Chapter XII: Trouble at Rolleston Court

BANTY arrived on Friday afternoon.

"My aunt has been putting her foot in it," she informed Joan. "Would you believe it, she forced her way into Rolleston Court yesterday afternoon? She went out for a constitutional, and a shower of rain came on. She was told that the Major was engaged.

"'Oh, never mind, I am sure he won't object to my taking shelter for a short time,' she said, and in she went.

"His housekeeper took her into the drawing-room and entertained her for about half an hour. She gave her tea, and though it was getting dusk, Aunt Hetty wouldn't budge. She talked away to the housekeeper, and I expect made her giddy with her talk. I know she does me! Then she heard the sounds of music upstairs.

"'Yes, 'tis the Major playing in the music-room,' she was told. Then she got up, and I can fancy her excitement.

"'I am a musician myself—a fellow artiste. We are kindred spirits. I must hear him. He will not mind.' She stole upstairs, and listened outside the door at first, then boldly opened it and crept in behind a screen. His music was so exquisite, she told us, that she forgot herself and clapped her hands loudly. She said he sang a perfectly lovely little song about some invisible lady love, and it was that which bowled her over. In an instant he appeared; and she says his eyes flashed fire and he was white with rage. He took her by the arm and marched her downstairs.

"'If a man cannot have privacy in his own house,' he spit out, 'where can he have it? I don't know who you are, nor do I care; but this is an unwarrantable intrusion!'

"She tried to explain who she was, but he firmly and quietly ejected her, and she came home boiling and spluttering with rage.

"I left her writing a long letter of explanation to him this afternoon. She seems to think her appreciation of his music is sufficient excuse for an impertinence on her part. What awful tempers these writers and musicians have! It's the artistic temperament, isn't it? That's what they call it. I must say I'm thankful not to possess it. It takes a good bit to rouse my ire; but Motty is awful to live with, and they're all so restless and excitable. Of course, I don't know much of Major Armitage, but he's queer. I expect my aunt will come down and victimise you pretty soon. She wants to get up a village concert. Do put her off it if you can. I'm morally certain Major Armitage won't appear at it, and you and she will have to do the whole of it."

Banty paused for breath.

"I'm sorry for poor Major Armitage," said Joan feelingly. "Maria told Sophia that he is most tenacious over his privacy. When Dad was ill in his house, I never saw the inside of that music-room. It is his sanctum in every sense of the word."

"Well, don't let us talk any more about him. I'm amused at Aunt Hetty's set-back. Let's talk about ourselves. Only first of all, I wish you'd tell me why you've turned yourself into a governess. Is it from sheer love of teaching?"

"No; want of money," said Joan frankly.

"I'm sorry. Don't think me a meddler, but isn't this a fairly good living? I'm sure nobody could accuse you of extravagant living."

"I hope not," Joan said with her happy laugh. "But we had heavy expenses before we came here."

"How is your sister Cecil?" Banty asked abruptly. "I always think she ought to make a good marriage; she is just the sort that men admire. I think a girl who hunts hasn't the same chances as one of these feminine, alluring girls who give men such copious admiration. We become good chums with men, but no more. Only a few care for open-air wives—you know what I mean. You'll think I'm always talking about marriage, but I feel sore. I thought it well out and have sent Mr. Nugent about his business. I came to the conclusion I couldn't run in harness with him. I should jib! Yesterday I heard he is just engaged to Molly Lambert. She lives in the next county. So much for deep attachment! I expect he only wants a housekeeper, and in that case, Molly will suit him better than I, for she has managed her father's house since she was twelve years old. But he didn't lose much time, did he? And Mother is quietly furious. Do you think I have a miserable time ahead of me if I remain single?"

"Of course not; but—"

"Yes; give me your 'buts.' I loved your little preach some time ago. I think you almost made my soul—as you call it—flutter, for, do you know, I'm beginning to believe I have one."

"I can only repeat what I said before, that there is one side of us—and the only side that can bring us lasting happiness—which needs to be cultivated."

"The religious side, I suppose you mean? If church doesn't cultivate it, what will? And I'm a most regular attendant at church, let me tell you. But it has never made the least difference to me."

"You want to be in touch with God Himself," said Joan softly.

Banty leant back in her chair and stared at her perfectly uncomprehendingly.

