Chapter 2

Then their red lids dropped and a gentle
breathing announced the resumption of his slumbers. For a few moments
Mrs. Baines really devoted her attention to the third chapter of
Jeremiah; but when once more the respirations of her spouse degenerated
into raucous snores, she lost all patience with him, and put away her
Bible and pamphlets. She could not stop in the house any longer. It
was allowable to visit the sick on the Sabbath day. She would go and
see old Mrs. Gannell in Stebling's Cottages and read some tracts to her.
So she shook off imaginary crumbs from her skirts, went upstairs to put
on her Sunday bonnet, and left her husband--though he was unconscious of
the privilege--to snore and chuckle and drivel and snore unrebuked for a
couple of hours.

*CHAPTER II*

*JOHN AND LUCY*

John and Lucy strode rapidly through the outskirts of the village, past
the inspection of curious eyes from over the rim of window blinds, into
the quiet country, which lay sleeping in veiled sunshine; for the warmth
of the June sun had created a slight haze in the river valley and men
and beasts seemed drowsy with the concentrated, undispersed odour of the
newly-cut hay. They crossed a little stream by a wooden bridge, climbed
two stiles--Lucy gaily, John bashfully, as if fearing that his new-born
dignity of preacher might suffer thereby--walked about a quarter of a
mile down a densely shaded lane where the high hedgerows were flecked
with pale pink, yellow-stamened dogroses, and where the honeysuckle
trailed its simple light green foliage and hung out its lank fists of
yellow fingers: and then arrived at an open space and a broad high road.
This they followed until they came to a white gate, marked in black
letters "To Englefield. Private." Without hesitation, from
long-established custom, they raised the latch and entered the dense
shade of a well-timbered wood with a glimpse here and there, through the
tree trunks, of open water.

Lucy sighed with relief and pleasure when the white gate swung to behind
her and she was walking on a turf-covered track under the shade of great
beech trees. Though the scene was familiar to her she exclaimed at its
beauty. John mopped his face industriously, flapped away the flies,
blew his nose, and wiped the brim of his hat. "Yes, yes," he would
reply, looking to see if his boots were very dusty or whether there were
any grass seeds sticking to the skirts of his frock-coat. "Canterbury
bells, is that what you call them? Yes, there seem to be lots this year.
Here's a nice, clean trunk of a tree. Let's sit down and have our
talk...."

"Oh, not here, John. It's too midgy. We will go farther on to The
View: there's a seat there."

So they followed the broad, turfy track which commenced to ascend the
flank of a down. On the right hand the great trees rose higher and
higher into the sky; on the left the ground sloped away to the level of
the little lake with its swans and water-lilies; and the turf near at
hand was dark blue and purple-green with the bugle in flower. In the
ascending woodland there were tall ranks of red-mauve foxgloves. Here
the owner of the park had placed an ample wooden seat for the
delectation of all who loved landscape beauty.

John threw himself down with heavy abandonment on the grey planks. Had
he been alone he would certainly have taken off his boots to ease his
hot and compressed feet, but some instinct told him his betrothed might
not think the action seemly. Lucy stood for a few moments gazing at the
view over the Kennet valley and then sat down beside him.

"How dreadfully you perspire, my poor John," she said, looking at the
wet red hand which clasped the rail of the seat.

"Yes. The least amount of walking makes me hot."

"Well, but how will you be able to stand Africa?"

"Oh, it's a different kind of heat there, I believe. Besides, you don't
have to go about in a black coat, a waistcoat and a starched shirt;
except perhaps at service time on Sundays."

"What a pity black clothes seem to be necessary to holiness!"--(then
seeing a frown settling on his face) "I wonder whether we shall see
anything so beautiful as _this_ out there?"

"As beautiful as what? Oh! The view. Well, I s'pose so. I believe
there are some high mountains and plenty of forest near the place where
I am to live."

"What is its name?"

"Hangodi, I think--something like that. Bayley says it means 'the Place
of Firewood.'"

