A QUIET HOUSE

MRS. DAUBENEY'S house was at the end of the street leading to the cathedral. The oak door with the massive brass knocker, the mullioned windows, and gigantic wistaria which covered the front of the house, all betokened age. To Hope's eyes the interior was even more charming. A low broad hall ran through the house and ended in glass doors leading into the delightful garden, which consisted of a green lawn, flanked on each side by ancient cedar-trees, a broad, old-fashioned terrace of flowers, and a second walled garden beyond, containing fruit and flowers.

To the right of the hall lay the drawing-room, and it was as great a contrast to the town rooms to which Mrs. Daubeney was accustomed as could be imagined. Deep recesses, quaint spindle-legged chairs, china and old-fashioned chintz, a harpsichord, an old spinet, and a straight high-back sofa, with bolster cushions—these delighted Hope's soul, but brought dismay to her aunt's. The windows at the back of the room looked out upon the garden, and one opened into a small conservatory. On the other side of the hall was the dining-room and morning-room, both good-sized rooms, and simply though suitably furnished. The stairs were low and broad, and of solid oak, as were also the banisters. Upstairs there was a delightful broad landing, and five or six bedrooms. One of these, which Hope took for her own, had a charming view of some buttercup meadows lying by the side of the river, and on the opposite side, amongst some stately elms, was the cathedral.

And one sunny afternoon, about a week after their arrival, Hope sat on her window-seat listening to the afternoon chimes and indulging for the first time in a good "think." Mrs. Daubeney was lying down in her room. The house was very still. As Hope sat there, the only sound that broke the silence inside was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. Outside, the rooks building their nests in the old elms kept up a continuous cawing. The murmur of the swift-flowing river and the chirping of the birds had more of a soothing effect than a distracting one. Hope opened her window, and leaning her elbows on the broad sill, gazed over the buttercup meadows and river to the range of far-distant blue hills.

"How delicious this sense of rest is! I wonder if our London life is a good one. I am getting a little tired of the rush; but there is little else to do, and, I must say, I love my fellow-creatures. If Canon FitzRoy is right, we are very wrong. 'Lovers of pleasure more than lovers of God.' Of course we are; but I did not realise I was destined to be a lover of God. It is a terrible thought that God requires loving service from every creature He has made. He does not get it, and we really are a godless lot. The Canon was specially severe on Society's Sundays. I thought if one went to early service, that was sufficient. Sunday is a holiday; he makes it a holy day. Oh, in the bottom of my heart I feel I am all wrong, and the world is all wrong! Why has no one told me before?"

The cathedral bell began to toll for evensong. It interrupted her meditation, and then a sudden impulse made her seize hold of her hat and, slipping into her jacket, she went softly downstairs. In the hall she met Nelson.

"Tell Aunt Gertrude not to wait tea. I am going to the cathedral."

She stepped outside into the old-fashioned street. There was little traffic; a few people like herself were quietly making their way to the cathedral.

As she entered it, the hush and calm struck her very forcibly. She was shown into one of the stalls. The remembrance of that spring evening never left her. The sun stealing in through the stained-glass windows and colouring every spot upon which it rested, the deep soft vibrating sound of the organ, the pure voices of the choir-boys, and the reverence and quiet of the evening service, all combined to leave a lasting impression upon her mind. She looked at the various occupants of the stalls with some interest, and smiled as she recognised the different stamp, in dress and appearance, from most of her town acquaintances. One figure strangely attracted her. It was that of an elderly woman—a tall stately figure, with a face of wonderful strength and sweetness. By her side was a young man, who, by his likeness to her, was evidently her son.

The mother looked as if she were accustomed to the cathedral, as if she were a part and parcel of it herself. She was absorbed in the service, and Hope knew that it was no empty form to her. The son appeared interested, but his attention was more upon his mother than the service. He moved a footstool for her, handed her the anthem-book, and found the place in it for her. Once he bent down and asked her something, and smiled as he received her low-toned reply. He looked bronzed and weather-worn. Hope fancied that he had not been long home from abroad. She felt, as she sat opposite them, that she would like to know them, and wondered who they were. Then her mind turned back upon herself, and faintly and dimly there rose up from the depths of her heart a longing to see and understand the beauty of true religion.

The sense of shortcoming and of shame that had been slowly gathering intensity, now surged upwards so overwhelmingly that she felt the hot tears spring to her eyes. A wave of black depression seemed to take possession of her.

"'A lover of self, a lover of pleasure, having the form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.' That is me, and I am condemned, utterly condemned by my life! I am really a hypocrite. I have no right to be here. I am an outcast with all the rest of my world. We shall never be anything but rank outsiders. A holy God must abhor us. We deny His power. We think we can rule and fashion our lives. We are utterly indifferent to His wishes, and independent of Him. Oh, I am absolutely miserable!"

