Chapter XIX: Cecil's Engagement

JOAN arrived home to find a good deal awaiting her. Cecil was in a fever to be away. She was going to stay with some friends of her mother's. Wilmot was already in town; Mr. Adair was not very well. He had got wet one day, and bronchitis, his old enemy, was hovering over him. Jenny had had words with Cecil, and had given notice. She was sullen when Joan spoke to her; and Sophia said that she was determined not to stay. Benson, the odd man, had become very slack in his work. The garden had suffered from having no superintendence, and weeds had grown apace. There had been friction between Miss Borwill and the schoolmistress at Sunday school, and two steady members of the choir had resigned.

Joan found life bristling with difficulties; but she was her bright, capable self again, and tackled everything with a cheery spirit. She had expected to find a slack household under Cecil's rule, and so was not dismayed in consequence. Upon the night of her arrival, Cecil came into her room when she went up to bed, and regardless of Joan's fatigue kept her talking till past one o'clock.

The question Joan asked at once was:

"Is Mother's book finished?"

"My dear Joan, how ridiculous! Of course it is not. Wilmot thinks that he must go out to the Riviera with a camera and get some snapshots. He says a book of that sort must be prettily illustrated, or it will not be attractive. And if—if we are married in November, we could go together to the Riviera. I shall never be able to winter in England, I know."

"But is the writing of the book finished?"

"Oh, no—not nearly. It shows how little you know about writing a book like that! We have done about half. I am persuading him to throw over these Gascoigne Chronicles. It is a never-ending task, and he works better in town, he tells me. I can quite believe it. The rush and throb of life there must stimulate and quicken your brains. This deadly country life paralyses one! He and I are thoroughly agreed upon that point."

"Have you seen anything of Banty?"

"Oh, of course. I was asked to the Hall to be thoroughly inspected and criticised. Banty has no manners—she is like a new-fledged schoolgirl. She never has a word to say for herself. Wilmot says she has no intelligence at all."

"And you are really happy, Cecil?"

"My dear Joan, I am not overwhelmed with ecstasy because I am going to be married. I have seen too much of men to expect much from them. But Wilmot and I understand each other, and I shall have the life that suits me; that is the main thing. I want you to speak to Father about money. I can't go up to town without a penny in my pocket; I may go to other friends whilst I am there. Everyone will soon be leaving town, and I want to take advantage of my opportunities. I can't possibly make my allowance cover my travelling expenses. And I dare say I shall be able to get some of my trousseau in town. I suppose Father intends to give me that, doesn't he?"

"Oh, dear!" sighed poor Joan. "I do not see how Father can give you money at present. But I will talk to him and see what we can do."

When Cecil eventually left her, Joan buried her face in her pillow with determination.

"I won't worry. I'm going to trust. God will guide and provide."

And her sleep was sound, unshadowed by any difficulties or troubles looming ahead.

Mr. Adair found he was able to give Cecil what she required, and she left home in high spirits. She did not often write, so Joan was quite satisfied that she was enjoying herself, and went her way happily, helping her father in parish matters, making peace between those who were quarrelling, and finding time to send up to her editor one or two more short sketches from rural life.

And then one day Derrick appeared. He walked in at luncheon time. Mr. Adair was away at a clerical meeting in the neighbouring town, and Joan, being alone, was lunching off bread and cheese and salad. But Sophia, who was always ready in an emergency, produced two grilled mutton chops and a savoury omelette, and Derrick did justice to both.

"I'm not going to desert you, Joan, though you won't have anything to say to me. And as you look upon me as a brother, I have come down to give you a brother's hint. Have you heard from the Malingerer?"

"Not for more than a fortnight. Why?"

"Oh, I've been seeing a lot of her. And that rat Motty is going, in vulgar phrase, to chuck her!"

"Oh, Derrick, don't speak so!"

Pride for her sister, and hot indignation at such a supposition, made Joan's cheeks burn.

"I tell you it's true! Why was she such a fool as to get infatuated with him? Now don't rear your head and look so lofty. I'm talking like a brother. I want you to warn her. Motty is as fickle as the wind! You found him out, didn't you? I was pretty sick when I heard the Malingerer had taken him on, for I knew it could only end one way. Have you seen Banty lately?"

"No, she is away. I have not met her since I came home."

"Well, I was asked down for a week-end whilst you were away, and old Jossy was in a fine stew. He couldn't get Motty to finish up his Chronicles. He has been at them three years, and they never get any forrarder. He runs some other book at the same time, and that gets all his time and attention. I think your mother's Riviera notes were too absorbing; those and the love-making together, and old Jossy spoke out straight, and told Motty unless he would stick to his work with him, he could go. So Motty packed his bag and walked off for good, leaving the Chronicles behind him."

"Cecil never told me he had left his uncle's," said Joan, a troubled look coming into her eyes.

