HEART TO HEART
IT was spring again, but Cecil was not back. Lady Alicia and she were
now doing the Italian lakes together, and Cecil's letters, though few
and far between, were very happy in tone. Joan's mind for the present
was at rest about her. Life was getting easier. The last of the back
debts was paid, and Joan felt that she could now hold her head up and
look the whole world in the face. She started out for a walk one day
with her terrier, in a very happy frame of mind. Her old, discontented
longings for a larger sphere of influence and work had left her. She
realised now that there were individuals all round her who were as
precious in their Creator's sight as those far-away, and she cheerfully
set to work to find out their various needs. The villagers loved
her. There was not a house which did not welcome her warmly, and men
and women besides the children learnt to confide to her all their
difficulties and troubles.
Crossing the heath, she met an old shepherd who was a special friend of
hers, and for some minutes she stayed gossiping with him; then, going
across to a little knoll under some pines, she seated herself on a
fallen log, and, gazing down upon the smiling valleys below, she fell
into a reverie.
Her thoughts took her back to Ireland. She had heard from Major
Armitage once or twice through the winter. He was still managing
his sister's estate, and the unsettled state of Ulster, with the
apprehension of civil war, was keeping them engrossed with their own
affairs.
She was startled suddenly by the furious barking of her little terrier.
Looking up, she saw approaching her the object of her thoughts, and
she sprang to her feet with a little exclamation of astonishment and
pleasure. He shook hands with her with great energy.
"Now, what a marvellous coincidence!" he said. "I had no idea I should
meet you out here, but my whole thoughts were with you, and I was
planning an interview with you."
"But why plan?" said Joan, laughing. "You had only to walk up to the
rectory to receive a hearty welcome. I am astonished to see you. Have
you been over here long?"
"I came last night. Some business with my tenants brought me. And I
came out this afternoon to get away from everybody."
Joan was silent. She looked up at him, and then turned her eyes away,
for he was standing close to her, leaning against a tree trunk, and
his eyes told her why he wanted to see her. She tried to still the
throbbing in her heart and veins; she tried to keep a cool, clear head;
but she was mentally asking herself this one question over and over
again:
"Does he care for me?"
"I had to think matters out," he went on slowly. "As you know, I lived
in a world of dreams when I was here before. I lived upon one hope,
one idea; and when it was shattered, I wished I had been shattered
with it. I have been through my house this morning, and in every room
I sought to raise up the ghost of my vision; but it would not come.
And the strange part of it is that I would not welcome it if it did. I
buried it when I was here before; and time and reason have convinced
me that my heart and affection are free to offer to another. The past
is absolutely gone. You may think me fickle, but from the time I knew
that she was willing, and rightly willing, to cleave to the one she had
promised to love and live with, I never had any more desire to win her.
"And now, Miss Adair, I come to you. I am conscious that my
circumstances and my past are against me; but as you are never out of
my thoughts by day or night, I thought you would let me tell you so.
I have come over from Ireland, not only to see my tenants, but to see
you. I don't want your friendship; I want something more; and I do ask
you not to answer quickly. I am afraid that you will feel I have no
right to ask you so soon, that I cannot care deeply enough; but I have
learnt to care for you so much that nothing else in the world seems
worth living for."
Joan sat very still. Her heart wanted to answer him at once, her head
cautioned delay. How could she leave her father? She could not see a
way out. At last she looked up.
Major Armitage was white and stern, his lips were set determinedly
together, but his eyes were almost wistful. He tried to smile as he met
her gaze.
"Well!" he said with a quick-caught breath. "Do you see anything in
me worth your love? I don't myself, and I'm steeling myself to bear a
refusal."
"Oh!" said Joan impulsively. "I can't give you that. I care too much
already. But I am thinking of my father."
"Do you really care for me, Joan?"
He bent over her eagerly, then took hold of both of her hands and drew
her gently up towards him.
"Joan, if you care, as I care, no one on earth has a right to separate
us."
Strong man as he was, he trembled with emotion; but Joan stood very
still with his arm round her. The moment to her was almost a sacred
one. Just for an instant her head rested on his broad shoulder.
"No," she whispered; "they will not be able to."
Then he bent his head, knowing that he had won her, and his lips
touched hers, sealing the compact.
A few moments after, he and she were sitting together on the fallen
tree. His face was radiant with happiness; she was very quiet, but
deeply, enchantingly content.
"Joan, Joan, have you cared about me long? Tell me when you first
thought anything about me?"
"Oh," she said, "how can I say? I liked and admired you, and felt
intensely sorry for you from the very beginning. I was honoured by
your friendship; but I suppose when it really came home to me that my
heart had escaped out of my own keeping was when we were walking back
from that little church over the hills in Ireland. I felt I should like
nothing better than to go on walking with you for ever!"