"Oh, _that_ doesn't sound pretty at all; just as if there were nothing
but dead sticks lying about. I hoped there would be plenty of palms and
those things you see in the pictures of African travel books--with great
broad leaves--plantains? Is it a village?"

"Hangodi? I believe so. I think the chief reason it has been chosen is
its standing high up on a mountain and being near water."

"Oh, John," said Lucy after a minute's silence, "I _do_ look forward to
joining you in Africa. I've always wanted to travel, ever since I won a
geography prize at school. Just think what wonderful things we shall
see. Elephants and lions and tigers. Will there be tigers? Of
_course_ not. I ought to have remembered they're only found in India.
But at any rate there will be beautifully spotted leopards, and lions
roaring at night, and hippopotamuses in the rivers and antelopes on the
plains. And ostriches? Do you think there will be any ostriches,
John?"

"My dear, how do _I_ know? Besides, we are not going out to Africa to
look for ostriches and lions, Lucy," said John, rather solemnly. "We
have a great work before us, a _great_ work. There is a mighty harvest
to be gathered for the Lord."

"Of course, John, of course," Lucy hastened to reply, "I know what is
the real object of your mission, and I mean to help you all I can, don't
I?" (pushing back a wisp of his lank brown hair that fell over his
brow--for he had taken off the hot wide-awake). "But that won't prevent
me from liking to see wild beasts and other queer African things; and I
don't see the harm in it, either...."

"N--no, of course it isn't _wrong_. These things are among the
wonderful works of the Almighty, and it is right that we should admire
them in their proper place. At the same time they are apt to become a
snare in leading us from the contemplation of holy things into vain
disputes about science. I know more about these spiritual dangers than
you do, Lucy," continued John, from the superior standing of his three
years' education in London, "and I warn you against the idolatry of
intellect" (squeezing her little kid-gloved hand to temper his solemnity
with a lover's gesture). "I knew a very nice fellow in London once. He
had studied medicine at the hospitals and he came to Bayswater College
to qualify for the East African Mission; for he intended going out as a
medical missionary. He was the son of a minister, too, and his father
was much respected. But he was always spending his spare time at this
new Natural History Museum, and he used to read Darwin and other infidel
writers. Well, the result was that he took to questioning the accuracy
of Genesis, and _of course_ he had to give up all idea of joining the
Mission. I don't know what became of him, but I expect he afterwards
went to the bad. For my part, I am thankful to say I never was troubled
with doubts. The Bible account of Creation is good enough for me, and
so it ought to be for everybody else."

"John! _John_!" exclaimed Lucy, shaking his arm, "you are just as bad
as your mother, who accuses me of disbelieving the Bible because I like
to take a walk on a fine Sunday afternoon. How you _do_ run on! I only
said I wanted to see elephants and lions in Africa and you accuse me
straight out of 'worshipping my intellect' or some such rubbish. Don't
you know the chief reason I promised to marry you was because I thought
it was so noble of you to go to Africa to teach the poor natives? Very
well, if you think African wild beasts will be a snare for my soul I
won't run the temptation, and you shall marry some black woman whose
ears will come down to her shoulders, and a ring through her nose as
well, and no doubts at all about anything."

"Lucy! I think you're very flippant."

"John! I think you're much too sanctimonious! You're a great deal too
good for me, and you'd better find a more serious person than I am--Miss
Jamblin, for instance."

"Ann Jamblin? And a very nice girl too. Oh! you may sneer at her.
She's not pretty, I daresay, but she comes to all the prayer meetings,
so mother says; and she's got a nice gift for sacred poetry."

"Yes, _I_ know her verses--flimsy things! Just hymns-and-water, _I_
call them. She's got a number of stock rhymes and she rings the changes
on them. Any one could do that. Besides, I've caught her lots of times
borrowing whole lines from Hymns, Ancient and Modern, which I suppose
aren't good enough for chapel people, so they must needs go and make up
hymns of their own. And as to the prayer meetings, it's just the tea
and cake that attract _her_. Bless you! I was at school with Ann
Jamblin, and I know what a pig that girl is.... But if you think she'd
suit you better as a wife, don't hesitate to change your mind. Your
mother would be _delighted_. And I've heard say that Ann's uncle, who
keeps the ham-and-beef shop in Reading, means to leave her all his
money. You won't find Ann Jamblin caring much for wild beasts, _I_ can
promise you! Why, I remember once when the school was out walking near
Reading and we met a dancing bear coming along with its keeper, she
burst out screaming and crying so loud that the youngest Miss Calthrop
had to take her _straight_ back."

