped your links with college for good and for all, or
whether your career there has led to anything?"
Joan darned away at the surplice, but her cheeks grew hot. She had not
meant to confide in her mother at present, but there seemed no help for
it now.
"I have been offered the post of a teacher in a high school, Mother. It
is a good thing. I should begin with a hundred and fifty pounds a year."
Mrs. Adair was silent for a moment.
"Have you given your answer yet?"
"No; I must in a week's time."
"Do you want to take it up?"
Joan's eyes gleamed.
"I should love it above everything!" she said.
"The idea is most distasteful to me," said Mrs. Adair. "But I know
girls do it nowadays. I suppose I ought to adapt my thoughts and
feelings to the times."
"Of course," Joan said quickly and a little nervously, "I feel we could
not leave Dad alone now; but I hoped that perhaps Cecil would be strong
enough to stay here and help in the parish."
"Cecil will never be strong enough for parish work," Mrs. Adair said
decidedly. "I am in continual anxiety over her. She looks as if a
breath of wind could carry her away. Our doctor at Cannes told me that
sunshine was absolutely essential to her. He advised Algiers this
winter, but I suppose it is impossible."
"I believe she would be quite happy and well here," said Joan
desperately; "it is so very healthy, Mother."
"I did not find it so when you were children," said Mrs. Adair
bitterly. "My memory takes me back to the biting east winds every
spring, and the struggle to keep the little ones warm and free from
colds and chilblains through the long winters. It laid the seeds of
disease in the boys, and made Cecil what she is at present."
"Oh, Mother!" gasped Joan. "I had no idea you felt like this about it.
We ought not to have come."
"Beggars cannot be choosers. It gives us an extra two hundred pounds a
year, and it is all right for you and your father."
"Are you not—not going to try a winter here?" asked Joan falteringly.
"I don't think it will be possible. In any case, Cecil cannot take your
place, and parish work is above and beyond me. I never ought to have
been a parson's wife, and that is the simple truth. The parish comes
before the home with your father. He told me that six months after we
were married. I, like the silly child I was, thought only of the cosy
home I was going to make and keep for him. The parish was of no account
in my eyes then."
Mrs. Adair smiled, but there was a wistful sadness in her tone. Joan
looked at her and thought that she had never seen her mother look more
beautiful. As a little child she had adored her, but Mrs. Adair had
given most of her affection to the delicate little daughter, and not to
the healthy, rosy romp. Joan and her mother, in spite of intellectual
sympathies, had always lived apart from each other, and there was a
certain amount of constraint between them now.
Yet Mrs. Adair had never been quite so confidential with Joan before.
The girl's warm heart quickened and glowed. She dropped her work and
went down on her knees before her mother impulsively. Taking her hands
in hers, she said:
"Mother, dear, Dad is getting old. He may have made mistakes when he
was a young man, but one can't blame him for his enthusiasm for work.
Now he appreciates his home very much. If you could only have heard him
since he has been here! 'Joan, don't you think your mother will like
it? I have cut down that elm to give her a peep of the heath from her
window! She must like the space and room in this old, rambling house!'
Oh, Mother! His one desire has been that our home should contain us
all, as it used to long ago."
Mrs. Adair looked into the glowing fire in front of her. She did not
withdraw her hands from Joan's clasp; but her voice came in its cold
frostiness like a cold water douche upon Joan's hot spirit.
"My dear, you talk as if I am wilfully staying away from you from
mere caprice. Surely you know that it is Cecil's health that keeps us
abroad. I have not found fault with the house. I think you have done
wonders in it. Naturally the small, low rooms seem airless to us after
our lofty hotel rooms abroad, but you have done your best to make
them comfortable. And now there is another matter I must mention. You
are under-staffed. It is not possible to work a house of this size
comfortably with two maids. As Cecil says, you are wearing yourself
out doing the work of a servant half your days. And this little Jenny
is too young for her duties. Get a third maid as quickly as you can.
She will ease everyone all round. Sophia may know of some one locally;
she is a native of this place and had a large family of brothers and
sisters, if I remember rightly."
