Chapter IX: Joan's Godmother

JOAN nearly forgot to meet Banty as arranged, for a letter in the morning absorbed her thoughts. It was from her godmother, Lady Alicia, saying she was coming down into their neighbourhood for a week's visit to some old friends, and would much like to spend a few days at the rectory and see her goddaughter. Lady Alicia had been to Joan from the time she was a tiny child the embodiment of all that was enchanting and delightful. Joan had almost worshipped her, though the times in which she had seen her were very few and far between. They had corresponded for many years. Lady Alicia had refused to lose touch with her even after her confirmation, and Joan felt that she could never express her gratitude sufficiently for having been enabled to go to Girton by her godmother's generous help.

Never before had Joan entertained Lady Alicia in her mother's absence, and it was five years since her godmother had come to see them. When Mr. Adair was told, he became rather flustered.

"My dear Joan, your mother ought to be here. You must tell her. Perhaps it will bring her back. Lady Alicia is one of your mother's greatest friends. I should not like to have her here when your mother is away. I don't think she would care about it either."

"She has seen Mother in Edinburgh, Father. She tells me so, and Mother knows she is coming, for she told her she would like to do it. She is coming to see me, for she is my godmother, remember. I am delighted."

"She is a very pleasant woman," said Mr. Adair; "but I hope she is not going to persuade you to leave your work here and take up teaching. I know she is a clever woman herself, and learning of any sort is her hobby."

"I am not going to leave you, Dad," said Joan gently.

Then she went out to tell Sophia, and that worthy was as pleased as Joan.

"We shall be very pleased to see her ladyship, of course, and I'll have the best spare bedroom aired at once; and we must just plan out some tasty little dinners. How many days do you say, Miss Joan? A few? Then we'll say four dinners at the most, and I'll think them out and let you know what we shall be wanting. She's a real nice lady, is her ladyship, and I'm glad to think you'll be here alone, for the last time she were with us 'twas your holidays, and you were sent out of doors whiles the mistress talked and talked and talked! Oh, how she talked! And when her ladyship went, she says to me, whiles I were strapping her box:

"'Sophia, my little goddaughter will grow up a fine woman. I'm sorry to have seen so little of her.'

"And a fine young woman you be, Miss Joan, and I'm sure her ladyship will think so when she looks at you. I often think in the present time that we shan't have their lordships and ladyships with us much longer. So we must make the most of them when we can get them. Now the House of Lords is humbled and made nought of, and these dreadful agitating strikers and social ruffians are for destroying their houses and lands, well, the poor things will be driven out of the country; and then it's the ones who've driven them will wish them back again!"

"Oh, Sophia!" said Joan, putting her hands to her ears. "For mercy's sake stop. Thank goodness Lady Alicia has no houses or land to be taken from her!"

She left the kitchen, wrote to her godmother, and went about her daily duties as if in a dream.

It was not till late in the afternoon that she remembered Banty; and it was not in the best of humours that she got her tea basket and started out for the pine woods. But a walk across the heath restored her equanimity. It was a soft, mild day, with a wild-looking sky; the sun shone out between masses of grey, scudding clouds; the west wind soughed in the pines. The distances were blue and clear, here and there on far-away hills were wonderful effects of sunshine and shadow.

Joan found Banty first at their trysting place, and she was building a fire in a very business-like manner. For a little while they chatted together in a light-hearted fashion, then, when they were sitting down watching for the kettle to boil, Banty began:

"I want to talk to you. You're not an old frump, and I'm sure you have plenty of common sense. Do you think girls nowadays are better unmarried?"

Joan had hoped for some better subject for conversation than this; but she checked her momentary feeling of impatience and answered:

"Certainly not. If they meet the right man, it is in every respect good to marry."

"Yes; but how does any girl know that the man who proposes to her is the right man?"

"I think her heart will tell her. Are you wanting to be married?"

"Me? Rather not! But Mother wants me to think about it. She told me this morning that if anything happened to Father, I should lose my home and hunting. I could do without a home, but to give up hunting! Why, I think I would die! You see Father's heir is a distant cousin, a married man with a family, and Mother and I would have to promptly clear out. But, of course, Father may outlive us—at least he may live many years. I've always felt I'm not made for a wife. I have no domesticities about me, and men like and expect that, don't they?"

"You will not always be able to hunt," said Joan slowly. "What will you do when you get rheumaticky and old?"

"I mean to live and die in the hunting-field," said Banty firmly.

"It means a very sudden death, then. Do you wish for that?"

Banty stared at Joan with big eyes.

