Chapter XVIII: The Church in the Hills

"SUCH a long letter from Cecil!"

Joan spoke joyfully. The post had come in rather later than usual. It was a lovely morning in June. Joan had met the postman in the avenue, and had just settled herself under a shady beech tree on the lawn to enjoy her letters. Lady Alicia took a chair, too, under the tree. She had a fair-sized packet of letters in her hand.

Joan had troubled over Cecil's silence. She had only written to her once, and that was a hurried line. Mr. Adair was not a good correspondent, and though he gave her parish news, the little details of daily life at the rectory were not mentioned. She glanced at the closely written sheets in delight, and then caught her breath in astonishment and almost dismay.

Lady Alicia looked up.

"No bad news, I trust?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it is only my fears come true. Cecil writes to tell me that she is engaged to Wilmot Gascoigne."

Lady Alicia did not speak. Joan went on hurriedly reading her letter. None of the details for which she craved were there; only a long dissertation on love and marriage and the description of Wilmot in the light of a devoted lover.

"We are convinced that there is mental affinity between us," Cecil wrote. "I inspire him, he tells me, and to be the inspiration of such a genius is enough for me. It is not the common foolish love we feel for each other. It is intellectual appreciation, that soul to soul intercourse which is only understood by ourselves."

Joan almost laughed as she read it. Then an anxious look came into her eyes.

She finished her letter.

"I don't think I shall be betraying confidence if I let you see it," she said to Lady Alicia. "Cecil has no reserve in her nature. I expect she has told everyone by this time all she thinks and feels about her engagement."

"I don't know that it is such a misfortune," said Lady Alicia. "They may suit each other. Cecil wants waking up. This may do it."

"I am afraid I have lost my confidence in him," said Joan in a troubled voice. "I would not say this to anybody, but I know you will not misunderstand me. He came perilously near making love to me at one time. He would have done it in a moment if I had encouraged him. Oh, I hope, I hope he will be true to Cecil. I feel awfully afraid for her. And she is not accustomed to yield her will to another. He will be master. I am convinced of that."

"Love makes all things easy," said Lady Alicia. "Yes; but Cecil's letter hardly gives me that hope. It is all so wordy, so analytical."

Lady Alicia read the letter and handed it back in silence.

Joan looked beseechingly at her.

"Do tell me what you think."

"I don't know Mr. Gascoigne, and I don't know what to think. It may be the best thing for Cecil. I don't think she would ever have settled down happily and contentedly in Old Bellerton."

"No; I am sure she would not. She told me by hook or crook she would go abroad again in the autumn. I must write and offer my congratulations, I suppose."

It was quite natural that Joan should feel a little sore at heart. It was not so very long ago that she was assured most fervently that she inspired and uplifted Wilmot's soul. Now he had transferred his liking to Cecil; and she could fancy from past experience that the passionate outpourings of his heart would be very pleasing and convincing to Cecil.

She shook off forebodings which descended upon her, and wrote an affectionate, sisterly letter to Cecil. For the rest of the day she was distrait and depressed. Lady Alicia wisely left her alone. She knew that if Joan wished to talk to her, she would do it.

In the afternoon, Major Armitage and his small niece arrived in the car. It was Sheila's birthday, and she had elected to come and tell Joan of it, for, as usual, Joan had won the child's heart.

They all had tea together on the lawn. Joan watched the uncle and niece with amusement and astonishment. Sheila was a little autocrat, and the Major was as wax in her hands.

She persuaded her elders to play hide and seek with her, and the formerly gloomy and solitary man was as agile in pursuing and being pursued across the lawn as his small niece.

At last both Major Armitage and Joan refused to play any more, and they sank exhausted upon the garden seat.

Sheila surveyed them pityingly.

"You poor fings! I'm not a bit tired."

Then, looking at them with her head on one side, she announced:

"I've a picture of Daddy and Mummy sitting on a seat just like you; only Daddy has his arm round Mummy's neck."

"Yes," said Joan hastily; "but we're not daddy and mummy, you see."

"But couldn't you be another daddy and mummy and have a little girl just like me?" demanded Sheila.

Joan's sense of humour overcame her embarrassment. She laughed outright, then jumped up and chased Sheila across the lawn to the house.

Lady Alicia, from her chair under the tree, looked across at Major Armitage and smiled.

"That is what I wish for you," she said. "You must forgive my impertinence."

Major Armitage did not resent her speech, as he would have done a few months ago.

"I have used up all my affections and emotions over an empty fancy," he said in a low, husky voice. "I have nothing left to give a woman now."

"I don't know," Lady Alicia rejoined. "You have respect and liking; that is a good foundation for love. And as I get older, I see many happy marriages take place amongst very matter-of-fact, unemotional people."

He made no reply, but his eyes followed Joan's figure in the distance; he watched her seat herself upon the low steps of the veranda and take Sheila in her arms.