"Didn't she? Well, I've seen a good bit of her in town, and I can tell you Motty is conspicuous by his absence. She can't understand it, and is getting restive. I happen to know that a rich American girl has got hold of him, and is running him for all she is worth. He goes about everywhere with her, but the Malingerer has only seen them together twice. Motty told her when she questioned him about it that she was a most clever photographer, and he had hopes of enlisting her in the cause of your mother's book. She had promised to give him some of her snapshots of the Riviera for it. I don't think the Malingerer quite swallowed it. Motty always has been wild to get to America, and I believe he'll be on the briny before the Malingerer knows where he is."

"Do stop calling her the Malingerer," said Joan. "She is so much stronger now that we hear nothing about her health. Poor Cecil! I do hope that he will be true to her. It will break her heart."

Derrick laughed.

"Not a bit of it. Her heart isn't in it. I could tell that from the way she discussed him with me. I should like to get hold of Motty by the neck and shake him as a terrier does a rat!"

"What can I do?" asked Joan helplessly.

"Get her home again."

"She won't come."

"Can't you get an attack of the 'flu' again and go to bed and then wire to her?"

"Oh!" said Joan impulsively. "How I wish you would marry her, Derrick!"

Derrick's eyes danced.

"Do you think she would have me? You know who I want to marry."

"Oh, that is past. And just think, Derrick, how nice it would be to have you as a real brother! That is the position I want you to be in."

"Your morals are deficient. She is an engaged girl at present."

"I will write to her by this post," said Joan; "but I hardly know what to say."

Joan never wrote that letter, for before Derrick left her that afternoon, she received a wire:

"Coming home this evening. Arrive six o'clock.—CECIL."

Derrick was quite relieved.

"They've had it out, then. He was to take her to some gallery yesterday. He had failed to keep two appointments with her, and I could see she meant to bring matters to a point. I might have spared myself the trouble of coming down, except that you're always such a 'sight for sore e'en.' Sophia says you're like a breeze in the house; I should say you stilled it. I suppose I had better make myself scarce. I'm sleeping at the Hall for a few nights. But if I can do anything for you, let me have a line before I go back to town. A horsewhipping or a ducking in the round pond would be too mild for him!"

"You are thinking the very worst of him," said Joan. "They may have drawn closer together after meeting. I hope so."

"Never!" said Derrick with conviction.

Joan drove slowly along the leafy lanes to the station, thinking deeply. The old pony would not be hurried, and Joan let him take his own pace.

She was wondering if Cecil had been disillusioned, and, if so, whether it would be a blessing to her or the reverse. She dreaded having her back embittered and disappointed. A rush of sympathy for her welled up in her heart. Cecil had gone to London careless, gay, and perfectly sure of her future; she was coming back perhaps empty and forlorn. Yet, when the train came in and the sisters met, Cecil looked much as usual. She was dressed in a grey linen dress, and wore a shady hat with violet pansies round it. She was already lightening her mourning for her mother. Joan was still in black.

"Well, Cecil dear, welcome home! You have returned very suddenly."

"Yes; it's too hot and airless in town. I can't stand it; and, of course, everybody is leaving."

"Derrick made his appearance yesterday. He told me he had been seeing a good bit of you."

"Yes. He is rather nice, isn't he? And knows the right people in town, which is a great thing."

They chatted together on the way home on trivial matters. Cecil gave no hint of being disappointed or unhappy, and Joan came to the conclusion that all must be right with her.

Mr. Adair was away for the evening, taking some festival service at a neighbouring church, so the girls had a quiet dinner, and, pleading fatigue, Cecil retired early to bed.

One thing Joan noticed, and that was that Cecil did not mention Wilmot's name. She had not the courage to ask after him. She waited up for her father, who returned about ten o'clock. At half-past ten, just before finally bolting the front door, Joan stepped out upon the gravel path to inhale the sweet night air. Then she noticed that a light was still burning in Cecil's room, and knew that, though she had retired an hour and a half previously, she was still awake.

As she went upstairs to bed, she debated with herself as to whether she should go to her sister.

If Cecil had anything to tell, night was the best time for her to tell it.

After a little hesitation, she went across the passage and knocked gently at her door.

There was silence for a moment. The light was being extinguished, and then Cecil's voice spoke:

"Come in."

Joan slipped in and felt her way to the bedside in the dark.

She put out her hand and touched Cecil's head.

"Cecil dear."

In a moment Cecil's arms, to her surprise, were put round her neck, drawing her down to her, and Joan was conscious that her own cheek was touching a very tear-stained one on the pillow.

"I felt I must get back to you. You're always the same, and you'll understand and feel for me. It's all over between us. But I have broken it off, I'm thankful to say."

A little sob broke her voice.

"Tell me, dear. I was afraid of it."

Cecil steadied her voice.