"That wouldn't make 'me' happy," she said with conviction, "quite the reverse. Now I'll be quite honest with you. There's nothing in me that responds in the least bit to religion. I don't see the need for it. I don't want to live my life up in the clouds. This world is good enough for me."

There was silence. Banty frowned, then said:

"I've got enough, thanks, for to-day."

Joan smiled, then laid her hand caressingly on her arm.

"I shall end by getting very fond of you, Banty."

The colour actually deepened in Banty's cheek.

"Same with me," she said a little gruffly.

They talked of other things then, and when Mr. Adair came in, Banty lapsed into her usual abrupt and rather dull style of talk. Before she went, she said to Joan, in the hall:

"I'm getting interested in you. I'm planning out your future."

"As you wish it to be, or as you think it will be?"

"As I wish it. I mean to frustrate one possible future for you if I can."

She gave her a nod, and went without another word.

Joan gazed after her with a smile and a sigh.

"There are depths in her after all. What bunglers we are!"

Wilmot Gascoigne did not forget to appear on Saturday night. He sat over the fire with Joan and fascinated her with his talk. Just before he left, he said:

"I have left the main object of my visit till now. I feel that you and I have the same intuition about certain phases of life. For a long time I have been anxious to write a book which will do more than amuse the public—that kind of novel has a run for a year, then disappears as quickly as it came. I want to write for futurity. Now, my theory is that a woman writer can never write naturally and effectively about a man in all his various stages, nor can a man gauge a woman's fluctuating moods correctly, for each can only judge of the minds of the opposite sex by what they see and hear, never from the fount of their own experience. I want to instruct and to awaken the dormant intellects of my readers. To do this, the book must be strong; it must have no weak points; it must not flag in interest; it must stimulate the curiosity, and, in short, I need a woman collaborator. Now, will you be that woman? Down in this quiet hole, we shall have plenty of time and opportunity for discussion and suggestions. I have already simmering in my mind a dozen plots. I want a woman's delicate intuition, her feminine instinct, to help me in evolving a creation of what a woman should be in our present generation. I don't want to create one of the shrieking sisterhood—a mockery of all that is truly feminine and uplifting—nor do I want a flimsy, insipid Early Victorian doll. I know you are the one woman in the world who can help me at this juncture—will you do it?"

"It is rather a startling proposition," said Joan, with a long-drawn breath. "I suppose I ought to feel flattered. I do. I thank you for thinking of me. Writing is so new to me that I feel like a duckling on the edge of a pond trying for the first time the element of water. But I am afraid I shall have no time. I can hardly get through my days as it is. And how about you? Are you nearly through your Chronicles? Won't they have to be finished first?"

Wilmot gave a little snort.

"They'll never be finished," he said. "I'm already bored to tears with them. There's nothing in the dull, monotonous lives of the Gascoignes to make the book live. It will be a series of births, marriages, and deaths, and of dates. I would like to make a bonfire of the whole."

"Why don't you finish them up?"

"Because I'm always hoping to rake out something racy from the piles of dusty manuscripts and letters I have given to me. They won't let me invent. It would be easy sailing then. I tell you the Gascoigne Chronicles are dulling my powers and fettering my genius. You can't live for ever on dry bread. I want to sandwich my book in; it will be jam and butter to me!"

Joan laughed. She felt strangely stirred. Wilmot's society was delightful to her. He talked of books and of subjects of which she had heard and talked at college. He had theories on every fact of life, and opened vistas of new thought and conjecture to her. She longed to throw herself heart and soul into this project of collaboration with him, but she felt, under her circumstances, that it would prove too engrossing an occupation.

"You must give me time to think about it," she said. "I will give you an answer in a few days, but I doubt if I could really help you."

"I shall not allow you to refuse me," he said, with one of the smiles that always transfigured his face.

But when he had gone Banty's words recurred to her: "He has a way of preying on likely subjects who minister to his self-love and become his willing and devoted slaves."

They made her feel a little uncomfortable, and then she resolutely put them from her.

"Banty and he are at daggers drawn. She is unfair to him. I will not believe that she is right in such a statement."

Sunday came. It was a busy and a happy day with Joan. She loved her Sunday scholars, she loved her choir, and the music she produced from the sweet little organ. The services were always a rest and refreshment to her. Major Armitage came into the rectory after evening church and stayed to supper.