Lady Alicia said no more. When Joan and the child joined them again, conversation turned on Irish affairs.

Presently Major Armitage said:

"Where do you go to church on Sunday?"

"We have to drive six miles," said Lady Alicia. "We go into the town."

"Have you ever heard of a certain parson called Dantman? He has a little church away in the hills, and is a most remarkable preacher. My sister told me his story. He is a bit hot-tempered, and got into trouble with the priests in the south. I think it was in Cork that he drew crowds to hear him; and then there was a shindy of some sort, and the bishop gave him this little living and let him know he must accept it. They say the people walk for miles to hear him, and he has the most wonderful influence over them. My sister says he would draw tears from a stone. You ought to hear him. I believe it is as near you as it is to us—a matter of about fifteen miles."

Lady Alicia laughed.

"It always does amuse me to hear the airy way motorists speak of distances. How do you think we could manage to drive fifteen miles there and fifteen miles back?"

"The fat pony would do it in a week," said Joan, laughing.

"Let me call for you in the car next Sunday. The evening is the best time to hear him; only the car can't get to his church. There is a mile and a half walk across the hills, and the scenery is wild in the extreme."

"Then what do you do with the car?"

"We put it up at an inn the last time we went."

"Your sister may want to go elsewhere."

"Oh, I think she doesn't go out in the evening, as a rule. She did come with me once; but I shall drive the car myself; she's very good in letting me have it when I want it."

"What do you say, Joan? It is very kind of Major Armitage to propose taking us. Would you like to go?"

"It sounds delightful," Joan replied. "I should enjoy it very much."

"Then I'll call for you at half-past five next Sunday," said Major Armitage.

"Come to tea, won't you?"

"Uncle Randal can't do that," said Sheila, shaking her curls disapprovingly. "He an' me spread each other's toast on Sunday. I couldn't do without him."

"Then we will expect you to supper on our return," said Lady Alicia.

"Thank you."

The matter was settled, and when they had left Joan said:

"I love to see Major Armitage with that child. He is almost boyish. It is a much better life for him than shut up alone with his music."

"He ought to get married," Lady Alicia rejoined gravely. "I hope he will."

Joan did not reply.

When Sunday evening came, Lady Alicia, who had been struggling with a headache all day, told Joan that she was afraid she would not be up to the walk.

"But there is no reason why you should not go," she said; "and then you will be able to tell me about it when you return."

So when, at half-past five, Major Armitage drove up in his car, only Joan awaited him. He tucked her up comfortably in the rugs, and they started. It was a lovely evening, and as they sped through the lanes, bordered by verdant green meadows, and hedges over which the wild rose and honeysuckle rioted in lovely profusion, Joan drew a long breath of delight.

"This will be a Sunday to remember," she said. "This day week I hope to be home again."

"Are you really going so soon?"

There was regret in Major Armitage's voice.

"I want to go back, and I don't," said Joan, with her happy laugh. "This has been such an easy, peaceful time that I should like to prolong it; but I am well and strong, and feel able to tackle all my small difficulties with a light heart. Cecil wrote yesterday wanting me back. She is going up to town, for Wilmot Gascoigne will be there for some weeks, and she wants to go about with him."

"I hardly like to ask you, but do you like that engagement?"

"I suppose I must. Honestly, I am afraid of how it will turn out. But at present they appear very happy."

It was odd, she thought, how few men liked Wilmot. She had never heard anyone praise him in a warm-hearted fashion.

Major Armitage was silent for a few minutes; then he said, more as if he were speaking aloud his thoughts:

"He is, at all events, better suited to her than to you."

Joan was rather amused.

"There was nothing of that sort between us," she said, "though I dare say the village gossiped over our employment together. The world in general cannot understand an ordinary business-like, matter-of-fact friendship between man and woman."

"Oh, I heard no gossip," said Major Armitage hastily. "I rarely had intercourse with the outside world when I was at home. Looking back now, I see it was a mistake. I got wrapped up in visions and dreams, to my own detriment and hurt. Now I believe in the wisdom of the Almighty: 'It is not good for man to be alone.'"

"I don't believe a lonely life is good for any of us," said Joan slowly; "and it is so unnecessary. There are always so many who would be the better for our help and friendship, and for whom we should be the better too."

"My sister has shaken into me a little of her practical sense. You see, since I left the Service and my trouble connected with my sight came to me, I shrank from everyone, and after a time, isolation became a habit which I could not break. I always count it as one of my blessings that your father was brought to my gates and laid up in my house. I think if I had not had your friendship, things would have gone badly with me later on. And—and, Miss Adair, I don't want to lose your friendship, for I have learnt to value it."

Joan's heart gave a little throb. It told her then how much she valued his friendship; but she answered very simply:

"You have it."

