AN ENCOUNTER WITH WILMOT
IN three days' time, the rector was moved home, and in a fortnight
he was going about much as usual; but the result of his sojourn with
Major Armitage was a distinct friendship with the lonely man. He often
dropped in to see the rector and have a chat with him; he exchanged
organ voluntaries with Joan, took the service himself one Sunday night,
and fascinated everyone there by the beautiful music he gave them after
the service was over.
But though to Joan and her father he was always genial and pleasant, he
refused to extend his friendship to society in general. And whispers
were still circulated that he was queer, and had "a bee in his bonnet."
Joan contradicted these rumours with much warmth, but the gossips shook
their heads and retained their own opinions.
A little incident that occurred made her realise that perhaps they had
some foundation for their circulation, and yet, understanding a little
better, as she did now, the working of an artistic nature, and withal
an intensely dreamy one, she felt more distressed than ever that gossip
should ferret out the secrets of an upright, honourable gentleman.
One afternoon, after a visit to the rector, Major Armitage promised
to send Joan a Christmas carol of his own composition. She had been
planning some carol practices for Christmas, and he had told her of
some with which she had never become acquainted. And then he had added:
"With an author's egotism, I am wondering if you would like to have a
look at a carol which was sung in Ely Cathedral one year. The organist
was a great friend of mine, and got me to compose the music for some
old words he had found in an antiquated history of Cambridgeshire."
Joan accepted his offer with delight, and the roll of music came. As
she was unrolling it, a rough sheet of manuscript tumbled out of it.
It had evidently slipped in by mistake. She glanced at the words, and
then with caught breath and tearful eyes she read them through again,
and then an overwhelming feeling of shame took possession of her for
reading them at all.
"Sweet of my heart, we are quite alone,
Alone in the twilight grey;
Eyes are not needed, only our souls
Touch in an exquisite way.
"Do I not see thee? I close my eyes,
I need not the light of day;
My lady sits here by the flickering fire—
I know she has come to stay.
"How can I paint the sweet face that is mine,
The face so purely serene;
The eyes that are softly searching my soul
With their glance so bright and keen;
"The proud little head, with its poise half gay,
Yet so bewitchingly shy;
The lips that quiver, that open to speak,
Then close with a pensive sigh?
"Heart of my heart, and queen of my love,
I gaze on thee, full of bliss,
The ache of a lonely hearth is worth while
To give a moment like this."
R. A.
It was the key to the Major's silent hour by the fireside of the room
which was full of his music and poetry; the room which was closed
against outsiders and strangers, but which was a hallowed spot to his
soul.
Joan comprehended in a flash as she read, and for some minutes she
stood wrapped in thought with the paper in her hand. Then she wondered
what she had better do. She dreaded letting Major Armitage know that
she had seen and read it. She felt she could not tell him; she could
not write to him. Finally she rolled up the little song and sent it
back to him by post, writing across the wrapper:
"Found inside the carol."
By neither word nor sign did the Major ever let her know that he had
received it.
Mrs. Adair and Cecil still stayed away. They wrote occasionally,
and one morning the rector looked up from his wife's letter with
disappointment in his face.
"I was hoping they would come home for Christmas, Joan, but your mother
says they are going to spend it in Cheshire with a cousin of hers. We
shall not see much of them, I am afraid. Your mother wants to go abroad
again in January."
"I think," said Joan gravely, "that you and I, Dad, dear, had better
make up our minds to run this parish without them. When they come home,
we will welcome them gladly, but we won't keep on expecting them; their
visits will be always short, I know."
"But why?" Mr. Adair demanded rather impatiently. "Why should they not
stay in their own comfortable home when they are in England? I can
imagine Cecil's delicacy necessitating a warmer climate, but Edinburgh
and Cheshire are colder climates than ours? It is not right; your
mother ought to be here."
Joan was silent. She knew her father had never grasped and would never
grasp the fact that Mrs. Adair had a real distaste for her clerical
home. After a few minutes she said gently:
"Cecil can have a good many more luxuries away than she can at home,
and at less expense."
"Yes, yes. I know that. But these visits seem to cost a good deal.
I must send your mother another cheque this morning, and a bill has
come in from some London shop. I suppose it is for clothes; you will
understand the items, but it is for a big amount, seventeen pounds!"
Joan took the bill, a dressmaker's, and then she said:
"I think I should forward this to mother. She settles for these."
But she doubted in her heart as she said so whether Mrs. Adair would
do so. She never could cut down her private expenses to her private
income, and her husband had to pay for a good deal.
It was one of those days when clouds seemed heavy overhead. Some
quarrel amongst the bell-ringers had to be inquired into and set
straight; then Jenny was sent for from home to attend to her mother,
who had scalded her leg badly, and Joan had to get another village girl
to take her place.
Miss Borfield called, and poured out a grievance which she had been
nursing in private for some considerable time. The last rector had
always consulted her over various village matters. She was being shown
now that her services were not valued or needed. She had not been asked
to tea at the rectory for over two months; Joan never came to see her,
and so on.