"I suppose you have heard of my iniquities?" he said to Joan. "I expect the Hall will be cuts with me now."

"No, I think they must all have felt that Miss Parracombe was to blame."

"Ah! You have heard about it, then? I lost my temper and manners, and showed her the door. But I have always believed that an Englishman's house is his castle. They say I have a bee in my bonnet. I will entertain ladies one day—at least, that is my hope—but never until I have one of their sex to help me do it."

The shadow fell upon his face.

Joan was silent for a minute; then she said gently:

"Miss Parracombe is a musician; she longs to meet you."

"Oh, yes, I know; and I don't like musicians, Miss Adair. Isn't that a bad confession? I have suffered from them in town, and I cannot take part in their ready jargon. It is the clash of sounding brass to me; I would rather shut my ears to it. Don't you think we all talk too much?"

"I don't know," said Joan a little wistfully. "I learn a good deal from other people's talk; and is not exchange of ideas always good?"

The hard, set lines about his face disappeared. He smiled.

"I like to talk to you," he said simply. "Well, Miss Parracombe has sent me a voluminous explanation and apology, and I a very short and curt one. She insisted upon shaking hands with me after church this morning, and I have again been invited to the Hall—to lunch, to tea, or to dinner. I have declined politely, and that is where we stand at present. How is the writing getting on?"

"I want to see myself in print," said Joan, laughing and colouring. "When do you think my article will appear?"

"Any time between this and next Christmas, I should say. Have you been paid for it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, you'll see it soon."

"I have written a few more on the same lines, and two have been accepted, one returned. The editor tells me not to go ahead too fast."

"Why does he return one?"

"He said it had too much of a religious element in it."

Joan's face was very grave as she spoke; then she turned towards him and her gaze was sweet and earnest.

"Major Armitage, if I cannot write about what is breath and life to me, I will not write at all."

"What is your object in writing?" he asked slowly.

"To make money, I am afraid."

"Then you must be guided by the taste of the public and the advice of your editor."

Joan's brows were furrowed with deep thought.

"I hear you sing in church," said Major Armitage; "will you sing to me now?"

She was rather glad to have a change of subject.

"I haven't much of a voice," she said, "but I will do my best."

"Will you sing 'O rest in the Lord.' I will play for you."

They went to the piano.

Joan's voice was true and very sweet; it had a pathetic ring in it which often brought tears to the eyes of those who heard her. The Major drew a long sigh when he had struck the last chord. Mr. Adair, who was always very tired on Sunday night, and who had been napping in his arm-chair whilst the talk had been going on, now roused himself to say:

"That is beautiful, my dear Joan. Will you sing the evening hymn now?—'Abide with me.'"

Major Armitage knew at once which setting it was, and ran his fingers over the keys.

When she had finished, he rose from his seat and held out his hand.

"I want that to be the last thing I hear," he said, smiling at her. "It will ring in my head as I walk home."

When he had gone, Joan sat down by the fire and relapsed into deep thought. If her voice was still in his ears, so was his in hers. "You must be guided by the taste of the public if you wish to make money."

"What do I wish?" she said to herself. "If I can write, how awfully responsible I am for what I write. I could make money, I suppose, in lots of ways that would be neither honourable nor consistent with my principles. Shall I throw my principles to the winds for the sake of money? I cannot. And yet, when I think of lifting the strain from Father's shoulders, of easing him of this dreadful wearing anxiety, I feel as if I must throw everything to the winds and do it."

A few days after this, Sophia called Joan into the kitchen in a mysterious way. It was six o'clock, and Joan at first thought that something had gone wrong with their simple dinner. But Sophia pulled the low arm-chair out for Joan to sit upon, and she knew then that a talk was forthcoming.

"You want a gossip, Sophia, I know you do; but it's a funny time to choose."

"Miss Joan, I never neglect my work. The steak pie is in the oven, and my pudding is in the steamer. My vegetables are ready to pop into the saucepans. I've sent Jenny upstairs to make herself tidy. There never was such a tousled, fuzzy head as hers in all the world before. M'ria has been to tea with me. She's in a sad way, M'ria is, for she says a body must get attached to the Major, with all his cranks. I told her he was here on the Sunday night, and he went off with such a cheery word to me as I held open the door!