There was silence between them. The car took them away now from the lanes across a wide expanse of moor; then hills appeared, and very shortly after they came to a standstill.

A cluster of small cottages round a very dilapidated inn was the end of their drive. Major Armitage was welcomed by the landlord of the "Black Pig," who showed him a big shed, into which he could run his car.

"Sure an' you'll be goin' to hear the praycher?" he ejaculated. "He's a holy sowl, if there be wan on this airth; but a powerfu' scaldin' hot dressin' he gives to the people, Oi can tell ye!"

Joan and the Major were not long in starting up a narrow sheep-track across the hills. Here and there were little groups of the peasantry crossing the rough moorland. The sun was sending slanting rays across the hills, touching up here and there a little cluster of trees with golden glory.

The stillness of the summer evening made Joan say thoughtfully:

"I always think a summer Sunday evening the most delicious time in all the year. We might be away from the world altogether up here—caught up to receive a heavenly vision."

Major Armitage looked at her with a smile.

"That's rather good," he said. "I do hope you won't be disappointed in him."

It was rough walking, but at last they emerged from their irregular stony pathway upon a level bit of ground; and there, tucked away in a copse of trees and brushwood, with a high cliff behind it, was a tiny iron church.

"What an extraordinary place to build a church in!" exclaimed Joan.

"It was built and endowed by a rich farmer. You will see the tablet to his memory in the church."

They went inside. It was fast filling, and they took a seat just inside the door. The music was not very good. There was a wheezy harmonium, and no pretence at a choir. The congregation took a hearty part in singing and responses. It was just a very plain, simple little building; and John Dantman was at first sight a very commonplace little man.

Yet when he mounted the pulpit, Joan saw that his eyes were magnetic in their compelling power, and his preaching thrilling in its force and reality. He did not rant or rave, he leant over his pulpit quietly, and seemed to search and speak to every individual soul before him. He took for his text:

"'Knowing the terror of the Lord, we persuade men.'"

Very stern, unflinchingly true, and convincingly earnest was the first part of his sermon, but suddenly his voice broke and softened.

"We persuade men," he said; "that is our vocation, we are not here to scold, to upbraid, to frighten. We have told you stern facts, that is all."

And then followed such loving, persuasive pleading that Joan listened herself with a swelling heart, and when it was all over and she came out into the soft, summer air, she exclaimed:

"Oh, Major Armitage, I feel a burning desire now to exercise a little of my persuasion upon others. It is quite true what you say. If we all believed earnestly what we profess to believe, we could not live so indifferently, and selfishly ignore the needs of those who have not grasped the truth. If I were a man! Oh, if I were a man!"

She stopped, a little ashamed of her emotion.

"What would you do?"

"Oh, I don't know, the field would be so wide. I think I have wanted all my life to impart knowledge, to influence, to take a part in moulding the characters of the next generation. Teaching those younger than myself has always been before me. I have been distinctly shown that my sphere is to be in my own home, in a country village, learning lessons myself instead of teaching."

"What kind of lessons?" asked Major Armitage, wishing to draw her out.

"Lessons of patience and endurance and long-suffering with joyfulness," she said in a low tone.

Major Armitage was silent for a moment. Then he said:

"Those are hard lessons for any of us. And very few of us attempt to learn them."

They lapsed into silence.

The going down was more difficult in the waning light than coming up. Joan was glad to take Major Armitage's offered arm. To her the memory of that evening would always remain with her. She had enjoyed every bit of it; she hardly liked to acknowledge to herself how happy she was in company with the man who walked beside her. From having had a deep pity for him, she found herself taking an absorbing and increasing interest in him. He never disappointed her in anything he said or did. They were very silent on their return journey. Just before they reached Lady Alicia's house Major Armitage said:

"I am afraid this will be good-bye for the present. I have to go away for a few days on business for my sister, and when I return I shall find you flown, shall I not?"

"Yes, I leave on Wednesday."

"Will you remember me to your father? I wonder if you would send me occasional news of Old Bellerton? It would be a great pleasure to hear from you."

"Certainly I will."

Joan's voice had a little tremor in it.

"Thank you."

He said no more.

And then they went indoors, and found Lady Alicia waiting to hear about their service.

When Major Armitage took his departure a little later, he looked rather wistfully at Joan as he took her hand.

"How glad your father will be to have you back again!" he said with emphasis.

Joan laughed.

"Yes, I think he will. He and I have lived so long together that we know each other's ways, and he says he is lost without me."

"But he can't expect to keep you with him always."

"Why not? I don't think anything will call me away from him. I feel my life is meant to be in that quiet corner, and I am going to be content."

He looked at her, seemed as if he was about to speak, then shut his lips sternly and wrung her hand.

And Joan felt when he had left, as if the sunshine had gone out of her heart, leaving it grey and empty and cheerless.