Joan listened, sympathised, apologised, explained, and promised that
things would be different for the future. At half-past three in the
afternoon she had found herself feeling so irritable and impatient with
everybody, indoors and out, that she ran up to her room, flung on her
hat and coat, and started out to walk off her bad feelings.
The air and solitude were a certain cure with Joan for depression, for
she held communion then with One Who was able to rest and calm the
turbulent waters.
She walked to her favourite pine wood. It was a cold but bright
afternoon. The words that she had quoted to Major Armitage a short time
ago came into her mind:
"For He performeth the thing that is appointed for me."
And as she thought upon it, peace came into her soul. Amongst the
silent pines, looking down upon a vista of valley and clustering
cottages round the old grey church, she lifted her heart heavenwards.
"Just the cutting and shaping and friction that I need," she said to
herself, "as Major Armitage said, 'I believe in the Hand behind.'"
Her thoughts turned to him as she retraced her steps homeward, and then
suddenly she met Wilmot Gascoigne. He had been supplying her with books
of late, but though he had called several times upon her father, Joan
happened to have missed him.
"What a walker you are!" he said, as he shook hands with her. "I always
find you out, but have never had the luck to meet you before. Have you
been on one of your usual errands of mercy?"
"No," said Joan, smiling. "I have simply and solely walked out to
please myself; in fact, I have been walking off bad temper."
"I wish I could do that. But I don't believe in your black words.
You are always the personification of radiant cheerfulness. I am, or
have been, in the devil of a temper all day, when every living human
creature is an annoyance to me. I am going to chuck up the Gascoigne
Chronicles for a time. They have got on my nerves. I am going up to
town for a few weeks. I want to have a look at some books in the
British Museum. Do you know what I am thinking of doing?"
"No—what?"
"Taking a tour in America, and lecturing on the Ancient Homes of
Britain. Nothing takes over there like the histories and legends of the
aristocracy. And I want a wider sphere and a change of work."
"I thought you were always content and happy amongst your books."
"Yes," he said, with a bitter smile, "that is what my good relatives
think; they are continually flinging it in my teeth. Books are my food,
my meat and drink, and my life; but I have other aims in life, and just
now I need money. My American tour will bring me in a golden harvest."
"I should like to hear you lecture," said Joan, thoughtfully. "Why
won't you give us a village lecture one day? Take some subject that
will suit our villagers. One of the greatest pleasures in life must be
to impart the knowledge which we have."
"I know that is your creed. You inspire me to try. Now what possible
subject could interest the intellects of your villagers?"
"It requires consideration," said Joan.
"Will you think it out, and I will do the same, and I'll drop in on
Saturday afternoon to compare notes. I know the rector is always in
then; he told me so."
"Very well. I'm sure my father will be pleased at the idea. We were
wishing we could give the men some kind of entertainment."
"I am not a village entertainer," said Wilmot, with a laugh, "and it is
the most difficult thing in the world to talk down to such an audience.
But I'll have a try at it to please you. How have you got on with
Miller's 'Indian Philosophy'?"
"I am afraid I have had little time for reading lately," said Joan.
"It's an awful waste of a cultivated intellect to be placed where you
are," said Wilmot, with earnestness. "Why don't you strike?"
"No," said Joan, with a shake of her head. "My circumstances
necessitate it. I am trying to be content."
"Any fool could run a country parish!" said Wilmot hotly.
"Thank you, but I disagree. My father is no fool, and he cannot do it
single-handed and alone."
"There's a paper I want you to read in the 'National Review,'" Wilmot
went on. "I want a woman's view on it. I left it at the rectory just
now. Will you make time to read it?"
"Yes, I will try. I shall enjoy it, I expect. Magazine articles do not
want the leisure that philosophical treatises do."
He turned to another subject which was then filling his mind, the
dawning of the Renaissance Period, and he talked fast and furiously
over it. When he lost himself in his subject, he was intensely
brilliant and interesting. Joan listened entranced, and when they
reached the rectory gates, she heaved a sigh of regret.
"Oh," she said impulsively, "I could listen to you all night; you have
taken me right out of myself and my surroundings!"
"It is a treat to meet with a kindred soul," said Wilmot,
enthusiastically. "Look here, Miss Adair; we must see more of each
other. I assure you I haven't a single person in this neighbourhood
with whom I can exchange a few ideas."
"Do you know Major Armitage?"
"No. He's a musical genius, I hear, and a crank. I should say he never
opens a book."
"I believe he has a very good library."
"Has he? If I thought that, I would look him up. Well, then, Saturday
you will see me again. Au revoir!"
Joan turned indoors. She liked Wilmot Gascoigne, and she did not like
him. Her intellect appreciated his; her spirit clashed with his, and
her instinct told her that his influence was not wholly uplifting.
"I like and admire him as a teacher," she said to herself, "but I would
not have him as a friend."
Saturday came, and he turned up to tea full of the village lecture he
proposed to give.
Joan suggested a lecture on the historical events that had happened
in the county, with special reference to those of local interest. Mr.
