STRUGGLING IN THE NET
A WEEK later Mr. Adair returned, bringing Cecil with him. The meeting
between the sisters was a very sad one. Cecil for the first time
had been brought face to face with life's greatest reality. All her
gaiety had left her for the time; she looked scared and miserable.
And Mr. Adair seemed ten years older, the stoop in his shoulders was
intensified, and his whole demeanour was listless and dejected. Yet
he gave Joan quite simply every detail of the quiet funeral amongst
the olive trees in the little English cemetery. And with many sobs and
tears Cecil told her of the sudden illness and the last four days.
"She stayed out too late one evening and caught a chill; but never told
me that she felt much pain until the next day, and then her temperature
went up suddenly, and she hardly knew me again. The only thing she was
anxious about was the book she has been writing. She told me to take it
back to England with me. She seemed to know she would not come herself.
It seems like a nightmare. How shall I live without her?"
Even in her grief, Cecil thought first of herself; Joan's greatest
sympathy was with her father. She went into his study late that evening
and found him sitting at his writing-table, his head bowed in his
hands. When he looked up at her, his eyes were dim and lifeless.
"Oh, Joan, my dear, we must comfort each other," he said, as she
impulsively knelt by his side and put her hand lovingly on his
shoulder. "The centre of my being seems to have disappeared. I have
been counting the days to having her back again with us. The coming
summer has only held her to me. I hoped she would love sitting out in
the garden and orchard, and become so fond of it here that she would
never want to leave us again. And I feel I have not been half tender
and sympathetic enough with her. I have kept her short of money, though
God knows I could not help it. It is so strange that she, so beautiful,
so strong, and in the prime of her life, should be taken and I left!"
"We could not do without you, Father dear," murmured Joan, tears
starting to her eyes in spite of her efforts to keep them back.
"She always was so much more clever than I was," went on Mr. Adair;
"but I loved to have her so. And your mother was a good woman, Joan.
She never talked much, but she never missed her daily Bible reading,
and I have found her Bible marked and worn from constant reading."
"Yes," Joan assented softly.
"So we have the hope of seeing her again," went on Mr. Adair in a more
cheerful tone; "but the blank will never be filled in my heart. Pray
for me to-morrow, Joan. I must preach, and I feel unfit for it."
"Don't try, Father dear, let Mr. Rushbrooke come over and take the
services for you, as he did when you were away."
Mr. Adair shook his head, and as he looked at Joan, there was something
in his attitude that made Joan steal away and leave him.
And the message was given with singular power on the following morning.
"'For He maketh sore, and bindeth up; He woundeth, and His hands make
whole.'"
The rector touched very little upon his own trouble, except to say: "I
have been through deep waters, and I want to pass on to you what has
been a comfort and help to myself."
His people listened with softened hearts; and even Banty went home
saying to herself, "There must be 'something' in Mr. Adair's religion!"
Cecil would not go to church. She shut herself up in her room and
stayed in bed for most of the day.
On Monday, as she did not come down to breakfast, Joan went up to her.
She found her very busy ordering herself mourning from a Bond Street
dressmaker whom her mother had patronised. Joan's little pupils were
waiting for her; so she thought that it was no propitious time for
discussion, and she only tried to persuade her to come down to lunch.
Cecil allowed herself to be persuaded, and after it was over wandered
into the drawing-room disconsolately. Joan followed her. She felt if
she did not speak now, she never should, and wanted to get it over.
"What has possessed you to have those noisy spoilt boys here
every morning?" said Cecil crossly. "I hear you teach them in the
dining-room, and Sophia calmly told me the drawing-room fire was never
lighted till after lunch. You complain that I shut myself up in my
bedroom, but where am I supposed to sit?"
"There's always a fire in Father's study, and he is usually out in
the morning. I want to talk with you about ways and means, Cecil. I
have had to do some teaching. I am most grateful for the money it
brings me. You know we are not yet clear of debt. And Father and I do
dislike it so. I always think a clergyman ought to be extra careful
in money matters. I think I mentioned in my letters that I have been
writing a few simple articles for a magazine. I have a little literary
experience. I want you to let me see mother's book. Don't you think it
would be a good plan for me to look over her notes and see if I could
not finish them, and offer it to some publisher? If it sold, it would
be a tremendous help to Father Just now."