In the midst of these disquieting thoughts, the boys' sweet voices suddenly sounded forth, echoing down the empty nave and returning with vibrating sweetness and power:

"'Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin?

The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.'"

Hope did not hear the remainder of the hymn. The tears she had been restraining with such difficulty now fell so fast that she sat back in her corner, and hoped that the gathering dusk would shield her from all observation. She remained in her seat after the rest of the congregation, and was the last to leave the cathedral.

When she reached home, she was composed and cheerful again, though the first verse of the hymn still rang through her heart and brain.

She found her aunt receiving visitors.

"Hope, come here. Lady Chesney says she has met you once or twice in town."

Lady Chesney greeted her kindly, and introduced her two daughters, one of whom was about Hope's age, the other considerably older.

"I have not met you before, I think," Hope said, turning to the eldest Miss Chesney.

"No, I have not been to town for several years, I dislike it so, and my sister has been abroad studying music."

"Don't you find Kayminster very quiet?"

"We do not live in Kayminster. We are five miles out, at Landbeck Abbey. I prefer country to town."

"Oh, Hester is a regular hermit! But we shall not give you a chance of keeping quiet, Miss St. Clair. We have a bazaar next week for our church organ, and we shall enlist you at once as one of our helpers. What are you good at? Theatricals, music, games? We are having a gymkhana; you must take part in that. We are going to have a house-party for the occasion, and a friend of yours, Lady May Fosberry, is coming to stay with us."

Minnie Chesney and Hope were soon talking away as if they had known each other all their lives.

"You won't find many people to know in Kayminster," Minnie said. "The Dean is nice, but his wife's a regular prude! The Moberly girls are passable, their father is one of the canons, and then there are Mrs. Dane and her sons. Of course there are a good many old maids and quiet humdrum folk, who treat Kayminster as if it alone was the centre of the universe, but you won't have much to do with them, I expect. Are you a good bridge player? We always have bridge at home on Sunday afternoons. And there's golf about two miles off, and we shall soon be beginning tennis and archery. You will find enough to employ your time, I expect."

"I have never found it hang on my hands yet," said Hope, as soon as she could get in a word. "I am surprised May Fosberry is coming down to you. I thought she was working hard in the slums?"

"She has had a breakdown, I believe. Between ourselves, I expect she is pretty sick of it, and wants a reasonable excuse for getting away from it. I think we shall cure her of that little pastime."

Hope knew that May was a girl of impulses, who was always trying some new experience, so she felt inclined to agree with Minnie Chesney. She was startled to hear Hester say, in rather a deep gruff voice:

"Give her justice, Minnie! Slum work isn't all play, and I know something of it."

"Do you?" questioned Hope eagerly. "Did you find it interesting or depressing? It seems to me people either love it or hate it. I don't think I could stand a day of it. Dirt and poverty are so offensive when combined."

Hester's grey eyes quietly looked Hope up and down, then she smiled rather cynically.

"No," she said, "I don't think you would stand it."

"By which you mean to infer that I am a very poor creature?" Hope's eyes were mirthful as she spoke. She added:

"May I ask why you gave it up?"

Minnie had turned to talk to Mrs. Daubeney. Hester's clear-cut features and rather unimpressionable countenance seemed to soften and sadden for an instant.

"Because I did not believe in the remedies we were employing, and the atmosphere of open sin sickened me. In our class we gild and paint it. I prefer it so; do not you?"

Hope looked at her gravely.

Then Hester laughed, and her lips took their usually hard curve.

"Oh yes. I worked very hard in the slums for six months, and now I am working just as hard bee-farming; I find the bees pay me better."

"I suppose they would, if your object is to be rewarded."

"One generally expects to get something for one's pains, else why make any efforts? What is your goal in life—leaving the marriage question alone? You look as if you have some ideas in your head? Do you act up to your Puritan name?"

"My head," said Hope, in her pretty mischievous way, "is always too full to be sorted out and catalogued. My chief idea is to enjoy the thing I am doing tremendously till it is finished, and then the next one. Just now I am going to enjoy this old house, and the quaint town, and the cathedral atmosphere. I have never been in anything like it before. If I cut your bazaar and send no excuses, you will know it is because I am steeping my soul in Gothic architecture, and having visionary dreams in the dim silence of the cathedral."

Conversation became general, but Hope was attracted by Hester.

"She is an original woman, aunt," she confided to Mrs. Daubeney afterwards. "The youngest sister is a very ordinary type, but Hester has thought and, I think, suffered."

