RECTORY LIFE
SUNDAY morning was bright and clear, but Mr. Adair came to breakfast
with a dejected air.
"Your mother is not very well. She is staying in bed," he said to Joan.
It was so like old times that Joan almost smiled. She was sorry for
her father, for he had set his heart on seeing his wife in church that
morning, and the disappointment was great. Joan was hurrying through
her morning duties, for Sunday school claimed her at ten, and she went
straight into church afterwards. As she was going out of the house,
Cecil came down the stairs.
"Are you coming to church?" Joan asked.
"I don't feel much like it. Is the church warmed properly?"
"As warm as a toast. Do come, Cecil. Dad will be so sorry if you don't."
"Shall I see Major Armitage there?" Cecil asked, mischief in her eyes.
"I rather took a liking to him abroad. I was the only woman he would
speak to in the hotel."
Joan's rather impatient spirit got the better of her. "You ought to be
ashamed of yourself. What is church for?"
"To meet one's neighbours," said Cecil, provokingly, "and criticise
best hats and coats."
Joan slammed the door after her.
"She's as godless as a heathen!"
But before she got to school, she was taking herself to task for
impatience.
"I shall never win her if I am so hot-tempered. How badly I have begun
the day!"
Her class soothed her. Joan was a born lover of children, and they all
adored her. When she went into church, and took her seat at the organ,
she forgot all her vexations. The little church was full, for Mr. Adair
was already winning the hearts of his people by his simple kindliness
and whole-hearted interest in every individual.
Cecil came in late. She sat alone in the rectory seat, and hardly
hid her curiosity about the various members of the congregation. The
squire's large seat was full. Sir Joseph and Lady Gascoigne were most
regular in their attendance at church. Sir Joseph was the rector's
churchwarden. Their daughter Rose, or Banty as she was usually called,
was with them, also Wilmot Gascoigne, Derrick, and two other men who
had been asked down for shooting.
Behind them sat the doctor's wife, a pretty little woman, with two
fascinating small boys. A maiden lady completed the circle of Old
Bellerton society; but following Cecil's entrance came Major Armitage.
He slipped into the last seat next the door, and was the first to leave
the church. Cecil's hopes of speaking to him were frustrated. She was
looking very pretty, dressed in a pale blue cloth coat and skirt and
black furs. When Derrick came up to her after church, she greeted him
warmly.
"You haven't grown much," were his first words.
"Don't make personal remarks, or I shall do the same. Do come back to
lunch with us. It is so dull. I feel I could talk to a pump, I'm so
bored."
"I couldn't be bored if I lived in the same house as Joan!" He tried to
look severe, but failed.
Then the Gascoignes came up. Derrick did not accept the invitation to
lunch, but he had a word aside with Joan.
"How are things going? Are they humming?"
Joan smiled.
"Oh, well—we've hardly shaken down yet."
"Get the little malingerer to buckle to!"
"Oh, hush, Derrick! I won't have it."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"She's a radiant picture of health and beauty."
"Yes," said Joan heartily. "I love to watch her. You know how I always
have admired Cecil, though I suppose, as she belongs to me, I ought not
to do it. I must speak to Mrs. Blount."
She nodded to him and crossed the road to speak to the doctor's wife.
The boys, Harry and Alan, seized hold of her.
"You told us you would show us where nuts grow!"
"We're waiting for you to come out with us."
"I can't do it yet," Joan told them.
They hung upon her arms.
"You must fix a day now. She must, Mums. She promised."
"Well, I'll try next Wednesday afternoon," Joan told them.
They were pacified. Then Miss Borfield, who lived in a tiny cottage at
the end of the village, came up to talk to Joan of a sick girl in whom
she was interested.
When she eventually reached home, she found her mother in the
drawing-room on the chintz couch.
"I have one of my headaches, Joan. I won't come into the dining-room to
lunch. Send me something in here."
Cecil was quiet and a little glum at luncheon. She was a girl of many
moods. When Joan asked her how she liked the Gascoignes, she said:
"That Banty is simply a great cow! 'Do you hunt? Like to join our
hockey club? S'pose you don't shoot?' And when I had said 'no' to all
these queries, she turned her back on me."
"She is rather awkward," said Joan, laughing. "But she is very
good-natured. I have met her once or twice striding over the heath
with her dogs. She loves Nature, and so do I; so we have that taste in
common."