Adair thought a talk about drink and politics would suit the labouring
men. Wilmot himself proposed a lecture on political economy. They
finally settled that he should give a lecture on "Country versus Town
Life," and he and Joan had a very long and animated discussion upon
that theme.
She broke away from him at last. "You must excuse me. Do stay and talk
to my father. This is his free evening. But I have a Sunday school
lesson to prepare and some mark books to make up, and it is half-past
ten."
Wilmot did not stay. He liked the rector, but it was his daughter he
came to see.
And for the next ten days before the lecture came off, he was
continually at the rectory.
Banty arrived one afternoon, and found Joan sweeping the garden paths.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm getting some leaves together to go on our bonfire. I'm tired of
the untidiness of the garden, so I'm making a clearance of a lot of
rubbish. Come into the orchard and see it burn."
"I always like you so much better out of doors," Banty remarked;
"you're so much more like an ordinary human being then."
Joan laughed. "What am I indoors?"
"A very superior rector's daughter."
"Oh, I don't think I deserve that. I assure you don't feel so."
"What have you been doing to Motty? He has left the seclusion of the
library, and is for ever coming down here. He told Father to-day that
he must have a holiday; and we hear he is going to give a village
lecture. I warn you, they won't understand one word of it. Have you
bewitched him?"
Joan was busy stacking up her bonfire. She did not answer for a moment;
then she said lightly:
"Father and your cousin like a smoke and chat together. I don't think
you give Mr. Wilmot much of your company as a rule."
"I should think not. Can't stand his stilted talk. But why is he so
keen on coming here to talk to you? That's what I want to know!"
"I suppose we have tastes in common," said Joan, a little
indifferently. "I am very fond of books, and so is he."
Banty looked at her in silence; then she said abruptly: "I believe
everybody likes to talk to you; I do."
"Now that is nice of you," said Joan, turning a smiling face towards
her. "I thought you were going to be disagreeable a few minutes ago."
"I meant to be. Motty provoked me by singing your praises and saying
that you were wasted upon us. 'A village of clodhoppers,' he called us;
and I know he meant to include the Hall in that disparaging epithet.
We are not clever—I know we aren't—but we are happy and contented with
our country life, and Motty spends his time in abusing it and sneering
at all our neighbours. He tells me he is going to speak about country
and town life to the villagers. I suppose you know what he will do? He
will make London a paradise, and set every young man by the ears to go
there. He'll stir up discontent and restlessness, and make them all
hate their country lives. You see if you don't bring a hornet's nest
into our village schoolroom when he gets up on his hind legs to speak."
Joan had never heard Banty speak at such length before. She looked
dismayed at the picture which was painted.
"I don't think he will do that. I will talk to him about it."
"I suppose you are infatuated with him," said Banty, a little rudely,
"just as my cousins are in town. Motty is full of himself. I wish he
didn't live with us. He always makes us uncomfortable by his airs of
superiority. Now, Derrick Colleton is quite different. It is a pleasure
to have him in the house."
"Derrick is a dear," assented Joan, warmly.
"What I like about you is your variety," pursued Banty, watching Joan
feeding the bonfire with critical eyes. "You may be a bookworm at
heart, but you don't mind painting a jingle, or mending a gate, or
making a bonfire—versatility is the word I want!"
"It's just necessity," laughed Joan; "but I enjoy it all, and any fire
in the open exhilarates me—doesn't it you? I made a fire up in the pine
woods the other afternoon, and sat by it, and had an hour's reading. It
was delicious!"
"I'll come up and join you one day, if I may. I want to talk to you,
only, when hunting is on, I haven't much time."
"All right," said Joan, feeling rather sorry that she had given her
quiet retreat away. "But will you join me in reading or do you want to
talk?"
"To talk," said Banty, frankly and unfeelingly. "I can't talk indoors—I
never could. Out of doors I feel at ease. Let us meet in the pine woods
to-morrow. I can't hunt till next Monday. I've knocked up two hunters
this week, and father has got riled and says I must give them a rest."
"To-morrow afternoon?" said Joan, dubiously. "Well, I will try."
"Let us boil a kettle and have tea out there," suggested Banty, with
alacrity.
Joan agreed, for she wanted to win the confidence of Banty, and knew it
would not do to damp her friendliness.
"Then I think I'll go now," said Banty. "You'll get sick of me if I
give you too much of my company."
Joan laughed again as she shook hands with her. "You have a very humble
opinion of your own powers of attractiveness."
"I'm not attractive to women," said Banty, bluntly; "never can
understand them. I always vote them a bore, and they vote me one.
Good-bye."
Joan looked after her. She swung away with a boyish stride, and was
soon out of sight.
"Oh, dear! What waste of time it will be. Why should she fix upon me to
beguile her dull hours? And what can she have to say to me?"
Joan poked away at the bonfire rather fiercely. Banty was quite right
in her estimate of herself. She was not an attractive personality to
any of her own sex, for she never troubled to make herself pleasant
to them, and Joan did not look forward with any pleasure to the
appointment made.