Chapter X: Off to the Riviera

LADY ALICIA threw herself heart and soul, for the time being, into the village circle in which she found herself. She walked out with Joan, and visited the old and sick; she took a Sunday school class of girls, she attended the choir practices, covered library books, checked club accounts, and was as keen as Joan herself over the welfare of the parishioners. One evening after Joan had been practising Major Armitage's carol, they began to talk about him.

"He must be a real musician," said Lady Alicia. "I should like to hear him play. I know his brother in Yorkshire, and have often heard about him."

"He has been in London for the last fortnight," said Joan. "He often comes round for a chat with Father when he is at home, but I have never had the courage to ask him to play. He is a very reserved man in many ways, and I always think he has a history."

She then told Lady Alicia of the gossip about the place and of what Maria had confided to her sister.

"Poor, lonely man!" said Lady Alicia softly.

"For what and whom is he waiting?" Joan asked. "I have never forgotten the quiet, determined way in which he said to me: 'My house and I wait.' Somehow I cannot believe that his unseen companion is simply an ideal of his imagination."

"No," said Lady Alicia very quietly. "I think I can tell you that that is not so."

"You know his story?"

"I do. Would you like to hear it?"

A faint flush rose in Joan's cheeks.

"I can't help feeling an interest in him. But I do not want to be curious. He told me the unlucky history of his house, but no more."

"I do not think there would be any harm in your knowing what I know. I happen to be acquainted with the girl. She was a Miss Irene Waldborough. They met at the house of a friend of mine before he went to the war in South Africa. She was only about nineteen then. They were not engaged; I suppose there was mutual attraction between them. He was foolish, I think, not to speak. In any case, she thought he did not care for her, and when her mother, who was of French extraction, and believed in arranging things for her daughter, pressed a certain young and rich American upon her, Irene yielded and became engaged to him.

"I saw her when the news of Major Armitage's wounds reached home. Everybody thought he would be blind for life. I knew then that he still held her love. She was in great distress of mind; and when he eventually returned home, she wanted to go and see him. Her mother prevented this and urged Frank Denbury the American to marry sooner than was proposed. The marriage was hurried on, and was about to take place, when Major Armitage and Irene met. He had sent in his papers and was staying with his brother. He had not even heard of the engagement.

"I don't know how it was done, as you may be very certain Major Armitage would never have spoken. But young people have instincts. She came to her mother and refused to marry. Mrs. Waldborough was furious. There was a great disturbance, and I suppose in the end her will got the better of her daughter's, for the marriage took place. It was one of those things that one cannot understand. Three days after the wedding, the bridegroom was summoned back by cable to America. He could not take her with him, and he has never been heard of since. About two years ago there was a report of his death, but though all the best detectives were set to work, and no amount of money was spared in trying to trace evidence of his movements, the inquiry did not prove satisfactory. Irene was married five years ago, and seems now neither maid nor wife."

"And did she meet the Major again? Does she know he has recovered his sight?"

"Yes. You see she lives only five miles from his brother in Yorkshire. I saw her about a month ago. She told me all this herself, and told me, too, that she is determined to wait seven years if necessary, but that she can bring nobody else into her life until she has more definite proof of her husband's death."

"If I were Major Armitage," said Joan slowly, "I should go out and find proofs."

"That was the first thing he tried to do. He went out two years ago, directly there was this indefinite report; but he could find nothing beyond the facts already known, that one night Frank Denbury had ridden away from a certain small town with two friends. These both swore that he parted with them at a certain point and went in another direction towards a village which he never reached."

"And so Major Armitage is waiting for the seven years to pass," Joan said meditatively. "What a romantic story! Tell me what she is like, Lady Alicia."

"Irene is small and slight and dark, rather like your Cecil, but with a great deal of sweet dignity about her and a certain dainty shyness that makes it difficult to believe that she is a married woman."

"And he comforts himself in his solitude by imagining that she is with him," said Joan almost under her breath. "I do pity him more than ever, but he seems very sure of her. He has got his house ready for her."

"Everyone firmly believes the husband is dead," said Lady Alicia. "It is the doubt in her own mind that makes her wait for him. It is a very unfortunate story, and I think you had better keep it to yourself."

"I will," said Joan. "Is she fond of music?"

"She plays the violin most beautifully. It is that which drew them together."

Joan said no more, but Major Armitage and the girl he loved, and for whom he was waiting, were constantly in her thoughts.

The day before Lady Alicia left, Banty arrived to see Joan. At first she rather seemed to resent Lady Alicia's presence in the room, but before very long, her brusque manner left her, and she began confiding eagerly in the gentle lady before her.

"It's so beastly dull in frosty weather," she said. "I'm quite glad to come down here, and Joan is always cheerful and good tempered. The very sight of her does me good."

Joan had been called out of the room for a moment when Banty made this remark.

"She's a dear girl," said Lady Alicia warmly. "It is a great talent, I consider, to be able thoroughly to enjoy the little comforts in our daily life. Joan loves the scent of a flower, the breeze on the moor, the sight of a sunset, a fire-lit room, and a hundred other details which would escape some people's observation altogether."