"Did you notice Major Armitage? He was like a man in a dream while you
were playing the voluntary. I know he was longing to do it himself."
"Armitage," said Mr. Adair, rousing himself out of a fit of
abstraction. "He came to me in the vestry; asked if he might have
the key of the organ sometimes. I asked him if he was a good enough
musician to warrant my turning over our beautiful little organ to him,
but he seemed to think he was."
"Really, Dad!" protested Joan. "You need not have put it so badly. But
I don't feel inclined to give him my key, for I am so often in the
church at odd times. The organ is becoming rather dear to me!"
"My dear, I have a duplicate in the vestry. I gave it to him on the
spot. I liked the man, and mean to call on him as soon as I can."
Cecil brightened up.
"Ask him to dinner, Dad. I like him too, and you know mother's weakness
for soldiers."
Joan was off again to afternoon school after lunch. Cecil and her
mother spent the afternoon by the drawing-room fire. Neither of them
attended the evening service, and when Mr. Adair hoped to have a little
rest, and quiet talk with his wife after supper, she went up to bed.
It was always the way. For years his wife had eluded his company,
though in public she was bright and engaging.
On Monday came an invitation to dine at the Hall. But only one daughter
was asked, and Cecil pouted with discontent.
"I'm sure I don't want to go," Joan said good-temperedly. "You can take
my place, Cecil."
Mrs. Adair wished to refuse.
"These country people bore me so Sir Joseph's conversation is only on
sport, Lady Gascoigne's on needlework and servants."
But her husband wanted her to go, and said so very emphatically. She
smiled at his eagerness, but gave way.
"The position of a parson's wife is pitiful," she said to the girls
when her husband had left the room.
"Then why did you become one?" laughed Cecil.
"I know what you mean," said Joan sympathetically; "but I think the
Gascoignes like people for themselves. They're too well bred to
patronise."
Later that day Joan crossed the heath with her little terrier Bob;
she was going to see a sick person. As her feet trod the dead heather
underfoot, and she breathed the fresh keen pine-laden air, her spirits
rose. The day had been full of small pinpricks; the daily routine of a
quiet household had been upset; the rector and his wife had been having
long discussions over ways and means, and accounts generally brought
him distress of mind.
At the back of Joan's thoughts, through everything that was said and
done, was, "Shall I be able to leave home?"
She could not see the way out. Every fresh hour convinced her that
her place could not and would not be taken by Cecil. She was loth to
acknowledge it. Now as she lifted up her head and surveyed the wide
expanse above and around her, the words again came to her mind:
"Strengthened with all might . . . unto all patience and long-suffering
with joyfulness."
"I dare say," she mused; "that may be the life God has in store for me,
not out in the world doing the work which seems big in my short-sighted
eyes, but just the humdrum life at home which makes such demands on
one's patience. How glad I am that I can leave it to Him. If He closes
the outer gate, I can work within. And I will, oh! I will, if I can, do
it joyfully."
Yet she wiped away some smarting tears as she walked.
Presently she met Banty Gascoigne, who was also alone.
Banty was a fresh-coloured, rather plain young person, and had that
slightly roughened and hardened look about her face that comes of being
continually out of doors.
"Weatherproof and waterproof," she called herself. She had fair hair
and blue eyes, with rather a wide mouth and square chin. She was always
dressed in the severest tailor tweeds, and wore very short skirts.
She waved her stick to Joan as she approached. Though they were not at
present very intimate friends, Banty was thoroughly unconventional.
"I do like to meet a walker like myself," she said; "and you walk as if
you liked it."
"Of course I do," said Joan; "it takes years off my life when I'm out
of doors."
Banty laughed appreciatively.
"Where are you going? I am 'de trop' this afternoon. They had enough
guns without me, which was distinctly nasty of them; and mother has a
tea-party. I expect you wonder who can be at it, but it is three old
cousins who have motored over, and the Irwins from Chesterbrook; and
they're every one of them so Early Victorian that I am a fish out of
water; and they're, of course, shocked and disgusted with me."
Joan explained her errand.
"Isn't it a bore to trudge out on such visits?"
Joan shook her head happily.