"Now, _Lucy_! _Is_ it kind to quarrel with me just before I am going
away?" (Lucy's unexpected spitfire prettiness and the hint she might be
willing to break off the engagement had roused John's latent manliness
and he felt now he desired intensely to marry her.)

"My _dear_ John, I wasn't _quarrelling_, I've nothing to quarrel about.
I only suggested to you before it was too late to change your mind that
Ann Jamblin would make you a more suitable wife than I should--there,
there!" (fighting off a kiss and an attempt at a hug) "remember where we
are and that any one might see us and carry the tale to your mother. Of
course, I am partly in fun. I know it is unkind to tease you, but
somehow I _can't_ be as serious as you are.... Dear old John" (the
attempt at a hug and the look of desire in John's eyes have somehow
mollified her) "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.... Did I? ... I'm
very sorry.... Just as you're going away, too.... There, never mind....
Look bright and happy.... Now _smile_!"

John's lips parted reluctantly and showed his pale gums and projecting
eye-teeth.

"What do you think, John? ... Let's get up and walk on to the garden
gates, ... what do you think my Uncle Pardew is going to give us as a
wedding present? A harmonium! Won't that be nice? I shall take it out
with me, and then when you teach the people to sing hymns--only you
mustn't teach them Ann Jamblin's--I can play the accompaniments. And in
the evenings when you are tired I shall try to play something that will
soothe you. I have never tried the harmonium yet, but while you are
away I mean to practise. It's just like playing the piano, only you
have to keep working the pedals with your feet, like a sewing-machine.
Uncle Pardew would just as soon give us a piano, but I told him what you
said about the climate being bad for them. So he settled that a
harmonium would do better. I wonder what other wedding presents we
shall get? I can tell to a certainty what your mother will give us."

"What?"

"Why, a very large Bible, bound in shiny brown leather like those in the
waiting-rooms at railway stations, with a blue ribbon marker; and a
dozen silver spoons. Six large and six small. I know she doesn't
consider me worthy of the spoons, but she is bound by custom. When she
was married _her_ mother-in-law gave _her_ spoons.... And your father
will give us a dinner-service and a gross of Sparkling Cider..."

"I hope to goodness he doesn't. The cost of transporting it up-country
would be quite beyond my means. I shall tell him..."

"And _my_ father," continued Lucy, "is going to give me a gold watch and
chain. And mother, my own sweet little mother--what do you think she's
been working at, John?"

"Can't say, I'm sure."

"Why, _all_ the house linen.... Sheets, pillow-cases, tablecloths,
napkins, and such like. She has been getting them ready ever since I
was first engaged.... John! You must be _very_ kind to me in Africa."

"_Kind_ to you? Why, of course! Do you suppose I should be anything
else?"

"You don't know _how_ I feel the idea of parting with mother. I love
her better than any one in the world, better than you, John. She never
says anything, but I know she is dreadfully unhappy at the idea of my
going away so far and for so long. But then, I tell her, we can't _all_
be old maids. Father isn't rich enough to keep us all at home, and I
don't want to go on working at a National school all my life.... Oh, by
the bye, talking of mother, I had something so pleasant to tell you.
What do you think Lord Silchester has done? You know mother was maid to
old Lady Silchester? Well, when father went the other day to see Mr.
Parkins about a gate he met his lordship walking out of the agent's
office. They got into conversation and father told him I was going out
next year to marry you in Africa. And last Wednesday mother got a
letter written by Lord Silchester himself, saying he had not forgotten
her faithful care of his mother and would she give the enclosed to her
daughter, out of which she might buy a wedding present, something to
remember Lord Silchester by when she got out to Africa. And there were
four five-pound notes in the envelope. Mother was so pleased she
positively _cried_."