Cecil did not answer. She seated herself in an easy chair by the fire,
and her brows were furrowed with thought.
"I can't conceive why Father is always so behind-hand with his bills.
He simply cleared out the small balance we kept in our bank abroad, and
brought me home literally without a penny in my pocket!"
"I don't think you realise what his income really is. I want to talk to
you about it. You must not order expensive clothes from London, Cecil,
you really must not. We cannot afford it. There is a very good little
dressmaker in Coppleton who will come out and do anything that you
want. Father and I have strained every nerve to pay the many bills for
clothes which have come in; but we can't do more, and I'm sure you will
help us now by trying to be economical."
"Don't mention the word 'economy' to me," flashed out Cecil
passionately. "I hate the sound of it, and so did darling Mother. It
has been the curse of our lives, and if you think that now she has
gone, you can bully me over clothes you are mistaken. You grudge me
my mourning for her Father has stripped me of every penny I possess.
You are going to try to make me as great a fright as yourself in your
country bumpkin clothes. But you won't do it. I give you fair warning!
Mother's money is as much mine as yours. If she had known, she would
have made a will and left it to me. She meant to do it—I know she did.
And as for taking her book and making money out of it for yourself and
Father, you shall not do it. It is in my keeping and belongs to me!"
Joan was absolutely dumbfounded by this outburst. Cecil ended it by a
passionate burst of tears. Joan instantly was on her knees beside her,
putting her arms tenderly round her.
"Oh, Cecil dearest, what cruel things to say! You are miserable, and
so am I. We are both Mother's daughters, we both love her, and are
mourning together for her loss. Don't let us hurt each other by unkind
words and thoughts!"
"Oh," sobbed Cecil, "you never understood her. You never loved her as I
did. I am left alone. Nobody cares for me!"
Joan assured her of her affection; she felt as if she were talking to a
passionate, unreasonable child. It was absolutely impossible at present
to convince her of the need of carefulness over money. Joan's one
desire was to gain her love and keep it, so she gradually soothed her
into quietness again, and Cecil went so far as to own that she did not
mean all she said.
"I feel beside myself with misery," she confessed. "It is an awful, a
terrible thing—death. I can't get over it. Why, only a fortnight ago
Mother was talking and laughing with me, now we have buried her under
tons of earth—glad to get rid of her!"
She gave a shudder.
"No, no," protested Joan. "Her self, her spirit is not there, only her
worn-out body."
"It was not worn-out—that's the—the cruelty of it! Oh, I know that
shocks you. But if I do believe in God, I shall never love Him. He does
such terribly cruel things or allows them to be done."
"God sees farther than we do, and from the other side," said Joan
firmly and gravely. "He sees both sides. We only see one, so how can we
judge correctly? I wish you had heard Father's sermon yesterday."
Cecil gave a little snort.
"Father! Well, he is my father, but nobody can say his sermons are
anything but the simplest platitudes!"
"Our Lord's words were very simple sometimes," said Joan with flushed
cheeks. "It is heartfelt experience that impresses me, more than any
amount of head knowledge and clever theories."
Cecil shrugged her shoulders, but relapsed into silence. She had
recovered her temper, and peace was restored, but she quietly went on
her way, and ordered London clothes at very high prices.
Joan said no more. She felt she could not. She was intensely desirous
of winning Cecil's affection, and she had a tremendous pity for her, as
she knew the loss of the mother who was always so devoted to her and to
her interests would be felt by her very deeply.
She herself could not adjust her life to her fresh circumstances. She
foresaw trouble in the future, for Cecil was more than ever determined
not to adapt herself to her home environment, and Mr. Adair had said
sadly but quite decidedly to Joan the day after he returned:
"We must be very patient with poor Cecil, as she must be content to
stay at home now. Her days of going abroad are over. I know our doctor
here thought it quite unnecessary."