"They wouldn't mean much to me," said Banty frankly. "I love sport, you know. That comes first with me. The country, with all its scents and sights, is only a background. Joan scolded me the other day. I've been puzzling over her words. She told me to wake up, and said there was a part of me that wanted to be stirred into life. Now I consider I'm alive to my finger-tips. I can spot a fox two or three fields off, and there isn't much going on out of doors that I don't know about!"

"You must ask Joan one day what she did mean," said Lady Alicia, looking at her kindly.

"I don't think she's one of that preaching lot. I couldn't stand any of that. She's too jolly in herself to mean anything canty."

Lady Alicia wisely changed the subject. After Banty had gone, she said to Joan:

"There's a girl who needs a helpful woman friend. I am so glad that she likes you, and that you have begun to influence her."

"I don't know that I have. I tried to say something the other day, but she did not respond. Banty is very difficult, Lady Alicia. I feel, in talking with her, that unless you're on the subject of sport, you might as well be bumping your head against a stone wall for all the impression you will make."

"I think you will make way in time. Pray a lot before you speak."

"Oh, I wish you were going to stay longer," said Joan impulsively.

"I wish I could. One day you must come and stay with me. I should like to take you abroad. But I shall like to look back and remember this visit of mine. Your environment is the right one for you, Joan, and I am quite content that for the time your literary powers should be in abeyance."

When Lady Alicia had left, Joan felt rather lonely. But the rush and bustle of Christmas was upon her, taxing all her powers. And when it was over, Mrs. Adair wrote saying that she and Cecil would be coming home for a couple of weeks before they went abroad. Those two weeks brought a mixture of pleasure and pain to Joan. Cecil was in high spirits, and Mrs. Adair much less captious and difficult to please. But the rector grew very depressed, and confided to Joan that he did not know where the money would come from for all that was needed. And it seemed to Joan that every post brought parcels from town with expensive gowns and wraps, and odds and ends, from shoes and boots to soap and veils and gloves.

She remonstrated with Cecil when she showed her a delicately painted chiffon scarf that had cost four guineas.

"Do you forget that Father is a poor man? This will never come out of your allowance, and he has already a sheaf of bills which he does not know how to pay. It is not honest or right, Cecil. I could not do it if I were in your place."

"My dear old strait-laced Joan, your mouth is drawing itself down till your lips meet your chin! Do, for pity's sake, mind your own business! Bills can wait. It isn't cash on delivery with us. And Father is too fussy! He always makes a moan over his poverty—always has! And he is not a poor man now. Now just tell me if you think these blue feathers match that blue cloth gown of mine. I'm not satisfied with them. I think I shall send them back."

Joan curbed her impatience. She shook her head at her.

Cecil continued in a different tone.

"Of course you live in such a hole here that you can have no idea how people in society dress nowadays. I'm simply nowhere and nobody—in the swim. Why, your old black evening dress was made six years ago, now wasn't it? But it does quite well for the frump parties in Old Bellerton. Have you been to any more dinner parties? And have you got to know the proud scholar and the hermit major?"

"Yes," said Joan quietly. "I know them both. Mr. Wilmot Gascoigne is still in town. He has been there for some weeks, and Major Armitage has just come home. He took the service last Sunday evening and played exquisitely."

"Get him to play this next Sunday and come to supper afterwards. I like him. He's a mystery."

"He won't do that."

Joan spoke with conviction. She had rather timidly suggested to Major Armitage that he should come to dine when her mother returned, and he had promptly though courteously refused.

"Ah, well," said Cecil, "thank goodness in another week we shall be in another clime."

A day or two after this, Joan approached her mother on the subject of expense. She dreaded speaking, but her father had asked her to try to make her mother understand that it was not meanness on his part, but sheer inability to produce what was required. And she knew that her father shrank from all altercations about money affairs.

Joan plunged into the subject with heightened colour. She was packing a trunk in her mother's bedroom—a trunk of miscellaneous articles which was also to contain a good many books.

"I wish Cecil would pack a few more books and a few less gowns," she said. "She seems to have no idea of economy in dress."

"She is rather extravagant," said Mrs. Adair. "But I was like it at her age; I hope she will require less as time goes on."

"She does not realise how really poor we are, Mother. Do you know that Father has overdrawn two hundred pounds from his bank this year already? And he has a big bundle of bills all waiting to be paid. I don't know what we are to do. I feel I must make money if I can in some way; but how to do it in this village is the difficulty!"

After a moment's pause Mrs. Adair replied:

"I think I shall be able to help him more in future. I am thinking of writing a book on the Riviera. I have had it formulated in my own mind for a long time—not a guide book, but a chatty history of the sunny shores of the Mediterranean. And this, in addition to my reason for taking Cecil, is why I wish to go abroad this year; I want to locate some of my facts. There is nothing that pays so well, or so quickly, as writing books. If this one is successful, there will be no money difficulties in future. I tell you this in confidence. I do not want it talked about until it is accomplished."

"I do hope it will be a success," said Joan warmly. "It is sure to be, Mother, if you write as you talk."

This idea of Mrs. Adair's did much to bring comfort and hope to Joan's heart. And the last days were, on the whole, pleasant to them all.