"Why, no; it would be terrible, awful!" She shuddered. "Don't let us talk about death; it seems so gruesome. It is such an appalling upheaval, isn't it, of our very pleasant matter-of-fact lives."

"You 'do' think sometimes." Joan said this almost to herself.

Banty laughed a little awkwardly, then shied some fir cones into the fire.

"I was wondering the other day," she said, "whether I had better say 'yes' to a man who is pestering me with his attentions. And I thought I would ask you. For I assure you, I can't make up my mind. Mother wants me to have him, because he has lots of tin, and I'd have a jolly good time if I married him. But I'm not so keen on money as on good company, and he's the dullest man in the whole field—rides well, but nothing else. If I got bored after I had married him, what should I do?"

"If you don't love him, don't marry him," said Joan quickly.

"Well then, supposing I don't get another offer, and Mother's gloomy forecast comes true?"

"But, Miss Gascoigne, there really are other enjoyments in life besides hunting."

"There isn't one to me."

"What do you do in the summer?"

"I have a vile time."

Joan looked at the girl softly and seriously, then she put out her hand and laid it on her arm.

"Wake up!" she said. "You're half asleep. Somewhere inside you, you have a spirit, a soul. There are tremendous possibilities for that soul of yours, and an awfully happy life for you if you can only get it to stir and prove that it is alive. Happiness all the year round, and not only in the winter!"

Banty stared at her again, but Joan did not say another word. She occupied herself in making two very good cups of tea, and brought the conversation into lighter channels. Banty was led to talk of otters and of their habits, and then she gave Joan a lot of interesting information about the different birds in their locality. She did not mention the subject of marriage again; but when they at last rose to go their different ways, she said with emphasis:

"I'm not quite the sleepy fool you take me to be."

Joan walked home wondering if she had wasted the hour in the woods or not. She had a very small opinion of her own powers in influencing anyone for good, which was rather strange, as she had a wild enthusiasm for imparting all other knowledge to those who were without it. Outside her own gate, she stood gazing at the distant hills; the sun was sending long, crimson streaks across the sky as he sank behind the pines. She lifted up her face to inhale the soft west breeze which seemed to be bringing her the aromatic scent of the heather and pines.

"Oh," she murmured to herself, "it's good to be alive in this beautiful world—and I've a delicious bit in front of me. How I shall love to have Lady Alicia all to myself!"

The following evening, Wilmot Gascoigne gave his village lecture. Lady Gascoigne insisted upon coming to it herself, and persuaded Sir Joseph to accompany her. Banty refused to be present. The village schoolroom was crowded. Joan was rather nervous when Wilmot opened his lecture by a comparison between a town and country boy at fourteen. He gave an imaginary conversation between them which tickled and delighted his audience, but which showed the country boy at a great disadvantage. Then, as he talked on, he forgot his class of audience, and his talk became absolutely unintelligible. He drifted into political economy, he quoted various authors with whom, of course, nobody was acquainted; he grew more and more rapid and enthusiastic in his talk, and finally ended his lecture by declaring that the country bred flourishing bodies, but that town produced, and could only produce, brains.

"Bosh!" exclaimed the squire in audible tones.

Joan felt a great inclination to laugh. Her father, who was taking the chair, got up in his genial and good-natured way and tried to stand up for his parishioners.

"I think the lecturer is hard upon the countryfolk," he said smiling. "I am not very learned myself, but I do remember several authors and poets who have done all their best work in the country, and some of them were country bred."

"The Brontës!" prompted Joan.

The rector did not hear her. The gaping audience had hardly taken in any of the lecture. They clapped when their rector proposed the vote of thanks to the lecturer, and went to their homes declaring that it was the "finest performance" they had ever heard, and Mr. Wilmot was just a "speakin' dictionary."

Wilmot did not seem so pleased with himself as Joan expected him to be. He turned into the rectory to have some supper.

"Well," he said a little defiantly to Joan, "my role is not that of a village lecturer, is it?"

"No," said Joan, laughing. "I don't think it is; but I am sure you gave a great deal of pleasure. One old woman said to me coming out: 'Ay, me dear, he ought to be a parson, sure enough! That's the style of praychin for we—a reg'lar clap-up style with plenty of noise with it!'"

Wilmot tried to smile.

"Oh," he groaned, "it was like talking to rows of stolid cows. There wasn't one spark of life amongst them. Their eyes were as thick and vacant as a fish's! How can you peg away at them, rector?"

Mr. Adair looked at Wilmot rather gravely.