After a week or two of quiet seclusion, when Cecil tried everyone in
the house by her exacting demands and fretful complaints, life slipped
back into the usual grooves.
Wilmot Gascoigne had purposely abstained from troubling Joan about
their book, but now he appeared again and made great demands, as
before, on her time and attention. She could not give them to him
in the same way now that Cecil was in the house; and she had been
having great heart searchings with herself about the book since her
mother's death. Joan was conscious that her work with him was not
uplifting. She had often gone to bed in such weariness of body and
such mental confusion that her peace of mind had suffered; she had
become irritably impatient under the daily difficulties and trials,
and she was conscious that her soul was drifting from its sure and
certain anchorage. She had tried to break away from her writing, but
Wilmot, with his insistent pertinacity, had refused to let her go. And
the fascination of creating had taken possession of her. She had been
pleased when she had influenced Wilmot to omit questionable passages
and insert something that was really good. She had thrown a sop to her
conscience by asserting to herself that she was improving the tone of
his writing; but all the time she knew too well that if she did raise
his standard a tiny bit, she lowered her own a great deal. Her mother's
sudden illness and death had brought the unseen world very near to her,
and the realities of life and death impressed her deeply.
One afternoon Wilmot left her hastily. She had ventured to disagree
with much warmth with him over a vexed question of moral perception,
and she refused to give way or allow herself to be outtalked.
He gathered up his papers.
"Very well. I have no time or use for such unprofitable discussion, and
must work on by myself till you come to a reasonable mind."
Without another word he marched out of the house. Joan watched him go
with hot cheeks and ruffled feelings. Her father was visiting in the
village; Cecil was lying on her bed with a novel. The house was quiet.
Tea was over, and there was a good hour and a half before dinner. Joan
betook herself to the orchard, to a secluded spot under the pink and
white apple blossoms, where she could remain unseen.
There was a low bench, on which she seated herself.
"I am caught in a net," she told herself, as, resting her chin in her
hands, she determined to wrestle out things with herself. "I am wasting
my talents and time on gathering straws on a muck heap! Oh, how angry
Mr. Gascoigne would be to hear me say it! If his work is strong and
goes down to posterity, will it be for the real welfare of those who
read it? What will be my share in it? Am I not denying my faith and
creed to please Mr. Gascoigne, and stifling my conscientious scruples?
Am I not aiding and abetting him in his absolutely irreligious views of
life?"
She covered her face with her hands. A rush of conviction of failure
came over her, and tears crept to her eyes. The sweet spring air, the
twittering of birds getting ready for their nightly rest, the cooing of
wood pigeons in the distance seemed to be purifying and cleansing her
befogged brain. Nature always drew her to Nature's God.
She had for a long while denied herself time to think, and her quiet
time of thought now showed her where she was wrong. How long she sat
there she did not know; she was deep in thought and prayer when a
well-known voice made her start and rise to her feet.
"Here's the bad penny again! Good luck to you, Joan, my darlint!"
It was Derrick, standing within a few feet of her, looking very
handsome and very mischievous.
He took off his soft felt hat with a flourishing bow.
"I told you I would be down for Easter. I couldn't get an invite out of
old Jossy, and I knew—" here his face grew grave—"I knew your trouble,
and I have written my sympathy, so I won't repeat it; but I could not
quarter myself upon you in your circumstances; and I was determined to
come, so I've settled myself at the Colleton Arms, where I arrived last
night. Now, then, we're chums, remember; tell me how things are going."
He sat down on the bench by her side. Joan heaved a sigh, half of
pleasure and relief at seeing him, half of regret and remorse for her
actions in the past.
"Oh, things are going badly," she said with a smile; "but they never
do go very well with us, you know, only I am, as a rule, loath to
acknowledge it. Don't let us talk of ourselves; tell me of your doings."
"What are you crying about?" Derrick demanded gravely. "I don't think
I have ever seen you with tear-stained cheeks before. How you used to
rush away, as a small child, and hide yourself till all traces of them
were removed."