On the evening prior to their departure, they gathered round the drawing-room fire for a last talk together. Mr. Adair patted his wife's hand affectionately as he sat next to her.

"I shall look forward to having you back very soon, Cecilia. When the early summer comes you will lose your heart to this place, and, please God, we shall have a happy summer together."

Mrs. Adair smiled. She was in one of her softest moods that night, and Joan was glad afterwards to be able to look back and remember it.

"It is a pity you cannot take a chaplaincy abroad in the winter, then we could be together."

"Ah! But I could not leave my parish, and I do not think I am cut out for that kind of billet. I love my poor folk, and am very happy here. I think you would like it, if you would try to settle down. We must hope Cecil will grow stronger. She looks very well just now."

"'Her looks never pity her,' as your poor folk say. I wish she could outgrow her delicacy."

"We must be thankful we have one daughter who does us credit," said Mr. Adair, looking across at Joan with much pride and affection.

Cecil laughed:

"For mercy's sake, don't pit Joan and me one against the other. This talk is much too personal: I hope you will pursue the friendship of the Major, Joan. I must tell you a very interesting fact. You know what the people say of his property, that no heir will be born in it till it reverts to its old owners?"

"Yes, I have heard it quite lately."

"Well, at Uncle Robert's we were looking up some of the family genealogies one evening, and, lo and behold! We have an ancestress, a certain Gertrude Rolleston, who was the only daughter and heiress more than a hundred years ago. She married a Lovell, and her cousin came in for the property. I can't think why she did not. She seems to have dropped out of the running. Now, if you and the Major would only make a match of it, the spell of bad luck would be broken, and Rolleston Court would be flourishing once more."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cecil."

"Tell him you are a direct descendant of the last of the Rollestons and see what he says."

"But I think from what I hear," put in the rector, "that the Major's affections are engaged elsewhere."

"Then he must promptly break it off and bestow his affections on Joan," said Cecil. "He will if he knows she will bring luck to him again."

"Some people value love more than luck," said Joan lightly. She knew it was of no use taking Cecil seriously.

Cecil made a grimace.

"Who thinks of love nowadays! People who go in for it are simply cultivating misery for themselves. If there's no love, there's no jealousy or grief in separation. It's the greatest mistake in the world to let your heart govern your life."

"My dear child," said her mother, feeling obliged to remonstrate, "don't affect such misanthropy. Be simple and natural, and don't pretend you believe what you say."

A slight flush came to Cecil's cheeks. Her mother so seldom reproved her that she hardly knew how to take it.

"I should be sorry to be as soft and sentimental as Joan is," she said a little scornfully.

"Am I?" Joan returned good-naturedly. "The other day I was visiting an invalid dressmaker in the village who feeds her mind on penny novelettes, and when I suggested a different kind of literature she said: 'Eh, Miss Adair, 'tis easy to see that you carry no feelin' heart, for there be no wrinkles on your brow. You would smile—now wouldn't you?—if all your lovers were languishin' and dyin' for reciprocation from you. It wouldn't make so much as your eyelashes flutter!'"

"I can't conceive how you can let the villagers speak to you so," said Cecil, crossly refusing to laugh.

"Well, you see what my character is in their eyes."

Conversation then turned on other things. When the sisters separated for the night, Joan said affectionately:

"I wish you and I saw more of each other, Cecil. We hardly know each other, do we?"

"No," said Cecil, looking at her half curiously, half wistfully. "You are an enigma to me. You seem to feel some things so intensely and others not at all. If I had to live your present life, I should die of the dumps within six months. I suppose your requirements are fewer than mine, and yet Mother tells me, she considers that I haven't half your brain."

Joan was silent for a moment, then she said slowly:

"Content can be cultivated, Cecil."

Cecil shrugged her shoulders.

"Content would make a beggar live and die in a ditch."

They went the next morning. Both Joan and her father drove to the station to see them off. They were all cheerful up to the last minute; but as Joan was driving her father home again in the little jingle, he said to her:

"These dreadful partings are a sore trial to me. I feel now as if your mother and I will never live together again. It is hoping against hope. I never thought they would go away this winter. I did expect that our altered circumstances would induce them to stay at home."

"It is the cold, Father, dear. Cecil has been so accustomed to winter out of England that she does not seem as if she can endure our cold."

The rector shook his head, and it was days before he could overcome his depression. Joan needed all her cheerful spirits to make the wheels go round. Even Sophia was cross and grumpy.

"The mistress will repent it one day, when the dear old master be taken from her," she said to Joan.

"Hush, hush, Sophia! It is not your place to criticise my mother." Joan's head was held high as she spoke.

Sophia gave a sniff.

"'Tis like the rest of the world—'tis most of it mixed wrongly. There be women who don't know the value of men, and then there be men who make havoc of faithful women's hearts. The single are the blessed of the earth, as I tell M'ria. If he only knew it, the Major is courtin' disaster when his heart is so full of a wife."

Joan was wise enough to make no reply. She occupied herself more than ever in the parish, and in a week or two her father had recovered his usual equanimity of mind, and had settled down into his customary groove.