"You're a proper parson's daughter in principles; but you oughtn't to
have that dimple; it gives you a flighty look."
"I'm so sorry," Joan said, laughing.
"I'll walk a bit of the way with you," announced Banty. "Are you coming
to dinner with us?"
"The family is. I dare say Cecil will come instead of me."
"Oh, no; you were asked, and you must come. Derrick will be furious if
you don't."
"That won't distress me," said Joan, laughing. Then she stood still for
a moment, watching a flock of curlews overhead.
"Could you bring one of them down?" said Banty with gleaming eyes. "I
could, if I had my gun."
"I suppose it is the sense of skill in aim that pleases," said Joan,
looking at her thoughtfully; "it can't be shedding blood."
"Don't talk like a Quaker! I thought you were a good sort! Derrick
swears you are."
There was a little silence between the two; then Banty said abruptly:
"I should die of the dumps if I were in your shoes, and yet you look so
jolly."
"What is the matter with my shoes? They fit me well." Then a quick
sigh escaped her. "Don't try to make me discontented; some people put
their feet into the wrong shoes, and then comes disaster. I think,
personally, I should like to exchange mine for a bigger pair. But if
it's not to be, it is not."
"I only meant I couldn't stand pottering about the village and teaching
village children and visiting the sick."
"Teaching is glorious!" said Joan with sudden enthusiasm. "There is
nothing equal to it. Fancy being able to take a hand in moulding or
forming a character. That is work that will last for an eternity."
Banty stared at her. She always dropped a subject which she did not
understand, and she did so now.
Then Joan began to talk about the country and dogs and horses. Banty
waxed eloquent at once. They talked and walked together, and when Banty
eventually turned back and Joan went on her way alone, Banty, for one,
determined to pursue the acquaintance already begun.
An hour later Joan was returning in the dusk. As she was passing a
rather lonely group of pines her small terrier dashed forward, barking
furiously. She saw in the gloom a man's stooping figure, and as Bob
would not obey her call, she stepped over to see what was the matter.
She could not recognise the man in the dusk, but his voice was that of
a gentleman, and he was extricating his own dog from a gin. There was a
clump of gorse and brambles in which one had been set for rabbits.
"Can I help at all?" Joan asked sympathetically. "I do hope he isn't
much hurt."
"One of his legs, poor little brute. I don't think it is broken; but he
is awfully frightened. These confounded gins ought not to be set in the
open."
"No; it is very wrong. I'm afraid it is some of the village boys."
Then, seeing the poor little leg was bleeding, she took out her
handkerchief.
"Do let me bind him up. I ought to be good at bandages, as I've passed
all the exams. in ambulance classes that I can."
"I shall be much obliged. Men are always clumsier than women."
Together they bent over the small dog, who had been snapping at
everybody and everything in his pain, but, once released, was now lying
exhausted and panting on the ground.
Joan did not take long to bandage the wounded leg, and then advised his
master to bathe it well on reaching home. He thanked her courteously,
evidently did not want to accompany her to the village, for he turned
off at right angles, the dog in his arms; and Joan knew perfectly well
that there was no house in the direction which he took. She smiled to
herself.
"I shouldn't wonder if that was Major Armitage. I wish I could have
seen his face."
When she reached home, she found Derrick making himself very agreeable
to Mrs. Adair and Cecil.
"Ah, here you are!" he said, jumping up and bringing a low chair to the
fire. "Sit down and give an account of yourself. Your mother and I have
been hard on at politics. We don't agree, of course; but we've agreed
to differ. I wish I knew as much about our Constitution and its laws as
Mrs. Adair does."
Joan sat down and told them about the stranger and his dog.
"That's Armitage, right enough," said Derrick. "Old Jossy asked him to
shoot. He came out one day; not a bad shot, but a regular dumb dog. We
each had a try at him. He is too cussedly indifferent to us to open his
lips, and declines all invitations to meals. What is he making himself
into a hermit for, I'd like to know?"
"Artistic temperament," said Cecil. "You must make allowances. Mother,
can't we call upon him? I want to see his house. I'm quite curious to
see it."
"Your father will call," Mrs. Adair said.
"I'll bet you a fiver you won't get inside his door," Derrick said,
turning to Cecil.
"Done!" said Cecil. "And I'll do it within this next week!"