"Yes. That was very kind of his lordship. I must tell my mother when I
get back to-night. It may cheer her up."

"Oh, every one has been very nice about my engagement. The Miss
Calthrops, where I was at school in Reading, told me they were working
at some aesthetic mantel-borders for our house in Africa...."

"Mantel-borders! Why, we shan't have any mantel-pieces!"

"No mantel-pieces? No fireplaces?"

"Only a fire for cooking, in the kitchen, and that will be outside."

"Oh well, then, we must put them to some other use; I couldn't wound
their feelings by saying we didn't want them."

"Lucy, you mustn't imagine you are going to live in a mansion in Africa.
Our home will be only a cottage built of bamboo and mud and tree-stems
roughly trimmed, with a thatched or a corrugated-iron roof. I don't
suppose it will contain more than four rooms--a bedroom, a bathroom, a
sitting-room, a store and an outside kitchen."

"Well, but even a log-hut might be made pretty inside, with some 'art'
draperies and cushions and a few Japanese fans. I mean to make our home
as pretty as possible. Shall we have a garden?"

"Oh, I daresay--a kitchen garden, certainly. For the Mission Committee
wants to encourage the planting of vegetables and even some degree of
farming, so that we may live as much as possible on local products. We
are taking out spades and hoes and rakes in plenty, a small plough, an
incubator, and any amount of useful seeds."

"I'm sure," said Lucy, still musing, "there ought to be lovely wild
flowers in Africa and beautiful ferns, too. I mean to have a little
wild garden of my own, and I shall press the flowers and send them to
mother in my letters."

"I daresay you will be able to do that, when you have finished your
household work and done your teaching in the school."

"Teaching in the school?"

"Why, of course you will help me in that. You'll have to take the
girls' class, whilst I take the boys'."

"Oh, shall I? That's rather horrid. I didn't think I was going out to
Africa to teach, just the same as at home. The National School children
at Aldermaston are quite tiresome enough. What will little black girls
be like, I wonder?"

"I'm told they're very quick at learning.... I am sorry," continued
John, rather portentously, "that you don't quite seem to realize the
nature of the duties you are about to undertake. I love you very
dearly, Lucy"--and a tremor in his voice showed sincerity--"but that
isn't the only reason I have asked you to come out to me in Africa and
be my wife. I want a helpmeet, not a playmate; one who will aid me in
bringing these heathen to a knowledge of God's goodness; not an idle
woman who only thinks of picking wild flowers and ornamenting her house.
Don't pout, dear. I only want to save you disappointment. You are not
coming out to a life of luxury, but one of hard work. Besides, it would
be hardly fair to the Mission if you did not take certain duties on
yourself, because when I am married they will increase my pay to two
hundred and fifty pounds a year."

"What do you get when you are single?"

"One hundred and eighty. You see a married man gets extra pay because
it is always supposed his wife will add her work to his. A married
missionary, too, has more influence with the natives."

"All the same, John, we shall sometimes make time to steal away by
ourselves and have a nice little picnic without any of those horrid
black people near us...."

"Horrid black people, Lucy, have immortal souls...."

"I daresay, but that doesn't prevent their having black bodies and
looking like monkeys. However, I daresay I shall get used to them. And
if I don't at first ... By the bye, John, I forgot to ask, but I wanted
to, so as to relieve mother's mind--are they cannibals?"

"What, the people of Hangodi? I don't know, but I scarcely think so.
And if they were, we should have all the more credit in converting
them."

"Yes; but suppose they wouldn't wait to be converted, but ate you
first?"

"The little I've read and heard shows me they would never do that.
African cannibals, it seems, are rather careful whom they eat.
Generally only their war captives or their old people. They wouldn't
eat a peaceful stranger, a white man. However, on the east side of
Africa the negroes are _not_ cannibals, any more than we are."