"And what type are you?" asked Mrs. Daubeney good-naturedly. "For goodness' sake, Hope, don't get into the habit of criticising and generalising people! It is such bad form. Lady Chesney is one of my oldest friends. They have been abroad so much that we have seen little of each other the last few years. The only son is a sad scapegrace. I don't believe he will ever inherit the Abbey, and it has been in the Chesney family for centuries. I fancy his father finds it very difficult to keep up the place as it is. There will be next to nothing for those girls at his death. Hester used to be quite a beauty, but she has quite gone off. I dare say it is as well that she is happy leading a quiet country life. Minnie is sure to marry, and I can see that her mother hopes great things from her."

After a pause, she looked at her niece rather keenly. "George Adair is coming down to the Chesneys."

"Is he?" Hope's tone was supremely indifferent. "He will be a good match for Minnie, aunt."

"He asked me before we left town whether we should be near the Chesneys. I let you go your own way, Hope, and am too fond of you to be sorry that you have been under my wing these four years, but I would remind you that time is slipping away, and your fresh young years will not be yours always. I should like to see you settled, and I know George Adair would make you happy."

There was a little wistfulness in Mrs. Daubeney's tone. Hope had disappointed her more than once, but she knew that to try to coerce her was to court failure at once.

Hope did not answer. She hummed a little tune as she went about the room whisking a few chairs into their place, then she disappeared in the small conservatory, and emerged with a handful of heliotrope. Holding it up to her aunt, she said playfully:

"Take a whiff, Aunt Gertrude, it will refresh you. You are looking tired."

"I am anxious sometimes—about you."

"But why? I assure you there is not the slightest cause. You said when you received my father's letter that you did not adopt me to lose me when you needed my society most. Don't tell me that you want to get rid of me."

"I want to see you married," said Mrs. Daubeney firmly.

Hope's shoulders shrugged themselves almost imperceptibly.

"Marriage doesn't seem a success in Society, aunt, except to give you the wherewithal to clothe yourself and have a good time; and I am having that with you, thanks to your generosity."

"George Adair—"

"Excuse me for interrupting you. George is a wealthy man, I know, but he is an idle one; he will spend his married life exactly as he does his single one, in society."

"Where else would you spend it?" asked Mrs. Daubeney with raised eyebrows.

"I think I have a few old-fashioned notions. I should like a home. If I married George, I know exactly what it would be like. He would rush me round even faster than I am going at present; and do you know, Aunt Gertrude, I am getting rather tired."

"You are a very silly child. Every married woman owns a home. You would not expect George to retire from all his friends, and spend his life in one long honeymoon with you."

"No, I shouldn't," said Hope, laughing merrily. "Poor George! It would be hard lines to be tied to one woman like that. He is never happy unless he is following about a dozen round, and his marriage would never alter him."

"I hope you are not getting supercilious," said Mrs. Daubeney, regarding her niece carefully. "There is nothing that tells your age more than becoming cynical and intolerant of the failings of your fellow-creatures. Young girls ought to have faith and trust in every one, and you are not very old yet, my dear."

"I am sorry, aunt, but don't please quote George Adair to me again. I hoped we had left him in town."

Mrs. Daubeney said no more. Hope was her bright sweet self for the rest of the evening. It was not until she reached her bedroom and was again alone, that her thoughts flew back to the cathedral service.

"I suppose," she mused, "it is the contrast to anything that I have experienced before, that attracts me so. St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey are finer buildings, and have more beautiful music, but they never give one the sense of absolute peace and rest that this cathedral does. How beautiful that hymn was! I felt quite thrilled with it. I shall go there to-morrow. It is Sunday, and I shall have a legitimate excuse. Oh dear! I wish George Adair were not coming to these parts!"

A little sigh escaped her. George Adair had nothing in himself to recommend him, she considered. He was a heavily built man, inclined to stoutness, not a sportsman, not a politician, but quite content to sit in ladies' drawing-rooms and flatter pretty women. He never read; he took his information entirely from conversation around him; he had the reputation of being a "ladies' man," but Hope always considered that an insult to her sex; and he was never happy unless he had a lot of people round him.

He owned a castle in Scotland, a villa in Cannes, a yacht, and a motor; and for the past five months he had been haunting Hope's footsteps.

Mrs. Daubeney liked him and encouraged him. His unfailing good-humour and adaptability to people's moods made him a favourite with all old ladies. Hope had not disliked him until he began to make his attentions marked; then she took fright, and now evaded him whenever she got a chance.

"Oh," she said, as for an instant she opened her window and gazed at the dim ghostly outlines of the turreted towers of the cathedral, "why is it I feel so restless and so discontented with life? Is it at the possibility of passing most of it in company with George Adair? Or is it that I feel there is something better in store for me, something even more satisfying than marriage, which seems our only goal?"

She shut her window hastily and went to bed. Her last conscious thoughts were of the dim, hushed atmosphere of the cathedral and the boys' sweet voices singing.