"And that was the night I wanted to speak to you. I tried to do so, if
you remember, but I felt I could not. I was so terribly afraid of being
repulsed, and I thought it was too soon. I funked putting my fate to
the test. I cannot believe in my good fortune even now."
They talked on as lovers have done from time immemorial, and at last
Joan made a move.
"I must go to Father. He will be wanting his tea. I don't know what to
do about telling him. He often says he hopes I shall marry; but I don't
know if he really means it."
"May I come back with you?"
"Of course."
They found the rector pacing the drive. He was delighted to see Major
Armitage again. When Joan ran on into the house to make the tea, the
Major spoke.
"Mr. Adair, I have come back because I could not keep away any longer.
I am afraid you may not welcome me so warmly when you know my errand. I
want to take away Joan from you."
Mr. Adair drew in his breath.
"Ah, dear! It has come at last, then!"
"Will you give her to me?"
"What does Joan say? But I need not ask. She is a good girl, Major—too
good to remain single all her life. I believe in women marrying; but I
shall be lost, quite lost, without her!"
"We have not talked over matters yet," said Major Armitage
sympathetically; "but when I can leave my sister, I mean to come back
and live here. And if I did that, could not Joan still keep a good bit
of her parish work and still help you?"
Mr. Adair's downcast face brightened at once.
"Capital! You have your music, and Joan is too energetic to like a life
of ease without any work to keep her from rusting. I know this, Major,
there isn't a soul on earth I would like as a son-in-law better than
yourself. I know you will make my girl happy."
He went straight into the drawing-room, where Joan sat over the tea
tray with hot cheeks and bright eyes, and patted her affectionately on
the shoulder.
"I have been told, Joan dear, and I shall be glad in your happiness. I
know Major Armitage, and can trust you to him."
Joan's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"He is such a dear, I couldn't help losing my heart to him," she said.
Then, as her lover came into the room, she brushed her tears away and
smiled radiantly up into his face.
They were a very happy little party, but Major Armitage did not stay
to dinner. He was expecting a visit from some of his tenants at six
o'clock, and had to be home to meet them.
Joan walked down the drive with him when he went.
"Will you come over my house with me to-morrow morning?" he asked her.
"I'll come and fetch you if I may."
"I can't fling my duties to the winds," she said, looking up at him and
laughing. "I am going to the school to-morrow at ten, but at eleven I
shall be free."
"Then I shall be here at eleven."
At the gate, under the shadow of the old yew tree, he took her into his
arms again.
"I can't believe you are going to belong to me," he said. "What a happy
man I shall be!"
"I hope I shall bring happiness to you," she responded. "I want to do
it; I have always thought that you wanted a woman to look after you."
He gave a quick little shake of his head.
"That is not the view you ought to take. I am happy because I mean to
care for you and to wait upon you and to give you a good time. You have
always been so busy looking after other people that you have never
given yourself a thought."
Joan laughed softly.
"I have hitherto gloried in my independence; but love alters
everything, does it not?"
When he had left her, Joan leant her arms on the gate and watched him
out of sight, and then she raised her face to the evening sky.
"Oh, God! I thank Thee. Bless us both, and make us blessings to one
another."
Before she went to bed that night, she had a long talk with her father.
Mr. Adair, though he still asserted stoutly that he was very pleased,
had great heart sinkings about the future; and Joan wisely made him
voice his fears.
"I will not leave you, Dad dear, until the way seems easy. Sophia is a
host in herself, I know."
"Oh, Sophia is a capital housekeeper," her father said hurriedly. "She
will make me comfortable, and I shall not wish selfishly to spoil your
life, my dear. It is the thought of Cecil reigning here in your stead
that appals me. I assure you it was an awful time when you were in
Ireland! If it were not for Cecil, I should jog on pretty well."
"But, Father dear, if I marry, you must remember that we still live in
your parish. I shall hope to play the organ, and run the Sunday school,
and do all the club accounts. You will not be left without my help."
Mr. Adair looked at her very gravely.
"That is a comforting way of putting it; but remember, Joan, if a woman
marries, her husband and her household must and ought to be her first
interest. Never let your work come between your husband and yourself."
Joan knew why he spoke so emphatically.
"I don't think Major Armitage is a selfish man," she said musingly. "He
has lived so long without home comforts that he will not be exacting.
And he has resources in himself, and real work to do; for he considers
his music a gift given to him to use for the benefit of others. Oh, I
have already weighed it in my mind, and as long as you want my help in
the parish, I mean to give it to you."
She sat up late that night writing to Cecil and Lady Alicia.
When Sophia heard the news, she was not so congratulatory as she might
have been.
"Whatever will Mr. Derrick say? And I do hope, Miss Joan, that you
aren't getting a crank for a husband. There be no doubt about it as he
has behaved very strange. Certainly, M'ria says she has no complaints
to make after that death occurred. I suppose it did occur?"
"I think I had better tell you the whole story, Sophia," said Joan
patiently.
And when she had finished her account, Sophia gave a sniff.