"'Line upon line—here a little—there a little,' They are not so stupid as they look."

"You had some interested listeners," said Joan. "Major Armitage was at the back. He slipped in late and went away early."

"He's a crank," said Wilmot shortly. "I'm much more interested in his house than himself. It has a curious record."

"Yes; I know about it," said Joan. "To whom did it originally belong?"

"To the Rollestons. They sold the property about a hundred years ago, and the Armitages bought it. Don't let us talk about that fellow. Do you ever go up to town, Miss Adair?"

"No, never. We are expecting a visitor, an old friend of my mother's, so my time will be taken up."

"Does that mean you will have no time for me? I am going to get you to read up that book on the Renaissance. I shall expect to hear how you like it when I come back from town."

"How long will you be away? You seem to have no idea of the life I lead. I cannot have infinite leisure for reading; I wish I could."

"I shall be away about ten days or a fortnight. Don't let your mind rust. We are told to use our talents. Your most important duty is to cultivate the intellect that has been given you."

Joan smiled at these platitudes, but the earnestness of Wilmot's tones made her reply:

"The difficulty with me is to refrain from reading. It is not a duty, but a real pleasure."

She was relieved that Wilmot was going up to town. She found his constant visits rather a detriment to her parish work.

The next day Lady Alicia arrived. Joan met her at the station with the one shabby fly that Old Bellerton possessed.

Lady Alicia was of medium height and rather slender. She was always extremely well dressed in a quiet style of her own. Her white hair and delicately-cut features, with a pair of brilliant, dark eyes, gave her a remarkable and attractive look.

"Why, Joan, dear, I don't think I should have known you. You are looking bonny," was the greeting she gave her goddaughter.

"Yes; I am always in rude health," said Joan laughing. Then, as she led her to the fly, she added: "I still feel as I always used to feel, that you are a kind of fairy godmother, quite different from the usual people I am accustomed to mix with."

"I dare say you will find me stepping down from that pedestal before long," said Lady Alicia smiling.

Then they talked about Mrs. Adair and Cecil, and they arrived at the rectory just after four.

Mr. Adair came out into the porch to meet them. Lady Alicia delighted him by expressing herself charmed with the old rectory. Joan took her up to the spare room, which looked dainty and bright with its blazing fire, and fresh flowers on the dressing-table.

"Ah," said Lady Alicia, as she sat down in the easy chair by the fire; "your father has his right setting at last, Joan. I always told him a country rectory would be his fate one day. I'm sure he is much happier in the country; is he not?"

"Yes, he certainly is. He loves this place, and is only disappointed that Mother finds it too cold to stay here."

"She must stay here in the summer, then. I told her so. You will have her back in May, I hope, Joan. I want to ask you ever so many questions, but they will keep. What a dear, quaint, little house you have! I love its dark oak and low rooms. There is such a sense of peace and quiet in it!"

"Do you feel it so?" Joan asked eagerly with a flush on her cheeks. "It impressed me like that the first time I saw it. In the rush and hurry of every day, I lose that sense, except when I have been out and come in; then it always strikes me as a haven. And rectories ought to have restful, peaceful atmospheres, ought they not? So many who have lived and died in them have been in close touch with heaven."

"Yes," assented Lady Alicia gravely; but her eyes softened as they rested on Joan's fair, happy face.

Joan left her to see that tea was ready, and old Sophia, beaming in her best black dress, slipped upstairs to "wait on" her ladyship.

Lady Alicia shook her by the hand.

"Well, Sophia, your young lady is turning into a beauty. She was a gawky schoolgirl when I saw her last."

"Ah, my lady, she's the best of the bunch; nothing comes irksome to her. And she shoulders her burdens with a joke and a laugh. The master would be lost without her. He's getting to lean upon her. I always do say, my lady, that women be the props of the nation. A man has no common sense to guide him without her."

"I think we can stand alone better than they can," said Lady Alicia smiling.

She and Sophia understood each other thoroughly, and Sophia now bent forward with an anxious look in her old eyes.

"Ah, my lady, could you not get the mistress to be more here now? She's wanted. The master fair pines for the sight of her."

Lady Alicia shook her head.

"No, Sophia. How often have you asked me that before! But I sometimes think it is a little kink in her brain. She will not settle down in her own home. And don't you see that now, when she has a daughter who so well fills her place, she will be less likely than ever to come back and work in her husband's parish?"

"If she were only to bide in the house along with the master, 'twould ease his dear mind. She were never cut out for parish visiting."