"Isn't it curious, John, to think what different ideas of right and
wrong prevail amongst the peoples of the world? Here, you say, there
are some tribes in Africa which eat their own relations. Well, I
daresay it is thought quite a right and proper thing to do--out
there--just as we in England think the old folk ought to be cherished
and taken care of, and kept alive as long as possible. Only fancy how
funny it would sound to us to be told that Mr. Jones showed very bad
feeling because he wouldn't join his brother and sister in eating up old
Aunt Brown! And yet I daresay that is what cannibal scandal-mongers
often say to one another. Isn't it wonderful how one lot of human
beings can think and act so differently to another lot; and yet each
party considers that nobody is right but those who believe as they do?
Supposing one day some black missionaries landed in England, dressed in
large earrings, bead necklaces, pocket handkerchiefs and nothing else,
and tried to persuade us to worship some hideous idol and leave off
wearing so many clothes. How astonished we would be ... and yet they
would think they were doing right, just as our missionaries do who go
out to teach savages the Gospel...."

"Well, I confess I don't see the resemblance. What we preach is the
Truth, the Living Truth. What _they_ believe is a lie of the Devil."

"Yes, but they don't _know_ it is. They must think it is the truth or
they wouldn't go on believing in it year after year. When I was
teaching geography the other day, I was quite _astonished_ to find in
the Manual that about _four or five hundred millions_ of people were
Buddhists. Isn't it _dreadful_ to think of their all being wrong, all
living in vain. Surely God won't punish them for it hereafter?"

"It's hard to say. If they had the means of grace offered to them and
rejected the Message I should think He would. But that is the chief
object of our Foreign Missions, to teach the heathen the true principles
of Christianity and bring the Light of the Gospel to them that sit in
darkness. When this has been done throughout the earth, no one will
then be able to say he sinned in ignorance, 'because he knew not the way
of Life.'"

"And yet, John, see here in England what different views of religion
even good people take. Father goes to Church; you go to Chapel; and
each thinks the other on the wrong road to Heaven."

"Oh no! Lucy, I wouldn't go so far as that. Of course, I believe that
our Connection has been vouchsafed a special revelation of God's Will
and Purpose among men. But all the same I feel sure that many a Church
person comes into the way of Truth though it may be after much
tribulation. Why, I wouldn't deny that even _Roman Catholics_ may be
saved, if they have led a godly life and acted up to their lights. At
the same time, those who have the Truth among them and are wilfully
blind to its teaching are incurring a heavy responsibility."

"Then you think father stands less chance of being saved than you do?"

"Well ... yes ... I do; because in his Church he does not possess the
same means of grace as are given to our Connection."

"But he is so good, so kind to every one, so fair in his dealings..."

"Good works without faith are insufficient to save a man."

"Well, for my part, I can't believe that _any_ one will be lost because
he may not follow the most correct kind of religion. I can't believe
that God will punish any one who isn't very, very wicked indeed. He is
so great; we are so little.... Just think, supposing we saw an ant
doing anything wrong should we feel obliged to hurt it or burn it?
Should we not be rather amused and pitiful? And mustn't we seem the
very tiniest of ants to God?"

"Ah, Lucy! The belief in the fierce judgments of the Almighty is a
fundamental Truth of our religion, and if your faith in _that_ is
shaken, everything will begin to go.... But the subject is too solemn
to be lightly discussed, so let's talk about something else. Have you
finished my slippers?"

"Yes, and they're perfectly _lovely_. A dark blue, with J.B.
embroidered in white silk. I shall bring them with me to the station
to-morrow.... Why, here we are at the gates of the garden! _How_ we've
walked and _how_ we've talked! And look, John,"--drawing him back from
standing too near the iron gates, "there's his lordship on the terrace,
and I do believe the young lady with him is the one he's become engaged
to!"

John looked in the direction whither Lucy discreetly inclined her head,
beyond triumphs of carpet-bedding to the terrace which fronted the south
side of the great house. And there, foremost of several groups of
Sunday callers who were taking tea at small tables, they saw specially
prominent a party of three: a pretty girl rather showily dressed in the
height of 1886 fashion, an old lady, and an elderly man, tall, a little
inclined to stoop, dressed in dark, loose-fitting tweeds. He had a long
face with a massive jaw and rather a big nose. But though they were not
visible at a distance of fifty yards there were kindly wrinkles round
his dark grey eyes as he suddenly lifted them from the seated ladies and
glanced across the flower beds to see who was looking at him from the
outer world.