"He treated me abominably, shamefully! I think when he was turned away from the Hall, he began to weigh me in the balance, and he certainly found me wanting in the matter of pounds, shillings and pence! Then he was taken up violently in town by some Americans, who have accepted him at his own valuation, and believe that he is a genius. He was more and more with them, and less and less with me. They are going to take him over to America, and arrange a tour of lectures for him, and, of course, he means to marry the daughter. I suppose I have discovered, as you did, that he is a gasbag, and has no grit or purpose in him. I am thankful for my escape, but oh, Joan, it humiliates and hurts! And I feel alone. I miss Mother, and—and—well, I'm desperately miserable!"

Joan felt it all so pathetic that she mingled her tears with Cecil's. She asked presently about Mrs. Adair's notes.

"He has really done very little to them. We must get them back. I did say something to him, but he says he will not let all his labour go for nothing. He says he has been spending his time and brains on other people's property, and will not be treated by us as he has been by his relations. As a matter-of-fact, I know Sir Joseph paid him handsomely. But what can we do, Joan? Could Derrick—?"

"Yes; Derrick will tackle him," said Joan confidently; "and, if he goes to America, we must hope that we shall never see him again. Don't worry, dearest. I am glad that you have found him out before you were married to him. It would be so awful to be disillusioned afterwards."

"I suppose everybody here will laugh at me, but 'I' have broken it off, Joan, remember!"

"Yes," said Joan, almost smiling at Cecil's eagerness for that fact to be known. "I am afraid Wilmot has not many friends in this part, so I do not think you will be blamed."

She stayed with her some time. She had never before seen Cecil so softened and affectionate, and longed to improve the occasion. Yet she felt tongue-tied until, just as she was saying good-night, Cecil said:

"I felt quite thankful that you were at home, and not in Ireland. Oh, Joan, sometimes I wish I were good like you! Whatever comes to you makes you content and happy, and life is not happy to me. I hate my surroundings here; they make me miserable, and this dreadful want of money cripples one so. Don't you ever want to break away from it all?"

"Often and often," was Joan's frank reply. "But it is good to be able to trust one's life to God, Cecil dear."

If Joan expected Cecil to be a different girl after that evening's conversation, she was much mistaken. Cecil was exceedingly irritable and exacting in the days which followed. She would not leave the house or grounds, and shrank from seeing visitors. She lay in bed late, and spent most of her days in a hammock in the garden, complaining of the heat, and flies, and other annoyances.

Derrick paid a flying visit before leaving for town, and, though Cecil tried to escape him, they met in the hall. He put out his hand at once.

"My fervent congrats.!" he said. "Joan has told me. I never could congratulate you before, you know. I admire your pluck. My fingers, figuratively, are tingling to be at his throat. May I call on him in town and get that book of your mother's from him? I was able to help Joan in her difficulty with him, and I'll do the same for you."

Cecil at first received his speech with haughty head and stony face, but Derrick's sunny, genial manner always won his cause. Her whole demeanour softened; she threw her pride to the winds.

"Oh, Derrick, I'll love you for ever if you get it from him! He'll never finish it! I know he never will."

Derrick nodded.

"You must have someone to do battle for you, and Motty and I understand each other perfectly. What a good for nothing scoundrel he is!"

In a fortnight's time, Cecil received a registered packet by post. It was the MS. And without another word she put it into Joan's hands.

"Don't let me see it again. Do what you like with it without asking me."

So Joan had her heart's desire, and put all her spare time to it.

Then one day she received from Ireland a packet of roughly scored music and a note.

"DEAR MISS ADAIR,—I am still waiting to hear from you. I want you to try enclosed upon the organ, and tell me what you think of it as an anthem. We shall not soon forget the words. Does the music represent the force and beauty of them sufficiently? I wish I could hear you take the soprano part. Remember me to your father. Music seems out of place in this country at present. It is seething with discord and hot rage. The memory of our evening walk together is like a far-away melody.—Yours in true friendship,—

"RANDAL ARMITAGE."

Joan took the anthem down to the church when her day's work was over.

The music, as she expected, was lovely. First, the crashing thunder, then the exquisitely soft and beautiful pleading. Joan felt her heart stirred and swayed by its power and pathos. And when she tried to sing it, she felt a longing to sing it to some tired, wayward hearts. "Knowing the terror of the Lord, we persuade men."

"What a gift he has!" she thought, when at last she closed the organ and came through the dusky garden to the house. "And now I must write to him. I ought to have done so before."

She wrote a bright, natural, chatty letter, telling him all the village news which she thought might interest him; and then she mentioned the anthem:

"I can't tell you how much I like it and how much it brings back to me! As I hear the music, I shall always see that little Irish church amongst the hills, with the ignorant, expectant faces all round us, and the wonderful stillness, with the one human voice speaking to and stirring our souls. Are you going to have it printed? I do hope you will.—Yours most sincerely,—

"JOAN ADAIR."