"You have taken me at a disadvantage," said Joan, trying to speak
lightly. "I was really taking myself to task for my own sins and
shortcomings. You mustn't pose as my father confessor, Derrick. Hasn't
it been a lovely day? Shall we come indoors? Cecil will be so pleased
to see you."
"No, we will stay here. Now, then, start away. Tell me your trouble."
Joan at first resented his determined tone, then the longing to get
somebody's advice about her literary efforts made her plunge into her
difficulties. She told him that she wanted to earn money, that she had
been doing so before she began to help Wilmot in his book, that his
scheme was taking all her time and strength, and that now she felt it
was even taking her religion from her.
"I suppose I am tired, but I look upon it as a huge octopus fastening
itself upon me and draining me of all that is best in life. It
fascinates me when I am at work, but I want to break away from it, and
I can't. I hoped it would not be such a long business, but, of course,
a big book can't be written in a couple of months or so, and we have
not been at it much longer than that. And I am really longing to put
Mother's notes in order and bring out her book. She has done about half
of it, and I am persuading Cecil to let me undertake it. I feel I can
do it, and I shall love to do it. It is so pure, so—so cultured and
interesting."
"And what is Motty going to pay you for helping him?"
Joan coloured.
"Oh, there has never been any question of payment. I suppose when the
book is published, he will let me have some share in it."
"If you haven't had an agreement in black and white, Motty won't give
you one penny! I know him. And I question whether it will ever get into
print. Motty is no good as a novelist. He is too heavy and dogmatical,
and hasn't any sense of humour. You have been wasting your goods, my
dear Joan. Don't look so downhearted. I'll get you out of his clutches.
Fancy stopping off your own compositions when you can get them placed
in a good magazine! It's high time I came down here to look after you,
but I warned you against that chap, now didn't I?"
Joan tried to laugh.
"You talk like an old grandfather! I can't give you leave to
interfere between Mr. Gascoigne and myself. I must get out of my own
difficulties, but I am glad of your counsel."
There was a little silence. Derrick was scanning her from head to foot.
Joan always felt that he had a possessive way of talking to her, and
she did not want to encourage it.
"You are worried and thin, and Motty ought to be horsewhipped. He has
taken advantage of your sweet good nature to benefit himself, and he
does not intend that you shall have any reward for so doing."
"Don't let us talk any more about it," said Joan, sitting up briskly.
"Tell me about your political doings. I love to have a good talk with
anyone who is in the know in politics."
Derrick complied with her request. He could be very patient as well as
very pertinacious when he liked, and he had registered a vow in his
heart that Wilmot should hear his views very soon on the subject of his
novel.
He and Joan sat on till dusk enveloped them, and then Joan took him
into the house. Cecil came out of the drawing-room to greet them.
"I couldn't think where you had gone," she said to Joan, extending her
hand to Derrick.
She looked very fragile and graceful in her long, trailing, thin, black
gown.
"It's good to see you, Derrick," she went on; "but I would welcome any
village lout, I do believe! I am so sick of my own society."
"Why don't you take brisk constitutionals this fine weather?" demanded
Derrick. "Women have no sense. You and Banty go to extremes; she is
never indoors, you are never out. One is just as bad as the other."
"Oh, don't preach! Joan is given to that. What are you doing down here?"
Derrick laughed in his open, happy way.
"I've just come down for an Easter rest. Have clapped my papers and
pens together, and fastened them down under lock and key, and I'm out
for a spree. I'm going to make things hum for you here, and also make
it hot—oh, very hot—for a gentleman of my acquaintance. Yes, Miss
Joan, I am. Now, sweet Malingerer, you and I must plan out some Easter
dissipation. What shall it be?"
He seized hold of Cecil by the arm and marched her back into the
drawing-room. Joan smiled as she watched them settle themselves into
two very comfortable chairs. She was quite content that Cecil should
enjoy his stimulating society for a little time, and she went to tell
her father of his arrival, and then out into the kitchen to consult
with Sophia about the dinner, for she knew that Derrick would stay for
the rest of the evening.