This was Lord Silchester; and John, not wishing to prolong his
indiscretion, raised his wide-awake and turned away with his betrothed.
He and Lucy then walked directly to Aldermaston, John leaving her at the
railway station, where he consummated his breach of the Sabbath by
taking an evening train back to Theale, and so returned to his home at
the Aerated Waters factory for the last night he was ever to pass there.

The next morning, punctually at seven o'clock, Lucy's father drew up his
gig before the booking-office of Theale station, and, getting a porter
to hold the horse, helped Lucy down and accompanied her on to the
station platform, where they found the Baines family already assembled:
Mrs. Baines gloomily seated on a bench, Mr. Baines reading the old
newspaper placards of the closed bookstall, and John busy seeing his
numerous boxes labelled.

"Hullo, Baines!--and ma'am--hope you're well ... a bit cast down, I
expect? But there, it's a fine career he's starting on.... Still, it's
always a wrench. John"--extending his hand--"I've just called in to wish
you good luck _and_ a prosperous voyage _and_ a happy return, by and
bye. Mind you make a comfortable home out there for my little girl! I
shall be feeling about as bad as you feel, ma'am" (Mrs. Baines kept a
perfectly impassive face during these attempts at sympathy and did not
even look at the speaker), "next--when is it to be? March?--when I come
to part with Lucy. But life's made up of partings and meetings, which
is why, some'ow, I don't like railway stations. Now I can't stop, and
if I could, I should only be in the way. Must be off to market. Leave
you Lucy. She'll walk back to school. Good-bye, John...."

And Farmer Josling hurried out of the station and his horse's hoofs
sounded in quick succession on the ascent to the main road. Lucy, left
behind actually found herself regretting that father had brought her in
such good time as to give her five-and-twenty minutes or more of
irresolute attendance on John. When she had presented him with the
slippers, had squeezed his hand two or three times, and adjured him to
write from the first stopping-place, besides sending a postcard from
London to say he was leaving "all right"; had made a few suggestions
about his luggage which, in spite of the urbanity of departure, were too
futile to be answered or adopted; and had insisted on pushing the band
of his blue tie under the shirt button at the back of his neck, so that
it might not rise up over the collar: there seemed to be nothing left to
say or do. The bookstall was not yet opened so there were no papers to
be bought.

She would have talked with Mrs. Baines, who had retired to the little
waiting-room and was pretending there to read a great roll of texts in
big print hung against one of the walls. But at her first remark she
noticed Mrs. Baines's eyelids were quivering and her under lip twitching
in a way to indicate that she was a prey to almost uncontrollable
emotion. Although she mechanically turned the leaves of the texts, her
eyes were not focussing them, and something seemed to be moving up and
down her lank throat which she could not finally swallow. She only
answered Lucy's remark by an inarticulate gurgle and waved her away.
There was something so pathetic in her dismal ugliness, in her awkwardly
restrained emotion, that Lucy was suddenly moved to pity as she returned
to the platform. Her embarrassment was cut short by the tumult
occasioned by the approaching train, heralded by the clanging of the
station bell. The train was full and John had hurriedly to pass all the
second class compartments in review to find a place not only for himself
but for the amorphous packages deemed too frail for the guard's van.
When at last he had squeezed himself and his parcels past the
obstructing knees of the established passengers; he had just time to
twist round, stretch out over his surly neighbours' laps, and squeeze
Lucy's timorously extended hand. Then the train gave a lurch forward
and a slide backwards which made him nearly bite his tongue off in an
attempt to say good-bye to his parents, and finally rolled slowly out of
the station, while the forms of father, mother, and sweetheart left
standing on the platform grouped themselves for one moment in an
attitude of mute farewell before the advance of the train cut them off
from his sight.