"That she was not!" said Lady Alicia with her pleasant laugh. "You are a good creature, Sophia. I see you are determined to unpack me; but, I assure you, since I have travelled about the world as a lone woman, I am quite accustomed to maid myself. I'm in love with your old house. I feel as if I were transplanted back a hundred years."

She came into the drawing-room a little time later, and the rector and Joan and she had a very cosy tea and chat together. Then the rector went off to his study, and Joan and Lady Alicia sat on in the firelight talking of many things. Joan described the neighbours, the villagers, and the life surrounding the rectory. She told Lady Alicia of the offer which had been made to her and which she had refused.

"You think I was right? I hope you don't think I ought to have gone. I do not feel that my college education has been wasted, for I am always hoping that the time may come when I shall be able to profit by it. In any case, knowledge is never waste, is it?"

"Not unless you bury it in a napkin," said Lady Alicia. "My dear Joan, I think you could not have acted otherwise, but I gave your mother a good scolding when I saw her in Edinburgh. She is ruining Cecil. That girl is no more delicate than I am; it is just a case of nerves and fancies."

"She will never be different," said Joan.

"I don't know," Lady Alicia rejoined, looking thoughtfully into the coal fire in front of her. "I felt that I should like to take possession of her and see if I could not wake her into life. She has brains."

"Yes," said Joan; "I often wish she would use the brains she has. But I don't think sisters can ever help one another. Cecil laughs at me and calls me old-fashioned."

"Poor little Joan!"

Joan was sitting on a low chair, and Lady Alicia for a moment laid her hand caressingly on her head.

Then Joan turned a flushed face and tearful eyes towards her.

"Oh, Lady Alicia, I do want to work; I do want to do something with my life. There is so much that we women can do nowadays. This is such a small sphere for an able-bodied woman! I feel sometimes as if anyone could potter in and out of the cottages and talk to the old women. It sounds conceited if I say it isn't worth my while, but I really do fear lest this easy, monotonous country life should paralyse my powers. Do comfort and help me, if you can. Sometimes I feel as if I can never go on."

"And I have helped you to test the power of your wings. I wonder if it was wise."

Lady Alicia looked affectionately at her as she spoke.

"I can never thank you enough. You lifted me into another atmosphere altogether."

"Yes, I am not going to regret sending you to Girton. But, Joan dear, you and I believe in the ordering of our lives by One Who never makes mistakes. Why fret over this bit of your life, even if it seems to you somewhat inactive? It fits in all right with the plan. If we don't have the key to it, it does not signify. There may be some soul here whom God has purposed shall be helped by you. I know a good woman who was sent out all the way to India to help a gay young bride. Of course, she did not know the reason of it at the time—she hated Anglo-Indian society, and she was placed in the midst of it for four months—but she understood afterwards, and was so thankful that she had not yielded to her inclinations to stay at home with congenial friends. There may be some troubles which are hard to bear, but I never think the plain force of circumstances, however uncongenial, ought to fret us in the least. Instead of spending our time in useless repining, let us look about and discover the bit of work which we are meant to do. The best tools are used for the simplest work. If you have an aptitude for teaching and moulding and influencing, there is somebody in this part of the world who is waiting for you to begin on them."

"That is delightful to think of," said Joan slowly. "Somehow or other I have felt it must be to shape my own character and make me patient in the day of small things, and though I have prayed to be made willing, yet it has been a constant struggle to be so. I am ashamed of myself as I think of this sweet home. I love the country, too, and if I could feel sure that I was not missing better opportunities, I would settle down contentedly here. You have done me such a lot of good."

"Settle down," said Lady Alicia. "It may seem a small life to you, but 'Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit.' Do you remember that wise saying of Solomon's? You do not know from what you may be saved. I know you are ambitious, and feel that you have powers that are not being used at present. A public life for a woman very often brings great strain. You have a 'handful with quietness' here. It is God's will for you; glorify Him in it."

And then there was silence between them. Both were occupied with their own thoughts.

For the rest of that evening Lady Alicia touched on more general topics. She was a good talker, and had the gift of suiting her conversation to her company. Mr. Adair always enjoyed a talk with her, and, when dinner was over, he did not retire to his study, as was his usual custom, but came into the drawing-room, where he and Lady Alicia had a long and interesting discussion on Church methods.

Joan listened, and enjoyed it; and whilst she listened, she pondered over Lady Alicia's words.

"Settle down." Yes, she determined she would, and Wilmot Gascoigne should not make her dissatisfied with her sphere. There was no stagnation where there was life—and if village life was to be her opportunity for work, she must do it with a glad heart.