"I don't think you will do anything that a lady ought not to do," Mrs.
Adair said very quietly; and then she took up a book, and the young
people chatted on.
Joan began relating her visit to an old woman who had sent a message to
her that she wished to see her "very special."
"''Tis me dyin' wishes, me dear,' she said to me when I got there, 'an'
if your mem'ry b'ain't bettern mine, you'd best write of it down.' So,
of course, I got pen and ink and prepared to do it in style.
"''Tis short, me dear. Fust and last, me savin's, in me best chiny
teapot, must be spent on me grave, so's to spite Tom's nephews, which
be chucklin' over me departure. An' me monyment must be a tasty bit o'
stone what will attrac' the toury folk. 'Twill be comfortin' to think
on 'em hangin' over me wi' admirin' eyes; not to mention bein' the envy
o' that stuck-up Lizzie White, who did have a wooden cross with two
doves, and went an' whitewashed it ev'ry Sat'dy; an' all for a drinkin'
rascal who oughter be lyin' lowest of the low!' I tried to get her into
a better state of mind before I left."
"I don't doubt that," said Derrick, joining in Cecil's clear laugh;
"but I reckon you failed."
"I'm afraid I did."
Joan's laughing face grew grave.
"What must it feel like to lie on a bed waiting for death?"
"For mercy's sake, Joan, don't be so gruesome," said Cecil; "and don't
talk any more about your old women; we get so sick of them."
"You're both to come to dinner on Thursday," announced Derrick, looking
at Joan very straightly. "Old Jossy has too many men, and I've come to
get another lady."
"Lady Gascoigne has written to me," said Cecil. "I wrote a refusal
first, and then I tore it up. I want to see this Wilmot Gascoigne. Are
he and Banty going to make a match of it?"
"Surely never!" ejaculated Derrick. "Why, Banty wouldn't touch him with
a pair of tongs; and he doesn't know she's in the universe. He's in the
clouds all his days. He reeks of fusty musty books and parchment, and
is a walking encyclopædia of the Gascoigne ancestors. Their present
descendants he regards as clods of earth. The only word he's spoken to
me was when he was watching us depart after the hunt breakfast last
week. He had been listening to Banty's conversation with one of her
hunting pals. I can't say she shone on that occasion; she never does in
conversation.
"'Great Scott!' he ejaculated. 'And is that a specimen of a civilised
and educated woman? She's a brainless savage, and is living seventeen
or eighteen centuries too late!'"
"What a nasty little man!" said Cecil.
"His inches are not few, let me tell you. He tops me by a good many."
"He doesn't sound pleasant," said Joan. "Banty is his own cousin, and
her parents are giving him a home."
"He thinks no small beer of himself, I can tell you."
"I will reduce him, if I get a chance," said Cecil, nodding her head
determinedly.
The talk went on till Derrick took his departure. Joan went off to
her father's study to discuss parish matters, and Cecil turned to her
mother a little plaintively.
"Derrick seems to think Joan is overworked and I am a lazy malingerer."
"Is Derrick's opinion of any value to you?"
Mrs. Adair shut up her book and looked down upon her daughter with
smiling tolerance.
"I value everybody's liking," said Cecil thoughtfully.
"I think you are rather lazy," her mother said. "I wish you would
interest yourself more in the topics of the day. There is so much
to read and learn of what is taking place. We are all a part of our
Empire's history, and ought to have knowledge of the different currents
that form and make it."
"Oh, Mother, don't be prosy," said Cecil, a little impatiently. "I
dare say Banty and I are in the same category, only sport is her life,
and pleasure—society—is mine. I know I shall get hipped before long. I
can't think why father and Joan are so enchanted to live here. It is an
awful little hole. I can't breathe, and the grey cold is appalling!"
"Are you not feeling well?"
"I never feel fit in England. I hate the winters, and this poky little
village is worse than living in a town. Of course, the house is better.
It seems to me that even Joan is getting cramped in her ideas. She can
talk of nothing but the village."
"It is a small life—a country parson's," her mother admitted; "but you
should occupy yourself with books."
Cecil gave a little impatient sigh.
"Joan is the good daughter and I'm the wicked one," she said; "and
father's happiness and content in his small sphere makes me feel
impatient with him."
Her mother made no reply. Cecil often voiced her own discontent.