"Well, we must hope you'll be happy with him, but I consider a fancy
for another woman, even if it comes to nought, takes the bloom off a
man, so to speak. Now, Mr. Derrick has never altered from the time he
were a boy. 'Twas Miss Joan first and foremost, and there was none her
equal."
"Mr. Derrick is a dear boy," said Joan; "but Major Armitage is—Oh, I
can't describe him, Sophia, but he is wound round my heart, and to be
in the same room with him thrills me through and through."
Sophia could say no more. She looked at Joan in a pitying way, and when
she was left alone in her kitchen, muttered to herself:
"It's a good thing for me that no man has ever made me thrill. Poor
Miss Joan be but a child, after all said and done, and 'tis to be hoped
she won't live to change her mind when 'tis too late!"
The sun was shining full on the old weather-beaten house as Joan and
Major Armitage walked up to it the next morning.
She looked at it with an absorbing interest. This was to be her future
home. How little she had thought when she stood there last that she
would be the means of bringing the waiting house to its fulfilment.
She went back in thought to the words its owner had spoken:
"My house and I wait."
As they mounted the old stone steps, she glanced up at her lover. She
remembered his determination that no woman's foot should cross his
threshold till the one for whom he was waiting should come. For the
first time a touch of jealousy clouded her mind—jealousy lest the
remembrance of the woman who had formerly so obsessed him should recur
to him here and now. He was looking straight before him, and not at
her; but when they reached the big door, he paused, and then his eyes
met hers and the smile spread all over his stern, set face.
"This is an unlucky house," he said. "Do you believe that the strength
of our love will break that spell?"
Joan caught her breath, then light and colour swept into her face;
she slipped her arm into his. "Let me tell you something which has
just flashed into my mind before we go in. I know the superstition
about your house, that no luck will come to those living in it until
it reverts to the Rollestons. Do you know that Cecil and my mother
discovered that we are directly descended from one of the daughters of
this house, a certain Gertrude Rolleston?"
"What an extraordinary coincidence! You must tell me the details. I
have the Rolleston genealogy in my library; we will look it up. But,
Joan, my dearest, there would be no spot on earth which would not be
sanctified and blessed by your presence!"
Then very solemnly he raised his hat before he opened the door.
"May the God who instituted marriage bless us both on the threshold of
our home, and lift up the light of His countenance upon us and give us
peace."
After that Joan felt as if the stepping across the threshold was
a sacrament. Certainly, she assured herself, Major Armitage was
different from any other man in the world. And when she had crossed the
threshold, he stooped and kissed her.
Maria came bustling across the hall to greet them. She was tremulous
with excitement and emotion.
Joan shook her by the hand very warmly.
"Eh, Miss Adair, this be a happy moment to me, and Sophia's loss will
be my gain!"
"There!" said Major Armitage cheerily. "What prettier or truer speech
can you expect than that, Joan?"
Then he led her up the stairs to the music-room.
"I have laid the ghosts here," he said. Then, pointing to the
old-fashioned fireside, he added:
"I used to dream as I sat there alone in the evenings that a woman in a
soft silk dress might one day sit opposite me and talk and laugh as I
smoked my pipe. But latterly that woman's face grew misty and finally
disappeared. Now I see it again, a fair, sweet face, the sweetest in
the world to me, with deep, true, tender blue eyes and a smile that
always brings two distracting dimples into play, and hair full of
sunshine. Don't stop me. I see her clasping her hands round her knee—it
is a way she has—and showing me by turns her eager, earnest soul, her
boundless patience and sympathy, her sweet, reverent faith in all that
touches the unseen world."
"I must stop your rhapsody," said Joan, half laughing but much moved.
"My cheeks are hot with such flattery. Show me your piano and books."
He did so, and then led her along the corridor to a locked door. He
unlocked it and showed her the dainty little boudoir, which had all
been renovated and cleaned and made fit for use.
A shadow came into Joan's eyes as she looked at it. She felt almost as
a second wife might feel when being shown the belongings of the first.
"You must tell me truly," she said, impulsively turning to him. "Does
this room remind you of the one for whom it was meant? I don't think I
could be happy here."
He wheeled round, drew her out of the room and turned the key in the
lock.
"Then you shall not have it," he said. "Joan, sweetest, I told you I
had laid my ghosts, but if they are there for you, I will dismantle the
room at once. There are plenty of others to choose from. Look! I shall
give you this one over the west wing; you will see the sunsets; and you
shall furnish it as you please."
He drew her into a quaint octagonal room, with a window overlooking the
heath and distant hills. Joan knew she would love it the instant she
was inside, and she was content.
Then they wandered through the rest of the house and made many plans.
When Joan eventually came away, she said to him:
"I feel I shall be taking all and giving nothing."
To which, of course, Major Armitage replied:
"You are giving me the priceless gift of your own sweet self, the only
gift in this wide world that is worth anything to me!"