"'Good-night,' he said; 'this house always seems like the gate of Heaven to me. The atmosphere and harmony and music to-night have put fresh life and hope into me.' Now, those were his very words—his very last words."

"Why, Sophia," cried Joan in a startled voice, "what has happened? Has Maria brought you bad news of her master?"

"Very bad, Miss Joan. Now, listen. Yesterday, at four o'clock, the second post came in. M'ria generally takes the letters and puts them on the table in the smoking-room. The Major sees them there directly he comes in. As it happened, yesterday he hadn't gone out; he was writing business letters. M'ria knows it was business, for he called her to ask about some new kind of lamps they had had down from town for the kitchens, and he told her he was going to pay for them."

"Oh, Sophia, do get on. I don't care to know about the Major's business."

"Now, don't you fluster me. Of course, as I said to M'ria, it's just a sign of the modern times, when folks write bad news without taking the trouble to put it into a becoming black-edged envelope. They won't reckernise affliction; 'tis just that; they won't pay respect to the dead, because it makes them feel bad; and tears and becoming grief and seclusion is all things of the past. Even widows—"

"Sophia, you're doing it on purpose! Leave the widows alone and get on with your story."

"Well, Miss Joan, M'ria she handed the letters to the Major without a thought, and then, as the curtains weren't drawn, she went across to the windows and occupied herself with them; and she threw, so to speak, a look over her shoulder, for she heard him draw a very heavy breath. M'ria says she never saw a living man before turn into stone. His face was white and blue and fixed. He held a letter and gazed at the air as if—well, M'ria says it came to her in a flash that Lot's wife must have looked like it when she was turned into salt. She was so scared, M'ria was, that she crept out of the room and left him standing there. She daren't go near him; but she heard him go straight upstairs and lock himself up in the music-room.

"When dinner-time came he didn't come out, and then M'ria got nervous and went to the door and knocked. You do hear of such dreadful things, Miss Joan, and, of course, she was fearing the very worst. But he answered her quick and sharp:

"'I want no dinner, and no disturbance,' he said, or words similar.

"M'ria goes away, and she said her knees were trembling all the evening. The house was silent as a grave. And then, about ten o'clock, when the other maids had gone off to bed, to M'ria's great relief she heard the piano playing in the music-room. She slipped upstairs to listen, for she hoped now he'd got to his music he'd be feeling better; and she was keeping a basin of soup hot against the time when he came out. And what do you think he was playing, Miss Joan? M'ria said in the empty, silent house it gave her the curdles all over. Nothing but that awful rumbling funeral march for the dead!"

Joan could say nothing. She only gazed at Sophia in silence.

"Well, M'ria waited, all of a shiver, for him to stop; and when he stopped there was silence, and still M'ria waited. And then at last, the Major came out, and he walked straight for the stairs. Then she made bold to speak.

"'Please, sir,' she began, but he stopped her with a little wave of his hand.

"'Don't speak to me,' he said; 'I've been burying my dead.'

"With that, he goes straight up the stairs and locks himself in his room, and M'ria said she was so overcome with tears, she just had to go back to the kitchen and drink up the hot soup herself."

Joan was too miserable to smile.

"Poor Major Armitage! I hope no very near relation has died."

Sophia shook her head gloomily and mysteriously. "There's no mistake, Miss Joan, in who it was. This morning, M'ria says, he's pulled down the blinds of the boudoir and locked and bolted the door, and told M'ria that nobody is ever to go near that room again. M'ria says he's like a tomb, stony and dead like. It's his lady which is dead, sure enough. In fact, he kind of apologised for wasting a good dinner last night. He said to M'ria:

"'I had had bad news, and I couldn't eat.'

"Then M'ria asked, gentle like, if the household were to be in mourning; and he looked at her as if he didn't understand her meaning. But his look so awed her that she daren't say one word more, and that's how it stands with him. I thought you'd be interested. I feel full up of it myself."

"But Maria and you will keep this to yourselves?" said Joan, almost imploringly. "You won't let the village gossip over it?"

"Miss Joan, M'ria and me know our duty towards them we serves," said Sophia loftily.

And then Joan slipped quietly away.

Her heart ached for the lonely man; she almost felt as if his grief were hers.