"But," said Joan, going back to her chair and taking up her work again;
"I am not always in such a bustle as you have seen me. When Dad and I
are alone, we get along without a ripple. Of course, every extra person
makes a difference, and the extra fires, and the waiting, and the
novelty of it has rather turned Jenny's head and made her appear less
efficient than she really is. We have to economise just now, because
we have had such heavy expenses. Of course, if—if you are not going
away just yet—we can get extra help. You see, Mother, if I took this
post which is offered to me, I could give Dad some material help. It is
rather a puzzle to me how to act."
Mrs. Adair was about to speak, when the door opened and the rector came
in rubbing his hands cheerfully.
"Well, Cecilia, dearest, it is delightful to come in and find you here.
I have earned a rest, I consider."
He pulled up an easy chair to the fire, then leant over and patted
his wife's hand caressingly. "How is your baby? It's such a lovely
moonlight night. I'm hoping for a fine day to-morrow. Times have
altered since we were here before. I have only two services to take
in this village. Old Bradsbrook is worked from Nettleburn, so you see
I need no curate. I have never felt heartier in my life! And I really
believe both you and little Cecil will soon derive the greatest benefit
from our bracing air. Joan, the squire has just sent in another brace
of pheasants. Very kind of him, isn't it? You will like to renew your
acquaintance with Lady Gascoigne, will you not, Cecilia? You and she
always got on so well together."
"Did we? I forget."
Mrs. Adair rose from her chair and went across to her writing-table.
"I must finish my letters," she said. "The post goes at seven, does it
not?"
Mr. Adair's face fell. He dearly loved a chat between tea and dinner.
He and Joan generally talked over the village at this time, and told
each other any interesting bits of information which it had been their
lot to gather during the day. And he had been looking forward to a
firelight chat with his wife. He had so many things to tell her, and
somehow or other he had hardly seen her since she had arrived. For a
moment he sank back into his chair like an old man; then his natural
liking for country gossip could not be restrained.
"Joan," he said in a husky, penetrating whisper, "Rolleston Court is
opened. Major Armitage returned two days ago."
"Please don't whisper, John; it is so distracting. You won't disturb me
in the least if you talk."
Mrs. Adair half turned in her chair as she spoke. Her husband
brightened up.
"Very well, my dear. You are clever enough to write, I know, and give
half an ear to my news at the same time."
"And has Major Armitage brought back a wife with him, Dad?" Joan asked
with interest.
"No; he is quite alone. Rather strange, isn't it? And it seems old
Mrs. Bone was officious enough to ask after his lady, and when she was
coming. He told her he had no lady coming, and dismissed her on the
spot. She is dreadfully put out. He paid her a month's wages, and said
she would not suit him. And now Sophia's widowed sister, Maria Bucke,
has been engaged by him. You remember the rivalry between her and Mrs.
Bone as to which should get the post as his housekeeper. Of course,
Maria is triumphant."
"And Sophia will be delighted. But what a martinet he must be! Does
he think a country village will not talk when such dainty furniture
comes down by rail? Old Mrs. Bone told me herself that there is a most
exquisite little boudoir fitted up for a lady's use, even down to a
work-basket."
"Oh, how you gossip!"
Mrs. Adair said it with her light laugh, and Joan joined her in the
laugh.
"Major Armitage is the centre of our interest just now, Mother. After
shutting up the place all these years because he is too poor to live
there, he has come into money and has returned to it. He has spared no
money in doing it up. We quite expected he was going to be married."
"We met him in Italy last year," said Mrs. Adair, letting her pen drop
between her fingers. "He is a great musician. I never enjoyed anything
so much in my life as listening to him playing in a little monastery
chapel out in the country. We were passing by, and it was like music
from another world. We were told afterwards who it was that was
playing. He is a peculiar man—very reserved—and as a rule will not go
into society. I suppose he felt leaving the Service very much. Was it
not blindness that made him do it?"
"Yes," said Joan. "Lady Gascoigne was talking about him the other day.
It was in the Boer War. They said he would lose his sight, and he sent
in his papers; and then, four years afterwards, a clever oculist cured
him completely."
"I can't imagine what he will do with himself down here," said Mrs.
Adair. Then she went on with her writing.
Joan and her father chatted on until the dressing bell for dinner
sounded.
Both Mrs. Adair and Cecil went to bed very early.
As Joan lay her head on her pillow, she went over again in her mind her
short talk with her mother.
"It will break Dad's heart if they go off again! I wish—I wish—Oh, why
does marriage sometimes bring such a gulf between husband and wife? It
makes one dread it for oneself!"