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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e901e28 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61378 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61378) diff --git a/old/61378-0.txt b/old/61378-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c75562f..0000000 --- a/old/61378-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,26036 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Joyce, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Joyce - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61378] -[Last updated: August 10, 2020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - JOYCE - - - - - JOYCE - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF ‘THE SECOND SON,’ ‘A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN,’ - ‘THE WIZARD’S SON,’ ‘EFFIE OGILVIE,’ ETC. - - London - MACMILLAN AND CO. - AND NEW YORK - 1891 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - _First Edition_ (_3 Vols. Crown 8vo_), 1888 - _Second Edition_ (_1 Vol. Crown 8vo_), 1889 - _Reprinted 1891_ - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -It was a coming of age, and yet not a coming of age. The hero in honour -of whom all these festivities were, was a bearded man, who had been -absent in all sorts of dangerous places since the moment when he was -supposed formally to have ended the state of pupilage. That had been -later than common, since the will of his uncle, whom he had succeeded, -had stipulated that he was to come of age at twenty-five. He was nearer -thirty when he came home, bearded as has been said, bronzed, with -decorations upon his breast, and a character quite unlike that of the -young hero to whom such honours are usually paid. His position -altogether was a peculiar one. The estates of the family were not -entailed, and Mr. Bellendean of Bellendean, the uncle, had passed over -his own brother, who was still living, and left everything to his -nephew; so that Norman was in the peculiar position of being received by -his father and mother in a house which was not theirs but his, and of -standing in the place of the head of the family, while the natural head -of his own branch of the family was put aside. The character of the -people made this as little embarrassing as it was possible for such a -false position to be, but still it was not easy; and as the young man -was full of delicate feeling and susceptibility, notwithstanding an -acquaintance with the world unusual in his circumstances, he had looked -forward to it with some apprehension. Perhaps it would be wiser to say -that he thought he was acquainted with the world. He had been ‘knocking -about’ for the last ten years, seeing all the service that was to be -seen, and making acquaintance with various quarters of the globe. He -thought he knew men and life. In reality he knew a little of Scotland, a -great deal of India, and had a trifling acquaintance with some of the -colonies; but of London, Paris, all the capitals that count for -anything, and all the life that counts for anything, he was as ignorant -as a child. - -This combination is one which was not at all unusual in Scotland a -generation since, and produced a kind of character full of attraction, -the most piquant mixture of experience and ignorance, of simplicity and -knowledge, that can be conceived. A man who had an eye as keen as -lightning for the wiles of an Eastern, were he prince or slave, but -could be taken in with the most delightful ease by the first cab-driver -in the streets; who could hold his own before a durbar of astute -oriental politicians, but was at the mercy of the first flower-girl who -offered him a rosebud for his buttonhole, or _gamin_ who held his horse. -He had the defects as well as the virtues common to a dominant race, and -probably was imperious and exacting in the sphere which he knew best; -but this tendency was completely neutralised by the confusion which -arose in his mind from the fact of finding himself suddenly among a -population entirely made up of this dominant race, to whom he could be -nothing but polite, whatever their condition might be. He was very -polite and friendly to the railway porters, to all the people he -encountered on the journey home, and reluctant to give trouble to the -pretty fair chambermaids at the hotels, or to pass, without inquiring -into their story, the women who begged or sold trifles on the streets. -‘A respectable-looking woman, and English by her accent,’ he would say. -‘We must stop and inquire into it. There must be a reason, you know.’ -‘Oh yes; probably there’s a reason. Come along, or you’ll have all the -vagrants at your heels,’ his more experienced companion would reply. -They had thus a little difficulty in getting him safely through the -streets at his first arrival. Home was strange to him; it was a place -where all the men were honest and all the women true. He was ready to -believe everything that was said to him in the new England which somehow -was so unlike the old which he had seen only in passing so long ago. - -The party he had brought with him consisted of two or three brother -officers, unnecessary to dwell upon here; an older friend, Colonel -Hayward, whom he had known very well and served under, and who had now -retired from the service, who joined young Bellendean in Edinburgh, -being already in the North; and a young man about town called Essex, who -had made a tour in India a year before, and was very willing to repay -the kindness shown him then by taking care of his military friend and -steering him through the dangers of London. Essex, who had a mild handle -to his name, and was Sir Harry, would have liked to prolong the period -of his tutorship, and lead his young soldier about into pleasures and -wonders unknown. But the claims of Bellendean and the great festivities -concerted there were supreme. It was thus a party of four or five young -men, chaperoned, if the word is applicable, by the _vieux moustache_, -the steady old soldier, as ready for a frolic as any of them, who was -yet, as he assured them, old enough to be their father, who arrived at -the Bellendean station, where flags were flying, and the militia band -blaring forth its welcome, and a body of mounted farmers waiting to -escort their landlord to his paternal halls. For Bellendean it was a -very fine reception indeed; and Norman himself, being of a simple mind, -was much impressed. If the others laughed a little, that was partly, no -doubt, because they were by no means the heroes of the day, and because, -in the eagerness about ‘the Ca’aptain,’ the desire to identify him, and -the disdainful indifference shown to everything that was not he, these -gentlemen were thrown into the background, where they grinned and looked -on. Colonel Hayward, however, was as much impressed and still more -delighted than Norman. He would have liked to shake hands with all the -tenantry as he did with Mr. Bellendean the father, and assure them all -that ‘there could not be a finer fellow;’ and when they raised a cheer -as the carriage drove off, joined in it lustily, with a sense of being -at once a spectator yet an actor in the scene which it was delightful to -see. - -Bellendean was a handsome house, of no particular age or pretensions, -not very far from Edinburgh. That beautiful town was indeed visible from -various points in the park, which, on the other hand, commanded a view -of the Firth and the low hills of Fife, at the point where the great -estuary closes in, and with a peaceful little island in mid-stream, and -a ruin or two on the margin of the water, forms that tranquil basin, in -which, driven by storms of wind and storms of nations, the Athelings, -pious folk, the Confessor’s kindred--not strong enough by themselves to -hold head against fierce Normans and Saxons any more than against the -wild tides of the Northern Ocean--once found a refuge. The rich and -mellow landscape, brightened with vast rolling fields of corn and -ripening orchards, startled the visitors from India, whose ideas of -Scotland were all Highland; but increased their respect for their lucky -comrade, of whom they had been accustomed to think that his estate was -some little patrimony among the mountains, where there might indeed be -grouse and perhaps deer to make poverty sweet, but nothing more -profitable. The Lowland landscape lay under a flood of afternoon light. -The roads were populous with passengers,--there were groups of ladies -in front of the house, on the terrace to which the long windows opened: -a beautiful park and fine trees, and all the evidences of that large -life which a country potentate leads in what our fathers called his -‘seat.’ Everything was wealthy, almost splendid; Bellendean himself felt -a certain awe as he looked upon all this which was his own. He -remembered everything keenly, and yet it had not seemed to him so great, -so imposing in his recollection as it was in reality. He had remembered -his own favourite haunts, which were not the most important features in -the scene. He turned to his father with a curious shyness and -embarrassment. ‘I had forgotten what a fine place it was,’ he said; but -his eyes said something else, which natural reserve and the presence of -strangers kept from his lips. What his eyes said was--‘Pardon! that it -should not be yours but mine.’ - -‘It is a fine place,’ said Mr. Bellendean. ‘The places we have known -only in youth are apt to look diminished when we come back. I am glad it -has not that effect on you. All the same, my dear boy, I am glad it is -you and not I that have to live in it. Neither my wife nor I care much -for Bellendean.’ - -At this Norman grasped his father’s hand, and said, ‘You are very good, -sir,’ in a way which much perplexed the excellent Colonel, who did not -understand wherein the virtue lay, and who was further stricken dumb by -the next question. ‘In the confusion and excitement of seeing you again, -I believe I have not asked for Mrs. Bellendean?’ - -The reader is too experienced not to perceive that this question, which -bewildered Colonel Hayward, conveyed the not very extraordinary fact -that Norman had a step-mother, which was one of the chief reasons of his -long absence. Not that Mrs. Bellendean was a harsh or cruel step-mother, -or one of those spoilers of domestic peace who flourish in literature -under that title; but only that the young man remembered his mother, and -could ill bear to see another in her place. She stood on the steps of -the great door at this moment, awaiting the carriage--a woman not more -than forty, tall and fair, dressed a little more soberly than her age -required, but full of youth and animation in look and figure. A number -of ladies stood behind her, some of them ’as pretty creatures as ever I -saw,’ the Colonel said to himself--cousins of all degrees, old -playfellows, old friends. The _vieux moustache_ stood by while these -pleasant spectators surged about young Bellendean. He stood aside and -made his remarks. ‘I shouldn’t wonder now if he might marry any one of -them,’ he said to himself. ‘Lucky fellow. I shouldn’t wonder now if -they were all waiting till he throws the handkerchief. Talk about -sultans! all those pretty English--no, they are Scotch--girls: and he -could have any one of them!’ The Colonel sighed at the thought. He -belonged himself to an age in which statistics had no place, before it -was known that there was a million or so of superfluous women, and being -a chivalrous soul he did not like it. He was much pleased to discover -afterwards that several of the young ladies were married, and so out of -the competition. But it was a pretty sight. - -After this the days were tolerably well filled. There was a dinner to -the neighbouring gentry, and a dinner to the tenantry. There was a ball. -There was a great supper in tents to the labourers and cottagers on the -estate; finally, there was a vast entertainment for the school children -in the united parishes of Bellendean and Prince’s Ferry. The Colonel -went through them all manfully. He carried out his original impulse, -shook hands with everybody, and said, ‘I assure you he’s a capital -fellow.’ ‘I had him under my command at So-and-so, and So-and-so, and I -know what’s in him.’ In this way Colonel Hayward was himself a great -success. The old county neighbours liked the assurance he gave them, and -the farmers delighted in it. And when it came to the turn of the masses, -and the old soldier went about among the tables at the labourers’ supper -repeating his formula, the enthusiasm was immense. ‘Eh, Cornel, but -that’s a real satisfaction,’ the old men said. ‘Sae lang as he’s done -his duty, what can mortal man do mair?’ His own assurances and -reassurances went to the good Colonel’s head. He felt like a trumpeter -whose note was the word of command to everybody, and marched about with -his head high. ‘I assure you he’s a capital fellow, a capital fell----’ -He was in the very act of repeating them, when the words seemed to fail -him all at once. He stopped in the middle with his mouth open, and gazed -at some one who at that moment for the first time caught his eye. - -Was it because her place did not seem to be there? A girl of twenty or -so--tall, slight, her figure like a lily-stalk slightly swaying forward, -her head raised, with a tremor of sympathy in every feature. Her face -was like a lily too, pale, with large eyes, either brown or blue, he -could not be sure which, and long eyelashes uplifted; and the most -sensitive mouth, which smiled yet quivered, and made as though repeating -the words, which the eyes seemed to divine before they were said. She -was seated at the end of a table with two old people, too old to be her -father and mother, looking as if she had strayed there by some strange -chance, as if she had nothing to do with the vulgar features of the -feast, like a young princess who had sat down among them to please them. -The words were stopped upon the Colonel’s lips. He broke down in the -middle, and stood staring at her, not knowing where he was. Good Lord! -that face: and sitting there among the common people, among the -labourers, the ploughmen! It did not seem to Colonel Hayward that -anybody about was surprised at his stare. They, too, turned round and -looked at her kindly, or--not kindly, as the case might be. But they -were not surprised. They understood his wonder. ‘Ay, sir, she’s a very -bonnie lass,’ said one old man. ‘A bonnie lass! a bonnie lass!’ the -Colonel repeated; but not with the tone in which he had spoken about the -capital fellow. It was as if some blow had been struck at him which took -away his utterance. He hurried up to Mrs. Bellendean, who stood at the -head of the tent looking on. ‘A young lady, my dear Colonel? there are -no young ladies there.’ ‘You must know her if I could but point her out -to you. She is like no one else about her. It is not curiosity. I have a -particular reason for asking.’ ‘Tell me what she was like,’ the gracious -lady said; but just then her husband came to consult her about -something, and the opportunity was lost. - -Colonel Hayward retired from his trumpeting for that night. He let -Norman’s reputation take its chance. He was very silent all the rest of -the evening, not even repeating his question when he had an opportunity, -but sitting by himself and thinking it over. It was a remarkable face: -but no doubt the resemblance must be a chance resemblance. There are so -many faces in the world, and some of them here and there must resemble -each other. It must be something in his own mind, some recollection that -had come to him unawares, an association from the Scotch voices he heard -round him. That, when he came to think of it, must have been working in -his mind all day; indeed, ever since he came. And this was the issue. -Every mental process (people say) can be explained if you trace it out. -And this one was not so difficult after all, not difficult at all, when -you came to think of it, he said to himself, nodding his head; but all -the same, he could not help wishing that Elizabeth had been here. And -then he began to think again of that girl. She was not like a girl to be -found sitting with the ploughmen’s families. He seemed to see her before -him, especially when he shut his eyes and gave himself up to it, which -he did in a retired corner on the terrace after everybody had gone away. -Though it was late, there was still light in the skies, partly the -lingering northern daylight, partly the moon, and he shut his eyes -while he smoked his cigar and pondered. He could see her before him, -that girl, in a dark dress made (he thought--but then he did not know -much about it) like a lady’s--certainly with a face like a lady’s, or -how could she have resembled----? Of course, it was only association, -and the recollections that came back to him with those Lowland voices. -The Highland ones had never affected him in the same way. The fact was, -he said to himself, he was never half a man when Elizabeth was not with -him. She would have understood the sequence of ideas at once. She would -have found out in five minutes who the girl was and all about her, and -set him at rest. He was interrupted in those thoughts by the sudden -irruption of the band of young men with their cigars into the balmy -quiet of the night. It was warm, and they had found the smoking-room -hot. ‘And there is old Hayward gone to sleep in a corner,’ he heard one -of them say. - -‘He must not sleep,’ said Mr. Bellendean; ‘wake him up, Norman. The air -here is too keen for that.’ - -‘I am no more asleep than any one of you young fellows,’ the Colonel -said, jumping up. ‘But as old Hayward has more sense than a set of boys, -he kept outside here in the cool while you were all heating yourselves -in the smoking-room. I don’t think they’ve got the best of it this time, -Mr. Bellendean, eh?’ - -‘They don’t half so often as they think,’ said the other old gentleman. -They were neither of them very old, but they drew together with a -natural sympathy amid that band of youth. - -Next day was the concluding day of the Bellendean festivities, and it -was chiefly to be devoted to the children. In the afternoon the park was -turned into an immense playground. Every kind of game and entertainment -that could be thought of was provided. There was a conjurer, there was -Punch, there was a man with marionettes, and what the children liked -still better, there were games of all kinds, in which they could -themselves perform, which is always more agreeable than seeing other -people do so. And finally, there was tea--a wonderful tea, in which -mountains of cake and cookies innumerable disappeared like magic. The -ladies were all there, serving actively the flushed and happy crowds of -children, throwing themselves into it with much more sympathy than they -had shown with the substantial feasts of the previous days. The young -men were set free, they were not required to help in the entertainment -of the boys and girls; and except Norman, who had bravely determined to -do his duty to the end, the male portion of the company was represented -only by Mr. Bellendean and the Colonel, who looked on from the terrace, -and finally took a walk round the tent where the meal was going on, and -partook, as the newspapers say, of a cup of tea at a little separate -table in a corner, where Mrs. Bellendean was taking that refreshment. It -was when the Colonel (who liked his tea) was standing with a cup in his -hand, just outside the great tent, which was steaming with the -entertainment, that he suddenly stopped once more in the midst of a -little speech he was making about the pleasure of seeing children enjoy -themselves. He stopped with a little start, and then he set down his cup -and turned back to watch something. It was afternoon, but the sun was -still high in the skies, and even under the tent there was full -daylight, impaired by no shadows or uncertainty. The shade within gave a -suppressed and yellow glow to everything, something like the air of a -theatre: and in the midst there she stood once more, the girl of last -night! The Colonel gazed at her with an absorption, an abstraction, -which was extraordinary. He saw nothing but only her alone. She had been -seated by the old ploughman on the previous night as if she belonged to -him; but now she was moving about among the children as the young ladies -were doing, serving and encouraging: her dress was very simple, but so -was theirs, and there was not one of them more graceful, more at her -ease. Everybody knew her. She seemed to be referred to on all hands; by -the children, who came clinging about her--by the visitors, who seemed -to consult her upon everything. Who could she be? The clergyman’s -daughter perhaps; but then, how had she come to be seated last night -between the old couple, who were clearly labouring people, at the -cottagers’ supper? And how had she come by that face? Whoever she might -be, gentlewoman or rustic maiden, how had she come by that face? There -was the wonder. - -The Colonel stood fascinated, immovable, at the tent-door, looking in, -seeing all the moving crowd of faces only as a background to this one, -which seemed, in his fancy, to reign over them all. Her face was not -still and attentive, as on the previous night, but full of animation and -life. He watched the children come round her as they finished their -meal, which was pretty to see; he watched the ladies coming and going, -always circling more or less about this one figure. He watched Norman -going up to her, holding out his hand, which she took, showing for the -first time a little rustic shyness, curtseying as if he had been a -prince. Then he saw a quite different sort of man from Norman, one of -the schoolmasters, go to her in his turn and say something in her ear, -with an evident claim upon her attention and a lingering touch on her -arm, which spoke much, which made the Colonel angry, as if the fellow -had presumed. But the girl evidently did not think he presumed. A smile -lighted up her face, which she turned to him looking up in his. Colonel -Hayward felt a movement of impatience take possession of him: and then a -still stronger feeling swept across his mind. As she turned her face -with that look of tender attention to the man who addressed her, she -turned it also to the spectator looking at her from the tent-door. The -line of the uplifted head, the soft chin, the white throat, the eyes -raised with their long eyelashes--‘Good God! who is she?’ he said aloud. - -Mrs. Bellendean saw the absorbed expression in his face, and came and -stood beside him to see what he was looking at. Her own face relaxed -into smiles when she found out the object of his gaze. ‘Oh, I don’t -wonder now at your interest, Colonel. I am sure she has had no tea; she -would never think of looking after herself. Now, come, you shall see her -nearer; she is worth looking at: Joyce!’ she cried. - -‘Joyce! Good God!’ - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Colonel Hayward sank down upon a bench which stood close to the tent -door. The light swam in his eyes. He saw only as through a mist the -light figure advancing, standing docile and obedient by the side of the -great lady. The name completed the extraordinary impression which the -looks had made; he kept saying it over to himself under his breath in -his bewilderment. ‘Joyce! Good Lord!’ But presently the urgency of the -circumstances brought him to himself. He breathed in his soul a secret -desire for Elizabeth: then manned himself to act on his own behalf, -since no better could be. - -‘This is the very best girl in the world, Colonel Hayward,’ said Mrs. -Bellendean, with a hand upon Joyce’s shoulder. ‘I don’t wonder she -interested you. She has taught herself every sort of thing--Latin and -mathematics, and I don’t know all what. Our school is always at the head -in all the examinations, and she really raises quite an enthusiasm among -the children. I don’t know what we should do without her. Whenever we -come here, Joyce is my right hand, and has been since she was quite a -child.’ - -If it was condescension, it was of the most gracious kind. Mrs. -Bellendean kept patting Joyce on the shoulder as she spoke, with a -caressing touch: and her eyes and her voice were both soft. The girl -responded with a look full of tenderness and pleasure. ‘Oh, mem, it is -you who are always so good to me,’ she said. - -The schoolmistress then! That was how the ploughman’s daughter had got -her superior look. When he saw her closer, he thought he saw -(enlightened by this knowledge) that it was only a superior look, not -the aspect of a lady as he had supposed. Her dress had not the dainty -perfection of the young ladies’ dresses; her hands were not delicate -like theirs: and she said ‘mem’ to her patroness with an accent -which---- Ah! but what did that accent remind him of? and the face? and, -good heavens! the name? These criticisms passed like a cloud across his -mind; the bewilderment and anxiety remained. He rose up from the bench, -nobody having thought anything of his sudden subsidence, except that -perhaps the old Colonel was tired with standing about. Oh that Elizabeth -had been here! but in her absence he must do what he could for himself. - -‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘would you tell me how you got your name? It is a -very uncommon name: and your face is not a common face,’ he added, with -nervous haste. ‘I knew some one once----’ - -His voice seemed to go away from him into his throat. It was curious to -see him, at his age, so unsteady and agitated, swaying from one foot to -another, stammering, flushing under the limpid modest eyes of this -country girl, who, on her part, coloured suddenly, looked at him, and -then at Mrs. Bellendean, with a faint cry, ‘Oh, sir!’ - -‘Where she got her name?’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘It is not so easily -answered as perhaps you think. I will tell you afterwards. It is a very -uncommon name. Joyce, my dear, what is the little secret you have been -plotting, and when is it to be made known?’ - -The young woman stood for a moment without replying. ‘How can I help -wondering?’ she said, with a long-drawn breath. ‘How can I think of -common things? Nobody has ever asked me that question before.’ Then, -with a sudden effort, she recovered her self-control. ‘It will be -nothing,’ she said quickly, as if to herself; ‘it will be some fancy: -I’ll go back to my work. It was no secret worth calling a secret, Mrs. -Bellendean--only some poems they learned to please me--to say to you and -the other ladies, if you will take your seats.’ - -‘Where would you like us to take our seats, Joyce?’ - -‘Yonder, under the big ash-tree. It’s very bonnie there. You can see the -Firth, and the ships sailing, and St. Margaret’s Hope; and you will look -like the Queen herself, with her ladies, under the green canopy. Will I -put the chair for you?’ cried the girl, in a Scotch confusion of verbs. -She gave the Colonel one glance, and then hurried off, as if determined -to distract her own attention. There were a few garden-chairs already -scattered about under a clump of trees, which crowned a little platform -of green--a very slight eminence, just enough to serve as a dais. She -drew them into place with a rapid and cunning hand, and caught quickly -at a Turkish rug of brilliant colour, which lay beside the tea-table, -placing it in front of the presiding chair. Her movements were very -swift and certain, and full of the grace of activity and capacity. -Meantime the Colonel stood by the side of Mrs. Bellendean, surveying -all. - -‘She is excited,’ said the lady. ‘She is a strange girl: your -question--which I have no doubt is a very simple question--has set her -imagination going. See what a picture she has made! and she could sketch -it too, if there was time. She is a sort of universal genius. And now -she is all on fire, hoping to find out something.’ - -‘Hoping to find out--what?’ - -‘Oh, my dear Colonel, it is a long story. I will tell you -afterwards--not a word more now, please. I don’t want her to form -expectations, poor girl---- Well Joyce--is that where I am to sit? I -shall feel quite like the Queen----’ - -‘With the young ladies behind,’ said Joyce, breathless. Her eyes were -full of impatient light, her sensitive lips quivering even while they -smiled--a rapid coming and going of expression, of movement and colour, -in her usually pale face. The Colonel stood gazing at her, his mouth -slightly open, his eyes fixed. Oh, if Elizabeth were but here, who would -know what to do! - -The scene that followed was very pretty, if his mind had been -sufficiently free to take it in. The little girls, in their bright -summer frocks, subdued by the darker costumes of the boys, poured forth -from their eclipse under the tent, and gathered in perpetually moving -groups round the little slope. The ladies took their places, smiling and -benignant--Mrs. Bellendean in the centre, two of the prettiest girls -behind her chair, the others seated about. They all submitted to Joyce, -asking, ‘Shall I sit here?’ ‘Shall I stand?’ ‘What am I to do?’ with gay -docility. When it was all arranged to her liking, Joyce turned towards -the children. She stood at one side, pointing towards the pretty group -under the trees, holding her own fine head high, with a habit of public -speaking, which the Colonel thought--and perhaps also Norman Bellendean, -who was looking on--one of the prettiest sights he ever saw. - -‘Children,’ said the young schoolmistress, lifting her arm, with simple -natural eloquence, ‘this is a tableau--a beautiful tableau for you to -see. If you ever read the word in a book, or in the papers, you will -know what it means. It is a French word. It means a living group--that -is like a picture. This is our Scots Queen Margaret--a far grander Queen -than her they call the Queen of Scots in your history-books--Margaret -that was the Atheling, that married Malcolm Canmore, that was the son of -King Duncan, who was murdered by--who was murdered by---- Speak quick! -What do you mean, you big girls? Why, it’s in Shakespeare!’ cried Joyce, -with a ring of indignant wonder in her voice, as if the possibility of a -mistake in such a case was beyond belief. - -There was a movement among a group of girls, and some whispering and -hasty consultation: then one put forth a nervous hand, and cried, but -faltering, ‘Macbeth.’ - -‘I thought you would not put me to shame before all the ladies!’ cried -Joyce, with a suffusion of sudden colour: for she had been pale with -suspense. Then she added, in a business-like tone: ‘It is you, Jean, -that are to say Portia. The Queen will hear you. Come well forward, and -speak out.’ - -It was not a masterpiece of elocution. The speaker blushed and fumbled, -and clasped and unclasped her fingers in agonies of shyness--while Joyce -stood by with her head on one side, prompting, encouraging, her lips -forming the words, but only twenty times more quickly, as her pupil -spoke them. The Colonel was so absorbed in this sight that he started -when a voice spoke suddenly at his elbow, and recoiling a step or two -instinctively, saw that it was the young man, evidently a schoolmaster, -who had been with Joyce in the tent. He was looking at her with a -mixture of tenderness and pride. - -‘It is quite wonderful how she does it,’ he said. ‘I’ve no reason to -think I’m unsuccessful myself with my big boys; but I have not got them -under command like that. They will make very acute remarks, sir, that -would surprise you, in the Shakespeare class--but answer like that, no. -It is personal influence that does it--and I never saw anybody in that -respect to equal Joyce.’ - -It gave the Colonel a sensation of anger to hear this fellow call her -Joyce. He turned and looked at him again. But there was nothing to -object to in him. He was not a gentleman; but he was what is called in -his own class quite a gentleman--a young fellow of very tolerable -appearance, whose clothes were of the most respectable description, and -who wore them as if he were used to them. He had as good a necktie as -Norman’s, and a flower in his coat. But when he stood by Norman it was -apparent that there was a good deal wanting. He was in all probability -much cleverer than Norman. He spoke of Shakespeare with an awe-striking -familiarity as if he knew all about him--which was more than the -Colonel did. All the same he felt a sensation of offence at the use by -this man of the girl’s Christian name. - -‘Miss Joyce--is evidently a young lady of unusual gifts,’ he said. - -The face of the young man flushed with pleasure. ‘Sir,’ he cried, ‘you -never said a truer word. She is just running over with capability. She -can do anything she sets her hand to. I sometimes feel as if I grudged -her to be in the line of public tuition all her life. But when there are -two of us,’ he added proudly, ‘we will see what we can do.’ - -What did the fellow mean? two of them! and one this wonderful girl? the -Colonel turned his back upon him in indignation, then turned again in -curiosity. ‘Is it common,’ he said, ‘in Scotch parish schools to have a -Shakespeare class?’ - -‘Our common people, sir,’ said the young man quietly, with a look of -self-complacence which made the Colonel long to knock him down--‘our -common people are far more educated as a rule than you find them in -England. But no--I would not say it was common. There are many of my -friends that have poetry classes, which are optional, you know, on a -Saturday afternoon or other free moment. I’m not ashamed to say that it -was from her _I_ took the hint--though you will think it is seldom a -woman takes the lead in such a matter. She started it, and several of us -have followed her example. She is, as you say, a creature of most -uncommon gifts.’ - -‘And yet a ploughman’s daughter in a Scotch village: with that face--and -that name!’ - -The young schoolmaster gave a sort of doubtful cough, the meaning of -which the Colonel could not divine. ‘That is how she has been brought -up,’ he said; ‘but you are perhaps not aware, sir, that many a wonderful -character has come from a Scotch ploughman’s house. Not to speak of -Burns, there was----’ - -‘Oh, I am aware the Scotch are a most superior nation,’ cried the -Colonel, with a laugh. - -‘That is just the simple truth,’ the young man said. - -Meanwhile the recitations were going on, which perhaps were not equal in -quality to the rest of Joyce’s arrangements. She was in extreme earnest -about it all, it was evident to see, and eager that everything should -produce the best effect. A few mothers, who had known what was going to -happen, had gathered about, listening with proud delight yet anxiety -lest they should break down, each to her own child. Among them was a -little old woman, sunburnt and rosy as a winter apple, with an -old-fashioned black bonnet tied down over her ears, and a huge Paisley -shawl almost covering her dark cotton gown. ‘You think but of your own -bairns,’ she was saying, ‘but I think of them a’; for it’s a’ my J’yce’s -doing, and she will just break her heart if there’s any failure.’ - -‘There will be nae failure; they’re owre weel trained for that.’ - -‘I’ve no a word to say against J’yce; but she’s awfu’ fond of making a -show,’ another woman said. - -‘If she’s fond of making a show, it’s never of hersel’,--it’s always -your bairns she puts to the front; and if you dinna like it,’ cried the -old woman, ‘what brings ye here?’ - -The Colonel, who had the best of manners, stepped forward and took off -his hat. ‘I guess by what you say, ma’am, that you are Miss Joyce’s -mother?’ he said. - -The old woman was a little startled and fluttered by this unexpected -address. She, too, hesitated, as they all seemed to do. ‘Weel,’ she -said, ‘sir, I’m all the poor thing has had for one; but no so good as -she deserved.’ - -‘Ma’am,’ said the Colonel, ‘the result of your training speaks for -itself, and that is the best practical test. Will you let me ask you a -question--and that is, whether the name Joyce is a family name?’ - -The old woman’s mouth and her eyes opened in astonishment. ‘Joyce,’ she -said feebly, ‘a family name?’ - -‘I mean--does she take it from a relation, as I have always heard was -the admirable Scotch way?’ - -‘Weel, sir,’ said the old lady, ‘if that is all, I have little doubt ye -are quite right. She would get it, it’s mair than probable, from her -mither.’ - -The Colonel gazed upon her with surprise. More than probable! what did -she mean? ‘Then it is your name too,’ he said, with a little -disappointment. There arose from the group a sudden burst of laughter -and explanation and denials, of which he could not make out a word. ‘Na, -na,’--that was all that reached him clearly. But what was meant by -it--whether that it was not the old mother’s name, or what other -negative--he could not make out: and just at this moment Mr. Bellendean -and Norman came up to him and drew him away. - -‘You have had enough of this, I am sure, Colonel. Come along, we are -going down to the Ferry to see what Essex and the rest are after. It’s -very good of you to give us your countenance to the last.’ - -‘My countenance! nothing of the sort, Norman. I’m very much -interested.’ - -‘In the little girls and their “pieces?"’ said Mr. Bellendean. - -‘In the young lady there who has taken so much trouble.’ - -‘What young lady?’ said the elder gentleman, looking about. Then he -added, in a careless tone, ‘Oh, Joyce! Yes, she’s an interesting -creature, isn’t she! It will please my wife if you admire Joyce.’ - -‘I think then, sir,’ said Norman, ‘I’ll please Mrs. Bellendean too.’ - -‘Oh, you! you’re a different matter. You had better keep to your own -set, my boy,’ said the father. ‘If you are so absorbed, Colonel, we’ll -leave you till you have had enough. You’ll find us at the Ferry. Come, -Norman, and look after your friends.’ - -The two gentlemen went away, the Colonel stayed. He was becoming -accustomed to the name and the face which had so much disturbed him. If -indeed it was a family name--and likenesses, we know, are very -fantastic--still for the sake of the name and face, he would like, he -thought, to see something more of her; he would like to give her some -token of his interest, if she would let him. He did not think that he -had ever been so much interested in any one before. He thought he could -never forget this little scene. Perhaps, on the whole, he was tired of -the recitations. He took a little stroll about, but came back always to -a point where he could see her. If Elizabeth were but here! She would -have known in a moment what to do. She would have found out all about -it; how the girl got that name at least, if not how she got that face. -By and by the little performance came to an end, and Mrs. Bellendean -made a gracious little speech praising every one, and got up from the -place under the trees where she had been posing as Queen Margaret; and -the children began to get into movement, to arrange themselves in their -respective bands, and to prepare for going away. - -‘How good of you to stay all the time, Colonel Hayward! They did their -best, poor things; but even Joyce cannot create a soul in the Jeanies -and Jennys. Now I think we had better go in; it is almost time to -dress,’ Mrs. Bellendean said. - -The Colonel could not but follow, but he cast wistful looks behind him. -‘I suppose it would only annoy her: but I should like to see more of -her,’ he said. - -‘Of Joyce? Colonel Hayward, I am afraid you are a dangerous person. I -can’t have you turning the head of the best girl in the world.’ - -He looked round again, lingering, unable to quit the spot. The little -procession was marshalled and ready to set out. But on the spot where -she had stood prompting and directing her pupils the young -schoolmistress was still standing, lingering like himself. She was -looking after him with wistful eyes, with a look of wondering -disappointment, as if she had expected something more. That look -awakened all the old excitement, which had partially calmed down in the -Colonel’s heart. The attitude, the raised head, the wistful look in the -eyes, all moved him again as at the first, with an overpowering sense of -likeness, almost identity. ‘What does it mean?’ he said; ‘I feel as if I -could not tear myself away. Who is she? There must be something in a -resemblance like that.’ - -‘Whom does she resemble, Colonel Hayward?’ - -The Colonel turned round again and gave his questioner a look. He looked -at her as if he wanted to know how far he could trust her. And then his -eyebrows and his mouth worked. ‘Of some one--a lady--who has been long -dead,’ he replied, ‘and her name--her name!’ - -‘You are very serious, Colonel; it is not only a passing interest? It is -really something--something! Oh, forgive me. I cannot have her -disturbed. She is all quivering with imagination and wonder.’ - -‘Mrs. Bellendean, there is some mystery about this girl. Why should she -wonder, why should she be disturbed? Me, yes. I am much disturbed. It is -something--of which I have not spoken for years. Oh, if Elizabeth were -only here!’ - -‘Then come with me to my room,’ Mrs. Bellendean said; ‘if we stay here -we shall be interrupted every moment. I am beginning to get excited -myself. Come this way. The window is always open, and nobody will know -we are there.’ - -She turned for a moment and waved her hand to Joyce, who had just taken -her place at the head of the band; then, turning up a side path, led -Colonel Hayward round an angle of the house to the open window of a -little morning-room. ‘Here,’ she said,--‘we can talk in quiet here.’ - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -It was a little business-room, but the business in it was chiefly -feminine. There were baskets of work, shelves full of books in homely -covers, a parish or Sunday-school library, and all the paraphernalia of -a country lady who ‘takes an interest’ in her poorer neighbours. It was -the room in which Mrs. Bellendean interviewed those of her dependants or -retainers who came to ask her advice, or whom she sent for to be -reproved or counselled. Her own chair stood in front of a -formidable-looking writing-table, and one other stood close by, awaiting -the respondent or defendant, whoever he or she might be. The windows -looked into a closely surrounding shrubbery, which shut out the view--as -if landscapes and such vanities had nothing to do with the sternness of -the business transacted here. Over the mantelpiece hung a large -engraving of Dr. Chalmers--the presiding divinity. Colonel Hayward came -in after her, somewhat tremulous, with a sense that some revelation was -about to be made to him. The excitement which he had tried to put off, -which he had tried to represent to himself as without foundation, as -proceeding from merely accidental resemblances, had once more gained -command of him, and with more power than ever. He felt certain now that -some discovery deeply concerning him was about to be made. - -‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Bellendean began, ‘is----’ - -‘I beg your pardon. Joyce what? Tell me her other name.’ - -‘My dear Colonel Hayward, if you will only listen to me! Joyce--has no -other name. Oh yes, she takes the name of the good old people who have -brought her up, who love her like their own child. She is a foundling, -Colonel Hayward.’ - -‘A foundling!’ The word did not discompose him as she had expected, but -evidently took him by surprise. A look of profound perplexity came upon -his face. He shook his head slightly, and gazed at her, as if he did not -know what to think. - -‘The story has been told to me so often that I feel as if I had known -all about it throughout, though this happened long before I came here. -It is a little more than twenty years ago. A lady arrived one evening at -the inn in the village. It is a very poor little place--the sort of -place where people coming out from Edinburgh on Sundays----’ - -He made her a little silent yet impatient sign of assent. - -‘You understand? Yes, a little bit of a place, where they had a humble -room or two sometimes to let in summer. She arrived there quite -unexpectedly. She had been going by Queensferry to Fife and the North, -and was too tired to go on. And they had no room for her at the Ferry -hotel. She had no maid or any one with her, but she seemed a lady to the -people here. They were all quite sure she was a lady--very like what -Joyce is now, pale, with that little movement of her lips which I tell -Joyce---- Colonel Hayward, you look as if you knew, as if you had -known---- Oh, do you think you can throw any light----’ - -‘For God’s sake go on--go on!’ - -‘To spare you the details,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘the poor thing was -about to have a baby: but showed her condition very little--so little -that there was no alarm, nor any idea of a--of a catastrophe. She walked -about a little in the evening, and perhaps over-tired herself. Anyhow, -in the middle of the night she was taken ill. The people made a great -fuss when they knew what it was, and wanted her to tell them who her -friends were, and her husband, and all that, which probably made -everything worse, though they had no unkind meaning. And so when the -child was born----’ - -The Colonel got up from his seat. He went to the window and looked out, -turning his back upon her; then returned to his chair like a man -distracted. Mrs. Bellendean paused in her narrative, startled by the -sudden movement, and sat silent watching him. He said, in a sort of -hoarse whisper, ‘She died?’ - -‘Not immediately. What happened was almost worse than dying; she went -out of her mind. Women have many things to bear that nobody thinks of. -They are subject to attacks of that kind at such times. The doctor -thought she would get better of it; but she did not live to get better, -poor thing! My sister-in-law, who was here then, heard of her, and was -very much interested and did all she could. But the poor girl died in -about three weeks, without ever being able to tell them where she came -from or who she was. They made out that her name was Joyce, from her own -wanderings and from the letters.’ - -Colonel Hayward said with his lips, ‘The letters?’ scarcely making any -sound. - -‘There was one letter, without any envelope or address, which appeared -to be from her husband. And on the night she arrived, before she was -taken ill, she had begun to write, to him apparently, about something -that had come between them, something that had driven her nearly mad. -Colonel Hayward! Yes, they were read by the people who took charge of -the poor little baby and who managed everything. I understand what you -mean; it was like prying into the secrets of the poor dead lady. But -what could they do? What do you say? Name? No, there is no name. The -husband’s letter is signed only H---- Ah! you know! I am sure you know!’ - -The Ah! which came from Mrs. Bellendean’s lips was very nearly a scream. -The Colonel had risen to his feet, with a pallor upon his face and a -gasp for breath which frightened her. He stood as if any touch would -have knocked him down, as if scarcely conscious what he was about. His -faculties seemed to fail him for the moment. He put up his hand with a -sort of dumb appeal, as if to stop what she was saying. Then he himself -with an effort broke the silence. She leaned forward with the greatest -excitement and expectation. But all that was audible were the words that -had been going through his mind all day, ‘Oh, if Elizabeth were only -here!’ - -‘Elizabeth--who is Elizabeth?’ Mrs. Bellendean cried. - -He did not make any reply, nor did he seem to hear, but began to walk up -and down, passing and repassing between her and the window. He seemed to -be arguing, talking to himself, comparing what he had heard with -something else. ‘But I never suspected that--never. She said nothing. -There might be another--another. It might be all the while, it might be -all the while--some one else. How can I tell? Only a name, a name! and -so long ago. Oh, if I only had Elizabeth here! Elizabeth would know.’ - -Mrs. Bellendean here rose up too and touched him on the arm. She was -trembling with the excitement of this encounter, which suddenly made the -story of the poor young mother--a sort of tradition in the village--into -something real. ‘Colonel,’ she said, ‘you know something; you can tell -us something? For God’s sake, if there is any clue, don’t let it go. -Tell me, for that poor girl’s sake.’ - -Her touch seemed to restore him to himself. He looked round vaguely, and -seeing that she was standing, drew forward her chair with old-fashioned -politeness. ‘A boorish fellow,’ he cried, ‘a boorish fellow you must -think me, not to perceive that you were standing. How can I beg your -pardon? The fact is, that without Elizabeth--without Elizabeth--there is -no good to be got out of me.’ - -Mrs. Bellendean was a woman full of energy and promptitude. ‘If that be -so, then let us send for her at once,’ she said. - -The Colonel made a hasty movement of satisfaction. ‘But I am scarcely -known to you myself,’ he cried. ‘How could I take such a liberty? Only -your son’s old colonel; and he is not even your son.’ - -‘He is a great deal more--he is the master of this house. Who should be -so welcome as his own friends? And if I count for anything, and any -light can be thrown on this mystery--oh, Colonel!’ - -‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I don’t know. My mind is all in a whirl. There -are some things that make me think--and then there are other things. It -is more than I can make head or tail of--alone. And then it’s a serious -thing--oh, a very serious thing. If I were to do anything hasty, and -then it were to turn out a mistake----’ - -He said this with such an air of trouble, and at the same time of -confidence, that his listener met his look with one of involuntary -sympathy, and murmured an assent. - -‘She will say I am hasty. I am always hasty; but then, in the -circumstances---- And it is not a case for half measures. If this should -be!’ A shiver of strong feeling seemed to pass over him. ‘It would make -a revolution in our lives,’ he went on; ‘it would change everything. -There must be no half measures. If ever there was a case in which she -had a right to be consulted---- And then she’ll understand in a -moment--she’ll see through it. If it’s credible: it sounds incredible; -but on the other hand----’ He gave her once more that appealing look, -as if the dilemma in which he found himself must be evident to her, then -added hastily, ‘Will you really be so very good, notwithstanding the -little you know of us? But I might go and get rooms at the Ferry, and -not trouble you.’ - -‘You shall do nothing of the kind,’ she said peremptorily, with a -decision that was balm to him. ‘Let us not lose a moment, Colonel -Hayward. Here is a telegraph paper; will you write it yourself, or shall -I?’ - -He took it from her, and lifted a pen from the table, but his hand -shook. ‘I am very nervous,’ he said. ‘It is absurd, but I can’t help it. -If you will write, “Come at once; I am in great need of you.” That will -do.’ - -‘Come at once. I am in great need of you,’ repeated Mrs. Bellendean; -‘had not you better add that you will meet her by the early train? Will -she be likely to travel by night?’ - -‘She will come by the first train, whenever that may be.’ - -‘That will be the night express. I shall add, “Will meet you at -Edinburgh.” And now you must put the address.’ - -He paused a little without replying. ‘You would think that alarming, -perhaps, if you got it all at once without any warning?’ - -‘Yes,’ she said, with a smile, ‘I fear I should; but then no one thinks -my help so important as you evidently feel your--this lady’s to be.’ - -‘My wife,’ he said gravely; ‘my wife. Yes, she is very important. -Perhaps you will put at the last, “Nothing that is alarming--rather -good.” I think that will do. To Mrs. Hayward, Rosebank, Fairhill, -Surrey. How can I ever thank you enough!’ He stooped over her hand, -which held out the paper, and kissed it with old-fashioned -gratitude--‘To let me send for her, when I am but a stranger myself.’ - -‘I hope she will be able to help you, Colonel Hayward; and I hope my -poor Joyce will get the benefit.’ - -‘Ah!’ he cried. He had come to himself by means of the ready -intervention of the practical in the person of Mrs. Bellendean, but -faltered again at this as if she had struck him a blow. - -‘Perhaps,’ she added hastily, ‘you would like to see--the letters, and -the other relics? perhaps----’ - -He rose up from his seat. ‘I must go and send this,’ he said, and -hurried from the room. He came back again, however, a moment after, -looking in through the half-opened door. ‘When Elizabeth comes,’ he -said, and disappeared again. - -Mrs. Bellendean had been greatly excited by the idea of thus touching -upon a real romance of life--a story such as comes to light rarely in -the commonplace world. The old Colonel’s emotion, the excitement with -which he had listened to the narrative, the evident stirring up of old -recollections in his mind, and attempt to piece it out from his own -knowledge of something which had passed long ago--had wound her up to a -pitch of suspense and eagerness almost as great as his own. But a -certain comic element came in with the sudden summons of Elizabeth, and -the evident determination to put the whole matter, whatever it might be, -on his wife’s shoulders, and to put off the inquiry until she should -appear. Poor Elizabeth!--probably a comfortable mother, suddenly shaken -out of domestic peace, and sent for in hot haste to unravel a mystery -with which most likely she had nothing to do. Mrs. Bellendean laughed -softly to herself: but then changed her expression, and sighed. She was -herself of no such importance to any one. She reflected that, if any -difficulty should happen in the life of her own husband, she would be -the person from whom, above all others, it would be concealed. No one in -the world would think of summoning _her_ to aid him in a desperate -crisis. She would be spared all unpleasant knowledge: what everybody -would say would be--Don’t say anything to her; why should we disturb -her? Perhaps the Elizabeth of Colonel Hayward’s thoughts would have been -glad to be so exempted from the troubles of life. But Mrs. Bellendean -was not glad. She envied the other woman, upon whom it appeared that, -habitually, all that was troublesome was thrown. What kind of a woman -must she be--an old campaigner, a strong-minded person--who kept the -good old Colonel in subjection? That was the most probable explanation. - -Mrs. Bellendean sat a little thinking this over, and then she went back -to her duties, to see after her guests. The school treat had been -happily the end of all the public performances; but with so many people -in the house, every dinner was a dinner-party. When she went out again -upon the terrace, the children were just disappearing in a many-coloured -line through the avenue of limes, watched by the ladies who had been -made to form Queen Margaret’s Court under the great ash-tree. The -younger ladies of the party gathered about her as she reappeared. There -was one of them who was her special favourite--the only daughter of one -of her dearest friends, a distant relation--a little Margaret, to whom -she had given her name, and in whom, accordingly, every element of -preference centred. Mrs. Bellendean had said to herself that if Greta -(which was her pet name, to distinguish her from Maggies and Margarets -without number) and Norman should by any chance take to each other--why -then! But it must be understood that no match-making was thought of, no -scheme, no trap laid--only if they should happen to take to each other! -Greta was one of the eager band who came forward to meet the lady of the -house. She was a slim girl of nineteen, with silky brown hair and grey -eyes--the slightest willowy figure, the most deprecating expression,--a -fragile creature, who begged pardon for everything--though in looks, not -in words--and yielded at a touch to the bolder spirits about. It was -perhaps for this cause that Greta was always made the spokeswoman when -anything was wanted in her family and connections; no one had the heart -to refuse the pleading of her eyes. - -‘Aunt Margaret, they want so much to have tableaux to-night, after -dinner, before the gentlemen come in, just for ourselves.’ - -‘Oh, I don’t see that,’ said a voice out of the group behind her. ‘We -may as well have an audience.’ - -‘And we want them to help. We must have an Edgar Atheling, and a Malcolm -Canmore, and all the Court gentlemen.’ - -‘Oh no; dresses for the gentlemen are _impossible_,’ said another, more -peremptory. ‘We can manage for ourselves, but how could we get things -for them? Oh no, no!’ - -Greta stood looking round upon her somewhat rebellious following. ‘I -wish,’ she said, with a slight vexation in her tone, ‘you would make up -your mind what you do want, before you send me to ask. Aunt Margaret, -may we get them up? and will you be Queen Margaret, as you were to-day! -And will you let us ask Joyce?’ - -‘Oh, we must have Joyce!’ cried the chorus. ‘Joyce is indispensable. -None of us know much about Queen Margaret. Please let us have Joyce.’ - -‘The tableaux as much as you like,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘I have no -objection; but Joyce--Joyce is quite another matter.’ - -‘How is Joyce another matter?’ cried the little surging crowd. ‘Joyce is -the very first necessity of all. Oh, Aunt Margaret! Oh, Mrs. Bellendean! -Oh, Queen, Queen! Why, she is the one that knows. She is the one----’ - -‘My dear girls, you don’t think. How do you suppose she can like it, to -come and take her part with you, and be complimented by everybody, and -then to go away to Peter Matheson’s cottage and boil the potatoes for -supper? Besides, there are other circumstances----’ - -‘What other circumstances? Oh, tell us! Oh, I hope she is going to break -it off with that Mr. Halliday. He is not half good enough for her. But -why should that keep her from helping us?’ - -‘Don’t ask me fifty questions all in a moment. Hush! don’t say anything. -Perhaps she may be going to find out about her mother.’ - -This was very indiscreet of Mrs. Bellendean: but she was so full of her -new information that she could not restrain herself. And then there -arose from all those soft throats a unanimous ‘Oh!’ which ran like a -little breeze about the house, and disturbed the flowers in the big -baskets. ‘Who is she? Is she a lady? I am sure she is a lady!’ the girls -cried. - -‘I can’t tell you any more. And you must none of you say a word, for -she knows nothing; neither do I. I only know that I think--some one -knows about her--some one who is here.’ - -Who could it be? the girls consulted each other with their eyes, and -immediately ran over every name of all the dwellers in the house and all -the guests, excepting only the old Colonel, of whom nobody thought. - -‘If there is to be the least hint given, or so much as a look, or -anything to awaken her attention--remember in that case she must not -come. She must not come: I cannot have her excited and disturbed.’ - -There was a universal cry of indignant protestation. Tell her! oh no! No -one would do such a thing. What did Mrs. Bellendean think of them? Were -they such silly things, with so little feeling as _that_? Oh no, no! On -the other hand, to be taken out of herself, to be made to forget it, -would be such a good thing for Joyce. And how exciting and delightful -for everybody! To think she might be a duke’s daughter perhaps, or a -foreign princess, or, in any case, something altogether out of the -common way! - -‘Well, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘Greta, I think I can -trust you to take care of her. Not a word; not a hint. For after all, it -is the very vaguest possibility, and it may come to nothing at all.’ - -‘In that case, don’t you think it was a pity to say anything about it?’ -said the matter-of-fact, common-sense voice of Mr. Bellendean. - -He was a man said to be full of common-sense. His wife considered him a -wet blanket, always putting out her fires, and quenching all enthusiasm. -He had a horrible way of being right which was doubly exasperating. And -she had of course regretted that premature hint of hers the moment she -had made it. When she turned round and found out that she had taken her -husband and his son unwittingly into her confidence, she felt, to use -her own words, ’as if she could have cried.’ - -‘Perhaps it was a pity,’ she said; ‘but one can’t always be prudent, and -none of you will say a word.’ - -The young ladies redoubled their protestations, and hurried away to make -up to Joyce before she reached the village with her charge. As for Mrs. -Bellendean, to avoid further criticism, she turned quickly round upon -Norman, who had said nothing, but whose eyes had followed the girls with -pleased observation. It was natural, for they were a pretty group. - -‘Are you very well acquainted with Colonel Hayward?’ she asked. - -‘Acquainted? with old Hayward? Oh yes, I think so,’ he said, with a -little surprise. - -‘Then who is Elizabeth?’ - -The young man had been looking at her with some curiosity. His face -suddenly changed now from grave to gay. His eyes lighted up with humour. -‘Elizabeth!’ he said, with a laugh, ‘have you found her out? She is Mrs. -Hayward, I know; but I have never seen her. She is his other self--no, -that’s not the right way of putting it. She is himself, and he is the -other. Oh, everybody knows about Elizabeth.’ - -‘She is coming here to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. - -‘Coming here! none of us have ever seen her,’ he replied. ‘She was -always at the hills, or home for her health, or something; though some -people said she kept close in the bungalow like a native lady, and never -would show----’ - -‘Good heavens! she is not a native, Norman, I hope? Don’t say that, -please.’ - -‘One of your usual hasty proceedings, my dear; but it would be some fun -to have a Begum in the house.’ - -‘I don’t think it is likely; but I don’t know. He was always wishing for -her. We made rather a joke of it, I fear. I have heard him, when he was -giving his orders--and he is a very smart soldier, dear old fellow, -though perhaps you think him a---- I have heard him say between his -teeth, “If Elizabeth were but here,” when most men were only too -thankful their wives were out of the way.’ - -‘I like that,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, with a sigh. ‘I like it very much. -Women would be a great deal happier if their husbands would always treat -them so.’ - -‘What! take them out to face the enemy?’ her husband said. But he knew -very well what she meant; and though he was a very well-bred man, and -showed no sign of it, he resented both her little speech and her smaller -sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -It was not very far from the terrace at Bellendean to Peter Matheson’s -cottage in the village, which was a cottage with a but and a ben--that -is, an outer and an inner, two rooms downstairs, into one of which the -door opened, and two others above. There was nothing in front but the -village street, from which you could tap at the window of the kitchen in -which the family lived; but behind there was a little garden, with some -large lilac and rose bushes, and an ash-tree with a small plot of grass -round its patriarchal feet. Joyce had come back tired from the dusty -walk with the children just as her granny, as she called the old woman -who had been her guardian all her life, had taken off the large Paisley -shawl and the close black satin bonnet, which were her state costume out -of doors. Mrs. Matheson--called Janet in the village, a freedom which -Joyce resented--had folded up carefully her ‘grand shawl’ and laid her -bonnet upon it, to be put away presently, and had seated herself in the -high-backed wooden chair to rest. The kettle was beginning to boil on a -fire kept as low as possible in compliment to the hot June day. Though -she had shared in the refreshment under the tent, Janet was not -contented to accept that in place of the much-prized cordial of her own -brewing. ‘Na, na; what ye get out o’ an urn may be gran’ drinking,’ she -said, ‘but it’s never like my tea.’ She was waiting till the kettle -should boil to ‘mask the tea,’ which even Joyce did not do altogether to -her liking. When the door opened and the girl came in, Janet was -sitting, musing as she waited, near the fire, according to cottage -custom. She was old, and it was not too warm for her, and she was tired -and enjoying what it requires the long habit of toil to enjoy -thoroughly, the entire quiescence of physical rest. To sit there, doing -nothing, was sweet at her age. In former times she could remember being -impatient for the boiling of the kettle. In these days she would have -whipped up her bonnet and shawl and ran upstairs with them, thinking it -an idle thing to leave them there even for a moment; and she would have -set out the cups while she waited. But now she was not impatient. There -was no hurry, and rest was sweet. She looked up when her child came -in--who was her child certainly, though not her daughter--with a pride -and admiration of her looks, and her dress, and everything about her, -that never failed. Joyce wore a dark dress, which she had made herself, -after the model of a dress of Greta’s. Her little collars and cuffs were -like those the young ladies wore, without the slightest ornament. It -vexed Janet a little that she would not wear a locket, as all the girls -did in the village, and as the young ladies also did. It was as if they -took her siller from her, or hoarded it up, or grudged her any bonnie -thing she would wear. ‘Eh! if it was me,’ Janet said, ‘she would be just -as fine as the best. There’s naething I would not ware upon her--a gold -chain on her neck, and a gold watch at her side, and a ring upon her -finger; but she will not be guided by me. And to see her looking like a -young queen, and no a thing to show for it but just her ain bonnie -looks; eh! I hope it’ll not be remembered against us if we’re awfu’ -proud; for Peter is just as bad as me.’ But all this was said in the -absence of Joyce, and to her face the old mother gave utterance to -little phases of detraction, as it is the part of a mother to do. - -‘You’re very soon back; you’re back maist as soon as me. I am just -waiting for the water to come a-boil, and then I’ll mask the tea. You -will be better, after a’ yon botheration, and the trouble you’ve been -giving yoursel’, of a good cup of tea.’ - -‘I had some in the tent, granny,’ said Joyce, sitting down wearily near -the door. - -‘Oh ay! in the tent. If yon’s what pleases the leddies it doesna please -me. What’s the matter with ye? You’ve just weariet yoursel’ with thae -weans and their pieces, till ye canna tell whether you’re on your head -or your heels. Na, na; sit still and rest. I’ve had naething to tire me. -I’ll get out the cups mysel’, and we’ll keep the teapot warm at the side -of the fire for Peter. He likes it a’ the better the mair it tastes o’ -the pot.’ - -‘What did you think of it all, granny? Who did you like best? Did you -like the tableau, with the Queen and the ladies? Wasn’t it like a -picture? I wonder if the real Queen Margaret was as handsome as ours, -and all her maidens as sweet.’ - -‘Your head is just turned with them, J’yce; and yon would be your doing, -too? Putting up Mrs. Bellendean upon a throne, as if she was the -duchess. I thought that bid to be one o’ your fancies; and they just do -what ye tell them, it seems to me, young and auld, and the leddy -hersel’. Your head would be just turned, if it werena for me, that never -spoilt ye. Sit to the table like a reasonable creature, and take your -tea.’ - -‘I don’t want any tea, granny. I am only tired. There was a gentleman -there----’ - -‘And what’s that to you, if there were a hundred gentlemen?’ said her -guardian quickly. ‘Na, na; there’s to be nae talk about gentlemen -between you and me.’ - -‘It was an old gentleman, granny,’ said Joyce, with a smile curving -slightly the grave lines of her mouth. - -‘The auld anes are often waur than the young anes,’ the old woman said. - -‘Oh, granny!’ cried Joyce, ‘what is that to me, if they are old or -young? This one asked me--granny, listen! listen! for my heart is -beating hard, and I must get some one to listen to me;--he asked me, -where I had got my name,--who had given me my name? with a look--oh, if -I could let you see his look! Not as some do, just staring, which means -nothing but folly--but a look that made his eyes open wide, and the -colour go out of his face.’ - -‘It was just very impident of any man to look at you like that.’ - -‘No, it was not impudent. He was an old man with a sweet face, as if he -was somebody’s father--some girl’s father that is my age. And he asked -me, “Young lady” (he did not know who I was)--“young lady, where did you -get your name?"’ - -The terms of this address moved Janet much more than the meaning. ‘Well, -I’ll not say that I’m surprised: for if ever there was a young lass that -looked like a lady, no to flatter ye--for flattery’s no my way----’ - -‘Granny, granny, you don’t see what I mean. It was not me that he was -thinking of. He was wondering to hear me called Joyce; and he knew -somebody--he knew--some one that was like me--that had the same name.’ - -Old Janet paused in the act of pouring out the tea. ‘I mind now,’ she -said. ‘There was somebody asking me where ye got it,--if it was a name -in the family; but I took no thought. Bless me! can ye no be contented -with them that have done their best for you all your life?’ - -‘I am very well contented,’ said Joyce; but the involuntary movement of -her mouth contradicted her words. She added, after a little pause, ‘No -one is so well off as I am. I have the kind of work I like, and my big -girls that learn so well, and you, granny dear, that are always so -kind.’ - -‘Kind!’ said the old woman, with quick offence; ‘if you think I’m -wanting to be thought kind----’ - -‘But I should like,’ said Joyce, who in the meantime had been murmuring -something to herself about the ‘Happy Warrior,’ and had not given much -attention to this disclaimer--‘oh, I should like to hear who I am,--to -hear something about _her_, to know----’ She paused, as if words were -insufficient to express her thoughts, with a thrill of meaning more -intense than anything she could say, quivering in her lips. - -‘Oh ay,’ said Janet, ‘I ken what you mean; to hear that you were born a -grand lady, though you’ve been bred up a cottage lass; that you’re Leddy -Joyce or maybe Princess--how can I tell?--instead of just what you are, -Joyce Matheson, that has made herself very weel respectit, and a’ her -ain doing--which is a far greater credit than to be born a queen.’ - -‘Granny, you whip me, but it’s with roses--no, not roses, for there are -thorns to them, but lily flowers. Oh no, not Lady Joyce, nor anything of -the kind,’ she went on, with a tell-tale blush suddenly dyeing her pale -face. ‘I might have thought that when I was young--but not now. It is -only a kind of yearning to know--to know--I cannot tell what I want to -know--about my mother,’ she added in a lower tone. - -‘Bairn,’ said Janet, ‘let that be--let it be. Poor young thing, she’s -been long long in her Maker’s hands, and a’ forgotten and forgiven.’ - -‘If there was anything to forget and forgive; you take that for granted, -granny!’ cried the girl, with a sudden flush of indignation. - -‘Onything to forgive? There’s aye plenty to forgive even to the best; -but oh, J’yce, my poor lassie, take my advice and let it be. Many -strange things happen in this world: but a poor thing that wanders into -a strange place her lane with no a living creature to care if she lives -or dies--oh, J’yce, my bonnie bairn, let it be!’ - -Joyce had risen, as if the remark was intolerable, and stood at the -window looking out blankly. It was a discussion which had taken place -often before, and always with the same result. Old Mrs. Matheson took, -as was natural, the matter-of-fact view of the question, and felt a -certainty that shame as well as sorrow must be involved in the secret of -Joyce’s birth, and that to inquire into it was very undesirable. But, as -was equally natural, Joyce, since she had been old enough to -understand, had built a hundred castles in the air on the subject of her -birth, and occupied many an hour with dreams of perhaps a father who -should come and seek her, perhaps a mother’s mother, like an old -queen--people who would be noble in look and thought--perhaps, who could -tell, in birth too? The Lady Joyce, with which old Janet taunted her, -had not been altogether a fiction. Who could say? Mysteries were more -common among the great than among the small, the girl said to herself. -And how many romances are there in which such a story appears? There was -the ‘Gentle Shepherd,’ the one poem beside Burns and Blair’s ‘Grave,’ -which was to be found in the cottage, and which she had known by heart -almost before she could speak. Was not the shepherd Patie a gentleman -all the time and Peggy a lady? and both of them in their first estate -full of poetry, and distinguished among their seeming peers, as Joyce -was well aware she had always been? - -By some strange grace of nature Joyce had escaped the self-conceit which -is so common to the self-taught, so usual, must we say it, in Scotland? -Her consciousness of being able to do a great many things as other -people could not do them, got vent in a little innocent astonishment at -the other people, who either were dull beyond what is permitted, or -would not ‘give their thoughts’ to the proper subjects. She grew -impatient by times with their determined stupidity, but thought it their -fault, and not any special gift of hers that made the difference. It was -for this reason that she had very sedately accepted the addresses of Mr. -Andrew Halliday, who was schoolmaster in the next parish. He was a young -man who was full of intellectual ambitions. He could talk of books, and -quote poetry as long and as much as any one could desire. Joyce had been -moved by enthusiasm on their first acquaintance. She had felt herself -altogether lifted out of the vulgarities of common life, when he talked -about Shakespeare and Shelley, and Scott and Burns--and with a little -smiling commendation, as from a superior altitude, even of the ‘Gentle -Shepherd.’ It sobered her a little to find that, like the other ‘lads’ -in the village, he was intent upon a ‘lass,’ and that she was the object -of his choice. But she gave in to it with dignity, feeling that he was -indeed the only person with whom she could mate; and looked forward to -the career of the schoolmistress, the schoolmaster’s wife, with an -adaptation to herself of the now so well-worn lines of the ‘Happy -Warrior,’ which Joyce was not aware anybody had ever appropriated -before. Yes; she would work out her life upon the plan which had pleased -her childish thought. For it had been her ambition since ever she began -to be able to do and learn so many things which the girls around her -would not in their invincible ignorance be persuaded to attempt to -do--to coax, or drag, or force them into better things. Who but a -teacher who would never let them rest, who would give them no peace till -they understood, could do that? And she was resolved to do it, with a -hope that Providence might throw in the possibility of something -heroical--the saving of somebody’s life, the redemption of some one who -was going wrong--to make up. This was all laid out before her, the -career which was to be hers. - -But nevertheless (though she had abandoned all that folly about the Lady -Joyce), when her mind was free, and nothing before her that compelled -her attention, the romance of her unknown origin would come in, with a -hundred vague attractions; and Colonel Hayward’s question was more than -enough to call everything back. ‘Young lady, where did you get your -name?’ and then his look! She had caught that look again, constantly -coming back to her. Joyce was well enough aware what looks of admiration -are like. She had met them of every kind--the innocent, the modest, the -bold--but this was not one of them; not even the fatherly kind, of which -she had been conscious too. This look was very different: it was the -look of a man so startled, so absorbed, that he could think of nothing -else; and then he had said, ‘I once knew--some one’--Joyce stood and -listened, yet did not listen to what old Janet went on saying behind. -The old woman was launched on a subject which filled her with eloquence. -She was jealous of the poor little mother who had died--jealous at least -of the idea that somebody might arrive some fine morning who would turn -out to have a better claim than herself upon her nursling. In her heart -Janet had always been certain that this was what would happen some day. -She had spoken of it freely when the child was young, bidding Peter, her -husband, to ‘haud a loose grip.’ ‘We maunna think too much of her,’ she -had said; ‘for just when we’re bound up in her, and canna do without -her, her ain kith and kin will come and carry her away.’ She had gone on -saying this until the slumbering light in Joyce’s eyes had leaped out, -and her quick intelligence had seized upon the expectation; after which -Janet had changed her tone. She went on now in a very different strain, -while Joyce stood at the window turning her back. ‘If I were in your -place,’ she was saying, ‘I wouldna hear a word--no a word--that would -maybe make me think shame o’ my mother. Oh, I wouldna listen--no, if it -was the Queen hersel’!’ Joyce made no reply to these exhortations, but -her heart burned. Her imagination rejected the idea with a fervour of -suppressed indignation and resentment, which it needed all her gratitude -and affection to keep in check. She stood and looked out, her foot -tapping impatiently on the floor, her hand on the window. It was hard, -very hard, to keep silent, though it was her duty so to do. - -‘Granny,’ she said at last, ‘say no more, please. For one thing, I -cannot bear it--and for another, here is Miss Greta, and I think she is -coming to our door.’ - -‘Miss Greta! They might have kept her to her ain right name, which is a -hantle bonnier than ony of your outlandish names; but she’s very free to -come and very welcome, and grand company for you--I’m aye glad to see -her coming here: is that her at the door? Come in, come in, my bonnie -leddy. Joyce was just telling me--and we’re just awfu’ fain to see you, -both her and me.’ - -‘Oh, thank you, Mrs. Matheson. Joyce! you are to come up to the house -to-night,’ said the young lady, coming in, in the gaiety of her pretty -summer dress, like a sunbeam. ‘Aunt Margaret has sent me to tell you: -and I’ve run half the way, but I could not catch you up; you are to come -to-night.’ - -Once more Joyce became crimson with expectation and excitement. Her eyes -seemed to send out eager questions, and her lips to repeat the answer -before the question was made. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Has the -gentleman----’ and then stopped short, devouring the young visitor with -eager eyes. - -‘We want to have tableaux,’ cried the girl; ‘it was you yourself that -put it into our heads: and you must come and help us--we could do -nothing without you. Joyce, we want to do Queen Margaret--the same scene -we had on the lawn for one. Captain Bellendean said it was beautiful: -and then--something else. You are the one that knows all about Queen -Margaret, Joyce.’ - -While Greta made her little speech, with a wondering sense after a word -or two that she had stumbled into the midst of some dramatic scene which -she did not understand, the face of Joyce was like a changing sky, save -that the changes upon it were of swifter operation than those which -alter the face of the heavens. It was full of a brilliant glow and flush -of expectation at first: then the clouds suddenly swept over it, -extinguishing all the higher lights: and then the shadows in their turn -wavered and broke, and a chill clearness of self-repression came in -their place, a calm which was like the usual calm of the countenance in -repose, but intensified by the fact that this repose was not that of -nature but of a violent effort, and had in it the gleam of self-scorn -which answered in a certain vivid paleness to the effect of the light. -A few instants were enough to work out all this drama, which was the -truest reflection of Joyce’s mind. For one wild moment of hope, she had -thought with a kind of certainty that her patroness, ‘the lady,’ the -source of so many pleasures in Joyce’s life, was sending for her to tell -her that her anticipations were realised, that her birth and kindred -were discovered, and that she was to be told who she was. So swift are -the operations of the mind that in her instantaneous conception of this, -Joyce had time to make sure that there was no shame but only happiness -in the revelation about to be made, or Mrs. Bellendean, always kind, -would not have sent for her in this marked way. The thought sent the -blood dancing through her veins, and though, perhaps, she did not -picture herself as Lady Joyce, her mind yet rushed towards unknown -glories in which insignificance at least had no place. And then there -came a sense of absolute and sickening disappointment, such as seems to -check the very fountains of life--disappointment so overwhelming that -she felt herself stand up merely like a piece of mechanism by no -strength or will of her own--a state of mental collapse from which she -awoke to such scorn of herself for her former incoherent hopes as -brought the blood to her cheeks again. - -It takes longer time to describe these varying moods than it did to go -through them, one sensation sweeping through her mind after the other. -She had come to herself again after mounting to those heights and -descending to those depths, when she replied, rather coldly, vaguely, to -Greta’s petition, ‘If I can get away--if I can be spared from home.’ - -‘Spared from home! oh ay, she can be spared, Miss Greta, weel spared. -She is aye so busy and taken up with thae bairns that a little pleasure -will just do her a great deal of good.’ - -‘Pleasure!’ said Joyce, echoing the word. ‘I will come if the lady wants -me; but there is a good deal to do--things to prepare. And then--and -then----’ She paused with a conscious effort, making the most of her -hindrances-- ‘I am expecting a friend to-night.’ - -‘A friend?--that will be Andrew Halliday,’ said the old woman, again -interposing anxiously; ‘you can see him ony day of the week; he’s no -that far away nor sweared to come. Where are your manners, Joyce? to -keep Miss Greta standing, and hum and ha, as if ye werena aye ready to -do what will pleasure the lady--aye ready, night or day.’ - -‘If Joyce is tired, Mrs. Matheson,’ said Greta, ‘I will not have her -troubled. But are you really so tired, Joyce? We cannot do anything -without you. And it was all my idea, for there is no party or anything: -but I thought it would please--all of them. Only I could do nothing -without you.’ - -‘Yes, yes, I am coming,’ cried Joyce suddenly; ‘I was only what granny -calls cankered and out of heart.’ - -‘Why should you be out of heart,’ said the other girl, ‘when everything -went so well and everybody was so pleased? It is perhaps because you -will miss Mr. Halliday? But then he can come up for you, and it’s -moonlight, and that will be better than sitting in the house. Don’t you -think so, Joyce?’ - -‘The moonlight is fine coming down the avenue,’ Joyce said vaguely. And -then she asked, ‘Will the old Colonel--the old gentleman--will he be -there?’ - -‘Oh, did you take a fancy to him, Joyce? So have I. Yes, he will be -there--they will all be there. We are to have it in the great -drawing-room--and leave to rummage in all the presses in the red room, -you know, where the old Lady’s dresses are kept, and to take what we -like.’ - -‘That would be fine,’ said Joyce, ‘if it was for last century; but if -Queen Margaret is what you are wanting, that’s far, far back, and the -old Lady’s dresses will do little good. There will be nothing half so -old as Queen Margaret----’ - -‘Oh,’ cried Greta, her countenance falling, ‘I never thought of that.’ - -Joyce hesitated a moment, and the light returned to her eyes. ‘I will go -up with you to the house now, if granny can spare me, and I will speak -to Merritt, and we will think, she and I; and when you come out from -your dinner we will have settled something. Oh, never fear but we will -find something. It is just what I like,’ said Joyce, restored to full -energy--‘to make out what’s impossible. That’s real pleasure!’ she -cried, with sparkling eyes. - -‘Did ever ony mortal see the like,’ said Janet to herself as she stood -at the door watching the two girls go down the village street. ‘What’s -impossible! that’s just what she likes, that wonderful bairn. And if -onybody was to ask which was the leddy, it’s our Joyce and not Miss -Greta that ilka ane would say. But, eh me! though I am so fain to get -her a bit pleasure, what’s to come o’ a’ that if she is just to settle -doon and marry Andrew Halliday? That’s what is impossible, and nae -pleasure in it so far as I can see!’ - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -The tableaux had taken place to everybody’s satisfaction. There had been -much applause, and Joyce had been called for to receive the thanks of -the audience; but all muffled up in a dark cloak in which she had -figured as one of Queen Margaret’s travelling retinue, she had not -revealed anything to the amused look of the gentlemen and ladies who -were spectators, except a dark and indistinct outline against the light. -When the others, throwing off the veils and cloaks in which she had -enveloped them, joined their friends in the drawing-room, which was to -Joyce the emblem of everything that was most splendid and beautiful in -the world, she stole away, getting her hat from Merritt’s room. Merritt -would gladly have detained her for a gossip afterwards; but Joyce, -though she told herself with an angry humility, which was more stinging -than pride, that it was Merritt who was her equal and not Greta, would -not stay. She went out into the silence of the night, hearing the voices -of the company, with a keen desire to know what they were saying, and to -share in the enjoyment which imagination represented to her as so much -more delightful than any kind of social intercourse she had ever known. -Joyce felt this with a sharp and keen sensation which she said to -herself was not envy. Oh no, no! for envy is unkind, whereas she desired -no harm, but only good and every pleasantness to the delightsome company -where there were so many whom she was fond of; but only a forlorn -consciousness of her own position as one who could not get access there, -yet was at home nowhere else. No; all that youthful folly about Lady -Joyce was nonsense, she knew. She would never be Lady Joyce, never find -a place in the Queen’s Court, or among the people who are grand and -great, and the flower of the land; but yet there was her place, and -nowhere else was she at home. - -She did not venture to say this to herself, yet the thought was in her -mind as she stepped out with a sigh down the terrace steps, leaving the -lights blazing, and the voices, so refined, as she thought, and -delightful, rising in a soft tumult behind. She was tempted to steal -along the terrace to an open window, to hear what they were saying, to -peep in for a moment out of the gloom. But Joyce would not, could not do -this thing. The temptation wounded her pride even while it moved her. -What! she, Joyce, go and peep and listen, like a waiting-maid in a play! -No, no; though they were so sweet, though they drew her as if with a -magnet--no, no. She turned round resolutely away from this snare. On the -other side the housekeeper’s room was shining too, and there was quite a -fine company there--the ladies’-maids so fine, and gentlemen in evening -clothes, quite equal to anything that was to be seen in the -drawing-room. Joyce flung her head high--not there at least! though with -a keen pang of self-humiliation she felt that there everybody would -think was her appropriate place. But the fine ladies’-maids were too -fine for her. There was something in that. It enabled her to feel a -consolatory thrill of disdainful pride. - -When she had gone on a little, and reached the beginning of the avenue, -a shadow shaped itself out of the darkness of the night, and a shawl, -unnecessary and undesired, was quickly put upon her shoulders. ‘I was -told to bring you this--and I’ve been waiting half an hour. Oh, keep it -on, the night is chilly--to please me, Joyce.’ - -‘Why should you make me do what I don’t wish, to please you?’ - -‘Well, if it is what you don’t wish; but consider that your health is of -great consequence, and if you were to catch cold--or any unpleasant -thing----’ - -‘There could not be a better time,’ said Joyce, ‘at the beginning of the -holidays.’ - -‘Has something gone wrong with you to-night?--you are not as sweet as -your ordinary--oh yes--sweet always, sweet ever to me. But something has -come over you. You are so merry about them sometimes. You make me laugh, -though I am not sure that it is right to laugh at the aristocracy--they -have their difficulties, as we have ours.’ - -‘I wonder at you! Wherein are they different?--the same flesh and blood, -I hope--no better education, often not so good. What then? Who was it -they referred to for everything to-night?--to know all about the story -and the history: the history of their own country, and we in sight of -the very scene! Who did they come to ask from as if I were an oracle? -and you say that knowledge is power----’ - -‘Yes, in a way, assuredly it is. There is a moral superiority; there is -a sense of true nobility----’ - -‘Oh, stop, stop! In spite of all, if I had stayed there,’ cried Joyce, -with an indignant sweeping motion of her arm towards the lighted -windows, which now shone like faint stars in the distance, ‘should I -have been like them? They would have talked and been kind; they would -have asked me questions. What would you like, Joyce?--a cup of tea? Have -you seen these pictures, Joyce? What can we show her to amuse her? And a -gentleman would have come forward and said something, looking as if he -were afraid I would curtsey when I spoke to him, like one of the -children! and there would be little looks at me as if it were wonderful -I could behave myself. And the lady herself, who is all goodness--yes, -she is all goodness!--would give me a glance after a while, or perhaps a -whisper, Now, Joyce, run away. Why--why should it be--so little -difference, and yet so much? To feel nothing but scorn at the thought -they are our betters, and yet never to feel at ease with them!’ Her foot -gave an impatient mortified stamp on the ground, and her eyes, unseen, -overflowed with hot and angry tears. - -‘These are questions which are sometimes painful--but not necessarily -so,’ said the young schoolmaster. ‘Take hold of my arm going down the -avenue. Oh do! It is dark, and you might stumble, and the moon gives -little light under the trees. And then, don’t you think I have a right -to a little, just a little, kindness, more than everybody else? Well, -then,’ he went on in a satisfied tone, as Joyce, moved by this argument, -conceded the arm, though with some reluctance. ‘I will tell you all -about it. It would be painful if it were not looked at from a high point -of view. It is mortifying when there is no difference--when you are just -as well instructed, perhaps better, and acquainted with all the rules of -politeness, and even etiquette, and all the rest of it’--Joyce moved -uneasily, impatiently, on his arm, and he had to hold her fast to retain -it--‘to feel that there is a difference!’ he went on hastily; ‘and -founded upon nothing reasonable, upon no solid ground. For to call them -our betters is folly. Wherein are they our betters? not in acquaintance -with everything that is best--with literature, with science, with what -Tennyson calls the long results of time.’ - -‘If you think you are explaining, you are making a mistake,’ said -Joyce,--‘you are only repeating what I said.’ - -The young schoolmaster laughed, but with confusion and a little -resentment. ‘I am coming to the explanation,’ he said. ‘For one thing, -it’s against our dignity, yours and mine, that are just as good as they -are, to take offence. It’s a pitiful thing to take offence.’ - -He said ‘peetiful,’ and now and then made other betrayals in accent of -his northern origin; but that was nothing, for some of the gentlemen did -the same. This thought flew through Joyce’s mind with the rapidity of -light, followed, like its attendant shadow, by another, a painful, -hateful consciousness of this involuntary proof of the differences which -they were discussing. The gentlemen! Why or how this distinction, which -she herself made without knowing? In the darkness, unsuspected of her -companion, who was going on quite easily, she blushed to her hair, to -her heels, with a glow all over her. - -‘But we must reflect,’ he said, ‘that in this world there must always be -a certain sacrifice to appearances. And it’s more lovely and of good -report to keep up different grades. Abstract justice is one thing, but -fair-seeming also has to be considered. An aristocracy is a graceful -thing. People like us, that consider these matters, may well consent to -keep it up for the beauty of it. We cultivate flowers for the same end. -It would be more profitable to fill all the garden beds with cabbages or -gooseberries. We yield that for beauty, and we yield the other too. And -then you and I, Joyce,’ he said, pressing her arm, ‘we have the -advantage or the disadvantage, whichever you like to call it, of -belonging to an exceptional class.’ - -Here again a murmur made itself heard in Joyce’s mind. Did _he_? For -herself she made no question. She put him in her mind beside Captain -Bellendean,--the Captain, as everybody called him--and her brain grew -confused. But Halliday continued, with an equable sense of giving -instruction, which confused her more and more. - -‘We are, so to speak, everybody’s equal,’ he said. ‘We are probably -superior to most of these people, but we are not going to compete with -them in their way. There is no doubt that we are superior to the other -classes, who cannot, in any manner, hold their own with us, except just -by sheer force of money, or something of that measurable kind. We have -therefore a rank--a rank, Joyce, that is by itself, that is becoming -more and more acknowledged every day.’ - -He pressed her arm as he spoke, and she, wildly roving in her mind -through every kind of bye-way of thought, did not like it, but made no -sign, restraining herself, answering nothing, which was not Joyce’s way. -She was thus caught and attached to reality, while her mind went -wandering through space, in no way agreeing in the supposed triumphant -argument of his--sometimes flashing a contradiction upon him which he -could not see; chafing at the restraint; eager to throw him off, yet not -doing so; held fast by circumstances and her fate. - -‘When you and I set up together, Joyce,’ he said, clasping her arm -closer, ‘which I hope will be soon, for I’m weary waiting--when you and -I have our home together, we’ll have a home where any one may be proud -to come to; where every meal will be a feast, and nothing spoken of or -thought of that is not high--above the ideas of the common. We’ll have -nothing common there. We’ll talk of the grandest things. We’ll be better -than princes or kings; and by and by, when the world’s a little -wiser--as we’re making it wiser every day--when a great statesman comes -to Mid-Lothian, or a great scholar or a poet, it’s you and me he’ll come -to. We’ll not have grand rooms to put him in, but it’s with us he’ll -find the minds to understand him. Even now, if Tennyson were to be up -yonder,’ he pointed back to the house--‘would he care for them, who -could not quote a line he ever wrote, or us, who could say--what could -we not say?--all his poems, I believe between you and me.’ - -At this Joyce laughed aloud with a sudden burst of ridicule. ‘Do you -think he would care to hear his own poems? I think he would rather go up -to the house, where nobody would be afraid of him.’ - -‘Afraid of him! why should we be afraid? I hope our manners are good -enough for--as good as----’ - -‘Oh, what do you mean about manners? doesn’t that just prove what I -say?--we should be afraid of him. We could quote all his poems one after -another. What would he care for that? Miss Greta, that knows none of -them, except perhaps the Queen of the May, would please him better. Why? -Oh, how can I tell you? but _I know it_! She would know the people he -knows; and, don’t you see, when you speak about manners, that alone -shows---- Oh yes, we are different, and that is the truth. We may know -more--and we might know double again, and it would not make any -difference. There is more in it than that.’ - -‘Yes, there is money in it, if that is what you mean,’ said the -schoolmaster scornfully. - -‘That is not what I mean; but it’s true--there is money in it--and -beautiful rooms, and people that have lived in them all their life, and -their fathers before them, and that are used to be the best wherever -they go. We say we’re the best, but we’re not used to it. It is in our -thoughts, but not in other people’s. Oh, there is a difference! I feel I -don’t belong to the cotters’ houses, but I am at ease in them: and in -the farmers’ I feel--oh, a little queerish, as if I were smiling at -their money and their notion that they were better than me--superior as -you say. But in Bellendean I would be awkward and blush. I would say, -Thank you, mem, or sir. Perhaps I could talk better than the rest if I -were to try----’ - -‘You could--you could.’ - -‘What would that matter?’ cried this stern philosopher. ‘I would be just -Joyce Matheson among them all. But here I’m not Joyce Matheson, -I’m--anything. I’m Desdemona or even Rosalind. I’m Lady Joyce, as granny -says. I’m no match for any but a prince--oh, Andrew!--what I meant to -say was that in my thoughts I’m a grand lady, but in Bellendean, -nobody--nobody! a little schoolmistress, a little country girl.’ - -‘I know what you mean,’ he said, recovering the hand she had drawn from -his arm. ‘But if you love me, Joyce, I’m prince enough for anything,’ he -said in a lower tone. - -This touch of feeling suddenly coming in silenced Joyce. She made no -reply. Love had been little talked of between them. They had thought -more of Shakespeare and the poets generally, and of that culture which -levels all distinctions, and makes of those who are engaged ‘in tuition’ -the superiors of the world. There was always this strange question, too, -so little explicable, of class distinctions, which contradicted all -theories, and set culture aside as if it meant nothing. They were both -aristocrats by birth, holding fondly to the doctrine of a superior race, -but feeling also a wistful, nay, sometimes angry, wonder why their own -special affinities for that race were not more justly recognised. - -‘After all, the class that we belong to is the greatest of all,’ said -Halliday. ‘The greatest men have come out of it. The peasant is a kind -of king. He has nothing to do with money-making, and poor sordid trades. -He digs his bread out of the soil. However we may get up and up, we have -no reason to be ashamed of him. In the cottages you are at your ease, -you said----’ - -‘But not because I belong to them,’ cried Joyce, with a flash of her -eyes. ‘If I did, I would not say so; it would be natural. But I don’t: I -belong to nobody: if I were a peasant, I would be a peasant and nothing -more; but I am nobody, and I think and think--and sometimes I have silly -dreams.’ - -He tried again to take her hand. ‘Not silly, perhaps,’ he said; ‘the -world is before us. I see nothing that we might not do--you and me -together, Joyce.’ - -You and me together! This was not what she was thinking of. The vague -exaltation and vaguer hope which sometimes swept her up to heights -unknown had nothing to do, it must be confessed, with Andrew Halliday. -She drew herself apart from him, on the evident ground that they were -emerging from the darkness of the avenue into the bright moonlight at -the park gates. The village street opened beyond, with various groups -about enjoying the freshness of the night. The women were out at their -doors; a knot of men smoking their pipes and talking in their slow -rustic way, stood together at a corner. Without a doubt, there were two -or three pairs, not so bashful as Joyce, taking advantage of the -moonlight. But it was in conformity with Halliday’s principles as well -as her own to maintain the loftiest decorum. They walked down side by -side, with quiet gravity and propriety, talking of what Mr. Halliday -called ‘the topics of the day’: the success of all the festivities in -honour of the Captain’s return, the Captain himself and his character, -and other cognate subjects,--a kind of conversation which anybody might -have listened to with edification. Indeed, even in the avenue, where it -was dark, and Joyce’s arm was in that of her lover, the talk had not -been any drivel of love-making, as the reader knows. But Joyce had not -said a word to him of the excitement which lay deep at the bottom of her -heart. She had never said a word to Halliday of the commotions which the -thought of her possible origin awoke; and of Colonel Hayward and his -strange questions and looks she had said nothing. All this was kept a -secret from her lover; she kept it jealously, but she could scarcely -have told why. - -Old Peter Matheson stood at his door, in the full light of the moon, -which threw all the roughnesses upon his surface into shadow, as if he -had been a mountain. He was a mountain in his way, or rather an angular -tall old crag, his face seamed as with torrents. The moon subdued the -high colour, the deep frosty-red and russet-brown of his weather-beaten -countenance, and made his scanty circle of white locks like a silver -crown. He was standing in the middle filling up the doorway, with a -lordly indifference to his wife, who stood spying at the moonlight from -under his arm. - -‘Yon’ll be them,’ Janet had said, as the two slim figures suddenly rose -out of the white distance. - -‘How can ye tell it’s them? It might be onybody,’ said Peter, in his -deep voice. - -‘Wha would it be but them? It’s no the Captain and some young -lady--therefore,’ said Janet, ‘it’s bound to be our twa. There’s nae -ither twa like them. And I would ken our Joyce at ten mile.’ - -Peter grumbled something about the impossibility of seeing anything -except the hills or the sea at ten miles, and about the nonsensical -character of her remarks generally. But with a swelling at his old heart -which almost brought the water to his eyes (not hard to do), decided -that she was right, and that Joyce could be distinguished as far as -mortal vision would carry. The way she stepped, and the carriage of -her--like a lady! she was just like the Queen! - -‘Sae it’s you after a’. I was thinking nae ither pair would move along -like twa steeples, nae nearer. Come away. It’s a bonnie night, but I’m -wantin’ my supper. I canna fill my wame with the moonlicht, like you -twa.’ - -‘Is it late, grandfather? I might have known it was late, as it’s so -dark, or would be but for the moon.’ - -‘Na, na,’ said the old man, with a laugh as deep and bass as his voice; -‘it wasna to be expected you should mind. We’re no lookin’ for -impossibilities. But there is a fine smell of stoved ta’aties. Your -granny is a woman that loses no time.’ - -‘Now that they are come,’ said Janet from within, ‘come in, come in to -your supper. Dinna stand and chatter there.’ - -The supper was simple enough. There were oatcakes and cheese on the -table, a large dish of stoved potatoes, steaming and savoury, and a jug -of milk. The potatoes were a feast for a king; the steam of them rose -like domestic incense to the dim roof. The table was set as far from the -fire as possible, the door left open, the moonlight, silver to the -threshold, stopped about a yard within, drawing a clear line of -separation between its intense ethereal whiteness and the ruddy light of -the little lamp. Joyce sat facing the moonlight, looking out across the -homely table into that mystic world outside: conscious of the contrast -between the little human group, so well defined and distinct, the smoky -lamplight on their faces, and the great universe beyond, all filled with -spiritual light, with moving shadows and subdued voices--mystic, -mysterious. Now and then a step passed, the line of some flitting figure -crossed the doorway, and sometimes a cheerful voice called ‘Good-night’ -at them in passing, while the talk went on within. - -‘Weel, and did a’ yon nonsense come to pass, and were ye satisfied?’ -Janet asked. - -‘Yes, granny; pretty well. Everybody was pleased.’ - -‘Except yoursel’, ye exacting thing! They wouldna do just a’ ye told -them, that would be the cause.’ - -‘J’yce is a lass that likes her ain gait. Ye manna gang into it wi’ your -eyes blindfold, Andrew, my man.’ - -‘Yes, they did what I told them, granny. But the Scots maidens could -hardly be distinguished from the Saxon maidens, which was a mistake; and -we could not get anything like right costume, there was so little time. -But they knew no better,’ said Joyce, with a slight inflection of -contempt; ‘they were quite pleased.’ - -‘And that is a very difficult question,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘Do you -think there would be much difference at that early period?’ - -‘What!’ cried Joyce, lighting up, ‘between the Saxon ladies that were -with the Athelings, that had been in a Court, and the wives of the wild -Picts, or whatever they were--for history knows little of them--on the -other side!’ - -‘And what were you?’ said Janet, while Peter burst into one of his long, -derisive, admiring laughs, with a ‘Hearken to her!’ which brought the -water to his eyes. - -‘I was nobody. I was a tirewoman. I was not thinking of _me_. I was in -the lady’s train in her journey, with a big cloak of the Captain’s,’ -said Joyce, permitting herself to laugh. - -‘And wherefore no’ a Scots lady, to wait upon her in her kingdom,’ said -Janet, half offended. ‘You have aye an awfu’ troke with thae English, as -if you liked them the best.’ - -‘How can she do that when she never kent ane?’ said Peter, in his -innocence. - -But Joyce made no reply. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -Colonel Hayward was in waiting on the platform at Edinburgh when the -morning express came in from the south. It was a lovely morning. The -unconventional freshness, as of a day still in its childhood and -doubting nothing, was in the air, even in the grimy precincts of the -railway station, where all was black below, yet all fresh above, the sun -shining, the air full of that keen sweetness which, even in a July -morning, breathes in the air of the north. The platform was already full -of people waiting for their friends; and when those friends arrived, and -came pouring from all the carriage doors, with the noise combined of a -crowd and a train, the Colonel was confused by the din and numbers. -Though he had the habit of command, and could have made his authority -felt in a moment had they been soldiers under him, he was pushed out of -his way by women and children and railway porters, without power of -asserting himself; and therefore it was not till most of the passengers -had poured out of the train, that he got to the particular object of his -search--a small, very bright-eyed woman, who stood in the door of the -carriage she had travelled in, looking out calmly upon the confused -scene. She was not grimy, as most of the passengers were, or untidy with -the night’s travelling, or hurried and flustered as everybody else was. -She stood calmly looking down from the height of the doorway, quite -patient and composed. She knew that the Colonel would come: she knew -that he was not very good at pushing his way: therefore she possessed -her soul in patience, making no fuss, showing no anxiety about her box, -calm, commanding the situation. ‘Ah, here you are,’ she said quietly, as -he came up to her, stepping lightly down. - -‘Have you been waiting long, my dear?’ - -‘Oh no; it didn’t matter. I knew you would come. I have one box, and I -know exactly where it is. Don’t let us hurry. I don’t suppose there is -any hurry.’ - -‘No--perhaps not,--but something very serious, very serious, Elizabeth.’ - -‘I suppose so, or you would not have sent for me. Wait till we get out -of the noise. I could not hear you, so what would be the use? We are -going to a hotel, I suppose?’ - -‘We are going to Bellendean, where I am staying. Don’t be surprised.’ - -‘But I am surprised, Henry. To the great house you wrote to me about? -full of ladies? You forget----’ - -‘I--forget? No; I forget nothing--all you have done for me, your -kindness, your patience.’ - -The little lady took him by the arm, with a look of alarm in her face. -She had already sighted her box, and in the course of her dialogue with -her husband, had managed telegraphically to secure a porter and a cab. -Evidently she was of the order of women who take care of others, and do -not expect to be taken care of. She led him towards the cab, as if a -little afraid of his sanity. ‘Where is he to drive to? tell him,’ she -said, keeping a close hold to the Colonel’s arm. She held him fast -still, when they were seated together, until they had got clear of the -tumult of the railway station. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me. It must be -something very much out of the ordinary when you talk of my kindness, -Henry. My kindness!’ In this Mrs. Hayward resembled old Janet Matheson. -It was an offence to her to be praised in that way. - -‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I am more perplexed than I can tell you. You will -say I have often been perplexed before, when you saw little cause for -it; and this is why I sent for you so suddenly; for if anybody can bring -light out of darkness, it is you.’ - -‘What is it? I am very willing to be sent for, Henry; the only -difficulty is going to this house, when you know my principle, and how -long I have kept out of all invitations and acquaintances.’ - -‘You that would shine anywhere!’ said the Colonel, with the water in his -eyes, ‘and all for my sake.’ - -She looked at him again for a moment with a sort of consternation. -‘There you are making a mistake, my dear--for my own. Because I did not -choose that there should ever be a remark.’ - -He put his hand upon her arm with a heavy pressure. ‘Elizabeth, I am -dreadfully perplexed; but I think, if I am not wrong, that I have come -upon the settlement of all that question; of everything--of what has -hung over us. I think, my dear, that all is right--that all has been -right from the very beginning.’ He stopped a little, and then added, -drawing a long breath, ‘I never had any doubt of it myself.’ - -A gleam, half of anger, half of fun, darted up into her bright eyes, and -flashed like an arrow of light at him, which the good man did not even -see, and which ended, on her part, with a quick laugh, in which there -was a little amusement, a little excitement, though not very much -expectation. ‘You never had any doubt!’ she said. Then she added, with a -half sigh of impatience-- ‘Tell me all about your new discovery, and -we’ll pull it to pieces and see if there’s anything in it. Have we a -long drive before us? Is there time to get it all out?’ - -‘Plenty of time; and, oh, the comfort to know that you are here, and to -be able to tell you! I will do what you like best, Elizabeth. I will -tell you all the facts, and then you can judge for yourself. I came to -Bellendean, you know, nearly a week ago. There has been all sorts of -things going on. Great dinners, and all the fine people of the -county--and then the tenantry. It is a--a tidy estate--a number of -tenants--not small farms like what we are used to, but men, you know, -whom really I should have taken for country gentlemen--men paying big -rents, and able to make speeches--and--and that sort of thing.’ - -Mrs. Hayward kept her eyes upon her husband’s face. She was used, it was -evident, to long explanations, and expected them, and had learned that -patience which comes of necessity. He knew this fact, that she always -heard him out, and never interrupted him, as other people did. But what -he did not know, was that a thrill of natural impatience, never -altogether overcome, was in the veins of the little woman who sat by -him, keeping him to the point with her eyes, never interrupting him in -any other way. ‘Yes,’ she said, when he paused to take breath: but that -was all. - -‘Yes; and then, last of all, there was a supper to the labourers and -cottagers. Well, no, not exactly last of all, for the last was the -children’s entertainment--the school-feast we should have called it, but -they don’t say school-feast here--a sort of gathering in the afternoon, -you know, with a band and games, and tea in a great tent, and--you -know?’ - -‘Yes, I know what a school-feast is.’ - -‘Well!’--he drew a long breath now, and settled himself down in a manner -which betokened, as his wife by long experience knew, that he was about -coming to the point; but she could scarcely believe it after so short a -preamble. ‘The first thing that happened was at the labourers’ supper: -we were all walking about, and I for my part said a word now and then, -while they were cheering Norman Bellendean--that he was a good fellow, -you know, and all that--the sort of thing one would say at an affair of -the kind, when you do think well of the fellow, you know, and get into -the swim----’ - -‘Yes?’ said Mrs. Hayward again. - -‘Well then. I had the very words in my mouth, when at the end of one of -the tables, between an old man and an old woman, evidently cottagers, I -saw--I declare to you, Elizabeth, my heart leapt into my mouth--I was -choked, I could not say another syllable. I saw her as clear as I see -you.’ - -‘Whom did you see, Henry?’ - -‘Joyce!’ He got out the word with difficulty, and, taking out his -handkerchief, fanned himself, puffing forth a hot breath of excitement. -His bronzed face took a coppery tone in the heat of his reawakened -feelings; and this time Mrs. Hayward did not retain her usual calm. She -repeated the cry, ‘Joyce!’ with a tone of mingled astonishment and -dismay-- ‘Joyce!--then why in the name of heaven did you bring _me_ -here?’ - -‘Stop a minute, stop a minute, Elizabeth: you have not heard all; and -how is it possible you could understand? I have described her to you -often. It was as if I saw her, exactly as I had seen her last--the same -looks, the same age.’ - -‘You must be dreaming,’ cried his wife, almost with anger. ‘If she is -living, according to all you have always said, she must be as old as I -am----’ - -Sudden indignation seemed to burst from her in these words. She grew -red, she grew pale. The impatience, so entirely concealed before, showed -now in every finger, in every limb, mingled with angry surprise. ‘If you -have sent for me, disturbed me, exposed me, only to tell me this at the -end--that you saw her--the same age as you saw her last! I hope she has -a good reason to give for all the misery she has caused--but the same -age!’ Mrs. Hayward gasped, and said no more. - -‘Ah,’ said the Colonel, shaking his head, ‘you don’t see, you don’t see! -No more did I. I couldn’t say a word--I just stopped and stared--a young -lady, clearly a lady, between the two old cottagers--and that look. -Well! I came to myself, Elizabeth, and I thought it is just some chance -resemblance, and I left the place: but disturbed--disturbed beyond what -words could say. I got little sleep--you know how little sleep I get -when I am upset.’ - -‘I know you think so,’ said his wife, in an undertone. - -‘But in the morning I felt calm. I said to myself that it must be some -chance---- Of course there are people who are like each other all over -the world. I knew myself, up in the Punjaub, a man--but that is neither -here nor there. However, next day I was quite easy. I thought nothing -more of it. And then there came the school-feast I told you of--well, -the thing that was the same as a school-feast, though they didn’t call -it a school-feast, you know. I was walking about, thinking of nothing in -particular, and of course it was daylight, and everything quite -clear--when I saw that girl again.’ - -‘Oh, you call her a girl now!’ Mrs. Hayward said, with that air of -resentment which he did not understand. He paused and looked at her with -sudden anxiety. - -‘You are not feeling poorly, Elizabeth? You are not over-tired? You are -not----?’ He could not say angry, it seemed ridiculous; but his -attention was roused, and nothing but her health could be the cause, he -thought, of her change of tone. - -‘Go on,’ she said, ‘go on. I am not feeling anything--but a wish to know -what you mean.’ - -There was a difference in her for all that. And if Elizabeth was going -to fail him, what would become of him? He gave her a serious, anxious, -inquiring look. Then, in reply to an impatient movement on her part, -continued-- - -‘That’s not all. I went and asked Mrs. Bellendean who she was--though I -had scarcely breath to ask. Elizabeth--conceive what I felt when she -turned round and called Joyce!’ - -‘Joyce!--well I suppose you did not expect she had changed her name?’ -She said this sharply; then added, with an evident effort, ‘My dear, I -beg your pardon. I don’t wonder you were upset. Joyce--and it is a name -one never hears. Did she--know you?’ - -‘Know me? She had never seen me, nor heard of me--how should she know -me? And I was left for a long time in a state I can’t -describe--wondering whether it could be a relation--God knows what I -didn’t think! Everybody knew the girl. She was the schoolmistress, as it -turned out, but a lady every inch of her. Everybody liked her, consulted -her, clustered about her. I heard nothing but Joyce, Joyce, wherever I -turned.’ - -Mrs. Hayward’s impatience seemed to have died away. She patted his arm -with her small hand, saying, ‘Poor Henry!’ with a tone of compunction in -her pity. She had done him wrong, or else she had done wrong to Joyce. -To Joyce--the very name, though she had heard it so often, was like an -arrow quivering in her heart. - -‘Elizabeth, all that is as nothing to what I am going to tell you now. I -want all your attention. I have waited till you came: I haven’t even -tried to think: I have said to myself, Elizabeth will know. Now you must -give your mind to it, and tell me what to do. Elizabeth, this is the -story I heard. Twenty years ago, just the date I’ve often told you--the -date I remember so well--you know, my dear, you know----’ - -‘Yes, I know.’ - -‘Well!--Just then this girl’s mother came to Bellendean--all by herself, -going north, it was thought. She was going to have a baby----’ The old -Colonel here fell a trembling, and his wife took his hands and held them -in her own, caressing them--two large brown tremulous hands--between her -small white nervous ones. He leant back on her shoulder too, which was -not half broad enough to support him. ‘The short and the long is this: -she had her baby, and she died. And the baby is Joyce--named after her -mother; and there are clothes and letters to prove who she was----’ - -‘My poor Henry! God help you, my dear! You have seen them? it was--she?’ - -‘No--I haven’t seen them. I hadn’t the courage. I could think of nothing -but you. You’ll do it for me, Elizabeth? you’ll see what you think. I--I -couldn’t look up the old things. I--couldn’t--decide--I couldn’t----’ - -He could do nothing but tremble, it seemed, and falter out these broken -words, and lean back upon her, the colour going out of his face. She -thought he was about to faint. - -‘Come, Henry, this will never do,’ she said quickly. ‘Rouse yourself, my -dear fellow--rouse yourself up. We will bear it together, whatever it -may be. And it doesn’t seem, so far as I can see, as if there would be -anything new to bear.’ - -‘If it was so. She never told me, Elizabeth--that anything like that -could happen.’ - -‘Perhaps she did not know. You have always said she was young and -inexperienced. Oh, poor thing! poor thing!’ - -He loosed his hands from hers, and suddenly threw his arms round her, -enfolding her, with something like a sound of sobbing. ‘If it was fault -of mine, God forgive me! God forgive me! But, Elizabeth, my dear! it has -always been all right between you and me--as I felt sure all along.’ - -Her bright eyes were for a moment dimmed too. She gave him a sudden -light kiss upon his old cheek, and then softly detached herself. ‘We -will say no more about that just now. If all this is as you think, -Henry, there is something more important even than you and me--the -girl.’ - -‘Ah, the girl!’ He spoke vaguely, as if his attention had been -distracted from that part of the subject. ‘You will see her,’ he said, -‘the very living image--and then the name--just as she was the last time -I ever saw her. Elizabeth: you will understand the kind of creature she -was--the--the impetuosity--the----’ - -‘Don’t dwell on all that, or you will upset yourself again. See her! of -course I shall see her. You don’t seem to realise what a wonderful -change for her--and us too. But don’t you think it is you who ought to -see her first and tell her--you who are, after all, the chief person----’ - -‘I!’ he cried with dismay, interrupting her. ‘Why the chief person? Did -I ever set myself up as the chief person? We have gone along with each -other, Elizabeth, in everything that has been done.’ - -‘Yes, but in the case of--Joyce.’ She made a little pause before she -said the name. ‘Henry, Joyce, whether living or dead, must be -yours--yours alone. She would have a right to complain if you left her -to me.’ - -He caught her again, with an alarmed look, by her arm. ‘Is there -anything mine that is not yours too? Has there ever been anything of -mine that was not yours? Don’t go and make a separation just when--just -when----’ - -‘Separation! it is likely that I should make a separation,’ she cried, -with a laugh in which there was, though he was unconscious of it, a -great deal of nervous excitement. Then she looked out of the carriage -with a little cry of admiration: ‘What is this? Have we got to -Bellendean already? What beautiful trees! I did not know there were such -fine trees in the north. And now I must think of meeting Mrs. -Bellendean. Isn’t it rather bold of you to bring me here?’ - -‘Not bold at all. The invitation was from her. I did not ask for it. It -was she herself--entirely she----’ - -‘I know what you did,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a smile. ‘You said, I -wish Elizabeth were here. And she heard it, and suggested that you send -for me. Most likely she was a little amused about Elizabeth. I know your -way, and what the young fellows say, that you always want Elizabeth, -whatever happens.’ - -‘So I do--so I do; though I can’t tell how they know, the jackanapes. -Here we are at the door.’ - -‘You must smuggle me upstairs before anybody sees me, for I’m very -untidy; and I know how fresh they will all look in their morning -things,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, with a shade of disquietude in her eyes. - -‘Oh yes, you shall be smuggled upstairs,’ cried the Colonel, confident -in the security of the early hour. And presently the pair found -themselves in the cheerful room prepared for the newcomer, with tea set -out upon a table. Elizabeth took at once the command of the position. -She gave him some tea, then dismissed him to an easy chair in his own -room, which communicated with hers, where, as he began to doze, he could -see her little figure moving about, appearing and disappearing, as she -unpacked her things and made herself comfortable. She looked, he -thought, as if she had been there all her life. It was a faculty -peculiar to her. She made the barest barrack-room look like herself -somehow, before she had been half an hour in it. Wherever she was, the -place began to appear like home directly. He had the immense sense of -relief which a man in charge of a difficult post feels on the arrival of -his commanding officer who takes over the responsibility, and that -delightful loosening of moral tension filled him with pleasant -drowsiness. His eyes, half shut, half open, were conscious of her, and -that everything was being looked after; and, as a matter of fact, he had -not slept well for two or three nights, though Elizabeth had scoffed at -this. He had a most refreshing doze while she dressed and made herself -look as fresh as the morning. As for her having been untidy, even after -the night-journey, that was a thing impossible to Elizabeth. But he knew -that she would come out looking fresher than the day. - -She was a little woman of about forty-five, with the complexion of a -girl, and eyes that were as blue as an infant’s, but with the quality of -brightness which belongs more frequently to a darker hue. Not soft and -dreamy as blue eyes should be, but keen and clear, dancing with -light--eyes which saw behind as well as before, and which nothing could -elude. There was no sleep or weariness in them, but there was, visible -to her own perception as she looked at herself in the glass, a keener -glitter of uneasiness, a little curve of anxiety in the lids. He seemed -to think only of this possible revelation of the past--which, no doubt, -was important, very important; but of the future, which she saw so -distinctly opening upon them, a future entirely new, distracting, for -which neither she nor he had any preparation, he seemed to take no -thought. That was Henry’s way, she said to herself, to be overwhelmed by -one view of a question, which had half a dozen other aspects more -important, and to make himself quite comfortable about it when the -first shock was over, without an idea of what the consequences might be: -dear old stupid that he was! She, too, glanced at him as she passed and -repassed the doorway, with a tenderness in which there was a mixture of -amusement and partial irritation and fun and sympathy, all mingled -together. His goodness, his strength, his helplessness and confusion of -mind, his high courage and authority and judgment, and his complete -dependence and docility, were all so evident to those keen eyes of hers, -which adored him, laughed at him, smote him with keen shafts of -criticism, made haloes of glory about him all at one and the same -moment. He had brought her many a ravelled skein to disentangle, but -never any so serious as this. Joyce dead had been a shadow often -discouraging upon her life, but Joyce living filled her lively soul with -a shrinking of dismay. And of this he did not seem to have a thought. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Janet Matheson was busy with her broth, which was boiling softly, slowly -over the fire, ready to receive the vegetables--red, white, and -green--the carrots and turnips and early crisp cabbage, all nicely cut -and glistening with freshness and cleanness, which she had just prepared -to add to the contents of the pot. She had a large brown holland apron -covering her cotton gown, and a thick white cap surrounding her -frosty-apple cheeks. The room was as neat and bright as her own little -active figure. The little greenish window behind was open to admit the -scent of the mignonette in the garden, and the pale pink monthly rose -which looked in. On the sill of the opened window there was a line of -books, and a writing-table stood under it, slightly inappropriate, yet -disturbing nothing of the homely harmony of the cottage. The door to the -street was open too, and any passing stranger could have seen Janet, who -now and then looked out, with a carrot in one hand, and the knife with -which she was scraping it in the other, wondering where that lassie -J’yce could have gone to. The holidays had begun, and Joyce was free. -She had done her share of the household service before she went out; but -her tender old guardian was of opinion that about this hour ‘a piece’ -was essential, though that was a thing of which Joyce could never be got -to take proper heed. She had turned her back to the world, however, and -was emptying her bowlful of vegetables into the pot, when Mrs. Hayward -tapped at the open door. Janet said mechanically, ‘Come in--come away -in’ without hurrying the operation in which she was engaged. When she -turned she found another bright-eyed woman looking in at her from the -pavement. - -‘May I come in?’ said Mrs. Hayward. - -‘Certainly, mem, ye may come in, and welcome. Come away,’ said Janet, -lifting a wooden chair, and placing it, though the day was very warm, -within reach of the fire. It was clean as scrubbing could make it, yet -she dusted it mechanically with her apron, as is the cottager’s use. -Mrs. Hayward watched every movement with her bright eyes, and observed -all the details of the little house. A simple woman, looking like a -French peasant with her thick cap; a little rustic village house, -without the slightest pretension of anything more. And this was the -house in which the girl had been bred who Henry said was a lady--a lady! -He knew so little, poor fellow, and men are taken in so easily. No doubt -she was dressed in cheap finery, like so many of the village girls. - -‘I wanted, if you will allow me, to make some inquiries about your--but -she is not your daughter?’ - -‘About Joyce?’ said the old woman quickly. She put down the bowl and -came forward a few steps, from henceforward departing from her _rôle_ of -simple hospitality and friendliness, and becoming at once one of the -parties to a duel, watching every step her adversary made. ‘And what -will ye be wanting with Joyce?’ she asked, planting her foot firmly on -the floor of her little kingdom. She was queen and mistress there, let -the other be what she might. - -‘It is difficult to say it in a few words,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘I have -heard that though you have brought her up like your child, and been so -tender to her, yet that she is no relation of yours.’ - -‘There are idle folk in every place,’ said Janet sententiously, ‘who -have nothing to do but to stir up a’ the idle tales that ever were heard -about the country-side.’ - -‘Do you mean, then, that this is an idle tale?’ - -The two antagonists watched each other with keen observation, and Janet -saw that there was something like pleasure, or at least relief, in her -adversary’s manner of putting the question. ‘It a’ depends on the sense -it’s put in,’ she said. - -‘We can’t go on fencing like this all day,’ cried Mrs. Hayward quickly. -‘I will tell you plainly what I want. My husband has seen the girl whom -you call Joyce.’ - -‘Mem, you might keep a more civil tongue in your head,’ said Janet, ‘and -ca’ her something else than the girl.’ - -‘What should I call her? I have not seen her. It is not with any will of -my own that I am here. I hear her very highly spoken of, and your great -kindness to her, and her--what is far more uncommon--gratitude to you.’ - -‘Mem,’ said Janet, ‘we Scots folk, we’re awfu’ unregenerate in the way -of pride. We are little used to have leddies coming inquiring into our -maist private concerns, ca’ing a woman’s affection for her bairn -kindness, and a good lassie’s good heart for her faither and mither -gratitude.’ - -‘I quite agree with you,’ said Mrs. Hayward, rising up suddenly and -putting out her hand. ‘You are quite right, and I am--unregenerate as -you say. The reason is, I have been a little put out this morning, and I -have inquiries to make which I don’t make with any heart. I have come to -ask you to let me see the things which Joyce’s mother left behind -her--or at least the letters which Mrs. Bellendean told my husband of. A -glance at them would possibly settle the question. My husband -thinks--that he knows who she is.’ - -Janet had wiped her hand with her apron, and given it to her visitor, -but with some reluctance. ‘And wha may your husband be, mem?’ she said. - -‘He says he spoke to you the other day. He is, though I say it, a -distinguished soldier. He is Colonel Hayward, who was Captain -Bellendean’s commanding officer.’ - -Janet was not greatly moved by Colonel Hayward’s distinction, nor by his -grade, but that he should be the Captain’s commanding officer impressed -her at once. ‘Then he’ll be a gentleman that’s far aboon the like of -us,’ she said, ‘and no’ a man that would put forth his hand for naught, -or disturb a decent poor family without just cause.’ She stood a little, -fingering her apron, ‘glowering frae her,’ as she would have said, -casting a wistful look into vacancy. ‘It will maybe be something--that -would make a great change,’ she said, her lips quivering a little, ‘if -it cam’ true.’ - -‘I am afraid it would make a great change,’ said Mrs. Hayward, and she -added with a sigh, ‘both to you and to me.’ - -‘To you!’ Janet clasped her hands. ‘What will you have to do with it? -What would it be to the like of you? You’re no--you’re no----? or the -Cornel----?’ The old woman put her hand with natural eloquence to her -breast. ‘My heart’s just louping like to choke me. Oh mem, what would it -be to you?’ - -‘Look here,’ said her visitor. ‘We may be giving ourselves a great deal -of unnecessary trouble. It may happen that when I see the letters it -will all come to nothing. Then let me see them directly, there’s a dear -woman. That is the best and the only thing to do.’ - -There was a sweep of energetic movement about this rapid little lady -that pressed forward Janet’s reluctant feet. She took a step or two -forward towards the stair. But there she paused again. ‘I’ve aye said -to Peter we must keep a loose grip,’ she said. ‘And when she was only a -wean it would have been nothing: but she’s come to be that between him -and me, that I canna tell how we’re ever to part. I’ve never said it to -her. Na. I’m no’ one to spoil a young cratur’ with praisin’ her. I’ve -kept it before her, that if she had mair headpiece than the rest, it was -nae credit of hers, but just her Maker that had made her sae. It’s no’ -for that. It’s no because she’s an honour and a glory to them that have -brought her up. Whiles the one that ye are proudest of is just the one -that will rend your heart. But she’s that sweet--and that bonnie--bonnie -in a’ her ways--ye canna help but see she’s a leddy born; but to take -upon hersel’ because o’ that. Na, na. That shows ye dinna ken our J’yce. -Oh, I aye said haud a loose grip!’ cried the old woman, with broken sobs -interrupting her speech. ‘I’ve said it to my man a thoosan’ times and a -thoosan’ to that; but it’s mair than I have done mysel’ at the hinder -end.’ - -The stranger’s bright eyes grew dim. She put her hand on Janet’s arm. ‘I -should like to cry too,’ she said--‘not like you, for love, but for pure -contrariness, and spite, and malice, and all that’s wicked. Come and -show me the letters. Perhaps we are just troubling ourselves in vain, -both you and I----’ - -‘Na, na, it’s no’ in vain,’ said Janet, restraining herself with a -vehement effort. ‘If it may be sae this time, it’ll no’ be sae anither -time. We may just be thankful we have keepit her sae lang. I never -looked for it, for my pairt. I’ll gang first, mem, though it’s no’ -mainners, to show you the way. This is her cha’amer, my bonnie darling; -no’ much of a place for a leddy like you to come in to, or for a leddy -like her--God bless her!--to sleep in. But we gave her what we had. We -could do nae mair--if ye were a queen ye could do nae mair. And she’s -been as content all her bonnie days as if she was in the king’s palace. -Oh, but she’s been content; singing about the house that it was a -pleasure to hear her, and never thinking shame--never, never--of her -auld granny, wherever she was. She has ca’ed me aye granny--it was mair -natural; and nae slight upon the poor bonny bit thing that is dead and -gone.’ - -Janet went on talking as she placed a chair for the visitor, and went -forward to the rude little desk where Joyce kept her treasures. She -talked on, finding a relief in it, a necessity for exertion. Mrs. -Hayward looked round the little homely place, meanwhile, with a -curiosity which was almost painful. It was a tiny little room with a -sloping roof, furnished in the simplest way, though a white counterpane -on the little bed, and the white covering of the little dressing-table -in the window, gave an air of care and daintiness amid the simple -surroundings. A few photographs of pictures were pinned against the -wall. But the place of honour was given to two photographic groups -framed, one representing a group of school children, the other a band of -(Mrs. Hayward thought) very uncouth and clumsy young men. Janet, with a -wave of her hand towards these, said-- ‘Hersel’ and her lassies,’ and -‘Andrew and some of his freends.’ It seemed to the keen but agitated -observer, in the formality of the heavy cluster of faces, as if all were -equally commonplace and uninteresting. She sat down and watched, with an -impatience which nothing but long practice could have kept within -bounds, while Janet opened the desk which stood against the wall, and -then a drawer in it, out of which at last, with trembling hands, she -brought a little parcel, wrapped in a white handkerchief. Janet was as -reluctant as her visitor was eager. She would fain have deferred the -test, or put it aside altogether. Why had she kept these papers for her -own undoing? She undid the handkerchief slowly. There fell out of it as -she unfolded it several small articles, each done up in a little -separate packet. ‘A’ her bit things that she had,’ Janet explained. ‘A -locket round her neck, and a bit little watch that winna go, and the -chain to it, and twa rings. I wanted Joyce to wear them, but she will -wear nothing o’ the kind, no’ so much as a bit brooch. Maybe you will -ken the rings if you see them,’ said Janet, always anxious to postpone -the final question, putting down the larger packet, and picking up with -shaking fingers, which dropped them two or three times before they were -finally secured, the tiny parcel in which the ornaments were enclosed. - -‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘The letters are the only things. Show me -the letters, I implore you, and don’t let us torture ourselves with -suspense.’ - -‘Ae kind of torture is just as bad as another,’ said the old woman, -undoing with great unsteadiness the cotton-wool in which the trinkets -were enclosed. She held them out in the palm of her brown and -work-scarred hand. A little ring of pearl and turquoise, made for a very -slender finger, in a simple pattern, like a girl’s first ornament, and -beside it another, equally small, a ruby set round with brilliants. The -glimmer of the stones in the old woman’s tremulous hand, the presence of -these fragile symbols of a life and history past, gave the spectator a -shock of sympathetic pain almost in spite of herself. She put them away -with a hurried gesture-- ‘No, no; nothing but the letters. I never saw -these before; I know nothing--nothing but the letters. Show me the -letters.’ - -Janet looked at the trinkets and then at Mrs. Hayward, with a rising -light of hope in her eyes. ‘Ye never saw them before? It will just be -somebody else and no her ye was thinking of? That’s maist likely, that’s -real likely----’ wrapping them up again slowly in their cotton-wool. -Her fingers, unused to delicate uses, were more than ever awkward in -their tremor. To put them back again was the business of several -minutes, during which she went on: ‘You will not be heeding to see the -other things? I have them here in her box, just as she left them--for -Joyce would never hear of puttin’ on onything--and they’re -auld-fashioned, nae doubt, poor things. You’ll no be heeding?--oh ay, -the letters--I’m forgetting the letters. But, mem, if ye’ve nae -knowledge of her bit rings and things, ye will get nothing out of the -letters. There’s nae information in them. I’ve read them mysel’ till I -could near say them off by heart, but head or tail of them I could mak’ -nane. Here they are, any way. She’s made a kind of a pocket-book to put -them in--a’ her ain work, and bonnie work it is--flowered with gold; I -never kent where she got the gift o’t. Ye would think she could just do -onything she turned her hand to. Ay, there they are.’ - -And with no longer any possible pretence for delay, she thrust a little -velvet case into Mrs. Hayward’s hand--who between impatience and -suspense was as much excited as herself. It was worked in gold thread -with a runic cross, twisted with many knots and intertwinings, and -executed with all the imperfections of an art as uninstructed as that of -the early workers in stone who had wrought Joyce’s model. Inside, -wrapped carefully in paper, were the two silent witnesses--the records -of the tragedy, the evidence which would be conclusive. Mrs. Hayward’s -hands trembled too as she came to this decisive point--they dropped out -of her fingers into her lap. Her heart gave a leap of relief when her -eye fell on the handwriting of the uppermost, which was unknown to her. -The other was folded, nothing showing but the paper, yellow and worn at -the edges with much perusal. In spite of herself, she took this up with -a feeling of repugnance and dread--afraid of it, afraid to touch it, -afraid to see---- what instinct told her must be there. She paused, -holding it in her hand, and gave Janet a look. No words passed between -them, but for the moment their hearts were one. - -Mrs. Hayward opened the folded paper, then gave a low cry, and looked at -Janet once more--and to both the women there was a moment during which -the solid earth, and this little prosaic spot on it, seemed to go round -and round. - -‘It will be what you was looking for?’ said Janet at last. She had been -full of lamentation and resistance before. She felt nothing now except -the hand of fate. The other shook her head. - -‘Yes,’ she replied, and said no more. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -In the meantime Colonel Hayward was walking up and down the village -street, waiting for his wife. He passed and repassed the door two or -three times. He was very nervous, hanging about, not knowing what to -make of himself. The church stood at the end of the street, and a path -led down by the side of the churchyard, in the direction of Bellendean. -As he came to the end of this, he stopped in the abstraction of his mind -to look down the line of shade which a high hedgerow opposite to the low -mossy wall of the churchyard threw half-way across the path. Some one -was coming along in this clear and soft shadow, which was so grateful in -the midst of the sunshine. It startled him to see it was Joyce, in her -dark dress, her face relieved against the broad brim of an untrimmed -straw hat, which added in its tone of creamy white additional force to -the very delicate tints of her face, so clear in the shadowy air, with -an impression of coolness in the midst of great warmth. He cast an -anxious look of suspense over his shoulder towards the house where his -wife was; but as he did not see her, nor any sign of her coming, he -turned down the path to meet Joyce. It was rather by way of diverting -his own anxiety than from any eagerness to address her. He seemed to -want somebody to whom he could talk to relieve his own mind; for up to -this moment, except from curiosity and anxiety in respect to the past, -and a certain admiration of herself and her demeanour, it had not been -Joyce, upon her own account, who had interested the Colonel. He had not -had leisure as yet to get so far as her--for herself. He went on to talk -to her because she was in it, concerned like himself, though she might -not be aware of the fact, in the matter which his wife at present was -engaged in clearing up. It was as if the scene then going on at the -cottage was a consultation of doctors upon the life or death of a -beloved patient. Those who are waiting breathless for the opinion, which -is at the same time a sentence, are glad to get together to ask each -other what they think,--at least, to stand together and wait, feeling -the support of company. This was Colonel Hayward’s feeling. He went -towards the girl with a sense that she had more to do with it than any -one else--but not with any perception of its immense importance to her. - -Joyce had gone out in the freedom which comes to all the members of the -scholastic profession, small and great, with the first morning of the -holidays. To have no lessons to give, no claim of one kind or another, -nothing but their own occupations, whatever they may be, gives to these -happy people a sense of legitimate repose. For one thing, the members of -almost every other profession have to go away to secure this -much-desired leisure, but to the teacher it comes, without any effort, -by appointment of nature, so to speak, by a beneficent arrangement which -takes all selfishness out of the enjoyment, since it has been invented, -not for the good primarily of himself, but of the flock who are so -happily got rid of, to their own perfect satisfaction. The sweet -consciousness that the happiness and freedom of so many sufferers have -been consulted before one’s own, gives sweetness and grace to it. Joyce -had risen this morning with that exquisite sense of freedom, and she had -gone out with a book as soon as the household work she never neglected -was over, to read and muse on a favourite spot, a point in the park at -Bellendean out of reach of the house, where behind a great screen of -trees the wayfarer came suddenly in sight of the Firth, the circle of -low hills which protects the narrower sea at the Queen’s Ferry, and the -sheltered basin of St. Margaret’s Hope. The sight of this wonderful -combination of sea and sky and solid soil, the soft hills rising round, -the mass of grey stones on the water’s edge, which marks a ruined -castle, the island in the midst, the widening out beyond into the -infinite, into the wider Firth and the stormy waters of the northern -sea, affording an ever-open door for the fancy,--were delightful to this -imaginative girl. She had taken her book, but she did not open it--for -which she upbraided herself, confessing in the secret depths of her soul -that Andrew would not have done so,--that he would have read and -expounded and discussed and found a new beauty in every line, where she, -so much his intellectual inferior, did nothing. She did not even -think--if further avowal must be made, she did not even see the lovely -landscape for the sake of which she had come here. It entered into her, -reflecting itself in her dreamy eyes, and printing itself in her mind; -but she did not look as Andrew would have done, finding out beautiful -‘lights,’ and commanding all the details of the scene. Joyce was a -little short-sighted, and did not see the details. It was to her a large -blurred celestial world of beauty and colour, and abundant delicious air -and sunshine. Her thoughts went from her, where she sat in the heart of -the morning, looking over the Firth, with all its breadth of melting -light and reflection, to those low hills of the farther shore. - -It had been thus that she had entered upon her holidays in the other -days when life had no cares. The dreamings about Lady Joyce, and all the -speculations as to her future, had come in other scenes, where there was -a want of brightness and of a stronghold of her own to retire into. Here -she had not needed that fanciful world of her own. But to-day Joyce was -in a different mood. After a while she began to become insensible -altogether to the scene, and resumed more personal musings instead. -‘Young lady, where did you get your name?’ It was not the first time she -had been so questioned. Half the people she met asked her the same: but -not as Colonel Hayward did. ‘I knew some one once’--what did he mean? -why did he not come back and tell her? These thoughts became urgent -after a while, so that she could not sit and dream, as was her wont in -her favourite spot. She got up with a little impatience and vexation and -disappointment to return home. But in the lane which led up to the -village street, in the clear shadow of the tall hawthorn hedge, behold -some one advancing to meet her, at sight of whom her heart began to -beat--more loudly than it had ever beaten at the sight of Andrew -Halliday; it sprang up thumping and resounding. ‘He knows who I am,’ she -said to herself. ‘Perhaps he will tell me; perhaps he is looking for me -to tell me. Perhaps he is something to me.’ Her veins seemed suddenly to -fill with a rushing quick-flowing stream. - -Colonel Hayward took off his hat as he came up. This was to him an -everyday action, but to her an unusual grace, a homage which only lately -had ever been given to her, and which she esteemed disproportionately as -a sign of special chivalry. It brought the colour to her cheeks, which -ebbed again the moment after in the fluctuations of her anxiety. The old -Colonel looked very anxious too; his face was agitated, and paler than -usual. When he came up to her he stopped. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, -‘that we were ever introduced to each other; but still---- You have been -taking a walk this fine morning?’ - -‘The holidays have just begun, sir,’ said Joyce respectfully. ‘This is -the first day: and though I am very fond of my work, freedom is sweet at -first.’ - -‘Only at first?’ - -‘It is always sweet,’ she said, with a smile; ‘but never so delicious as -the first day.’ - -Their hearts were not in this light talk, and here it came to an end. He -had turned with her, and they were walking along side by side. Great -anxiety--tremulous and breathless suspense--were in the minds of both on -the same subject--and yet they regarded it in aspects so different! The -soft transparent shadow of the hedge kept them from all the flicker of -light and movement outside, giving a sort of _recueillement_, a calm of -gravity and stillness, to the two figures. Had they been in a picture, -there could have been no better title for it than ‘The Telling of the -Secret.’ But yet there was no secret told. He was absorbed in his own -thoughts, and unconscious of the wistful looks which she gave him -timidly from time to time. At last he turned upon her, and asked the -strangest question, with a tremor and quiver in all his big frame. - -‘Do you remember your mother?’ he said. - -‘My mother!’ The sudden shock brought a wave of colour over her. ‘Oh, -sir,’ said Joyce, ‘how could I remember her? for she died when I was -born.’ - -‘True, true--I had forgotten that,’ he said, with an air of confusion. -Then added-- ‘You must forgive me. My mind was full----’ - -Of what was his mind full? He fell silent after this, and for some time -no more was said. But it gradually came to be impossible to Joyce to -keep silence. She turned to him, scarcely seeing him in the rush of -blood that went to her head. - -‘Did you know my mother?’ she said. ‘Oh, sir, will you tell me? Do you -know who she was?’ - -‘I can’t tell--I can’t tell,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It may be all -a mistake. We must not make too sure.’ - -‘Then you think----’ she cried, and stopped, and looked at him, -searching his face for his meaning--the anxious open face which was held -before her like a book--though he did not look at her in return. She put -her hand, with a light momentary touch, on his arm. ‘Perhaps you don’t -know,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that I have things of hers--things she -left--that would settle it--that would show you----’ - -He made a little gesture of assent, waving his hand. ‘My wife is there: -that is what keeps me in this suspense.’ - -‘Where? Where?’ - -He pointed vaguely in the direction of Joyce’s home. ‘She has gone--to -see everything,’ he said. - -For the moment a flash of sudden anger came to the eyes of Joyce. ‘They -are all mine!’ she cried. ‘It was to me she ought to have come. I am the -one chiefly concerned!’ Then the flash quenched itself, and her look -grew soft and wistful once more. ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘if it was the -Joyce you thought--if it was her you supposed--who was she? To tell me -that, even if it should turn out all different, would do no harm.’ - -‘It would do no good either,’ he said: then turned round to her, and -took her hand between his two large brown hands, which were trembling. -‘You are very like her,’ he said--‘so like her that I am forced to -believe. She looked just as you are doing when I saw her last. Some -relationship there must be--there must be!’ Here he dropped her hand -again, as if he had not known that he held it. ‘There was wrong done to -her--the Joyce I mean. She was made very unhappy; but no wrong was meant -on--on my--on--on _his_ part. Would you really like to hear the story? -But it may turn out to be nothing--to have nothing to do with you.’ - -‘Oh, tell me; it will fill up the time; it will ease the suspense.’ - -‘That is what I feel,’ he said; ‘and you will keep the secret--that is, -there is no secret; it is only what happened to---- what happened long, -long ago--to--to one of my friends: you understand,’ he said -tremulously, but with an effort to be very firm, looking at her, -‘to--one of my friends.’ - -Joyce made a sign of assent, too much absorbed in what she was about to -hear to think what this warmth of asseveration meant. It was a relief to -him to speak. It was like going over all the changes of the illness when -a beloved sufferer lies between life and death. - -‘They met,’ he said, ‘abroad, at a foreign station. She was very young. -She was with people that were not kind to her. They married in a great -hurry, without proper precautions, without thinking that anything could -be wrong. They came home soon after for her health, and I--I had -to--I--I don’t quite remember----’ his voice seemed to die away in his -throat; then with another effort he recovered it and went on-- ‘Her -husband had to leave her and go back--to his duty: and then she heard -from some wicked person--oh, some wicked person!--God forgive her, for I -can’t--that it was not a true marriage. It was, it was! I protest to you -no thought of harm--good Lord! nothing but love, honest love--and it was -all right, all right, as it turned out.’ - -‘But she thought--she had been deceived!’ Joyce listened with her head -drooping, keeping down the climbing sorrow in her throat, hardly able to -find her voice. - -‘She was always hasty,’ he said. ‘I am not the one to blame her--oh no, -no--it was not wonderful, perhaps, that she should believe. And letters -to India were not then as now--they took so long a time; and something -happened to delay the answer. It was what you call nobody’s fault--only -an accident--an accident that cost----’ - -‘You are very, very kind--oh, you are kind; you speak as if you had felt -for her with all your heart--as if she had been your very own.’ - -He gave her a startled look, and made a momentary pause: then he -proceeded, ‘That’s all,--all that anybody has known. She disappeared. -His letter came back to him. He could not get home to search for her. It -had to be trusted to others. After years, when I came back, I--I--but -nothing could ever be found.’ - -‘Sir,’ said Joyce, gasping a little to keep down her sobs, ‘I think that -must have been my mother. I--think it must be. She begins in her letter -to tell him--she calls him Henry--was that his name?’ - -The old Colonel made a noise in his throat which sounded like a sob too: -he nodded his head in assent, as if he could not speak. - -‘She begins to tell him--is he living still?’ - -This question had the strangest effect upon Colonel Hayward. He turned -round upon her, steadying himself, looking her in the face, with -momentary wonder and something like indignation: then the energy died -out of him all at once, and he nodded his head again. - -‘My father! then I have a father,’ said Joyce, with a voice as soft and -tender as a dove’s. She was not now paying any attention to him or his -looks, but was entirely absorbed in this new wonderful discovery of her -own. - -But he started with a sudden cry-- ‘Good God!’ as if something -new--something too astounding to understand--had flashed upon him. Her -father! why, so it was!--so he was---- He had thought of no subject but -this for days, and yet this point of view had not opened upon him. They -had reached the head of the lane, and were now in the village street, -turned towards the cottage in which Joyce had lived all her life, and -near enough to see the light little figure of Mrs. Hayward standing at -the door. This caught his attention, but not hers. For Joyce had plunged -suddenly with a new impulse back into the enchanted country of her -dreams. A father--and one who had done no wrong--who was not to -blame--a living father! It was only when she turned to Colonel Hayward, -after the first bound of exhilaration and breathless pleasure, to ask -him, clasping her hands unconsciously, ‘Who is my father?’ that she saw -the extraordinary commotion in his face. He was looking at her, and yet -his eyes made quick voyages to and from his wife. The lines of his face -had all melted into what Joyce felt to be the ‘kindest’ look she had -ever met. And yet there was alarm and boundless anxiety in it. He looked -as if he did not hear her question, but suddenly laid his hand upon -hers, and gave it a strong momentary pressure. ‘I must know first. I -must speak to my wife,’ he said incoherently. ‘God bless you!--I must -ask Elizabeth. You must wait: I must speak to Elizabeth. But God bless -you, my dear!’ - -He was already gone, hastening with long steps up the street. The -thought passed through Joyce’s mind that this must have been a dear -friend,--some one, perhaps, who had loved her mother: and a man with the -tenderest heart. There was something in his ‘God bless you’ which seemed -to fall upon her like the dew--a true blessing; the blessing of one who -had always been her friend, though she had never known him. She did not -hurry to follow him to satisfy herself, but went on quietly at her usual -pace, looking at the old gentleman’s long swift steps, and thinking of a -camel going over the ground. He was from the East, too; and he devoured -the way, hastening to the little figure which had perceived and which -was waiting for him. Joyce had the faculty of youth to remark all this, -yet keep up her own thoughts at the same time. She saw old Janet -standing at the door looking out, with the hem of her apron in her hand, -which was her gesture when her mind was much occupied or troubled: and -the little lady in the street standing waiting, and then, her own old -friend, the Colonel, hurrying up, putting his arm within the lady’s, -leading her away with his head bent over her. There was a certain -amusement in it all, which floated on the surface of the great -excitement and wonder and delight of the discovery she had made. A -father; and a dear old friend, the kindest, the most sympathetic, who -blessed her, and who had a right to bless her, having loved (she could -not doubt it) her mother before her. - -Joyce did not know what the next disclosure might be,--did not think for -the moment that, whatever it was, it must change the whole tenor of her -life. Nor did she think that there was still a doubt in it,--that it -might yet come to nothing, as he had said. Oh no, it could not come to -nothing; everything pieced in to the story. The doubt with which Janet -had always chilled her, that a young creature disappearing so utterly, -with no one to care for her, no one to inquire after her, must have had -a story in which shame was involved--how completely was it dissipated -and explained by this real tale! Oh, no shame! she had felt sure there -could not be shame--nothing but the cruel distance, the fatal accident -that had delayed the letter, those strange elements of uncertainty which -mix in every mortal story, which (Joyce remembered from that reading -which had hitherto been her life) the ancients called fate. And what -could they be called but fate? If it had come in time that letter! as -letters which mean nothing, which are of no consequence, come every -day--and yet he had said the delay was nobody’s fault. Was it less -fatal, less fateful than those incidents that lead towards the end of a -tragedy in the poets? and this was a tragedy. Oh, how sad, how pitiful, -to the Joyce of twenty years ago! but not to our Joyce, who suddenly -found this July morning her vague dreams of youth, her fancies that had -no foundation, coming true. - -‘You’ve been a long time away,’ said Janet from the door. She had -watched Joyce’s approach until they were within a few steps of each -other, when she had suddenly withdrawn her eyes, and taking to examining -the hem of her apron, which she laid down and pinched between her -fingers, as if preparing it to be hemmed over again. The corners of -Janet’s mouth were drawn down, and a line or two marked in her forehead, -as when she was angry and about to scold her nursling. ‘I could wuss,’ -she said, ‘that ye wouldna stravaig away in the mornin’ without a piece -or onything to sustain ye, and maybe getting your death o’ cauld, -sittin’ on the grass.’ - -‘It is the first day of the holidays, granny,’ said Joyce. She came in -smiling, and put down her book, and going up to her faithful guardian, -put an arm round her, and laid her cheek against hers. Caresses are rare -in a Scotch peasant’s house. Janet half turned away her own wrinkled -cheek. The intensity of the love within her rose into a heat which -simulated wrath. - -‘I’m no a wean to be made o’. I like nane o’ your phrasin’s. I like when -folk do as I bid them, and make nae steer.’ - -‘Oh, granny,’ said Joyce, ‘but my heart is so full, and I have so much -to tell you.’ - -‘What can ye have to tell me? I have maybe mair to tell you than ever ye -thought upon; and as for a full heart, how can the like of you, with a’ -your life before ye, ken what that means?’ - -‘Granny, I have had a long talk with that gentleman--the gentleman that -thought he knew my mother.’ - -‘And what had he to say to you? I’m thinking your mother has been just -killed among them. That’s my opinion. A poor young solitary thing, that -had naebody to stand up for her. And sae will ye be if ye lippen to -them,’ cried Janet, suddenly sitting down and covering her face with her -apron,--‘sae will ye be. Ye are weel off now, though maybe ye dinna -think sae.’ - -‘Granny, have I ever given you any reason to say that?’ - -Janet withdrew her apron from her eyes. Her eyes were red with that -burden of tears which age cannot shed like youth. The passion of love -and grief which overflowed her being could only get vent in this -irritation and querulous impatience. Her long upper lip quivered, a hot -moisture glistened on the edges of her eyelids. She looked at the young -creature, standing half on the defensive before this sudden attack, yet -half disposed to meet it with tender laughter and jest. ‘Oh, ye can make -licht o’t,’ she cried. ‘What is’t to you? just the life ye’ve aye been -craving for,--aye craving for,--ye canna say nay. But to me what is it?’ -said the old woman. ‘It’s just death. It’s waur than death; it’s just -lingering and longin’ and frettin’ wi’ my Maker for what I canna have! -When we took ye to our airms, a bit helpless bairn, maybe there was that -in our hearts that said the Lord was our debtor to make it up to us. But -them that think sae will find themselves sair mista’en; for He has just -waited and waited till ye had come to your flower and were our pride! -And now the fiat has gaen forth, no’ when ye were a little bairn; and I -aye said, “Haud a loose grip!” But now that a’ the danger seemed -overpast, now that--wheesht!’ cried Janet suddenly, coming to an abrupt -pause. In the silence that followed they heard a slow and heavy foot, -making long and measured steps, advancing gradually. They heard that -among many others, for it was the time when the labourers were coming -home to dinner; but to Janet and Joyce there was no mistaking the one -tread among so many. Janet got up hurriedly from the chair. ‘Wheesht! -no’ a word before him; it’s time enough when it comes,’ she said. Joyce -had not waited even for this, but had begun to lay the table, so that -Peter when he came in should find everything ready. He came in with his -usual air of broadly smiling expectation, and took his bonnet from his -grizzled red locks, which was the fashion Joyce had taught him, as he -stepped across the threshold. ‘It’s awful warm the day,’ were his first -words, as he went in, notwithstanding, and placed himself in the big -chair near the fire. The fire was the household centre whether it was -cold or warm. ‘So you’ve gotten the play?’ he added, beaming upon Joyce, -awaiting something which should make him open his mouth in one of those -big brief laughs that brought the water to his eyes. It was not -necessary that it should be witty or clever. Joyce was wit and -cleverness embodied to her foster-father. When she opened her lips his -soul was satisfied. - -And before Peter the cloud disappeared like magic. Janet was cheerful, -and Joyce like everyday. They listened to his talk about the ripening -corn, and where it was full in the ear, and where stubby, and about the -Irish shearers that will be doun upon us like locusts afore we -ken,--‘and a wheen Hieland cattle too,’ said Peter, who was not -favourable to the Celts. Then the broth was put on the table and the -blessing said, and the humble dinner eaten as it had been for years in -the little family which held together by nature, and which, so far as -had appeared, nothing could ever divide. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -The Colonel took his wife’s arm, drawing her close to him, leaning over -her little figure: he could hold her closer in this way, and take her -strength more completely into his own than if she had taken his arm in -the ordinary fashion. But she gave him but an uncertain support for the -first time in their life. The group made up of those two figures linked -into one, making but one shadow, tottered as they set out. And she made -no reply to his look, to the urgent clasp of his arm on hers, until they -had passed out of the village street, and gained the quiet and stillness -of the avenue within the gates. Then Elizabeth--unprecedented -action!--detached herself almost with impatience. ‘You hurt me, Henry,’ -she said quickly, with a sharp intolerance in her tone. This brought the -painful excitement of the morning to a climax; for when had she -complained before? - -‘My dear!’ he cried, with a tone of compunction and horror, ‘I--hurt -you?’ as if he had been accused of high treason and brutal cruelty -combined. - -This accent of amazed contrition brought Mrs. Hayward to herself. ‘Oh -no, Henry,’ she said, ‘you did not hurt me at all. I am not fit to speak -to any good Christian. I am a wretched creature, full of envy, and -malice, and all uncharitableness. Let me alone a little till I come to -myself.’ - -The Colonel gave her a piteous look. ‘As long as you please, my dear,’ -he said; then added apologetically, ‘I can’t help feeling very anxious. -There is more in this than meets the eye--there is more in it than I -realised: there is--the--the young lady, Elizabeth.’ - -In spite of herself his wife looked at him with a momentary scorn which -was almost fierce. ‘Do you mean to say that this is the first time you -have thought of that?’ - -The Colonel was very apologetic. ‘I am afraid I am dense,’ he said; -‘but, my dear, I always like to wait till I know what you think--and as -yet you have said nothing. How was I to suppose----’ Here he broke off, -seeing in his wife’s eyes more than he could read all at once, and with -a tremulous movement laid his hand again upon her arm. ‘What is it?’ he -said. - -She was tremulous too, but in a different fashion. She began to open out -a little parcel which she held in her hand quickly, almost with -indignation. ‘You will know what to think when you see you own hand and -name,’ she said. ‘There! that’s been laid up waiting for me--fancy! for -_me_ to find it--these twenty years.’ - -The Colonel looked at the yellow old letters with increasing agitation, -but no increase of understanding. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What does it -mean, Elizabeth? I did not go through all this, only to come to an old -letter of my own at the last.’ - -The little woman stamped her foot with a kind of fury. ‘I think you are -determined not to understand,’ she cried. ‘Look who that letter is -addressed to--look at this other along with it; for God’s sake, Henry, -don’t worry me any more! don’t ask what I think: look at them for -yourself.’ - -He did look, but with so bewildered an expression that compassion -overcame her. She took the papers over which he was puzzling, looking at -his own writing vaguely, with a quick impatient movement. - -‘You have been right, quite right in your conjectures,’ she said; ‘the -poor girl that came here alone twenty years ago, and had her baby, and -went wrong in her head, and died, was your poor young wife, Joyce -Hayward, Henry. There is your letter to her--not the kind of letter I -should have thought you would have written; and there is hers to you, a -voice out of the grave. Don’t look at me in that pitiful way. I don’t -expect you to read it here. Go away to your own room or into the woods, -Henry, and read your wife’s letter. Go away! go away! and do this for -yourself without me. I am not the person,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, thrusting -them into his hands, and pushing him impatiently from her,-- ‘I am not -the person to read your wife’s letter. Go away! go away!’ - -‘My wife’s letter,’ he said, with a momentary look of awe and trouble. -Then suddenly he put one arm round her, and, half sobbing, said, ‘Twenty -years since! it has always been right, all the time, my darling, between -you and me.’ - -‘Oh, Henry!--is that all you think of at such a moment?’ - -He patted her shoulder with his large and unsteady hand, and held her -close. ‘If it is not all, it’s the first and foremost,’ he said; ‘you -will never again, Elizabeth, never any more----’ - -‘Oh, go away! go away!’ she cried, stamping her foot upon the path. -There were tears in her eyes, half love and softness, half impatience -and fury. She pushed him away from her with all her strength, and -turning her back upon him, walked quickly through the trees and across -the park in the full sunshine. She was distracted with conflicting -sentiments, unwilling to be melted, yet touched to the heart; determined -that he should go back by himself into that distant past with which she -had nothing to do, yet scarcely able to resist the habit of doing -everything for him, of encountering even that for him. She hurried along -until she had got within the shade of a belt of wood, and out of sight -of the spot where she had left her husband. Here Mrs. Hayward suddenly -sat down upon the grass, and hid her face in her hands. Sometimes it -became necessary for her, even in the ordinary course of affairs, to -escape for a moment now and then from the Colonel’s constant demands. -But to-day it seemed to her that she must do this or die. The sudden -summons, the long journey, the agitating news, the commission so -suddenly put into her hands, the discovery she had made, all united had -overwhelmed her at last. She cried heartily, as she did everything, with -an abundant natural overthrow of feeling which relieved and exhausted -her, and a sensation underneath all which she could not define whether -it was happiness or pain. - -This Joyce, who had been from the beginning the shadow upon her married -life, in despite of whose possible claims she had married, and whom she -had regarded all through with a mixture of pity and indignation and -fear, roused in her, dead, almost as strong feelings as if she had been -a living claimant to the name and place which were hers. The very fact -that the poor girl’s story was so pitiful, and that nothing could take -away the interest and compassion roused by the image of a young forsaken -creature dying so miserably with no one near who loved her, was to Mrs. -Hayward at this moment an additional aggravation, adding a pang to all -the rest. And yet there was in it an unspeakable relief; and the fact -that this, and not any revival of the romance of his youth, had been her -husband’s first thought, was exquisite to her, yet with a certain acrid -sweetness, not unmingled with pain and the contradictoriness of a highly -sensitive, impatient, and intolerant soul, sharply conscious of every -complication. For notwithstanding her strong personal share in the -matter, it was clear to Elizabeth that he ought to have thought of the -other, the poor girl in her youth and misery, first; and that the sight -of her letter, the words written in her anguish, coming to him as it -were from her grave, across the silence of twenty years, ought to have -transported the man to whom these words were addressed out of all -recollection of the present,--out of everything save that tragedy of -which, however innocently, he was the cause. She could not but feel it -sweet that it was herself and not the dead Joyce of whom in reality he -had thought: yet, in a manner, she resented it, and was wounded by it as -a thing against nature which ought not to have been. ‘That is all that a -man’s love is worth,’ she said to herself. ‘He cost her her life, and it -is me he thinks of, who am well and strong, and in no trouble.’ And yet -it went to her heart that he should have so thought. - -In this keen complication of feeling, Mrs. Hayward, for the time, could -realise nothing else. It was not possible to think of the dead girl and -herself but as rivals: and this, too, gave her a pang. How mean, how -ungenerous, how miserable it was! Such a story in a book, much more in -real life, would have moved her to warm tears; but in this, which -touched herself so closely, she could feel no true pity. It was her -rival; it was one who had come before her, whose shadow had lain upon -her life and darkened it, who even now was bringing trouble into -it--trouble of which it was impossible to fathom the full extent. How -could there be tenderness where such sharp antagonism was? And yet, how -poor, how small, how petty, how unworthy was the feeling! - -In these contrarieties her mind was caught, and thrilled with sharp -vexation, shame, scorn of herself, and sense of that profound vanity of -human things which makes the present in its pettiness so much greater -than the past, and dims and obliterates everything that is over. To -think that such a tragedy had been, and that those who were most -concerned thought of their poor share in it first, and not of her who -was the victim! That contradiction of all that was most true and just, -that infidelity which is in every human thing, the callousness and -egotism which ran through the best, jarred her with a discord which was -in herself as well as in all the rest. But when she had cried her heart -out, Mrs. Hayward, as was natural, exhausted that first poignant -sensation, and came to contemplate, apart from all that was past, the -present condition of affairs, which was not more consolatory. Indeed, -when, putting the tragedy of the poor Joyce who was dead out of her -mind, she returned to the present, the figure of the living Joyce -suddenly rose before her with a sharp distinctness that made her spring -to her feet as a soldier springs to his weapon when suddenly confronted -by an enemy. Mrs. Hayward had never seen Joyce, so that this figure was -purely imaginary which rose before her, with a stinging touch, reminding -her that here was something which was not past but present, a -reality,--no affair of memory or sentiment, but a difficulty real and -tangible, standing straight before her, not to be passed by or -forgotten. She sprang up as if to arms, to meet the new antagonist who -thus presented herself, and must be met, but not with arms in hand, nor -as an antagonist at all. Joyce herself would scarcely have been so -terrible to encounter as Joyce’s child thus coming between her husband -and herself, taking possession of the foreground of their existence -whether they would or not. What Mrs. Hayward would be called upon to do -would be--not to retire before this new actor in her existence, not to -withdraw and leave the field as she had always felt it possible she -might have to do, but to receive, to live with,--good heavens! perhaps -to love her! Yes! no doubt this was what the Colonel would want; he -would require her to love this girl who was his child. He would take it -for granted that she must do so; he would innocently lay all the burden -upon her, and force her into a maternity which nature had not required -of her. A mother! ah yes, she could have been a mother indeed had God -willed it so; but to produce that undeveloped side of her, that capacity -which she had been so often tempted to think Providence had wronged her -by leaving in abeyance, for the benefit of this country girl, this -Scotch peasant, with all her crude education, her conceit (no doubt) of -superiority, her odious schoolmistress’s training! - -Mrs. Hayward could not sit still and look calmly at what was before her. -There was something intolerable in it, which stung her into energy, -which made her feel the necessity of being up and doing, of making a -stand against misfortune. However much she might resent and resist in -her private soul, she would have to do this thing, and put on a -semblance of doing it with, not against, her own will and liking. Talk -of the contradictions of fate! they seemed to be all grouped together in -this problem which she had to work out. If the child had been a boy, the -Colonel would have been compelled more or less to take the charge upon -himself. There would have been school or college, or the necessities of -a profession, to occupy the newcomer; but that it should be a girl--a -girl, a young woman, a creature entirely within the sphere of Colonel -Hayward’s wife, whose business it would be not only to be a mother to -her, but to receive her as a companion, to amend her manners, to watch -over all her proceedings, to take the responsibility night and day! - -Mrs. Hayward felt that she could have put up with a boy. He would not -have been her business so much as his father’s, and he would not for -ever and ever have recalled his mother, and put her in mind of all that -had been, and of all she herself had already borne. For though she had -accepted the position knowing all that was involved, and though it was, -so to speak, her own fault that she had encountered these difficulties, -still there could be no doubt that she had for years had much to bear; -and now what a climax, what a crown to everything! A second Joyce, no -doubt, with all the headstrong qualities which had made the first Joyce -spoil her own life and the lives of others, with all the disadvantages -of her peasant training, of her education even, which would be rather -worse than ignorance. Mrs. Hayward conjured up before her the image of a -pupil-teacher, a good girl striving for examinations, immaculate in -spelling, thinking of everything as the subject of a lesson: looking up -with awe to the inspector, with reverence to some little prig of a -schoolmaster, a girl with neat collars and cuffs, knowing her own -condition in life, and very respectful to her superiors: or else -bumptious, and standing upon her dignity as an educated person, which -Mrs. Hayward had heard was more the way of the Scotch. In either point -of view, what a prospect, what a companion! - -And the Colonel’s wife knew how that good man would conduct himself. He -would remonstrate with her if the girl were _gauche_, or if she were -disagreeable and presuming. He would say, ‘You must tell her’--‘you must -make her do so-and-so.’ If his taste was shocked, if the girl turned out -to be very dreadful, he himself, who ought to know so much better, would -throw all the blame upon her. Or perhaps, which would be still more -intolerable, his eyes would be blinded, and he would see nothing that -was not beautiful and amiable in his child. With a sudden flush of -irritation, Mrs. Hayward felt that this would be more unbearable still. -Joyce had been the bugbear of his life in the past; what if Joyce were -to be the model, the example of every good quality, the admiration and -delight of his life to come: and she herself, the step-mother, the -half-rival, half-tyrant, the one who would not appreciate the new -heroine! No one was so ready as Elizabeth to perceive all her husband’s -excellent qualities. He was good as an angel or a child--there was no -soil in him. His kindness, his tenderness, his generous heart, his -innocent life, were her pride and delight. And the perpetual appeal -which he made to her, the helplessness with which he flung himself upon -her for inspiration and counsel, made him dearer still. She herself -laughed and sometimes frowned at the devout aspiration, ‘If only -Elizabeth were here!’ for which all his friends smiled at the Colonel; -but at the same time it warmed her heart. And yet there was no one in -the world so feelingly alive to the irritations and vexations which were -involved in this supreme helplessness and trust. There were moments when -he worried her almost beyond endurance. She had to be perpetually on the -watch. She had to subdue herself and forget herself, and make a thousand -daily sacrifices to the man whom she ruled absolutely, and who was ready -at her fiat almost to live or die. But of all intolerable things, that -which was most intolerable was the suggestion that he might in this -matter judge for himself without her aid,--that he might admit this -strange girl into his heart, and place her on the pinnacle which had -hitherto been sacred to Elizabeth alone. - -She had seated herself on a grassy bank under the shade of the trees -which skirted one side of the park of Bellendean. Instinctively she had -chosen a spot where there was ‘a view.’ How many such spots are there to -which preoccupied people, with something to think out, resort half -unawares, and all-unconscious of the landscape spread before them! -Edinburgh, gray in the distance, with her crags and towers, shone -through the opening carefully cut in the trees, the angle of the castled -rock standing forth boldly against the dimness of the smoke behind; and -the air was so clear, and the atmosphere so still, that while Mrs. -Hayward sat there the sound of the gun which regulates the time for all -Edinburgh--the gun fired from the Castle at one o’clock--boomed through -the distance with a sudden shock which made her start. She was not a -fanciful woman, nor given to metaphors. But there was something in the -peace of the landscape, the summer quiet, broken only by the hum of -insects and rustle of the waving boughs, the distant town too far off to -add a note to that soft breathing of nature, which made a centre to the -picture and no more--when the air was suddenly rent by the harsh and -fatal sound of the gun, making the spectator start--which was to her -like an emblematic representation of what had happened to herself. To be -sure, if she had but thought of it, that voice of war had been tamed -into a service of domestic peace, a sound as innocent as chanticleer; -but Mrs. Hayward was a stranger, and was unaware of this. As she rose up -hurriedly, startled by the shock in the air, she saw her husband coming -towards her across the sunshine. He was moving like a man in a dream, -moving instinctively towards where she was, but otherwise unconscious -where he was going, unaware of the little heights and hollows, stumbling -over the stump of a tree that came in his way. The sight of his -abstraction brought her back to herself. He came up to her, and held out -the little packet in his hand. - -‘Put them away,’ he said hoarsely; ‘lock them up in some sure place, -Elizabeth. To think all that should have been going on, and I -ignorant--oh, as ignorant as the babe unborn!’ - -‘How could you know when she never told you?’ Mrs. Hayward cried -quickly, instinctively taking his part, even against himself. He put his -large hand upon her small shoulder, and patted her with a deprecating, -soothing touch, as if the wrong and the sorrow were not his but hers. - -‘But she meant us to know--that letter, if I had ever got it! She was -young and foolish, young and foolish. Put it away, my dear; don’t -destroy it, but lock it away safe, and let us think of it no more.’ - -‘That is impossible, Henry. You must think of it, in justice to -her--poor thing;’ this Mrs. Hayward said unwillingly, from a sense of -what was right and fitting, and with a compunction in her heart,--‘and -for the sake,’ she added firmly, after a moment, ‘of your child.’ - -‘The girl,’ he said vaguely. Then he came closer to her, and put his arm -within hers. ‘You will see to all that, Elizabeth. You understand these -sort of things better than I do. It would be very awkward for me, you -know, a man.’ To describe the persuasive tone, the ingratiating gesture -with which, in his simplicity, he put this burden upon her, would be -impossible. Even she, well as she knew him, was struck with surprise--a -surprise which was half happiness and half indignation. - -‘Henry!’ she cried, resisting the appealing touch, ‘have you no heart -for your own child?’ - -He leant upon her for a moment, drawing as it seemed her whole little -person, and all her energy and strength, into himself. ‘I’m all upset, -Elizabeth. I don’t know what I have, whether heart or anything -else--except you, my dear, except you. Everything will go right as long -as I have you.’ - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -In the perplexity of this extraordinary crisis they both went, without -another word, ‘home’: though it was no more home than these wonderful -new circumstances were the course of everyday. If we were to prophesy -the conduct of human creatures in moments of great emotion by what would -seem probable, or even natural, how far from the fact we should be! -Colonel Hayward, a man of the tenderest heart and warmest affections, -suddenly discovers that he has a child--a child by whose appearance, and -everything about her, he has been pleased and attracted, the child of -his first love, his young wife to whose cruel death he has contributed, -though unwittingly, unintentionally, meaning no evil. Would not all -ordinary means of conveyance be too slow, all obstacles as nothing in -his way, the very movement of the world arrested till he had taken this -abandoned child into his arms, and assured her of his penitence, his -joy, his love! But nothing could be further from his actual action. He -went back to Bellendean with a feeling that he would perhaps know better -what to do were he within the four walls of a room where he could shut -himself and be alone. It would be easier to think there than in the -park, where everything was in perpetual motion, leaves rustling, -branches waving, birds singing,--the whole world astir. ‘If we were only -in our own room,’ he said to his wife, ‘we could think--what it was best -to do.’ - -She said nothing, but she longed also for the quiet and shelter of that -room. She recognised, as indeed she might have done from the first, that -whatever had to be done, it was she that must do it. And Mrs. Hayward -was entirely _dépaysée_, and did not know how to manage this business. -Janet Matheson was a new species to a woman who had done a great deal of -parish work, and was not unacquainted with the ordinary ways of managing -‘the poor.’ She did not understand how to deal with that proud old -woman, to whom she could not offer any recompense, whom she would -scarcely dare even to thank for her ‘kindness.’ Janet had repudiated -that injurious word, and Mrs. Hayward felt that it would be easier to -offer money to Mrs. Bellendean than to this extraordinary cottager. To -be sure, that was nothing--a trifle not worth consideration in face of -the other question, of Joyce herself, who would have to be adopted, -removed from the cottage, taken home as Miss Hayward, a new, and perhaps -soon the most important, member of the family. Elizabeth’s heart beat as -it had never done before, scarcely even when she married Captain -Hayward, accepting all the risks, taking him and his incoherent story at -a terrible venture. That was an undertaking grave enough, but this was -more terrible still. She felt, too, that she would be thankful to get -into the quiet of her own room to think it over, to decide what she -should best do. - -This, however, was more easily said than done. The anxious pair were met -in the hall by Mrs. Bellendean with looks as anxious as their own. She -was breathless with interest, expectation, and excitement: and came up -to them in a fever of eagerness, which, to Mrs. Hayward at least, seemed -quite unnecessary, holding out a hand to each. ‘Well?’ she cried, as if -their secrets were hers, and her interest as legitimate as their own. In -short, the pair, who were very grave and preoccupied, having exhausted -the first passion of the discovery, had much less appearance of -excitement and expectation than this lady, who had nothing whatever to -do with it. A shade of disappointment crossed her face when she saw -their grave looks; but Mrs. Bellendean’s perceptions were lively, and -she perceived at the same moment tokens of agitation in the old -colonel’s face which reassured her. It would have been too much if, -after all her highly-raised expectations, nothing had happened at all. - -‘Come into my room,’ she said quickly; ‘we have half an hour before -luncheon, and there we shall be quite undisturbed.’ She led the way with -a rapidity that made it impossible even to protest, and opening the -door, swept them in before her, and drew an easy-chair forward for Mrs. -Hayward. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me! You have found out something, I can -see.’ - -They looked at each other,--Mrs. Hayward with the liveliest inclination -to tell the lady, whom she scarcely knew, that their affairs were their -own. It would have been a little relief to her feelings could she have -done so; but this was just the moment, as she knew very well, in which -the Colonel was sure to come to the front. - -‘Yes,’ he said, with a sigh, in which there was distinct relief. (He -found it so easy to relieve himself in that way!) ‘We have found -out--all we wanted, more than we expected. Apart from all other -circumstances, this is a memorable visit to me, Mrs. Bellendean. We have -found--or rather Elizabeth has found---- She is always my resource in -everything----’ - -‘What?’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, clasping her hands. ‘Please excuse me--I -am so anxious. Something about Joyce?’ - -‘You must understand that I had no notion of it, no idea of it all the -time. I was as ignorant---- There may have been things in which I was to -blame--though never with any meaning: but of this I had no idea--none: -she never gave me the slightest hint--never the least,’ said the Colonel -earnestly. ‘How could I imagine for a moment--when she never said a -word?’ - -Mrs. Bellendean looked at Mrs. Hayward with an appeal for help, but she -gave a smile and glance of sympathy to the Colonel, who seemed to want -them most. His wife sat very straight, with her shoulders square, and -her feet just visible beneath her gown--very firm little feet, set down -steadily, one of them beating a faint tattoo of impatience on the -carpet. She was all resistance, intending, it was apparent, to reveal as -little as possible; but the Colonel, though his style was involved, was -most willing to explain. - -‘It is,’ he said, ‘my dear lady, I assure you, as much a wonder and -revelation to me as to any one. I never thought of such a -possibility--never. Elizabeth knows that nothing was further from my -mind.’ - -‘Henry,’ said his wife suddenly, ‘you have been very much agitated this -morning. All these old stories coming up again have given you a shake. -Go up, my dear, to your room, and I will tell Mrs. Bellendean all that -she cares to hear.’ - -‘Eh? do you think so, Elizabeth? I _have_ got a shake. It agitates a man -very much to be carried back twenty years. Perhaps you are right: you -can explain everything--much better than I can--much better always; and -if Mrs. Bellendean thinks I am to blame, she need not be embarrassed -about it, as she might be before me. I think you are right, as you -always are. And perhaps she will give you some good advice, my love, as -to what we ought to do.’ - -‘I am sure I shall not think you to blame, Colonel Hayward,’ cried Mrs. -Bellendean, with that impulse of general amiability which completed the -exasperation with which Elizabeth sat looking on. - -‘Yes, no doubt, she will give me good advice,’ she said, with -irrepressible irritation; ‘oh, no doubt, no doubt!--most people do. -Henry, take mine for the moment, and go upstairs and rest a little. -Remember you have to meet all the gentlemen at luncheon: and after that -there will be a great deal to do.’ - -‘I think I will, my dear,’ Colonel Hayward said: but he paused again at -the door with renewed apologies and doubts--‘if Mrs. Bellendean will not -think it rude, and even cowardly, of me, Elizabeth, to leave all the -explanations to you.’ - -Finally, when Mrs. Bellendean had assured him that she would not do so, -he withdrew slowly, not half sure that, after all, he ought not to -return and take the task of the explanation into his own hands. There -was not a word said between the ladies until the sound of his steps, a -little hesitating at first, as if he had half a mind to come back, had -grown firmer, and at last died away. Then Mrs. Hayward for the first -time looked at the mistress of the house, who, half amused, half -annoyed, and full of anxiety and expectation, had been looking at her, -as keenly as politeness permitted, from every point of view. - -‘My husband has been very much agitated--you will not wonder when I tell -you all; and he is never very good at telling his own story. A man who -can do--what he can do--may be excused if he is a little deficient in -words.’ - -She spoke quickly, almost sharply, with a little air of defiance, yet -with moisture in her eyes. - -‘Surely,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘we know what Colonel Hayward is; but -pardon me, it was a much less matter--it was about Joyce I wanted to -know.’ - -‘The one story cannot be told without the other. My husband,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, with a long breath, ‘had been married before--before he married -me. He had married very hurriedly a young lady who came out to some -distant relations in India. They were at a small station out of the way. -She was not happy, and he married her in a great hurry. Afterwards, when -she was in England by herself, having come home for her health, some -wicked person put it into the poor thing’s head that her marriage was -not a good one. She was fool enough to believe it, though she knew -Henry. Forgive me if I speak a little hastily. She ought to have known -better, knowing him; but some people never know you, though you live by -their side a hundred years.’ - -She stopped to exhale another long breath of excitement and agitation. -It was cruel to impute blame to the poor dead girl, and she felt this, -but could not refrain. - -‘And suddenly, after one letter full of complaint and reproach, she -wrote no more. He was in active service, and could not get home. It was -not so easy then to come home on leave. He wrote again and again, and -when he got no answer, employed people to find her out. I can’t tell you -all the things that were done--everything, so far as he knew how to do -it. I didn’t know him then. I daresay he wasted a great deal of money -without getting hold of the right people. He never heard anything more -of her, never a word, till the other day.’ - -‘Then that poor young creature was---- And Joyce--Joyce!--who is Joyce? -Mrs. Hayward, do you mean really that Joyce----’ - -‘Joyce--was his first wife: and this girl--who has the same name,--I -have not seen her, I don’t know her, I can express no feeling about -her,--this young lady is my husband’s daughter, Mrs. Bellendean.’ - -‘Colonel Hayward’s daughter!’ Mrs. Bellendean sprang to her feet in her -surprise and excitement. She threw up her hands in wonder and delight -and sympathy, her eyes glittered and shone, a flush of feeling came over -her. Any spectator who had seen the two ladies at this moment would have -concluded naturally that it was Mrs. Bellendean who was the person -chiefly concerned, while the little woman seated opposite to her was a -somewhat cynical looker-on, to whom it was apparent that the warmth of -feeling thus displayed was not quite genuine. The Colonel’s wife was -moved by no enthusiasm. She sat rigid, motionless, except for that one -foot, which continued to beat upon the carpet a little impatient measure -of its own. - -‘Oh,’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, ‘I always knew it! One may deceive one’s -self about many people, but there was no possibility with Joyce. She -was--she is--I never saw any one like her--quite, quite unprecedented in -such a place as this: like nobody about her--a girl whom any one might -be proud of--a girl who--oh yes, yes! you are right in calling her a -young lady. She could be nothing less. I always knew it was so.’ - -‘She is my husband’s daughter,’ said Mrs. Hayward, without moving a -muscle. She remained unaffected by her companion’s enthusiasm. She -recognised it as part of the burden laid upon her that she should have -to receive the outflowings of a rapture in which she had no share. - -‘And what did Joyce say?’ asked the lady of Bellendean. ‘And poor old -Janet! oh, it will not be good news to her. But what did Joyce say? I -should like to have been there; and why, why did you not bring her up -to the house with you? But I see,--oh yes, it was better, it was kinder -to leave her a little with the old people. The poor old people, God help -them! Oh, Mrs. Hayward, there is no unmixed good in this world. It will -kill old Janet and her old husband. There’s no unmixed good.’ - -‘No,’ said Mrs. Hayward quietly. She sat like a little figure of stone, -nothing moving in her, not a finger, not an eyelash,--nothing but the -foot, still beating now and then a sort of broken measure upon the -floor. - -Mrs. Bellendean sat down again when she had exhausted her first -excitement. There is nothing that chills one’s warmest feelings like the -presence of a spectator who does not share one’s satisfaction. Mrs. -Hayward would have been that proverbial wet blanket, if there had not -been in the very stiffness of her spectator-ship signs of another and -still more potent excitement of her own. Strong self-repression at the -end comes to affect us more than any demonstration. Mrs. Bellendean was -very quick, and perhaps felt it sooner than a less vivid intelligence -might have done. She sat down, almost apologetically, and looked at her -guest. - -‘I am afraid,’ she said, faltering, ‘you are not so glad as I am. I hope -it is not anything in Joyce. I hope--she has not displeased you. If she -has, I am sure, oh, I am very sure she did not mean it. It must have -been--some mistake.’ - -‘Mrs. Bellendean,’ cried Elizabeth suddenly, ‘I am sure you are very -kind. You would not have invited me here as you have done, without -knowing anything of me, if you had not been kind. But perhaps you don’t -quite put yourself in my place. I did not mean to say anything on that -subject, but my heart is full, and I can’t help it. I married Colonel -Hayward--he was only Captain Hayward then--knowing everything, and that -it was possible, though not likely, that this wife of his might still be -alive. It was a great venture to make. I have kept myself in the -background always, not knowing--whether I had any real right to call -myself Mrs. Hayward. Joyce has not been a name of good omen to me.’ - -‘Dear Mrs. Hayward!’ cried the impulsive woman before her, leaning over -the table, holding out both her hands. - -‘No, don’t praise me. I believe I ought to have been blamed instead; -but, anyhow, I took the risk. And I have never repented it, though I did -not know all that would be involved. And now, when we are growing old, -and calm should succeed to all the storms, here is her daughter--with -her name--not a child whom I could influence, who might get to be fond -of me, but a woman, grown up, educated in her way, clever:--all that -makes it so much the worse. No! don’t be sorry for me; I am a wicked -woman, I ought not to feel so. Here I find her again, not a -recollection, not an idea, but a grown-up girl, the same age as her -mother. Joyce over again, always Joyce!’ - -Mrs. Bellendean did not know how to reply. She sat and gazed at the -woman whom she wanted to console, who touched her, revolted her, -horrified her all in one, and yet whose real emotion and pain she felt -to the bottom of her sympathetic heart. Too much sympathy is perhaps as -bad as too little. She was all excitement and delight for Joyce, and yet -this other woman’s trouble was too genuine not to move her. It was very -natural too, and yet dreadful,--a pain to think of. ‘I am sure,’ she -said, faltering, ‘that when you know her better--when you begin to see -what she is in herself: there is no one who does not like Joyce.’ - -Mrs. Hayward had got rid, in this interval, of a handful, so to speak, -of hot sudden tears. She was ashamed of them, angry with herself for -being thus overcome, and therefore could not be said to weep, or make -any other affecting demonstration, but simply hurried off, threw from -her angrily, these signs of a pang which she despised, which hurt her -pride and her sense of what was seemly as much as it wrung her heart. -She shook her head with a sudden angry laugh in the midst of her -emotion. ‘Don’t you see! that is the worst of all,’ she cried. - -But at this moment, in the midst of this climax of pain, exasperation, -self-disapproval, there arose in soft billows of sound, rising one after -the other into all the corners of the great house, the sound of the -gong. It reached all the members of the household, along the long -corridors and round the gallery, roused Colonel Hayward from the -softened and satisfied pause of feeling which his withdrawal upstairs -had brought him, and called Mrs. Bellendean back from the wonderful -problem of mingled sentiments in which she was embroiling herself, -taking both sides at once, into the more natural feelings of the -mistress of the house, whose presence is indispensable elsewhere. But -she could not break off all at once this interview, which was so very -different from the ordinary talks between strangers. She hesitated even -to rise up, conscious of the ludicrous anti-climax of this call to food -addressed to people whose hearts were full of the most painful -complications of life. At the same time, the sound of her guests -trooping downstairs, and coming in from the grounds, with a murmur of -voices, and footsteps in the hall, became every moment more and more -clamant. She rose at last, and put her hand on Mrs. Hayward’s shoulder. -‘The gentlemen speak,’ she said, ‘of things that are solved walking. It -will be so with you, dear Mrs. Hayward. It will clear up as you go on. -Everything will become easier in the doing. Come now to luncheon.’ - -‘I--to luncheon!--it would choke me,’ cried Elizabeth, feeling in her -impatience, and the universal contrariety of everything, as if this had -been the last aggravation of all. - -‘No,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, putting her arm through that of her guest; -‘it will do you good, on the contrary: and the Colonel will eat nothing -if you are not there. You shall come in your bonnet as you are; and -Colonel Hayward will make a good luncheon.’ - -‘I believe he is capable of it,’ Mrs. Hayward cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -The party was diminished, but still it was a large party. The -dining-room at Bellendean was a long room lighted by a line of windows -at one side in deep recesses, for the house was of antique depth and -strength. The walls were hung with family portraits, a succession of -large and imposing individuals, whose presence in uniform or in robes of -law, contemplating seriously the doings of their successors, added -dignity to the house, but did not do much to brighten or beautify the -interior, save in the case of a few smaller portraits, which were from -the delightful hand of Raeburn, and made a sunshine in a shady place. -The long table, with its daylight whiteness and brightness, concentrated -the light, however, and made the ornaments of the walls of less -importance; and the cheerful crowd was too much occupied with its own -affairs to notice the nervousness of the newcomer, the Colonel’s wife, -who had only made a brief appearance at breakfast to some of them, and -attracted as little warmth of interest as a woman of her age generally -does. She sat near Mr. Bellendean at the foot of the table, but as he -was one of the men to whom it is necessary to a woman to be young and -pretty, Mrs. Hayward had full opportunity to compose and calm herself -with little interference from her host. She was separated almost by the -length of the table from her husband, and consequently was safe from his -anxious observation; and in the bustle of the mid-day meal, and the -murmur of talk around her, Mrs. Hayward found a sort of retirement for -herself, and composed her mind. Her self-arguments ended in the ordinary -fatalism with which people accept the inevitable. ‘If it must be, it -must be,’ she said to herself. Perhaps it might not turn out so badly as -she feared; that vision of the pupil-teacher, the perfectly -well-behaved, well-instructed girl, who would make her life a burden, -and destroy all the privacy and all the enjoyment of her home, was a -terrible image: but the sight of so many cheerful faces gradually drove -it away. - -‘Who was I, Uncle Bellendean? I was a Saxon court lady. I was in -attendance upon Queen Margaret. But she was not queen then; she was only -princess, and an exile, don’t you know? We had all been nearly drowned, -driven up from the Firth by the wind in the east.’ - -‘And where were you exiled from? and what were you doing in the Firth?’ -said Mr. Bellendean, who was not perhaps thinking much of what he said. - -‘Well I am sure,’ said Greta, with her soft Scotch intonation, ‘I don’t -very well know; but Joyce does. She will tell you all about it if you -ask her.’ - -‘This Joyce is a very alarming person. I hear her name wherever I turn. -She seems the universal authority. I thought she must be an old -governess; but I hear she’s a very pretty girl,’ said young Essex, who -was at Greta’s side. - -‘Far the prettiest girl in the parish, or for miles round.’ - -‘Speak for yourself, Greta,’ said a good-natured, blunt-featured young -woman beside her, with a laugh. ‘I have always set up myself as a -professional beauty, and I don’t give in to Joyce--except in so far, of -course, as concerns Shakespeare and the musical glasses, where she is -beyond all rivalry.’ - -Sir Harry, who was as little open to the pleasantry of Mid-Lothian as -the Scotch in general are supposed to be to English wit, stared a little -at the young person who assumed this position. He thought it possible -she might be ‘chaffing,’ but was by no means sure. And he had no doubt -that she was plain. He was too polite, however, to show his perplexity. -‘Does she receive any male pupils?’ he asked. ‘My tastes are quite -undeveloped: even Shakespeare I don’t know so well as I ought. One has -to get up a play or two now and then for an exam.: and there’s “Hamlet,” -etc., at the Lyceum of course.’ - -‘Joyce would never forgive you that “Hamlet,” etc.,’ said the plain -young lady. ‘You need never hope after that to be pupil of hers.’ - -‘Why, what should I say? Irving has done a lot of them. Shylock and--and -Romeo, don’t you know? You don’t expect me to have all the names ready. -A middle-aged fellow had no business to try Romeo. Come, I know as much -as that.’ - -‘They are all real people to Joyce,’ said Greta. ‘She is not like us, -who only take up a book now and then. She lives among books: she thinks -as much of Shakespeare as of Scotland. He is not only a poet, he is -a--he is a--well, a kind of world,’ she said, blushing a little. ‘I -don’t know what other word to use.’ - -‘You could not have used a better word,’ said Norman Bellendean. ‘I am -not a very great reader, but I’ve found that up at a hill-station where -one had neither books nor society. I think that was very well said.’ - -Norman looked with a friendly admiration at his little cousin, and she, -with a half glance and blush of reply, looked at Mrs. Bellendean at the -head of the table, who, on her side, looked at them both. There was a -great deal more in this mutual communication than met the eye. - -‘Decidedly,’ said Sir Harry; ‘no one is good enough for this society -unless he has undergone a preliminary training at the hands of Miss -Joyce.’ - -‘Don’t you think,’ said a new voice hurriedly, with a ring of impatience -in it, ‘that to bandy about a young lady’s name like this is -not--not--quite good taste? Probably she would dislike being talked -about--and certainly her friends----’ - -The young people turned in consternation to the quarter from which this -utterance came. The Colonel’s wife had not hitherto attracted much -attention. It had been settled that he was ‘an old darling:’ but Mrs. -Hayward had not awakened the interest of these judges. They had decided -that she was not good enough for him--that she had been the governess -perhaps, or somebody who had nursed him through illness, or otherwise -been kind to him--and that it was by some of these unauthorised methods -that she had become Colonel Hayward’s wife. Greta blushed crimson at -this rebuke. - -‘Oh,’ she said, ‘no one meant anything that was not kind. I would not -allow a word to be said. I--am very fond of her. She is my dear friend.’ - -‘Perhaps it is not very good taste to discuss any one,’ said the plain -young lady. ‘But Mrs. Hayward probably does not know who she is.’ - -‘I know that she is your inferior,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly; ‘but that -should make you more particular, not less, to keep her name from being -bandied about.’ - -‘What is that my wife is saying?’ said Colonel Hayward from the other -end of the table. ‘I can hear her voice. What are you saying, Elizabeth? -She must be taking somebody’s part.’ - -‘It is nothing, Henry, nothing; I am taking nobody’s part,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, becoming the colour of a peony. He had leaned forward to see -her, for she sat on the same side of the table; and she leaned forward -to reply to him, meeting the looks of half the table, amused at this -conjugal demand and response. And then she shrank back, obliterating -herself as well as she could, half angry, half ashamed, with a look of -high temper and nervous annoyance which the young people set down to her -disadvantage, whispering between themselves, ‘Poor Colonel Hayward!’ and -what a pity it was he had not a nicer wife! - -After this another wave of conversation passed over the company. A new -subject, or rather half a dozen new subjects, drew the attention and -interest of the young people away from this, of which the new and -crowning interest was still unknown; and it was not till some time -after, in the course of a lively debate upon the universally attractive -theme of private theatricals, that the name which had caused that little -controversy and stir of discussion was mentioned again. - -Naturally, as it had been already subject to comment, there was at that -moment a sudden pause all round the table, and the word came forth with -all the more effect, softly spoken with a pause before and -after-- ‘Joyce.’ - -‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Bellendean impatiently, ‘I agree with Mrs. -Hayward. The girl is not here, and she has done nothing to expose -herself to perpetual comment. We hear a great deal too much of Joyce.’ - -And now it was that there occurred the extraordinary incident, -remembered for years after, not only in Bellendean but elsewhere, which -many people even unconnected with that part of the country must have -heard of. There rose up suddenly by the side of Mrs. Bellendean, at the -other end of the table, a tall figure, which stood swaying forward a -little, hands resting on the table, looking down upon the astonished -faces on either side. At sight of it Mrs. Hayward pushed back her chair -impatiently, and bent her flushed face over her plate; while every one -else looked up in expectation, some amused, all astonished, awaiting -some little exhibition on the part of the guileless old soldier. Norman -Bellendean turned his face towards his old Colonel with a smile, but yet -a little regret. The _vieux moustache_, out of pure goodness of heart -and simplicity of mind, was sometimes a little absurd. Probably he was -going once again to propose his young friend’s health, to give testimony -in his favour as a capital fellow. Norman held himself ready to spring -up and cover the veteran’s retreat, or to take upon himself the -inevitable laugh. But he was no more prepared than the rest for what was -coming. Colonel Hayward stood for a moment, his outline clear against -the window behind him, his face indistinct against that light. He looked -down the table, addressing himself to the host at the end, who half rose -to listen, with a face of severe politeness, concealing much annoyance -and despite. ‘The old fool,’ Mr. Bellendean was saying to himself. - -‘I want to say,’ said the Colonel, swaying forward, as if he rested on -those two hands with which he leant on the table, rather than on his -feet, ‘that a very great event has happened to me here. I came as a -stranger, with no thought but to pass a few days, little thinking that I -was to find what would affect all my future life. I owe it to the -kindness of your house, Mr. Bellendean, and all I see about me, to tell -you what has happened. Her name is on all your lips,’ he said, looking -round him with the natural eloquence of an emotion which, now that the -spectators were used to this strange occurrence, could be seen in the -quiver of his lips and the moisture in his eyes. ‘It is a name that has -long been full of sweetness but also of pain to me. Now I hope it will -be sweetness only. Joyce--my kind friends, that have been so good to her -when I knew nothing--nothing! How can I thank you and this kind -lady--this dear lady here! Joyce--belongs to me. Joyce--is Joyce -Hayward. She is my daughter. She is my--my only child.’ - -Close upon this word sounded one subdued but most audible sob from the -other end of the table. It was from Mrs. Hayward, who could contain -herself no longer. That, at least, might have been spared her--that the -girl was his only child. She pushed back her chair and rose up, making a -hurried movement towards the door; but fortunately Mrs. Bellendean had -divined and frustrated her, and in the universal stir of chairs and hum -of wondering voices, Mrs. Hayward’s action passed unnoticed, or almost -unnoticed. And she escaped while the others all gathered round the -Colonel, all speaking together, congratulating, wondering. These were -moments when he was very able to act for himself, and did not think at -all what Elizabeth would say. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -After Peter had got his dinner and had gone out again to his work, a -silence fell upon the two who were left behind in the cottage. They had -breathed no word, nor even exchanged a glance that could have awakened -his suspicions--which was easy enough, for he had no suspicions. And -they had avoided each other’s eyes: they had talked of nothing that -contained any reference to the subject of which their hearts were full. -And when they were left alone, they still said nothing to each other. -Janet would have no help from Joyce in the ‘redding up.’ ‘Na, na,’ she -said; ‘go away to your reading, or sew at some of your bonnie dies. This -is nae wark for you.’ - -‘Granny, I am going to help you as I have always done.’ - -‘This is nae wark for you, and I’ll no’ let you touch it,’ said the old -woman, with a sudden stamp of her foot on the ground. ‘I’ll no’ let you -touch it! do ye hear me, Joyce? As long as you are here, you sall just -do what I say.’ - -The girl retreated, almost overawed by the passion in the old woman’s -eyes; and then there was silence in the cottage, broken only by the -sound of Janet’s movements, as she cleared away everything, and moved -about with her quick short step from one place to another. Joyce sat -down beside the writing-table, which was her own especial domain, and -the quietness of impassioned suspense fell upon the little house. The -scent of the mignonette still came in through the window from the little -garden behind; but the door was shut, that no cheerful interruption, no -passing neighbour with friendly salutations, pausing for a minute’s -gossip, might disturb the breathless silence. They both expected--but -knew not what: whether some fairy chariot to carry Joyce away, some -long-lost relatives hurrying to take her to their arms, or some one -merely coming to reveal to them who she was,--to tell her that she -belonged to some great house, and was the child of some injured -princess. Strangely enough, neither of them suspected the real state of -affairs. Janet divined that Mrs. Hayward had something to do with it, -but Joyce had not even seen Mrs. Hayward; and the Colonel was to her an -old friend who had known and probably loved her mother--but no more. - -Thus they waited, not saying a word, devoured by a silent excitement, -listening for some one coming, imagining steps that stopped at the door, -and carriage-wheels that never came any nearer, but not communicating to -each other what they thought. When Janet’s clearing away was over, she -still found things to do to keep her in movement. On ordinary occasions, -when the work was done, she would sit down in the big chair by the -window with the door open (it was natural that the door should be open -at all seasons), and take up the big blue-worsted stocking which she was -always knitting for Peter. And if Joyce was busy, Janet would nod to her -friends as they passed, and point with her thumb over her shoulder to -show the need of quiet, which did not hinder a little subdued talk, all -the more pleasant for being thus kept in check. ‘She’s aye busy,’ the -passers-by would say, with looks of admiring wonder. ‘Oh ay, she’s aye -busy; there was never the like of her for learning. She’s just never -done,’ the proud old woman would say, with a pretence at impatience. How -proud she had been of all her nursling’s wonderful ways! But now Janet -could not sit down. She flung her stocking into a corner out of her way. -She could not bear to see or speak to any one: the vicinity of other -people was of itself an offence to her. If only she could quench with -the sound of her steps those of the messenger of fate who was coming; if -only she could keep him out for ever, and defend the treasure in her -house behind that closed door! - -The same suppressed fever of suspense was in Joyce’s mind, but in a -different sense. With her all was impatience and longing. When would -they come? though she knew not whom or what she looked for. When would -this silence of fate be broken? The loud ticking of the clock filled the -little house with a sound quite out of proportion to its importance, -beating out the little lives of men with a methodical slow regularity, -every minute taking so long; and the quick short steps of her old -guardian never coming to an end, still bustling about when Joyce knew -there was no longer anything to do, provoked her almost beyond bearing. -So long as this went on, how could she hear _them_ coming to the door? - -They both started violently when at last there fell a sharp stroke, as -of the end of a whip, on the closed door. It came as suddenly, and, to -their exaggerated fancy, as solemnly, as the very stroke of fate: but it -was only a footman from Bellendean, on horseback, with a note, which he -almost flung at Janet as she opened the door, stopping Joyce, who sprang -forward to do it. ‘Na, you’ll never open to a flunkey,’ cried the old -woman, with a sort of desperation in her tone, pushing back the girl, -whose cheeks she could see were flaming and her eyes blazing. Janet -would not give up the note till she had hunted for her spectacles and -put them on, and turned it over in her hand. ‘Oh ay, it’s to you after -a’,’ she said; ‘I might have kent that,--and no a very ceevil direction. -“Miss Joyce,” nothing but Miss Joyce: and its nae name when you come to -think on’t--no’ like Marg’et or Mary. It’s as if it was your last name.’ - -‘Granny,’ said Joyce, in great excitement, ‘we are to go to the House -immediately, to see Mrs. Bellendean.’ - -‘We--are to gang? Gang then,’ said Janet; ‘naebody keeps ye. So far as I -can judge, what with one call and another, you’re there ‘maist every -day.’ - -‘But never, never on such a day as this! And you are to come too. -Granny, I’ll get you your shawl and your bonnet.’ - -‘Bide a moment. What for are ye in such a hurry? I’m no at Mrs. -Bellendean’s beck and call, to go and come as she pleases. You can go -yoursel’, as you’ve done many a time before.’ - -‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, putting her arm, though the old woman resisted, -round Janet’s shoulders, ‘you’ll not refuse me? Think what it may -be,--to hear about my mother--and who I am--and whom I belong to.’ - -‘Ay,’ said Janet bitterly; ‘to hear when you’re to drive away in your -grand carridge, and leave the house that’s aye been your shelter -desolate; to fix the moment when them that have been father and mother -to ye are to be but twa puir servant-bodies, and belang to ye nae mair!’ - -‘Granny!’ cried Joyce, in consternation, drawing Janet’s face towards -her, stooping over the little resisting figure. - -‘Dinna put your airms about me. Do you ken what I’ll be for you the -morn?--your auld nurse--a puir auld body that will be nothing to you. -Oh, and that’s maybe just what should be for a leddy like you. You were -aye a leddy from the beginning, and I might have kent if my een hadna -been blinded. I aye said to Peter, “Haud a loose grip,” but, eh! I never -took it to mysel’.’ - -‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, ‘do you think if the Queen herself were my -mother,--if I were the Princess Royal, and everything at my beck and -call,--do you think I could ever forsake _you_?’ - -‘Oh, how do I ken?’ cried Janet, still resisting the soft compulsion -which was in Joyce’s arms; ‘and how can I tell what ye will be let do? -You will no’ be your ain mistress as ye have been here. Ye will have to -conform to other folks’ ways. Ye will have to do what’s becoming to your -rank and your place in the world. If ye think that an auld wife in -Bellendean village and an auld ploughman on the laird’s farm will be let -come near ye----’ - -‘Granny, granny!’ cried Joyce, as Janet’s voice, overcome by her own -argument, sank into an inarticulate murmur broken by sobs,--‘granny, -granny! what have I done to make you think I have no heart?--and to give -me up, and refuse to stand by me even before there’s a thing proved.’ - -‘Me!--refuse to stand by ye?’ - -‘That is just what you are doing--or at least it is what you are saying -you will do; but as you never did an unkind thing in your life----’ - -‘Oh, many a one, many a one,’ cried the old woman. ‘I’ve just an -unregenerate heart--but no’ to my ain.’ - -‘As you never did an unkind thing in your life,’ cried Joyce, out of -breath, for she had hurried in the meantime to the aumry--the great oak -cupboard which filled one side of the room--and made a rapid raid -therein. ‘I have brought you your bonnet and your shawl.’ - -She proceeded to fold the big Paisley shawl as Janet wore it, with a -large point descending to the hem of the old woman’s gown, and to put it -round her shoulders. And then the large black satin bonnet, like the -hood of a small carriage, was tied over Janet’s cap. It is true she wore -only the cotton gown, her everyday garment, but the heavy folds of the -shawl almost covered it, and Janet was thus equipped for any grandeur -that might happen, and very well dressed in her own acceptation of the -word. When these solemn garments were produced she struggled no more. - -But though the ice was partially broken, there was very little said -between them as they went up the avenue. Joyce’s heart went bounding -before her, forestalling the disclosure, making a hundred mad -suggestions. She forgot all the circumstances,--where she was going, and -even the unwilling companion by her side, who plodded along, scarcely -able to keep up with her, her face altogether invisible within the -shadow of the big bonnet, which stooped forward like the head of some -curious uncouth flower. Poor old Janet! the girl’s head was full of a -romance more thrilling than any romance she had ever read; but Janet’s -was tragedy, far deeper, sounding every depth of despair, rising to -every height of self-abnegation. And Peter! poor old Peter, who had no -suspicion of anything, whom she had always adjured to keep a loose grip, -and to whom ‘the bit lassie’ was as the light of his eyes. Not only her -own desolation, but his also, Janet would have to bear. She had no heart -to speak, but plodded along, scarcely even seeing Joyce by her side, -ruminating heavily, turning over everything in her mind, with her eyes -fixed upon the ground under the shadow of the black bonnet. ‘Oh, haud a -loose grip!’ she had said it to Peter, but she had not laid her own -advice to heart. - -There were two or three servants in the hall when Joyce went up the -steps, leading, against her will, the old woman with her, who would fain -have stolen round to the servants’ entrance as ‘mair becoming.’ And the -butler and the footman looked very important, and were strangely -respectful, having heard Colonel Hayward’s oration, or such echo of it -as had been wafted to the servants’ hall. ‘This way, this way, Miss -Joyce,’ the butler said, with a little emphasis, though he had known her -all his life, and seldom used such extreme civility of address. ‘This -way, Janet.’ They were taken across the hall, where Janet, roused and -wondering, saw visions of other people glancing eagerly at Joyce, and at -her own little figure, stiff as if under mail in the panoply of that -great shawl--to Mrs. Bellendean’s room. There a little party of agitated -people were gathered together. Mrs. Hayward seated very square, with her -feet firm on the carpet: Mrs. Bellendean leaning over her writing-table, -with a very nervous look: the Colonel standing against the big window, -which exaggerated his outline, but made his features undiscernible. -Janet made them a sort of curtsey as she went in, but held her head -high, rather defiant than humble. For why should she be humble, she who -had all the right on her side, and who owed nobody anything? It was they -who should be humble to her if they were going to take away her child. -But she could not but say the gentleman was very civil. He put out a -chair for her. As she said afterwards, not the little cane one that Mr. -Brown, the butler, thought good enough, but a muckle soft easy-chair, a’ -springs and cushions, like the one his wife was sitting in. He didna -seem to think that was ower good for the like of her. Joyce did not sit -down at all. She stood with her hand upon Mrs. Bellendean’s table, -looking into the agitated face of the lady to whom she had always looked -up as her best friend. - -‘You have got something to tell me?’ said Joyce, her voice trembling a -little. ‘About my mother--about my--people?’ - -‘Yes, Joyce.’ - -The girl said nothing more. She did not so much as look at Mrs. Hayward, -who sat nervously still, not making a movement. Joyce supported herself -upon the back of the writing-table, which had a range of little drawers -and pigeon-holes. She stood up, straight and tall, the flexible lines of -her slim figure swaying a little, her hands clasped upon the upper -ledge. Her hands were not, perhaps, very white in comparison with the -hands of the young ladies who did nothing; but, coming out of her dark -dress, which had no ornament of any kind, these hands clasped together -looked like ivory or mother-of-pearl, and seemed to give out light. And -then there was an interval of tremulous silence. Old Janet, watching -them all with the keenest scrutiny, said to herself, ‘Will nobody -speak?’ - -‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Bellendean said at last, with a trembling voice, ‘it will -be a great, great change for you. You are a wise, good girl; you will -not let it alter you to those who--deserve all your gratitude. My dear, -it is a wonderful thing to think of. I can but think the hand of Heaven -is in it.’ Here the poor lady, who had been speaking in slow and -laboured tones, struggling against her emotion, became almost inaudible, -and stopped, while old Janet, wringing her hands, cried out without -knowing she did so, ‘Oh, will naebody put us out o’ our agony? Oh, will -naebody tell us the truth?’ - -The Colonel made a step forward, then went back again. His child, his -dead wife’s child, filled him with awe. The thought of going up to her, -taking her into his arms, which would have been the natural thing which -he had meant to do, appalled him as he stood and looked at her, a young -lady whom he did not know. What would she say or think? There had been -nothing to lead up to it, as there was when he had met her in the -morning, and when his heart had gone forth to her. Now anxiety and a -sort of alarm mingled with his emotion. What would she think? his -daughter--and yet a young lady whom he did not know? ‘Elizabeth?’ he -said tremulously, but he could say no more. - -‘Young lady,’ said another voice behind, with a touch of impatience in -it,-- ‘Joyce: it appears I must tell, though I have never seen you -before.’ - -Joyce had all but turned her back upon this lady, who, she thought, -could have nothing to do with her. She turned round with a little -start, and fixed her eyes upon the new speaker. It was curious that a -stranger should tell her--one who had nothing to do with it. The little -woman rose up, not a distinguished figure, looking commonplace to the -girl’s excited eyes, who felt almost impatient, annoyed by this -interference. ‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Hayward repeated again, ‘we don’t even know -each other, but we shall have a great deal to do with each other, and I -hope--I hope we shall get on. Your poor mother--was Colonel Hayward’s -first wife before he married me. He is not to blame, for he never knew. -Joyce: your name is Joyce Hayward. You are my husband’s daughter. Your -father stands there. I don’t know why he doesn’t come forward. He is the -best man that ever was born. You will love him when you know him---- I -don’t know why he doesn’t come forward,’ cried his wife, in great -agitation. She made herself a sudden stop, caught Joyce by the arm, and -raising herself on tiptoe gave the girl a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I am -your step-mother, and I hope--I hope that we will get on.’ - -Joyce stood like a figure turned to stone. She felt the world whirling -round her as if she were coming down, down some wonderful fall, too -giddy and sickening to estimate. The colour and the eagerness went out -of her face. She took no notice of Mrs. Hayward, whose interference at -this strange moment she did not seem to understand, although she -understood clearly all that she said. Her eyes were fixed, staring at -the man there against the window, who was her father. Her father! Her -heart had been very soft to him this morning, when she believed he was -her mother’s friend: but her father!--this was not how she had figured -her father. He stood against the light, his outline all wavering and -trembling, making a hesitating step towards her, then stopping again. -Colonel Hayward was more agitated than words could say. Oh, if he had -but taken her in his arms in the morning when his heart was full! He -came forward slowly, faltering, not knowing what to say. When he had -come close to her, he put out his hands. ‘Joyce!’ he said, ‘you are your -mother’s living image: I saw it from the first; have you--have you -nothing--to say to me?’ - -‘Sir,’ said Joyce, making no advance, ‘my mother--must have had much to -complain of--from you.’ - -His hands, which he had held out, with a quiver in them, fell to his -sides. ‘Much to complain of,’ he said, with a tremulous astonishment; -‘much--to complain of!’ - -A murmur of voices sounded in Joyce’s ears; they sounded like the hum of -the bees, or anything else inarticulate, with mingled tones of -remonstrance, anger, entreaty: even old Janet’s quavering voice joined -in. To hear the girl defying a gentleman, the Captain’s colonel, a grand -soldier officer, took away the old woman’s breath. - -‘You left her to die,’ cried Joyce, her soft voice fierce in excitement, -‘all alone in a strange place. Why was she alone at such a time, when -she had a husband to care for her? You left her to die--and never asked -after her for twenty years: never asked--till her child was a grown-up -woman with other--other parents, and another home--of her own.’ - -‘Oh, dinna speak to the gentleman like that!’ cried old Janet, getting -up with difficulty from her easy-chair. ‘Oh, Joyce, Joyce!’ cried Mrs. -Bellendean. Mrs. Hayward said nothing, but she came up to the indignant -young figure in the centre of this group, and laid an imperative hand -upon her arm. Joyce shook it off. She did not know what she was doing. -An immense disappointment, horror, anger with fate and all about her, -surged up in her heart, and gave force to the passion of indignant -feeling of which, amid all her thinkings on the subject, she had never -been conscious before. She turned away from the three women who -surrounded her, each remonstrating in her way, and confronted once more -the man--the father--whose great fault perhaps was that he was not the -father whom the excited girl looked for, and that the disillusion was -more than she could bear. - -Colonel Hayward came to himself a little as he looked at her, and -recovered some spirit. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he said, ‘for thinking so. -No, Elizabeth, don’t blame her. I was in India. Short of deserting, I -couldn’t get home.’ - -‘Why didn’t you desert, then,’ cried the girl in a flush of nervous -passion, ‘rather than let her die?’ Then she turned round upon Janet, -who stood behind, burdened with her great shawl, and threw herself upon -the old woman’s shoulder. ‘Oh granny, granny, take me home, take me home -again! for I have nothing to do here, nor among these strange folk,’ she -cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -There was no one who could detain her, for the agitated group in Mrs. -Bellendean’s room were too much taken by surprise, in this curious -development of affairs, to do anything but gaze astonished at Joyce’s -unlooked-for passion. She went out of the room and out of the house, -with old Janet, in her big shawl, following humbly, like a tall ship -carrying out a humble little lugger in her train. Joyce seemed to have -added to her stature in the intensity of her excitement. The nervous -swiftness with which she moved, the air of passion in all her sails, to -continue the metaphor, the unity of impassioned movement with which she -swept forth--not looking back nor suffering any distracting influence to -touch her--made the utmost impression upon the spectators who had been, -to their own thinking, themselves chief actors in the scene, until this -young creature’s surpassing emotion put them all into the position of -audience while she herself filled the stage. Joyce would not see her -father’s face, though it appealed to her with a keen touch of -unaccustomed feeling which was like a stab--nor would she suffer herself -to look at Mrs. Bellendean, whose faintest indication of a wish had -hitherto been almost law to the enthusiast. The girl was possessed by a -tempest of personal excitement which carried her far beyond all the -habitual restraints and inducements of her life. Nothing weighed with -her, nothing moved her, but that overwhelming tide which carried her -forth, wounded, humiliated, indignant, angry, she could not tell why, in -the desperation of this most bitter and entirely unreasonable -disappointment which swept her soul. To think that it had come, the -long-looked-for discovery--the revelation so often dreamt of--and that -it should be this! Only a visionary, entirely abandoned to the devices -of fancy by the bareness of all the facts that surrounded actual life in -her experience, could have entertained such a vague grandeur of -expectation, or could have fallen into such an abyss of disenchantment. -It thrilled through and through her, giving a pride and loftiness -indescribable to the carriage of her head, to the attitude of her -person, to the swift and nervous splendour of her movements. Joyce, -stung to the heart with her disappointment--with the _bourdonnement_ in -her ears and the jar in her nerves of a great downfall--was like a -creature inspired. She swept out of the house, and crossed the open -space of the drive, and disappeared in the shadows of the avenue, -without a word, with scarcely a breath--carried along by that wind of -passion, unconscious what she did. - -Old Janet Matheson followed her child with feelings of almost equal -intensity, but of a contradictoriness and mingled character which defies -description. Her despair in the anticipation of losing Joyce was mingled -with elation in the thought that Joyce was proved a lady beyond all -possibility of doubt, fit to be received as an equal in the grand -society at the House--which, however, in no way modified her profound -and passionate sense of loss and anger against the fate which she -declared to herself bitterly she had always foreseen. That she should -not have felt a momentary joy in her child’s apparent rejection of the -new life opening before her was impossible; but that too was mingled -still more seriously by regret and alarm lest the girl should do -anything to forfeit these advantages, and also by the dictates of honest -judgment which showed her that resistance was impossible, and that it -was foolish, and Joyce’s revolt a mere blaze of temporary impulse which -could not, and must not, stand against the necessities of life. All -these mixed and contradictory sentiments were in Janet’s mind as she -hurried along, trying vainly to keep up with the swift, impassioned -figure in front of her; trying, too, to reason with the unreasonable, -and bring Joyce--strange travesty of all the usual circumstances of her -life--to bring Joyce, the quick-witted, the all-understanding, to see -what was right and wrong, what was practicable and impracticable. Her -efforts in this respect were confined at present to a breathless -interjection now and then-- ‘Oh, Joyce!’ ‘Oh, my dear!’ ‘Oh, my bonnie -woman!’ in various tones of remonstrance and deprecation. But Joyce’s -impulse of swift passion lasted long and carried her far, straight down -the long avenue, and out into the village road beyond; and her mind was -so preoccupied that she did not take into consideration the fatigue and -trouble of her companion, as, under any other circumstances, Joyce would -have been sure to do. It was only when the sight of the village houses, -and the contact once more with other human creatures, and the necessary -reticences of life suddenly checked Joyce in her career, that she -slackened her pace, and, turning round to keep her face from the keen -investigation of some neighbours grouped around a door, suddenly -perceived a little behind her the flushed cheeks and labouring breath of -Janet, who would not be separated from her side, and yet had found the -effort of keeping up with her so difficult. Joyce turned back to her -faithful old friend with a cry of self-reproach. - -‘Oh, granny! and I’ve tired you struggling after me, and had not the -sense to mind.’ - -‘Oh ay, you have the sense to mind. You have sense for most things in -this world--- but no’ the day, Joyce, no’ the day; you havena shown your -sense the day.’ - -‘Granny,’ said Joyce, with trembling lips, ‘there has been nothing in my -life till now that you have not had all authority in: but you must say -nothing about this. I must be the judge in this. It is my business, and -only mine.’ - -‘There is nothing,’ said Janet, ‘that can be your business and no’ mine: -until the time comes when you yoursel’ are none of my business--when -you’re in your father’s hands.’ - -‘Oh no, no,’ said Joyce under her breath, clasping her hands,--‘oh no, -no, no!’ - -‘What are you murmurin’ and saying ower as if it was a charm? No, you -havena shown your sense. You think the like of that can be at your -pleesure to tak’ it or to leave it? Na, na, my bonnie woman. I’m the one -that will have the most to bear. Ye needna answer me, though I can see -the words in your mouth. I’m the one, whatever happens, that will have -the maist to put up with. But I say it’s no’ at your pleesure. What’s -richt is richt, and what’s nature is nature, whatever ye may say. I tell -ye, Joyce Matheson--but you’re no Joyce Matheson: eh! to think me, that -never used it, that I should gie ye that name noo! Ye’re Joyce Matheson -nae mair. - -‘Granny, granny, don’t throw me off--don’t cast me away, for I’ve nobody -but you,’ cried Joyce, with a voice full of tears. - -‘Me cast ye off! but it’s true ye’ve nae richt to the name, and Peter -and me, we’ve nae richt to you; and the moment’s come which I’ve aye -foreseen: oh, I have foreseen it! I never deceivit mysel’ like him, or -made up dreams and visions like you. And it’s no’ at your command to -tak’ it or to leave it--na, na. I’m no’ one that can deceive mysel’,’ -said Janet, mournfully shaking her head, and in the depth of her trouble -finding a little sad satisfaction in her own clear-sightedness. ‘The -rest o’ ye may think that heaven and earth will yield to ye, and that -what ye want is the thing ye will get if ye stand to it; but no’ -me--oh, no’ me! It’s little comfort to the flesh to see sae clear, but I -canna help it, for it’s my nature. Na, na. We canna just go back to what -we were before, as if nothing had happened. It’s no’ permitted. Ye may -do a heap o’ things in this world, but ye canna go back. Na, na. -Yesterday’s no dead, nor ye canna kill it, whatever ye may do. It’s mair -certain than the day or the morn, and it binds ye whether ye like it or -no,--oh, it binds ye, it binds ye! We canna go back. - -These little sentences came from her at intervals with breaks and pauses -between, as they went along towards the cottage, sometimes interrupted -by an exclamation from Joyce, sometimes by the greeting of a neighbour, -sometimes by Janet’s own breathlessness as she laboured along in the -warm evening under the weight of her big shawl. Such monologues were not -unusual to her, and Joyce had accompanied them by a commentary of -half-regarded questions and exclamations, in all the mutual calm of -family understanding on many a previous occasion. The girl had not lent -a very steady ear to the grandmother’s wisdom, nor had the grandmother -paused to answer the girl’s questions or remonstrances. Half heard, half -noted, they had gone on serenely, the notes of age and experience -mingling with the dreams and impulses of youth. But that soft concert -and harmony in which the two voices had differed without any jar, -supplementing and completing each other, was not like this. The old -woman was flushed and tearful, and Joyce was pale, with excited eyes -that looked twice as large as usual, and a trembling in the lips which -were so apt to move with impatient intelligence, answering before the -question was made. It was apparent even to the neighbours that something -must have happened, and still more apparent to Peter, who stood at the -open door of the cottage looking out for them with a look which varied -from the broad smile of pleasure with which he had perceived their two -familiar figures approaching, to a troubled perception of something -amiss which he could not fathom. Peter’s mind was slow in operating; and -as all previous information had been kept from him, he was without any -clue to the origin of the trouble which he began to feel about him. To -return and find the cottage closed, and neither wife nor child waiting -for him, was in itself a prodigy; and though his astonishment had been -partly calmed by the explanation of the neighbours who gave him the key -of the door, and informed him that Joyce and her granny had been sent -for to ‘the Hoose,’ it was roused into a kind of dull anxiety by the -agitated air which he slowly recognised as he watched them approaching, -convinced, against his will, that something ailed them,--that some new -event had happened. Nevertheless, Peter, in the voiceless delicacy of -his peasant soul, assumed the smile, trembling on the edge of a laugh, -which was his usual aspect when addressing his womenfolk. - -‘Weel,’ he said, ‘ye’re bonnie hoosekeepers for a man to come hame to, -wanting his tea! ‘Deed, I might just whistle for my tea, and the twa of -you stravaigin’ naebody kens where. Joyce, my bonny lass, ye should just -think shame of yoursel’, leading your auld granny into ill ways.’ He -ended with a long, low laugh, which was his expression of content and -emotion and pleasure, and which turned the reproach into the tenderest -family jest--and made way for them, but not till he had said out his -say. ‘Come awa,’ noo ye’re here; come awa’ ben, and mask the tea: for -I’m wanting something to sloken me,’ he said. - -‘Oh, my poor man--oh, my poor auld man!’ said Janet. She had not ceased -to shake her head at intervals while he was speaking, and she uttered a -suppressed groan as she went into the cottage. So long as all was -uncertain, Janet had carefully kept every intimation of possible -calamity from Peter; but now that the truth must be known, she had a -kind of tragic pleasure in exciting his alarm. - -‘What ails the woman?’ he said, ‘girnin’ and groanin’ as if we were a’ -under sentence. What ails your granny, Joyce?’ - -‘And so we are,’ said Janet, ‘a’ under sentence, as ye say, and our days -numbered, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. But, eh, that’s no’ -what we do--far, far from it. And when misfortin’ comes, that comes to -a’, it’s rare, rare that it doesn’t come unexpected. We’re eatin’ and -drinkin’ and makin’ merry--or else we’re fechtin’, beatin’ our -fellow-servants, and a’ in a word that the Lord delayeth his comin’. And -in a moment,’ said the old woman, with a sob, ‘our house is left unto us -desolate. That’s just the common way.’ - -‘What is she meaning with the house left desolate?’ said Peter, the -smile slowly disappearing from his face. ‘The woman’s daft! Joyce what -is she meanin’? I’m no’ very gleg at the uptake,--no’ like you, my -bonnie woman, that are just as keen as a needle. What’s she meanin’? -Janet, woman, as lang as the lassie is weel and spared----’ - -‘The lassie, says he--naething but the lassie. And have I no’ foreseen -it a’ the time? How often have I cried out to ye, Peter, to keep a loose -grip! oh, to haud a loose grip! But ye never would listen to me. And now -it’s just come to pass, and neither you nor me prepared.’ - -Peter’s face, gazing at her while she went on, was like a landscape in -the uncertain shining of a Scotch summer. It lightened all over with a -smile of good-humoured derision which brought out the shaggy eyebrows, -the grizzled whiskers, the cavernous hollows round the eyes, like the -inequalities of the mountainous land. And then the light fled -instantaneously, and a pale blank of shadow succeeded, leaving all that -surface grey, while finer lines of anxiety and chill alarm developed -about the large mouth and in the puckers of those many-folded eyelids, -like movements of the wind among the herbage and trees. He stood and -gazed at her with his eyes widely open, his lips apart. But Janet did -not meet that look. She went to the fire, which burned dully, -‘gathered,’ as she had left it in her careful way, to smoulder frugally -in her absence, and poked it with violence, with sharp thrusts of the -poker, standing with the back of her great shawl turned towards her -companions, and her big bonnet still on her head. There was nothing said -till with those sudden strokes and blows she had roused the dormant fire -to flame, when she put on the kettle, and swept the hearth with -vigorous, nervous movements, though always encumbered by the weight of -the shawl. Then Janet made a sudden turn upon herself, and setting open -the doors of the aumry, which made a sort of screen between her and the -others, proceeded to take off and fold away that shawl of state. ‘I’ll -maybe never put it on again,’ she said to herself, almost under her -breath, ‘for whatfor should I deck mysel’ and fash my heid about my -claes or what I put on? It was a’ to be respectable for her: wha’s -heeding when there’s nane but me?’ - -‘There’s something happened,’ said Peter, in his low tremulous bass, -like the rolling of distant thunder. ‘Am I the maister of this hoose, -and left to find oot by her parables and her metaphors, and no’ a word -of sense that a man can understand? What is’t, woman? Speak plain out, -or as sure’s death I’ll----’ He clenched his large fist with a sudden -silent rage, which could find no other expression than this seeming -threat--though Peter would have died sooner than touch with a finger to -harm her the old companion of his life. - -‘Grandfather,’ said Joyce, ‘I will tell you what has happened. Granny -takes a thing into her head, and then you know, whatever we say, you or -me, she never heeds, but follows her own fancy.’ The girl spoke quickly, -her words hurrying, her breath panting,--then came to a sudden pause, -flushed crimson, her paleness changing to the red of passionate feeling, -and added, as slowly as she had been hurried before, ‘Somebody has been -here--that knows who my mother was: somebody that says--that says he is -my father. And she thinks I am to rise up and follow him,’ cried Joyce, -in another burst of sudden, swift, vehement words,--‘to rise up and -follow him, like the woman in the Old Testament, away from my home and -my own people, and all that I care for in the world! But I’ll not do -it--I’ll not do it. I’ll call no strange man my father. I’ll bide in my -own place where I’ve been all my days. What are their letters, and their -old stories, and their secrets that they’ve found out, and their -injuries that they’re sorry for--sorry for after costing a woman’s life! -What’s all that to me? I’ll bide in my own place with them that have -nourished me and cherished me, and made me happy all my days.’ - -‘Eh, lassie! eh, lassie!’ was all Peter could say. His large old limbs -had got a trembling in them. He sat down in the big wooden arm-chair -which stood against the wall, where it had been put away after dinner, -and from that unaccustomed place, as if he too had been put away out of -the common strain of life, gazed at the two alternately,--at his wife -still folding, folding that shawl that would not lie straight, and at -Joyce, in her flush of impassioned determination, standing up drawn to -her full height, her head thrown back, her slim young figure inspired by -the rush and torrent of emotion which she herself scarcely understood in -its vehemence and force. The little quiet, humble cottage was in a -moment filled as with rushing wings and flashing weapons, the dust and -jar of spiritual conflict: but not one of the three visible actors in -this little tragic drama had for the moment a word to say. When this -silence of fate was broken, it was by Janet, who had at last shut up her -shawl in the aumry, and, coming and going from the fire to the table, -filling the intense blank of that pause with a curious interlude of -hasty sound and movement, said at last, almost fiercely, ‘Come to your -tea. You’ll do little good standing glowering at ane anither. Sit down -and tak’ your tea.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -The first day of the holidays had also been a delight to Mr. Andrew -Halliday’s virtuous soul. More systematic in all he did than Joyce’s -irregular impulses permitted her to be, he had taken advantage of the -leisure of the morning to enjoy to the utmost the quietness and freedom -of a man who has no rule but his own pleasure for the government of his -time. He got up a little later than usual, lingered over his breakfast, -exhausted the newspaper over which, on ordinary occasions, he could cast -only a hurried glance, and tasted the sweetness of that pause of -occupation as no habitually unoccupied man could ever do. Then he -sallied forth, not, as Joyce did, to dream and muse, but to enjoy the -conscious pleasure of a walk, during which, indeed, he turned over many -things in his mind which were not unallied to happy dreams. For Andrew -had come to a determination which filled him at once with sweet and -tender fancies, and with the careful calculations of a prudent man in -face of a great change in life. He had made up his mind to insist upon a -decision from Joyce, to have the time of their marriage settled. Of this -she had never permitted him to speak. Their engagement had been -altogether of a highly refined and visionary kind, a sort of bond of -intellectual sympathy which pleased and flattered the consciousness of -superiority in Halliday’s mind, but in other respects was sometimes a -little chilly, and so wanting in all warmer demonstration as to carry -with it a perpetual subdued disappointment and tremor of uncertainty. -Had not the schoolmaster possessed a great deal of self-approval and -conscious worth, he might have sometimes lost confidence altogether in -Joyce’s affection; but though he was often uncomfortable with a -sensation of having much kept from him which was his due, he had not as -yet come so far as to be able to imagine that Joyce was indifferent to -him. He could not have done her that wrong. She had met nobody, could -have met nobody, who was his equal, and how was it possible then that -she could be unfaithful? It seemed to Halliday a wrong to Joyce to -suppose her capable of such a lamentable want of judgment. - -But he was heartily in love with her at the same time, as well as so -much with himself, and the _régime_ under which she held him was cold. -He had become impatient of it, and very anxious to bring it to an end: -and there was no reason, except her fantastic unreadiness, for delay. He -said to himself that he must put a stop to it,--that he must step -forward in all the decision of his manhood, and impress this -determination upon the weaker feminine nature which was made to yield to -his superior force and impulse. There was no reason in the world for -delay. He had attained all the promotion which was likely for a long -time to be his; and the position of schoolmistress in his parish was -likely to be soon vacant, which would afford to Joyce the possibility of -carrying on her professional work, and adding to their joint means, as -no doubt she would insist upon doing. This was not a thing which -Halliday himself would have insisted upon. He felt profoundly that to be -able to keep his wife at home, and retain her altogether like a garden -enclosed for his private enjoyment, was a supreme luxury, and one which -it was the privilege of the superior classes alone to prize at its -proper value. He had been a prudent young man all his life, and had laid -by a little money, and he felt with a proud and not ungenerous expansion -of his bosom that he was able to afford himself that luxury; but he -doubted greatly whether it would be possible to bring Joyce to perceive -that this was the more excellent way, and that it would be meet for her -to give up her work and devote herself entirely to her husband. He -comprehended something of her pride, her high independence, and even -indulgently allowed for the presence in her of a great deal of that -ambition which is more appropriate to a man than a woman; therefore he -was prepared to yield the question in respect to the work, and to find a -new element of satisfaction in the thought of placing her by his own -side in the little rostrum of the school as well as in the seclusion of -the home. The Board would be too glad to secure the services of Miss -Matheson, so well known for her admirable management at Bellendean, as -the mistress at Comely Green. And thus every exigency would be -satisfied. - -He went over his little house carefully, room by room, when he came in -from his walk, and considered what it would be necessary to add, and -what to repair and refresh, for Joyce’s reception. His mind was a -thoroughly frugal and prudent one, tempted by no vain desires, spoiled -by no habits of extravagance. Amid all the fond visions which filled -him, as he realised the new necessities of a double life, he yet -calculated very closely what would be necessary, what they could do -without, how many things were strictly needful, and how and at what -price these additions could be procured. The calculations were full of -enchantment, but they were not reckoned up less carefully. He returned -to them after he had eaten his dinner, and they occupied the greater -part of the afternoon, with many an excursion into the realms of fancy -to sweeten them, although of themselves they were sweet. And it was with -the result of his calculations carefully jotted down upon a piece of -paper in his pocket-book, that he set out before tea-time for -Bellendean, to make known to Joyce his desires and determination, and to -sway her mind as the female mind ought to be swayed, half by sweet -persuasion, half by the magnetism of his superior force of impulse, to -adopt it as her own. The idea that she might insist, and decline to be -influenced, was one which he would not allow himself to take into -consideration, though it lay in the background in one of the chambers of -his mind with a sort of chill sense of unpleasant possibility, which, so -far as possible, he put out of sight. - -It was a lovely afternoon, and the road from Comely Green to Bellendean -lay partly by the highroad within sight of the Firth, and partly through -the woods and park of Bellendean House. Everything was cheerful round -him, the birds singing, the water reflecting the sunshine in jewelled -lines of sparkle and light. Andrew could not think of any such black -thing as refusal, or even reluctance, amid all the sweet harmony and -consent to be happy, which was in the lovely summer day. - -When he reached the cottage it gave him a little thrill of surprise to -find the door shut which usually stood so frankly open, admitting the -genial summer atmosphere and something of the sights and sounds outside. -It was strange to find the door closed on a summer evening; and an idea -that somebody must be ill, or that something must have happened, sprang -into instant life in Andrew’s mind. His knock was not even answered by -the invitation to come in, which would have been natural in other -circumstances. He heard a little movement inside, but no cheerful sound -of voices, and presently the door was opened by Janet, who, looking out -upon him with a jealous glance through a very small opening, breathed -forth an ‘Oh! it’s you, Andrew;’ and, letting the door swing fully open, -bade him come in. Within he was bewildered to see old Peter and Joyce -seated at the table, upon which the tea-things still stood. There they -were all three, nobody ill, no visible cause for this extraordinary -seclusion. Peter gave him a grim little nod without speaking, and Joyce -put forth--it almost seemed unwillingly--her hand, but without moving -otherwise. He took the chair from which Janet had risen, and gazed at -them bewildered. ‘What is the matter? Has anything happened?’ he said. - -There was a pause. Peter drummed upon the table with his fingers, with -something almost derisive in the measured sound; and Joyce half turned -to him as if about to speak, but said nothing. It was Janet who answered -his question. There was a hot flush upon her cheeks--the flush of -excitement and emotion. She answered him shaking her head. - -‘Ay, Andrew, there’s something happened. We’re no’ like oursel’s, as ye -can see. Ye wouldna have gotten in this nicht to this afflicted house if -ye had not been airt and pairt in it as weel as Peter and me.’ - -‘What is the matter?’ he repeated, with increased alarm. - -‘Ye better tell him, Joyce. Puir lad, he has a richt to hear. He’s maybe -thought like me of sic a thing happening, without fear, as if it might -be a kind of diversion. The Lord help us short-sighted folk.’ - -‘What is it?’ he said; ‘you are driving me distracted. What has -happened?’ - -Upon this Peter gave a short, dry laugh, which it was alarming to hear. -‘He’ll never find out,’ said the old man, ‘if ye give him years to do -it. It’s against reason--it’s against sense--a man to step in and take -another man’s bairn away.’ - -Joyce was very pale. He observed this for the first time in the -confusion and the trouble of this incomprehensible scene. She sat with -her hands clasped, looking at no one--not even at himself, though she -had given him her hand. It was rare, indeed, that Joyce should be the -last to explain. Halliday drew his chair a little nearer, and put his -hand timidly upon hers, which made her start. She made a quick movement, -as if to draw it away, then visibly controlled herself and permitted -that mute interrogation and caress. - -‘It is just what I aye kent would happen,’ said Janet, unconscious or -indifferent to her self-contradictions; ‘and many a time have I implored -my man no’ to build upon her, though I wasna so wise as to tak’ my ain -advice. And as for you, Andrew, though I took good care you should hear -a’ the circumstances, maybe I should have warned you mair clearly that -you should not lippen to her, and ware a’ your heart upon her, when at -ainy moment--at ainy moment--’ Here the old woman’s voice failed her, -and broke off in a momentary, much-resisted sob. Halliday’s astonishment -and anxiety grew at every word. His hand pressed Joyce’s hand with the -increasing fervour of an eager demand. - -‘Joyce! Joyce! what do they mean? Have you nothing to say?’ - -Joyce turned upon him, with a sudden flush taking the place of her -paleness. ‘Granny would make you think that I was not worthy to be -trusted,’ she said; ‘that to ware your heart upon me, as she says, was -to be cheated and betrayed.’ - -‘No, no,--_I_ never could believe that!’ he cried, not unwilling to -prove the superiority of his own trust to that of the old people, who, -Halliday felt, it would not be a bad thing to be clear of, or as nearly -clear of as circumstances might permit. - -Joyce scarcely paused to hear his response, but, having found her voice, -went on hurriedly. ‘People have come that say--that say---- They are -just strangers--we never saw them before. They say that I--I--belong to -them. Oh, I am not going to pretend,’ cried Joyce, ‘that I have not -thought of that happening, many a day! It was like a poem all to myself. -It went round and round in my head. It was a kind of dream. But I never -thought--I never, never thought what would become of me if it came true. -And how do I know that it is true? Grandfather, you and granny are my -father and my mother. I never knew any other. You have brought me up and -cared for me, and I am your child to the end of my life. I will never, -never----’ - -‘Hold your peace!’ cried Janet. She put up her hard hand against Joyce’s -soft young mouth. The little old woman grew majestic in her sense of -justice and right. ‘Hold your peace!’ she cried. ‘Make no vows, lest you -should be tempted to break them and sin against the Lord. Ye’ll do what -it’s your duty to do. You’ll no’ tell me this and that--that you’ll take -the law in your ain hands. Haud your tongue, Peter Matheson! You’re an -auld fool, putting nonsense into the bairn’s head. What!’ cried Janet, -‘a bairn of MINE to say that she’ll act as she likes and please hersel’, -and take her choice what she’ll do! and a’ the time her duty straight -forenenst her, and nae mainner o’ doubt what it is. Dinna speak such -stuff to me.’ - -In the pause of this conflict Andrew Halliday’s voice came in, -astonished, yet composed, with curiosity in it and strong -expectation--sentiments entirely different from those which swayed the -others, and which silenced them and aroused their attention from the -very force of contrast. ‘People who say--that you belong to them? Your -own people--your own friends--Joyce! Tell me who they are,--tell me---- -You take away my breath. To think that they should have found her after -all!’ - -They all paused in the impassioned strain of their thoughts to look at -him. This new note struck in the midst of them was startling and -incomprehensible, yet checked the excitement and vehemence of their own -feelings. ‘Ah, Andro,’ said old Peter, ‘ye’re a wise man. Ye would like -to hear a’ about it, and wha they are, and if the new freends--the new -freends’--the old man coughed over the words to get his voice--‘if -they’re maybe grander folk and mair to your credit’--he broke off into -his usual laugh, but a laugh harsh and broken. ‘Ye’re a wise lad, Andro, -my man--ye’re a wise lad.’ - -‘It is very natural, I think,’ said Andrew, reddening, ‘that I should -wish to know. We have spoken many a time of Joyce’s--friends. I wish to -know about them, and what they are, naturally, as any one in my position -would do.’ - -‘Joyce’s freends!--I thocht I kent weel what that meant,’ said Janet. -‘Eh! to hear him speak of Joyce’s freends. I thocht I kent weel what -that meant,’ she repeated, with a smile of bitterness. Halliday had -taken her seat at the table, and she went and seated herself by the wall -at as great a distance from the group as the limits of space would -permit. The old woman’s eyes were keen with grief and bitter pain, and -that sense of being superseded which is so hard to bear. She thought -that Joyce had put her chair a little closer to that of the -schoolmaster, detaching herself from Peter, and that the young people -already formed a little party by themselves. This was the form her -jealous consciousness of Joyce’s superiority had always taken, even when -everything went well. She burst forth again in indignant prophetic -strains, taking a little comfort in this thought. - -‘But dinna you think you’ll get her,’ she cried, ‘no more than Peter or -me!--dinna you believe that they’ll think you good enough for her, -Andrew Halliday. If it’s ended for us, it’s mair than ended for you. Do -you think a grand sodger-officer, that was the Captain’s commander, and -high, high up, nigh to the Queen herself,--do you think a man like that -will give his dauchter--and such a dauchter, fit for the Queen’s Court -if ever lady was--to a bit poor little parish schoolmaister like you?’ - -The comfort which Janet took from this prognostication was bitter, but -it was great. A curious pride in the grandeur of the officer who was -‘the Captain’s’ commander made her bosom swell. At least there was -satisfaction in that and in the sudden downfall, the unmitigated and -prompt destruction of all hopes that might be entertained by that -whippersnapper, who dared to demand explanations on the subject of -Joyce’s ‘friends’--friends in Scotch peasant parlance meaning what -‘parents’ means in French, the family and nearest relatives. Janet had -rightly divined that Halliday received the news not with sympathetic -pain or alarm, but with suppressed delight, looking forward to the -acquisition to himself, through his promised wife, of ‘friends’ who -would at once elevate him to the rank of gentleman, after which he -longed with a consciousness of having no internal right to it, which old -Janet’s keen instincts had always comprehended--far, far different from -Joyce, who wanted no elevation,--who was a lady born. - -‘Granny,’ said Joyce, with a trembling voice, ‘you think very little, -very, very little--I see it now for the first time--of me.’ - -‘Me think little of ye! that’s a bonnie story; but weel, weel I ken what -will happen. We will pairt with sore hearts, but a firm meaning to be -just the same to ane anither. I’ve seen a heap of things in my -lifetime,’ said Janet, with mournful pride. ‘Sae has my man; but they -havena time to think--they’re no’ aye turning things ower and ower like -a woman at the fireside. I’ve seen mony changes and pairtings, and how -it was aye said it should make no difference. Eh! I’ve seen that in the -maist natural way. It’s no’ that you’ll mean ony unfaithfulness, my -bonnie woman. Na, na. I ken ye to the bottom o’ your heart, and there’s -nae unfaithfulness in you--no’ even to him,’ said Janet, indicating -Halliday half contemptuously by a pointing finger, ‘much less to your -grandfaither and me. I’m whiles in an ill key, and I’ve been sae, I -dinna deny it, since ever I heard this awfu’ news: but now I am coming -to mysel’. Ye’ll do your duty, Joyce. Ye’ll accept what canna be -refused, and ye’ll gang away from us with a sair heart, and it will be -a’ settled that you’re to come back, maybe twice a year, maybe ance a -year, to Peter and me, and be our ain bairn again. They’re no’ ill -folk,’ she went on, the tears dropping upon her apron, on which she was -folding hem after hem--‘they’re good folk; they’re kind, awfu’ -kind--they’ll never wish ye to be ungrateful,--that’s what they’ll say. -They’ll no’ oppose it, they’ll settle it a’--maybe a week, maybe a -month, maybe mair; they’ll be real weel-meaning, real kind. And Peter -and me, we’ll live a’ the year thinking o’ that time; and ye’ll come -back, my bonnie dear--oh, ye’ll come back! with your heart licht to -think of the pleasure of the auld folk. But, eh Joyce! ye’ll no’ be in -the house a moment till ye’ll see the difference; ye’ll no’ have graspit -my hand or looked me in the face till ye see the difference. Ye’ll see -the glaur on your grandfaither’s shoon when he comes in, and the sweat -on his brow. No’ with ony unkind meaning. Oh, far frae that--far frae -that! Do I no’ ken your heart? But ye’ll be used to other things--it’ll -a’ have turned strange to ye then--and ye’ll see where we’re wanting. -Oh, ye’ll see it! It will just be mair plain to ye than all the rest. -The wee bit place, the common things, the neebors a’ keen to ken, but -chief of us, Peter and me our ainsels, twa common puir folk.’ - -‘Granny!’ cried Joyce, flinging herself upon her, unable to bear this -gradual working up. - -Peter came in with a chorus with his big broken laugh-- ‘Ay, ay, just -that, just that! an auld broken-down ploughman and his puir auld body of -a wife. It’s just that, it’s just that!’ - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -Great was the consternation in Bellendean over the unsatisfactory -interview which it was so soon known had taken place between Joyce and -her father. Colonel Hayward’s public intimation of the facts at luncheon -had created, as might have been expected, the greatest commotion; and -the ladies of the party assembled round Mrs. Bellendean with warm -curiosity when the whisper ran through the house that Joyce had -come--and had gone away again. Gone away! To explain it was very -difficult, to understand it impossible. The schoolmistress, the village -girl, to discover that she was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, and not to be -elated, transported by the discovery! Why, it was a romance, it was like -a fairy tale. Mrs. Bellendean’s suggestion that there was a second side -to everything, though the fact was not generally recognised in fairy -tales, contented no one; and a little mob of excited critics, all -touched and interested by Colonel Hayward’s speech, turned upon the -rustic heroine and denounced her pretensions. What did she expect, what -had she looked for--to turn out a king’s daughter, or a duke’s? But it -was generally agreed that few dukes were so delightful as Colonel -Hayward, and that Joyce showed the worst of taste as well as the utmost -ingratitude. Mrs. Bellendean was disappointed too; but she was partly -comforted by the fact that Captain Bellendean, who was much bewildered -by the girl’s caprice and folly, had fallen into a long and apparently -interesting argument on the subject with Greta, her own special -favourite and _protégée_. It is almost impossible for any natural woman -to find a man in Norman’s position, well-looking, young, and rich, -within her range, without forming matrimonial schemes for him of one -kind or another; and Mrs. Bellendean had already made up her mind that -the pang of leaving Bellendean would be much softened could she see her -successor in Greta, the favourite of the house, a girl full of her own -partialities and ways of thinking, and whom she had influenced all her -life. She forgot Joyce in seeing the animated discussion that rose -between these two. It was disappointing, however, that when in the very -midst of this discussion Captain Bellendean saw from the window at which -he was standing his old Colonel walking to and fro on the terrace with -heavy steps and bowed head, his point of interest changed at once. He -looked no more at Greta, though she was a much prettier sight: evidently -all his sympathy was for Colonel Hayward; and after the talk had gone on -languishing for a few moments, he excused himself for leaving her. ‘Poor -old chap! I must go and try if I can do anything to console him,’ he -said. - -Norman found Colonel Hayward very much cast down and melancholy. He was -pacing up and down, up and down--sometimes pausing to throw a blank look -over the landscape, sometimes mechanically gathering a faded leaf from -one of the creepers on the wall. He endeavoured to pull himself up when -Captain Bellendean joined him; but the old soldier had no skill in -concealing his feelings, and he was too anxious to get support and -sympathy to remain long silent. He announced, with all the solemnity -becoming a strange event, that Mrs. Hayward was lying down a little. -‘She travelled all night, you know; and though she can sleep on the -railway, it never does one much good that sort of sleep; and there has -been a great deal going on all day--a great deal that has been very -agitating for us both. I persuaded her to lie down,’ Colonel Hayward -said, looking at his companion furtively, as if afraid that Norman might -think Elizabeth was to blame. - -‘It was the best thing she could do,’ said Captain Bellendean. - -‘That is exactly what I told her--the very best thing she could do. It -is seldom she leaves me when I have so much need of her; but I insisted -upon it. And then I am in full possession of her sentiments,’ said the -Colonel. ‘She told me exactly what she thought; and she advised me to -take a walk by myself and think it all out.’ - -‘Perhaps, then, I ought to leave you alone, Colonel? but I saw you from -the window, and thought you looked out of spirits.’ - -‘My dear boy, I am glad--too glad--to have you. Thinking a thing out is -easy to say, but not so easy to do. And you had always a great deal of -sense, Bellendean. When we had difficulties in the regiment, I well -remember---- But that was easy in comparison with this. You know what -has happened. We’ve found my daughter. For I was married long before I -met with my wife. It was only for a little time; and then she -disappeared, poor girl, and I never could find out what became of her. -It gave me a very great deal of trouble and distress--more than I could -tell you; and now we have found out that she left a child. I told you -all to-day at luncheon. Joyce, the girl they all talk about, is my -daughter. Can you believe such a story?’ - -‘I had heard about it before; and then what you said to-day--it is very -wonderful.’ - -‘Yes; but it’s quite true. And we told her--in Mrs. Bellendean’s room. -And if you will believe it, she---- She as good as rejected me, -Norman--refused to have me for her father. It has thrown me into a -dreadful state of confusion. And Elizabeth can’t help me, it appears. -She says I must work it out for myself. But it seems unnatural to work -out a thing by myself; and especially a thing like this. Yes, the girl -would have nothing to say to me, Bellendean. She says I must have -ill-treated her mother--poor Joyce! the girl I told you that I had -married. And I never did--indeed I never did!’ - -‘I am sure of that, sir. You never injured any one.’ - -‘Ah, my dear fellow! you don’t know how things happen. It seems to be -nobody’s fault, and yet there’s injury done. It’s very bewildering to -me, at my age, to think of having a child living. I never--thought of -anything of the kind. I may have wished that my wife--and then again it -would seem almost better that it shouldn’t be so.’ - -Colonel Hayward put his arm within that of Norman; he quickened his pace -as they went up and down the terrace, and then would stop suddenly to -deliver an emphatic sentence. ‘She looked me in the face, as if she -defied me,’ he said, ‘and then went away and left me--with that old -woman. Did you ever hear of such a position, Bellendean? My daughter, -you know, my own daughter--and she looks me in the face, and tells me I -must have harmed her mother, and why did I leave her? and goes away! -What am I to do? When you have made such a discovery, there it is; you -can’t put it out of your mind, or go upon your way, as if you had never -found it out. I can’t be as I was before. I have got a daughter. You may -smile, Bellendean, and think it’s just the old fellow’s confused way.’ - -‘I don’t indeed, sir. I can quite understand the embarrassment----’ - -‘That’s it--the embarrassment. She belongs to me, and her future should -be my dearest care--my dearest care--a daughter, you know, more even -than a boy. Just what I have often thought would make life perfect--just -a sort of a glory to us, Elizabeth and me; but when you think of it, -quite a stranger, brought up so different! And Elizabeth opposed, a -little opposed. I can’t help seeing it, though she tries to hide it, -telling me that it’s my affair--that I must think it out myself. How can -I think it out myself? and then my daughter herself turning upon me! -What can I do? I don’t know what to do!’ - -‘Everybody,’ said Captain Bellendean--though a little against the grain, -for he was himself very indignant with Joyce--‘speaks highly of her; -there is but one voice--every one likes and admires her.’ - -The Colonel gave a little pressure to the young man’s arm, as if in -thanks, and said with a sigh, ‘She is very like her mother. You would -say, if you had known her, the very same--more than a likeness. -Elizabeth has had a good deal to put up with on that account. You can’t -wonder if she is a little--opposed. And everything is at a standstill. -_I_ have to take the next step; they will neither of them help me--and -what am I to do? Children--seem to bring love with them when they are -born in a house. But when a grown-up young woman appears that you never -saw before, and you are told she is your daughter! It is a dreadful -position to be in, Bellendean. I don’t know, no more than a baby, what -to do.’ - -‘That is rather an alarming view to take,’ said Norman. ‘But when you -know her better, most likely everything will come right. You have a very -kind heart, sir, and the young lady is very pretty, and nice, and -clever, and nature will speak.’ - -The Colonel shook his head. ‘I believed this morning in nature -speaking--but I am sadly shaken, sadly shaken, Bellendean. Why did she -turn against me? You would have thought that merely to say, I am your -father--but she turned upon me as if I had been her enemy. And what can -I do? We can’t go away to-morrow and leave her here. We must have her to -live with us, and perhaps she won’t come, and most likely she’ll not -like it if she does. I am dreadfully down about it all. Joyce’s girl -whom I don’t know, and Elizabeth, who gives me up and goes to lie down -because she’s tired--just when I need her most!’ - -‘But, Colonel, it is true that Mrs. Hayward must be very tired: and no -doubt she feels that you and Miss Joyce will understand each other -better if you meet by yourselves, when she is not there.’ - -‘Eh? Do you think that’s what she means, Bellendean? and do you think so -too? But even then I am no further advanced than I was before; for my -daughter, you know, she’s not here, and how do I know where to find -her, even if I were prepared to meet her? and heaven knows I am less -prepared than ever--and very nervous and anxious; and if she were -standing before me at this moment I don’t know what I should say.’ - -‘I can show you where to find her,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘Come and -see her, sir; you don’t want to be prepared--you have only to show her -that she may trust to your kind heart, and settle everything before Mrs. -Hayward wakes up.’ - -‘My kind heart!’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘I’m not so sure that my heart is -kind--not, it appears, to my own flesh and blood. I feel almost as if I -should be glad never to hear of her again.’ - -‘That is only because you are out of sorts, and got no sleep last -night.’ - -‘How do you know I got no sleep? It’s quite true. Elizabeth thinks I -only fancy it, but the truth is that when my mind is disturbed I cannot -sleep. I am dreadfully down about it all, Bellendean. No, I haven’t the -courage, I haven’t the courage. If she were to tell me again that her -mother had much to complain of, I couldn’t answer a word. And yet it’s -not so. I declare to you, Bellendean, upon my honour, it was no fault of -mine.’ - -‘I am sure of it, sir,’ said Bellendean. ‘Don’t think any more of that, -but come with me and see Miss Joyce, and settle it all.’ - -The Colonel said little as he walked down to the village leaning on -young Bellendean’s arm. He was alarmed and nervous; his throat was dry, -his mind was confused. Norman’s society, the touch of his arm, the moral -force of his companionship, kept Colonel Hayward up to the mark, or it -is possible that he might have turned back and fled from those -difficulties which he did not feel himself able to cope with, and the -new relationship that had already produced such confusion in his life. -But he was firmly held by Norman’s arm, and did not resist the impulse, -though it was not his own. He did not know what he was going to say to -Joyce, or how to meet this proud young creature, filled with a fanciful -indignation for her mother’s wrongs. He had never wronged her mother. -Pitiful as the story was, and tenderly as he had always regarded her -memory, the Joyce of his youth had been the instrument of her own misery -and of much trouble and anguish to him, though the gentle-hearted -soldier had accepted it always as a sort of natural calamity for which -nobody was responsible, and never blamed her. But even the -gentlest-hearted will be moved when the judgment which they have -refrained from making is turned against themselves. It was not his -fault, and yet how could he say so? How could he explain it to this -second hot-headed Joyce without blaming the first who had so suffered, -and over whom death had laid a shadowy veil of tenderness, an oblivion -of all mistakes and errors? Colonel Hayward did not articulately discuss -this question with himself, but it was at the bottom of all the -confusion in his troubled mind. He was afraid of her, shy of her -presence, not knowing how to address or approach this stranger, who was -his own child. He had looked with a tender envy at other people’s -daughters before now, thinking if only Elizabeth---- But a daughter who -was not Elizabeth’s, and to whom his wife was even, as he said to -himself, a little--opposed, was something that had never entered into -his thoughts. How easy it was in the story-books!--how parents and -children long separated sprang into each other’s arms and hearts by -instinct. But it was very different in real life, when the problem how -to receive into the intimacy of so small a household a third person who -was so near in blood, so absolutely unknown in all that constitutes -human sympathy, had to be solved at a moment’s notice! He had been very -much excited and disturbed the day before, but he had not doubted the -power of Elizabeth to put everything right. Now, however, Elizabeth had -not only for the first time failed, but was--opposed. She had not said -it, but he had felt it. She had declared herself tired, and lain down, -and told him to work it out himself. Such a state of affairs was one -which Colonel Hayward had never contemplated, and everything accordingly -was much worse than yesterday, when he had still been able to feel that -if Elizabeth were only here all would go well. - -The party in the cottage were in a very subdued and depressed condition -when Captain Bellendean knocked at the door. The heat of resistance in -Joyce’s mind had died down. Whether it was the strain of argument which -Janet still carried on, though Joyce had not consciously listened to it, -or whether the mere effect of the short lapse of time which quenches -excitement had operated unawares upon her mind, it is certain that her -vehemence of feeling and rebellion of heart had sunk into that -despondent suspension of thought which exhaustion brings. Resistance -dies out, and the chill compulsion of circumstance comes in, making -itself felt above all flashes of indignation, all revolts of sentiment. -Joyce knew now, though she had not acknowledged it in words, that her -power over her own life was gone,--that there was no strength in her to -resist the new laws and subordination under which she felt herself to -have fallen. She had not even the consciousness which a girl in a -higher class might have been supported by, that her father’s rights over -her were not supreme. She believed that she had no power to resist his -decrees as to what was to become of her; and accordingly, after the -first outburst of contradictory feeling, the girl’s heart and courage -had altogether succumbed. She had fallen upon the neck of her old -guardian--the true mother of her life--with tears, which quenched out -every spark of the passion which had inspired her. - -Joyce felt herself to be within the grasp of fate. She was like one of -the heroines of the poets in a different aspect from that in which she -had identified herself with Rosalind or Miranda. What she was like now -was Iphigenia or Antigone caught in the remorseless bonds of destiny. -She did not even feel that forlorn satisfaction in it which she might -have done had there been more time, or had she been less unhappy. The -only feeling she was conscious of was misery, life running low in her, -all the elements and powers against her, and the possibility even of -resistance gone out of her. Old Janet had pressed her close, and then -had repulsed her with the impatience of highly excited feeling; and -Joyce stood before the window, with the light upon her pale face, quite -subdued, unresistant, dejected to the bottom of her heart. The only one -of the group who showed any energy or satisfaction was Andrew Halliday, -who could not refrain a rising and exhilaration of heart at the thought -of being son-in-law to a man who was the ‘Captain’s’ commanding officer, -and consequently occupied a position among the great ones of the earth. -Andrew’s imagination had already leaped at all the good things that -might follow for himself. He thought of possible elevations in the way -of head-masterships, scholastic dignities, and honours. ‘They’ would -never leave Joyce’s husband a parish schoolmaster! He had not time to -follow it out, but his thoughts had swayed swiftly upwards to promotions -and honours undefined. - -‘Wha’s that at the door?’ said Janet, among her tears. - -‘It’s the Captain,’ said Joyce, in a voice so low that she was almost -inaudible. Then she added, ‘It’s--it’s--my father.’ - -‘Her father!’ Peter rose up with a lowering brow. ‘My hoose is no’ a -place for every fremd person to come oot and in at their pleasure. Let -them be. I forbid ainy person to open that door.’ - -‘Oh, haud your tongue, man!’ cried Janet; ‘can ye keep them oot with a -steekit door--them that has the law on their side, and nature too?’ - -The old man took his blue bonnet, which hung on the back of his chair. -‘Stand back, sir,’ he said sternly to Andrew, who had risen to go to the -door; ‘if my hoose is mine nae mair, nor my bairn mine nae mair, it’s -me, at least, that has the richt to open, and nae ither man.’ He put his -bonnet on his head, pulling it down upon his brows. ‘My head’s white and -my heart’s sair: if the laird thinks I’ve nae mainners, he maun just put -up wi’t, I’m no’ lang for this life that I should care.’ He threw the -door wide open as he spoke, meeting the look of the newcomers with his -head down, and his shaggy eyebrows half covering his eyes. ‘Gang in, -gang in, if ye’ve business,’ he said, and flung heavily past them, -without further greeting. The sound of his heavy footstep, hastening -away, filled all the silence which, for a moment, no one broke. - -Norman made way, and almost pushed the Colonel in before him. ‘They -expect you,’ he said. And Colonel Hayward stepped in. A more embarrassed -man, or one more incapable of filling so difficult a position, could not -be. How willingly would he have followed Peter! But duty and necessity -and Norman Bellendean all kept him up to the mark. Joyce stood straight -up before him in front of the window. She turned to him her pale face, -her eyes heavy with tears. The good man was accustomed to be received -with pleasure, to dispense kindness wherever he went: to appear thus, in -the aspect of a destroyer of domestic happiness, was more painful and -confusing than words can say. - -‘Young lady,’ he began, and stopped, growing more confused than ever. -Then, desperation giving him courage, ‘Joyce---- It cannot be stranger to -you than it is to me, to see you standing here before me, my daughter, -when I never knew I had a daughter. My dear, we ought to love one -another,--but how can we, being such strangers? I have never been used -to--anything of the kind. It’s a great shock to us both, finding this -out. But if you’ll trust yourself to me, I’ll--I’ll do my best. A man -cannot say more.’ - -‘Sir,’ said Joyce; her voice faltered and died away in her throat. She -made an effort and began again, ‘Sir,’ then broke down altogether, and, -making a step backwards, clutched at old Janet’s dress. ‘Oh, granny, -he’s very kind--his face is very kind,’ she cried. - -‘Ay,’ said the old woman, ‘ye say true; he has a real kind face. Sir, -what she wants to tell ye is, that though a’s strange, and it’s hard, -hard to ken what to say, she’ll be a good daughter to ye, and do her -duty, though maybe there’s mony things that may gang wrang at first. Ye -see she’s had naebody but Peter and me: and she’s real fond of the twa -auld folk, and has been the best bairn’--Janet’s voice shook a little, -but she controlled it. ‘Never, never in this world was there a better -bairn--though she’s aye had the nature o’ a lady and the mainners o’ -ane, and might have thought shame of us puir country bodies. Na, my -bonnie woman, na,--I ken ye never did. But, sir, ye need never fear to -haud up yer head when ye’ve HER by your side. She’s fit to stand before -kings--ay, that she is,--before kings, and no before meaner men.’ - -The Colonel gazed curiously at the little old woman, who stood so firm -in her self-abnegation that he, at least, never realised how sadly it -went against the grain. ‘Madam,’ he said, in his old-fashioned way, ‘I -believe you fully; but it must be all to your credit and the way you -have brought her up, that I find her what she is.’ He took Janet’s hand -and held it in his own,--a hard little hand, scored and bony with work, -worn with age--not lovely in any way. The Colonel recovered himself and -regained his composure, now that he had come to the point at which he -could pay compliments and give pleasure. ‘I thank you, madam, from the -bottom of my heart, for what you have done for her, and for what you are -giving up to me,’ he said, bowing low. Janet had no understanding of -what he meant; and when he bent his grizzled moustache to kiss her hand, -she gave a little shriek of mingled consternation and pleasure. ‘Eh, -Colonel!’ she exclaimed, her old cheeks tingling with a blush that would -not have shamed a girl’s. Never in her life had lips of man touched -Janet’s hand before. She drew it from him and fell back upon her chair -and sobbed, looking at the knotted fingers and prominent veins in an -ecstasy of wonder and admiration. ‘Did you see that, Joyce? he’s kissed -my hand; did ever mortal see the like? Eh, Colonel! I just havena a -word--no’ a word--to say.’ - -Joyce put out both her hands to her father, her eyes swimming in tears, -her face lighted up with that sudden gleam of instantaneous perception -which was one of the charms of her face. ‘Oh, sir!’ she said: the other -word, father, fluttered on her lips. It was a gentleman who did that, -one of the species which Joyce knew so little, but only that she -belonged to it. In her quick imagination rehearsing every incident -before it happened, that was what she would have had him do. The little -act of personal homage was more than words, more than deeds, and changed -the current of her feelings as by magic. And the Colonel now was in his -element too. The tender flattery and sincere extravagance of all those -delicate ways of giving pleasure were easy and natural to him, and he -was restored to himself. He took Joyce’s hands in one of his, and drew -her within his arm. - -‘My dear,’ he said, with moisture in his eyes, ‘you are very like your -mother. God forgive me if I ever frightened her or neglected her! I -could not look you in the face if I had ever done her conscious wrong. -Will you kiss me, my child, and forgive your father? She would bid you -do so if she were here.’ - -It was very strange to Joyce. She grew crimson, as old Janet had done, -under her father’s kiss. He was her father; her heart no longer made any -objections; it beat high with a strange mixture of elation and pain. Her -father--who had done her mother no conscious wrong, who had proved -himself, in that high fantastical way which alone is satisfactory to the -visionary soul, to be such a gentleman as she had always longed to meet -with: yet one whom she would have to follow, far from all she knew, and, -what was far worse, leaving desolate the old parents who depended upon -her for all the brightness in their life. Her other sensations of pain -fled away like clouds before the dawn, but this tragic strain remained. -How would they do without her?--how could they bear the separation? The -causeless resentment, the fanciful resistance which Joyce had felt -against her father, vanished in a moment, having no cause; but the other -burden remained. - -Meanwhile there was another burden of which she had not thought. Andrew -Halliday had discreetly withdrawn himself while the main action of the -scene was going on. He stepped aside, and began to talk to Captain -Bellendean. It was not undesirable in any circumstances to make friends -with Captain Bellendean; and the schoolmaster had all his wits about -him. He took up a position aside, where he could still command a perfect -view of what was going on, and then he said, ‘We are having very good -weather for this time of the year.’ - -‘Yes,’ Norman said, a little surprised, ‘I think so. It is not very -warm, but it is always fine.’ - -‘Not warm! That will be your Indian experiences, Captain; for we all -think here it is a very fine season--the best we have had for years. The -corn is looking well, and the farmers are content, which is a thing that -does not happen every year.’ - -‘No, indeed,’ said Norman. He was not very much interested in the -farmers, who had not yet begun to be the troublesome members of society -they now are; but he did not wish to have his attention distracted from -the scene going on so near; and but for innate civility, he would -willingly have snubbed the schoolmaster. Andrew, however, was not a -person to be suppressed so. - -‘You are more interested,’ he said confidentially, ‘in what’s going on -here; and so am I, Captain Bellendean. I have reason to be very deeply -interested. Everything that concerns my dear Joyce----’ - -‘Your dear--what?’ cried the Captain abruptly, turning quickly upon him -with an indignant air. Then, however, Captain Bellendean recollected -himself. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quickly; ‘I believe I have -heard--something.’ - -‘You will have heard,’ said Halliday, ‘that we’ve been engaged for some -time back. We should have been married before now but for some -difficulties about--about her parents and mine. Not that there was not -perfect satisfaction with the connection,’ he added, with his air of -importance, ‘on both sides of the house.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Norman. He felt himself grow red with annoyance at this -intrusive fellow, whose affairs were nothing to him. He added with -conscious sarcasm, ‘Let us hope it will always continue to be equally -satisfactory.’ - -‘I hope so,’ said Halliday. ‘It could scarcely, indeed, be otherwise, -seeing that Joyce was my choice in very humble circumstances, when I -might well have found a partner in a different sphere. My mother’s first -word was, “Andrew, you might have done better;” but Joyce’s own merits -turned the scale. She is an excellent creature, Captain Bellendean, -admirable in tuition. She raises an enthusiasm in the children, -especially the bigger girls, which really requires quite a gift. I -looked forward to the day when she should be transferred to my own -parish, and work under me. Judicious guidance was all she required--just -a hint here, a suggestion there--and there would not be a head-mistress -in Scotland to equal her.’ - -‘I fear,’ said Norman, smoothing his annoyance into a laugh, ‘that -Colonel Hayward will put a stop to schoolmistressing.’ - -‘Why, sir, why? it’s a noble office. There could not be a finer -occupation, nor one in which you can serve your country better. Ladies, -indeed, after marriage, when they get the cares of a family, sometimes -begin to flag a little,’ said Halliday, giving a complacent look at -Joyce. ‘Of course,’ he added, after a pause--and, though he did not know -it, he had never been so near being kicked out of a house in his -life--‘if Colonel Hayward should wish her to settle near him, there are -many fine appointments to be had in England. I would not say that I -should insist upon remaining here.’ - -‘That would be kind,’ said Captain Bellendean, with a sarcasm which was -scarcely intentional. He was confounded by the composure and by the -assurance of this fellow, who was so calmly persuaded of his own -property in Joyce. - -‘I would think it only duty,’ said Halliday; ‘but you’ll excuse me, -Captain,--I think I am wanted.’ He turned with a smile towards Joyce, -still awed and astonished by the sudden change in her own sentiments, -who continued to stand shy and tremulous within her father’s encircling -arm. - -‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘I am glad to see this happy conclusion; but you -have not yet introduced me to the Cornel--and we can have no secrets -from him now.’ - -The Colonel turned with astonishment and something as like _hauteur_ as -was possible to his gentle and courteous temper, to the new speaker. He -looked him over from head to foot, with a dim recollection of having -seen him before, and of having somehow resented his appearance even -then. He resented it much more now, when this half-bred person, whose -outside was not that of a gentleman, yet was not that of a labouring -man, came forward claiming a place between his daughter and himself. He -turned upon Andrew that mild lightning of indignant eyes which had -proved so efficacious in the regiment. But Halliday was not to be -intimidated by any man’s eyes. He drew still nearer with an ingratiating -smile, and said again, ‘Introduce me to the Cornel, Joyce.’ - -Joyce had accepted Andrew Halliday’s love--as little of it as possible: -because he had forced it upon her, because his talk and acquaintance -with books had dazzled her, because she had found a certain protection -in him from other rustic suitors. She had allowed it to be understood -that some time or other she would marry him. He was the nearest to -herself in position, in ambition, of any in the country-side. But she -lifted her eyes to him now with a shrinking and horror which she herself -could not understand. He stood between her and Captain Bellendean, -contrasting himself without the smallest reluctance or sense of danger -with the man whose outward semblance was more like that of a hero than -any man Joyce had seen. She made in a moment the comparison which it had -never occurred to Halliday to make. His under-size, his imperfect -development, the absence of natural grace and refinement in him, made -themselves apparent to her sharply, as if by the sting of a sudden blow. -She gazed at him, the colour again flushing over her face, with a slight -start of surprise and something like repugnance. He had got her promise -that she would marry him, but she had never promised to present him to -her unknown dream-father as his future son. - -‘Who is it?’ said Colonel Hayward. He curved his eyebrows over his eyes -to assist his vision, which gave him a look of displeasure; and he was -displeased to see this man,--a man with whom he had some previous -unpleasant association, he could not tell what,--thrusting himself in at -such an inappropriate moment between his daughter and himself. - -‘It is--Andrew Halliday,’ said Joyce, very low, turning her head away. -Halliday held his ground very sturdily, and acknowledged this abrupt -description with an ingratiating smile. - -‘How do you do, Cornel?’ he said. ‘After all, she’s shy--she leaves me -to introduce myself; which is not perhaps to be wondered at. We have -been engaged for nearly a year. I came here to-day, knowing nothing, to -try and persuade her to name the day, and put an end to a wretched -bachelor’s life. But when I arrived I found everything turned upside -down, and Joyce quite past giving any heed to me. I hope I may leave my -cause in your hand, Cornel,’ said the schoolmaster, with the utmost -absence of perception. He thought he had made a very agreeable -impression, and that his affairs were, as he said, safe in the Cornel’s -hands. - -‘You are engaged to this--gentleman?’ Colonel Hayward said. - -Joyce felt herself quail as she looked into her father’s face. She read -all that was in his at a glance. Colonel Hayward was quite ignorant of -Halliday, quite unaccustomed to the kind of man, unprepared for this new -claim; and yet his eyes expressed the same thoughts which were in hers. -A little shiver of keen sympathetic feeling ran through her. She felt -herself unable to say anything. She assented with a look in which, with -horror at herself, she felt the shrinking, the reluctance to acknowledge -the truth, the disinclination which she had never allowed even to -herself up to this time. The Colonel looked from Joyce, standing with -downcast eyes and that half-visible shrinking in every line of her -figure and attitude, to the commonplace man with the smirk on his -countenance: and breathed once more the habitual aspiration of his life, -‘Oh that Elizabeth were here!’ But then he remembered that Elizabeth had -sent him away to work it out for himself. - -‘We always knew,’ said Halliday, ‘that this day would come some time, -and that her real origin would be known. I have looked forward to it, -Cornel. I have always done my best to help her to prepare--for any -position. I am not rich,’ he added, with demonstrative frankness; ‘but -among people of high tone that’s but a secondary matter, and I know -you’ll find we are true partners and mates, Joyce and myself, in every -other way.’ - -‘Sir, I am very much confused with one discovery,’ said the Colonel, -hesitating and tremulous. ‘I--I--can scarcely realise yet about my -daughter. Let the other stand over a little--let it wait a little--till -I have got accustomed--till I know how things are--till I----’ - -He looked at Joyce anxiously to help him out. But for the first time in -her life Joyce failed in this emergency. She stood with her eyes cast -down, slightly drawn back, keeping herself isolated by an instinctive -movement. She had never been in such a strait before. - -‘Oh,’ said Halliday, ‘I understand. I can enter into your feelings, -Cornel; and I am not afraid to wait.’ He took Joyce’s hand, which hung -by her side, and clasped it close. ‘Joyce,’ he said, ‘will speak for me; -Joyce will see that I am not put off too long.’ - -A sudden heat like a flame seemed to envelop Joyce. She withdrew her -hand quickly, yet almost stealthily, and turned upon her father--her -father whom she had known only for a few hours, whose claims she had at -first rejected--an appealing look. Then Joyce, too, remembered herself. -Truth and honour stood by Halliday’s side, though he was not of their -noble strain. The flame grew hotter and hotter, enveloping her, -scorching her, turning from red to the white flames of devouring fire. -She turned back to her betrothed lover, scarcely seeing through eyes -dazzled by that glare, and put out her hand to him as if forced by some -invisible power. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -The little family party left Bellendean two days after. It was not -expedient, they all felt, to linger long over the inevitable separation. -Even old Janet was of this mind. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then -it were well it were done quickly.’ The sentiment of these words was in -the old woman’s mind, though possibly she did not know them. Joyce was -finally taken from her foster-parents when she left them for Bellendean -on the evening before, half heart-broken, yet half ecstatic, not knowing -how to subdue the extraordinary emotion and excitement that tingled to -her very finger-points. She was going to dine at the table which -represented everything that was splendid and refined to the village -schoolmistress, to be waited on by the servants who thought themselves -much superior to old Peter and Janet, to hear the talk, to make -acquaintance with the habits of those whom she had looked up to all her -life. The Bellendean carriage came for her, to bring her away not only -from the cottage, but from all her past existence--from everything she -had known. By Janet’s advice, or rather commands, Joyce had put on her -one white dress, the soft muslin gown which she had sometimes worn on a -summer Sunday, and in which the old people had always thought she looked -like a princess. Peter sat by the open door of the cottage while these -last preparations were being made. The anger of great wretchedness was -blazing in the old man’s eyes. ‘What are you doing with that white dud?’ -he said, giving her a glance askance out of his red eyes. ‘I aye said it -was not fit for a decent lass out of my house. Mak’ her pit on a goon -that’s like her place, no like thae lightheaded limmers.’ He waved his -hand towards the east end of the village, where there lived an ambitious -family with fine daughters. ‘Dod! I would tear it off her back.’ - -‘Haud your tongue,’ said his wife; ‘what good will it do you to fecht -and warstle with Providence? The time’s come when we maun just submit. -Na, na, never heed him, Joyce. The white’s far the best. And just you -step into your carriage, my bonnie lady: it’s the way I’ve aye seen you -going aff in my dreams. Peter, dinna sit there like a sulky bear. Give -her a kiss and your blessing, and let her go.’ - -A laugh of hoarse derision burst from Peter’s lips. ‘I’m a bonnie man to -kiss a grand lady! I never was ane for thae showings-off. If she maun -go, she will hae to go, and there is an end o’t. Farewell to ye, Joyce!’ - -He got up hastily from his seat at the door. The footman outside and the -coachman on the box, keenly observant both, looked on--and Peter knew -their fathers and mothers, and was aware that any word he said would be -public property next day. He gave himself a shake, and pulled his bonnet -over his eyes, but did not stride away as he had done before. He stood -leaning his back against the wall, his face half buried in the old -coat-collar which rose to his ears when he bent his head, and in the -shadow of his bonnet and the forest of his beard. It was Janet, in her -quavering voice, who gave the blessing, putting up two hard hands, and -drawing them over Joyce’s brown satin hair and soft cheeks: ’"The Lord -bless thee and keep thee: the Lord lift up the light o’ His countenance -upon thee.” Gang away, gang away! It will maybe no’ be sae hard when -you’re out o’ our sight.’ - -The horses seemed to make but one bound, the air to fill with the sound -of hoofs and wheels, and Joyce found herself beginning again to perceive -the daylight through her blinding tears. And her heart, too, gave a -bound, involuntary, unwilling. It was not so hard when they were out of -sight, and the new world so full of expectation, of curiosity, of the -unknown, opened before her in a minute. Joyce in her white dress, in the -Bellendean carriage driving up the avenue to dinner, with her father -waiting at the other end to receive her, was and could be Joyce Matheson -no more. All that she knew and was familiar with departed from her like -the rolling up of a map, like the visions of a dream. - -There was, however, so much consciousness, so much curiosity, so many -comments made upon Joyce and her story, that the strange witching scene -of the dinner-table--a thing of enchantment to the girl, with its -wonderful flowers and fine company--was for the other guests somewhat -embarrassing and uncomfortable. Strangely enough Joyce was almost the -only one at table who was unaffected by this feeling. To her there was -something symbolical in the novelty which fitted in with all her dreams -and hopes. The flowers, the pretty dresses, the glitter and show of the -white table with its silver and porcelain, the conversation, a dozen -different threads going on at once, the aspect of the smiling faces as -they turned to each other,--all carried out her expectations. It seemed -to Joyce, sitting almost silent, full of the keenest observation, that -the meal, the vulgar eating and drinking, was so small a part of it. She -could not hear what everybody was saying, nor was she, in the excitement -and confusion of her mind, very capable of understanding the rapid -interchange of words, so many people talking together; but it -represented to her the feast of reason and the flow of soul better than -the most brilliant company in the world, more distinctly heard and -understood, could have done. She was not disappointed. Joyce knew by the -novels she had read that in such circumstances as hers the newcomer full -of expectation generally was disappointed, and found that, seen close, -the finest company was no better than the humblest. Her imagination had -rebelled against that discomfiting discovery even when she read of it; -and now it was with great elation that she felt she had been right all -through and the novels wrong. She was not disappointed. The food and the -eating were quite secondary, as they ought to be. When she looked along -the table, it was to see smiling faces raised in pleasure at something -that had been said, or saying something with the little triumphant air -of successful argument or happy wit, or listening with grave attention, -assenting, objecting, as the case might be. She did not know what they -were saying, but she was convinced that it was all beautiful, clever, -witty, true conversation, the food for which her spirit had hungered. -She had no desire for the moment to enter into it herself. She was -dazzled by all the prettiness and brightness, moved to the heart by that -sensation of having found what she longed for, and at last obtained -entrance into the world to which she truly belonged. She smiled when she -met Mrs. Bellendean’s eye, and answered slightly at random when she was -spoken to. She was by her father’s side, and he did not speak to her -much. She was kindly left with her impressions, to accustom herself -gradually to the new scene. And she was entirely satisfied, elated, -afloat in an ethereal atmosphere of contentment and pleasure. Her -dreams, she thought, were all realised. - -But next morning the old life came back with more force than ever. Joyce -went over and over the scene of the evening. ‘Gang away, gang away! It -will maybe no’ be sae hard when you’re out o’ our sight.’ Her -foster-parents had thrust her from them, not meaning to see her again; -and though her heart was all aching and bleeding, she did not know what -to do, whether to attempt a second parting, whether to be content that -the worst was over. She made the compromise which tender-hearted people -are so apt to do. She got up very early, following her old habit with a -curious sense of its unusualness and unnecessariness--to use two awkward -words--and ran down all the way to the village through the dewy grass. -But early as she was, she was not early enough for Peter, whom she saw -in the distance striding along with his long, heavy tread, his head -bowed, his bonnet drawn over his brows, a something of dreary _abandon_ -about him which went to Joyce’s heart. He was going through a field of -corn which was already high, and left his head and shoulders alone -visible as he trudged away to his work--the sun beating upon the rugged -head under its broad blue bonnet, the heavy old shoulders slouched, the -long step undulating, making his figure fall and rise almost like a ship -at sea. The corn was ‘in the flower,’ still green, and rustled in the -morning air; a few red poppies blazed like a fringe among the sparse -stalks near the pathway; the sky was very clear in the grey blue of -northern skies under summer heat; but the old man, she was sure, saw -nothing as he jogged onward heavy-hearted. Joyce dared not call to him, -dared not follow him. With a natural pang she stood and watched the old -father bereaved going out to his work. Perhaps it would console him a -little: she for whom he sorrowed could do so no more. - -But Joyce had not the same awe of Janet. Is it perhaps that there is -even in the anguish of the affections a certain luxury for a woman which -is not for the man? She ran along the vacant sunny village street, and -pushed open the half-closed door, and flung herself upon the old woman’s -neck, who received her with a shriek of joy. Perhaps it crossed Janet’s -mind for a moment that her child had come back, that she had discovered -already that all these fine folk were not to be lippened to; but the -feeling, though ecstatic, was but momentary, and would indeed have been -sternly opposed by her own better sense had it been true. - -‘Eh, and it’s you!’ she cried, seizing Joyce by the shoulders, gazing -into her face. - -‘It is me, granny. For all you said last night that I was better out of -your sight, I could not. I could not go--without seeing you again.’ - -‘Did I say that?--the Lord forgive me! But it’s just true. I’ll be -better when you’re clean gane; but eh! I am glad, glad. Joyce--my bonnie -woman, did ye see him?’ - -‘Oh, granny, I saw him going across the big cornfield. Tell him I stood -and watched him with his head down on his breast--but I daredna lift my -voice. Tell him Joyce will never forget--the green corn and the hot sun, -and him--alone.’ - -‘What would hinder him to be his lane at six o’clock in the morning?’ -said Janet, with a tearful smile. ‘You never gaed wi’ him to his work, -ye foolish bairn. If he had left ye sleeping sound in your wee garret, -would he have been less his lane? Ay, ay, I ken weel what you mean; I -ken what you mean. Well, it just had to be; we maunna complain. Run -away, my dawtie: run away, my bonnie lady--ye’ll write when ye get -there; but though it’s a hard thing to say, it’ll be the best thing for -us a’ when you’re just clean gane.’ - -Two or three hours afterwards, Joyce found herself, all the little -confusion of the start over, seated in the seclusion of the railway -carriage, with the father and mother who were henceforward to dispose of -her life. - -She had seen very little of them up to this moment. Colonel Hayward, -indeed, had kept by her during the evening, patting her softly on her -arm from time to time, taking her hand, looking at her with very tender -eyes, listening, when she opened her mouth at rare intervals, with the -kind of pleased, half-alarmed look with which an anxious parent listens -to the utterances of a child. He was very, very kind--more than kind. -Joyce had become aware, she could scarcely tell how, that the other -people sometimes smiled a little at the Colonel--a discovery which awoke -the profoundest indignation in her mind; but she already began half to -perceive his little uncertainties, his difficulty in forming his own -opinion, the curious helplessness which made it apparent that this -distinguished soldier required to be taken care of, and more or less -guided in the way he had to go. But she had done nothing towards making -acquaintance with Mrs. Hayward, whose relation to her was so much less -distinct, and upon whom so much of her comfort must depend. This lady -sat in the corner of the carriage next the window, with her back to the -engine, very square and firm--a far more difficult study for her new -companion than her husband was. She had not shown by look or word any -hostility towards Joyce; but still a sentiment of antagonism had, in -some subtle way, risen between them. With the exclusiveness common to -English travellers, they had secured the compartment in which they sat -for themselves alone; so that the three were here shut up for the day in -the very closest contact, to shake together as they might. Joyce sat -exactly opposite to her step-mother, whilst the Colonel, who had brought -in with him a sheaf of newspapers, changed about from side to side as -the view, or the locomotion, or his own restlessness required. He -distributed his papers to all the party, thrusting a _Graphic_ into -Joyce’s hands, and heaping the remainder upon the seat. Mrs. Hayward -took up the _Scotsman_ which he had given her, and looked at it -contemptuously. ‘What is it?’ she said, holding it between her finger -and her thumb. ‘You know I don’t care for anything, Henry, but the -_Times_ or the _Morning Post_.’ - -‘You can have yesterday’s _Times_, my dear,’ said the Colonel; ‘but you -know we are four hundred miles from London. We must be content with the -papers of the place. There are all the telegrams just the same--and very -clever articles, I hear.’ - -‘Oh, I don’t want to read Scotch articles,’ said Mrs. Hayward. She meant -no harm. She was a little out of temper, out of heart. To say something -sharp was a kind of relief to her; she did not think it would hurt any -one, nor did she mean to do so. But Joyce grew red behind her _Graphic_. -She looked at the pictures with eyes which were hot and dry with the -great desire she had to shed the tears which seemed to be gathering in -them. Now that Bellendean was left behind like a dream, now that the -familiar fields were all out of sight, the village roofs disappeared for -ever, and she, Joyce, not Joyce any longer, nor anything she knew, shut -up here as in a strait little house with the people,--the people to whom -she belonged,--a wild and secret anguish took possession of her. She sat -quite still with the paper held before her face, trying to restrain and -subdue herself. She felt that if the train would but stop, she would -dart out and fly and lose herself in the crowd; and then she thought, -with what seemed to her a new comprehension, of her mother who had done -so--who had fled and been lost. Her poor young mother, a girl like -herself! This thought, however, calmed Joyce; for if her mother had but -been patient, the misery she was at present enduring need never have -been. Had the first Joyce but subdued herself and restrained her hasty -impulses, the second Joyce might have been a happy daughter, knowing her -father and loving him, instead of the unhappy, uneasy creature she was, -with her heart and her life torn in two. She paused with a kind of awe -when that thought came into her mind. Her mother had entailed upon her -the penalty of her hastiness, of her impatience and passion. She had -paid the cost herself, but not all the cost--she had left the rest to be -borne by her child. The costs of every foolish thing have to be borne, -Joyce said to herself. Some one must drink out that cup to the dregs; it -cannot pass away until it has been emptied by one or another. No; -however tempting the crowd might be in which she could disappear, -however many the stations at which she could escape, she would not take -that step. She would not postpone the pang. She would bear it now, -however it hurt her; for one time or another it would have to be borne. - -The conversation went on all the same, as if none of these thoughts were -passing through the troubled brain of Joyce,--and she was conscious of -it, acutely yet dully, as if it had been written upon the paper which -she held before her face. - -‘You must not speak in that tone, my dear, of Scotch articles--before -Joyce,’ the Colonel said. ‘I have never found that they liked it, -however philosophical they might be----’ - -‘Does Joyce count herself Scotch?’ Mrs. Hayward asked, as if speaking -from a distance. - -‘Do you hear your mother, my dear, asking if you call yourself Scotch?’ -he said. - -Both Joyce and Mrs. Hayward winced at the name. There was nothing to -call for its use, and neither of them intended to pick it up out of the -oblivion of the past, or the still more effectual mystery of the might -have been, to force it into their lives. But Joyce could not take notice -of it: she could only reply to his question with a little exaggerated -warmth-- ‘I have never been out of Scotland, and all I care for has been -always there. How could I call myself anything else?’ - -It was not very long since Peter had accused her of ‘standing up for the -English.’ That had been partially true, and so was this. She thought of -it with almost a laugh of ridicule at herself. Now she felt Scotch to -the tips of her fingers, resenting everything that was said or hinted -against her foster-country. - -‘I see I must mind my p’s and q’s,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘but, -fortunately, there will be no means of getting the _Scotsman_ in -Richmond, so we shall be exempt from that.’ - -There was something in Mrs. Hayward’s tone which seemed to imply that -other subjects of quarrel would not be wanting, and there was a little -smile on her lips which gave further meaning to what she said, or seemed -to do so; though, as a matter of fact, poor Mrs. Hayward had no meaning -at all, but could not, though she tried, get rid of that little bit of -temper which had sprung up all lively and keen at sight of the Colonel’s -solicitude about his daughter and her ‘things’--a solicitude which was -quite new and unaccustomed, for he was not in the habit of thinking of -any one’s ‘things,’ but rather, whenever he could, of losing his own. -Among Joyce’s small baggage there was one little shabby old-fashioned -box--a box which Mrs. Hayward divined at the first glance must contain -the little relics of the mother, of itself a pitiful little object -enough. There had not been a word said on the subject, but the Colonel -had been startled by the sight of it. He had recognised it, or imagined -that he recognised it, she said to herself severely, and had himself -seen it put in the van, with a care which he had never taken for -anything of hers. It was only a trifle, but it touched one of those -chords that are ready to jar in the wayward human instrument of which -the best of men and women have so little control. She could not get that -jarring chord to be still; it vibrated all through her, giving an acrid -tone to her voice, and something disagreeable to the smile that came, -she could not tell how, to her lip. All these vibrations were hateful to -her, as well as to the hapless antagonist who noted and divined them -with quick responding indignation. But Mrs. Hayward could not help it, -any more than she could help Joyce perceiving it. The close vicinity -into which this little prison of a railway carriage brought them, so -that not a tone or a look could be missed, was intolerable to the elder -woman too. But she knew very well that she could not run away. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -Colonel Hayward’s house was at Richmond, in one of the most beautiful -spots that could be imagined. It stood on the slope of the hill, and -commanded a view of the winding of the river upward towards Twickenham: -and the grounds about it were exquisite, stretching down to the Thames, -with a long if somewhat narrow sweep of lawn descending to the very -water’s edge. Nothing could be more warm and sheltered, more perfect in -greenness and shade, nothing more bright and sunny than the combination -of fine trees and blossoming undergrowth and elastic velvet turf, the -turf of age, which had been dressed and tended like a child from before -the memory of man, and never put to any rude use. The perfection of the -place was in this lawn and the gardens and grounds, which were the -Colonel’s hobby, and to which he gave all his attention. But the house -was also a very pretty house. - -It was not large, and it was rather low: a verandah, almost invisible -under the weight of climbing roses, clematis, honeysuckle, and every -kind of flowering thing, went round the front; and here, looking over -the river, were the summer quarters of the family. Wicker-chairs, some -of Indian origin, little tables of all convenient kinds, Indian rugs in -all their subdued wealth of colour, like moss under the feet, made this -open-air apartment delightful. It combined two kinds of luxury with the -daintiest yet most simple success. If there was a drawback it was only -in bad weather, when the pretty drawing-room behind was by reason of -this verandah a little wanting in light; but no one could think of that -in the June weather, when the sunshine touched everything with -pleasantness. - -Mrs. Hayward was as proud of the house as the Colonel was of the garden. -After India it cannot be described how delightful it was to them, both -very insular people, to get back to the greenness and comfort of this -English home; and they both watched for the effect it would have upon -Joyce, with highly raised expectations. To bring a girl out of a Scotch -cottage to such a place as this, to open to her all at once, from Peter -Matheson’s kitchen, in which the broth was made and the oatcakes baked, -the glories of that drawing-room, which Mrs. Hayward could scarcely -leave to be tended by a mere housemaid, which she herself pervaded every -morning, giving loving touches everywhere, arranging draperies, altering -the positions of the furniture, laying out those lovely pieces of -oriental stuff and Indian embroideries which, always put carefully away -at night, adorned the sofas and chairs. Though she did not love ‘the -girl’ she yet looked forward to the moment when all this splendour -should dawn upon Joyce, with a feeling half sympathetic, realising the -awe and admiration with which for the first time her untutored eyes must -contemplate the beautiful room, and all the luxury of the place, which -to her must look like splendour. Mrs. Hayward did not pretend that it -was splendid--‘our little place’ she called it, with proud humility; but -she knew that it was more perfect than anything about, and in itself -without comparison, a sight to see. That Joyce would be dazzled, almost -overwhelmed, by her sudden introduction into such a home, she had no -manner of doubt. And this anticipation softened her, and gave her a -certain interest in Joyce. She talked to her husband at night, after -their arrival, about his daughter in a more friendly tone than she had -yet employed. - -‘I thought of giving her the little west room for herself. She will want -a place to herself to be untidy in--all girls do: a place where she can -keep her work--if she works--or her books: or--whatever she is fond of.’ -Mrs. Hayward had a distinct vision in her eye of a little old-fashioned -box--the ark of the relics which the Colonel had recognised--and made up -her mind that it should be at once endued with a chintz cover, so that -it might be recognisable no more. - -‘There is nobody like you, Elizabeth, for kind thoughts,’ he said -gratefully. Then with the same expectation that had softened her, he -went on-- ‘She has never been used to anything of the kind. I shouldn’t -wonder if it was too much for her feelings--for she feels strongly, or -else I am mistaken; and she is a girl who--if you once bind her to you -by love and kindness----’ The Colonel’s own voice quivered a little. He -was himself touched by that thought. - -‘Don’t speak nonsense, Henry--we know nothing about the girl, neither -you nor I. The thing in her favour is, that all those Scotch friends of -yours thought very well of her: but then the Scotch stick to each other -so----’ She has a spirit--and a temper too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ - -‘No, my dear, it was only a flash, because she thought--because she was -taken by surprise.’ - -‘I think none the worse of her for having a little temper; I have one -myself,’ said Mrs. Hayward with candour. ‘People like that are far safer -than the sweet yielding ones who show nothing. And another thing--we -shall have to account for her. I don’t know if you have thought of -that.’ - -‘Account for her?’ - -‘Yes, to be sure. People will be calling--and they will wonder how it -was they never heard of your daughter before. One of the hardest things -in life is, that whenever you are in any society you must explain. That -was one advantage of being in none.’ - -‘I never liked it, Elizabeth. I always thought you were too -particular--as the event has proved, my dear, as the event has proved!’ - -Mrs. Hayward withdrew a little from him and his congratulations. Now -that her position was beyond question, she was unwilling in her -impatient soul that any reference should be made to the doubt which had -shadowed her life before. That was all over. She would have had it -forgotten for ever, and in her heart resented his recollection of it. -She resumed the previous subject without taking any notice of this. - -‘Fortunately, we don’t know the people here so well that we need go into -it from the beginning and tell everything. I have been thinking it over, -and this is what I shall say--I shall say, Your daughter has been -brought up by some old relations in Scotland, but that we both felt it -was time she should come home. If they say, “O! we did not know Colonel -Hayward had any family,” I shall answer, “Did I never tell you?” as if -it had been quite an accidental oversight. Now don’t go and contradict -me, Henry, and say more than there is any occasion for. Let us both be -in one tale.’ - -‘My dear,’ he said, ‘to think that you should have settled all that -while I was thinking about nothing; but why should we be in a tale at -all? Why shouldn’t I just say simply----’ - -‘It is such a simple story, isn’t it?’ she cried, ‘that you should have -had a child--an only child, as you said in Bellendean----’ - -There was a tone of exasperation in this which made Colonel Hayward look -up. He said, ‘But it was quite true, Elizabeth. Providence has not -thought meet to give us----’ - -‘As if I did not know that!’ cried the woman whom Providence--that -synonym of all that goes against the wishes of humanity--had not -permitted to be a mother. ‘But,’ she added quickly, taking up the thread -again, ‘you will see, if you think of it, that we can’t go into all that -story. There would be so much to explain. And besides, it’s nobody’s -business.’ - -‘Then why say anything at all, my dear?’ the Colonel said. - -‘Why know anybody at all, you mean? As if we could avoid explaining a -thing which is a very strange thing, however you take it! Unless you -have anything better to suggest, that is what I shall say. Brought up by -some old relations in Scotland--you can say her mother’s relations if -you please; but that we felt it was not right to leave her there any -longer, now we are quite settled and she is grown up. Don’t contradict -me just when I am in the middle of my story, Henry. Back me up about the -relations--unless you have anything better to suggest.’ - -Colonel Hayward, however, had nothing to suggest, though he was much -embarrassed by having a story to tell. ‘I’ll forget what it is you want -me to say--or I’ll go too far--or I’ll--make a muddle of it one way or -other,’ he said. ‘I shall feel as if there was something wrong about it, -Elizabeth: and there is nothing wrong--nothing, nothing! all the time.’ - -‘Go to bed,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘you are too tired to begin to think at -this hour. You know the railway always upsets you. Go to bed, my -dear--go to bed.’ - -‘Well, perhaps it will be the best thing,’ the Colonel said. - -They both got up next morning with one pleasant thought in their minds, -that of dazzling Joyce. It took away the line even from Mrs. Hayward’s -brow. It was pleasant to anticipate the astonishment, the admiration, -the deep impression which all these unaccustomed splendours would make. -Poor girl! it would be almost too much for her; and they both wondered -what she would say--whether she would break down altogether in amazement -and rapture--whether it would be by words or tears that she would show -her sense of this wonderful change in her life. - -Alas! Joyce had awoke with a pang of disappointment almost as keen as -that which seized her when she was first told that Colonel Hayward was -her father. She woke in a pretty room all dainty and fresh, with pretty -paper, pretty furniture, everything that was most suitable and becoming -for the character and dimensions of the place; and she hurried to the -window and looked out eagerly upon the pretty English lawn so trim and -well cared for, the trees that formed two long lines down to the river, -shutting it out from other enclosures on either side, the brilliant -flower-beds near the house, the clustering climbers that surrounded her -window. And the cottage girl felt her high-vaulting thoughts go down, -down, with a disappointment which made her giddy. Was ever anything so -foolish, so wicked, so thankless? From the little garret in the cottage -to this room filled with convenient and pretty things, of some of which -she did not even understand the use--from the village street of -Bellendean, seen through the open door or greenish bad glass of the -cottage windows, to this warm luxurious landscape, and the silver -Thames, and the noble trees! And yet Joyce was disappointed beyond what -words could say. - -She had no knowledge of this limited comfortable luxurious littleness; -all that she knew was the cottage life--and Bellendean. There were, to -be sure, the farmers’ houses, and the manse; but neither of these types -resembled this, nor was either consistent with the image of Colonel -Hayward, the Captain’s colonel, the ‘distinguished soldier’ with whose -name Joyce had begun to flatter herself everybody was acquainted. She -stood half dressed and gazed out upon the long but confined stretch of -lawn, and the low gable which was within sight from the window, with -dismay. A chill struck to her heart. She thought of Bellendean, not half -so daintily cared for as this little demesne, with its groups of great -trees, its wide stretches of park, its careless size and greatness. Poor -Joyce! had she been the minister’s daughter at the manse, she might have -been dazzled and delighted, as was expected from her. But she understood -nothing of this. She knew the poor and their ways, and she knew the -great people--the great houses and big parks, the cottages with a but -and a ben and a little kailyard. The one was all-familiar to her--the -other was her ideal, the natural alternative of poverty: but this she -knew nothing about--nothing at all. - -She did not understand it. The toil and care which made that lawn like -velvet, perfect, without a weed, elastic, springing under the foot, soft -as moss, and green as constant waterings and mowings could make it, was -totally lost upon Joyce. She saw the two lines of trees and flowering -shrubs, elaborately masking all more arbitrary lines of limitation on -each side, shutting it off--and the sight of those green bonds made her -heart turn back upon herself. Her father had recovered in her mind the -greatness necessary for her ideal: he was a distinguished soldier--what -could be better? He was finer in his fame (she said to herself) than if -he had been a prince or a duke. But his house! She retired from her -window and covered her face with her hands, and went back into the -secret citadel of herself with a dismayed heart. She had never -calculated upon this. To be just one among a crowd, to be nobody in -particular, to have suffered this convulsion in her life and rending -asunder of her being, for nothing--to be nobody. And all the time these -two good people were forestalling each other in their anticipations, -making pictures to themselves of Joyce’s transport and delight! - -How she got through the ordeal will be best seen in the long letters -which she wrote that evening to her old home. - - * * * * * - -‘My dearest old Granny, my own real true Mother--I wonder how you are, -and how the day has passed, and how grandfather is, and even the cat, -and everything at home. Oh what a thing it is to go away from your home, -to be taken from the true place you belong to! You will never know how I -felt when it all melted away into the sky, and Bellendean was a thing I -could see no more. Oh my bonnie little Bellendean, where I’ve lived all -my life, and the old ash-tree, and the rose-bushes, and my garret-window -where I could see the Firth, and our kindly table where we ate our -porridge and where I could see _you_! O Granny, my own Granny, that’s -all gone away into the skies, and the place that has known me knows me -no more: and here I am in a strange place, and I cannot tell whether I’m -Joyce still, or if I’m like the woman in the old song, “and this is no’ -me.” - -‘Dear Granny, the journey was well enough: it was the best of all. I got -a paper full of pictures (the _Graphic_, you know it), and they just -talked their own talks, and did not ask me much: and then the country -span along past the carriage-window, towns and castles, and rivers, and -fields of corn, and all the people going about their business and -knowing nothing at all of a poor lassie carried quick, quick away from -her home. I pictured to myself that I might be going away for a -governess to make some money for my grandfather and you--but that would -not have been so bad, for I would have gone back again when I got the -money: and then I tried to think I might be going to take care of -somebody, perhaps a brother I might have had that was ill, and that you -would be anxious at home--very anxious--but not like the present: for he -would have begun to get better as soon as I was there to nurse him, and -every day the time would have come nearer for taking him home. And I -tried a great many other things, but none was bad enough--till I just -came back to the truth, that here I was flying far away to a new life -and a new name, and to try and be content and live with new people that -I never saw, and leave all my own behind. Oh, Granny, I am ungrateful -to say this, for they’re very good to me, and my father is kind and -sweet and a real true gentleman: and would be that, as grandfather is, -if he were a ploughman like grandfather: and what could you say more if -you were Shakespeare’s self and had all the words in the world at your -command? - -‘We stopped in London, but I could not see at all what like it was, -except just hundreds of railway lines all running into each other, and -trains running this way and that way as if they were mad--but never any -harm seemed to be done, so far as I could see: and then we took another -train, and, after a little while, came here. To tell you about it is -very difficult, for it is so different from anything that ever was -before. Do you remember, Granny, the place where Argyle took Jeanie -Deans after she had spoken to the Queen? where she said it would be fine -feeding for the cows, and he just laughed--for it was the finest view -and the most beautiful landscape, with the Thames running between green -banks and big beautiful trees, and boats upon the river, and the woods -all like billows of green leaves upon the brae? You will cry out when I -tell you that this is _here_, and that the house is on that very brae, -and that I’m looking out over the river, and see it running into the -mist and the distance, going away north--or rather coming down from the -north--where my heart can follow, but farther, farther away. And it is a -very beautiful landscape: you never saw anything to compare to it; but -oh, Granny, I never knew so well before what Sir Walter is and how he -knew the hearts of men, for I’m always thinking what Jeanie said, “I -like just as well to look at the craigs o’ Arthur Seat, and the sea -coming in ayont them.” For me, I think of Bellendean and the Firth, and -the hills drawing close round Queen Margaret’s Hope; but chiefly because -you are there, Granny, and all I care for most. - -‘I will tell you one thing: my father’s house is not, as we were fond to -think, like Bellendean. The houses here are not great houses like that. -I think they wonder I am not an enthusiast, as Mrs. Bellendean always -said I was, for the things they have here. All the policy,[A] and -everything in the house, is taken care of--as you used to take care of -me. I can’t think of any other image. They are always at them. Mrs. -Hayward puts on the things upon the chairs and the tables with her own -hands. The things I mean are pieces of beautiful silk, sometimes woven -in flowers like Mrs. Bellendean’s grandest gown, sometimes all worked -with the needle as they do in India, fine, fine. I would like to copy -some of them: but what would be the use? for they have them all from -India itself, and what I did would be but an imitation. I am afraid to -sit down upon the chairs for fear there should be some dust upon my -gown, and I think I ought to take off my shoes before I go upon the -carpet. You would like to go round and round as if you were in a -collection, and look at everything. It will sometimes be ivory carving, -and sometimes china that is very old and precious, and sometimes -embroidery work, and sometimes silk with gold and silver woven in. And -what you will laugh at, Granny, Mrs. Hayward has plates hung up instead -of pictures--china plates like what you eat your dinner from, only -painted in beautiful colours--and an ashet[B] she has which is blue, and -very like what we have at home. All these things are very pretty--very -pretty: but not to me like a room to live in. Of the three--this house, -and Bellendean, and our own little housie at home--I would rather, of -course, have Bellendean, I will not deny it, Granny; but next I would -rather have our own little place, with my table at the back window, and -you aye moving about whatever there was to do. They are more natural; -but I try to look delighted with everything, for to Mrs. Hayward it is -the apple of her eye. - -‘She has never had any children. - -‘My father is just as fond of his policy and his gardens--(but it’s too -little for a policy, and it’s more than a garden). The gardeners are -never done. They are mowing, or they are watering, or they are sweeping, -or they are weeding, all the long day. And it’s all very bonnie--very -bonnie--grass that is like velvet, and rose-bushes not like our roses at -home, but upon a long stalk, what they call standards, and trees and -flowers of kinds that I cannot name. I will find out about them and I -will tell you after. But oh, Granny, the grand trees are like a hedge to -a field; they are separating us from the garden next door. It is very, -very strange--you could not think how strange--to be in a fine place -that is not a place at all, but just a house with houses next door--not -like Bellendean, oh, not like Bellendean--and not like any kind of -dwelling I have seen, so pretty and so well kept, and yet neither one -thing nor another, not poor like us--oh, far from that!--and yet not -great. I am praising it all, and saying everything I can think--and -indeed it’s very pretty, far finer than anything I ever saw: but I think -she sees that I am not doing it from my heart. I wish I could; but oh, -Granny dear, how can I think so much of any place that takes me away -from my real home? - - - ‘My dear, dear love to my grandfather, and tell him I never forget - his bowed head going through the corn, as I saw him last when he - did not see me. To think his good grey head should be bowed because - of Joyce, that never got anything but good from him and you, all - her life! Tell me what they are all saying, and who is to get the - school, and if the minister was angry. What a good thing it was the - vacation, and all the bairns away! You must not be unhappy about - me, Granny, for I will do my best, and you can’t be very miserable - when you do that; and perhaps I will get used to it in time. - - ‘Good night, and good night, and God be with us all, if not joy, as - the song says.--Always your own and grandfather’s - - ‘JOYCE.’ - - -She wrote at the same time her first letter to Halliday, lingering with -the pen in her hand as if unwilling to begin. She was a little excited -by what she had just written, her outpouring of her heart to her -foster-mother. And this was different. But at last she made the plunge. -She dried her eyes, and gave herself a little shake together, as if to -dismiss the lingering emotion, and began, ‘Dear Andrew’; but then came -to another pause. What was in Joyce’s thoughts? There was a spot of ink -on the page, an innocent little blot. She removed the sheet hastily from -the other paper, and thrust it below the leaves of her blotting-book. -Then she took a steel pen, instead of the quill with which she had been -hurrying along the other sheets--a good hard, unemotional piece of iron, -which might make the clean and exact writing which the schoolmaster -loved--and began again: and this time a little demure mischief was in -Joyce’s eyes:-- - - - ‘DEAR ANDREW--We arrived here last night, tired but not worn out, - and came home at once to my father’s house. The journey was very - interesting--to see so many places I had heard of, even if they - only flew past the carriage-windows. Of course it was the train - that flew, and not Durham and Newcastle and all the rest. You have - been to London yourself, so you will not require me to tell you all - I saw, and I was thinking a great deal on what I left behind, so - that I did not see them with an easy heart, so as to get the good - of them, as you would do. - - ‘I wonder if you have ever seen Richmond--it is a beautiful place: - the Thames a quiet river, not like any I know; but I have seen so - little. It is like a picture more than a river, and the trees all - in waves of green, one line above another, rich and quiet, with no - wind to blow them about. I thought upon the poem, “As idle as a - painted ship upon a painted ocean:” though there is neither ship - nor ocean, but only the stream that scarcely seems to flow, and the - little boats that scarcely seem to move--everything so warm and so - still. My father’s house is called Rosebank, as you will see by the - printing on the paper. It is rather a foolish name, but it was the - name of the house before they came here. It is the most wonderful - place I ever saw, so carefully kept and beautifully furnished. I - never understood before what all the novels say now about furniture - and the pretty things scattered about. There is a quantity of - things in the drawing-room which I should have taken the children - to an exhibition to see, and I should have had to read up a great - deal to explain everything to them. But no one thinks of - explaining: they are just lying about, and no one pays any - attention to them here. My father takes a great interest in the - gardens and the grounds, which are beautiful. And the best thing of - all is the view of all the bits of the Thames, and the beautiful - woods. - - ‘It is a great change, and it makes one feel very unsteady at - first, and I scarcely realise what the life will be, but I must - trust that everything will turn out well: and my father and Mrs. - Hayward are very kind. I am to have a sitting-room to myself to do - what I like in, and I am to be taken about to see everything. You - will not expect me to tell you much more at present, for I don’t - know much more, it being only the first day; but I thought you - would like to hear at once. It is a great change. I wonder - sometimes if I may not perhaps wake up to-morrow and find I am at - home again and it is all a dream. - - ‘I hope you will go and see Granny, when you can, and cheer them a - little. Grandfather is glad of a crack, you know. They will be - lonely at first, being always used to me. I will be very thankful - to you, dear Andrew, if you will see them when you can, and be very - kind--but that, I am sure, you will be. When I think of them - sitting alone, and nobody to come in and make them smile, it just - breaks my heart.--Yours affectionately, - - ‘JOYCE HAYWARD.’ - - -Joyce Hayward--it was the first time she had signed her name. Her eyes -were too full thinking of the old people to see how it looked, but when -that lump had melted a little in her throat, and she had dried her eyes, -turning hastily aside that no drop might fall upon the fair page and -blot the nice and careful writing, Joyce looked at it, and again there -came upon her face a faint little smile. Joyce Hayward--it did not look -amiss. And it was a beautifully written letter, not a _t_ but was -crossed, not an _i_ but was dotted. She had resisted all temptations to -abridge the ‘affectionately.’ There it stood, fully written out in all -its long syllables. That would please Andrew. When she had put up her -letters, she rose from her seat and looked out once more, softly pushing -aside the carefully drawn curtains, upon the landscape sleeping in the -soft summer haze of starlight and night. All so still--no whisper of the -sea near, no thrill of the north wind--a serene motionless stretch of -lawn and river and shadowy trees. It was a lovely scene, but it saddened -Joyce, who felt the soft dusk fill her soul and fold over all her life. -And thus ended her first day in her father’s house. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Joyce was sadly uncertain what to do or how to behave herself in her new -home. She took possession of the room which was given to her as a -sitting-room, with a confused sense that she was meant to remain there, -which was half a relief and half a trouble to her. To live there all -alone except when she was called to meals was dreadfully dreary, -although it felt almost a pleasure for the first moment to be alone. She -brought out her writing things, which were of a very humble description, -and better suited to the back window in the cottage than to the pretty -writing-table upon which she now arranged them,--a large old -blotting-book, distended with the many exercises and school-papers it -had been accustomed to hold, and a shabby rosewood desk, which she had -got several years ago as the prize of one of her examinations. How -shabby they looked, quite out of place, unfit to be brought into this -beautiful house! Joyce paused a moment to wonder whether she herself was -as much out of place in her brown frock, which, though it was made like -Greta’s, and so simple and quiet that it could not be vulgar, was yet a -dress very suitable for the schoolmistress. She brought down her few -books, some of which were prizes too, and still more deplorable in their -cheap gilding than the simply shabby ones. Nobody could say that the -bindings were not vulgar, although it was _Milton_, and _Wordsworth_, -and _Coleridge_, and the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_ that were within. -She made a row of them in the pretty bookshelves, and they looked like -common people intruding into a fine house, as she herself was doing. -Common people! Milton and Wordsworth! That showed how little was told by -the outside; and Joyce was not without a proud consciousness swelling in -her breast that she, too, in her brown frock, and with her village -schoolmistress’s traditions, was not common or unworthy. - -Her father had met her coming downstairs with her arms full of the -books, and had stopped to take them from her with a shocked look, and -insisted on carrying them down for her. ‘But why didn’t you ring for -somebody to do it, my dear?’ he said. ‘They are not heavy,’ said Joyce; -‘they are no trouble,--and I always do things for myself.’ ‘But you must -not here,’ Colonel Hayward said, putting them down on the table, and -pausing a moment to brush off with his handkerchief the little stains of -dust which they had left on his irreproachable coat. Joyce felt that -little movement with another keen sensation of inappropriateness. It was -not right, because she was unaccustomed to being served by others, that -Colonel Hayward, a distinguished soldier, should get specks of dust on -his coat. A hot blush enveloped her like a flame, while she stood -looking at him, not knowing whether to say anything, whether to try to -express the distress and bewilderment that filled her being, or if it -would be better to be silent and mutely avoid such an occurrence again. - -He looked up at her when he had brushed away the last speck, and smiled. -‘Books will gather dust,’ he said. ‘Don’t look as if you were to blame, -my dear. But you must remember, Joyce, you are the young lady of the -house, and everything in it is at your command.’ He patted her shoulder, -with a very kind encouraging look, as he went away. It was a large -assurance to give, and probably Mrs. Hayward would not have said quite -so much; but it left Joyce in a state of indescribable emotion, her -heart deeply touched, but her mind distracted with the impossibilities -of her new position. How was she to know what to do? To avoid giving -trouble, to save herself, was not the rule she could abide by when it -ended in specking with dust the Colonel’s coat, and bringing him out of -his own occupations to help her. Joyce sat down when she had arranged -her books, and tried to thread her way through all this maze which -bewildered her. She had nothing to do, and she thought she was intended -to spend her life here, to sit alone and occupy herself. It was very -kindly meant, she was sure, so as to leave her at her ease; and she was -glad to have this refuge, not to be always in Mrs. Hayward’s way, -sitting stiffly in the drawing-room waiting to be spoken to. Oh yes; she -was glad to be here: yet she looked about the room with eyes a little -forlorn. - -It was a nice little room, with a large window looking out upon the -flower-garden, and it was, so far as Joyce knew, very prettily -furnished, but without the luxuries and decorations of the other rooms. -There were no pictures, but a little standing frame or two on the -mantelpiece, no doubt intended for those endless photographs of friends -which she had seen in Greta’s room at Bellendean, always the first -things taken out of her boxes when her belongings were unpacked. But -Joyce had few friends. She had a little rude picture on glass, shut up -in a little case, of old Peter and Janet, the old woman in her big -bonnet and shawl, her husband, all one broad smile, looking over her -shoulder--very dear to Joyce, but not to be exposed on the mantelpiece -for Mrs. Hayward’s quick look of criticism. Joyce felt that Greta in a -moment would make that room her own. She would bring down her -photographs; she would throw down her work, which never was done, with -all the pretty silks about. She would spread out her paper and her pens, -and the letters she had received and those she had begun to write, upon -the table where Joyce’s big old blotting-book lay, and the rosewood -desk, closed and looking like an ugly oblong box as it was--long, bare, -and miserable; but none of all these things could Joyce do. She had no -work, and no photographs of her friends, and no letters, and nothing to -do--nothing to do! And was this how she was to spend her life? - -She sat there until the bell rang for lunch, saying to herself that it -was far better than being in the drawing-room in Mrs. Hayward’s way; and -then she went timidly out into the hall, where her father was standing, -just come in from some supervision in the garden. ‘I have had a busy -morning,’ he said, beaming upon her, ‘and so I suppose have you, my -dear; but we’ll soon settle down. Mrs. Hayward----’ here he paused with -a little uneasiness, and after a moment resumed--‘your mother--has been -very busy too. There is always a great deal to do after one has been -away.’ - -‘Considering that I was only away four days,’ said Mrs. Hayward, coming -in from the other side, and leading the way to the dining-room. Joyce -could not help feeling stiff and awkward as she followed, and hastily -got into her seat before the butler could come behind and push forward -the chair. She was a little afraid of him hovering behind, and wondered -if he knew. - -‘I hope you like your room,’ Mrs. Hayward said. ‘It is small, but I -think it is nice; and, Baker, remember to let down the sun-blinds before -the afternoon sun gets in. Miss Hayward will not like to find it all in -a blaze. That is the worst of a western aspect. Henry, some invitations -have come----’ - -‘Ah!’ said the Colonel, ‘we have more to consider now than we used to -have, Elizabeth. There is Joyce to be thought of----’ - -‘Oh,’ Joyce cried, growing very red, ‘I hope you will not think of me!’ - -‘For some things, of course, we must consider her, Henry,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, taking no notice of Joyce’s hurried exclamation. ‘There are -nothing but garden-parties all about, and she must go to some of them. -It will be the best way of making her known.’ - -‘You always think of the right thing, my dear,’ the Colonel said. - -‘But when it is for dinner, Henry, until people know her, Joyce will not -mind, she will stay at home.’ - -‘I wish,’ said Joyce, with a horrified alarm--‘oh, I wish you would -never think of me! I would not like--I could not think, I--I would be -afraid to go to parties--I----’ - -‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, ‘perhaps there may be--dressmakers to -think of--or something of that sort.’ - -‘I think you may trust me to look after that,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a -glance at Baker, who was listening with benignant interest. Joyce had a -keen enough feminine sense to know that Baker was not to be taken into -the confidence of the family; and accordingly she made no further -interruption, but allowed the conversation to go on without attempting -to take any part in it. She heard them discuss names which were without -any meaning to her, and kept shyly, and, as she felt, stiffly still, -endeavouring with all her might to look as if she knew nothing at all -about it, as if it did not at all refer to her--which went sadly against -her with her step-mother, who was eagerly on the outlook for indications -of character, and to whom Joyce’s apparent indifference was an -offence--though she would probably have been equally offended had the -girl shown too much interest. When Baker left the room, Mrs. Hayward -turned to her again. - -‘The Colonel was quite right,’ she said; ‘though I didn’t wish to -discuss it before the servants. You must want some dresses. You are very -nice as you are for indoors, but there is a great deal of dress now worn -at garden-parties. And what is called a simple toilet is just the most -troublesome of all. For it has to be so fresh and so perfect, not a -crumpled ribbon, not a fold out of order. You must go with me to choose -some patterns.’ - -Joyce coloured high again. She felt offended, proud--and yet knew she -had no right to be either. ‘If I may speak,’ she said, ‘I never thought -of parties. I would perhaps not know--how to behave. Oh, if you will be -so kind as never to mind me! I will stay at home.’ - -Colonel Hayward put out his hand with his tender smile, and patted hers -where it touched the table. ‘You will behave prettier--than any of -them,’ the old soldier said. - -‘Oh, don’t put nonsense in the girl’s head, Henry!’ cried his wife with -impatience. ‘You may very likely be wanting a little, Joyce. You may -feel awkward: it would be quite natural. The only thing is, you must -begin some time--and the best way is to get your awkwardness over as -soon as possible. Afternoon parties are more informal than dances, and -so forth. They don’t demand so much, and you could pass in the crowd.’ - -Though Joyce had been frightened at the idea of parties, and though it -was her own suggestion that she would not know how to behave, she did -not like this. It sent the blood coursing through her veins. To pass in -a crowd--to be tolerated where much was not demanded! How different was -this from the old dreams in which Lady Joyce had been supreme! But these -were but dreams, and she was ashamed to have ever been so vain. She -stole away, while they stood in the hall discussing this question, with -a sense of humiliation unspeakable, and retreated so quickly that her -disappearance was not remarked, back to the west room once more. She -shut the door upon herself, and said half aloud in the silence and -solitude, how good a thing it was that they had given her this room of -her own in which she could take shelter, and be in nobody’s way: and -then for want of anything else to do, she fell suddenly, without -warning, into a long fit of crying, tears irrestrainable, silent, -overwhelming, that seemed as if they would carry her away. - -Poor Joyce felt that her fate was harder than she could bear--to be -carried away from her homely state, in which she had been accustomed to -something of the ideal eminence of her dreams, into this, which was -supposed by everybody to be social elevation, and was humiliation, -downfall--a fall into depths which she had never realised, which had -never seemed possible for her. She cried like a child, feeling no power, -nor indeed any wish, to stop crying, in a hopeless self-abandonment. -Altogether, she was like a child, feeling herself lost, undervalued, -neglected, and as if all the rest of the world were happy and in their -natural places, while she was left here in a little room by herself all -alone. And to add to the humiliation, Baker came in, soft, stepping like -a large noiseless black cat, to put down the blinds, as his mistress had -told him, and found her in the midst of that speechless torrent of -weeping, unable to stop herself or to keep up appearances in any way. -‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Hayward,’ Baker said, in subdued apology, -shot with a glance of eager curiosity and inquisitiveness: for he wanted -very much to know something about this daughter who had appeared so -suddenly, and of whom no one had ever heard before. Joyce started up to -her feet, and hurrying to the bookcase, took out all the books again in -order to give herself a countenance. She turned her back upon him, but -he could see very well the quivering of her shoulders, which all her -pride and dismay at having betrayed herself could not stop. - -This curious state of affairs continued for two or three days. Joyce -withdrew to her room when the meals were over, at which she was -nervously on the watch for anything that might be said concerning her -and her mode of existence. It was the third or fourth day before -anything was said. Then Mrs. Hayward stopped her as she was stealing -away, and laid a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Joyce, wait for a moment; let -me speak to you. I am not going to interfere with what you wish: but do -you really like best to spend all your time alone?’ - -‘I thought,’ said Joyce, with a choking voice, for her heart had -suddenly begun to thump so in her throat that she could scarcely -hear,-- ‘I thought--that I was to stay there: that perhaps you thought it -best.’ - -‘How could you think I was such a barbarous wretch! Joyce, if you mean -to make life a fight----’ - -The girl opened her eyes wide with wonder and dismay. - -‘That is not what you meant to say, Elizabeth,’ said the Colonel, coming -up to them: his wife had thought he was out of the way, and made a -little gesture of impatience on seeing him. - -‘Don’t interfere, for heaven’s sake, Henry! unless you will manage -affairs yourself, which would be much the best way. You make things much -more difficult for me, as perhaps you are aware, Joyce.’ - -‘No; I did not know. I thought when you said I should have a room--for -myself----’ - -‘That I meant you to live there like a prisoner in your father’s house? -Are you aware that you are in your father’s house?’ - -Joyce turned her eyes from one to the other with a mute appeal. Then she -said, ‘Yes,’ faintly, not with the vehemence of her former impulses. ‘If -_she_ had been patient and not run away,’ she added, with a little -solemnity, after a pause, ‘it would not have been so unhappy for us all. -I would at least have known--my father.’ - -‘You see that?’ cried Mrs. Hayward, though she did not understand why -these words were said. ‘Then you have some common-sense after all, and -surely you will get to understand.’ - -‘Why do you say that, Joyce--why do you say that?’ said the Colonel, -laying his hand upon her arm. He was growing very pale and anxious, -nervous and frightened, distinguished soldier as he was, by this sudden -outburst of hostilities. To see two armies engaged is one thing, but it -is quite another to see two women under your own roof----’ Joyce, you -must not say that,’ he repeated, leaning his hand, which she could feel -tremble, upon her arm; ‘you must listen to what Elizabeth--I mean, to -what your mother says.’ - -‘Don’t call me her mother, Henry. She doesn’t like it, and I am not sure -that I do either. But we might be friends for all that--so long as she -has sense---- Don’t you see, child, that we can’t live if you go on in -this way? It is getting on my nerves!’ cried Mrs. Hayward with -excitement, ‘and upon _his_ nerves, and affecting the whole house. Why -should you like to shut yourself up as if we were your enemies, and -upset everybody? I can’t settle to anything. I can’t sleep. I don’t know -what I am doing. And how you can like----’ - -‘But I do not like it,’ said Joyce. ‘I did not think I could bear it any -longer: everything is so strange to me. I used to think I would know by -instinct; but it appears I was very silly all the time--for I don’t -think I know how to behave.’ - -Joyce hated herself for feeling so near crying: why should a girl cry at -everything when she does not wish to cry at all? The same thought was -flying through Mrs. Hayward’s mind, who had actually dropped one hot and -heavy tear, which she hoped no one saw. She put up her hand hastily to -stop the Colonel, who was about to make one of those speeches which -would have given the finishing touch. - -‘Then,’ she said, ‘run and get your work, if you have any work, or your -book, or whatever you are doing, and come to the drawing-room like a -Christian: for we should all go out of our senses altogether if we went -on much longer in this way.’ - -The Colonel patted his daughter’s arm and hastened to open the door for -her like an old courtier. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘turning round to his -wife, ‘that as soon as you spoke to her, Elizabeth, she would respond. -You are a little hasty, my dear, though never with me. I knew that as -soon as she saw what a heart you have----’ - -‘Oh, never mind my heart, Henry! Don’t talk to Joyce about my heart. I -think she has a little common-sense. And if that’s so, we shall get on.’ - -And then Joyce began to spend all her time in the drawing-room, sadly -ill at ease, not knowing what to do. She sat there sounding the depths -of her own ignorance, often for hours together, as much alone as when in -the west room, feeling herself to sit like a wooden figure in her chair, -conscious to her finger-tips of awkwardness, foolishness, vacancy, which -had never come into her life before. She had no needlework to give her a -pretence of occupation: and as for books, those that were about on the -tables were not intended to be read, except the novels from Mudie’s, -which had this disadvantage, that when they were readable at all, Joyce -got absorbed in them, and forgot herself, and would sometimes forget -Mrs. Hayward too. She had a feeling that she should be at Mrs. Hayward’s -disposal while they were together, so that this lapse occurring now and -then, filled her with compunction and shame. But when visitors came, -that was the worst of all. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -On one of these mornings the Colonel came to her almost stealthily, with -a very soft step, while she was in the drawing-room alone. Joyce had no -book that morning, and was more in despair than ever for something to -do. She was kneeling in front of one of the pretty pieces of Indian -work, copying the pattern on a sheet of paper. When she heard her -father’s step, she started as if found out in some act of guilt, grew -very red, and dropped her pencil out of her trembling hand. - -‘I beg your pardon,’ she said involuntarily. ‘I--had nothing to do. It -is a wonderful pattern. I thought I should like to copy it----’ - -‘Surely, my dear--and very prettily you have done it too; but you must -try to recollect that everything is yours, and that you have no need to -ask pardon. I want you to come with me into my library. I believe you -have never seen my library, Joyce.’ - -No, she had not been able to take the freedom either of a child of the -house or of an ordinary visitor. She was afraid to go anywhere beyond -the ordinary thoroughfare, from dining-room to drawing-room. ‘I saw an -open door,’ she said, ‘and some books.’ - -‘But you did not come in? Come now. I have something to say to you.’ -There was a look in the old soldier’s eye of unlawful pleasure, a -gratification enhanced by the danger of being found out, and perhaps -suffering for it. He led Joyce away with the glee of a truant schoolboy. -‘My wife is busy,’ he said, with an air of innocent hypocrisy. ‘She -can’t want either of us for the moment. Come in, come in. And, my dear,’ -he said, putting again his caressing hand upon his daughter’s shoulder, -‘remember, that when I am not in the garden, I’m here: and when you have -anything to say to your father, I’m always ready--always ready. I hope -you will learn--to take your father into your confidence, Joyce.’ - -She did not make any reply; her head drooped, and her voice was choked. -He was so kind--and yet confidence was so hard a thing to give. - -‘That reminds me,’ he said, still more gently, ‘that I don’t think you -ever call me father, Joyce.’ - -‘Oh,’ she said, not daring to lift her eyes, ‘but I think it--in my -heart.’ - -‘You must say it--with your lips, my dear; and you must not be afraid of -the people who are nearest to you in the world. You must have confidence -in us, Joyce. And now look here, my little girl; I have something to -give you--not any pretty thing for a present,’ said the Colonel, sitting -down before his desk and pulling out a drawer, ‘but something we can’t -get on without. I got it for you in this form that you might use it as -you please; remember it is not for clothes but only for your own -pleasure, to do what you like with.’ He held out to her, with the most -fatherly kind smile, four crisp and clean five-pound notes. Joyce looked -at them bewildered, not knowing what they were, and then gave a choking -cry, and drew back, covering her face with her hands. - -‘Money!’ she cried, and a pang of mortification went through her like -the sharp stab of a knife. - -‘Well, my dear, you must have money, and who should give it you but your -father? Joyce! why, this is worse and worse.’ The Colonel grew angry in -his complete bewilderment, and the disagreeable sensation of kindness -refused. ‘What can you mean?’ he cried; ‘am I to have nothing to do with -you though you are my daughter?’ He got up from his chair impatiently. -‘I thought you would like it to be between ourselves. I made a little -secret of it, thinking to please you. No; I confess that I don’t -understand you, Joyce: if Elizabeth were here, I should tell her so.’ He -flung down the notes upon his table, where they lay fluttering in the -morning breeze that came in at the open window. ‘She must do what she -can, for I don’t pretend to be able to do anything,’ the Colonel cried. - -Joyce stood before him, collecting herself, calming down her own -excitement as best she could. She said to herself that he was quite -right--that it would have to be--that she had no independent life or -plan of her own any more--that she must accept everything from her -father’s hands. What right had she either to refuse or to resent? How -foolish it was, how miserable, ungenerous of her, not to be able to -take! Must it not sometimes be more gracious, more sweet to take, to -receive, than to give? And yet to accept this from one who was almost a -stranger though her father, seemed impossible, and made her whole -being, body and soul, quiver with that sensation of the intolerable in -which there is neither rhyme nor reason. Though she was so young, she -had provided for her own necessities for years. They were very few, and -her little salary was very small; but she had done it, giving rather -than getting--for naturally there was nothing to spare from Peter -Matheson’s ploughman’s wages. She stood shrinking a little from her -father’s displeasure--so unused to anything of the kind!--but with all -these thoughts sweeping through the mind, which was only a girl’s mind, -in many ways wayward and fantastic, but yet at bottom a clear spirit, -candid and reasonable. This would have to be. She must accept the money, -she who had been so independent. She must learn how to live, that -tremendous lesson, in the manner possible to her, not in her own way. -Once more she thought of her mother obeying her foolish impulse, flying -from her troubles--only to fall fatally under them, and to leave their -heritage to her daughter. It did not require a moment to bring all these -reflections in a flood through her mind, nor even to touch her with the -thought of her father’s little tender artifice, and of how he had -calculated no doubt that she would have presents to send, help to -offer--or, at least, pleasure to bestow. Perhaps her imagination put -thoughts even more delicate and kind into the Colonel’s mind than those -which were there--which was saying much. She recovered her voice with a -great effort. - -‘Father----’ she said, then paused again, struggling with something in -her throat,-- ‘I hope you will forgive me. I--never took money--from any -one--before----’ - -‘You never had your father before to give it you, Joyce.’ A little word -calmed down the Colonel’s superficial resentment. It did more, it went -straight to his heart. He came up to her and put his arm round her. ‘My -child,’ he said, in the words of the parable, ’"all that I have is -thine.” You forget that.’ - -‘Father, if I could only feel that _you_ were mine. It is all wrong--all -wrong!’ cried Joyce. ‘It is like what the Bible says; I want to be born -again.’ - -The Colonel did not know what to say to this, which seemed to him almost -profane; but he did better than speaking--he held her close to him, and -patted her shoulder softly with his large tender hand. - -‘And I will, I will,’ said Joyce, with a Scotch confusion of tenses, ‘if -you will have a little patience with me. It cannot come all in a moment; -but I will, I will.’ - -‘We’ll all have patience,’ said the Colonel, stooping over her, feeling -in his general weakness, and with even a passing sigh for Elizabeth -going through his mind, that it was sweet to have the positions reversed -sometimes, and to feel somebody depend upon him, and appeal to his -superior wisdom. - -At this moment Mrs. Hayward opened the door of her husband’s room -quickly, coming in with natural freedom. She stopped ’as if she had been -shot’ when she saw this group--Joyce sheltered in her father’s arm, -leaning against him. She made a rapid exclamation, ‘Oh!’ and turning as -quickly as she had come, closed the door after her with a quick clear -sound which said more than words. She did not slam it--far from that. -She would not have done such a thing, neither for her own sake, nor out -of regard for what the servants would say: but she shut it sharply, -distinctly, with a punctuation which was more emphatic than any full -stop could be. - -In the afternoon there were callers, and Joyce became aware, for the -first time, of the social difficulties of her position. She heard the -words, ‘brought up by relations in Scotland,’ as she went through the -drawing-room to the verandah where the visitors were sitting with Mrs. -Hayward. Joyce did not apply the words to herself, but she perceived a -little stir of interest when she appeared timidly at the glass door. The -lady was a little woman, precise and neat, with an indescribable air of -modest importance, yet insignificance, which Joyce learned afterwards to -understand, and the gentleman was in a long black coat, with a soft felt -hat in his hands. Eyes more instructed would have divined the clergyman -and clergywoman of the district, not rector and rectoress, but simple -incumbents. They rose up to meet her, and shook hands in a marked way, -as ‘taking an interest’ in a new member of their little cure; but Joyce, -unaccustomed, did not understand the meaning of this warmth. It -disconcerted her a little, and so did the conversation into which Mr. -Sitwell at once began to draw her, while his wife conversed in a lower -tone with the lady of the house. He talked to her of the river and -boating, of which she knew nothing, and then of lawn-tennis, to which -her response was not more warm. The good clergyman thought that perhaps -the game had not penetrated to the wilds of Scotland, and changed the -subject. - -‘We are going to have our children’s treat next week,’ he said. ‘It -would be very kind of you to come and help my wife, who has everything -to manage. Our district is but a new one--we have not much aid as yet. -Do you take any interest in schools, Miss Hayward?’ - -‘Oh yes, a great interest,’ cried Joyce, lighting up, ‘that is just -my----’ she was going to say profession, having a high opinion of the -dignity of her former office: but before the word was said she caught a -warning glance from Mrs. Hayward--‘it is what I care most for in the -world,’ she said, with a sudden blush of shame to feel herself stopped -in that avowal of enthusiasm for the work itself. - -‘Indeed!’ cried the clergyman. ‘Do you hear, Dora? here is a help for -you. Miss Hayward says that schools are what she cares most for in the -world.’ - -‘Joyce says a little more than she means,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly. -‘Young ladies have a way of being enthusiastic.’ - -‘Don’t damp it, please!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, clasping her hands; -‘enthusiasm is so beautiful in young people: and there is so little of -it. Oh, how delighted I shall be to have your help! The district is so -new--as my husband would tell you.’ - -‘Of course I have enlisted Miss Hayward at once,’ cried he. ‘She is -going to help at the school feast.’ - -‘Oh, thank you, THANK you,’ cried the clergyman’s wife, with devotion, -once more clasping her hands. - -Mrs. Hayward’s voice was more dry than ever--there was a sharp ring in -it, which Joyce had begun to know. ‘You must let her give you an answer -later,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t know her engagements yet. We have several -things to do. When must I send in the cakes, Mrs. Sitwell? We always -calculate, you know, on helping in that way.’ - -‘You are always so kind, dear Mrs. Hayward, _so_ kind! How can we ever -thank you enough!’ said the clergywoman. ‘Always kind,’ her husband -echoed, with an impressive shake of Mrs. Hayward’s hand, and afterwards -of Joyce’s, who was confused by so much feeling. Her step-mother was -drier still as they went away. - -‘I must ask you, just at first, to make no engagements without -consulting me,’ she said very rigidly. ‘You cannot know--at first--what -it is best for your own interests to do.’ - -Should she say that she had made no engagements, and wished for none? It -is hard not to defend one’s self when one is blamed. But Joyce took the -wiser way, and assented without explanations. She had scarcely time to -do more when other people came--people more important, as was at once -evident--a large lady in black satin and lace, a younger, slimmer one in -white. They filled the verandah, which was not very broad, with the -sweep of their draperies. They both gave a little glance of surprise -when Miss Hayward was presented to them, and the elder lady permitted -herself an ‘Oh----!’ She retired to the end of the verandah, where Mrs. -Hayward had installed herself. ‘I never knew before that you had a -grown-up daughter. I always thought, indeed, that there were no----’ - -‘My husband’s daughter by his first marriage,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She -has never lived at home. In India, you know, children can never be kept -with their parents.’ - -‘It is a dreadful drawback. I am so glad my girls will have nothing to -say to Indian men.’ - -The lady in white had begun to talk to Joyce, but the girl’s ears were -intent on the other conversation which she felt to concern herself. She -made vague replies, not knowing what she said, the two voices in the -distance drawing all her attention from the one more near. - -‘So she had to be left with relations--quite old-fashioned people--and -she is very simple, and knows very little of the world.’ - -‘The less the better,’ said the visitor, whose name Joyce had not -caught; and then there was a pause, and the young lady’s voice became -more audible, close to her ear. - -‘Brought up in Scotland? Oh, I hope you are not one of the learned -ladies. Don’t they go in tremendously for education in Scotland?’ her -visitor said. - -‘They say our Scotch schools are the best,’ said Joyce sedately, with a -mixture of national and professional pride. - -‘Oh yes, so everybody says; you are taught everything. I know Scotland a -little: everybody goes there in the autumn, don’t you know? I wonder if -I have been in your part of the country? Papa has a moor whenever he can -afford it. And we have quantities of Scotch cousins all over the place.’ - -‘It was near Edinburgh,’ said Joyce, with a little hesitation. - -‘Yes? I have been at several places near Edinburgh,’ said the young -lady. ‘Craigmoor where the Sinclairs live, for one. They are relations -of ours. And there is another house, a very nice house close by, -Bellendean. I suppose you know the Bellendeans.’ - -The colour rushed over Joyce’s face. She remembered her difficulties no -more. The very sound of the name filled her with pleasure and -encouragement. - -‘Bellendean!’ she said; ‘oh, indeed, I know Bellendean! I know it better -than any place in the world. And I know the lady--oh, better than any -one. And would it be Miss Greta that was your cousin----?’ Joyce’s -countenance shone. She forgot all about those bewildering explanations -which she had overheard: and about herself, whose presence had to be -accounted for. For a moment her natural ease and unconsciousness came -back, and she felt herself Joyce again. - -Mrs. Hayward rose suddenly from her chair. She, too, had been listening, -through her own conversation, to the other voices. She made a step -forward-- ‘So you know the Bellendeans,’ she said, with an agitated -smile. ‘We have just been staying there, and can give you the latest -news of them. What a small world it is, as everybody says! I only heard -of them for the first time when we went to fetch Joyce: and now I find -my nearest neighbours know all about them! Joyce, will you ask if Baker -is bringing tea?’ - -Lady St. Clair and her daughter gave each other a glance of mutual -inquiry. And Joyce, as she obeyed, with a curious pang of wonder and -pleasure and annoyance, heard the discussion begin, the interchange of -questions mingled with remarks about her friends, the names so dear to -her passing from mouth to mouth. She was sent away who knew all about -them, while her stepmother, who knew so little, talked, adopting an air -of familiarity. Why was she sent away? Then she remembered suddenly on -what a humble footing she could alone claim knowledge of the -Bellendeans, and divined with a shock of sudden pain that it was to stop -any revelations on that subject that she had been despatched on this -unnecessary errand. Joyce paused in the luxurious room, which seemed -somehow to absorb all the air and leave none to breathe. Oh for the -freedom of Bellendean, where everybody knew who she was and thought no -harm! Oh for the little cottage, where there were no pretences! The -great and the small were easy, they understood each other; but this -middle country, all full of reserves and assumptions which lay between, -how was an ignorant creature to learn how to live in it, to avoid the -snares and keep clear of the pitfalls, not to contradict or expose the -falsehoods, and yet to be herself true? - -Mrs. Hayward, on her side, sitting painfully talking as if she knew all -about these people, whom she thought she hated, so much were they -involved with this painful episode of her life, was no more happy than -Joyce. To think that her neighbours, the best people about, those whose -friendship was most desirable, should be mixed up with the Bellendeans, -who knew everything! So that now her skilful little romance must fall to -the ground, and all the story be fully known. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -The discussions held upon this question in the Colonel’s room were many. -Mrs. Hayward had kept herself for many years out of society, rejecting -it all the more sternly because she loved it and held all its little -punctilios dear. And now that all necessity for such self-denial was -over, to have everything risked again was terrible to her. She who had -so carefully kept her husband from annoyance, in this matter departed -from all her traditions. The good Colonel himself was fond of society -too. He liked to know people, to gather kindly faces about him, and to -be surrounded by a cheerful stir of human interests; but to tell the -truth, he did not care very much about Lady St. Clair and the best -people in the neighbourhood. It was seldom--very seldom--that it -occurred to him to criticise his Elizabeth; but on this point he thought -her a little mistaken, and not so infallible as she usually was. - -‘Have patience a little, my dear,’ he said, falling upon a simple -philosophy, which, indeed, he was not at all disposed himself to put in -practice, ‘and you’ll see all will come right.’ - -‘Nothing will come right,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘unless we can get your -daughter properly introduced. It alters everything in our position, -Henry. We were settling down to society such as suits you and me; but -that will not do now. The moment there is a young lady in the house all -is changed. She must be thought of. A different kind of entertainment is -wanted for a girl. I ought to take her to balls, and to water-parties, -and to all sorts of gaieties. You would not like her to be left out.’ - -‘Well, my dear,’ said the Colonel, more cheerfully, ‘I like young faces, -and I don’t object to a little dance now and then. I always, indeed, -encouraged the young fellows in the regiment----’ - -‘If it were giving a dance that was all!--you may be sure I shouldn’t -come to you about that. There is a great deal involved that is of much -more importance. If it all gets abroad about your daughter, everything -will suffer--she in the first place. It will be like a governess--every -one respects a governess----’ - -‘Surely, my dear. A good girl who perhaps does it to help her family, or -support her old mother, or----’ - -‘Henry, my dear, you are very old-fashioned. But however good she may -be, she is always at a disadvantage. It would be bad for us too. Colonel -Hayward’s daughter a governess! They would say you were either less well -off than you appeared, or that you had used her badly, or that I had -used her badly--still more likely.’ - -‘But when we did not know of her very existence, Elizabeth!’ - -‘How are you to tell people that? The best thing is to keep quite quiet -about it, if we only can. But now here is this new complication. These -Bellendean people will talk it all over with the St. Clairs, and the St. -Clairs will publish it everywhere. And people will be sorry for her, and -pick her to pieces, and say it is easy to see she is unused to our -world; they will be sorry for her for being with me, or else be sorry -for me for being burdened with her.’ - -‘Elizabeth----’ - -‘And the worst is,’ she said vehemently, ‘that it will be quite true on -both sides. She will be to be pitied, and I shall be to be pitied. If -only these friends of hers could be kept quiet! If only she could be -dressed properly, and taught to hold her tongue and say nothing about -her past!’ - -The Colonel got up and began to walk about the room in great -perturbation of spirit. He could not say, as he had been in the habit of -saying, ‘If Elizabeth were but here!’ for it was Elizabeth -herself--extraordinary fact!--who was the cause of the trouble. Social -difficulties had not affected them till now; and what could he do or -suggest in face of an emergency which was too much for Elizabeth? The -poor gentleman was without resource, and he had a faint sense of injury, -a feeling that he had never expected to be consulted or to have to -advise in such a matter. All the difficulties in their way of a personal -character had been Elizabeth’s business, not his. He walked about with a -troubled brow, a face full of distress,--what could he do or say? It was -almost cruel of her to consult him, to put matters which he had never -pretended to be able to manage into his hands. - -Mrs. Hayward, on her side, felt a faint gleam of alleviation in the -midst of the gloom from the spectacle of the Colonel’s perturbation. It -was his affair after all, and he had the best right to suffer; and -though she expected no help from him, there was a certain satisfaction -and almost diversion in the depth of his helpless distress. They were, -however, brought to a sudden standstill, which was a relief to both, by -a ring at the door-bell, a very unusual thing in the morning. The clouds -dispersed from Mrs. Hayward’s brow. She put up her hand instinctively to -her cap. Agitation of any kind, though it may seem a remarkable effect, -does derange one’s cap, as everybody who wears such a head-dress knows. -‘It can’t be any one coming to call at this hour,’ she said. ‘It must be -some of your men intending to stay for lunch.’ - -A weight was lifted off the Colonel’s mind by this resumption of -ordinary tones and subjects. He was always glad to see one of ‘his men,’ -as Mrs. Hayward called them, to lunch, being of the most hospitable -disposition; and it was his experience that the presence of a stranger -was always perfectly efficacious in blowing away clouds that might arise -on the family firmament. Besides, in the strained condition of family -affairs, a third, or rather fourth party, who knew nothing about the -circumstances, could not but make that meal more cheerful. They stood -and listened for a moment while some one was evidently admitted, with -some surprise that Baker did not appear to announce the visitor. -Presently, however, the door was opened with that mixture of swiftness -and hesitation which was characteristic of Joyce, and she herself looked -in, more awakened and with a brighter countenance than either of the -pair had yet seen in her. Her shyness had disappeared in the excitement -of a pleasant surprise; her cheeks had got a little colour; the eager -air which had struck Colonel Hayward when he first saw her, but which of -late had been so much subdued, had returned to her eyes and sensitive -mouth. ‘Oh, it’s the Captain!’ she said, with a sense of the importance -of the announcement, as if she had been presenting the Prince of Wales -at least, which changed the entire sentiment of her face. Mrs. Hayward -had never before seen the natural Joyce as she was in the humility of -her early undisturbed state. She acknowledged the charm of the girl with -a keen little sudden pang of that appreciation and comprehension of -jealousy, which is more clear-sighted and certain than love. - -‘The Captain!’ she said, not quite aware who was meant, yet putting on -an air of more ignorance than was genuine. - -‘Oh, Bellendean!’ cried the Colonel, going forward with cordiality. ‘My -dear fellow, how glad I am to see you! You’ve got away, then, from all -your anxious friends. Elizabeth, you remember Captain Bellendean?’ - -‘I am not likely to have forgotten him,’ Mrs. Hayward said graciously, -yet with a meaning which perhaps was not so gracious as her speech. And -there darted through her mind, as is so usual with women, a question, a -calculation. Was it for Joyce? Men are so silly; who can tell how they -may be influenced? There flashed through her a gleam of delight at the -thought of thus getting rid of the interloper, and at the same time an -angry grudge that this girl, who seemed to have all the luck, should -come to such honour, and be thus set on high above so many who were her -betters. All this in the twinkling of an eye. She stood for a minute or -two and talked, asking the proper questions about his family, and when -he came to town, and how long he meant to stay; then left the visitor -with her husband, and hastened to say something about the luncheon to -Baker, who on his part was lingering outside with a message from the -cook. To those who feel an interest in such matters, we may say that -Mrs. Hayward, when one of the Colonel’s men made his appearance -unexpectedly for luncheon, generally added a dish of curry, for which -her cook was noted (the men being almost all old Indians), to that meal. - -When she returned to the drawing-room, Joyce was there, still with the -same look of exhilaration and liveliness. She was even the first to -speak--a singular circumstance. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘I was not wrong in -taking the Captain to the library. I thought, as you were not here, he -would like that better than just talking to me.’ - -Was this false humility? or affectation? or what was it? ‘You were quite -right, no doubt; for it must have been your father he came to see,’ said -Mrs. Hayward, with a quick glance. She was prepared to see a conscious -smile upon Joyce’s mouth, the little air of demure triumph with which a -girl who knows herself the object of such a visit acquiesces in the fact -that it is for her father. But no such consciousness was upon Joyce’s -countenance. ‘You seem to be very much pleased to see him,’ she -continued. ‘And why do you call him the Captain, as if there were not -another in the world?’ - -Joyce paused a little before she answered. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that -the people at Bellendean did think there was not another such Captain in -the world.’ - -‘And you are glad to see him--because you know him so well? because he -reminds you of your old life?’ - -Joyce grew red all at once with a blush, which surely meant something. -Again she paused a little, with that sense of walking among snares and -man-traps, which confuses the mind. ‘Oh no; I did not know him well. I -have only spoken to him two or three times. It is so difficult to -explain. You will perhaps not be pleased if I say it. To me that am not -accustomed--the Captain’s coming seemed like a great honour.’ She -stopped short, and the colour went out of her face as suddenly as it -came. - -‘A great honour!’ cried Mrs. Hayward with indignation,--‘to his -commanding officer!’ It was all she could do to keep her temper. Her -foot patted the carpet angrily, and she tore a band of calico off a -piece upon her lap with vehemence, as if she were inflicting pain and -liked to do so. ‘What an extraordinary notion!’ she cried. ‘Norman -Bellendean, a little Scotch squire--that anybody should think his visit -an honour to my husband!’ There was a sort of subdued fury in her laugh -of scorn. - -‘I can see,’ said Joyce, ‘it was very silly to say that; and it was only -a sort of instinct. I forgot when I saw him--all that has happened--and -that I was a--different creature.’ - -‘Joyce,’ cried Mrs. Hayward quickly, ‘I warn you that unless you can get -over this constant going back upon your old life, and try and adapt -yourself to your present circumstances, it will be impossible for -us--impossible for me--almost beyond any one’s powers----’ - -Joyce had become very pale. She did not make any reply, but waited with -her lips moving in an eagerness so different from that joyous eagerness -of her former aspect, for the next word that should be said. What was it -that would be impossible? There is something in a threat which rouses -the most placid blood. If it was impossible, what would happen? Joyce -was in no way in fault; the circumstances which had changed her life, -and transplanted her from her home, were not of her creating any more -than they were of Mrs. Hayward’s. But Mrs. Hayward said nothing more. -She went on tearing, wounding, cutting her calico with stabs and thrusts -of the scissors that seemed as if they must draw blood. But she had gone -as far as could be done unintentionally by sudden impulse--which, and no -set purpose, was what had moved her. And she had come to herself by dint -of that half-spoken threat. She had no desire to be cruel or even -unkind; her desire, indeed, was quite different, if one could have come -to the bottom of her heart. She would have given a great deal to have -been upon comfortable terms with her step-daughter, and to have been -able to quench the jealousy and the grudge with which, deeply ashamed of -them all the time, she had taken in this third between the two who were -so happy--this interloper, this supplanter, whom she had seen her -husband embrace so tenderly, and heard saying with a voice full of -emotion ‘father’--a word never to be addressed to him by child of her -own. - -Once more, however, this uncomfortable state of affairs was brought to a -pause by the recurrence of the ordinary course of domestic events. The -voices of the Colonel and Captain Bellendean became audible crossing the -hall towards the drawing-room door. At the first sound of these voices, -Mrs. Hayward threw her calico into the work-basket, and tore and stabbed -at it no more. She relapsed suddenly into tranquil hemming, like a good -child at school. Joyce had not the same cover for her agitation, but yet -she collected herself as quickly as was possible, and made believe to be -as quietly occupied and at her ease as her step-mother was. - -‘I should have thought,’ said the Colonel, opening the door as he spoke, -and bringing in this new subject with him, ‘that a pokey house in -London, now that the season is more than half over, would be a bad -change after your beautiful place; but that’s our mistake thinking of -other people, as if they were just the same as we are--which nobody is, -as a matter of fact.’ - -Mrs. Hayward thought her husband meant this for her, as a reproach in -respect to Joyce--which he did not, being totally incapable of any such -covert assault. - -‘My father has always been fond of society,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I -suspect my beautiful place, as you are kind enough to call it, was -always a great bondage to him.’ - -‘Joyce, I want you to show Bellendean the garden and the river,’ said -the Colonel; ‘I have a---- letter to finish. Take him down to the water, -and show him the willows, and the poet’s villa, and all that. Have you -got a hat handy, my dear, or a parasol, or something? for it’s very hot. -You must take care not to get a sunstroke, or anything of that sort. -This is the way, Bellendean. It’s only a little bit of a place, not like -your castle; but we’re very much pleased with it for all that. The -verandah is our own idea. It is the nicest possible place in the -afternoon, when the sun is off this side of the house. My wife planned -it all herself. Walk down under the shrubbery: you will have shade the -whole way. The river’s sparkling like diamonds,’ he said, as he stood -bareheaded in the moderate English sun, which he kept up a pretence of -dreading as an old Indian ought, and watched the pair as they obeyed his -directions somewhat shyly, not quite understanding why they were sent -off together. Colonel Hayward came back to the drawing-room where his -wife sat, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. ‘I have sent them off -that they may have a quiet word, with nobody to interfere.’ - -‘Why should they want a quiet word? Was it _her_ he came to see? Do you -suppose he means anything?’ said Mrs. Hayward, in that unsympathetic -tone. - -‘They may not perhaps have anything particular to say; but they come -from the same place, and they know the same people, and probably they -would not like to talk their little talks about old friends with us -listening to every word; so I said I had a letter to finish,’ said the -Colonel, with a mild chuckle. ‘I must go and do it though, that they may -not think it was a pretence.’ - -‘Do you know, Henry,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that some people would say you -were throwing your daughter at Captain Bellendean’s head.’ - -‘Bless me!’ said the Colonel, with a wondering look; ‘throwing my -daughter at---- Elizabeth, these would surely be very unpleasant people, -not the kind that ever had anything to do with you and me.’ He paused a -moment, looking at her with an appeal which she did not lift her eyes to -see. Then he repeated, ‘I must go, though, and finish my letter, or they -will think it was only a pretence.’ - -Perhaps Captain Bellendean had some faint notion that it was, as he -walked along under the shade of the shrubbery skirting the long but -narrow lawn towards the river, which flowed shining and sparkling in the -full sun--half amused to find himself walking by the side of the heroine -of the curious story which had been worked out under his roof--the -little schoolmistress turned into a young lady of leisure, transplanted -out of her natural place. He was not without a little natural curiosity -as to how such a strange travesty would succeed. There was nothing in -her appearance to emphasise the change. She walked slowly, almost -reluctantly, with that shyness which is not unbecoming to youth, as if -she would have liked to fly and leave him unguided to his own devices. -He gave her a good many glances under his eyebrows as they walked along -very gravely together, scarcely speaking. Certainly if Colonel Hayward -meant to throw his daughter at the Captain’s head, she had no intention -that way. - -‘The last time I saw you, Miss Joyce,’ he said, ‘was the evening before -you left home. And you thought England and London would be a new world. -What do you think of the new world, now that you have seen them near?’ - -‘Did I say they would be a new world?’ Joyce sighed a little, looking up -to the Captain with a faint smile, which made, he thought, a charming -combination. She added, ‘I have only seen London in passing; but I’m -beginning to think there is no new world, but just what we make it--and -the same in every place.’ - -‘One of the old classical fellows says that, doesn’t he?’ said the -Captain. ‘I’ve forgotten all my Latin; but you’re up to everything of -that sort----’ - -‘Oh no; I am not a scholar. I just know a little at the very beginning. -But I understand what you mean. It is something about changing the skies -but not the mind.’ - -‘I wonder if that is what Mrs. Bellendean will do?’ - -‘Mrs. Bellendean?’ - -‘Oh, I forgot; it was your father to whom I was speaking; but you will -know better all that this means. My father and his wife have left -Bellendean--for good, do you understand, not to come back.’ - -‘For good! but I should think that would rather be for ill,’ Joyce said. - -‘Yes, I knew you would understand. I didn’t myself, however, till very -lately. I had no conception what she had done for the place, nor how -much it was to her. And now they have shaken the dust from off their -feet, and left it--as if I could have wished that.’ - -‘They would think,’ said Joyce, with an explanatory instinct that -belonged to her old position--‘the lady would think that perhaps you -were likely----’ - -Here she looked up at him, and suddenly realising that she was not Joyce -the schoolmistress, with a little privilege of place, making matters -clear, but a young woman discoursing about his own affairs to a young -man, stopped suddenly, blushed deeply, and murmured, ‘Oh, I beg your -pardon,’ with a horror of her own rashness which gave double meaning to -all she said. - -‘That perhaps I was likely----?’ said Norman. He found her very pleasant -company, with her intelligent eager looks, her comprehension of what he -meant before it was uttered. ‘Tell me what she would think likely. I -know so little about--the lady, as you call her. She was only my -step-mother, whom I didn’t much care for when I went away. It is a -mistake to judge people before one knows them,’ he added reflectively; -but this sentiment, so cognate to her own case, did not in the immediate -urgency of the moment arrest Joyce’s attention, especially as he -repeated with a smile, ‘what would she think me likely to do?’ - -‘I was going to speak like an old wife in a cottage--like my dear old -granny.’ - -‘Do so, please,’ he said, with a laugh; and Joyce yielded to the unknown -temptation, which had never come in her way before. The gentle malice of -society, the undercurrent of meaning, the play with which youths and -maidens amuse themselves in the beginning of an intercourse which may -come to much more serious results, were quite out of her understanding -and experience; but there are some things which are very quickly learnt. - -‘She would think--the old wives would say--that now the Captain was come -back, he would be bringing home a lady of his own.’ - -Joyce said this, not with the absolute calm of two minutes ago, but with -a smile and blush which altogether changed the significance of the -little speech. It had been an almost matter-of-fact explanation--it -became now a little winged arrow of provocation, a sort of challenge. -Captain Bellendean laughed. - -‘I see,’ he said; ‘and you think that is a course open to me? But a lady -of my own might not be so good as _the_ lady--and then there are -difficulties about time, for instance. I might not be able to bring her -at once; and the one I wanted might not have me: and---- Miss Joyce, -your attention flags--you are not interested in me.’ - -‘I was thinking,’ said Joyce, ‘that though you laugh, it would be no -laughing for her to leave Bellendean.’ - -The Captain perceived that the joke was to go no further. ‘I do not -believe it is her doing at all--it is my father’s doing. He prefers -London--Half Moon Street, and rooms where you can scarcely turn round.’ - -‘Half Moon Street!’ - -‘Do you know it?’ - -‘No more than in books,’ said Joyce, with a smile; ‘there are so many -places that seem kent places because they are in books.’ - -‘Italy, etc.,’ the Captain said, looking at her with a sympathetic -glance. - -‘Oh, but not etc.!’ cried Joyce. ‘Italy--is like nothing else in the -world.’ - -‘Well,’ said Captain Bellendean, ‘when you are in the circumstances -which you have just been suggesting to me, no doubt you will go to -Italy; that is the right time and the right circumstances----’ - -Before he had half said these words, a sudden vision of Andrew Halliday -flashed across his mind, and he stopped in sudden embarrassment. By this -time they had reached the river’s side, and Joyce turned dutifully to -point out to him the poet’s villa, as her father had bidden her; but -there was something in her tone which betrayed to the sympathetic -listener that the same image had suddenly overshadowed her imagination -too. Captain Bellendean was very sympathetic--more so, perhaps, than he -would have been had his companion been older or less pretty. He -pretended to look with great interest at the willows sweeping into the -water, and the lawn, with its little fringe of forget-me-nots reflected -in the softly flowing stream. Joyce had lost the colour which was half -excitement, and had kept coming and going like the shadows over the sky, -while they walked together down the shady walk. It is very interesting -to see a face change in this way, and to think that one’s own society, -the quickening of the blood produced by one’s sudden advent, may have -something to do with it. He had felt that it was very pleasant to watch -these changes, and was conscious of a little agreeable thrill of -responsive exhilaration in his own veins. But when this sudden shadow -fell upon Joyce, his sympathy sprang into a warmer, energetic sentiment. -Could that be the fate for which this girl was reserved? Surely some one -must step in to save her from that fate! - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -It was some days before the new difficulties which possessed all Mrs. -Hayward’s thoughts were fully revealed to Joyce. These early days were -long, being full of so many confusing circumstances and new problems to -be encountered, solved, or left aside for further trouble in their turn; -and what she had heard her stepmother say about her bringing up had -passed over Joyce’s mind with little effect. She had enough to do in -other ways: to find out a mode of living which would be practicable, to -subdue her own spirit, to reconcile herself with so many new necessities -all rushing upon her at once. How to apportion her time was in itself a -difficulty almost beyond her untried powers: to be long enough, yet not -too long, with Mrs. Hayward--to find something to do during these hours -which she had to pass in that drawing-room which was so pretty and -comfortable, but so little homelike to the stranger. Joyce had abundant -resources in herself. She was fully instructed in all kinds of work--a -mistress of fine-sewing and mending, able to clothe her household with -needlework, like the woman in the Proverbs; but there was no need for -these qualifications here. And she had gone through all the studies -which were open to her in design, besides having found out somehow, amid -those gifts of nature which to all her early friends had seemed so -lavish, a faculty for drawing, which had been of endless pleasure to -her, and pride to her belongings in the old time. Music, indeed, was -left out, except in so far as it belonged to her profession. She had -learned the Hullah system, or something like it, and could read easily -all the simple songs which were taught to the children; but a piano had -never been within her reach, nor had she heard anything that a musician -would think worth hearing. At home in Bellendean the old people thought -that nobody could sing the ‘Flowers of the Forest’, or the ‘Banks of -Doon,’ or the old Psalm tunes, which were still dearer, like, their -Joyce. But these were not the sort of performances with which to please -Mrs. Hayward. - -Thus, though she was full of accomplishments in her way, none of Joyce’s -acquirements stood her in much stead in her new circumstances. She had -to contrive something for herself to do, which was far from being easy. -She had to think of what she could talk about, to take her fit part in -the household intercourse--not to sit like an uninterested spectator -between these two strange people, who were her nearest relations. And -this was almost the hardest of all; for Colonel Hayward and his wife -were like so many people of their class--they had read little, they were -puzzled by references to books, and did not understand that keen sense -of association and fellowship with her favourite writers and their -productions which made Joyce an inhabitant of a second world, to her -consciousness almost more real than the external sphere. The Colonel -said ‘Eh?’ as if he had become a little deaf, with a kind but bewildered -smile, when she adduced the example--to Joyce more natural than the most -familiar examples of every day--of somebody in Scott, or, as she loved -to say, Sir Walter, to illustrate a position; while Mrs. Hayward was -more apt to frown and to say impatiently that she thought it very wrong -for young people to read so many novels. They did not even know what she -meant by Sir Walter!--her father, with his puzzled look, suggesting, -‘Sir Walter--Gilbert, did you mean, my dear? Now, where can you have met -Gilbert, Joyce? and what could he know about the oyster-dredging in the -North?’ Thus it was against her that she knew more than they did, as -well as that she knew less: in either case, she was left out of their -circle, out of their world,--her very wealth futile, and more useless -than had she been without endowment at all. - -But in the preoccupation of so many matters, important beyond measure to -her new existence, and much pondering of the way to make that existence -possible, which seemed to her sometimes a problem almost beyond her -powers of solving, Joyce was not at all quick to catch up the allusions -of her stepmother, or to perceive what it was that filled Mrs. Hayward’s -mind with new alarms. The possibility of there being something to be -ashamed of in respect to herself--something to conceal or gloss over, in -case it might revolt the visitors, of whom Joyce, hitherto measuring -them by the standard of Bellendean, had not formed a very high idea--had -never entered her mind; and she was startled beyond measure when Mrs. -Hayward opened the subject directly in a moment of impatience, and -notwithstanding her own excellent resolutions against doing so. Joyce -had been betrayed into some reference to her old work, which she had -instinctively felt to be distasteful and seldom alluded to, but which -would crop up now and then. It was Mr. Sitwell, the clergyman, and his -school feast, which was the original subject of the talk. - -‘I think they are playing at school work,’ Joyce said. ‘I would like to -see the mistress, and hear what she says.’ - -‘I beg you will do nothing of the kind,’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘I did not -at all like your enthusiasm about the schools when the Sitwells were -here. I think you said you were more interested in them than in anything -else in the world. I am never fond of extravagance.’ - -‘But it was true,’ said Joyce, with a deprecating smile. ‘When you have -been interested about one thing all your life, and always thinking which -is the best way, what can you do but feel it the most important?’ - -‘It is time,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that you should find another channel -for your thoughts. I didn’t mean to say anything to vex you, Joyce. But -you must know that your father’s daughter should have been brought up in -a very different way; and, to tell the truth, I would much rather our -friends here knew as little as possible--about your antecedents.’ - -Joyce looked up astonished, with a quick cry, ‘Antecedents!’ which was a -word that seemed to imply something bad, like the reports in the -newspapers. She was, to be sure, too well instructed to think that -implication necessary; but there are prejudices of which even the -best-informed persons cannot shake themselves free. - -‘You know what I mean!--the teaching, and all that. That you should be -fond of the schools, and interested in them, is all very well; but that -you were a----’ - -A flush of deep colour had rushed over Joyce’s uplifted face. -‘A--schoolmistress,’ she said, with the quiver of a piteous little -smile. - -‘I can’t bear to hear you say it--your father’s daughter!--and of course -it is impossible to enter into particulars, and explain everything to -everybody. I think it better, far better, to draw a veil. You were -brought up by relations in Scotland--that is what I mean to say.’ - -‘Relations!’ repeated Joyce softly; ‘thank you for saying that. Oh, and -so they were!--the kindest relations that ever a poor little girl had.’ - -‘I am glad I have pleased you, so far as that goes,’ said Mrs. Hayward, -in a tone of relief. ‘Well, then, I hope you will back me up, and show -yourself grateful to your old friends. There are various other things I -may mention as we are on this subject. For instance, when you were -talking to Alice St. Clair you said _Miss_ Greta. Now that young lady, -if you were to renew your acquaintance with her, would certainly not -allow you to call her Miss _now_.’ - -Joyce opened her eager lips to reply, but, struck by a sudden sense of -the uselessness of any explanation, closed them again--a movement not -unnoticed by her companion. - -‘I notice also,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that you have a way of calling Mrs. -Bellendean the Lady. That’s all very well if it’s one of the fantastic -names that girls are so fond of nowadays--I mean, if other young people -use it as well as you; but if it’s one of your terms of respect---- -Remember, Joyce, that to go on speaking in that way is a--is a kind of -insult to your father and to your own family, which is quite as good as -Mrs. Bellendean’s.’ - -As good as Mrs. Bellendean’s!--her heart revolted against this claim. -The old homage which she had given with youthful enthusiasm was not to -Mrs. Bellendean’s position or her family. But how was Joyce to explain -this to her judge, who did not look upon her or her romances with a -favourable eye? And yet she could not but say a word in self-defence. -‘It was for kindness,’ she said,--‘for,’ hesitating with her Scotch -shyness, ‘for love!’ - -‘For love!’ Mrs. Hayward echoed the word with a tone of opposition, and -almost offence. ‘She is one of the women who seem to have the gift of -attracting girls. I don’t know how they do it, for girls have always -seemed to me the most uncertain, unappreciative----’ She sighed -impatiently, then added in a softened tone, ‘If it’s only a sort of pet -name, that’s different. But you must see that it is your duty to avoid -everything that could seem to--to discredit your father. And we can’t -explain the circumstances to everybody, and prove that it was not his -fault. For my part,’ she cried, with a flash of quick feeling in her -clear eyes, ‘I’d say anything or do anything rather than let it be -supposed for a moment that the Colonel--had anything to be ashamed of in -the whole course of his existence. He has not, and never had, whatever -you may think. That’s what I call love,’ she cried, vehemently, with a -sudden tear or two taking her by surprise. - -Joyce turned towards her step-mother with a quick responsive look; but -Mrs. Hayward was ashamed of her own emotion, and had turned away to -conceal it, thus missing the eager overture of sympathy. She went on in -another moment with a little laugh: ‘It shows we never should be sure of -anything. If there was one thing more unlikely than another, I should -have said it was the gossip of a Scotch village getting abroad here. I -should have thought that nobody here had ever heard the name of -Bellendean--when lo! it turns out that we are in a perfect wasp’s nest -of relations and connections. Your Miss Greta, as you call her, a -cousin, and the St. Clairs themselves visitors of the Bellendeans. I -suppose before another week is over all Richmond will know the story. It -is very vexatious, when I had planned to take you about everywhere, and -do all sorts of things!’ - -She was called out of the room at this moment by some domestic -requirement, and did not hear Joyce’s troubled murmur. ‘Was there -anything, then, to think shame of?’ Joyce had said, her voice trembling, -with the Scotch idiom which Mrs. Hayward disliked. She added to herself, -‘in me,’ with a wondering pang. Perhaps the girl had too high a -conception of herself, which it was well to bring down; but such an -operation is always a painful one. Though she had been brought up in a -ploughman’s cottage, and occupied the humblest position, yet nothing had -ever happened in her life to humiliate Joyce. She had been admired and -praised, and placed upon a little pedestal from her earliest -consciousness: and that any one should be ashamed of her struck her as -something so incredible and extraordinary, that it took away her -breath,--‘anything to think shame of--in me.’ She had no defence against -such a sudden dart: it went through and through her, cutting to her -heart. She rose up quickly, with a sensation intolerable--a quick and -passionate impulse. To do what? She could not tell. To have the wings of -a dove and fly away--but where? She stopped herself, clasping her hands -together, holding herself fast that she might not be so unreasonable as -to do it. The mother had done it, and what had come of it? To herself -madness and death, and to her poor child this,--that the people to whom -she belonged were ashamed of her--ashamed of Joyce! It seemed a thing -impossible, not to be realised. She said it over to herself -incredulously, making an effort to smile. Ashamed!--but no, no! Whatever -there was to bear, it must be borne, even though those wings for which -so many have sighed should be given to her: she must not fly, she must -stay. - -But Joyce had in this particular still something more hard to bear. A -few days after the visit of the captain, Mrs. Bellendean came to -Richmond, bringing with her Greta. The two ladies came with a purpose. -They had been warned by Captain Bellendean that there were difficulties -in the Colonel’s household, and that Joyce’s position was not of the -happiest. How he had divined that much it would be difficult to say, for -divination was not Norman’s _forte_. But for once his sympathy or -interest had given insight to his eyes. - -‘You should go and let them see that the poor girl has friends,’ he -said. - -‘I shall go,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, who was very sure that she must know -better than Norman, ‘and make myself very agreeable to the step-mother. -She is not a bad sort of woman. She will be pleased if we go and call at -once, and I confess I shall do everything I know to make her like me and -trust me: that will be the best way of serving Joyce.’ With this intent -the ladies arrived and played their part very prettily. They were -delighted with the house, the drawing-room, the lovely things, Indian -and otherwise, admiring them with a comprehension and knowledge which -Joyce had not possessed, and making Mrs. Hayward glow with gratification -and modest pride. Joyce followed her beloved lady with her looks,--her -usual and faithful admiration of everything Mrs. Bellendean said and did -very slightly modified by surprise at this new aspect of her. They had -not failed in any mark of affection to herself--nay, had startled her by -the warmth of their greetings. Mrs. Bellendean had met her with -outstretched arms and a kiss which confused Joyce with pleasure, and -afterwards with--something else, which was not so agreeable. Joyce, -indeed, was the one silent in the midst of the effusive cordiality and -pleasantness of this meeting. She did not know how to respond or what to -say. It was the first time she had met her friends under this new -aspect. The night she had spent at Bellendean before leaving had been -different. She was then in all the excitement of the great revolution in -her life, and nothing seemed too extraordinary for that crisis; but -Joyce had calmed down, she had returned to life’s ordinary, though with -so amazing a difference--and her lady’s kiss and Greta’s eager -outstretched arms overwhelmed her with doubts and questions which half -blotted out the pleasure. - -Finally, they strayed out upon the lawn, and down the shaded walk -towards the river, as all visitors did. Joyce had made that little -pilgrimage only in company with Captain Bellendean as yet; and there did -not fail to pass through her mind a comparison which affected her in a -way she did not understand. She knew him so much less than Greta, cared -for him much less--and yet---- Joyce fled from the faint rising of an -uncomprehended thought with a thrill of strange alarm, and turned to -her friend, who was so sweet, the admired of all her youthful thoughts, -her little paragon of prettiness and sweetness. Greta had twined her arm -within her companion’s, and was looking tenderly into her face. - -‘And are you happy?’ Greta said. ‘Oh, Joyce! I remember how you used to -fancy all manner of things. You would not have been surprised if you had -turned out to be a princess--like Queen Mary’s daughter, who was -“unknown to history."’ - -‘If there ever was such a person,’ said schoolmistress Joyce. ‘Yes, I -think I was quite prepared to be a princess.’ - -‘It would have been much more troublesome than this, and not half so -nice, I think. To have had that horrible Bothwell for a father, or some -one else as dreadful, instead of delightful Colonel Hayward.’ - -‘My father,’ said Joyce, with a little flush and stir of feeling which -was always called forth by his name, ‘is better--than anything I ever -could have dreamed.’ - -‘Then why are you not happy?’ cried Greta, going direct to the heart of -the matter, as children do. - -‘But perhaps I am happy,’ said Joyce, with a little sigh, followed by a -smile. ‘To be happy is a strange thing: it is not at your own will, nor -because you are well off, and have everything you can want. It is just -for nothing, and comes when it pleases. And life is very confusing. -There are so many things to think of that I never thought of before. How -to please them--and I always used to please, just because it was me. And -sometimes I think they are ashamed.’ - -‘Ashamed, Joyce!’ - -‘No,’ she said, ‘not of me, as me: but because of what I was. You used -all to say pretty things to me, Miss Greta, about the fine work I was -doing,--about the use I was to the children--even to the country,’ Joyce -added, with a light in her eyes. - -‘Miss Greta, Joyce! is that like the friends we are? I shall call you -Miss Hayward if you say that again.’ - -Joyce turned upon her with a sudden flash, raising her head with an -involuntary movement that looked like disdain. ‘See now,’ she said, ‘you -yourself! You never said _that_ when I was Joyce Matheson, the -schoolmistress at Bellendean. And yet you all praised me, and said I was -doing a good work. I am doing no work nor anything here. I am just a -cumberer of the ground. They don’t know what to do with me, though they -want to be very kind. And I don’t know what to do with myself. But you -never said _that_ to me in the old time.’ - -‘Oh, Joyce!’ cried Greta, with conviction and shame. She added, holding -her companion’s arm close, ‘Not that I didn’t want to say it--many and -many a time! You were always much better, much higher than I.’ - -Joyce put her hand upon her friend’s, but shook her head, her cheeks -flushed with a transient glow of feeling, her eyes troubled and -unconvinced. ‘We’ll say nothing about that. It was all as it ought to -be, and natural: anything else would have been out of place both for you -and me. But you did not then; and now you would have me in a moment -change, and say Miss Greta no more, because I am no longer the -schoolmistress, but Colonel Hayward’s daughter. But how can I do that? -that would mean a change in me. And there is no change in me.’ - -Greta did not understand what was in her friend’s face. Joyce no longer -looked at her, but away into the blue distance over the river among the -tufts and clusters of the soft English trees--looking but seeing not; -perceiving only the mists and confusion of a change with which her own -will and thoughts had nothing to do, against which she could not help -rebelling, though she was compelled to acknowledge that it was all -natural, inevitable, not to be resisted. It wounded her native sense of -dignity to be thus elevated, to have a position given to her, even in -the hearts of her friends, which had not been hers before. Mrs. -Bellendean’s kiss, and Greta’s eager affection, what were they to the -real Joyce, to whom both had been so kind, so friendly, even tender, but -never with this demonstration of equality? If Joyce had been embittered, -she would have considered them insults to her old and true self; but she -was not bitter. She was only humiliated, strangely wounded, and astray, -seeing the necessity of it, and the hardness of it, and only feeling in -her heart the absence of any place for her, herself, the true Joyce, who -had never changed amid all these strange alterations. She put her hand -upon that which was trembling yet clinging fast to her arm, and softly -patted it, with something of the feeling of the elder to the younger, -the superior to the inferior--which was a change too, though Joyce was -scarcely cognisant of it; for in her unawakened days she had looked up -with genuine faith to Miss Greta, making a little ideal of her. Now, -though Joyce did not know it, that balance had turned too, and she was -keenly perceiving, pardoning, excusing that in which her ideal had -failed. ‘I could have wished,’ she said, ‘_you_ had not done it. I could -have wished that we should bide--as we always were--just you, and me.’ - -‘Oh, Joyce!’ faltered Greta, clinging more and more. ‘I have been so -glad that you and I could be like sisters--as I have always felt.’ - -‘You and--Colonel’s Hayward’s daughter, Miss Greta,’ she said. - -By this time the two elder ladies had followed to the water’s edge, and -stood looking up the Thames at the sweeping willows, and the spot, which -none of them cared the least about, where the poet’s villa had been -planted. Mrs. Bellendean, who was very quick in observation, saw that -Greta was disturbed, and came up, laying her hand on Joyce’s shoulder. -‘Let me have her a little now,’ she said. ‘Norman told us about your -river-side, Joyce, and how you had showed him everything. He could talk -of nothing else when he came back.’ - -‘It was a beautiful day--which was all that is wanted; for you see -yourself there is not much to show.’ - -‘And you,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘who were the first thing to be taken -into consideration, perhaps. Joyce, I want to speak to you, my dear. -Your--yes, I know, she is not your mother; but she wants to be as kind -as you will let her. She is troubled about all this story being known.’ - -‘All what story?’ said Joyce, with a catching of her breath. - -‘Oh, my dear, you know. And I don’t wonder at it. You were a miracle in -your own--I mean in that position. But now it is very natural your -parents should wish--no more to be said about it than is necessary. Mrs. -Hayward says very truly that it is better a girl shouldn’t be talked -about, even when it is all to her credit. She wanted to warn _me_,’ Mrs. -Bellendean said, with a smile at the ignorance thus manifested. She had -put her arm into that of Joyce, and led her along the velvet turf, as -far as the lawn extended, leaving Greta with Mrs. Hayward. ‘As if I were -likely to betray you! But I want you to promise, Joyce, that you -won’t--betray yourself, which is far more likely.’ - -‘Betray!’ cried Joyce. She had been humiliated by Greta; she was -indignant now. ‘What have I to betray?’ she cried; ‘that I am a waif, -and a foundling, and an abandoned creature that belongs to nobody? or -that I am a trouble and a charge to everybody that has to do with me, -breaking my poor Granny’s heart because she wants me, and a shame to the -others that don’t want me? Myself! what is it to betray myself? Oh, you -are kind; you are very kind. You were my dear lady that I honoured above -everything. But you kiss me to-day because I’m--not Joyce, but Colonel -Hayward’s daughter; and you bid me not to betray myself. To betray that -I am myself--is that what you mean?’ - -‘Joyce! Joyce!’ cried Mrs. Bellendean. - -Joyce paused for a moment to dry the sudden tears which had betrayed -her, coming with a rush to her eyes--girls being such poor creatures, -that cannot do anything or feel anything without crying! She had drawn -her arm out of her friend’s arm, and her eyes were shining, and a swift -nervous movement, scarcely restrainable, thrilling through her. That -impulse, as of a hunted deer, to give one momentary glance round, and -then turn and fly--the impulse of her mother, which was in all Joyce’s -veins, though nothing had occurred till now to bring it out,--took hold -upon her, and shook her like a sudden wind. She knew what it was, though -no one else had any warning of it; and it frightened her to the depths -of her soul. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -Notwithstanding this sense of outrage and injury, time and the hour had -their usual effect upon Joyce. There are few things that the common -strain of everyday does not subdue in time--few things, that is, that -are of the nature of sentiment, not actual evil or wrong. She reconciled -herself to the affectionate demonstrations of her old friends, which -were such as they had not made in the old times, without at least saying -again that these were for Colonel Hayward’s daughter, and not for Joyce; -and she learnt to make new ones, or at least to receive shyly and -respond as much as her nature permitted to the overtures of -acquaintanceship made to her by the society among which she lived. The -sense of strangeness faded away; she became familiar with her -surroundings, and with the things which were required of her. She -acquired, to her astonishment and amusement, and pleasure too, when she -had become a little accustomed to her own appearance in them, a number -of new dresses and ornaments, the latter chiefly presents from her -father, who found it the most delightful amusement to make a little -expedition into town--a thing which was at all times a pleasant -diversion to him--to go to Hancock’s, or some other costly place, before -or after he went to his club, and bring Joyce a bracelet or a ring. -These expeditions were not always agreeable to Mrs. Hayward. She said, -‘If you would tell me what you wanted, Henry, I could get it a great -deal cheaper for you at the Stores--half the price: these Hancock people -are ruinous.’ - -‘But, my dear, I bought it only because it chanced to take my fancy--in -the shop-window,’ said the scheming Colonel, with wiles which he had -learned of recent days. His wife knew as well as he did that this little -fable was of doubtful credence, but she said no more. After all, if he -could not give his child a bracelet or two, it would be a strange thing, -Mrs. Hayward said to herself with a little heat. She was determined to -be reasonable, but she could not help being slightly suspicious of his -meaning, when he announced his intention at the breakfast-table of -taking a little run up to town, and seeing how those fellows were -getting on. He meant his old cronies at the club, whom he was always -pleased to see; but it always turned out that there were other little -things to be done as well. - -And Joyce was far from being without pleasure in these pretty presents, -and in the tenderness which beamed from the Colonel’s face when he stole -his little packet out of his pocket with the air of a schoolboy bringing -home a bird’s nest. ‘My dear, I happened to see this as I passed, and I -thought you would like it.’ She did not know much about the value of -these gifts, overestimating it at first, underrating it afterwards--and -cared very little, to tell the truth, after the first sensation of awe -with which she had regarded the gold and precious stones, when she found -such unexpected treasures in her own possession. But what was of far -greater importance was the tender bond which, by means of all the kind -thoughts which resulted in these gifts, and the grateful and pleased -sentiment which these kind thoughts called forth, grew up between the -Colonel and his daughter. She became the companion of a morning walk -which up to this time he had been in the habit of taking alone--Mrs. -Hayward considering it necessary to be ‘on the spot,’ as she said, and -looking after her household. The Colonel, who never liked to be alone, -took advantage one lovely morning of a chance meeting with Joyce, who -was straying somewhat listlessly along the shrubbery walk, thinking of -many things. ‘I am going for my walk,’ he said--his walk being a habit -as regular as the nursery performance of the same kind. ‘If you have -nothing to do, get your hat and come with me, my dear.’ And this walk -came to be delightful to both, Joyce making acquaintance thereby with -those genuine reflections of a mind uninstructed save by life, which are -so often full of insight and interest; while the Colonel on his side -listened with delighted admiration to Joyce’s information on all kinds -of subjects, which was drawn entirely from books. He talked to her about -India and his old friends there and all their histories, enchanted to -rouse her interest and to have to stir up his memory in order to satisfy -her as to how an incident ended, or what became of a man. - -‘What happened after? My dear, I believe he was killed at Delhi, poor -fellow!--after all they had gone through. Yes, it was hard: but that’s a -soldier’s life, you know; he never knows where he may have to leave his -bones. The poor little woman had to be sent home. We got up some money -for her, and I believe she had friends to whom she went with her baby. -That’s all I know about them. As for Brown, he got on very well--retired -now with the rank of a general, and lives at Cheltenham. The last time I -saw him, he was at Woolwich with his third boy for an exam. It is either -the one thing or the other, Joyce--either they get killed young, or they -live through everything and come home, regular old _vieux moustaches_, -as the French say, with immense families to set out in the world. The -number of fine fellows I’ve seen drop! and then the number of others who -survive everything, and are not so much the better for it after all.’ - -‘When I read the vision of Mirza to my old granny at home---- at -Bellendean--she said life was like that,’ said Joyce gravely,--‘some -dropping suddenly in a moment, so that you only saw that they had -disappeared.’ - -‘The vision of---- what, my dear? It has an Eastern sound, but I don’t -think it’s in the Bible. Very likely I’ve heard it somewhere: but my -memory is rather bad’--(he had been giving her a hundred personal -details of all kinds of people, in the range of some thirty or forty -years)--‘especially for books.’ Colonel Hayward added, ‘More shame to -me,’ with a shake of his grey head. - -And then she told him Mirza’s vision, with the warm natural eloquence of -her inexperience and profound conviction that literature was the one -deathless and universal influence. The Colonel was greatly pleased with -it, and received it as the most original of allegories. ‘It’s -wonderful,’ he said, ‘what imagination these Eastern chaps have, Joyce. -They carry it too far, you know, calling you the emperor’s brother, the -flower of all the warriors of the West, and that sort of thing, which is -nonsense, and never after the first time takes in the veriest Johnny Raw -of a young ensign. Well, but your old woman was very right, my dear. If -I were to tell you about all the fellows that started in life with -me--such a lot of them, Joyce; as cheery a set--not so clever, perhaps, -as the new men nowadays, but up to anything--it’s very like that old -humbug’s bridge, which, between you and me, never existed, you know--you -may be quite sure of that.’ - -Joyce held her breath when she heard the beloved Addison called an old -humbug, but reflected that the Colonel did not mean it, and made no -remark. - -‘It is very like that,’ he continued musingly. ‘One doesn’t even notice -at the time--but when you look back. There was Jack Hunter went almost -as soon as we landed: such a nice fellow--I seem to hear his laugh now, -though I haven’t so much as thought upon him for forty years,--dropped, -you know, without ever hearing a shot fired, with the laugh in his -mouth, so to speak. And Jim Jenkinson, the first time we were under -fire, in a bit of a skirmish for no use. His brother, though--by George! -he hasn’t dropped at all; for here he comes, as tough an old parson as -ever lived, Joyce. Excuse the exclamation, my dear. It slips out, though -I hate swearing as much as you can do. We’ll have to stop and speak to -Canon Jenkinson. I think, on the whole, rather than grow into such a -pursy parson, I’d rather have dropped like poor Jim.’ - -Colonel Hayward directed his daughter’s attention to a large clergyman, -who was walking along on the other side of the road. The Colonel had the -contempt of all slim men for all fat ones; and Joyce, too, being -imaginative and young, looked with sympathetic disapproval at the -rotundity which was approaching. Canon Jenkinson was more than a fat -man--he was a fat clergyman. His black waistcoat was tightly, but with -many wrinkles, strained across a protuberance which is often anything -but amusing to the unfortunate individual who has to carry it, but which -invariably arouses the smiles of unfeeling spectators; the long lapels -of his black coat swung on either side as he moved quickly with a step -very light for such a weight--swinging, too, a neatly rolled umbrella, -which he carried horizontally like a balance to keep his arm extended to -its full length. When he saw Colonel Hayward he crossed the road towards -him, with a larger swing still of his great person altogether. ‘Halloa, -Hayward!’ he said, in a big, rolling, bass voice. - -‘Well, Canon; I am glad to see you have come back.’ - -‘And what is this you have been about in my absence, my good -fellow,--increasing and multiplying at a time of life when I should have -thought you beyond all such vanities? Is this the young lady? As a very -old friend of your father’s, Miss Hayward, and as he doesn’t say a word -to help us, I must introduce myself.’ - -He held out a large hand in which Joyce’s timid one was for a moment -buried, and then he said, ‘You’ve hidden her away a long time, Hayward, -and kept her dark; but I’ve always remarked of you that when you did -produce a thing at the last, it was worth the trouble. My wife told me -you had sprung a family upon us. No story was ever diminished by being -retold.’ - -‘No, no, my daughter only--Joyce, who has been brought up by--her -mother’s relations--in Scotland.’ The Colonel had learned his lesson, -but he said it with a little hesitation and faltering. - -‘Oh!’ said the clergyman, and then he added in an undertone, ‘Your first -poor wife, I suppose?’ - -The Colonel replied only by a nod, while Joyce stood embarrassed and -half indignant. She was deeply vexed by the interrogatory of which she -was the subject, and still more by her father’s look and tone. For the -poor Colonel was the last person in the world to be trusted with the -utterance of a fiction, and his looks contradicted the words which he -managed to say. - -‘Ah!’ said Canon Jenkinson: and then he turned suddenly upon Joyce. ‘Are -you a good Churchwoman, or are you a little Presbyterian?’ he said. ‘I -must have that out with you before we are much older. And I hear you are -going to range yourself on the side of Sitwell, and help him to defy me. -His school feast, _par exemple_, when I am having the whole parish three -or four days after! You know a good deal of the insubordination of -subalterns, Hayward, but you don’t know what the incumbent of a district -can do when he tries. He is not your curate, so you can’t squash him. -Miss Hayward, I take it amiss of you that you should have gone over to -Sitwell’s side.’ - -‘I don’t know even the gentleman’s name,’ said Joyce. ‘There was -somebody spoke of his schools--and I am very fond of schools.’ - -‘His schools! You shall come and see the parish schools, and tell me -what you think of them. Don’t take a wretched little district as an -example. I’ll tell you what, Hayward,--she shall come with me at once -and see what we can do. I don’t go touting round for unpaid curates, as -Sitwell does. But I do think a nice woman’s the best of school -inspectors--in an unofficial way, _bien entendu_. I don’t mean to -propose you to the Government, Miss Hayward, to get an appointment, when -there are so much too few for the men.’ - -He spoke with a swing, too, of such fluent talk, rolling out in the -deep, round, agreeable bass which was so well known in the -neighbourhood, that the two helpless persons thus caught were almost -carried away by the stream. - -‘I don’t think she can go now, Jenkinson. Elizabeth will be wondering -already what has become of us.’ - -‘Is that so?’ said the Canon, with a laugh. ‘We all know there’s no -going against the commanding officer. Another time, then--another time. -But, Miss Hayward, you must give me your promise not to let yourself be -prejudiced; and, above all, don’t go over to Sitwell’s side.’ - -He pressed her hand in his, gave her a beaming smile, waved his hand to -the Colonel, and swung along upon his way, exchanging greetings with -everybody he encountered. - -‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, ‘there is no telling what that man -might have plunged you into if I had not been here to defend you. Let us -go home lest something worse befall us. I think I see the Sitwells -coming up Grove Road. If you should fall into their hands, I know not -what would happen. Walk quickly, and perhaps they will not see us. -Elizabeth will say I am not fit to be trusted with you if I let you be -torn to pieces by the clergy. The Canon, you see, Joyce, was the means -of having this new district church set up. And Sitwell has not behaved -prudently--not at all prudently. He has played his cards badly. He has -taken up the opposition party--those that were always against the Canon, -whatever he might do. They are good people, and mean well, but---- Oh, -Mrs. Sitwell! I am sure I beg your pardon. I never imagined it was you.’ - -There had been a quick little pattering of feet behind them, and Mrs. -Sitwell, out of breath, panting out inquiries after their health and the -health of dear Mrs. Hayward, captured the reluctant pair. She was a -small woman, as light as a feather, and full of energy. She took Joyce -by both her hands. ‘Oh, dear Miss Hayward!’ she cried, breathless, ‘I -ran after you to tell you about the school feast. I hope you don’t -forget your promise. Austin’s coming after me--he’ll be here directly, -but I ran to tell you. To-morrow afternoon in Wombwell’s field. Colonel -Hayward, you’ll bring her, won’t you? I know you like to see the poor -little children enjoying themselves.’ - -‘My dear lady,’ said the Colonel, ‘I am distressed to see you so out of -breath.’ - -‘Oh, that’s nothing. There’s no harm done,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘I am -always running about. Here is Austin to back me up. He will tell you how -I have been calculating upon you, Miss Hayward. Dear, don’t pant, but -tell her. I have told every one you were coming. Oh, don’t disappoint -me--don’t, don’t!’ - -‘I can’t help panting,’ said the clergyman; ‘it is my usual state. I am -always running after my wife. But, Miss Hayward, it is quite true. We -want you very much, and she has quite set her heart upon it. I do hope -you will come--as I think you said.’ - -Mrs. Sitwell left Joyce no time to reply. ‘You must, you must, indeed,’ -she said. ‘Ah, Colonel Hayward, I saw what you did. You brought down the -Great Gun upon her. Was that fair? when we had been so fortunate as to -see her first, and when she had begun to take to us. And whatever he may -say, you are in our district. Of course the parish includes everything. -I think that man would like to have all England in his parish--all the -best people. He would not mind leaving us the poor.’ - -‘Hush, Dora,’ said her husband. ‘I don’t wonder you should form a strong -opinion: but we must not say what is against Christian charity.’ - -‘Oh, charity!’ cried the clergyman’s wife; ‘I think _he_ should begin. I -am sure he told Miss Hayward that she was to have nothing to do with us. -Now, didn’t he? I can read it in your face. Austin himself, though he -pretends to be so charitable, said to me when we saw him talking, “Now -you may give up all hopes;” but I said, No; I had more opinion of your -face than that. I knew you would stick to your first friends and hold by -your word.’ - -‘You ought to be warned, Miss Hayward,’ said the Rev. Austin Sitwell; -‘my wife’s quite a dangerous person. She professes to know all about you -if she only sees your photograph--much more when she has the chance of -reading your face.’ - -‘Don’t betray me, you horrid tell-tale,’ said his wife, threatening him -with a little finger. There was a hole in the glove which covered this -small member, which Joyce could not but notice as it was held up; and -this curious colloquy held across her bewildered her so much, that she -had scarcely time to be amused by it. For one thing, there was no need -for her to reply. ‘But I do know the language of the face,’ said Mrs. -Sitwell. ‘I don’t know how I do it, it is just a gift. And I know Miss -Hayward is true. Wombwell’s field at three o’clock to-morrow afternoon. -You won’t fail me! Colonel Hayward, you’ll bring her, now won’t you? or -it will quite break my heart.’ - -‘Sooner than do that, my dear lady,’ said the Colonel, with his hat in -his hand---- - -‘Ah, you laugh--you all laugh; you don’t think what it is to a poor -little woman trying to do her best. Good-bye, then, good-bye till -to-morrow--Wombwell’s field. I shall quite calculate on seeing you. My -love to dear Mrs. Hayward. Tell her we got the cakes this morning--such -lovely cakes. I shall keep a piece for my own chicks. Good-bye, -good-bye.’ - -‘Thank heaven, Joyce, my dear,’ said the Colonel piously, ‘we have got -away without any pledge. If Elizabeth had only been there! but I don’t -think she is very sure herself which side she is on. The Canon is the -head of the parish, to be sure, and a sort of an old friend besides; but -these young people take a great deal of trouble. And we were all -instrumental in getting this new church built, so I think we ought to -stand by them. But, thank goodness, we neither said one thing nor -another. So we can’t be blamed, my dear, neither you nor I.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -As it turned out, they all went to the school feast. - -Mrs. Hayward was not quite sure, as the Colonel had said, which side she -was on. The Canon had a great influence over her, as he had over most of -the ladies in the parish; but the Canon had a way of making jokes about -India and her husband’s youth, which were apt to turn Mrs. Hayward -sharply round to the other side. When the Colonel reported to her all -that happened, and the meeting in the road, and Canon Jenkinson’s -questions, Elizabeth’s suspicions were at once aroused. ‘What did you -tell him?’ she said. - -‘I said exactly what you told me, my dear. I don’t quite approve of -it--but I wouldn’t run the risk of contradicting you----’ - -‘And what did he say?’ - -‘Well, my dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, a little flushed by this rapid -questioning, ‘he said something about “your first poor wife"--which was -quite natural--for he knows that we have no----’ - -‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs. Hayward cried indignantly. ‘I knew he was just the man -to make references of that sort.’ And after a few minutes she added, ‘I -think we’ll go to the school feast. It will please the Sitwells, who -have a great many difficulties, and who do the very best they can for -their people; and it will show the Canon----’ - -‘But I assure you, my dear----’ - -‘You have no occasion to assure me of anything, Henry--I hope I know him -well enough. He is just the sort of man,’ Mrs. Hayward said. And on the -next afternoon she dressed very well indeed, as for one of the best of -her afternoon parties, and went to the school feast. To see her going in -at the swinging-gate, with Joyce and the Colonel following in her train, -was a very fine sight. But the group was not so conspicuous as it might -have been, from the fact that a great many people equally fine had -already gathered in Wombwell’s field, where the Sitwells, though they -were poor, had gone to the expense of having a tent put up,--an -extravagance which the people who shared their humble hospitalities did -not forget for many a long day. It was not a school feast only, but a -demonstration of the faction of St. Augustine’s as against the parish. -Mrs. Sitwell had worked for this great end with an energy worthy of the -best of causes. She had not neglected any inducements. ‘The Haywards are -coming,’ she said, ‘with their daughter, you know,--the young lady whom -no one ever heard of before. I am sure there is some mystery about that -daughter.’ This was how it was that she had been so anxious and -importunate with Joyce. - -It was the very first occasion on which Joyce had found herself among a -company of ladies and gentlemen as one of themselves, and she had not at -all expected it. She had gone expecting to find children, among whom she -was always at home,--poor children who, though they would be English, -and talk with that accent which, to Joyce’s unaccustomed ears, meant -refinement almost as extraordinary as the strange acquirement of -speaking French, which continues to astonish unaccustomed travellers on -the other side of the Channel--would still be not so much unlike Scotch -children that one used to them should not find means of making friends. -She had made sure that there would be some young woman in charge of them -with whom, perhaps, she might be allowed to make acquaintance, who would -tell her how she managed, and what were her difficulties, and which was -the way approved in England. In short, Joyce had looked forward -wistfully to a momentary half-clandestine return to what had heretofore -been her life. It was disappointing to go in company with her father and -his wife, who would be on the outlook to see that she did not commit -herself. But then, on the other hand, she was unexpectedly reinforced by -the arrival of Captain Bellendean, in whom she found a curious support -and consolation. He knew--that she was Joyce the schoolmistress, not a -fine young lady. That of itself felt like a backing up--just as it had -been a backing up in the old times that the lady at Bellendean knew that -perhaps she was not altogether Joyce the schoolmistress, but Joyce the -princess, Lady Joyce, if all were known. - -But when Joyce found herself in the midst of this well-dressed company, -and understood that she was, so to speak, quite accidentally plunged -into the world, a great tremor came over her. The scene was very -animated and pretty, though not exactly what it professed to be. -Wombwell’s field was a large grassy space, very green and open, -surrounded on three sides by overhanging foliage, and with a few trees -at the upper end, where the ground sloped a little. In the flat ground -at the bottom the travelling menageries which visited Richmond were in -the habit of establishing themselves from time to time, whence its name. -The round spot created by innumerable circuses showed upon the grass; -but beyond the turf was of unbroken greenness, and there stood the -little tent within which tea was dispensed to the company. The children -were at the other end of the field occupied with divers games, with a -few of the faithful of the district superintending and inspiring. But -Joyce found herself not in that division of the entertainment, where she -might have been at her ease, but in the midst of all the well-dressed -people--the people who knew each other, and exchanged greetings and -smiles and polite conversation. - -‘Dear Mrs. Hayward, how kind of you to come to our little treat! Dear -Miss Hayward, how sweet of you to remember! Colonel, you are always so -kind; I am sure you have been working for me,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, -meeting them with extended hands. She was beaming with smiles and -delight. ‘I asked a few friends to look in, and people are so kind, -everybody has come. It is quite an ovation! Dear Austin is quite -overcome. It is such an encouragement in the face of opposition to find -his friends rallying round him like this.’ - -‘Why are his friends rallying round him?’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I -thought it was a school feast.’ - -‘And so did I,’ said Joyce, looking somewhat piteously round her, and -wistfully at the children in the distance. The Colonel and Mrs. Hayward -had both been swallowed up by the crowd. They were shaking hands with -all their acquaintances, exchanging smiles and remarks. Joyce said to -herself, with a thrill of mingled alarm and self-congratulation, What -should I have done had not the Captain been here? - -Norman looked round upon the company, though with different feelings -from those of Joyce. ‘I don’t know a soul,’ he said, with a little -amusement--the consciousness, so soon acquired by a man who has been for -however short a time ‘in society’--not only that it is a very -extraordinary thing to know nobody, but also that the people among whom -he cannot find a single acquaintance cannot be of much account. - -‘And neither do I,’ said Joyce, with a wistful look. Her feeling was -very different. She was a little fluttered by the sight of so many -people, and looked at them with a longing to see a face she knew, a -face which would smile upon her. She met many looks, and could even see -that there were little scraps of conversation about her, and that she -was pointed out to one and another; but there was no greeting or -recognition for her among the pleasant crowd. She turned round again, -very grateful, to the Captain, whose society sustained her--but, alas! -the Captain had been spied and seized upon by Lady St. Clair, and Joyce -felt herself left alone. She looked wistfully at the collection of -daughters who surrounded Lady St. Clair, ready to claim acquaintance -with a smile if the Miss St. Clair who had called should be among the -array. But either the Miss St. Clair who had called was not there, or -else she had forgotten Joyce. She stood for a moment shy yet desolate, -not knowing where to turn; then, with a little sense of taking flight, -moved quickly away to where the children were. - -‘Miss Hayward, Miss Hayward!’ cried a voice behind. She paused, glad -that some one cared enough to stop her, and saw Mr. Sitwell hastening -after her, with a young man following closely,--a very young man in the -long coat and close waistcoat which were quite unusual things to Joyce. -‘You are so kind as _really_ to wish to help with the children? Let me -introduce my young friend and curate, Mr. Bright; he will take you to -them,’ the clergyman said. - -The other little clergyman made his bow, and said how fortunate they -were in having such a fine day, and what a pretty party it was. ‘I -always think this is such a nice place for outdoor parties: not so nice -as one’s own lawn, of course--but if one has no lawn, what can one do? -In most places there is no alternative but a vulgar field. Now this is -quite pretty--don’t you think it is quite pretty, Miss Hayward?’ - -‘There is so much green, and such fine trees, that everything here is -pretty,’ said Joyce. - -‘You put it much more nicely than I did; but I’m so glad you like the -place; and how very gratifying for the Sitwells! It really was time that -there should be a demonstration. After beguiling Sitwell here with such -large promises, to have the rectory set itself against him! But there is -a generosity about society, don’t you think, Miss Hayward, as soon as -people really see the state of affairs. It will be a dreadful slap in -the face for Jenkinson, don’t you think?’ - -‘Indeed----’ Joyce had begun, meaning to say she was too ignorant to -form an opinion, but her new companion did not wait for the expression -of her sentiments. - -‘Yes, indeed--you are quite right; and for Mrs. Jenkinson, who, between -ourselves, is a great deal worse than the Canon. Every one who comes to -St. Augustine’s she seems to think is taking away something from her. -That is the greatest testimonial we can give to the ladies,’ said the -little gentleman, with a laugh; ‘when they are disagreeable, they are so -very disagreeable--beyond the power of any man. But, fortunately for us, -that happens very seldom.’ The curate glanced up for the smile of -approval with which his little sallies were generally received, but -getting none, went on again undismayed. ‘Which kind of children do you -like, Miss Hayward,--the quite little ones, the roly-polies, or the big -ones? I prefer the babies myself: they roll about on the grass like -puppies, and they are quite happy--whereas you have to keep the other -ones going. Miss Marsham takes the big girls in hand. You must let me -introduce her to you. She is our great stand-by in the district--a -little peculiar, but such a good creature. Well, Miss Marsham, how are -you getting on here?’ - -‘Very well, oh, very well. We always do nicely. We have been playing at -Tom Tidler’s ground. We just wanted some one to take the head of the -other side. Oh, Mr. Bright,’ cried this new personage, clasping her -hands together, ‘what a pleasure for everybody; what a good thing; what -a thorough success!’ - -‘Isn’t it?’ cried the curate; and they both turned round to look down -upon the many-coloured groups below with beaming faces. - -‘Nobody can say now that St. Augustine’s was not wanted,’ said the lady. - -‘No, indeed; I have just been saying to Miss Hayward what a slap in the -face for the Canon,’ the gentleman added, again giving vent to his -feelings in a triumphant laugh. - -‘Oh, is this Miss Hayward?’ said Miss Marsham, offering her hand to -Joyce. She was a thin woman, with long meagre arms, and hands thrust -into gloves too big for her. Without being badly dressed, she had the -general air of having been taken out of a wardrobe of old clothes: -everything she wore being a little old-fashioned, a little odd, badly -matched, and hanging unharmoniously together. Even those gloves, which -were too big, had the air of having had two hands thrust into them at -random, without any thought whether or not they were a pair. But the old -clothes were all of good quality; the little frills of lace were what -ladies call ‘real,’ not the cottony imitations which are current in the -present day. She had a worn face, lit up by a pair of soft brown eyes, -in which there was still a great deal of sparkle left, when their owner -pleased. - -‘I have heard so much of you,’ she said. ‘Dear Mrs. Sitwell takes such -an interest! it is so very kind to come and see how the children are -getting on: and here they are all waiting for their game. Mr. Bright, -you must take the other side. Now then, children, I hope that is high -enough for you. Come on.’ - -Joyce stood by with great gravity while the game proceeded--Mr. Bright -and Miss Marsham making an arch with their joined hands, through which -the children streamed. The curate, no doubt, would have taken this part -of his duties quite simply if it had not been for the presence of this -spectator, whose momentary smile died off into a look of very serious -contemplation as she stood by, taking no part in the fun, which, with -the stimulus of Mr. Bright’s presence, grew fast and furious. Joyce -could not have told why she felt so serious. She stood looking on at -Miss Marsham’s old clothes on the one side--the thin wrist, with its -little edge of yellow lace, the big glove, made doubly visible by the -elevation of the hand--and Mr. Bright in his neat coat, falling to his -knee, extremely spruce in his professional blackness, against the vivid -green of the sloping field. Joyce thought him very good to do it, nor -was she conscious of any ridicule. She compared Mr. Bright with the -minister at home, who would have looked on as she herself was doing, but -certainly would not have joined in the play: and she thought that the -children were very much made of in England, and should be very happy. -Presently, however, Mr. Bright detached himself from the game, and came -and joined her. - -‘I am afraid you thought me a great gaby,’ he said; ‘but at a school -feast, you know, one can’t stand on one’s dignity.’ - -‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘it was I that was the great---- for not joining -in. I should like to do something; but I don’t know what would please -them.’ - -‘Something new to play at,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I always ask strangers -if they can’t recommend something new. Look, look!’ she cried, suddenly -clutching the curate’s arm; ‘do you see? the Thompsons’ carriage, his -very greatest supporters! Dear me, dear me! who could have thought of -that!’ - -‘And Sir Sam himself,’ said the curate exultantly. ‘Well, this is -triumph indeed. I must go and see what they say.’ - -‘Sir Sam himself,’ said Miss Marsham musingly. ‘Do you know, Miss -Hayward, if you will not think it strange of me to say it, I am -beginning to get a little sorry for the Canon. It is not that Sir Sam is -such a great person. He is only a soap-boiler, or something of that -sort; but he is enormously rich, and the Canon has always been by way -of having him in his pocket. Whatever was wanted, there was always a big -subscription from Sir Sam. Yes, dear, by all means. Hunt the Slipper is -a very nice, noisy---- You will think it very queer, Miss Hayward, but I -_am_ beginning to get sorry for the Canon. I can’t help recollecting, -you know, the time before St. Augustine’s was thought of. Yes, yes, my -dear; but let me talk for a moment to the young lady.’ - -‘I know so little,’ said Joyce,--‘scarcely either the one or the other.’ - -‘And you must think us so frivolous,’ said the kind woman, with a sigh. -‘The fact is, I was very anxious it should be a success. St. Augustine’s -was very much wanted--it really was. There are such a number of those -people that live by the river, you know--boatmen, and those sort of -people--and so neglected. I tried a few things--a night-school, and so -forth; but by one’s self one can do so little. Have you much experience, -Miss Hayward, in parish work?’ - -‘Oh, none--none at all.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Miss Marsham, with a sigh, ‘that’s how one’s illusions go. I -thought you would be such a help. But never mind, my dear, you’re very -young. Oh, you’ve begun, children, without me! All right, all right; I -am not disappointed at all. I want to talk to this young lady. They -think we care for it just as much as they do,’ she went on turning to -Joyce; ‘but if truth be told, I am a little stiff for Hunt the Slipper. -And you can’t think how good the Sitwells are. He is in the parish--I -ought to say the district--morning, noon, and night. And she--well, if I -did not know she had three children, and did everything for them -herself, and really only one servant, for the other is quite a girl, and -always taken up with the baby--besides her work about the photographs, -you know--I should say she was in the parish too, morning, noon, and -night.’ - -Joyce stood and looked down upon the people flitting in and out of the -tent, arranging and rearranging themselves in different groups, and on -the rush of the hosts to the swinging-gate, at which a fat man and a -large lady were getting down, and listened to the narrative going on in -her ear with the accompaniment of the cries and laughter of the -children, all in that tone which, to her northern ears, was high-pitched -and a little shrill. How strange it all was! She might have fallen into -a new world. It was curious to listen to this new opening of human life; -but she was young, and not enough of a spectator to be able to -disengage herself, and be amused with a free mind by the humours of a -scene with which she had nothing to do. She looked still a little -wistfully at the little crowd, where there was nobody who knew anything -of herself, or thought her worth the trouble of making acquaintance -with. Joyce had not heard any fine conversation as yet, nor had she -encountered any of the wit or wisdom which she had expected; but still -she could not free herself from the idea that to be among the ladies and -the gentlemen would be more entertaining than here, with Miss Marsham -giving her a sketch of the history of the Sitwells and the church -controversies of the place, and the school children quite beyond her -reach playing Hunt the Slipper in the background. She was much too young -to take any comfort in the thought that such is life, and that the gay -whirl of society very often resolves itself into standing in a corner -and hearing somebody else’s private history, not always so innocent or -from so benevolent a historian. - -But presently, and all in a moment, the aspect of affairs changed for -Joyce. It changed in a completely unreasonable, and, indeed, altogether -inadequate way,--not by an introduction among the best people, the crowd -whose appearance filled the clergyman and his wife, and all their -retainers, with transports a trifle short of celestial; not in making -acquaintance with Sir Sam Thompson, the soap-boiler, whose appearance -was the climax of the triumph--a climax so complete that it turned the -scale, and made the Sitwells’ hard-hearted partisan sorry for the Canon. -None of these great things befell Joyce. All that happened was the -appearance of a tall individual, separating himself from the crowd, and -walking towards her from the lower level. - -‘Here is a gentleman coming this way,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I don’t think -he is one of the school committee, or any one I know. But I am rather -short-sighted, and I may be mistaking him for some one else, as I do so -often. Dear Miss Hayward, I am sure you must have good eyes: will you -look and tell me. Ah, I see you know him.’ - -‘It is Captain Bellendean,’ said Joyce. Her musing face had grown -bright. - -‘Who is Captain Bellendean? Does he take an interest in Sunday schools? -Is he----’ Here Miss Marsham turned to look at her companion, and -though she was short-sighted, she was not without certain insights which -women seldom altogether lose. ‘Oh!’ she said, and, with a subdued smile -and a sparkle out of her brown eyes, which for a moment made her -middle-aged face both young and bright, returned to the children who -were playing Hunt the Slipper, and though she had said she was too -stiff for that game, was down among them in a moment as lively as any -there. - -It is to be doubted whether Joyce was conscious that her friend of ten -minutes’ standing had left her, or how she left her. She stood looking -down upon the same scene, her face still full of musing, but touched -with light which changed and softened every line. ‘I have been looking -for you everywhere,’ said Captain Bellendean; ‘when I got free of that -rabble you were nowhere to be seen. I might have thought you would turn -to the children, who have some nature about them. And so I had the sense -to do at last.’ - -‘Do you call them rabble?’ said Joyce. - -‘Not if it displeases you,’ he said. ‘But what are they after all? -Society is always more or less a rabble, and here you get it naked, -without the brilliancy and the glow which takes one in town.’ - -Perhaps Captain Bellendean had not found himself so much appreciated as -he thought himself entitled to be in town, and thus produced these -sentiments, which are so common, with a little air of conviction, as if -they had never been heard before. And indeed, save in books, where she -had often met them, Joyce had never heard them before. - -‘And yet,’ said Joyce, ‘when educated people meet--people that have read -and have seen the world--it must be more interesting to hear them talk -than--than any other pleasure.’ - -‘May we sit down here? the grass is quite dry. Educated people? I am -sure I don’t know, for I seldom meet them, and I’m very uninstructed -myself. But I’ll tell you what, Miss Joyce, you are the only educated -person I know. Talk to me, and I will listen, and I have no doubt it -will be far more entertaining to me than any other diversion; but -whether it may have the same effect on you----’ he said, looking up to -her from the grass upon which he had thrown himself, with inquiring -eyes. - -Oh, Andrew Halliday! whose boast was education, who would have tackled -her upon the most abstruse subjects, or talked Shakespeare and the -musical glasses as long as she pleased,--how was it that the soldier’s -brag of his ignorance seemed to Joyce far more delightful than any such -music of the spheres? - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -Norman Bellendean appeared very often at Richmond. He made what Mrs. -Hayward considered quite an exhibition of himself at that school -feast--in a way which no man had any right to do, unless---- People -asked who he was--a distinguished-looking man, and quite new to society -in Richmond. It is well known that in the country a man who is really a -man--neither a boy of twenty nor an aged beau masquerading as such--is -always received with open arms. Half a dozen ladies, with water-parties, -or dances, or some other merrymaking in hand, asked Mrs. Sitwell -anxiously who her friend was. ‘And could you induce him to come to my -dance on the 23d?’ or to my picnic, or whatever it might be. He formed -in some degree the climax of that most successful entertainment; for the -little clergywoman was too clever to confess that in reality she knew -nothing whatever about Captain Bellendean. She replied evasively that -she did not know what his engagements were,--that he had only come from -town for that afternoon; and so got herself much worship in the eyes of -all around, who knew how very difficult it was, what an achievement -almost impossible, to get a man to come from town, while still the -season lingered on. It was just as well, the disappointed ladies said; -for a man who could _afficher_ himself, as he had been doing with that -Miss Hayward, was either an engaged man, and so comparatively useless, -or a dangerous man, who had better be kept at arm’s-length by prudent -mothers with daughters. An engaged man, as is well known, is a man with -the bloom taken off him. He cannot be expected to make himself agreeable -as another man would do--for either he will not, being occupied with his -own young lady, or else he ought not, having a due regard to the -susceptibilities of other young ladies who might not be informed of his -condition. And to see him sitting on the grass at Joyce’s feet was a -thing which made a great impression upon two people--upon Lady St. -Clair, who knew Norman’s value, and whose heart had beat quicker for a -moment, wondering if it was for Dolly, or Ally, or Minnie, or Fanny, -that the Lord of Bellendean had come; whereas it appeared it was for -none of them, but for the Haywards, and that stiff girl of theirs. The -other person was Mrs. Hayward herself, who, after all the trouble she -had been at in making up her mind to Joyce, thus found herself, as it -seemed, face to face with the possibility of being released from Joyce, -which was very startling, and filled her with many thoughts. It would, -no doubt, be a fine termination to her trouble, and would restore the -household to its original comfortable footing. But besides that she -grudged such wonderful good luck to a girl who really had done nothing -to deserve it, Mrs. Hayward felt that, even with Joyce married, things -could not return to their old happy level. No revolution can be undone -altogether; it must leave traces, if not on the soil over which it has -passed, at least on the constitution of affairs. The house could never -be, even without Joyce, as easy, as complete, as tranquil, as before it -was aware that Joyce existed. Therefore her mind was driven back into a -chaos of uncertainties and disagreeables. - -Besides, it was not in the abstract a proper thing for a man to -_afficher_ himself in such a way. It was wrong, in the first place, -unless he was very certain he meant it, compromising the girl; and even -if he meant it, it was an offence against decorum, and put the girl’s -mother, or the person unfortunately called upon to act in the place of -the girl’s mother, in a most uncomfortable position; for what could she -say? Should she be asked, as it would be most natural that people should -ask, whether it was a settled thing, what answer could she make? For she -felt sure that it was not a settled thing,--nothing indeed but a caprice -of this precious Captain’s. To amuse himself, nothing but that! And yet -she felt with an angry helplessness, especially galling to Elizabeth, -who had hitherto commanded her husband with such absolute ease and -completeness, that this was a case in which she could not get the -Colonel to act. He would not bring the man to book: he would not ask him -what he meant by it. Of this Mrs. Hayward was as certain as that night -is not day. Colonel Hayward could not be taught even to be distant to -the Captain. He could not behave coldly to him; and as for herself, how -could she act when the father took no notice? This was one of the things -which, even under the most skilful management, could not be done. - -It kept Mrs. Hayward all the more anxious that young Bellendean -continued to appear from time to time without invitation, sometimes -indeed bringing invitations of his own. Twice there was a water-party, -the first time conducted by Mrs. Bellendean, and to which a party came -from town, including Greta--a large and merry party, which the St. -Clairs were asked to join as well as the Haywards. The gratification of -this, which brought her into bonds of apparent intimacy with Lady St. -Clair, her most important neighbour, threw a pleasant mist over Mrs. -Hayward’s sharpness of observation; but she was suddenly brought back to -her anxieties by remarking the eagerness of Mrs. Bellendean to have -Joyce with her on the return voyage. Joyce had been in Norman’s boat on -the way up the stream, while Greta sat sedately by her elder relative; -but in coming back Mrs. Bellendean had shown so determined a desire for -Joyce, that the Captain’s plans were put out. Mrs. Hayward, till that -time rapt in the golden air of the best society, feeling herself -definitely adopted into the charmed circle of ‘the best people,’ had -forgotten everything else for the moment, when she suddenly became aware -of a little discussion going on. ‘Joyce, you must really come with me. I -have scarcely had the chance of a word. Greta will take your place in -the other boat, and you must--you really must give me your company.’ -‘What is the good of disturbing the arrangement?’ said Norman’s deeper -voice, in a slight growl. ‘Oh, I must have Joyce,’ said the other. And -Mrs. Hayward, looking up, saw a little scene which was very dramatic and -suggestive. The Captain, in his flannels, which are generally a very -becoming costume, making his dark, bronzed, and bearded face all the -more effective and imposing, stooping to hold the boat which Joyce had -been about to enter, looking up, half angry, half pleading, as his -glance was divided between the two ladies. Joyce’s foot had been put -forward to step on board, when her elder friend caught her arm; and Mrs. -Hayward’s keen eyes observed the change of expression, the sudden check -with which Joyce drew back. And the change was effected, notwithstanding -the Captain’s opposition. Mrs. Hayward did the girl the justice to say -that she did not look either dull or angry when she was transferred to -the other boat; but she was subdued--sedate as Greta had been, and as -was suited to the atmosphere of the elder people. The Colonel, it need -not be said, was among the younger ones, making himself very happy, but -not pleased, any more than his inferior officer, to have Joyce taken -away. - -This little episode was one concerning which not a word was said. The -immediate actors made no remark whatever, either good or bad. Mrs. -Bellendean held Joyce’s hand in hers, and talked to her all the way with -the tenderest kindness; and save that she had fallen back into more of -her ordinary air, and was serious as usual, Joyce showed no -consciousness that she had been removed from one boat to another, _pour -cause_. Was she aware of it? her step-mother asked herself; did she -know? Mrs. Hayward replied to herself that a woman is always a woman, -however inexperienced, and that she must know: but did not specify in -her thoughts what the knowledge was. - -And in the evening, when all was over, when the visitors had departed -after the cold collation which Mrs. Hayward thought it necessary to have -prepared for them on their return, though that had not been in the -programme of the day’s pleasure--she held a conversation with the -Colonel on the subject, which gave much information to that unobservant -man. ‘Did you tell me, Henry,’ she said, opening all at once a sort of -masked battery upon the unsuspecting soldier, pleasantly fatigued with -his party of pleasure, ‘or have I only imagined, that there was some -man--in Scotland--some sort of a lover, or engagement, or -something--that had to do with Joyce?’ - -‘My dear!’ the Colonel cried, taken by surprise. - -‘Yes, but tell me. Did I dream it, or did you say something?’ - -‘There was a man,’ the Colonel admitted, with great reluctance, ‘at the -cottage that day, who said---- But Joyce has never spoken to me on the -subject--never a word.’ - -‘But there was a man?’ Mrs. Hayward said. - -‘There was a man: but entirely out of the question, quite out of the -question, Elizabeth. You would have said so yourself if you had seen -him.’ - -‘Never mind that. Most likely quite suitable for her in her former -circumstances. But that is not the question at all. What I wanted to -know was just what you tell me. There was a man----’ - -‘I have never heard a word of him from that day to this. Joyce has never -referred to him. I hope never to hear his name again.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Hayward, opposing the profound calm of a spectator to -the rising excitement of her listener. ‘I wonder, now, what he would -think of Captain Bellendean.’ - -‘Of Bellendean? why, what should he think? What is there about -Bellendean to be thought of? Yes, yes, himself of course, and he’s a -very fine fellow; but that is not what you mean.’ - -‘Do you mean to say, Henry, that you did not remark how the Captain, as -she calls him, _affiches_ himself everywhere--far more than I consider -becoming--with Joyce?’ - -‘_Affiches_ himself! My dear, I don’t know exactly what you mean by -that. So many French words are used nowadays.’ - -‘Makes a show of himself, then--marks her out for other people’s -remark--can’t see her anywhere but he is at her side, or her feet, or -however it may happen. Why, didn’t you remark he insisted on having her -in his boat to-day, and paid no attention to the young lady from town -who was of his own party and came with him, and of course ought to have -had his first care?’ - -‘My dear, I was in that boat. It was natural Joyce should be with me.’ - -‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘and accordingly Captain Bellendean, with -that self-denial which distinguishes young men, put out his own people -in order that you might have her near you. How considerate!’ - -‘Elizabeth! not more considerate, I am sure, than you would be for any -one who might feel herself a little out of it,--a little strange, -perhaps, not knowing many people,--not with much habit of society.’ - -‘My dear Henry, you are an old goose,’ was what his wife said. - -But when there was another water-party proposed, she looked very closely -after her step-daughter--not, however, in the way of interfering with -Captain Bellendean’s attentions,--for why should she interfere on behalf -of Greta or any one else? let their people look after them,--but only by -way of keeping a wise control and preventing anything like this -_affichement_, which might make people talk. Captain Bellendean was a -free man, so far as any one knew; he had a right to dispose of himself -as he pleased. There was no reason why she should interfere against the -interests of Joyce. To be sure, it gave her a keen pang of annoyance to -think of this girl thus securing every gift of fortune. What had she -done that all the prizes should be rained down at her feet? But at the -same time, Mrs. Hayward began to feel a dramatic interest in the action -going on before her eyes--an action such as is a great secret diversion -and source of amusement to women everywhere--the unfolding of the -universal love-tale; and her speculations as to whether it would ever -come to anything, and what it would come to, and when the _dénouement_ -would be reached, gave, in spite of herself, a new interest to her life. -She watched Joyce with less of the involuntary hostility which she had -in vain struggled against, and more abstract interest than had yet been -possible--looking at her, not as Joyce, but as the heroine of an -ever-exciting story. The whole house felt the advantage of this new -point of view. It ameliorated matters, both upstairs and down, and, -strangely enough, made things more easy for Baker and the cook, as well -as for Joyce, while the little romance went on. - -All this took place very quickly, the water-parties following each other -in rapid succession, so that Joyce was, so to speak, plunged into what, -to her unaccustomed mind, was truly a whirl of gaiety, before the day on -which Canon Jenkinson called with his wife in state--a visit which was -almost official, and connected with the great fact of Joyce’s existence -and appearance, of which they had as yet taken no formal notice. Mrs. -Jenkinson was, in her way, as remarkable in appearance as her husband. -She was almost as tall, and though there were no rotundities about her, -her fine length of limb showed in a free and large movement which went -admirably with the Canon’s swing. They came into the room as if they had -been a marching regiment; and being great friends, and having known the -Haywards for a number of years, began immediately to criticise all their -proceedings with a freedom only to be justified by these well-known -facts. - -‘So this is the young lady,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said. She rose up to have -Joyce presented to her, and, though Joyce was over the common height, -subdued her at once to the size and sensations of a small schoolgirl -under the eyes of one of those awful critics of the nursery who cow the -boldest spirit. ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear.’ -The Canon’s wife was a very well educated woman, but her English was not -perfect. She used various of those colloquialisms which are growing more -and more common in ordinary talk. The reader will not imagine that, in -reporting such dreadful forms of speech, the writer has any sympathy -with persons who are capable of saying that they are very pleased. - -‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson; ‘how -do you do? I think I ought both to have had information of this -wonderful appearance upon the scene and to have had you brought to see -me; but that is, of course, not your fault: and though late, I am very -delighted to make friends with you. She has a nice face,’ she added, -turning to Mrs. Hayward. ‘I like her face. No doubt she will give you a -great deal of trouble, but in your place I should expect to make -something of a girl with that kind of looks.’ - -‘I am sure Joyce is very much obliged to you for thinking so well of -her. It remains to be seen what we are to make of each other--but I -never pretended to be so clever,’ Mrs. Hayward said. - -‘As for pretending, that is neither here nor there. I want you to tell -me all about it now,--not for my sake, but that I may have something to -answer when people bother me with questions. That is the worst of not -being quite frank. When you make a mystery about anything, people always -imagine there is a great deal more in it. I always say it is the best -policy to make a clean breast of everything at once.’ - -‘There is no clean breast to make. I have all along said precisely the -same thing--which is, that she couldn’t possibly have been with us in -India, and that she was brought up by her mother’s friends.’ - -‘The first wife,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson; ‘poor thing, I have always heard -she died very young, but never before that she left a child.’ - -‘Few people are so clever as to hear everything. You perceive that it -was the case, nevertheless,’ Mrs. Hayward said, with a sparkle in her -eyes. - -‘And I hear you are plunging her into all sorts of gaiety, and that -there is a follower, as the maids say, already, or something very like -one--a Scotch officer, or something of that sort. You are not so pleased -to have her, but what you would be resigned to get rid of her, I -suppose.’ - -‘I can’t tell what you suppose, or what you may have heard,’ said the -Colonel’s wife. ‘I hope I will do my duty to my husband’s daughter -whatever the circumstances may be.’ - -‘Oh, I don’t mean to throw any doubt upon that; but we were very -surprised,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said. - -In the meantime the Canon had withdrawn to the other side of the room -and called Joyce to him, who had been considerably alarmed by the -beginning of this interchange of hostilities. ‘Come here and talk to -me,’ he said. ‘You have not kept faith with me. I have got a crow to -pluck with you, my new parishioner. You went to that affair of the -Sitwells after all.’ - -‘My father took me,’ said Joyce, with natural evasion; and then she -added, ‘but there was no reason I should not go.’ - -‘Here’s a little rebel,’ said the Canon; ‘not only flies in my face, but -tells me there’s no reason why she shouldn’t. Come, now, answer me my -question. Are you a good Churchwoman--they turn out very good Church -principles in Scotland when they are of the right sort--or are you a -horrid little Presbyterian? you wouldn’t answer me the other day.’ - -‘I am a--horrid Presbyterian,’ Joyce said, with an unusual amusement and -sense of humour breaking through her shyness and strangeness. The Canon -was the first person who had touched any natural chord in her. - -‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘Hayward, here’s a pretty business. As if -it were not enough to have a nest of rebels conspiring under my very -nose, here’s a little revolutionary with no respect for any constituted -authority whom you’ve brought among us. But I must teach you the error -of your ways. You shall come and hear me preach my famous sermon on -Calvin, and if after that you find you have a leg to stand upon--but I -suppose you’re ready to go to the stake for your religion, however wrong -it may be proved to be?’ - -‘I was never taught,’ said Joyce, with her schoolmistress air, ‘that it -was a religion at all--for them that instructed me said we were all at -one in our religion, and that it was only the forms of Church -government----’ - -‘Do you hear that, Hayward! This will never do. I see she means to -convert me. And that’s why she sympathises with these Sitwells and their -demonstrations. You were there too. And they dragged that old boy--that -big Sir Sam--to their place, by way of a little extra triumph over -me--as if I cared for the soap-boiler. And, Hayward, you were there -too.’ - -‘Elizabeth,’ said the Colonel abashed, ’as they made so great a point of -it, thought we might as well go.’ - -‘And fly in the face of your oldest friend,’ said the Canon. ‘Look here, -I am going to be great friends with this girl of yours. I’ll bring her -over to my side, and she’ll help me to make mince-meat of these St. -Augustine people. What is her name?--Joyce--why, to be sure, that was -her mother’s----’ The Canon’s fine bass dropped into a lower key, and -he broke of with a ‘poor thing, poor thing! Well, my dear, I don’t mean -to stand on any ceremony with you. I mean to call you Joyce, seeing I -have known your father since before you were born. You shouldn’t have -taken him off to that business in Wombwell’s field, and made him take -sides against me.’ - -‘I did not know--one side from another,’ said Joyce; ‘and besides, it -was not me.’ - -It was very hard for her not to say ‘sir’ to him. He belonged to the -class of men who are in the way of visiting schools, and to whom a -little schoolmistress looks up as the greatest of earthly potentates; -but she resisted the inclination heroically. - -‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t doubt both of these things are true, but you -shall hear all about it. Why, I set up the man! It was I who put him in -that district--it was I who got it constituted a district--_you_ know, -Hayward. They were starving in a curacy when I put them there. Not that -I blame Sitwell--it’s that little sprite of a wife of his that is at the -bottom of it all. A little woman like that can’t keep out of mischief. -She runs to it like a duck to the water. And they thought they would -make an end of me by laying hold of that old soap-boiler--old Sam! Soapy -Sam, no doubt she’ll call him--that woman has a nickname for everybody. -She calls me the Great Gun, do you know? If she doesn’t take care she’ll -find that guns, and Canons too, have got shot in them. Why, she’s got -that good old Cissy Marsham away from me--that old fool that is worth -ten thousand soap-boilers.’ - -‘Oh no,’ said Joyce. - -‘What?’ cried the Canon--‘not worth ten thousand soap-boilers? No, you -are right; I meant ten million--I was under the mark.’ - -And then Joyce told her little story about Miss Marsham’s regrets. And -the Canon’s melodious throat gave forth a soft roar of laughter, which -brought a little moisture to his eyes. ‘I always knew I should have you -on my side,’ he said. ‘Here’s this little schismatic extracting the only -little drop of honey there was in all that prickly wilderness--and -laughing in her sleeve all the time to see the Church folks quarrelling. -But don’t you be too cock-sure: for I’ll have you converted and as -stanch a Churchwoman as any in the diocese before Michaelmas--if that -Scotch fellow leaves us the time,’ the Canon said, with another big but -soft laugh. - -That Scotch fellow! Joyce grew very red, and then very pale. There was -only one, as far as she was aware, who could be called by that name. And -how completely she had forgotten him and his existence, and those claims -of his! The shock made her head swim, and the very earth under her feet -insecure. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -There had been great exultation in St. Augustine’s over the -demonstration. At the lively supper-party which was held in the little -house which the Sitwells occupied, _en attendant_ the parsonage which -had been promised them (it was one of their chief grievances that no -steps had been as yet taken towards carrying out this promise), on the -evening after the school-feast, the parson’s wife had been more -animated, more witty even, than usual. She had made quite a little drama -of the possible scene going on in the rectory, where the Canon and his -wife were supposed to be discussing the matter. She walked about the -room to represent Mrs. Jenkinson panting with rage, demanding, ‘Canon, -what were you doing that you let it be? Why didn’t you stop it? Why -didn’t you interfere? I’d rather have written to the bishop, and had -them turned off on the spot--that man: and that woman! The woman is far -the worst, in my opinion. I am very surprised that you didn’t -interfere!’ Then Mrs. Sitwell puffed herself out so that you would -actually have believed her to be Canon Jenkinson, and made her small -voice into something as like his softly rolling bass as was possible to -so different an organ. ‘If you will consider, my dear, there was nothing -to go to the bishop with. The most contemptible of creatures, even a -curate, is committing no crime when he gets up a school-feast; and he -may even be so abandoned as to give a garden-party, and still his bishop -would not interfere. Bishops have too little power--their hands are -dreadfully tied. If ever I take a bishopric, I hope they’ll be good for -something more----’ ‘I should hope so, indeed!’ cried the imaginary -Canon’s wife in asthmatic pants. ‘The Thompsons too--poor Sir Sam, who -is too good-natured for anything. You will see that odious little woman -will turn him round her finger. He’ll build their parsonage--he’ll back -them up in everything. He’ll get them a grant for their schools, Canon; -and it will be your fault if you let him slip through your fingers. -Austin, dear!’ cried little Mrs. Sitwell, suddenly becoming herself, -with her little ingratiating look, and her voice a little thin, -high-pitched, and shrill-- ‘Austin, dear! will you turn upon me if I let -him slip out of mine?’ - -Austin dear had laughed until he had cried over these sketches of his -ecclesiastical superiors, and so had the Rev. Mr. Bright, and even good -Miss Marsham--for they were well done; and the cleverness with which -this small person made herself into the semblance of two large people -was wonderful. But afterwards Mr. Sitwell shook his head a little. ‘I -hope he will do what you, or rather Mrs. Jenkinson, thinks,’ he said. ‘I -sha’n’t mind how much you turn him round your little finger: but these -fat men are not so easily influenced as you would suppose,’ he added, -with a sigh. - -‘And, my dear,’ said Miss Marsham, nervously pulling out the little bit -of yellow lace round her wrist, and keeping her eyes upon it, ‘though -you make me laugh--I can’t help it, it is so funny to hear you do -them--yet, you know, if they feel it as much as that, I am sorry. I want -you to get your parsonage, and I want St. Augustine’s to get on. I am -sure if I had money enough I should like, above all things, to give it -you for all your schemes; but I don’t want _them_ to suffer--I don’t, -indeed,’ she said, making a little hole in her lace, and then trying -with nervous efforts to draw it together. Miss Marsham was of opinion, -ever after, that this hole in her old Mechlin was in some way -judicial,--a judgment upon her for having participated, however -unwillingly, in the ridicule of her old friends. - -‘As for Sir Sam, if he resists Mrs. Sitwell, he will be the first who -has done it,’ said Mr. Bright admiringly. He was not aware that she -called him ‘Angels ever Bright and Fair’ when he was not present, and -sang that sacred ditty with all his little airs and graces, so that the -circle permitted to see the performance nearly died with laughter--or so -at least they said. - -But the demonstration was over, and nothing more happened. The sudden -stop which comes to all excitement when it has been stirred up to a -boiling pitch, and afterwards has just to subside again and nothing -happens--is painful. The Sitwells went on from day to day expecting a -letter from Sir Sam, in which he should propose to build the parsonage -(he could so easily!--it would not have cost him a truffle from his -dinner, of which the doctor said he ate far too much), or to start the -subscription for it with a good round sum, so as to induce others to -follow--or, at the very least, enclosing a cheque for the schools. But -nothing came, not even an invitation to dinner, which would have -afforded an occasion to the parson’s wife to turn the fat gentleman -round her finger, as she had almost engaged to do. Nothing came except, -in a fortnight’s time, an invitation to--a garden-party! Mrs. Sitwell -cried with anger and disappointment when this arrived. She took it in to -her husband in his study, after she had calmed down a little. ‘Look what -I have got!’ she said; ‘an invitation to Alkaleigh--to a -garden-party--next month. What shall I say?’ - -‘A garden-party! is that all it has come to?’ cried the parson; and then -he added, angrily, ‘Say we’ve no time for such nonsense--say we never go -to garden-parties--say we’re engaged.’ - -‘I don’t think we should do that. I was very angry too, for the first -moment; but when I came to think of it, I felt sure it was _her_ doing. -Women never want their husbands to give away their money. And at a -garden-party, you know, Austin, there are such opportunities--when you -have your wits about you, and can make use of them.’ - -‘It doesn’t seem as if we did much when we had him in Wombwell’s -field--at your command,’ the parson said. - -This change of pronouns was very significant, and the sharp little -clergywoman perceived it instantly. Austin did not like the idea of -wheedling a soap-boiler--especially when it was entirely unsuccessful. -He did not want it to be supposed, even by himself, that he ever -countenanced such unworthy ways. A man cannot (notwithstanding all -Biblical and other warrants for it) control his wife, or get her to -refrain from using her own methods; and so long as it is clearly -understood that he is not responsible for them---- Adam did not object -to the apple,--rather liked it, so far as we have any information; but -he wished it to be known that it was his wife’s doing, not any -suggestion of his. Unfortunately, however, he could not slide out of the -responsibility, as Mr. Sitwell, among a community always disposed to -think it was _her_ doing, was not unhopeful of being able to do. - -‘I gave in to you about making a demonstration,’ he said. ‘It cost a -good deal of money, Dora, and I can’t say I ever heartily approved of -it; but I gave in, thinking you knew more of society than I did, and -that you might be right. And it was a great success, you all said. No; I -don’t say anything against that. I daresay it was a success; but what -has come of it? Nothing at all--except twenty pounds for the schools, -counting that ten of Cissy Marsham’s, which we should have had anyhow.’ - -‘Twenty pounds is always something, Austin,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ignoring -the drawback. ‘And it is a great deal to have made it so fully known. -Sow your bread, don’t you know, by all waters, and it will return to us -after many days.’ - -‘That’s all very well, my dear,’ said the parson, a little subdued--for -how is a man of his cloth to answer when you stop his mouth with a text? -He added, however, somewhat dolefully, ‘And not a move about the -parsonage; and if we are to stay here another winter, when not a single -door or window fits, and the rain is always coming in through the -roof----’ - -‘We must stay here another winter, and there is an end of it!’ cried his -wife.’ If the subscriptions were full and money to spare, they couldn’t -build the parsonage in four months. You must see the landlord, Austin, -and get him to do something. And we must think of something else to get -up the money; we haven’t tried half the things we might. Why, if the -worst comes to the worst we can have a bazaar. There’s always money to -be made in that way: and private theatricals, and a concert--and----’ - -‘Dora, you know I hate bazaars.’ - -‘Everybody says so,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘But everybody goes, and -everybody buys, no matter what rubbish it is. People that won’t give a -shilling will spend twenty in materials for making up some trumpery or -other, and twenty more in buying other trumpery that other people have -made. Bazaars must respond to some need of human nature, Austin, which -it has been left to this generation to find out.’ - -‘It looks like it,’ says the parson. ‘But don’t talk to me about it, -Dora. If it has to be, I suppose I shall find philosophy enough to -tolerate it when the time comes.’ - -‘Oh, tolerate it! You will be out and in ten times a day, making pretty -speeches to all the ladies,’ cried little Mrs. Sitwell, with a laugh. -‘Depend upon it, you will find a bazaar responds to some need of your -nature too.’ She said this, though he did not find it out, so exactly in -her husband’s own tone, and with his manner, that she had to laugh -herself at the double joke of her own fun and his unconsciousness. ‘And -“Angels ever Bright and Fair” will enjoy it above all things. He will -wonder how we never thought of a thing so delightfully calculated to -bring people together before.’ - -This time it was the parson who laughed, recognising the voice of Mr. -Bright and all his ways, and even his appearance evolved as if by -witchcraft. - -‘You are really incorrigible, Dora,’ he said, turning back to his -sermon with a mind amused. But he did not know altogether how -incorrigible she was, and that he himself, all innocent and -unsuspecting, had been a victim too. - -‘And I’ll go and see whether I can’t get Joyce to make her father do -something,’ cried the parson’s wife. - -Joyce had been plunged in spite of herself into this new and strange -current of life. The Miss St. Clairs, notwithstanding the momentary -intimacy of the boating party, made few advances towards friendship; but -Mrs. Sitwell was very eager to secure her society, and also her help in -the many activities which absorbed the clergywoman’s busy life. And -there could be no doubt that it was very convenient to Mrs. Hayward that -her step-daughter should have a friend who would relieve herself from -the duty of tolerating Joyce’s constant companionship, and providing for -her entertainment. Joyce, with a singular impartiality and fairness of -mind, herself perceived the advantages of this, and what it must be to -her father’s wife to be now and then free of her presence, and able to -act as if no grown-up daughter, no unexpected much-claiming personage -had ever been in existence. She had a certain sympathy even with Mrs. -Hayward--and she allowed herself to be drawn into the other current, -with wistful yet genuine understanding of its expediency. Indeed, Joyce -went on day by day making discoveries, learning fully only now when she -seemed to have settled into her place in her father’s house, all the -difficulties, the almost impossibilities of it. She felt her disjunction -from her past growing day by day, and that was perhaps the worst of all. - -The very climax of disquietude and distress came upon her suddenly one -day when she was sitting in her room writing her usual letter to Janet, -the long journal-letter which had been her safety-valve in her early -troubles. In the midst of her writing, while she was giving that minute -account of herself and of all her actions, which was everything to her -old grandmother, Joyce suddenly awoke as from a dream, with a burning -blush, and threw away her pen out of her hand, as if it had been _that_ -that was in the wrong. That little implement, which, one way or other, -does so much for us, betraying us, expounding us even to ourselves, -seemed to her for the moment like a tricksy demon drawing out of her -things which it was against her honour to say. She got up suddenly, -pushing away the table and the letter--things that were in the -conspiracy! and with a great deal of agitation walked about the room to -subdue the beating in her heart. How was it she had never felt, never -recognised till now, the difference? Not Janet’s child, free to secure -in everything the sympathy of those old people who belonged to her, but -Joyce Hayward, her father’s daughter, bound by a hundred ties, bound -above all to betray his household to no one, not to those who were -dearest to her. Joyce was very miserable for a time over this discovery. -It stopped not only her letter but the whole course of her thoughts. -When she resumed her writing, it was with a poignant sense of unreality, -a feeling that her letter was fictitious, written not to reveal but to -conceal, which took all the comfort and pleasure out of it. She felt -that Janet would read between the lines that it was no longer her Joyce -that was writing, but Colonel Hayward’s daughter. Their relationship -seemed to change in a moment, to become a thing unreal, no longer full -of solace and confidence, but fictitious, strained, and untrue. - -For a time she no longer cared to write at all, making excuses, finding -that she had not time--that to put off till to-morrow was a relief. The -change made her heart sick. She felt as if she had been over again cut -adrift from what she loved best. And yet it had to be. Hers was not the -hand to lift any veil from the doorways of her father’s house, or hand -over its household manners to remark, or take refuge from it in another. -She wrote a longer letter than usual to Janet after that abrupt -awakening, and kissed and cried over it when she sent it away, -redoubling the tender words in which she was usually shy of indulging, -and writing protestations of affection which had been unnecessary, and -which she felt to ring untrue. But how could she better it? It was her -first false letter, yet so loyal--the first little rift within the lute, -and the music was mute already. She accompanied it with many an anxious, -wondering thought, but never knew what Janet thought of it, if Janet had -perceived. If Janet did perceive, she never let her nursling suspect it. -And not a word was said between them; but it is scarcely to be believed -that the acute and keen intellect of the old woman, and her tremulous -sympathy with every movement in the mind of her child, could pass over -that change which to Joyce’s consciousness was so complete. - -To say that the letters to Andrew Halliday grew few and rare would be to -say little. Joyce began to feel the writing of them as the greatest -burden of her life. She did not know what to say to him--how to address -him. His very name made her tremble. Her heart, which had never beaten -two beats quicker for his presence, sank now into depths unknown at the -thought of him. What if he were to come to claim her! That he would do -so one day, Joyce felt a terrifying, awful conviction. And would she be -bound to arise and go with him--to leave everything that she was -beginning to love? Joyce knew nothing else that could be done. She had -pledged him her word. To withdraw from it because--because, as she had -said, she was Colonel Hayward’s daughter--how should she do that? He was -the inevitable, standing at the end of all things--a sort of visible -fate. - -Joyce shuddered and turned away from this thought. To escape from it, to -hide her face and not see that image in her pathway, became more and -more a necessity as the days went on. And this was another reason for -finding refuge in the society which was close to her, though it was so -perplexing and unfamiliar. Anyhow, it was more comprehensible than -garden-parties and lawn-tennis, which, to the spirit of the Scotch -peasant which was in her, were inscrutable pleasures regarded with awe. -Joyce did not understand these rites. She understood Mrs. Sitwell’s -schemes a little better, though still with wonderment and many failures -in comprehension. And it took her a long time to find out that the -parson’s wife intended to employ her for the furtherance of her own -purposes, and that it was the novelty of her and her unlikeness to other -people which made her attractive to her new friend. Mrs. Sitwell wooed -Joyce with flattering pertinacity. She showered invitations upon her. -She took the girl into her confidence, telling her how much she wanted, -how little she had, and unbosoming herself about her pecuniary concerns -in a way which horrified her listener. For Joyce had the strong Scotch -prejudice against any confession of poverty or appeal for help. She had -been trained in the stern doctrine that to starve or die was possible, -but not to beg or expose your sorrows to the vulgar eye. When the -parson’s wife told of her poverty, which she was quite willing to do, to -the first comer, Joyce listened with a painful blush, with a sense of -shame. She was very sorry--but horrified to see behind the scenes, to be -admitted thus, as she felt, to the sanctuary which ought to be kept -sacred. But for the woman who had bestowed upon her this painful -confidence, Joyce felt that she must be ready to do everything. It could -not be for nothing that such a confidence was bestowed. - -Mrs. Sitwell, for her part, did not care at all for what poor Joyce -considered this exposure of her circumstances. She told her tale with a -light heart. She was not ashamed of being poor. ‘It’s very nice of you -to be so sorry,’ she said. ‘And, my dear, if you would just say a word -to the Colonel, and get him to set things agoing. He could do it quite, -_quite_ easily. If you were to take an opportunity when you are walking -with him, or when you have him alone. But I don’t doubt you would have -done that, you kind thing, without being asked----’ - -‘Oh no,’ said Joyce; ‘I would not have betrayed your confidence, nor -said a word----’ - -‘Oh, my confidence! It is only rich people that can hope to keep their -affairs to themselves. I didn’t want you to make any secret of it. Just -say to your father, who is so kind--whatever you please, my dear. I can -trust you. Say, “Dear daddy, those Sitwells are so poor! don’t you think -you could do something for them?” or any other thing that will please -him and make him think well of us.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Joyce, with a low exclamation of fright and horror. The -suggestion that she should say ‘dear daddy’ put a final crown upon the -extraordinary mission confided to her. But Mrs. Sitwell thought it the -most natural thing in the world. - -‘Don’t do it when Mrs. Hayward is by, that’s all. Oh, she’s an excellent -woman, I know; but it’s always the women, you know, that hold back. But -for the women, we should have had the parsonage long ago; they won’t let -people be liberal. I often say, if there were no ladies in the -parish--oh, what a difference! I shouldn’t be a bit afraid even of the -Great Gun himself.’ - -‘You seem to think that it is women who do everything--especially -everything that is bad,’ said Joyce, with a gleam of amusement. - -‘And so it is,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, with a sigh. ‘If one could only get -hold of the gentlemen by themselves. I should like to be the one woman -to make them do all I wanted,’ she continued, with a laugh. She was the -product of a very advanced civilisation, much beyond anything which her -untrained companion knew. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -Joyce, being so untrained, had, however, but a poor account to give of -her intercession. The Colonel could do nothing without Elizabeth, and -his promise to consult his wife and see what steps could be taken did -not convey much comfort to the parson’s wife. She listened to Joyce’s -account of the manner in which she had fulfilled her commission with a -lengthening face. At the end she jumped up and gave the girl a kiss -which took Joyce very much by surprise. To this inexperienced Scotch -peasant-girl the ways of the English were extravagant and full of -demonstration, as are to English persons the manners of ‘foreigners’ in -general, both being disposed to believe that to show so much was rather -an indication that there was little feeling to show. - -‘I am sure you meant it as well as possible,’ she said, ‘but you should -have seized an opportunity and spoken to the dear Colonel when there was -nobody there. Oh, I am sure you are as good as gold--and perhaps if they -will really get up a movement---- But I’ve been promised that so often, I -have not much faith in it. I thought you might just whisper a word to -your dear father, who thinks all the world of you, and the thing would -have been done.’ ‘It is the women,’ continued this oracle, ’as I told -you before, who hold back. If we had only the men to deal with, it would -be much easier to manage. But the women calculate and reckon up, and -they say, “It will be a loss of so much on the year’s income;” or “There -is so and so I wanted to buy; if I let him give the money away, I shall -have to do without it.” That is how they go on. Whereas the men don’t -think; they just put their hands in their pockets, and the thing’s -done--or it isn’t done,’ she added, with a sudden smile, looking up in -Joyce’s face. ‘Never mind,’ she continued, ‘don’t let us make ourselves -unhappy about it. Come and see what I am doing.’ She returned to the -corner from which she had sprung up on Joyce’s entrance. ‘Come and I’ll -show you my workshop, and how I keep the pot boiling,’ she cried. - -The room was divided into two, a larger and a smaller portion, with -folding-doors, as is usual in such small habitations; but these doors -were always open, and Mrs. Sitwell’s corner was at the farther end, -commanding the whole space. Joyce saw with amazement a quantity of small -photographs ranged upon the ornate but rather shabby little desk at -which her friend worked, and which was covered with sheets of paper, -each containing a piece of writing and a number. Mrs. Sitwell took up -one of the photographs and handed it to Joyce. - -‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘what would you think was the character of that -gentleman, supposing that you were going to marry him, or to make him -your friend, or to engage him as your butler? What would you think of -him from his face?’ - -‘I think,’ said Joyce, bewildered, ‘that I should not be--very fond of -him: but I don’t know why.’ - -‘Oh, you dreadful little critic! why shouldn’t you be fond of him, as -you say? He is quite nice-looking--better than half the men you see. Now -here is what he really is,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, lifting one of the pieces -of paper and handing it to Joyce, who read with amazement: ‘No. -310.--This face is that of a man full of strength and character. The -brow shows great resolution, the eyes much courage and judgment. The -mouth is sensitive, and the nose expresses shrewdness and caution. He -will be very decided in action, but never rash; very steady in his -affections, but slow in forming any ties. There is a great but -suppressed love of art and music in the lines about his eyes.’ - -‘Well, dear, do not stare at me so; don’t you think, now you look at him -again, that it’s all true? or perhaps you would like this one better.’ -The second was the photograph of a simpering girl, in that peculiar -combination of stare and simper which only photographs give. ‘Now, don’t -commit yourself,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, with a laugh. ‘Look at the account -of all her perfections before you say anything. “No. 603.--Ethelinda is -a young lady of many qualities. Her eyes show great sweetness of -disposition. She will be very true, and when she gives her heart, will -give it altogether. The lips show a highly sensitive and nervous -disposition, feeling too strongly for her own peace. There are also -signs of much musical power, and of great constancy in love."’ - -Joyce put down these two extraordinary literary compositions with -something like consternation. ‘It is perhaps stupid of me,’ she said, -‘not to understand.’ - -‘Oh no; it is not stupid at all. Perhaps you have never seen the -_Pictorial_? It has quite a great circulation, and is very popular. This -is a new branch of the answers to correspondents that made the _Family -Herald_ such a success. Don’t you know the Answers to Correspondents in -the _Family Herald_? Oh, you must indeed have been brought up out of the -world! But the _Pictorial_ is quite in advance of that. If you send your -photograph to the editor, you receive next week a description of your -character from Myra. Now Myra is me.’ - -‘Then those--are going into a newspaper,’ said Joyce, looking at the -pieces of written paper with a mingling of curiosity and shame. - -‘Those--are going into the _Pictorial_, and they are going to give a -great deal of pleasure to various people, and to put a little money into -my pocket, which wants it very much,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘Now, what -is there to object to in that?’ - -‘Indeed,’ said Joyce, ‘I was not thinking of objecting. I was only taken -by surprise.’ - -‘Ah!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, with a little moisture enhancing the keen -sparkling of her eyes, ‘that is what you all say, you well-off people, -who never knew what it was to want a sovereign! You are surprised at the -way we poor unfortunates have to take to make a little money. Why, I -would simply do anything for a little money--anything that was not -wrong, of course. You don’t know what money means to us. It means -clothes for the children and a nursemaid to take care of them, and good -food, which they require, and a hundred little things, which you people -who never were in want of them never think of.’ - -‘But I was not accustomed to be rich. I know what it means to have -nothing. No,’ Joyce added hurriedly, ‘perhaps that is not true; for when -I had nothing I wanted nothing, and that must be the same thing as -having everything. I find no difference,’ she said. - -‘Then you don’t know anything about it, just the same. The dreadful -thing is to have nothing and want a great many things--and this is the -case of so many of us. How could we live upon poor Austin’s little pay? -People think a clergyman ought to have private means--but where are we -to get the private means? We have a little something in my family, but -my mother has it for her life. I don’t want my mother to die, who is -always so kind to the children, that I may get my little share. It would -only be a few hundred pounds, after all. And Austin’s people thought -they did enough for him when they gave him his education, as they call -it--sending him to Oxford to learn expensive habits. A great deal too -much is made of education,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘I don’t think I -shall take any trouble about education for my children. They get on -better without it, in my opinion.’ - -This dreadful assertion made Joyce gasp with horror. Not take any -trouble about education!--which was the only thing in all the world to -take trouble about. But she did not trust herself to say anything, and -indeed Mrs. Sitwell did not leave her time. - -‘But they _shall_ be comfortable and have things as nice as possible -while they are babies,’ cried the parson’s wife; ‘and when I found out -that I could do this, I was as pleased as Punch. One goes upon rules, -you know--it is not all guess-work; and my opinion is, there is a great -deal in it. Austin says that supposing these people had everything in -their favour, no bad influences or anything of that kind, then what I -find in their faces would be true. Let me see, now. Let me read yours. -You have a great deal that is very nice in you, dear. You are of a most -generous disposition. You would give anything in the world that you had -to give. But you are apt to get frightened, and not to follow it out. -And you are musical--I can see it in your eyes.’ - -‘Indeed, I don’t know anything at all about music.’ - -‘That has nothing to do with it,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘You would have -been if you had known. And you are _very_ sensitive, dear. You put -meanings upon what people say, and take offence, or the reverse, when -none is meant. You are full of imagination; but you haven’t much -courage. You love people very much, or you dislike them very much. You -are devoted to them, or else you can’t endure them.’ - -‘I don’t think I ever do that,’ said Joyce sedately, taking it all with -great gravity. - -‘Oh, of course you have been modified by education, as Austin says. -Nobody is just as nature made them; but that is what you would be if you -had been left alone, you know. I’ll write it all out for you when I have -a little time. Give me back Ethelinda and No. 310. I have a kind of idea -these two simpletons are going to be married, and they want each to know -a little more of the other--that is, you know, they want the prophet to -agree with them; and say this is the sweetest girl that ever was--and -that is the nicest man. And you may be sure that the better you speak of -any one, the more you will agree with what they think of themselves. -When you say they are musical and intellectual, and all that, they think -how wonderful that you should understand them so well! though they may -be the stupidest of people that ever were seen.’ - -‘But----’ Joyce said, with timidity. - -‘I don’t want any buts. You would never let any one do anything if you -were to carry a “but” with you everywhere. If you heard me say to Sir -Sam the soap-boiler what excellent taste he had, and how beautiful his -house was, you would think it was wrong perhaps, and put in that “but” -of yours. But why? Gillow, who did it all, is supposed to have excellent -taste, and poor dear Sir Sam thinks it perfection. And it pleases him to -be told so. Why shouldn’t I please him? If I were of his way of -thinking, I would admire it too; and don’t you see, when you sympathise -with a man, and want to please him, you _are_ of his way of -thinking--for the moment,’ the little lady added. ‘Now just wait a -minute till I finish off my people,’ she said. - -Joyce sat in a bewilderment which had become almost perennial in her -mind, and watched the woman of business before her. Mrs. Sitwell took up -photograph after photograph, examining each with every appearance of the -most conscientious care. She would put down the little portrait, and -write a few sentences, looking at it from time to time as a painter -might look at his model,--then pausing, biting her lips as if some -contradictory feature puzzled her, would take it up again and follow its -lines, sometimes with the end of her pen, sometimes with the point of -her finger, knitting her brows in the deepest deliberation. ‘I wish -people wouldn’t be so much alike,’ she said. ‘I wish they wouldn’t all -show the same traits of character. I can’t make all the ladies -affectionate and musical, and all the men determined and plucky, can -I?--but that’s what they expect, you know. Now here’s one,’ she cried, -selecting a photograph, ‘upon whom I shall wreak my rage. She shall be -everything she wouldn’t like to be; that will make the others laugh who -have got off so much better. I’ll put it as nicely as I can, but she -won’t like it. Listen!--“The brows denote much temper, verging upon the -sullen, against which I warn Arabella to be on her guard. There is a -tendency to envy in the lines of the nose; the thinness of the lips -shows an inclination to the use of language which might develop into -scolding in later life. The eyes show insensibility to love, which might -make her very cruel to her admirers if she has any. Arabella ought to -take great care to obtain a proper command of herself, so as to keep -these dangerous qualities under. There is a strength in all the lines, -which probably will assure her success if she tries; but she will have -much to struggle against. There is something in the form of her chin -which I suspect to mean love of money, if not avarice; and there seem -some traces of greed about the mouth, but of these last I am not quite -sure.” There! what do you think of that as a foil? It will make the -others more delighted than ever with their own good qualities.’ - -‘And do you see all that in the face?’ - -‘Look!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, placing the photograph before Joyce with a -triumphant movement. It was a heavy, unattractive face, such as hang by -dozens in the frames of poor photographers, and are accepted by the -subjects with that curious human humility which mingles so strangely -with human vanity, and teaches us to be complacent about anything which -is our own. The parson’s wife snatched it back and threw it among the -little heap on the table. ‘Now I have done for to-day,’ she said; ‘and -you know you are going with me round my district. Don’t look so -miserable about Arabella; I have sacrificed her to the satisfaction of -the others--the greatest happiness of the greatest number, don’t you -know? But all the same, it’s all there--every word’s true. I’ve no more -doubt she’s a nasty, ill-speaking, ill-tempered toad, than I have that -you are the nicest girl I know--only it doesn’t always do to say it. If -there were many unfavourable ones, inquirers would fall off. I give them -one now and then to show what I can do when I think proper. Come along. -We’ll take a look at the children first, and then we’ll go--and forget -that there ever was a cheap photograph done. Oh, how I loathe them all!’ -Mrs. Sitwell said. - -They went upstairs accordingly to see the children, of whom there were -three, the youngest being a baby of some seven or eight months old. -‘They are not fit to be seen,’ said the nursemaid, who was maintained by -those photographs. - -‘They have got their nursery overalls on, and not very much underneath,’ -said their mother. ‘We keep our swell things for swell occasions. But -look at those legs!’ Joyce was not deeply learned in babies’ legs, her -experience lying among elder children. But there are few women to whom -the round, soft, infantine limbs--‘the flesh of a little child,’ as the -Old Testament writer says, when he wants to describe perfect health and -freshness--have not a charm, and she was able to admire and praise to -the mother’s full content. ‘Little Augustine--we give him his full name -to distinguish him from his father, and also because of the church--is -really wonderfully clever, though I say it that shouldn’t,’ said Mrs. -Sitwell; ‘and little May is the most perfect little mother! You should -see her taking care of baby! Do you know, I was at my Characters two -days after that boy was born. I couldn’t afford to lose a week! I sat up -in bed and did them. Don’t you think it was clever of me?’ she said, -with a laugh, as they went downstairs--‘and never did me the least -harm.’ The rapid succession of aspects in which this little person -disclosed herself took away Joyce’s breath. Her mind was of slower -action than that of her new friend. She had not been able to settle with -herself what she thought of the photographs and the _Pictorial_ and the -sacrifice of the ugly Arabella, when her companion flashed round upon -her in the capacity of the devoted and admiring mother, which softened -her sharp voice, and lit up her face with love and sweetness. - -Joyce had further surprising experiences to go through in the district, -to which she now accompanied the parson’s wife, and where everything was -new to her. She thought within herself, if the minister’s wife had -fluttered into her granny’s cottage in the same way and stirred up -everything, that the reception Janet would have given her would have -been far from agreeable. Yet probably the minister’s wife had more means -of help than Mrs. Sitwell, and the poor women whom she visited more -actual money in the shape of wages than Janet had ever possessed. Joyce -felt herself retire with a shiver, feeling that quick resentment must -follow, when the charitable inquisitor put questions of a more than -usually intimate character--but no such result appeared. And there could -be no doubt about the practical advantage and thorough sympathy of the -visitor. She had a basket in her hand, out of which came sundry little -gifts, and her suggestions were boundless. ‘I have some old frocks of my -boy’s that would just do for that little man. Are you sure you can mend -them and make them up for him?’ - -‘Well, ma’am, I could try,’ the poor woman would say, with a curtsey. - -‘Oh, I don’t believe in trying unless you know how to do it,’ said the -parson’s wife; ‘come up to my house at six, and bring the child, and -I’ll fit them on him, and show you how. You ought to go to the mothers’ -meeting, where they will show you how to cut out and put things -together. It would be so useful to you with all your children.’ ‘Well, -Mrs. Smith,’ she ran on, darting in next door, ‘I hope things are going -on all right with you. Now he’s taken the pledge, you ought to be so -much more comfortable. But, dear me! you are in as great a muddle as -ever.’ - -‘He’s took the pledge, but he’s not kep’ it,’ said the woman sullenly. - -‘I don’t wonder, if he has only a house like this to come home to. Why, -if I were in a cotton gown and a big apron like you, I’d have it all -spick and span in an hour. I wish I could turn to this moment,’ cried -the little lady, quivering with energy, ‘and show you what sort of a -place a man should come home to. Poor Mr. Smith, I don’t wonder he’s -broken the pledge. Why, that poor child makes my heart ache. When did it -have its face washed?’ - -‘I haven’t the heart to begin,’ said Mrs. Smith, subsiding into feeble -crying-- ‘I’m that ill and weak. And I don’t never get on with anything.’ - -‘Poor thing! is that so? I thought you couldn’t be well, you’re so -helpless. I’ll send the mission woman tomorrow morning to put all -straight for you, and you’d better go to the doctor tomorrow and let’s -get at the bottom of it. If you’re ill we must get you set right. I’ll -come and see what the doctor says, and I’ll send you something down for -the man’s supper. But for goodness’ sake wash the baby’s face and get -the place swept up a little before he comes in. That can’t hurt you. -Come, you mustn’t lose heart--we’ll see you through it,’ said the -parson’s wife. - -There could not be a better parson’s wife, Joyce acknowledged, strange -though to her the type was. She petted and humoured the sick children as -if she had been their mother. She sat by a bedridden woman and listened -to a long rambling story about her illness and all its details, with -every appearance of interest and unquestionable patience. And when the -round was got through, she skipped out of the last house with the -satisfaction of a child to have got its task over. ‘Now let’s have a run -down to the river to see the boats, and then home to tea. You are going -to stay with us for tea? I want a good fast nice walk to blow all the -cobwebs out of my head.’ - -‘But you must be tired. And it must make your heart sore.’ - -‘You say that _sore_ in such a pathetic way,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, -laughing and mimicking Joyce with her soft, low-toned, Scotch voice--an -action which Joyce only detected after a minute or two, and which made -her flush with a troubled sense of being open to ridicule. The sensation -of being laughed at was also a thing to which she was entirely -unaccustomed. ‘But you can’t help them unless you see what they want,’ -the parson’s wife went on. ‘And as half of them will cheat you if they -can, and you must find out the truth from your own observation, not from -what they tell you, you must simply put your heart in your pocket, and -think nothing of its being _sore_. And as for being tired, I’m never -tired, I have so many different things to do. If they were the same, I -should die of it. We are going to have some fun to-night--we are going -to have “Angels ever Bright and Fair” to meet you. Oh! don’t you know -what I mean by “Angels ever Bright and Fair”? I mean Mr. Bright, our -curate. He is the best little man in the world, and he is so pleased you -agree with him, only putting it so much more nicely.’ Then the little -mimic changed her tone, and was more Bright than Mr. Bright himself. ‘He -shall sing that song of his for you, and he will try to make a little -mild love to you, and it will all be great fun. But first let us go on -to the bridge and have a look at the boats.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -It was the afternoon of a brilliant summer day, and the Thames was full -of water-parties going home, full of frolic and merriment, and pretty -ladies in fine dresses, and men in flannels, in that _négligé_ which -Englishmen alone know how to make agreeable and pleasant to behold. The -sight of all that pleasure had a pleasurable effect upon the parson’s -wife, though she had no share in it. And the charm of the scene--the -river, struck full by the level sunshine which made it blaze, the colour -and movement of the continually passing boats, the more tranquil -river-people about--fishermen in their punts, who had sat there all day -long, and looked ’as steadfast as the scene,’ immovable like the trees -that overhung the water--was delightful to Joyce, who had so soon -acquired associations with that river, and to whom her two expeditions -upon it were the most delightful of her life. She was leaning upon the -bridge, looking over, watching the measured movement of the oars, as a -party of small boats together swept down the stream, and thinking, not -of them, but of her own water-party, and the strange enchantment in -it--when she suddenly saw in one of the passing boats a figure which -made her heart jump with sudden excitement. It was Captain Bellendean, -who was standing up in the stern of the boat behind a gay party of -ladies, steering, which was a difficult operation enough at that moment. -He was too much absorbed in his occupation to look up, but Joyce had no -difficulty in identifying him. His outline, his attitude, would have -been enough for her quick eyes; his face was almost stern in the -intentness with which he was surveying the river, guiding the -deeply-laden boat through the dangers of that passage, amid a crowd of -other boats, many of them manned by very unskilful boatmen,--and -entirely unconscious of her observation. - -The sight of him gave the sensitive girl a curious shock. She knew very -well that his life was altogether apart from hers, that he must be -engaged in many scenes and many pleasures with which she had nothing to -do, and that the point at which their two lives came in contact at all -was a very narrow one. She knew all this as well as it was possible to -know such an evident matter of fact; and yet, somehow, this sudden proof -of it, and sight of him passing her by, unconscious of her existence, in -the society to which, and not to her, he belonged, had an effect upon -Joyce altogether out of proportion to the easiness of the incident. -Where had he been? Who were the people who were with him? Had it been as -delightful to him as when he had made it a scene of enchantment and -delight to her? She did not ask herself these questions. She only -recognised in one swift moment that there he was in his own life, -altogether unaware of, and unconcerned by, hers. The shock, the -recognition, the instant identification of all these facts, were -complete in a moment--the moment which it took the boat, propelled by -four strong pairs of arms, to shoot within the shadow of the bridge--and -no more. - -‘Why! wasn’t that your friend, Captain Bellendean, standing up steering -that big boat?’ Mrs. Sitwell said. - -Joyce had a curious sensation as if she were standing quite alone, -separate from all the world, and that this was some ‘airy tongue that -syllables men’s names’ echoing in her ears. She heard herself murmur as -if she too were but a voice, ‘Yes, I think so’--while the glowing river -and the drooping trees, and all the gleams of mingled colour, melted and -ran into each other confusedly like the mists of a dream. - -‘I am sure it is. What a wonderful thing when one has all sorts of -things to do, to watch those people who have nothing to do but amuse -themselves! He has been philandering about with his ladies all day, and -probably he will be out at half-a-dozen parties, or lounging in his club -half the night--and the same thing to-morrow and to-morrow. Well, on the -whole, you know I think it must be dull, and not half so good as our own -hard-working life,’ Mrs. Sitwell said; but she sighed. Then turning upon -Joyce with a sudden laugh-- ‘I forgot you were one of the butterflies -too.’ - -‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘only twice’--thinking of those enchanted -afternoons upon the water, and having only half emerged from the curious -haze of enlightenment, of realisation, if such a paradox may be, which -had surrounded her. She thought, but was not sure, that her companion -laughed at this inconsequent reply. Only twice! How strange it was that -these two frivolous water-parties--mere pleasure, meaning -nothing--should have taken such a place in her life, more than all the -hard work of which Mrs. Sitwell (with a sigh) asserted the superiority! -The school, the labours in which Joyce had delighted, her aspirations, -her Shakespeare class, had all melted away and left no trace; while the -Thames with its pleasure-boats, the mingled voices of the rowers and -their companions, the tinkle of the oars, the sunshine on the water, -appeared to her like the only realities in the haze of her present life. -They came back to her with the most astonishing distinctness when this -sudden glimpse, which felt like a revelation, but was not--how could it -be so?--rather the most ordinary circumstance, the most natural -accident, befell her. It was at least a revelation to her; for it showed -her how distinctly she remembered every incident, every detail, every -word that had been spoken; how the Captain had handed her into the boat; -how she had been placed near him, her father on the other side; how he -had bent over his oar, speaking to her from time to time; how the others -had called to him by the name of Stroke--which at first Joyce had -supposed to be a playful nickname, not knowing what it meant--to mind -his business, to take care what he was about. Joyce did not know why, -but had a curious dazzled sense of his eyes upon her face, of his -attention to her every movement, of the curious change in everything -when she was drawn into the other boat on the way back, and the cloud -that had come over his eyes. All these things were as a picture or a -dream to her, not things she remembered as having been, but which seemed -to go on and continue and be, like an enchanted world, which, having -once come into existence, could never cease. - -Only twice! but remaining always--so that she could go back at her -pleasure, and float again upon the enchanted stream, and hear again the -merry mingled voices, the one of deeper tone sounding through. She -recognised with a strange confusion that this sudden, unexpected sight -of Captain Bellendean steering another boat, with another crew, -disturbed the previous image in her mind in some unexplainable way. It -was like the sudden plunge of a stone into the midst of a still water -full of reflections, breaking up the reflected images, spreading vague -circles of confusion through the lovely unreal world that had been -there. It was unreal altogether, everything, both that which had been -before and that which now was. - -Joyce walked back very soberly by Mrs. Sitwell’s side, vaguely listening -to the lively strain of talk, which conveyed scarcely any idea to her -mind--hearing, answering, knowing nothing, feeling as if the many-sided -practical life in which her companion was so busy, was an unfortunate -and troublesome unreality, breaking into experiences so far more vivid -and true. She was glad to be rid of Mrs. Sitwell for a moment when they -reached the house, where Joyce was to be entertained at tea. - -While its mistress flew about seeing that all was ready, Joyce sat down, -thankful to be alone, very happy to find silence and stillness round -her, even in the little shabby sitting-room, with the faded ornamental -desk and the mystery of the photographs at the other end. She wanted to -think, to make it all out, to realise what had happened. What had -happened! and yet nothing had happened at all. She had seen a boat -floating down, with a score of others, passing under the bridge; and -what was that to her or to any one? A boat passing, a water-party going -down the river, and nothing more. But this was not how it appeared to -Joyce: thinking is one thing and seeing another. Whatever she might say -to herself, what she continued to see was the Captain standing up in the -stern of the long boat, with the steerage-ropes in his vigorous hands, -with that pretty group of ladies in the shadow of his erect -figure,--another world, another life of which she knew nothing at all. -Norman Bellendean had by no means neglected his new friends. Only two -days before he had appeared in the afternoon, and had filled the place -with that something which Joyce did not understand--that influence and -personality which seemed to soften all tones and warm all tints, and -charm the common day into miraculous brightness. She said to herself -that this was society--that interchange of thoughts and feelings which -had always appeared to her the most desirable thing in the world. That -she should have found the charm in the sole possession of a cavalry -officer--who was, it is true, at the same time, a country gentleman, and -the lord and superior of the place which had been her early home, and in -which everybody regarded him with an interest half feudal, half -friendly--did not surprise her, though a cooler head might have found it -a very surprising thing. Joyce believed that Mrs. Bellendean produced -the same charmed atmosphere around her. They were the symbols of all -higher intelligence and finer breeding, and she was not as yet in any -way undeceived, nor suspected any other influence in the delightfulness -of the Captain’s visits--a delight which had begun with the very first -of them, and which had never failed. It was not, therefore, any kind of -jealousy which had sprung up in her mind, even unconsciously. She did -not suspect among the ladies in that boat some special one who might -have all his best looks and words aside. Her mind was not at all in -that conscious phase. She only realised with a curious consternation -that he lived his life in another world--that the days when he was -absent were to him the same as other days, though to her lost in mystery -and the unknown. Where he spent them, with whom he was, mattered -nothing. She was not even curious as to who his companions were. The -wonder, the shock, consisted in the fact that his life had another side -to her absolutely unknown. - -In all this there was no pang of jealous love. She was unaware that -there was love in it, or anything save wonder and disappointment, and a -strange realisation of difference and separation. She did not know where -he had been, or who were with him: he might have passed her very -door--the other side of the hedge--and she would have been none the -wiser. She knew him so well, and yet not at all. Something of the -astonishment with which the primitive traveller recognises the existence -of a hundred circles of human creatures altogether beyond his ken, who -must have gone on living for all those years totally outside of his -knowledge, filled her now. The thought affected her with fantastic pain, -and yet she had not a word to say against it. Her heart made a claim all -unconsciously upon those people who had first awakened its sympathies; -and to pass him on the road, as it were, like this, he not even seeing -her, unexpectant of her appearance, like two strangers, out of reach of -even a passing salutation, was more strange, more overpowering, more -enlightening, than anything, she thought, that had ever happened before. - -The tea after this was bewildering and rather tedious to Joyce. She -wanted to get away to think over her new discovery by herself, and -instead she was compelled to share in an evening of lively wit and -laughter, solidified by much parish talk. A churchwarden, who was no -more than a local tradesman--though one of the ‘best people’--and much -overawed by finding himself there--and good Miss Marsham, were of the -party. Mrs. Sitwell’s voice ran through the whole like the _motif_ of a -piece of music, never lost sight of. ‘You must sing, Mr. Bright, as soon -as you have recovered your voice a little after tea. Eating, we all -know, is very bad for the voice: we will give a little time for tired -nature to restore herself, and then the songster must be heard. Miss -Hayward has never heard you, don’t you know.’ - -‘I am not very much to hear. Miss Hayward would not lose much if she -remained in that state of deprivation.’ - -‘Oh, we don’t think so,--do we, Mr. Cosham? What would the choir do -without him? By the way, that dear boy of yours is coming on famously. -He must have a solo in the anthem on our Saint’s day. He is quite like a -cherub in his white surplice. That is one thing the Canon envies us. He -would give his little finger to have a surpliced choir--but they won’t -let him! Though he is so tyrannical to us, he has to knock under to all -the old women who sit upon him. They call it sitting under him, but I -don’t. Do you, Mr. Cosham?’ - -‘Really, ma’am,’ said the churchwarden, with his mouth full, ‘you put it -so funnily, one can’t help laughing;’ and with humility, putting up his -hand to conceal it, he indulged in an apologetic roar. - -‘Oh, let’s laugh a little--it does nobody any harm,’ said the parson’s -wife. ‘What I should delight in would be to have a band for the -festival: it might be amateur, you know; there are so many amateurs -about the world that want nothing for it--that are too glad to be -allowed to play.’ - -‘And oh, so badly,’ said Mr. Bright. - -‘Not always so very badly--especially when it is strings. Don’t you -think we might have a band, Mr. Cosham, so long as it was strings? it -would be such an attraction--with a solo from your dear little boy.’ - -‘I think it would be a great attraction; what do you think, sir?’ said -the churchwarden, looking towards the chief authority. Mr. Sitwell shook -his head. - -‘Perhaps we think too much of outside attractions when our minds should -be set upon higher influences; but if you think the people would like -it----’ - -‘It helps a deal with the collection--does a band,’ said the -churchwarden. ‘There’s a church I know where they have the military -band, and the place is crowded, with people standing outside the doors.’ - -‘Not from the best of motives, I fear,’ said the parson, still shaking -his head; ‘but to get them to come is something, by whatever means.’ - -‘That’s what I think--like Mrs. Sitwell; and a brass band----’ - -‘Oh no, Mr. Cosham!--strings! strings!’ cried the lady. ‘A brass band is -a deal too noisy.’ She turned upon the unsuspecting man eyes which had -suddenly become dull round orbs like his own, and spoke with the very -echo of his voice. ‘It would drown Johnny’s voice, bless him!’ the -little mimic cried. Mr. Cosham, good man, thought there was something a -little strange and thick in this utterance; but he did not understand -the convulsion of suppressed laughter on the curate’s face, nor the -smile that curled about the corners of Mr. Sitwell’s mouth. These signs -of merriment disturbed him a little, but he did not suspect how. He -turned to the ladies, who were quite grave, and replied with much -sincerity---- - -‘That’s quite true, ma’am--it’s wonderful how you do see things; it -_would_ drown Johnny’s voice--and he’s got a sweet little pipe of his -own, and pleased and proud his mother would be to hear him in church.’ - -‘The boys’ voices are like angels,’ said Miss Marsham; ‘they’re -sometimes naughty little things, but their voices are like heaven. But I -can’t help saying, though I don’t like to disagree with you, that I’m -not fond of a band in church.’ - -‘What! not strings?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, with such an air of ingenuous -and indeed plaintive surprise, that the tender-hearted woman was moved -in spite of herself. - -‘Well--perhaps strings are different,’ she answered, with hesitation. - -‘We never thought of anything else: when our kind friend said brass, it -was only a slip of the tongue. You meant violins all the time, Mr. -Cosham, didn’t you?’ said the parson’s wife, with her appealing gaze, -which made the churchwarden blush with emotion and pleasure. - -‘I believe I did, ma’am,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I’m sure that’s what’s -right if you say so: for naturally being so musical yourself, you know -about these things better than me.’ - -‘Dear,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, addressing Joyce, whom she no longer called -Miss Hayward, but whom she did not yet venture, in sight of a certain -dignity of silence and reserve about that young woman, to call, except -in her absence, by her Christian name,--‘you never give us your opinion -on anything. Do give us your opinion; we have all said our say.’ - -‘Indeed I don’t know anything at all,’ said Joyce--‘nothing at all. I -was never used to music--of that kind, in the church.’ - -‘And yet,’ said Mr. Sitwell, ‘the Scottish Church has a fine ceremonial -of her own, where she has not been deadened by contact with Dissent. I -have always heard there were things in her service which went further -and were more perfect than anything attempted here--until quite -recently. But of course there is always a tendency to be deadened by the -atmosphere of Dissent.’ - -The party all listened very respectfully to this, which had almost the -weight of an oracular statement. Joyce, for her part, was more -bewildered than ever. The words he used bore to her a completely -different meaning, and she was not sufficiently instructed to be aware -of that which he intended to express. She understood the Canon when he -asked her if she was a horrid little Presbyterian, but she had no -comprehension of what Mr. Sitwell meant. She was wise enough, however, -to be silent, and keep her ignorance to herself. - -‘But we all believe the same in the chief points, after all,’ said Miss -Marsham, laying her thin hand caressingly on Joyce’s arm. This kind lady -could not bear the girl to be distressed if, perhaps, she might happen -to be one of those who had been deadened by the atmosphere of Dissent. - -‘Well, now that this great question is settled, and we are to have the -band and Johnny’s solo--and mind you keep him in good voice, Mr. -Cosham--let us go upstairs and have “Angels ever Bright and Fair.” We -are so fond of “Angels ever Bright and Fair,"--aren’t we, Austin?’ cried -the parson’s wife, putting her hand through her husband’s arm and -looking up in his face. He laughed and put her away with a little pat. -‘You are incorrigible, Dora,’ he said. Mr. Bright lifted his eyebrows -and looked at the others, asking why. - -And then there followed songs and sallies, and bits of that involuntary -mimicry of everybody in turn which the lively mistress of the house -seemed to be unable to keep under. Joyce saw her assume a serious -aspect, with a grave face and a little movement about her lips, as she -said something in slow and soft tones, at which Miss Marsham did not -laugh, but once more laid her thin hand tenderly upon Joyce’s arm, while -the gentlemen did,--the churchwarden bursting out in a short abashed -roar, while Mr. Bright went off to a corner, and Mr. Sitwell hid his -face with his hand. This little pantomime perplexed Joyce much, but it -was not till after that she realised how she herself had been ‘taken -off’ for the amusement of her friends. - -She got home at last in the dusk of the summer night, feeling as if the -world were full of a babble of voices, and of jests, and of calculations -and little intrigues, and attempts to do something unnamed by means of -something else. Joyce had not been altogether unaware that all was not -perfectly straightforward and true in the world before. She had been -fully acquainted with the extraordinary little deceptions and stories -made up by children to save themselves from punishment, or to procure -some pleasure, or even for nothing at all--out of pleasure apparently in -the mere invention; but these little falsities were of altogether a -different kind, and her brain throbbed with the contact of so many -unaccustomed trifles which were like the buzz of the flies in the air. -The piquancy of mimicking an individual in his own presence, though she -was not insensible to the fact, was strange to her serious soul: it -helped to increase the queer unreality of this world in which she found -herself, where there were droll little plays going on on all sides upon -somebody’s weakness, from the silly correspondents of the _Pictorial_ to -the rich soap-boiler who was to be wheedled by praise of his house, and -the humble churchwarden who was bound hand and foot in reverential -servility by praise of his boy--and people who were to be brought to -church by the attraction of a band as being better than not going at -all. And what was it for? For the parsonage? Joyce was not so hard a -critic as to believe this. She saw the good parson tired with his day’s -work, and she had seen that kind mischievous little woman as good as an -angel to the poor people. Their meaning at the bottom was good, and the -parsonage only an incident in the strong desire they both had to make -the district of St. Augustine’s as near perfection as possible, and -chase all sorrow and sickness and trouble out of it, and set up a -beautiful service, and steal the people’s hearts with angelic voices in -the choir and celestial thrilling of violin-strings--to steal their -hearts, but only for God, or for what they thought God,--for the Church -at least. This part of it Joyce but faintly comprehended, yet more or -less divined. - -And then from the conception she dimly attained of this real and great -motive, her mind came down again to the laughter and the mimicry and the -photographs, and that perplexing utterance about an atmosphere deadened -by Dissent. What a strange world it was! making good things look bad by -dint of trying to get good out of evil! Joyce wondered whether it would -not succeed better to reject the artifices, and try what simple means -would do. And then having shaken off that coil, her mind suddenly -returned with a spring to what was for herself the central event of this -day--the Captain standing up in that boat among those unknown people, in -that other world. Strange! and he was her friend--but yet belonged to -her no more than the river itself flowing on its way, with so many other -lawns to reflect besides that little bit of green which Joyce, watching -the stream go by, had begun to think of as her own. But it was not hers, -and neither was he. Bellendean had been hers, and her old people, -and---- Joyce hurried her steps to get refuge in her father’s house from -that shadow which began to start up in her path and look at her, and -filled her with alarm--a shadow demure and serious, with no thought of -other worlds or other influences strong enough to eclipse his own. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -The next scene in which Joyce found herself which broke the ordinary -routine of her life was the great garden-party at the soap-boiler’s, -which was all that the poor Sitwells had got out of their supposed great -demonstration and triumph of the school-feast. Sir Samuel Thompson lived -in a large mansion on the hill overlooking the whole panorama of the -Thames valley, with its winding river and happy woods--a scene -enchanting enough to have satisfied any poet, and which this rich and -comfortable person looked upon with much complacency, as in a manner -belonging to himself, and deriving a certain importance from that fact. -He was a man who was fond of great and costly things, and it seemed -natural to him that his windows should command the best thing in the way -of a view that was to be had near enough London to be valuable. And it -gave him much satisfaction to gather around him all ‘the best people’ -from miles round: it was pleasant thus to be able to prove the value of -money, which was the thing that had made him great, and which he liked -to glorify accordingly. ‘They all knock under to it in the end,’ he was -fond of saying. ‘They think a deal of themselves and their families, and -rank and all that, but money’s what draws them in the end.’ And Sir Sam -was right. Some people came because his house was a show house, and his -table the most luxurious of any far or near; and some because to see him -swelling like a turkey-cock in the midst of his wealth was funny; and -some by that indefinable attraction which wealth has, which brings the -most rebellious to their knees: at all events, everybody came. - -Sir Sam was, to use his own phraseology, the chief partner in his own -concern. Nobody remarked Lady Thompson. She was not the leader of the -expenditure and display, as the wife of a self-made man so often is. She -was a homely stout little person, who did not love her grandeur--who -would have been far happier in the housekeeper’s room. Even in the -finest dresses--and she had very fine dresses--there was to -understanding eyes the shadow of an apron, a sort of ghostly -representation of a soft white comfortable lap to which a child might -cling, where stockings to be darned might lie. She stood a step behind -Sir Sam to receive their guests. He said, ‘How do you do? hope I see you -well. Hope you’ve brought a large party--the more the merrier; there’s -plenty of room for all;’ while she only shook hands with the visitors -and beamed upon them. She went everywhere with her husband, but always -in this subsidiary capacity. And Sir Sam was by no means reluctant to -bestow the light of his countenance. It was not so difficult a thing to -persuade him to appear at an afternoon party as the deluded Sitwells had -supposed. He liked to show himself and his fat horses and his carriage, -which was the last and newest and most comfortable that had ever been -fashioned. But there he stopped. He took a cup of tea from any one; but -if they thought to get anything more in return they were mistaken, and -justly too,--for why should a millionaire’s good offices be purchased by -a cup of tea? He had the right on his side. - -This poor Mrs. Sitwell found when she made her anxious and at last -desperate attempt to gain his ear. To waste his attentions upon the wife -of the incumbent of St. Augustine’s did not in the least commend itself -to Sir Sam. He was not aware that she was amusing, and could take off -all his friends; and he thought with justice that she was not worthy to -be selected out from that fine company only because she had asked him to -her school-feast. In return for the cup of tea offered to him -there--which he did not drink--he had asked her and her husband to his -gorgeous house, and put it within their power to drink tea of the finest -quality, coffee iced and otherwise, claret-cup or champagne-cup; and to -eat ices of various kinds, cakes, fruit, grapes, which at that time of -the year, had they been sold, would have been worth ever so much a -pound. Sir Sam thought he had given the parson of St. Augustine’s and -his wife a very ample equivalent for their cup of tea. - -Joyce went to this great gathering in Mrs. Hayward’s train, as usual, -following--with a silence and gravity which were gradually acquiring for -her the character of a very dignified and somewhat proud young -woman--her stepmother’s active steps. She knew a few people now, and -silently accepted offered hands put out to her as she bowed with a smile -and response to the greeting, but no more. The crowd was no longer a -blank to her. She did not now feel as if left alone and among strangers -when, in the course of Mrs. Hayward’s more brilliant career, she was -left to take care of herself. On this occasion it was not long before -she saw the portly Canon swinging down upon her, with the lapels of his -long coat swinging too, on either side of the round and vast black silk -waistcoat. She had been watching, with a disturbed amusement, the -greetings made at the corner of a green alley between Mrs. Jenkinson and -Mrs. Sitwell. They had been full of cordiality--the elder lady stooping -to give the younger one a dab upon her cheek, which represented a kiss. -‘I could not think it was you,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said; ‘I have been -watching you these ten minutes. How are you, and how are the dear -children? I am very pleased to see you here. I did not know you knew the -Thompsons.’ - -‘Oh yes; very well indeed,’ said the parson’s wife, with a beaming -smile. ‘What a pretty party it is!’ - -‘A party cannot well fail to be pretty when it is given in such gardens -as these; and with such a house behind it, flowing with wine and oil.’ - -‘You mean with ices and tea. It’s very fine, no doubt; but I like -something humbler, that one can call one’s own, quite as well.’ - -‘No one should attempt these parties,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, ‘who has not -a large place to give them in, and plenty of things going on--tennis and -all that, or music, or a beautiful prospect: we have them all here.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘we did very well indeed, I assure you, in -Wombwell’s field. You did not do me the honour to come, but everybody -else did--the Thompsons and all.’ - -‘Really,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said. She added pointedly, feeling that she was -not a match for the lively and nimble person with whom she was -engaged-- ‘It must, I fear, have been very expensive.’ - -‘Oh, not at all,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘You see, we gave nothing but -tea. People don’t come for what they get, though dear Sir Sam thinks so; -they come to see other people, and meet their friends, and spend the -afternoon pleasantly. Don’t you think so, dear Mrs. Jenkinson? If I had -the smallest little place of my own, with a little bit of a garden, such -as we might have if there ever is a parsonage to St. Augustine’s, I -should not be at all afraid to ask even the Duchess to tea. She would -come for me, she is such a dear,’ Mrs. Sitwell said. - -‘I am afraid I am not half so courageous,’ the Canon’s wife replied; and -she added quickly, ‘There is Lady St. Clair; excuse me, I must say a -word to her,’ and hastened away. She was routed, horse and foot; for -Mrs. Jenkinson did not know the Duchess, and this little district -incumbent, this nobody, this scheming, all-daring little woman, actually -did, by some freak of fortune,--and probably would have the -audacity--and succeed in it, as such sort of persons so often do--to ask -that great lady to tea. - -The Canon swooped down upon Joyce after this little scene was over. She -was standing by herself, only half-seeing the fun, perhaps because her -sense of humour was faint, perhaps only because of her vague -understanding of all that lay underneath, and made it funny. He took her -hand and drew it within his arm. ‘Here you are, you little rebel,’ he -said. ‘I have got you at last. There is nobody eligible within sight. -Come and take a walk with me.’ - -Joyce had very little idea what he meant by some one eligible; but she -was very well content to be led away, hurrying her own steps to suit the -swinging gait of the big Churchman. He led her through the green alleys -and broad walks of the soap-boiler’s magnificent grounds to the mount of -vision which crowned them. ‘There now! look at that view,’ he said, ‘and -tell me if you have anything like it in Scotland. You brag us out for -scenery, I know; but where did you ever see anything like that?’ - -Joyce looked up in his face for a moment, then answered, with a smile, -‘I like as well to see the Crags below Arthur’s Seat, and the sea coming -in ayont them.’ - -‘Eh!’ cried the Canon, lifting his brows. ‘What do you mean by that? You -don’t generally speak like that.’ - -With nobody was Joyce so much at her ease as with this big impetuous -man. ‘There was once,’ she said, in the tone, half bantering, half -reproachful, with which she had once been wont to recall her ‘big’ class -to the horror of having forgotten something in Shakespeare, ‘a little -Scotswoman whose name was Jeanie Deans.’ - -‘Eh!’ cried the Canon again; and then he pressed, with half angry -affectionateness, the hand that was on his arm. ‘Oh, you are at me with -Scott!’ he said--‘taking a base advantage; for it’s a long time since I -read him. So Jeanie Deans said that, did she? I don’t remember much -about her. They say Scott is played out, you know, in these days.’ - -‘Then, sir,’ said Joyce quickly, ‘they say what they don’t understand; -for look how it comes to me just as the natural thing to say. Sir Walter -knew--he and some others, they know almost like God--what is in the -hearts of the common people that have no words to speak.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the Canon; and then he laughed and added, ‘So you are one of -the common people that have no words to speak? It’s not the account I -should have given of you. Sit down here, and let’s pluck our crow. You -have gone entirely off, you little schismatic, to the other side.’ - -‘No,’ said Joyce. - -‘No! how can you tell me no, when I know to the contrary? You’ve been -out in the district visiting with her. You are going to undertake -something about the schools. They’ve had you to tea in company with the -curate and that fat dolt Cosham whom they lead by the nose. Oh, you -wonder how I know! My dear,’ said the Canon, with a slight blush, if it -is to be supposed that a canon can blush, ‘a clergyman in a country -parish knows everything--whether he will or not. Now, isn’t it true?’ - -‘Yes, it is quite true,’ said Joyce; and then she added, looking up at -him again with a smile, and a little rising colour, caused by what she -felt to be her boldness, ‘But still I like you best.’ - -‘My dear girl,’ cried the Canon. He patted her shoulder with his large -white hand, and Joyce saw with astonishment a little moisture in his big -eyes. ‘I always knew you were an exceeding nice little girl,’ he said. -‘I took a fancy to you the first time I met you. It gives me the -greatest pleasure that you should like me best. But, my dear, why do you -go over to the other side if you are so wise and discerning and sensible -as to prefer me?’ - -Joyce hesitated a little, and then she said, ‘They wish very much to do -everything that is best.’ - -‘Eh?’ the Canon cried, this time in astonished interrogation. - -‘They want to do good to everybody,’ said Joyce, in her slow soft voice, -which to ears accustomed to lighter and louder tones had an air of being -very emphatic. ‘They would like to make their parish perfect.’ - -‘District,’ said the Canon. - -‘District--but I don’t know the difference; and I don’t know many of the -things they want to do. I was not brought up that way. Many things they -say are all dark to me; but what they want in their hearts is to do good -to everybody. They would like to have their church service and -everything perfect.’ - -‘High ritual, as they call it,--music and all sorts of fal-lals.’ - -‘And to get everybody to come,’ continued Joyce, ‘and to teach -everybody, and to help the poor folk. I could not do it that way,’ she -added, shaking her head, ‘but to them it’s the right way. They have no -other thought but to be good and do their best.’ - -‘Oh!’ said the Canon, this time in a dubious and disturbed tone. - -‘They go among the poor folk every day,’ said Joyce; ‘they would like to -take the command of them, and give them everything, and guide them -altogether. It is not--oh, not my way--not our way at all, at home; but -they say it is the way here. They never spare themselves any trouble. -They would like to take it all on their shoulders; to nurse all the ill -people, and mend all the bad ones, and even cut out all the clothes for -the poor little things that have none. They will sometimes do things -that look as if they were--very different: but it is all for this end.’ - -‘For making themselves important, and proving their own merit, and last, -but not least, getting themselves that parsonage about which they make -my life a burden to me. Why, your father has taken it up now--that must -be your doing. These people, though your excellent sense keeps you from -liking them, are taking you in, my dear. The parsonage--that’s what -they’re aiming at.’ - -‘And why not?’ said Joyce. - -‘Eh?’ The Canon turned round upon her with a snort of impatience. Then -he elevated his large hands, and gave forth a still larger sigh. ‘You -women are so gullible,’ he said; ‘you believe whatever is told you.’ - -‘I believe,’ said Joyce, ‘that it would be better to have a house of -your own, and not to pay rent when you have very little money for one -that lets in the rain, and is very, very small--so small, it would -scarcely hold you,’ she said, looking at her companion. - -‘It is fortunate I haven’t got to live in it,’ he said. - -‘Very fortunate--for you. But, sir,’ said Joyce, feeling more and more -the authority and power of this big friendly man, like a very kind -inspector in the old days--‘you are far more fortunate than they are. -You are like a prince to them. You have everything you want--money and -honour, and a beautiful house, and plenty of room, and power to do what -you please. They say in my country, “It is ill talking between a full -man and a fasting,"--if you understand that.’ - -The Canon humphed and shook his head, and then he laughed and said, ‘Oh -yes, I understand that. So I am the full man and Sitwell the empty one, -you think, Miss Joyce.’ - -‘It makes a great difference,’ said Joyce; ‘and then they think--that it -was promised to them before they came here.’ - -‘Yes,’ said the Canon, after a pause, ‘it _was_ promised to them in a -way--before they showed what sort of free-lances they were.’ - -‘And that makes a sense of wrong,’ said Joyce, wisely taking no notice -of the last remark. ‘If you think there is an injustice, it always hangs -on the heart.’ - -‘The Canon is ‘ere before us,’ said the fat voice of Sir Samuel, as the -sound of much scattering of the gravel under heavy feet broke suddenly -upon this colloquy; ‘and I would say, by the looks of them, that this -young lady has been a-lecturing the Canon. Good joke that, preaching to -the Canon, that most times ’as it all his own way.’ - -Sir Sam’s laugh was a little asthmatic--it shook him subterraneously and -in a succession of rolling echoes. ‘Good joke that, preaching to the -Canon,’ he went on, as if his announcement of the fact was the climax of -the joke. He was followed by Mrs. Jenkinson, tall and energetic, wrapped -in a white _chudder_, the softest and most comfortable of shawls--and by -Lady Thompson, panting and red in the face with the climb, and gorgeous -in all the colours of the rainbow. The Canon made room for the two -ladies on the bench, and Sir Sam got a garden-chair and seated himself -in front of them, against the view which they had come to see, half -shutting it out with his bulky person. But the view was no novelty to -any there. - -‘Yes,’ said the Canon, ‘it is quite true. This little thing has been -lecturing me. Indeed I don’t hesitate to say she’s been giving it me hot -and strong--about the Sitwells,’ he added, in a sort of aside to his -wife. - -‘I must say,’ said that lady indignantly, ‘I think that young ladies -should keep their hastily-formed opinions to themselves. What can she -know about the Sitwells that we don’t all know?’ - -‘Well, she says she likes us best,’ said the Canon, quite irrelevantly; -‘so it’s not from partiality, or taking their side.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson, darting a glance of anger mingled with a -certain respect at the girl, whom she immediately set down as a foeman -worthy of her steel. - -‘She says they’re very hard-working people, working at their district -night and day. She doesn’t understand their ways (she’s Scotch, you -know), but she sees they mean the best by their people--hush for a -moment, my dear. And she says that they think they were promised a -parsonage, and that this makes a sense of wrong. Well, you know, she’s -about right there--they were promised a----’ - -‘Before any one knew what they were--before we understood all the -schemes and designs--the setting up to be something altogether -above--the ridiculous fuss about everything--the flowers and the lights -and the surpliced choir, and Bach’s music, with little Johnny Cosham to -sing the soprano parts--if she doesn’t do it herself, as I verily -believe she does, done up in a surplice and put at the end of the row: -such a thing as was never heard of!’ - -‘Well, my dear--well, my dear! Joyce here’, patting her hand, ‘who has -no sympathy with all that (being Scotch, you know), says they mean it -all well, to get people to go to church. And they do get a number of -that hopeless lot down by the river to go. But, however, that’s not the -question; they were promised a parsonage if they got on and stayed a -year or two. I can’t say but what that’s quite true.’ - -The Canon looked at Sir Samuel, and Sir Sam looked at the Canon. The -rich man’s countenance fell a little in harmony with that of his oracle, -and he replied subdued, ‘I don’t say neither but what it’s true.’ - -‘She says it makes a sense of wrong: well, perhaps it does make a sense -of wrong. We have very nice houses, Sir Samuel,--mine naturally not -magnificent like yours, but on the whole a nice, comfortable, -old-fashioned place.’ - -‘Oh, very nice,’ sighed Lady Thompson, who till now had been recovering -herself, and had just got back her voice; ‘nicer than this, Canon, if -you were to ask me.’ - -There was a pause, and the two pairs looked at each other, a little -conscious, pleased with their own good fortune, feeling perhaps a little -prick of conscience--at all events aware that a moral was about to be -drawn. - -‘Well, and what then?’ Mrs. Jenkinson said at last, in her highest pitch -of voice. - -Nobody spoke until Joyce said timidly, ‘They would be happier, and she -would not scheme any more. The rain comes in upon the little children.’ -She had half said ‘bairns,’ which was not at all Joyce’s way, and she -changed the word, which would have been very effective if she had but -known. ‘There is no room for the little children.’ - -‘People in such circumstances ’as no business with children. I always -said so,’ said Sir Sam, with a wary eye upon his spiritual director, of -whose opinion he stood much in awe. - -Joyce was as innocent and ignorant as a girl should be. She lifted up -her fair serene brow with no false shame upon it, knowing none. ‘How can -they help that?’ she said. ‘It is God that sends the children, not the -will of men.’ - -‘Oh, my pretty dear!’ cried Lady Thompson, who was so homely a woman, -reaching across Mrs. Jenkinson’s prim lap to seize Joyce’s hand. ‘Oh, my -dear!’--with tears in her homely eyes--‘however you knows it, that’s -true.’ - -Mrs. Jenkinson did not say a word: emotion of this kind is contagious, -and these two women, though without another feature in common, were both -childless women, and felt it to the bottom of their hearts. - -‘Canon,’ said Sir Sam, with a slight huskiness in his voice, ‘if you’re -of that opinion I’ve got a cheque-book always ’andy. It was an -understood thing, so far as I can remember. There was to be an ’ouse.’ - -‘Yes, there was to be an ’ouse,’ the Canon replied, without any -intention of mimicry. At this moment of feeling he could not reprove the -soap-boiler even by too marked an accentuation of the h which he had -lost. He turned to his wife as he rose to accompany the soap-boiler, -laying his hand upon Joyce’s shoulder. ‘This child has got very pretty -turns of phraseology,’ he said. ‘Her Scotch is winning. You should have -heard one or two things she said.’ - -‘Oh, go away, Canon!’ cried his wife. ‘She is just a pretty girl, and -that is what you never could resist in your life.’ - -Thus Joyce’s first interference, and attempt to ascertain whether plain -truth might not be more effectual than scheming, ended fortunately, as -such attempts do not always do. It was her first appearance separately -in the society of the new world she had been so strangely thrown into. -But she had not time for much more, and perhaps it was as well. Such a -success may happen once in a way, but it is seldom repeated. She was -found sitting on that garden-seat with those two ladies a short time -afterwards by her father, who had come late, and who brought with him -Captain Bellendean. - -Joyce had not seen Bellendean since that curious moment when she stood a -spectator and watched him like a stranger, passing with his friends, -steering the laden boat with all the ladies down the river. She was as -much startled by his appearance now as if some strange embarrassing -thing, requiring painful explanations, had passed since last they met. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -Mrs. Hayward decided that she would walk home. - -For what reason?--for no reason at all, so far as she was aware; only, -apparently without knowing it, to help out the decisions of fate. There -was a stream of other people going home, some of them walking too, as it -was so lovely an evening. The air was the softest balm of summer, cool, -the sun going down, soft shadows stealing over the sky, the river still -lit with magical reflections--those reflections which are nothing, such -stuff as dreams are made of, and yet more beautiful than anything in -earth or heaven. The rose tints were in the atmosphere as well as the -sky. When you turned a corner, the resistance of the soft air meeting -you was as a caress--like the kiss with which one loving creature meets -another as they pass upon their happy way. It was no longer spring -indeed, but matured and full-blown summer, ready any morning, by a touch -of north wind or early frost, to become autumn in a moment, but making -the very best of her last radiant evening. The well-dressed crowd -streamed out of the gates of Sir Samuel’s great house on the hill, and -then separated, flowing in little rills of white and bright dresses, of -pleasant voices and talk, upon their several ways. Till then, of course, -they had all kept together. Afterwards the little accidents, the natural -effect of unequal steps and different pace, so arranged it that the -older pair dragged behind, having still some good-byes to make, and that -the other two, who had fallen together without any intention, went on -before. - -Joyce was always shy, but she had never been embarrassed by the presence -of Norman Bellendean. She had been able even to laugh with him when the -gloom of her arrival in this new sphere, and of her severance from the -old, was heaviest upon her. She had the reassuring consciousness that he -knew all about her, and could not be in any way deceived. No need of -fictions to account for her, nor apologies for her ignorance, were -necessary with him. And she gave him from the first that most -flattering proof of preference by being at her ease with him, when she -was so with no one else. But there was something in the air to-night -which suggested embarrassment--something too familiar, over-sweet. Mrs. -Hayward and the Colonel did not feel this. They said to each other that -it was a lovely evening, and then they talked of their own concerns. -Joyce was not like them--the rose-tinted vapours on the sky had got into -her very soul. - -‘Was there ever such a sunset?’ said Norman Bellendean. ‘And yet, Miss -Joyce, you and I remember something better still,--the long, long -lingering of the warm days----’ - -‘In summer,’ she said, with a little catching of her breath, ‘when you -never could tell whether there was any night at all.’ - -‘And when the night was better than the day, if better could be, and -morning and evening ran into each other.’ - -‘And it was all like paradise,’ said Joyce, chiming in. Their voices -were full of emotion, though they were speaking only of such unexciting -things as the atmosphere and the twilight--two safe subjects surely, if -any subjects could be safe. - -‘It is not like that,’ Joyce added, with a little reluctance; ‘but still -the river when the last flash of the sun is upon it, and all the clouds -hanging like roses upon the sky, and the water glimmering like a glass, -and making everything double like the swan----’ - -Norman was one of the unread. He did not know what swan it was that -floated ‘double, swan and shadow,’ for ever and ever, since that day the -poet saw it: but he understood the scene and the little failure of -breath in the enthusiasm of her description with which Joyce spoke. - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was like that the other night--but there was a charm -wanting.’ - -‘Oh,’ Joyce said, still breathless; and she added, with an impulse that -was involuntary, beyond her power of control, not what she meant or -wished to say-- ‘When you were up the river--the other night--passing----’ - -Did she mean it as a reproach? He looked at her quickly. ‘Yes,’ he said, -‘it is true I passed--the very lawn, the enchanted place--and looked and -looked, but did not see you.’ - -‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but I saw you, Captain Bellendean. I saw you go below -the bridge steering. It was strange, among all the strange folk, and the -boats coming and going, suddenly to see--a kent face.’ - -She laughed, in a curious embarrassed way, as if laughing at herself, -yet with a rising colour, and eyes that did not turn to him, rather -avoided him. Norman had a sudden gleam of perception, and understood -more or less the little fanciful shock which Joyce had received to see -him pass. - -‘You could not think it more strange than I did,’ he said, in an -unconscious tone of self-defence, ‘nor half so disagreeable. To pass -with people I cared nothing for, the same way that has become associated -to me with--with---- And to look perhaps as if it were just the same -whether it was they or--others.’ - -He began with self-defence, but ended with an inflection of half -complaint and subdued indignation in his tone. - -‘Indeed,’ said Joyce, startled, ‘I did not think----’ - -‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you did not think about me at all, and I am a fool -for supposing you did; but if you thought for a moment that it was any -pleasure to me to be there, apart from all that had made it -delightful----’ - -‘Oh,’ cried Joyce, in an anxious effort not to understand this inference -which flooded all her veins with a sudden rush of indescribable -celestial delight, ‘but the river was as bright as ever I saw it, and -the sky like heaven; and why should you not be happy--with your -friends?’ - -He had given her a sensation more exquisite than any she had ever known -in all her life; and on her side she was giving him pain, and knew it, -and was not ill-pleased to have it so. Such, as the old moralists would -say, are the strange contradictions of human feeling! He turned upon her -an aggrieved expostulating glance. - -‘You think it was the same, whoever my companions might be? You don’t -understand what it was to me to be bound to the oar like the galley -slaves, to listen to all their inane nonsense and their jokes, when my -heart was in--oh, a very different place.’ - -‘You have been all over the world, Captain Bellendean, you must remember -so many other places--more beautiful than this.’ - -‘Do you think that is what I mean?’ he said quickly, in a tone almost of -irritation. Joyce knew very well it was not what he meant. But she had -to defend herself with the first weapons that came in her way. - -‘Don’t you know,’ he said, after a pause, ‘that this has been such a -summer as I never had before? I have been a great deal about the world, -as you say. I have had many experiences: but never yet have I felt as I -have felt this year. I never was romantic, nor had I much poetry in me. -But I begin to think the poets are the fellows, after all, who -understand best.’ - -‘That is true, I am sure,’ said Joyce in a subdued voice. She was -thankful to find something that she could say. She walked along -mechanically by the Captain’s side, feeling as if she were floating in -some vague enchantment, not able to pause or realise anything, not able -to escape, carried along by the delicious soft air which was breathing -within her being as well as without, a rapture that could not be -explained. - -‘I believe it is true--but I never thought so before. And the cause is -that I never knew--you before,’ the Captain said. - -Did the people know who were passing? could they see in the faces of -those two walking--nay, floating by, surrounded by a golden mist--what -was being said between them? A vague wonder stole into Joyce’s mind as -she perceived dimly through that mist the face of a wayfarer going by. -She herself but vaguely realised the meaning of the words. She -understood their sentiment well enough,--felt it in that silent ecstasy -that swept her along, but had no power to think or exercise her own -faculties at all, only to let herself be carried on, and away. - -‘You have been the enchantment to me,’ he said hurriedly; ‘and now it is -almost over, and I shall have to go away. The charm will be gone from -everything. I don’t know how I am to reconcile myself to the dull world -and the long days--unless----’ - -‘Captain Bellendean----’ Joyce said faintly, hearing her own voice, as -if it came from a long distance, feeling a vague necessity for a pause. - -‘Unless I may--come back,’ he said. ‘I must go home and put things in -order--but it need not be for very long--if I may come back?’ - -There was something vaguely defective in these words, she could not tell -what. For that very reason they relieved her, because they were not what -they might have been. She came to herself as if she had touched the -earth after that vague swaying, floating, in realms above the earth, in -the soft delicious air. - -‘Surely,’ she said, ‘you will come back. There is no reason for not -coming back.’ - -He, it seemed, had not felt that touch of reality which had brought -Joyce out of her rapture. He was confused and floating still. ‘I mean,’ -he said, ‘not to return merely to town or--but to come back to this -moment, to those days. I have never known anything like them. They have -opened a new world to me: Joyce----’ - -‘Captain Bellendean!’ - -‘I mean no familiarity--no want of respect; could you think so? The -name came out without intention--only because I say it over, and -over---- Joyce--I may come back?’ - -Surely the passers-by must see! He had turned and was looking at her -with pleading eyes; while she, with the red of the western sky in her -face, with the mist in her eyes, did not look at him, or make him any -reply. - -‘I don’t ask you to say more. This is not the place. I don’t want to -disturb your mind,--only say I may come, and that you will not send me -away?’ - -Her heart had sprung up and was beating loud. A terror of what the -people on the road would think took possession of her. ‘No, it is not -the place,’ she murmured, scarcely knowing what she said. - -‘What could I do? there was no other: say I may----’ - -‘Bellendean!’ cried Colonel Hayward’s cheerful voice from behind; ‘are -you coming in to have some dinner? You had better. Why, you are taking -the way to the river, Joyce and you.’ - -‘I beg your pardon!’ cried Captain Bellendean, with a startled air. ‘I -beg your pardon! I did not observe----’ - -‘Joyce should have observed,’ said Mrs. Hayward quietly. ‘It is nearly -half-past seven. You cannot do less than stay to dinner--especially as I -hear you are going away.’ - -‘I will, with many thanks,’ said Norman. He looked like a man waked out -of a dream; and Mrs. Hayward hastened on, not without a sense of -Christian charity, to let them have it out, as she said to herself. But -they were now both awakened. The charm was broken, and the golden air -dispersed. They walked on behind the elder pair to the door, and went in -very gravely both of them, without another word said. - -A more extraordinary evening never was. Joyce had known many agitated -and unhappy ones within the last six months, but none like this, during -which she saw everything through a haze of excitement, with something -weighing on her eyelids--something murmuring in her ears--something -which made it impossible for her to meet the light or clearly realise -what was going on. There seemed a sort of dumb expectation in the air -besides that curious sense of something arrested and untold that was in -her own mind. Her step-mother looked at her with a question in her eyes, -and even touched her with a half-caress as she went upstairs to prepare -for dinner. Joyce did not know why, and yet had a sort of far-off -perception of some meaning and kindness in it, which notwithstanding was -half an offence. And when she came downstairs the haze had filled the -dining-room, so that she could not see clearly the face on the other -side of the table--the face which did not look at her any more than she -looked at him, and yet was keenly aware of every movement on her part, -as she was of his. She herself scarcely spoke a word during the whole -meal, and he not much,--not more than was necessary. The others went on -with their ordinary conversation, which seemed to drift about upon the -haze; names--the names with which Joyce’s mind had been busy a little -while before--floating about, falling now and then like stones, catching -her vague attention. Sir Sam, the Canon, the Sitwells--who were they, -all these people? It seemed so strange that any one could concern -themselves with their vague affairs. - -The dinner was very long, and yet flew like a dream; and then came the -twilight drawing-room, the dimness outside, the evening chilled out of -that heavenly warmth and calm. Joyce did not go out to-night as was her -wont, though she could not tell why. She kept by Mrs. Hayward, sedately -seated near a table, upon which there was work, as if that were her -object. Captain Bellendean stood near her when the gentlemen came from -the dining-room. There was not much light, and he stood up like a tall -pillar, slightly inclining over her, a sort of Pisan tower, leaning, yet -firm. If he had anything more to say to her, it was clear _that_ was not -the place, any more than the road with the Colonel and his wife behind. -But he lingered there still, saying little, until Colonel Hayward had to -say, ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Bellendean. You’re always welcome, and -my wife would give you a bed with pleasure; but if you _are_ going by -that train----’ Then Captain Bellendean roused himself like a man -startled out of a dream, and shook hands with them all. He said -Good-bye, not Good-night; and when Joyce had seated herself again, all -trembling after that pressure of her hand, which almost hurt her, he -suddenly came back, and looked in at the door. Mrs. Hayward’s back was -turned: she had indeed gone out to the verandah to look at the moon, as -she said afterwards. He looked in, then made one step to where Joyce was -sitting, and took her hand and kissed it. ‘Remember I am to come back!’ -he said, and then was gone. - -‘What did Bellendean forget? his gloves, or a book, or what was it?’ the -Colonel said, with some curiosity, when the door was closed and the -visitor departed. - -‘I don’t know,--I was in the verandah,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘What did he -forget, Joyce?’ - -Joyce looked at them with a startled, guilty countenance, knowing what -they had said, yet not knowing, and made no reply. She dared not move, -nor speak, lest she should betray--what? There was nothing to betray, -except that he was coming back, and that was no information--for of -course he was coming back. She was very glad to escape to her room when -the lawful time came for that, and Mrs. Hayward gave the signal, but had -not the strength or courage even to rise from her seat till that signal -was given, not knowing whether she would be able to walk straight, or to -preserve her ordinary appearance if she relinquished, with both those -eyes upon her, the support of her chair. She was vaguely sensible of -Mrs. Hayward’s inquiring looks, which were half indignant, half angry, -as well. When they said good-night, her step-mother took her hand with a -quick monitory touch. ‘Have you anything to tell me, or would you like -to speak to your father?’ she said. Joyce gave her a wondering look, and -said ‘No.’ ‘I am not thrusting myself into your confidence: but tell -your father,’ Mrs. Hayward said again imperatively, with a gleam of -excitement in her blue eyes. Then as Joyce made no response, her -step-mother flung past her, flushed and indignant. ‘I might have known -better than to make any such appeal,’ she cried angrily, and shut her -door with a clang that rang through the silent house. - -Joyce stole away very silently into her room, disturbed and full of -trouble. What could she tell? there was nothing to tell. She felt guilty -without having any reason for it, and very sorry to offend without -knowing how to help it. Tell her father!--but when she had nothing to -tell him! There was a grieved look on his countenance, too, when he said -good-night. It was all a confusion, and wrong somehow; but what could -she do? Disturbed by this, there was a moment of troubled uncertainty in -Joyce’s mind a longing to be pardoned, to say that she was sorry, that -she was concealing nothing, which was, however, contradicted by the -desire she had to be alone, and the shrinking even from a look which -might penetrate her seclusion, and read the secret of her heart before -she had spelled it out to herself. Softly, apologetically, with a sense -of asking pardon, she closed her door and then sat down and came face to -face with herself. - -It was a very strange agitated meeting, as with some one she was -unwilling to see and still more unwilling to question--some one who had -a story to tell which would crush all the beginnings of peace and all -the gleams of happiness that had been in Joyce’s life. She thought in -the confusion of her mind of De Musset’s spectre, whom he had seen -sitting by him in all the conjunctions of his life--the being, _qui me -ressemblait comme un frère_; but Joyce’s meeting with herself was more -important than anything recorded by the poet. All trembling with the -sensations she had gone through, her nerves vibrating with the strain, -her energies all melted in the exquisite sense of happiness which had -floated her away, and in the chill check of the real which had brought -her to earth again, she had questions to revolve and discoveries to make -such as she knew now she had avoided and turned away from. She was -afraid to look into those eyes which were her own, and find out the -secret there. She sat down, putting her candle on the table, without -lighting any other, conscious that she preferred the darkness, and not -even to see, if she could help it, what she must see,--what could not be -hidden any more. What had she done? She had meant no harm, thought of -nothing that was wrong, nor of injuring any one, nor of failing in her -faith. If Joyce had been made to disclose her opinion of herself, she -would have described herself as true and faithful--faithful above all -things. She would not have claimed excellence, though she might think -perhaps that there was that in her which was above the multitude; but -she would have claimed to be faithful and constant, not variable in her -affections, true to the last, whatever temptation might come upon her. - -Oh, strange delusion! oh, failure beyond example! when all the time she -had failed, failed without knowing it, without meaning it, helplessly, -like a fool and a traitor! It all came upon her in a sudden scathing -flash of consciousness, which seemed to scorch her drooping face. She, -in whom Joyce had always felt such confidence, herself--she, betrothed -and bound and beyond all possibilities of other sentiment--almost as -much as a wife already in solemn promise and engagement--she! heaven -help her! what had she done? Her veins all swelled to bursting with the -rush of her guilty blood. Horror and darkness enveloped her all around; -she hid her face in her hands, and her lips gave forth a low quivering -cry. She--loved another man. It was all the worse for her that she had -felt herself superior to all vagaries of passion, thought herself above -them, and believed that her own half-shrinking acceptance of love was -all that was consistent with a woman’s dignity. She had thought this, -and she thought it still--yet discovered that she had departed from it, -thrown all those restraints to the winds, and loved--loved--Norman -Bellendean! The discovery horrified, humiliated, crushed her to the -ground, and yet sprang with an impulse of warmer life than she had ever -known before through all the throbbing of her veins. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -‘You must try and get her to tell you when you are out this morning,’ -said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She is probably silent on account of me; but you are -her father, and you ought to know.’ - -‘My dear,’ said the Colonel, ‘why should she be silent on account of -you?’ - -‘Oh, we need not enter into that question, Henry. Get her to tell you; -it will be a relief to her own mind when she has got it out.’ - -‘Perhaps, Elizabeth, after all, we are going too fast. Bellendean has -always been very friendly. He came to see me, and sought me out as his -old colonel, before there was any Joyce.’ - -‘So you think it’s for you!’ Mrs. Hayward cried. And then she added -severely, ‘If we should be going too fast, and there has been no -explanation, Henry, you must bring him to book.’ - -‘Bring him to book? I don’t know what you mean, Elizabeth,’ said the -Colonel, with a troubled countenance. - -‘You must not allow it to go on--you must put a stop to it--you must let -him know that you can’t have your daughter trifled with. You must ask -him his intentions, Henry.’ - -The Colonel’s countenance fell: he grew pale, and horror filled his -eyes. ‘Ask him--his intentions! his intentions! Good Lord! I might shoot -him if you like; but ask him--his intentions towards my daughter, -Elizabeth! Good Lord!’ The Colonel grew red all over, and panted for -want of breath. ‘You don’t know what you say.’ - -‘_I_--don’t know what I say? As good men as you have had to do it, -Henry. You must not let a man come here and trifle with Joyce. Joyce -must not be----’ - -‘I wish you would not bring in her name,’ cried the old soldier--‘a -young woman’s name! I know what you say is for--for our good, -Elizabeth; but I can’t, indeed I can’t--it’s not possible. _I_ ask a -man--as if I meant to force him into---- My dear, you can’t know what -that means; you can’t say what you’re thinking. I to put shame upon my -own child!’ The Colonel walked up and down the room in the greatest -perturbation. ‘I can’t--I can’t!’ he said; ‘you must never think of such -a thing again. _I_--Elizabeth! Good Lord----!’ He stopped. ‘My dear, I -beg your pardon. I don’t mean to be profane--but to tell me--oh, good -Lord!’ the Colonel cried, feeling that no words were adequate to express -the horror and incongruity of the suggestion. - -Mrs. Hayward had stood watching him without any relaxation of her look. -There was a certain vulgar fibre in her which was not moved by that -incongruity. A faint disdain of his incapacity, and still more of his -delicacy about his daughter’s name, as if she were of more importance -than any one else, was visible in her face. Who was Joyce that she was -not to be warned, that her lover was not to be brought to book? Mrs. -Hayward, in that perpetual secret antagonism which was in her mind, -though she disapproved of it and suffered from it, was more vulgar than -her nature. She was ready to scoff at these prejudices about Joyce, -though in her natural mind she would have herself shielded a young -woman’s name from every breath. - -‘I am speaking in Joyce’s interests,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t want -to break her heart.’ - -‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth!’ said the Colonel, ‘I beseech you, don’t talk -like that. Why, you can’t know, you can’t, you don’t realise what a girl -is to a man, especially when he is her father. It’s bad enough to think -of her caring for one of those fellows at all; but to break her -heart--good Lord!--and for me to interfere, to call up a man to--to the -scratch--to---- Oh, good Lord, good Lord!’ cried Colonel Hayward, with a -blush like a girl. ‘I might shoot him and take the penalty, but you -might as well ask me to--to shoot myself at once--as to do that: or to -acknowledge that my child, that young creature, my Joyce----’ - -‘You can’t expect me to follow you in your raptures, Henry,’ said his -wife, sitting down at the breakfast-table, for this discussion had been -held in the morning, before Joyce appeared: and at that moment the door -opened and she came in, putting a stop to the conversation. She was -paler than usual, and graver; but the two were confused by her entrance, -and for the moment so much taken up in concealing their own -embarrassment, that they did not remark her looks. Joyce was very quiet, -but she was not unhappy. How could she be with the thrill of Norman -Bellendean’s voice still in her ears, and his last look, which meant so -much, so clear before her? She was wrong, she was guilty; it might be -that misery and shame should be her portion. She knew that she had -failed to honour, if not to love, and that her way before her was very -dark; but do what she would, Joyce could not force herself to be unhappy -now. The first thing that had occurred to her when she opened her eyes -upon the morning light was not any breach of faith or failure in duty, -but that voice and those eyes with their revelation which made her heart -bound out of all the shadows of the night. She was pale with all this -agitation, uneasy even when she slept, distracted by spectres; but in -the morning light she could not be wretched, however she tried. She was -very quiet, however, much more so than usual; and the absence of that -eager vitality which kept continual light and shadow on her sensitive -face gave her a certain dignity, which was again enhanced by her -complete unconsciousness of it. Her father cast a glance at her in this -composed stateliness of aspect, and had to hasten away to the sideboard -and cut at the ham to hide the horrified shame of his countenance. A -creature like that to break her heart for any fellow! to be called upon -to ask any man his intentions--_his_ intentions--in respect to her! The -Colonel hewed down the ham till his wife had to remonstrate. ‘You are -not cutting for a dozen people, Henry.’ ‘Oh, I beg your pardon my dear,’ -he cried, and came back to his seat very shamefaced with a small -solitary slice upon his plate. - -When the Colonel went out for his usual walk, with Joyce as his -companion, Mrs. Hayward came after them to the door, and laid her hand -significantly on her husband’s shoulder. ‘Now don’t forget,’ she said. -Forget! as if he were likely to forget what weighed upon him like a -mountain. He thought to himself that he would put off any allusion till -the walk was half over; but the Colonel had not the skill nor the -self-control to do this, the uneasy importance of his looks betraying -something of his commission even to the dreamy eyes of Joyce. Had she -been fully awake and aroused, she must have seen through all his -innocent devices at the first glance. - -‘It was rather a pleasant party, yesterday,’ he said, ‘especially -afterwards, when we were by ourselves.’ The Colonel meant no bull, but -had lost himself in a confusion of words. - -‘Yes,’ said Joyce very sedately, without even a smile. - -‘By the way,’ said the Colonel briskly, seizing the first means of -avoiding for a little longer the evil moment, ‘you did great execution, -Joyce. I don’t know what you said to the Canon, my dear, but I think you -accomplished in a minute what all the good people have been trying to do -for weeks and weeks. What did you say?’ - -What did she say? She gave her father a wondering look. Who was the -Canon, it seemed to ask, and when was yesterday? It looked a century -ago. - -‘That is what I like to see a woman do,’ cried the Colonel, rousing -himself into enthusiasm for the sake of gaining a little time--‘not -making any show, but with a word of hers showing what’s kind and right, -and getting people to do it. That’s what I like to see. You have done -your friends the best turn they ever had done them in their life.’ - -‘Was it so?’ said Joyce, with a faint smile. ‘I am very glad; but it was -the Canon that was good to pay attention to the like of me.’ - -‘The like of you!’ cried the Colonel. ‘I don’t know the man that -wouldn’t pay attention to the like of you.’ Then he got suddenly grave, -being thus brought back headlong to the very subject which he had been -trying to escape. ‘Oh, I was going to say,’ he added, with a look that -was almost solemn-- ‘I am afraid we shall miss him very much--I mean -Norman Bellendean.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Joyce. He spoke slowly, and she had time to steady her -voice. - -‘Perhaps you knew before that he was going, my dear?’ - -‘No,’ she replied, feeling all the significance of these monosyllables, -yet incapable of more. - -‘I thought he had perhaps told you--at least Elizabeth--Elizabeth -thought he might have told you.’ - -‘Why should he have told me?’ said Joyce, with an awakening of surprise. - -The Colonel was full of confusion. He did not know what to say. He felt -guilty and miserable, like a spy, and yet he was faithful to his -_consigne_, and to the task that had been set him to do. ‘Indeed,’ he -said, in his troubled voice, ‘my dear, I don’t know; but it was -thought--I mean I thought, perhaps, that it would be a comfort to -you--if you could have a little confidence in me.’ - -Joyce began to perceive dimly what he meant, and it brought a flush to -her pale face. ‘But I have confidence--a great confidence,’ she said, -very low, not looking at him. The Colonel took courage from these words. - -‘Your father, you know, Joyce,--that is very proud of you, and to have -such a daughter--and that would let no one vex you, not for a moment, my -dear--not by a word or a thought--and that would like you to make a -friend of him, and tell him--whatever you might like to tell him,’ he -added, hastily breaking off in the middle of what he had meant to be a -long speech, and giving double force to so much as he had said by these -means. - -Joyce had gradually aroused herself out of her dreams to understand the -meaning in her father’s voice, which trembled and quickened, and then -broke with a fulness of tender feeling which penetrated all the mists -that were about her. There suddenly came to her a sense of help at -hand--a belief in the being nearest to her in the world--a sort of -viceroy of God more true than any pope--her father. What no one else -could do he might do for her. It would be his place to do it; and it -would be her right to appeal to him, to put her troubles into his hands. -She had never realised this before: her father--who would let no one vex -her, who would stand between her and harm, who would have a right to -answer for her, and take upon himself her defence. The tears rushed to -her eyes, and a sense of relief and lightening to her heart. - -‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I will mind that. I will never forget it: my father, -that is like God, to know the meaning in my heart, even if I am far -wrong: and not to be hard on me, but to see where I was deceived, and to -take my cause in hand.’ - -‘Deceived!’ the Colonel faltered, with mingled consternation and wrath. -‘Show me the man that would deceive you, my dear child, and leave him to -me--leave him to me.’ - -‘What man? There is no man,’ said Joyce, shaking her head. ‘Oh, if it -was but that! but when it is me that has been the deceiver--and yet -meant no harm!’ - -Her eyes swimming in tears that made them larger and softer than ever -eyes were, the Colonel thought, turned to him with a tender look of -trust which went to his heart, and yet was less comprehensible to him -than all that had gone before. He was puzzled beyond expression, and -touched, and exalted, and dismayed. He had gained that confidence which -he had sought, and yet he knew less than ever what it meant. And she had -said he was like God, which confused and troubled the good man, and was -very different from the mission that had been given him to find out his -child’s secret, and to bring to book--what horrible words were -these!--to bring to book! But whatever Joyce had on her mind, at least -it was not Norman Bellendean. - -And here in the emotion of the moment, and the rising of other and -profounder emotions, the Colonel dropped his _consigne_, and gave up his -investigations. He did not in the least understand what Joyce meant; but -she had given him her confidence, and he was touched to the bottom of -his tender heart. She had said that he would take her cause in hand, -that he was her father like God--a new and curiously impressive view, -turning all usual metaphors round about--that he would know her meaning, -even if she were far wrong. Not a word of this did the Colonel -comprehend--that is, the matter which called forth these expressions -remained entirely dark to him; but it would have been profane, he felt, -to ask for further enlightenment after she had thus thrown herself upon -him for protection and help. He was glad to relieve the tension by -having recourse to common subjects, so that without any further strain -upon her, his delightful, tender, incomprehensible child might get rid -of the tears in her eyes, and calm down. - -The result was that the Colonel talked more than usual on that morning -walk, and told Joyce more stories than usual of his old Indian comrades, -and of things that had passed in his youth, going back thirty, forty -years with at first a kind conscious effort to set her at her ease -again, but after a while with his usual enjoyment in the lively -recollection of these bright days which the old soldier loved to recall. -And Joyce walked by his side in an atmosphere of her own, full of the -bewitchment of a new enchanting presence suddenly revealed to her, full -of the mystic, half-veiled consciousness of Love--love that was real -love, the love of the poets, not anything she had ever known before. Her -father’s voice seemed to keep the shadow away, the thought of the wrong -she had done and the troth she had broken, but did not interfere with -that new revelation, the light and joy with which the world was radiant, -the inconceivable new thing which had looked at her out of Norman -Bellendean’s eyes. She walked along as if she had been buoyed up by air, -her heart filled with a great elation which was indescribable, which was -not caused by anything, which looked forward to nothing, which was more -than happiness, a nameless, causeless delight. - -If she had been in a condition to examine what Captain Bellendean had -said, or in any way to question what Mrs. Hayward called his intentions, -Joyce’s feelings might have been very different. But of this she took no -thought whatever, nor asked herself any question. What she did ask, with -a triumphant yet trembling certainty, was whether this was not the Vita -Nuova of which she had read? The answer came in the same breath with -that question. She knew it was the Vita Nuova--the same which had made -the streets of Florence an enchanted land such as never was by sea or -shore, and turned the woods of Arden into Paradise. The pride and glory -and delight of having come into that company of lovers, and received her -inheritance, softly turned her dreaming brain. She had never been so -much herself--for all those references to other people and pervading -circumstances which shape a young woman’s dutiful existence had -disappeared altogether from her consciousness--and yet she was not -herself at all, but a dream. The accompaniment of her kind father’s -pleasant voice, running on with his old stories, gave her a delightful -shelter and cover for the voiceless song which was going on in her own -heart. She had put her cause into his hands, as she felt, though she was -not clear how it had been done. He would not blame her, though she was -wrong. He would defend her. And thus Joyce escaped from life with all -its burdens and penalties, and floated away upon the soft delicious air -into the Vita Nuova. Never was such a walk--her feet did not touch the -ground, her consciousness was not touched by any vulgar sound or sight. -Soft monosyllables of assent dropped from her dreaming lips as the -delighted historian by her side went on with the records of his youth. -He felt that he had all her interest--he felt how sweet it was to have a -dear child, a girl such as he had always wished for, who had given him -her full confidence, and who cared for everything that ever had happened -to him, and was absorbed in it as if the story had been her own. In all -their goings and comings together, there had never been a walk like -this. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -‘Well?’ said Mrs. Hayward, somewhat sharply, as she followed her husband -upstairs. - -‘Well, my dear! everything is quite right and sweet and true about her, -as I always thought it was.’ - -‘I daresay. That is all very charming, Henry, and I am delighted that -you are so much pleased. But what about Captain Bellendean?’ - -‘Oh!--about Captain Bellendean,’ said the Colonel, rubbing his hands -with an attempt to look quite at his ease and comfortable. Then he added -still cheerfully, but with a sinking of his heart, ‘Do you know, I don’t -think there was anything quite definitely said between us about Norman -Bellendean.’ - -‘Oh, there was nothing definitely said!’ - -‘Not by name, you know,’ said Colonel Hayward, with a propitiatory -smile, still softly rubbing his hands. - -‘And what did you talk of definitely, may I ask? You’ve been a long time -out. I suppose something came of it,’ said Mrs. Hayward more sharply -than ever. - -‘Oh yes, certainly,’ said the Colonel, very conciliatory. ‘Joyce desired -nothing better than to give me her full confidence, Elizabeth. She has a -heart of gold, my dear. She said at once that she knew I would never -misunderstand her--that I would always help her; and nothing could be -more true. I think I may say we understand each other perfectly now.’ - -Elizabeth’s keen eye saw through all this confidence and plausible -certainty. ‘What did she tell you then--about last night?’ she said. - -‘About last night? Well, my dear, I told you we did not go into things -very definitely--we did not put all the dots on the i’s. It was rather -what you might call--general. No names, you know,’ he repeated, looking -at her with a still more ingratiating smile. - -‘No names, I know! In short, Henry, you are no wiser than when you went -out,’ Mrs. Hayward said, with an exasperation that was not unnatural. ‘I -knew how it would be,’ she added. ‘She has just thrown dust in your -eyes, and made you believe whatever she pleased. I never expected -anything else, for my part.’ - -‘Indeed, my dear, you are quite mistaken. She said to me in the most -trusting way that she had the fullest confidence---- My dear Elizabeth, I -don’t think you do justice to Joyce.’ - -‘Oh, justice!’ she cried: perhaps she did well to be angry. ‘I must -trust, then, to myself,’ she said, ’as I generally have to do.’ - -‘But Elizabeth--Elizabeth!’ - -‘Oh, don’t bother me, _please_!’ the angry woman said. - -Joyce went up stairs to take off her hat, and as she did so her eyes -fell upon certain little closed cases upon her table. One of them was -that photograph of old Janet Matheson in her big shawl and black satin -bonnet, with Peter, a wide laugh of self-ridicule yet pleasure on his -face, looking over her shoulder. It was from no scorn of those poor old -people that the little case was closed. Mrs. Hayward’s maid had made -some silly remark about ‘an old washerwoman,’ and Joyce, almost with -tears of anger, had shut it from all foolish eyes. She took it up and -opened it now, and kissed it with quivering lips--wondering would granny -understand her? or would she be so overjoyed, so uplifted, by the -thought of the Captain, that everything else would be dim to her. Joyce -put down the little homely picture, but in so doing touched another, -which lay closed, too, beside it. She did not open that case--she -recoiled with a low cry. The outside was enough--it filled her with a -sudden repugnance, a kind of horror. She moved even from the side of the -table where it was. She thought she saw him standing there looking at -her, in the attitude in which he had stood for his portrait; and she -remembered, nay, saw with a clearness beyond that of mere vision, his -look as he had presented her with this memorial of himself. ‘It is said -to be very like,’ he had said; ‘I am no judge.’ She remembered the -ineffable little tone in which he had said it--a tone which even then -filled her with something between ridicule and shame. - -And now--oh, how could Joyce think of it! how could she look back upon -that time! Now it was odious to her to recall him at all, to see him -spring up and put himself into his attitude--so gentlemanly, as his -mother said. Joyce grew crimson, a scorching flush came all over her. -She shrank away from the wretched little photograph as if it had been a -serpent, and could sting her. She had never liked it. It had always -seemed an uncomfortable revelation, fixing him there in black and white, -much worse even than he was: _even_! Joyce hid her face in her hands, in -an agony of self-horror and shame. Oh, how mean, dishonourable, vulgar, -she was! He had been better than all the lads about, who would have -thrust their awkward love upon her in the old days. An educated man, -able to talk about poetry and beautiful things. She had been honoured by -his regard--it had been a great thing for her to be engaged to such a -man--and now! There was nothing, nothing which could excuse the baseness -of her desertion of him. What could she say for herself? There was only -one thing she could say, and that was what no one would understand. The -one thing was, that she had not known what love was, and now love had -come. Ah! if it had been love for some one poorer, less desirable than -Andrew, her plea might have been believed. But love for Norman -Bellendean--love that would put her in the place which was as good as a -queen’s to all the country-side--love by which she would better herself -beyond conception. - -Joyce felt a chill come to her heart after that hot rush of shame--how -was she to say it, how accept it even in her own heart? Even granny -would be ashamed--granny who had prophesied that he would be the first -to be cast off--but without thinking that it would be Joyce--Joyce -herself, not any proud father--who would cast off the poor schoolmaster. -Joyce’s honest peasant breeding, with its contempt for the _parvenu_, -gave her a keener horror and shame than would have been possible, -perhaps, to any other class. She felt humiliated to the very dust, angry -with herself, disgusted at her own treachery. What should she do?--how -represent it to those keen cottage critics, who would look at her -behaviour with such sharp eyes? To give up Andrew Halliday for the -Captain,--the meanest woman might do that--the one that was most -ignoble. And who was to know, who was to understand, that it was true -love, the first love she had ever known, and not pride or advantage -that, before she knew it, had snatched Joyce’s heart away? - -She was not sufficiently composed to allow herself to think that she had -never shown to her rustic suitor any more preference than was natural to -the fact that he was more congenial to her than the ploughman. She had -accepted sedately his attentions. She had consented vaguely to that half -proprietorship which he had claimed in her; but there had been little -wooing between them, and Joyce had put aside all those demonstrations of -affection which Andrew had attempted. But she said to herself none of -these things. She even did not say that it was a mistake, for which in -her youthfulness and ignorance she was scarcely to blame. She took it -very seriously, as a sin which she had committed, but meaning no harm, -meaning no harm, as she repeated to herself, with tears in her eyes. For -the other had come upon her like a flood, like a fire, like some natural -accident of which there was no warning. All had been tranquillity in her -heart one moment--and in the next she knew that she was a traitor, -forsworn. There had been no warning. She had not known of any -danger--but in a moment she had discovered that she was a false woman, -false and forsworn. - -She went down to the luncheon-table after a long interval--long enough -to make her late for that meal, which was a fault Mrs. Hayward did not -approve. But Joyce had to bathe her hot eyes which could not shed any -tears, but burnt in their sockets like fiery coals, she thought, and -then to wait till the glaze and flush produced by the bathing had worn -off. It had not altogether worn off when she came downstairs, but -remained in a suspicious glow, so that she seemed to have been crying, -though she had not been able to afford herself that relief. The Colonel -cried, ‘Why, Joyce!’ when she appeared, and was about to make some -further remark, when a look from his wife checked him. This looked like -mercy on Mrs. Hayward’s part, but perhaps it was only in order to -inflict a more telling blow. - -For, after some time when all was quiet, and Joyce, taking refuge in the -tranquillity, had begun to breathe more freely, Mrs. Hayward all at once -introduced a subject of which as yet there had been no discussion. ‘By -the way,’ she said, suddenly and lightly, ‘where are we going this -autumn? It is nearly August, and we have not yet settled that.’ - -The Colonel answered, that for his part he was always very well disposed -to stay at home; and that he thought, as there had been a great deal of -excitement that year---- - -‘No, I don’t feel disposed to give up my holiday,’ said Mrs. Hayward. -‘Where shall we go? I know what you mean, Henry. You mean to beguile us -into staying quietly here, and then when the Twelfth comes you will find -some irresistible business that calls you away--to Scotland or -somewhere. And you do not care what we are to do in the meantime, Joyce -and me.’ - -The Colonel protested very warmly that this was not what he meant. -‘Indeed it is very seldom I get an invitation for the Twelfth, not once -in half a dozen years; and as for leaving you behind----’ - -‘We will not be left behind,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with that alarming -gaiety. ‘No. I’ll tell you what we will do to suit all parties. You -shall go to Scotland for the Twelfth, and Joyce and I will do what I -know her heart is set upon. We will go to see her old people in her old -home. That will please you, Joyce, I know?’ - -This terrible suggestion was to Joyce as if a gun had suddenly been -fired at her ear. She was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, -and she started so that the very table shook. - -‘To go to--my old home?’ - -‘Yes, my dear. It would give the old people a great pleasure. We -promised, you know, to bring you back.’ - -It was a cruel experiment to try. Joyce flushed and paled again with an -agitation beyond control. ‘It is very kind,’ she faltered, ‘to think -of--but they would not look for me now.’ - -‘Why not now? They don’t go away on a round of visits in autumn, I -presume.’ - -‘My dear!’ said the Colonel, in a shocked admonitory voice. - -‘Well, Henry! I mean no harm; but one time is the same as another to -them, I should suppose. And we all know how fond they are of Joyce, and -she of them. What more natural than that she should go to see them when -the chance occurs?’ - -It was natural. There was nothing to reply. If all was true that Joyce -had professed of love and reverence for these old people, what could be -thought of her refusal, her reluctance to go and see them? She sat there -like a frightened wild creature driven into a corner, and not knowing -how to escape, or what to do, looking at them with scared eyes. - -‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, that all looks reasonable enough, and -if Joyce wished it--but she must know best when it would be convenient -to them. It might not be convenient at this time of the year, for -anything we know.’ - -‘It would be harvest,’ said Joyce, thankful for the suggestion; ‘they -would be busy, busy: another time it would be better. Oh,’ she cried -suddenly, in an outburst of despair, ‘how can I go home?’ - -‘Joyce!’ - -‘Oh, I’m unnatural! I’m not fit to live! How am I to go home!’ cried the -girl, who, less than three months ago, had left old Peter and Janet -with, as she thought, a breaking heart. The two calm people at either -end of the table put down their knives and forks to look at her--the -Colonel with great sympathy, yet a certain pleasure; Mrs. Hayward with -suppressed scorn. - -‘It is not so very long since you were sighing for it, Joyce,’ she -said; ‘but a girl at your age may be allowed to change her mind.’ - -‘And, my dear,’ said her father, ‘I am very joyful to think that your -own real home is more to you than any other; for that’s how it ought to -be.’ - -Joyce looked at them both with the troubled, dumb stare of helpless -panic and stupefied cruel terror which comes to a wild thing in a snare. -Her cry had been uttered and was over. She had no more to say; but she -had not sufficient command of herself to perceive that she should not -have uttered that cry, or should seek to put some gloss upon it, now -that it was beyond recall. - -‘And now you see that Joyce does not wish it, my dear,’ said Colonel -Hayward, ‘of course you will never press that. It was only because we -thought it would please you, Joyce; but you may be sure she is right, -Elizabeth. It would be too soon--too soon.’ - -‘Oh, that’s all right, if she thinks so,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Of course -I don’t mean to press it. I thought it would delight Joyce; but it -appears I have made a mistake. Let us think of something else, Henry. -Let us go abroad.’ - -‘You would like that, my dear child?’ her father said. He was greatly -touched by this clinging to himself, as he thought it--this preference -of her new home to the old. To him there was neither variableness, nor -the desertion of old ties, nor anything in it which impaired the -character of his child, but only a preference for himself, a desire to -be with him and near him, her father, upon whom she had made so tender a -claim,--who, she had said, would be like God. Naturally she would rather -be with him than with any one. He put out his hand and stroked hers -caressingly. ‘You would like that? It would be a complete change. We -might go to Switzerland, or even to the Italian lakes. You are very fond -of Como, Elizabeth. Come now, say you would like that.’ - -Their eyes were upon her, and how were they to know the tempest of -feeling that was in Joyce’s mind? She seemed to see the two old figures -rise reproachful, their faces looking at her across the table--oh, so -deeply wounded, with long looks of inquiry. Was it possible that -already--already her heart had turned from them? And Janet’s words came -surging back in the tempest of Joyce’s thoughts, how she would mean no -harm, yet be parted from them, and find out all the differences. So -soon, so soon! Janet’s eyes seemed to look at her with deep and grieved -reproach; but, on the other hand, who were these two who shut out -Janet’s face from her? Andrew in the attitude of the photograph, -complacent, self-assertive, and Norman Bellendean, stooping, looking -down upon her. Oh no, no, no! not home where these two were--not home, -not home! - -‘I must say I am surprised, Joyce. Still, if that is what you feel, it -is not for me to press the visit upon you. And so far as I am concerned, -I like home much the best. I am not very fond of Scotland. It’s cold, -and I hate cold. Of course Joyce would like Como--every girl would like -it--so long,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with meaning, ’as there was not -absolutely any other place which they liked best.’ - -This arrow fell harmlessly upon Joyce, who had fallen into such a storm -of troubled thoughts that missiles from without failed to affect her. Of -all places in the world there was but one only which was impossible to -her, the beloved home where the man whom she loved was in the high -place, and the man who loved her was in the lowly. These two -antagonistic figures blurred out the two others--the old pair to whom -she owed everything, to whom her heart went out with an aching and -longing even while she thus abandoned them; and dear Bellendean, of -which she thought with such horror and panic, the place she loved best -in the world,--the only place in the world to which she dared not, must -not go. - -‘There is no engagement,’ said Mrs. Hayward to her husband when Joyce -had escaped to her room. - -‘No engagement?’ he repeated, with a surprised question. - -‘There has been no explanation. He has said nothing to her. And I think, -after dangling after her for nearly three months, that he is not -treating her well. If he comes back, Henry, I have told you what is your -duty. You must ask him what his intentions are.’ - -‘I would rather shoot him, or myself. You don’t know what you are -saying, Elizabeth,’ the Colonel cried. - -‘Shooting him, or yourself, would not advance matters at all,’ his wife -said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - - -Andrew Halliday had not spent a pleasant summer, and the winter closed -in upon him with still less consolation. His love, his ambition, and all -his hopes were centred in Joyce, and his mind was greatly distracted -from those occupations which hitherto had filled his life. He no longer -took the satisfaction he once had done in perfecting the school at -Comely Green, in pushing on his show pupils, and straining every nerve -for the approbation of the inspectors, and to acquire the reputation of -the best school in the district. All his pleasure in the nice -schoolhouse, which he had once inspected with such bright hopes, -thinking what a home Joyce would make of it, what a place it would be, -superior to all other schoolhouses, under her hands, which embellished -everything--was gone. And even his Shakespeare class, and all the -intellectual enthusiasms in which he had been stimulated by her, and -which were the pride of his life and buoyed him up, with that sense of -culture and superiority which is one of the most ineffable and -delightful of human sensations, failed to support him now. For that -beatific condition requires calm, and Andrew was no longer calm. He kept -looking night and day for a summons into higher spheres. He dreamed of -headmasterships in the ‘South’ which would be opened to him; of noble -English schools where every boy was a little lord, and for which his own -intellectual gifts, apart from any vain paraphernalia of university -degrees, would, backed by Colonel Hayward’s influence, make him -eligible. It may seem strange that a man of any education should have -believed in anything so preposterous; but Halliday was very ignorant of -the world, though he was entirely unaware of that fact, and had no -experience out of his own narrow circle. Little as this is recognised, -it is nevertheless true that a clever man in his position is capable of -misunderstandings and mistakes which would be impossible to a dolt in a -higher sphere. He did not know that he had as little chance of becoming -a headmaster in a great school, by dint even of the greatest of natural -gifts, as of becoming Prime Minister--far less, indeed, for political -genius might force a way in the one direction, while the most exalted -intellectualism would do nothing in the other. Andrew, bewitched by hope -and aspiration, and the novel and intoxicating sense of having ‘friends’ -in high places, whose greatest object in life must be his advancement, -believed and hoped everything which the wildest fancy could conceive. - -This made his life much less satisfactory to him in the general, and -reduced the efficiency of the parish school of Comely Green, the success -of which was less to him than it had ever been, and its routine less -interesting. As for the house, and even the new furniture he had bought, -he looked at them with scorn, almost with disgust. What was the little -parlour, which was all that a set of prejudiced heritors allowed to the -schoolmaster, in comparison with the lovely old-fashioned mansions which -he had seen described in books, and which were full of every luxury -which a headmaster could desire? This hope, which at first was almost a -certainty, of better things, made life as it was very distasteful to -Andrew. For the first three months there was scarcely a day when he did -not expect to hear something. When he went out he thought it possible -that a letter, or better, a telegram, might be waiting for him when he -came back--and never stranger approached the school, that his heart did -not beat expectant of the messenger who should bring him news of his -promotion. When the inspector came for his annual examination, Andrew -thought that there was something particular about all that he said and -looked, and that this official was testing him and his success, to see -how he would do for the higher sphere which was opening to receive him. -The inspector happened to have letters to post as he passed through the -village, one with the mystic H.M.S. printed upon it, and the unfortunate -schoolmaster felt his heart beat, believing that it contained his -character, his certificate, the description of himself, which would -justify Government in translating him to a higher and a better sphere; -and in this suppressed excitement and expectation he passed his life. - -However, when the summer had given place to autumn a curious thing -occurred to Andrew. Joyce’s letters, which had been short but very -regular, and exceedingly nicely written, and so expressed as to trouble -his mind with no doubts--for, indeed, Andrew was scarcely capable of -doubting the faith of a girl who had the privilege of being chosen for -his mate--suddenly stopped. They had come weekly--an arrangement with -which he was satisfied--and it was not until for the second time the -usual day came and brought him no letter that he began to think her -silence strange. When he heard from Janet, whom he visited regularly, -with great honesty and faithfulness to his promise--though, as a matter -of fact, he was not anxious to be seen to be on terms of intimacy with -such very lowly people--that Joyce had gone abroad with her father, this -seemed a not inadequate excuse for her. Andrew’s heart swelled with the -thought that to him, too, the possibility might soon come of going -abroad for his holidays--a dignity and splendour which in anticipation -raised him to a kind of ecstasy. - -And for a time this satisfied him fully. But time went on, and Joyce, he -knew, returned, and yet no communication came. He could not think why -this should be, especially as Janet went on receiving letters, of which -she would read extracts with a scarcely suppressed sense of superiority -which was very galling to the schoolmaster. ‘Ou ay, Andrew; come ben and -tak’ a seat; there’s been a letter. She never lets an eight days pass -without one--she’s just as regular as the clock,’ Janet would say, not -unwilling to inflict that little humiliation; and then she would read to -him a little bit here and there. If it had not been for that still -lively hope, Andrew would have been seriously angry and anxious: and -even when another month had stolen away, he was, though greatly -surprised, yet still willing to believe that she was putting off in -order to give him a delightful surprise at last,--in order to be able to -tell him of some wonderful appointment which she was in the meantime -straining every energy to obtain. But there was no doubt that this -constant suspense did undermine his tranquillity. At the last, his -temper began to suffer; he began to grow jealous and irritable. When the -Captain came back to Bellendean and went to see Janet, and talked to her -for hours about her child--as the old woman reported with as much pride -as her dignity permitted--Andrew took heart again for the moment, -expecting nothing less than that a similar visit should be paid to him, -who certainly, he thought, was much more in the Captain’s way--far more -able to hold a conversation with him on topics either public or -individual than an old ploughman and his wife. But the Captain never -came; and there was no letter, no message, nothing but silence, and a -darkness in which not only the headmastership but Joyce--who, to do him -justice, was more to him than any promotion--seemed to be vanishing -away. - -This blank was made all the greater from the fact that Janet in the -meantime never failed to get her letter. Joyce wrote long tender letters -to her beloved granny, telling her everything--and nothing; a fact which -the keen-witted old woman had long ago discovered, but which naturally -she kept to herself, not even confiding to Peter--whose chief amusement -it was to hear these letters read over and over--the deficiency which -she felt. Joyce described all her travels with a fulness which was -delightful to the old people. ‘Ye can read me yon bit again about the -bells and the auld man in the kirk,’ Peter would say; or, ‘Yon about the -muckle hills and the glaciers--as daftlike a name as ever I heard; for -there’s no’ mony glaziers, I’m thinking, yonder away--na, nor plumbers -either.’ Janet fumbled for her spectacles, and got the letter out of a -work-box which had been a present from Joyce, and prepared to read with -every appearance of enthusiasm; but she said to herself, ‘She can tell -me about glaciers and snawy hills, but no’ a word about hersel’.’ It is -doubtful, however, whether Andrew would have perceived this want any -more than Peter. He would have been satisfied with letters about the -glaciers and all the wonders she was seeing; but to have that -information only at second-hand was hard upon him, and it was hard to be -left out. Even if this silence should be caused by her desire to give -him a delightful surprise--even if she were indeed waiting from week to -week always expecting to have that piece of news to tell him--even in -that case it was very hard to bear. - -He came to the cottage one evening when the early winter had set in. The -days had grown short and the nights long. The house of Bellendean stood -out with a half-naked distinctness among the bare trees, and every path -was thick with fallen leaves. Through the village street the wind was -careering as though pursuing some one, and breathing with a long sough -that told of coming rain among the houses. A dreary night, with little -light and little comfort in it--not a night to come out for pleasure. -Andrew Halliday had brought a lantern to light him on various parts of -his long walk, and he went in with a gloomy countenance like the night. -The scene was a very homely one: the occupants of the cottage were poor, -with none of the interest that attaches to beauty or youth, and yet -there was much that was touching in the little interior. The supper was -over, the things were all put away; it was nearly time for bed, for they -rose early, and were tired with the work of the day. The Bible was on -the table for the ‘worship’ which was their last waking act. But in the -meantime Peter sat in his old arm-chair beside the fire smoking his last -pipe, his rugged countenance lit up by its proud smile, and a little -moisture in his eyes. The laugh with which he sometimes interrupted the -reading had the far-off sound of a sob in it. Janet sat on the other -side of the fire holding up the page she was reading to the light. It -was Joyce’s last letter. No book in the world had so much charm for -them. It provided their literature for the week, and Peter had nearly -got the current letter by heart before the next came. Out at his work -among the dark wintry furrows, he would sometimes burst forth into an -explosion of that tremulous laughter, repeating over one of the ‘bits’ -in Joyce’s letter, saying to himself, ‘It’s just extraordinar’! Whaur -did she get a’ thae remarks, that never would have come into my head, -and me her grandfaither?’ Of this admiration and emotion and tender love -the air of the little room was full. - -‘Is that you, Andrew? Dear, man, I hope naething’s the matter--you have -an awfu’ troubled countenance,’ Janet said. - -‘There is nothing particular the matter,’ said Andrew grimly, ‘but I’m -tired of waiting for what never comes, and I’m thinking of going up to -London. I thought it best to let you know, in case you might have any -message. Though, as you’re always in correspondence----’ - -‘Ou ay, we’re always in correspondence,’ said Janet. - -‘Just read ower that bit again, Janet, my woman,’ said her husband. -‘It’s real diverting,--just like having a book to read that’s a’ your -ain. Whaur she gets it a’ is mair than I can tell.’ - -‘No, thank you--I’ve no time,’ said Andrew, ‘and most likely it would -not divert me; for, to tell the truth, I’m very serious, and things have -come to that pass that I must just come to a settlement one way or -other. So if you have any parcel or any message----’ - -‘But you’re no’ going to throw up the school, or do anything rash? Do -nothing rash, Andrew--that would be the warst of a’.’ - -‘I hope I’m not an unknown person,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘if I throw -up one I’ll get another, for there’s plenty that knows my value. But I -have no intention to be rash. There’s three days’ vacation for the -preachings, and I am going then.’ - -‘For the preachings! Dear, lad, would you be away at the preachings?’ -Janet cried. - -‘Preachings or no preachings, I’m going to London,’ he said, with -impatience. ‘I’ll hear what she has to say; but I’m not a man to be just -kept hanging on. She’ll have to take me or to want me.’ He was much -impressed with the tremendous character of the choice that Joyce would -have to make. It sobered his tone. ‘I hope nobody will think that I -would be hard upon her: but she must satisfy me that all’s well, or -else----’ He did not finish the sentence; but the sternness of the -determination which he would not utter was visible in his eyes. - -‘I wouldna speak to her in a tone like that, if I was you. Ye may lead -Joyce with love and kindness many a mile, but ye’ll no’ drive her an -inch--no’ an inch. Though she’s our ain, she has her faults, like every -ither mortal creature. If ye wag your finger at her in the way of a -threat----’ - -‘He’ll no’ do that,’ said Peter, in a tone of quiet decision, looking -the schoolmaster all over. Andrew was a much younger man, but the arm of -the gigantic old labourer could still have laid him low. Andrew, -however, was irritable and sore, and he looked up with by no means a -conciliatory demeanour. - -‘I’ll do what’s becoming,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be dictated to. A man has -a right to know what a woman means that has accepted him for her -husband. Either she’ll fulfil her contract or--we’ll have to come to -other terms.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Janet, unable to refrain from that little triumph. ‘Did I -no’ tell ye that? Ye were fain to make friends with yon grand gentleman, -and leave Peter and me on the ither side, but I telt ye ye would be the -first to feel it--and so it’s turned out.’ - -‘That remains to be seen,’ said Andrew, buttoning his overcoat. ‘It’s a -very dark night, and without a light I could scarcely have kept the -road--though I should know it well enough,’ he added, with a little -bitterness. ‘I was not called upon to take all this trouble to come over -and see you. But I would not go without letting you know. I was not -asking your opinion. The thing is, if you have any message or parcel--I -could take a parcel.’ - -‘I’m sure I canna tell what I could send her, unless it was some fresh -eggs, or a bunch of the monthly roses off the wa’. She’ll have -everything that heart can desire--and the eggs would be a trouble to ye. -And nae doot she has far better flowers than a wheen late roses off a -cottage wa’.’ - -Peter had got up while Janet was speaking, and opened his large knife. -‘Len’ me your lantern, Andrew,’ he said, and went out with heavy slow -steps to the little garden, or ‘yaird’ as they called it. He came in, a -minute after, with a branch from the old China rose, which half covered -that side of the house. The old man, with his heavy figure and rugged -countenance, the lantern in one hand and the cluster of pale roses in -the other, might have made a symbolical picture. He set down the lantern -and began to trim off the thorns from the long bough with its nodding -flowers. There could not have been a more wintry posy. The leaves were -curled up and brown with frost; the hips, only half coloured, pale as -the flowers, hung in clusters, glistening with cold November dews; and -the faint roses gave a sort of plaintive cheer and melancholy -prettiness, like the faces of children subdued into unnatural quiet. -‘Ye’ll take her this from her auld folk,’ Peter said. - -‘Eh, but it’ll be hard to carry a lang brainch like that: tak’ just the -flowers, Andrew; ye can pit them in your hat.’ - -‘I’ll take it as it is,’ said Andrew. He was not below the level of that -tender feeling; and though there was a great deal of angry -disappointment, there was love also in his heart. He took the branch of -roses and unripe hips, and frost-bitten leaves, and disappeared into the -darkness with it, with a curt ‘good-night.’ The old couple stood by the -fire, listening to his steps as he went quickly out of hearing; then -shut the door for the night, and opened the Book, and said their prayers -for Joyce,--‘her that Thou gavest us, and that Thou hast taken from us, -we darena doubt for her good; and oh, that a’ the blessings o’ the -covenant may rest upon her bonnie heid!’ It was the petition of every -night, and Janet gave the response of nature (though responses, it need -not be said, were profoundly contrary to all her principles) in a -whispered repetition of the words, and a faint little sob. - -Andrew walked the three miles with his lantern in one hand and his long -branch of roses in the other, a strange apparition to have met upon the -road in the darkness of the November night. And next evening he set out, -after having completed all his school work, by the night train, with a -great determination in his heart, and yet many softened and wistful -thoughts. He was going to ‘put it to the touch, to gain or lose it -all,’--repeating to himself over and over Montrose’s noble verse. He was -going to decide his fate: if there was no hope of that headmastership; -if, perhaps, competition and vile interest and patronage--always vile -when they are opposed to one’s self--had rendered all efforts -impossible: to bid them strive no more, since he was content to wait for -the reward of a conscious merit which did not, after all, want any -foreign aid to gain eventually all that was meet; and in the meantime to -secure his love, to insist upon it that no circumstances should separate -him from Joyce. He went over and over in his imagination the interview -he would have with her, fancying how she would excuse herself that she -had waited for good news, and answering, with a little burst of natural -eloquence, ‘Do you think I would not rather have a kind word from your -hand than all the news in the world? Do you think a grand appointment -would make up to me for losing sight of _you_?’ A hundred speeches like -this floated through his mind, and were said over by his lips in the -little preliminary journey to Edinburgh in the chill afternoon. The -thought of going to London was in itself a great excitement too. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - - -Halliday was both gloomy and angry when he left home, full of that sense -of unappreciated merit which cuts with peculiar keenness into the minds -of those who entertain no doubt as to their own superiority over the -ordinary level; but the influence of external things and the distraction -of travel soon succeeded in clearing to a great degree his mental -firmament. The bustle of the great station at Edinburgh, the care of -selecting a comfortable corner for his journey, the hurrying and rush of -less fortunate persons hampered by luggage and children, amused his mind -and distracted his thoughts. He travelled, as a matter of course, in the -third-class; and, equally as a matter of course, he regarded with a -dignified derision the stalwart young men in deer-stalking coats, and -with every superfluity imaginable in the way of wraps and sticks and -dressing-cases, who indulged themselves in the luxury of -sleeping-carriages. Sybarites he called them in his mind, with a -half-contemptuous, half-indulgent smile--frivolous creatures, altogether -unaware that in a corner of a third-class carriage a man so much their -superior in everything was calmly regarding them, making the inevitable -comparison between folly and its comfortable cushions, and wisdom, -which, if it did not trudge afoot, yet used only such conveniences as -dignified necessity required. The deer-stalking young men, who never -thought of the matter, would indeed have been highly surprised had they -known how they were set down at their proper value by their travelling -companion. The comparison did Andrew good: it made him feel his own -dignity, his superiority to the external, yet made his breast swell with -a pathetic wonder. Was it perhaps possible that Joyce, after three -months’ experience of luxury, should prefer these brainless ones, so -much lower in the intellectual scale? Surely, surely that could not be -possible. He saw with a smile that they took copies of the _Field_ and -the _Sporting News_ into their luxurious carriages with them. He -himself had the _Saturday Review_. There is nothing so sustaining as -this sense of being better than one’s neighbours. It comforted poor -Andrew, and kept him warm during his journey. The gentlemen in the -sleeping-carriages might rest better, but they did not, nay could not, -feel half the moral elevation of the schoolmaster in his corner of the -third-class. - -London, too, veiled in a grey-and-yellow fog, through which the lamps, -not yet extinguished, and a line of dusky sunrise among the clouds, -looked red, brought an excitement to his mind which few perhaps of the -companions of his journey shared. Andrew greeted the great city as -people greet it in books,--as adventurers in the days of Dr. Johnson -saluted that centre of the world. He thought with a tingle of strange -emotion in his breast that the great roar of humanity might become -familiar to his ears ere long. He rose to the sound and commotion with a -sense of predestined greatness. The people in the sleeping-carriages -tumbled out drowsily, rubbing their eyes in the midst of a dream. But -Andrew stepped forth inspired by the recollection of many a great man -who had arrived like himself, not knowing what might befall him. His -hopes, his courage rose more and more as he felt where he was--in a -great place where he was sure to be understood, and where the human mind -was in a perpetual progress, not stagnant as in the country. He felt, -indeed, not as he had done when he left home, as if his mission were a -forlorn hope, but rather as if he were coming like a conqueror to see -and to vanquish. It wanted only, he said to himself, that touch of -reality to chase all the chimeras away. He would, he must, find Joyce -faithful as ever, keeping silence only because her plans were not yet -ripened for his advancement. He would find her father full of that -respect which the man of action feels for the man of mind. He would be -received as an honoured guest; he would be admitted into their -confidence, and made acquainted with their hopes. Visions of a noble old -house in some sort of cloistered dignified centre of learning rose again -before his eyes--A. Halliday, Headmaster. He did not definitely fix upon -Eton or Harrow, having no actual knowledge of either of those places; -but something exhilarating, sweet, a strong yet soft delusion, stole -into his being. He was so entirely inexperienced and full of the -ignorance of his class (although a man so well instructed), that he was -not aware of any restriction upon such appointments that could not be -got over by sufficiently powerful influence. Influence could do -everything, Halliday thought. - -He got a bath and breakfast at the nearest hotel, undiscouraged even by -its grim and chill nakedness, and feeling a wonderful freedom and -elation in the consciousness of thus doing what the best people did, and -being waited upon, served by a man-servant (if you liked to put it in -that way) like the best. It cost a good deal, but it was worth the -expenditure. The fog cleared off as the morning advanced, and it was in -the sunshine of a bright hazy morning that he set off on the final stage -of his journey. He had dressed himself with the utmost care and all the -resources of his wardrobe. His tie was blue, his coat a frock-coat of -extreme solemnity, which he usually wore at funerals. He thought, as he -was a traveller, that it was the right thing to wear with this a round -hat such as he wore in the country. He had a pair of lavender gloves, -his umbrella was very neatly rolled up--in short, at half a mile off you -recognised his unquestionable character and doubtful gentility with as -much ease as if he had written Andrew Halliday, schoolmaster at Comely -Green, upon his manly breast; but he had not the least idea of that. His -clear and ruddy complexion was a little paled by the night’s journey, -and by the mixture of agitation and excitement which he could not but -feel as the moment of meeting approached. He looked a most respectable -young man, very respectable, honest as the day. You would scarcely have -suspected, however, to see him, how superior he felt to the people in -the sleeping-carriages, and how, when they got the _Field_ and the -_Sporting Times_ at the bookstalls, he had bought the _Saturday Review_. - -He went by the railway from Waterloo, admiring the river which ran -glistening grey, like a great worm, under the shining of the wintry -sun--and got out with a great heartbeat at the station. How near he was -now! He felt inclined to take a walk, to see the place and look at the -view, pushing off the decision for a time, the certainty--for he had so -little doubt by this time that it was a certainty--of the happy meeting. -To see Joyce in perhaps a few minutes; to hear her cry of astonishment -and delight; to have her come up to him in her shy way, never -demonstrative, unless perhaps the long separation might have made her -more so. ‘Oh, Andrew! and I was just going to write to tell you----’ He -would not wait till she said ‘about the headmastership.’ He would take -her in his arms, whoever was there (for had he not the right?), and say, -‘About yourself, my dearest--that’s what I want to hear about.’ He -thought he would take a walk first to _savourer_ a little this -delightful scene, and think how she would look and what he would say. It -was so near, so very near! He would keep it at arm’s-length a little in -order to enjoy it the more. - -It sobered him, however, to hear that Colonel Hayward’s house was some -distance off, and to receive confused instructions which he could not -follow. As a matter of fact, the instructions were not at all confused, -they were only too rapid and clear. ‘First turning to the right, second -turning to the left; then go straight on till you pass the church; then -first turning, second turning.’ How could he keep all that in his mind? -It was he that was confused, not the direction. If they had said, turn -to the west and then a little to the north---- He stumbled along, -forgetting whether it was the first, second, or third turning he ought -to take, till he came to a church, which was not the church to which he -had been directed; and from thence he stumbled on again by a great many -roads clothed with pretty houses, which bewildered him. He stopped -finally to ask his way of a brisk little lady, who cried, ‘Oh, Colonel -Hayward’s!’ her eyes dancing with instant interest, and a look full of -interrogations, as if she would have liked to ask him a hundred things. -Andrew could scarcely restrain himself from asking, ‘Do you know Joyce?’ -He felt at once that this eager little lady jumped at some conclusion -about himself, and was eager to ask who he was--perhaps whether he was -the lover of whom Joyce must have spoken to everybody with whom she was -intimate. And Andrew’s instinct was indeed not far wrong: for Mrs. -Sitwell immediately divined him to be somebody out of the mysterious -past life of which none of the Haywards spoke, and wondered whether, -perhaps, he was some one with whom Joyce had got ‘entangled’ in these -dark ages. She stood and looked after him when she had given him his -instructions, with curious eyes, noting his long frock-coat and his low -hat. How dreadful! she said to herself, and could scarcely contain the -curiosity that filled her. Should she make a hurried round through the -district, and then approach the Haywards’ on the other side, so as to -catch him there, and see with her own eyes the position of affairs? Mrs. -Sitwell knew that Joyce would be just going in with her father from -their morning walk, and would be caught by the visitor, and would be -unable to escape. - -Certainly she must know Joyce: she must divine who he was: Andrew said -this to himself, and was further exhilarated and strengthened by the -idea. Of course, Joyce must have told her friends. He went on with -better success this time, inspired by the little active lady with those -eager eyes, who must know--and at last got to the very door. His heart -was beating now very quickly indeed. Joyce’s door--so different from the -cottage where he used to find her. There she had always been shy, -keeping behind old Janet, never willing to permit any demonstration. -Would things be different now? Would she rush to him after his long -separation, laying her head upon his shoulder? This image filled -Andrew’s face with light and colour as he knocked at her father’s door. - -‘Is Miss Hayward at home?’ The appearance of Baker gave him a distinct -sensation of pleasure. Colonel Hayward’s butler or upper servant, a -domestic of a high class. Andrew would have liked to see a footman or -two behind, but pleased himself with the thought that this must be -considered higher _ton_. ‘Is Miss Hayward at home?’ - -‘Miss Hayward? well, I can’t say. She’s been out walking with the -Colonel, and whether they’ve come back or not, I can’t tell you. Mrs. -Hayward is in,’ Baker said. He was not impressed by the appearance of -the visitor. He thought it must be some man from a shop, or a person -about a subscription, at the best. - -‘It is not Mistress Hayward but Miss Hayward I want.’ - -‘Very well,’ said Baker-- ‘I hear you. If you’ll wait a bit, I’ll go and -see.’ - -And Andrew had to wait, sadly against his will, outside the door. -‘You’ll excuse me, but Missis’s charges are as the door is always to be -shut,’ Baker said, with a restrained chuckle, instinctively delighted to -do his duty in a way that was offensive to the newcomer, whom he saw to -be of inferior condition, and likely to be an undesirable guest. -Andrew’s sensations when he was left outside his love’s door were not -pleasant. He ceased to think of the butler as a high-class domestic, and -called him in his mind a pampered menial, but consoled himself with the -thought of the downfall that would happen to Baker when he knew who it -was whom he had shut out. It was, however, a disagreeable moment of -suspense. He tried to distract his mind by an examination of the great -flower-vases at the door, the shrubs in their winter green, the -perfectly swept and close-cut turf, all the careful surroundings of the -place, not imposing or vast, but so exquisitely kept,--more perfect even -than Bellendean. To think that he should have time to investigate all -this, while she sat within with a beating heart, divining--would she -divine?--his approach. When the butler described him, she would know, -and come rushing out. She would rush to him, and the pampered menial -would see---- At this moment the door opened quickly, and Baker said, -‘Hi! Missis will be obliged if you’ll send in your name.’ - -This unceremonious address startled Andrew. He said, ‘My name?’ arrested -in the middle of his thoughts. - -‘I suppose you’ve got one,’ Baker said. - -Though this was so far from the reception he expected, he was not -unprepared. He took his card-case out of his pocket, partially restored -to himself by the pleasure of using it, which was a thing that did not -occur often, and gave the pampered menial a card. He stepped briskly -inside as he did so, resolved to bear no more of this, and followed the -man as he returned to the drawing-room with the card in his hand. -Andrew’s heart beat very quickly now,--his tranquillity was considerably -disturbed. The moment had come: another instant and Joyce would be in -his arms, putting all pampered menials to scorn---- - -The door opened. There was a faint rustle of ladies’ dresses, a glow of -softened light, the sound of his own name, ‘Mr. Andrew ‘Alliday,’ and -then a cry. She did not rush into his arms. He came to himself after -that interval of excitement, and saw Joyce standing, her hands clasped, -her eyes with a look of horror in them, drawing back as if she would -have fled, with her face turned towards the door. He put down his hat -upon the nearest chair, and crying ‘Joyce!’ went forward with -outstretched arms. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - - -Joyce had just come in from her morning walk. She was standing in the -middle of the room with her hat, which she had just taken off, in her -hand. And Mrs. Hayward had been making some remarks to her, such as -mothers often, and step-mothers in some cases, feel it their duty to -make. It was on the subject of the Sitwells, whom Mrs. Hayward regarded -in their poverty (notwithstanding that the parsonage-house had been -begun, and things were on the whole going well with them) with a certain -contempt. - -‘I think, indeed, you prefer such people to those of your own class.’ - -This was what Mrs. Hayward was saying when Baker, still more -contemptuous of the inferior world than she, opened the door. ‘There is -a person,’ he said, ‘asking for Miss Hayward.’ - -‘A person--one of your district people, no doubt. They come at all -hours. There really must be a stop put to this, Joyce.’ - -‘Well, ma’am, it’s a male person, with a haccent,’ said Baker--‘not one -from these parts.’ - -‘Miss Hayward can’t see every idler who chooses to ask for her: inquire -his name,’ said the mistress of the house. - -And no premonition crossed the mind of Joyce. She stood to receive the -interrupted lecture, with her head a little bent, and her hat in her -hand. She never made any stand for herself on such occasions, nor said a -word in self-defence--probably afraid to trust her voice, and too proud -to squabble. This made her, it need scarcely be said, very provoking to -her step-mother, and aggravated any original offence in the most -insufferable way. She stood quite silent now, waiting till she should be -dismissed. And to tell the truth, Joyce, in the multitude of her -thoughts, was very sick of everything about her, and of the friends for -whom she was incurring reproof, and of the petty fault-finding which -seemed to surround her steps wherever she went. Mrs. Hayward did not -resume her lecture. She sat down, slightly flushed and angry, expectant -to see what new visitor might betray Joyce’s inclination towards shabby -persons. ‘Mr. Andrew ‘Alliday,’ said Baker, reading from the card. And -then Joyce uttered that cry--her hat fell out of her hand upon the -floor. She started violently, gave a hurried glance round as if looking -for some way of escape, then turned a pale and terrified countenance -towards the door. - -‘Joyce!’ - -The man was quite respectable; his frock-coat made him look like a -Dissenting minister, or perhaps a commercial traveller, or something of -that kind. This was Mrs. Hayward’s bewildered reflection. She sat and -looked on as if it had been a scene in a play. - -‘Oh!’ Joyce said, clasping her hands. Then with a great effort she held -out one hesitatingly to the new-comer, and said, ‘Andrew!’ her voice -dying away in her throat. - -He seized her hand in both his. Though he loved Joyce, and his heart -bounded at the sight of her, he was also anxious to impress the pampered -menial with a sense of the hideous mistake he had made. ‘My darling!’ he -cried. - -Baker did hear, and grew purple with horror, and lingered about the door -after he had reluctantly closed it, to hear more if possible. But Joyce -retreated before the ardent advance of her lover. The light began to -fail in her eyes. She put up her hands faintly to keep him back. ‘Oh, -Andrew! what has brought you here?’ she cried. - -‘Who is this--person?’ said Mrs. Hayward, rising from her chair. - -Andrew turned round upon her with a smile. ‘It is a long time since we -have met,’ he said. ‘She is a little agitated. She was always very shy. -Another man who did not understand might think this was a cold -reception. But I know her better. You will be Mrs. Hayward, ma’am, -without doubt?’ - -‘Yes, I am Mrs. Hayward; but what have you to do with Joyce? and how do -you dare to call Miss Hayward by her Christian name?’ cried the lady of -the house. - -Andrew smiled again--he was prepared even for this emergency. ‘My name,’ -he said, smiling with a complacency which diffused itself all over him, -and shone even in the glister of his well-blacked boots, ‘should be -sufficient passport for me in this house. But perhaps you did not -properly catch my name, for English servants clip the consonants in a -surprising manner. Allow me----’ He had taken out the card-case, that -infallible mark of gentility, and here handed her a card with an ease -and grace to which he felt no objection could be made. Mrs. Hayward, -confounded, read out aloud, ‘Mr Andrew Halliday.’ Underneath, in very -small letters, was written, ‘_Schoolhouse, Comely Green_.’ - -‘You will at once perceive, ma’am,’ said Andrew, ‘that if I ask to be -left for a little alone with Joyce, I am asking no more than my right.’ - -‘Alone with Joyce! You want--what do you want? ME to take myself out of -your way! Oh, this is too much!’ Mrs. Hayward cried. - -‘It is not too much, madam,’ said Andrew, increasing in dignity, ‘if you -consider the circumstances. It is surely no more than any man in my -position has a right to ask.’ - -‘Joyce, who is this man? Joyce, do you hear that he wants to turn me out -of my own drawing-room? For goodness’ sake----! Oh, I must call Colonel -Hayward.’ - -‘That will be just in every sense the best way. The Cornel knows me, and -he will at once understand,’ said Andrew, with the blandest -self-possession. He opened the door for Mrs. Hayward, which he knew was -the right thing to do; and it was sweet to him to feel that he was -acting as a gentleman should from every point of view. - -‘Joyce!’ he cried--‘my Joyce! now we are really alone, though perhaps -only for a moment--one sweet look, my own dear!’ - -Joyce drew back from him, shrinking to the very wall. ‘Don’t,’ she said, -‘don’t!’ retreating from him. Then, with something of her old authority, -‘Sit down there; sit down and tell me, has anything happened? What has -brought you here?’ - -‘Oh, is that what is wrong?’ he said. ‘I’ve frightened you, my dear one. -No, no--no reason to be frightened. They are all well, and sent every -message. Joyce, can you ask why I came? Because I could do without you -no longer--because I was just longing for a look, for a kind word----’ - -‘Sit down,’ she said in peremptory tones, ‘sit down!’ She herself kept -standing, leaning upon the glass door which led out to the verandah, her -slender figure standing dark against the light. Her heart beat so, that -there was a thrill and tremble all over her, visible against that -background to which she clung. But it gave her a little relief when he -obeyed her, and deposited himself upon a chair. - -‘I am very sorry to have alarmed you, my dear. I thought that when you -heard my name, your first thought would be for me. It was not too much -to expect, was it, after being engaged--for more than a year?’ - -‘Andrew,’ she said, with a shiver-- ‘Andrew.’ - -‘What, my dearest? I know you’re very shy--very, very diffident--far -more than you ought to be. If ever girl should have a little assurance, -a little confidence, surely it would be you with me.’ - -He could not but be superior still--trying to reassure her, to give her -a little boldness, smiling upon her in his most protecting, encouraging -way. - -‘Andrew,’ she said again. And then Joyce’s courage failed her -altogether. She seized on any, the first expedient that occurred to her -to postpone all personal questions. ‘You are sure they are well,’ she -said tremulously. ‘Granny--and my grandfather--and all; and not missing -me--not too much--not breaking their hearts----’ - -‘Breaking their hearts! But why should they, poor old bodies?--the -feelings get blunted at that time of life. So long as they have their -porridge and their broth, and plenty of good cakes--and a cup of tea. It -is me you should ask that question. Do you know you have used me ill, -Joyce? You have written oftener to them than to me--though it is me,’ -Halliday said, ‘with whom you have to spend your life--I am not saying -at Comely Green. No doubt you’ve got different notions in a house like -this. It’s always difficult to go back, and I would not wish it--I would -not ask it. But in some more refined, more cultivated place--in some -position like what we read of--like what able men are securing every -day----’ He rose as he spoke, inspired by this conviction, and -approached her once more with outstretched arms. - -Mrs. Hayward could not find her husband upstairs or down. He went to his -library invariably after his walk, but he was not there to-day. He had -not gone to his room upstairs. He was not among his flower-seeds in the -closet, where he had at the present season a great deal to do, arranging -and naming these treasures. At last she met him coming in, in his -tranquil way, from the garden, a pot of flowers in his hands. - -‘Look at these begonias, my dear. Now isn’t it worth while to take a -little trouble when one gets a result like this? I am carrying it in for -your own little table.’ - -‘It is a fine time to talk of begonias,’ she cried, pushing away the -plant which he held out to her. ‘Henry, for goodness’ sake hurry into -the drawing-room and put a stop to it at once! That man is there with -Joyce.’ - -‘That man!’ cried the Colonel, astounded. ‘What man? Bellendean?’ - -‘Oh, how can you talk! What objections could there be to---- Henry, wake -yourself up, for goodness’ sake! It is the man--the man you would never -tell me of--the schoolmaster--the Scotchman. Go, go! and put a stop to -it. I have been hunting for you high and low. Who can tell what they are -settling all by themselves? Henry, I tell you go and put a stop to it!’ - -The Colonel put down the pot upon the hall table. He was quite -bewildered. ‘The Scotchman?’ he said; ‘the--the--schoolmaster?--with -Joyce? I suppose, my dear, it must be one of her old friends?’ - -‘I suppose, my dear, it is the man you--never told me of,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward fiercely. ‘The man she was to marry. Go, I tell you, and put a -stop to it, Henry!’ - -‘I put a stop to it!’ he said. The Colonel grew red like a girl--he grew -pale--he wrung his hands. ‘Elizabeth, my dear, you know all about that -better than I ever could do; you understand--such things? How could -I--put a stop to it?’ In his trouble he paced up and down the hall, and -knocked against Baker, who was hanging about in the hope of hearing -something, and ordered him off in a stentorian voice. ‘What are you -doing here, sir? Be off, sir, this moment!’ cried the Colonel. Then he -added, apologetic yet angry, ‘These servants take a great deal upon -them. You should teach them their proper place.’ - -‘Henry,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, ‘it is not like you to save yourself behind -the servants. You must come with me, at least. I insist upon it. What -authority have I over her? If I must interfere, it can only be as -representing you. They may have settled everything by this time,’ she -cried, and seized her husband’s arm. It was not to support him, as he -very well knew, but to drag him to the sacrifice. - -Andrew had risen: he had gone towards his love, holding out his arms. -His figure, not graceful in itself, with the long frock-coat coming down -a little too low, and putting him out of drawing, showed against the -light; while Joyce, trembling, pressed against the window, shrinking -from his advance, seemed to stand on the defensive, with a pale and -panic-stricken face. When the Colonel saw this scene, he no longer -needed any stimulant. He dropped his wife’s arm, and, stepping forward -quickly, put his hand upon the intruder’s shoulder. ‘Hey, sir! don’t you -see the young lady is afraid of you?’ he cried. - -Andrew turned round at once with a quick recovery, and instantly -extended his hand. He required not a moment to recover himself, being -primed and ready for whatever might happen. ‘How do you do, Cornel?’ he -said; ‘I’m extremely glad to see you. I was telling Mrs. Hayward--as I -presume that lady is, though Joyce, being so shy, did not introduce -me--I was telling her that this happy meeting would be incomplete -without a sight of you.’ - -‘What do you want here, sir?’ cried the Colonel. ‘What have you to do -with my daughter?’ Then Colonel Hayward’s natural courtesy checked him -in spite of himself. ‘I--I beg your pardon,’ he said, after a moment. -‘Perhaps I’m making a mistake--perhaps it’s me you want, and not my -daughter. Joyce, no need to be frightened, my love, when your father’s -here.’ - -Andrew had not given way an inch. He had no want of courage. He -confronted the angry warrior without flinching. ‘What do I want here, -Cornel?’ he said. ‘I see you have forgotten me. I have just come to see -_her_. It is natural I should want to see the young lady I am engaged -to. You took her away in such a hurry, I had no time to make any -arrangement. But nobody will doubt my right to come and see her, I -suppose. Joyce, my dear one----’ - -‘Be silent, sir!’ the angry Colonel cried. - -Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘Silent or not, it makes little -difference. Words between you and me, Cornel, will change nothing,’ he -said. - -‘Joyce,’ cried the Colonel, with a gasp, ‘what does this fellow mean? -You are almost fainting with terror. Go away, and leave me to deal with -this man.’ - -‘She’ll not do that,’ said Andrew calmly. - -‘She’ll not do that? She shall do what I wish, sir, I can tell you, and -nobody shall interfere with her actions in her father’s house.’ - -‘She’ll not do that, Cornel, for this good reason, that Joyce will never -give up her word pledged and her promise given. If you think so, it is -clear you know very little of Joyce, Colonel Hayward, though you are her -father,’ Halliday said. - -He did not look at Joyce to intimidate her. He held up his commonplace -head; and though he was of unimposing stature, and his frock-coat was -too long, the schoolmaster looked every inch a man. His homely features -grew dignified, his attitude fine. The Colonel stared at him, silent, -not comprehending the transformation; while Joyce, roused too by this -subtle change in the air, stood upright apart from the window on which -she had been leaning, and turned to her father with a steadiness which -was given at once by the sudden stimulus and by the rising despair. - -‘Father,’ she said, ‘it is quite true. I--did not expect him--and it -gave me a shock. I thought perhaps--he might be bringing ill news. It is -true,’ she said, after a pause; ‘I am engaged--to Andrew Halliday. He -has a right to come--for me----’ Her voice stopped again. She stood -quite still for a moment, then flinging herself suddenly on the -Colonel’s shoulder, ‘Oh, _father_! FATHER!’ she cried. - -‘What do you think of this, sir?’ cried the Colonel, clasping her fast -with one arm, holding out the other with an oratorical wave. - -‘I think just what she has said herself, that she is excited and -overdone. I am very sorry I did not write and tell her I was coming. It -would have saved her all this. But her nerves were not in this agitated -state in the old days. I would like to know what you have been doing to -my betrothed among you in England,’ the schoolmaster said, ‘to make her -like this.’ - -Colonel Hayward was too angry, too much bewildered and agitated, to -reply. He took Joyce to the sofa, and made her sit down. ‘My dear -child,’ he said, ‘you must not let yourself be intimidated--you mustn’t -give way. You may be sure you are quite safe. Nobody shall bully you or -put forth a false claim upon you here.’ - -Mrs. Hayward had not said a word all this time, her husband having -unexpectedly risen to the height of the occasion. Elizabeth knew how to -hold her tongue. But she intervened now with calm authority. ‘We’ve no -right to say it is a false claim,’ she said, ‘till we know more about -it; but you can see for yourself, Mr.--Mr. Halliday, that she is not in -a state now to have it proved. Come back later; nothing can be done now. -Come back in the evening, and my husband will see you finally.’ - -‘Finally!’ said Andrew. ‘You will see me finally, ma’am, when I take -away my wife--but not till then. After that, you may be sure I will have -little temptation to show myself in this house.’ - -The schoolmaster was roused. All that was best in him--his real love, -his true independence, his sense of manhood, all came to his aid. He -knew his rights and his power, and that no father could crush a lover so -determined. But though he said these words with genuine and indignant -feeling, the utterance of them brought another side of the question back -to his mind. If it came to that--yes; he was man enough to carry his -love away, herself alone, as he had wooed her for herself alone. But -nobody but he knew how many glorious visions, how many hopes, would be -cut off if he shook the dust from off his feet and resolved to cross -that threshold no more. He would not give up Joyce, but he as good as -gave up the headmastership--that dream of glory. He saw it melt away in -the air, the baseless fabric of a vision. He felt himself come down, -with a giddy sense of descent and failure, and become once more Andrew -Halliday, schoolmaster, Comely Green. He had even perhaps a little -neglected Comely Green for the sake of that too sweet, too tempting -illusion. And now he must resign all thought of it, all hope. The -renunciation thrilled through all his nerves, as he stood there facing -the prejudiced and foolish people who did not perceive what it was they -were throwing away. But even this did not shake his faith in himself and -his confidence in his rights. He cast a glance which was full of -compassion yet disapproval at the group on the sofa. ‘I can see,’ he -said, ‘that Joyce is too much agitated to be responsible, and that the -Cornel is excited and unable to see the rights of the situation. -Therefore, ma’am, I will take your advice. It is not the reception I had -a right to expect; but, nevertheless, I have full faith in Joyce when -she comes to herself. I will withdraw till this evening. No ceremony, I -beg,’ cried Andrew hurriedly. ‘I will find my way out--there’s no need -for any one to open the door.’ Even in the midst of questions so much -more serious, he remembered that it would be bitter indeed to show his -discomfiture to the pampered menial who had admitted him. That at least -he would not endure. - -Mrs. Hayward followed him out of the room, sparing him this indignity. -Perhaps the sight of Joyce leaning upon her father, absorbing his every -thought, was as little agreeable to her as to Andrew. If Joyce was in -trouble, it was at least her own making, whereas the innocent people -whom she dragged into it had done nothing to deserve it. Mrs. Hayward -regarded Andrew with angry contempt, but she was not without a certain -fellow-feeling for him as a sufferer from the same cause. His air of -terrible respectability, his coat, his hat, his gloves, everything about -him, were so many additions to the sins of Joyce. And yet she felt -herself more or less, as against Joyce, on Andrew’s side. She stood -behind him while he opened the door, grimly watching all his -imperfections. The back-door, she said to herself, the servants’ hall, -would have been his right place. And yet, if the man spoke the truth, he -was quite a fit and proper match for Joyce! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - - -From August to November the time had gone very slowly and very hardly -for Joyce. - -After that glowing afternoon, when she had heard from Norman Bellendean -words which she could never forget, not another sign or token from him -had reached her. It is not an unprecedented thing that a gap like this -should happen in the midst of a love-tale. A declaration interrupted, a -question unanswered, may expose any pair of lovers to such a blank. The -man may be kept back by many reasons; the woman on her side cannot -gather up the broken threads. Joyce, above all, had no initiative to -take. He had said he would come back, but he had not come back; and thus -the story of her awakened heart had seemed to close, as it began, in -agitation and shame. It had been wrong to listen to him, wrong to allow -the thought of him to enter into her heart. She had not intended it, she -said to herself, as is always said. The strong new tide which she did -not understand, the character of which she had begun to suspect too -late, had carried her away. What defence could she have put up against -it when she never suspected it,--when it was to her a surprise most -painful, though so intoxicating? Who is there guilty of such infidelity, -forsaking an old love for a new, who cannot excuse herself in such -words? And of many such it is true, as with Joyce, that the first love -had been a mere name, a something not understood, an acquiescence--no -more. If she had sinned against Andrew in accepting the love which was -true enough on his side, without any real response, it had been done -without guile, with no knowledge of any harm. Joyce had been conscious -that it was not the love of which her beloved poets had sung; but how -could she tell? As there was no second Shakespeare, so perhaps that love -of the poets had died away into something calm and poor, like the dull -prose of to-day; and when the dulness about her had burst asunder like a -husk, and flowers had come forth, and a blossoming and brightness -indescribable, the girl, bewildered, had tried to attribute that -illumination to other causes, to give it other names. - -The revelation, when it came, lasted but for a moment. Before she had -been able to realise the sunshine that suddenly blazed upon her life, -there had as suddenly followed a blank. The bewilderment and confusion -of all things, which had been great enough before, were by this brought -to a climax. Norman’s declaration or half-declaration completed the -cutting off of her heart and existence from every ancient tie. She dared -not seek light in the chaos of her mind from any one near her. She dared -not betray it to the tender ears of the old people who would not -understand, to whom she could not say all. To whom could she say -all?--to no one, no one on earth. She had to fall back upon herself, a -creature straying about in worlds not realised. Andrew appeared to her -through the mists like the vision of a nightmare, whose approach would -be death. Never, even when no distraction was in her mind, when he was -the most near and the most natural of all companions, had she been able -to tolerate the idea of a closer union. She had vaguely looked for -something to happen, to prevent any further _rapprochement_. She had -surrounded herself with reasons why no further step should be taken. But -she had never felt as now the horror of the bond which held her like -iron--which she had escaped from, yet from which she never could escape. -And, on the other hand, scarcely less terrible was the brighter vision -which had burst upon her in one dazzling, bewildering blaze--the -revelation which at first seemed to be that of Norman Bellendean’s love -for her, but which soon settled into a shameful, terrible consciousness -of her love for him. He had lighted up that blaze, and then he had -disappeared out of her life, leaving her to contend alone with this -discovery and consciousness. He had not asked for an answer from her--he -had only asked to come back. And he had not come back; he had -disappeared as if he had never existed, only leaving this revelation, -this overturn of everything--the glory, the horror, the shame. - -Joyce, it is true, had been absent for a great part of this blank period -of darkness through which no word or sign of life had come. She had been -taken away into new scenes, into a new world, the novelty and delight of -which might have saved her had she ever remained long enough in one -place to realise and understand it. But it was only to her of all her -party that Switzerland was a novelty. Her father and his wife were -accustomed to travel. They moved from one tourist centre to another -carrying all their usual habits with them, possessing a terrible -monotony of acquaintance with everything there was to do and to see. -Mrs. Hayward took Mont Blanc as calmly as she did the river of which she -felt her own lawn and trees to be one of the great charms. The Colonel -thought more of the occasional old Indian comrade whom he would meet in -one of the big noisy hotels, than of all the mysteries of the Alps. - -Joyce had therefore little aid in healing her wounds herself, as she -might have done, by that strong fascination of nature to which her -spirit was so open. The mountains were not still to her, nor was there -solitude to be found in the wildest ravine. She was taken there in the -midst of a party which discussed their usual concerns, and were intent -upon luncheon at the usual hour. The snowy peaks only formed a new -background for the prattle of common life, for talk about St. Augustine -and the new parsonage. The new world was to her like the old, only more -bewildering--a phantasmagoria in which the great and the petty were -jumbled together,--the great too cold and unfamiliar to reach her soul, -the petty like a babbling torrent carrying her away. Oh for the crags of -Arthur’s Seat and the sea coming in ayont them! Oh for the quiet where -thought is possible! But then with a shiver poor Joyce felt that there -was nothing for her but flight from the dear familiar scenes, and from -the very stillness for which her heart craved. For the one was full of -conflicting passions and the other of conflicting thoughts. Of all -places in the world, that place which, with the obstinacy of the heart, -she still called home was the most impossible to her. She dared not even -turn her face in that direction, lest the subdued struggle within her -might become a real conflict. For there was all that she dreaded as well -as all that she loved. - -And even when the travelling was over things did not mend. Summer was -gone, and all its events. She came back to a blank, to the level of an -existence no longer new to her, but which she had never learned to love. -The sudden blaze of awakening, of enlightenment, of delight and misery, -had ceased as suddenly as it rose. She never now heard Norman -Bellendean’s name. He did not come, he gave no sign: he might be dead, -or gone back to India, or in the farthest part of the earth, for -anything she knew. He had disappeared as if he never had been, leaving -in her heart and mind only the miserable consciousness that she loved -him--oh, shame to think of! She so proud in her reserve and maidenly -withdrawal! she, affianced to another man! she, Joyce, who had been so -proud! She felt herself, she who had been a kind of princess in her own -thoughts, reduced to the humble state of the Eastern handmaiden, waiting -till perhaps some token of favour might be shown to her,--some word upon -which she could build her hopes. It is rare that any shame, real and -deserved, is felt with the same sting of suffering and self-horror as -attends the altogether fantastic shame of a sensitive girl, when she -finds that she has given her love unsought. It was torture and misery to -Joyce. To allow to herself that she was disappointed--that her ear was -always intent on every coming step, her heart ready to beat loudly for -every sudden call, filled her with a bitterness of humiliation such as -crime itself would scarcely bring. But nobody had any clue to these -thoughts. Her father saw nothing but that his daughter became every day -more delightful to him, more indispensable. Mrs. Hayward, with a faint -disdain which it pleased her to be able to entertain for her husband’s -daughter, concluded that Joyce, whom everybody thought so clever, was in -reality dull. She had not shown any appreciation of Switzerland. She was -a girl who might know books, perhaps, but nothing else. She had not -cared for the mountains. It was impossible not to allow that Mrs. -Hayward was rather satisfied on the whole that this should be. Perhaps -only old Janet, with a sore and sad heart, felt that something was -amiss. She did not know what it was that was wanting, but something was -wanting. The letters which Peter found an inexhaustible source of -happiness were to her dark. She could not see her child through them. -‘There is something the maitter,’ Janet said to herself. But nobody else -divined, and to no one did Joyce breathe a word. - -It was in this condition that she had begun the sunshiny, hazy, November -day. It was Friday, the Friday of the winter Preachings, the Fast-day in -Bellendean. She had remembered this when she set out with Colonel -Hayward for their morning walk, with a tender thought of Janet in her -great shawl, and Peter in his Sunday clothes, sitting in the kirk in -rustic state and religious _recueillement_. And now the blank was -broken, the silence disturbed, but not as she thought. - -‘My dear, don’t you be afraid--I am here to protect you, Joyce; your -father is surely good for that. This man can do nothing, nothing. Thank -God that you don’t love him--that there is not _that_ to struggle -against.’ - -‘Father, it is quite true. Oh, I have behaved badly--I am not fit to be -among honourable folk. I have not respected my word.’ - -‘Stuff and nonsense, my dear. What did a girl like you know? He took -advantage of your ignorance. You could never have--cared for that -fellow, Joyce.’ The Colonel himself blushed at the thought. - -Joyce made no reply. - -‘He took advantage of your inexperience--he never could have been a -match for you. I remember--he was there that afternoon in the cottage. -He tried to thrust his claims upon me, but Norman Bellendean took him -off me. Ah, Norman Bellendean!’ - -The Colonel broke off quickly. He was not clear about it at all, but he -remembered that Elizabeth--that there was something about Bellendean. He -stopped confused; and, with a sudden start, Joyce raised herself from -the sofa. He had brought her to life, though he did not know it, by that -violent stimulant. ‘I must not,’ she said, in a broken voice, ‘go back -from my word.’ - -‘I set you free from it,’ said the Colonel. ‘You were under age. You had -no right to bind yourself. I set you free from it.’ - -She shook her head at him with a wistful smile. ‘It was once thought a -priest could do that,’ she said. - -‘I am not a priest, but I am your father, Joyce. I set you free from it. -It is in the Bible--you know your Bible better than I do. I set you free -from it. You had no right to bind yourself.’ - -She shook her head still. ‘I cannot get any comfort out of that. I was a -woman, well knowing what I was doing.’ - -‘My dear, you are not of age even now.’ - -‘Oh, father,’ she cried, ‘don’t say anything to me. I cannot go back -from my word.’ - -‘Joyce, I hear my wife coming back. I am not clever, I know. Elizabeth -is the one to tell us what to do. If she will only take it up--if you -will let her take it up.’ - -Joyce rose quickly to her feet. ‘Not now--not now. I couldn’t speak to -any one. Father, you must let me settle it by myself.’ - -‘Joyce! Oh, have confidence in us both, Joyce!’ - -Joyce escaped from his restraining hand and imploring look. She hastened -out of one door while Mrs. Hayward entered by the other, and, with her -limbs trembling under her, got to the refuge of her own room, where at -least there was no one to question her, and tell her what she ought to -do. She was not capable of any more. She threw herself down in a chair, -and did not move for hours, turning it over and over--helplessly over -and over in her mind. It was all she could do. The scene through which -she had just passed repeated itself before her--every word that had -been said, every look. When she was called to go downstairs for lunch, -she made excuses for herself she knew not what, and sat there with a -sort of helpless craving only to be alone--to be left to -herself--through all the daylight hours. It seemed to Joyce that -everything else had disappeared for ever, that every vision of her soul -was gone,--that Andrew alone stood before her, the only stable and -steadfast thing. She saw him before her eyes all the time, with all his -imperfections. There had never been any glamour in her eyes to blind her -to these. His familiar aspect, with which she had grown unfamiliar, came -back to her with all the force at once of recollection and of new -discovery. He had come to claim her, and he had a right to claim her; -and how could she resist that claim? He had not hesitated, nor had he -been cowed even by her dread of him, by her father’s vehemence. He had -stood for his rights like a man. A respect for the man at whom she -shuddered, whose approach was dreadful to her, had come into Joyce’s -mind: even with strange inconsistency she was half proud of him in his -immovableness--in the resolution and force he had shown. She tried to -face it all calmly, to contemplate her fate,--to ask herself whether, -perhaps, her old life, the duties to which she had been born, were not -after all the best, the only existence for her? There would be plenty to -do, there would not be much time to think. The clamour of the school, -and all the old emulations, and the ambitions which at once seemed -enough to fill any mind, would shut out all echoes and banish all -ghosts. Only for a few months had she been absent--not enough to change -her habits, to change the fashion of her mind. Why should she resist and -strive against her fate? - -She tried to soothe and put away other visions by that--the school, the -children’s looks of interest, the clinging of the girls about her, the -books in which she could always escape from all that troubled her. With -her trembling hands clasped, with her eyes in an abstract gaze, she saw -all these things again, and for a moment her heart beat calm. But then -once more, with a sudden flash, with a start, with a cry of horror, she -recognised in front of all, him--Andrew--as he had stood before her -to-day, as she remembered him, as he was and had always been. Joyce -sprang to her feet to escape that steady, calm, immovable image. She put -her hands over her hot eyes, but could not shut it out. She paced about -her room, but could not get beyond the place in which he stood. He -filled all the sphere of her vision, as he would fill her whole life. -Oh, how to escape--how to escape! Oh for the wings of a dove!--but -where to fly? She flung herself down on her knees by the side of her -bed. Sometimes in that attitude merely there is a relief. She was not -praying, but laying her heart with all its confusions, its whirl of -contradictory thoughts, its wild longings for escape, open where God -could see it, calling wistfully His attention to it as human creatures -will, in human forgetfulness that everywhere and in all attitudes He -sees, and does not neglect. - -Later in the afternoon Joyce stole out to seek counsel from the evening -breeze and the cold flow of the river. She was afraid to go beyond the -limits of the garden and grounds lest she should meet him alone, and -forestall the decision of her fate. The November evening was chill with -cold dews falling, the grass penetrated with wet, the half-naked trees -all heavy with moisture, sprinkling cold showers over her when the -breeze moved them. She went down to the river-edge, and looked out upon -it in the grey of the twilight, flowing, glistening, giving back the -little light there was. A boat was drawn up here and there on the bank, -but there was none on the stream, which, swollen with early rains, and -bearing on its dark clear surface specks of the leaves that every air -swept off the overhanging trees, flowed on through the darkness, a -ceaseless wayfarer. The willows, still in ragged robes of pale yellow, -gave a faint light to the darkling scene. Joyce leant over, almost -feeling the sweep of the stream, and there came upon her a strong -temptation to detach the boat that lay within her reach, and trust -herself to the flowing water and the night. The possibilities of that -flight came before her instantaneously like a picture. The stream itself -would carry her along; the movement itself would soothe her troubled -spirit. She seemed to feel the rush of the water under the bridge, to -see the lights of the town twinkling reflected on the water, the opening -of the dim evening skies beyond, the dark shadows of barges and ships as -the widening stream flowed on. She saw in a moment all the dark panorama -float past her, the increasing rush of the Thames, the sound of its -gurgle in her ears, the growing dangers of the darkness, and the crowded -ways. The little boat might go down under the bows of some monster in -the dark, and no one ever know what young despairing heart was in it. -She saw, too, the dark mass heaving up high above, the frail little -vessel turning over, the choking inky stream, and drew back with a low -cry of terror. It was indeed a kind of despair which was closing round -her, but she wanted to escape and not to die--not yet to die. - -The shuddering of that sensation brought her back slowly away from the -dark fascination of the flowing water. She came back picking her steps -across the wet grass, chilled by the damp and the dark, the cold -raindrops suspended on the branches coming down upon her in an icy -shower as she passed under the trees. The lights in the windows, the -warmth of the house, shone through the twilight, attracting her, putting -forth a strong appeal. But what was warmth and shelter to freedom, if -she could but get her freedom and escape from it all? Joyce had got -beyond all power of thinking. Her mind saw pictures, visions of what -might be, as more reasonable people see the motives and arguments which -tell for or against every course of action. As she turned her face from -the river and reached the gravel path, there suddenly came before her a -vision of a still and quiet country road, such as she had seen in her -walks, leading far away into far level distances, the long perspective -of the low-lying country. She bethought herself of a dozen turns and -byways, all leading into the unknown. She saw them stretching for miles -and miles, leading the wayfarer far out of sight of every one who knew -her, and the dark line of the hedgerows that would keep her from -straying, and the sleeping villages she would pass through. There would -be no dangers in a country road, and she was strong: she could go a long -way without requiring to pause. There would be ten hours of darkness in -which she could walk on. She was not afraid of her strength failing. And -at the end surely there would be some quiet place where nobody would -ever think of finding a strayed creature. It would be like falling and -disappearing through Mirza’s bridge. Joyce stood still for a moment, -moved by a wild prick of that unreasoning impulse which was in her -blood. By the side of the house was a dim opening which admitted to that -world, strange, dark, and cold, in which a poor girl could lose herself -who had no true place, no natural nest in the other. She paused for a -moment, clasping her hands, appealing to she knew not what--not God this -time: there are moments when the bewildered soul becomes pagan in its -broken faith--to something, she knew not what, above, around. - -The lamp had been lighted in the drawing-room, but no curtains drawn or -shutters closed. Another picture, a real one, caught her eyes there as -she hesitated, standing on the edge. She was close to the verandah upon -which the window opened, and she heard the sound of the voices within, -now raised, now sinking low. The sudden spell of a stronger interest -seized upon Joyce. She came forward a few steps at a time, unwilling and -yet eager, until she commanded a full view of the party within. Her -father stood facing the window. He was talking with much vehemence, -referring occasionally to his wife, who sat in her usual place, a very -watchful spectator--now and then breaking off with a flourish of his -hand, as a man does when he has said something unanswerable. With his -back towards the window, Andrew sat squarely on a chair, his hat at his -feet. There came upon Joyce an impulse of painful laughter in the midst -of her misery. It was a look, an attitude she knew so well--ludicrously, -horribly familiar in this crisis of her fate,--for it was her fate, her -life or death, they were deciding, while he sat there like a rock, -unconvincible, immovable, as he had sat through many a discussion that -mattered nothing. For who could ever convince Andrew? She drew closer in -the sudden smart of the recollection, the keen sense of incongruity, the -reality of this scene dispersing every vision. The living drama, in -which she was herself the chief figure, had a stronger force than any -imagination. She went into the verandah, to the window against which, on -the other side, she had leant in the morning. It was not fastened, and -yielded to her touch. They all turned upon her at the sound of the faint -cry she gave. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - - -The light dazzled her as she came into the warm room, in the midst of -this conference. Colonel Hayward started forward to meet her, and his -wife rose from her chair. But Andrew did not budge. In his world no such -respectful movement was thought of; and in times of excitement he had -not leisure to think, nor note what others did. - -‘Joyce, why are you here?’ her father said hastily. - -‘Joyce, you will come with me,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Let the gentlemen -settle this matter. Come with me.’ - -‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘in justice to me you will remain here.’ - -She stood looking from one to another with eyes still wild with her -secret dreams and projects, which no one suspected, and the drops of -cold dew glittering in her hair. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you know I must -stay. I cannot leave it to you, as if--as if--you had known it all the -time.’ - -‘Joyce sees what is just,’ said Andrew. ‘There was neither father nor -mother between us. She decided for herself, and she will have to decide -for herself again. Cornel, leave her alone.’ He spoke with great -composure in his ordinary tone. ‘I will take no answer from you, but -I’ll abide by what she says.’ - -‘She is under age,’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘Sir, if you were a little -better acquainted with ordinary rules, you would know it is her father -only who has the right to reply to you.’ - -‘And how do you know, Cornel, that she is under age? Were you there when -she was born? Were you near at hand to see your child? What do you know -about her more than any passer-by?’ - -‘Sir!’ cried Colonel Hayward, stammering with indignation, ‘you presume -upon the shelter of my roof, and on being beneath--beneath my notice.’ - -‘Not beneath being your son-in-law,’ Andrew said. - -‘Joyce,’ said Mrs. Hayward angrily, ‘either put a stop to this at once, -or come with me and let your father settle it. You make everything worse -by being here.’ - -Joyce stood between them trembling, unable to command, as she had once -so vainly thought she could, the situation in which she found herself. -Oh, how much easier to fly, either by the dark river or the darker -country! ‘I will respect my father,’ she said, ‘in everything--in -everything--but----’ - -The last word did not reach the Colonel’s ear. He drew her hand within -his arm. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Then it is all right. Mr. -Halliday, or whatever your name is, there must be no more of this. I -might lose my temper. I might forget that you are under my roof. Don’t -you hear what my daughter has said? In such a matter a gentleman gives -way at once. It’s no question of love.’ He pressed Joyce’s trembling -hand in his arm. ‘If you’ve any regard for her, sir, or for your own -character, you’ll go away and disturb her no more.’ - -Andrew had risen slowly to his feet. He came forward with his hand -raised, as if he were about to address a class. ‘You’ll observe,’ he -said, ‘that the circumstances only, and not the persons, are changed. It -was a question of love six months ago. I was a man in a good position, -my father very respectable, a little money in the family. And she was -Joyce, a female teacher, with nobody to stand for her but Peter -Matheson, a ploughman.’ - -‘You insult me, sir,’ cried Colonel Hayward--‘you insult my daughter!’ -He held her hand close, pressing it in his to console her. ‘My poor -Joyce, my poor child!’ he exclaimed. - -‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, with composure, ‘it is true. Joyce knows -that it is true. My mother, who expresses herself strongly, put it in -other words: It was said I was throwing myself away. I did not think so; -but that being the case, Cornel, you need not think I will be daunted -because she is your daughter, or any man’s daughter. She’s Joyce--and -engaged to me.’ - -‘Leave my house, sir,’ cried the Colonel. ‘You have insulted my child. -For that there is no excuse and no pardon. Leave my house.’ - -‘Father,’ said Joyce, ‘it’s no insult--it is all true. I am always -Joyce, whatever I am besides. And when I was poor, it was thought -a--credit to me. He should not have said it, but it’s true. I never -thought of that, and he should not have said it: but it’s true. He held -out his hand to me when I was--beneath him.’ - -‘Joyce!’ - -‘Yes, I see it all, though I did not think of it then. Oh, excuse him! -He does not know a man should never say that! They do it and think no -harm where we come from. We were common folk. He did me honour, and am I -to do him discredit? I cannot, I cannot. I must keep to my word.’ - -‘Joyce, for heaven’s sake, don’t act like a mad woman! Come away with me -and let them settle it,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, seizing her arm on the -other side. - -‘Joyce behaves just as I should have expected from her,’ said Andrew, -facing this agitated group with his own supreme self-possession and -calm. ‘I knew I could not be deceived. I am willing to make every -allowance for your feelings, Cornel. You naturally look for a richer man -than me to be your daughter’s husband. I respect even the prejudices of -a man like you. But there is no real reason to be disturbed about that. -I am a young man. I have always been successful, so far as has been in -my power. There is no need for me to remain in the humble place I now -fill. With your interest and my own merits----’ - -‘Good Lord!’ the Colonel cried. He dropped his daughter’s arm in his -consternation, and stood with his lips apart, with a stare of horror. - -‘My own merits,’ repeated Andrew, ‘I think we might soon so modify the -circumstances that you need object no longer. I am not afraid of the -circumstances,’ he said, with a smile of complaisance. ‘You can tell -your father, Joyce, what testimonials----’ - -‘Father,’ said Joyce eagerly, with a burning blush, ‘he is to be -excused. That is how they think where--where we came from. He is--not a -gentleman: we were--common folk. Father, he means it all right, though -he does not know. He’s good, though--though he speaks another language.’ -Her own horror and dismay took the form of apology. She was roused by -her consternation into full and eager life. - -‘And you hold by this man, Joyce, and you plead for him!’ Colonel -Hayward cried. - -‘You will understand, Cornel,’ said Andrew, who had drawn himself up -indignantly, and sacrificed all the advantage of his self-possession in -sudden discomposure and resentment, ‘that I ask nobody to plead for me. -Joyce has been carried away with trying to please both parties. She is -sacrificing me to soothe you down. Women will do such things; they will -not learn. But for my part, I reject her excuses. I’ll have no -forbearance on that score,’ cried Andrew, holding up his head and -throwing back his shoulders. ‘I stand upon my own merits as between man -and man.’ - -Then the Joyce of other days found words--not the tremulous girl, all -strange in strange places, who was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, but the -swift speaking, high-handed Joyce, the possible princess, the lady born -of Janet’s cottage. ‘Oh,’ she cried, her words pouring forth on a sudden -passionate breath, ‘how dare you bring up your merits here, and all your -worldly thoughts! My old grandfather was but a ploughman, but he was a -gentleman like my father. He would have put you to the door if you had -said all that to him. And you stand before a man that has fought, and -has the Queen’s medals on his breast--that has been wounded in battle, -and faced cannon and sword; and before a lady that has no knowledge of -the ways of common folk; and before me, that you said you loved; and you -stand up and tell them of the female teacher that you held out your hand -to, and of your merits, that make you good enough for the best--for -Colonel Hayward’s daughter, that is a great soldier, a great captain, -far too noble and great to put you to the door like Peter Matheson. Oh, -Andrew Halliday, for shame, for shame!--you, after all the books you -have read, and all the fine words you have said. I am ashamed myself,’ -said Joyce, turning from him with a proud despair, ‘for I thought that -Shakespeare and all the poets would make a gentleman even out of the -commonest clay.’ - -Andrew bore this without quailing, with a smile on his face. When she -stopped, he drew a long breath, and turned with an explanatory air to -Colonel Hayward. ‘That is just one of her old tirades,’ he said. - -The Colonel paid him no attention: he put his arm round his daughter, as -tremulous as she was. ‘Joyce,’ he said faltering-- ‘Joyce, my dear child, -you see it all. You see through him, and--and all of us. Thank God that -it’s all over now!’ - -Joyce drew back from him, trembling with the reaction from her own -excitement. The flush that had given her a temporary brilliancy and -force faded away. ‘But yet that alters nothing,’ she said. - -Mrs. Hayward put her hand upon the girl’s arm with an impatient -pressure. ‘Do you mean that you are going to marry that man, Joyce?’ - -‘Mr. Halliday,’ said the Colonel, ‘I hope, after what my daughter has -said, that you will see the inexpediency of--of continuing this -discussion. She has her ideas of honour, which are a little -overstrained--overstrained, as is perhaps natural; but she sees all the -discrepancies--all the---- You know, you must see that it’s quite -impossible. My consent you will never get--never! and as for Joyce, she -will not--you can see by what she has said--go against me.’ - -‘She will never go against her word.’ - -‘Oh, this is endless!’ the Colonel cried. ‘We may go on contradicting -each other till doomsday. You understand that I will hear no more, and -that Joyce, as she has told you, will hear no more.’ - -‘She may object to my manners, Cornel, but she will keep her word to -me,’ said Andrew, regaining all the force of his conviction. ‘But, as -you say, it is little use bandying words. I will withdraw. I have made a -long journey for very little--not half-a-dozen words by ourselves with -the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married. But I will not keep -up a needless discussion. She understands me, and you understand. If you -meet me in a friendly spirit, everything may yet be arranged for the -best; if not, she will be of age at least in a year, and we will have no -need of your consent. Joyce,’ he said, suddenly, making a quick step -towards her, seizing her hand, ‘I’ll bid you good-bye, my dearest. -You’ll mind your honour and duty to me. Rich or poor, high or low, makes -no difference. You have my word, and I have yours. Have you any message -for the old folk.’ - -‘Andrew!’ she said, trembling. She had shrunk back for the first moment, -but now held herself upright, very tremulous, leaving her hand in his, -with an evident great exertion of her will. Her lips quivered, too, and -she said no more. - -‘I understand,’ he said, in a soothing tone, putting his other hand for -a moment over hers. ‘Well, if that’s all, it will have to do. Good-bye, -Joyce--but not for long. I have learned the road to you, and it shall -not be untrodden. We’ll meet soon--without other eyes always on us. -Good-bye. I put my full trust in you. You will mind your word and your -duty, Joyce. Good evening, madam. Cornel, you will understand that we -are agreed, she and I.’ - -‘I understand nothing of the sort, sir! On the contrary, I forbid you my -house, sir! I will give orders----’ - -‘Good-bye, Cornel,’ said Andrew, with a smile. He gathered up his hat -from the floor, waved his hand with a general leave-taking, and walked -to the door. ‘You will hear from me very soon, Joyce, my dear,’ he said, -looking round before he finally disappeared. He went out, he felt, with -all the honours of war. - -It was very near the dinner hour, and Baker was busy in the dining-room. -Andrew had to let himself out. He did so with a reflection that to have -been asked to stay to dinner, as was his due, would have been much more -agreeable; yet with another reflection following, that probably in this -house they went through the somewhat mysterious ceremony called dressing -for dinner, and that he had no means of altering his costume. The odour -that filled the house was very agreeable; and however unhappy or even -tragical this interview had been to the others, it was not so to Andrew. -He had calculated upon opposition. He had calculated, too, with -certainty upon Joyce’s fidelity to her word. There had been, it was -true, that tirade--which did not in the least surprise him--which was -quite natural, much more like the Joyce he knew than was the dignified -silent young lady who had first appeared to him. He could forgive her -the tirade. Otherwise he felt that he had lost nothing. He knew exactly -the position the parents would take up, and he did not even despair that -when they fully saw the situation, they would be moved to make the best -of it, and that even the headmastership might still be within reach. He -went out, carefully closing the door behind him, a little disgusted -about the dinner, not discouraged about anything else, and met at the -gate, coming in, the lady who had directed him, so clearly that he could -not miss it, to Colonel Hayward’s door. There was a lamp not far from -the gate, and some light came from the gaslight in the hall, which -revealed him to her before he could close the door. - -‘Oh!’ she cried, in a breathless, rapid way; ‘so you found the place.’ - -‘Yes, madam,’ said Andrew, mindful of his p’s and q’s. He felt that in -addressing a lady, especially one whom he did not know, it was the -safest course to err by a little more, not less, respect. ‘Yes, thanks -to you.’ - -‘And you found them--you found her? It was Joyce you wanted, I feel -sure.’ - -‘Yes, it was Joyce I wanted.’ - -‘Oh! this is so interesting,’ Mrs. Sitwell cried--‘so interesting! I -know her very well, and I take the greatest interest in her. You are--an -old friend, I am sure?’ - -‘Yes, an old friend--a very old friend,’ said Andrew,--‘a very warm -friend; something--something more than a friend, if the truth were -known.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried the little lady, clasping her hands together, ‘this is more -interesting than I can say. Let me go back with you a little, -Mr.--Mr.----’ - -‘Halliday--my name is Halliday. She has spoken of me, no doubt.’ - -‘I am so glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Halliday. I really must -walk with you a little way. I was going to see Joyce, but I am sure she -has something else to think of, and it is a little too late. By the way, -I suppose you are going back there to dinner?’ - -‘It is natural to think so,’ said Andrew with a grim little laugh, ‘but -no.’ - -‘No?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. Her curiosity, her interest in this drama, her -determination to know everything, rose to fever-heat. She had taken him -all in at the first glance, when she had met him in the morning: his -long--too long--coat, his round hat, the colour of his gloves. Her eyes -danced with eagerness and interest. She could scarcely contain herself. - -‘No,’ he said; ‘I am not good enough for Cornel Hayward’s daughter. You -may be surprised--but, so far as lies with the old people, I am sent -away.’ - -‘Sent away!’ she repeated, with a little shriek. (‘And not much wonder!’ -she said to herself.) ‘You must not think it mere curiosity,’ she cried; -‘I am so interested in dear Joyce. Ah, please tell me. I shall see her -to-morrow, and if I can be of any use, or take her any message----’ - -‘It is unnecessary,’ said Andrew, with a wave of his hand. ‘I know -Joyce, and she understands me.’ - -‘I can’t tell you,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘how interesting all this is to -me. Though I have never seen you before, Mr. Halliday, I feel that I -know you through dear Joyce. I wonder, as you are not dining at the -Haywards’, if you would come and take your evening meal with my husband -and me--Rev. Austin Sitwell, St. Augustine’s. You must have heard of my -husband; he would be charmed to make your acquaintance. We don’t say we -dine, you know; we are quite poor people, and don’t make any fuss; but -we will give you something to eat--and true sympathy,’ cried the -parson’s wife, with a little friendly touch of her hand upon his arm. - -‘I am sure you are exceedingly kind,’ said Andrew. He was a little -alarmed, if truth must be told. Had it happened in London, he would at -once have understood that a snare of some sort was being laid for him; -but as he was at some distance from London, he was only doubtful, -slightly alarmed, and uneasy. He reflected, however, that he had all his -wits about him, and was not a man to be led into a snare; and he did not -know (though he had heard of a place called the Star and Garter) where -to go for a dinner; and he had great need of some one to speak to--to -open his heart to. And certainly she had been going to Colonel Hayward’s -when he met her, and knew Joyce, and therefore was a person who could be -trusted. He thought, on the whole, he might venture to accept the -invitation, secure of being able to take care of himself, whatever -happened. ‘You are exceedingly kind,’ he said again; ‘I should be very -glad, ma’am, to make your husband’s acquaintance. He will be of the -Established Church, no doubt? It would be a pleasure to compare -experience, especially in the way of schools.’ - -‘Have you to do with schools?’ she asked. - -Andrew turned in the lamplight to cast a glance of inquiry at the -ignorant little person beside him. ‘Surely,’ he said, in a tone of -suppressed surprise,--‘what else? as my poor Joyce was, too, before it -all came out. You speak of poverty, which I don’t doubt is a figure of -speech so far as you are concerned--but Joyce was in a very humble -position, though always above it in her mind, before the Cornel came.’ - -‘This is more interesting than ever,’ cried the parson’s wife, clasping -her hands. - -‘My only trouble was that my family were not very well content, -constantly throwing it in my teeth that I might have done better,’ said -Andrew; ‘which makes it the more wonderful,’ he added, with a faint -laugh, ‘to be put to the door as it were, and told I am not good enough -for the Cornel’s daughter? It is a turning of the tables which I never -looked to see.’ - -‘But nothing will shake Joyce--Joyce will always be faithful,’ Mrs. -Sitwell cried. - -‘Oh yes, Joyce--Joyce has a high sense of duty; and besides, she knows -my position, which an ignorant officer and his wife are not likely to -do. I am not afraid of Joyce,’ he added, with sedate self-confidence. -‘She is a good girl. She knows what she owes to me.’ - -‘This way, Mr. Halliday,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. ‘Ours is only a little -place, but you will have a warm welcome. I must hear all about you and -Joyce.’ - -He was a stranger, and she took him in--there could not have been a more -Christian act. And such acts often have their recompense here, without -waiting for that final reward which is promised. Andrew became very -watchful and suspicious when he found himself face to face with a -clerical person in a coat much longer than his own, and a costume which -recalled in a general way what he had heard of Jesuits--a name of -terror. He was much on his guard for the first hour. But after supper -Mrs. Sitwell’s magic began to tell. Notwithstanding his self-control, -he could not but be sore and injured, and to be able to speak and -unburden himself was a relief indescribable. He fell into the snare -delicately arranged around his feet. Mrs. Sitwell’s keen little eyes -danced with delight. She wiped off a tiny fictitious tear when she had -drawn it all out, one detail after another. ‘I shall go and see her -to-morrow,’ she cried. ‘I will give her a kiss and say, You dear girl, -now I know all.’ - -‘It is all to her credit--nothing but to her credit,’ said Andrew. - -The Rev. Austin had a meeting on his hands, and had been obliged to go -out, leaving the new acquaintance to be dissected at his wife’s -pleasure. He was uneasy about the adventure altogether. ‘A fellow like -that,’ he cried,--‘would you let him marry one of your sisters, Dora?’ - -‘Yes, dear, if he were rich enough,’ cried his wife. ‘But to think what -a romance it has been all the time. How astonished everybody will be. I -am not going to publish it abroad----’ - -‘I hope not, I hope not, Dora.’ - -‘But naturally I will tell the people who are most interested in her,’ -Mrs. Sitwell said. - -Mrs. Sitwell took charge of Andrew as if he had been a respectable -tramp. She procured him a lodging for the night, having got every detail -out of him that it was possible to gather. He had to leave early the -next morning, which was a relief; and she could scarcely sleep all night -for excitement and satisfaction. She felt like the finder of a -treasure--like a great inventor or poet. To whom should she communicate -first this wonderful piece of news? It would act as a stimulant in the -dull season all over the place. ‘Don’t talk of it?’ she said to her -husband, who acted his usual part of wet blanket to subdue her ardour; -‘oh no, not in society generally--I hope you know me better than that, -Austin. I will only tell a few of her friends--her friends ought to -know. What a showing up it will be of those Haywards! I never liked that -woman. I see now why she has been so anxious to keep everything quiet. -No, I shall not talk of it--except to Joyce’s friends; for it is all to -Joyce’s credit,--all, all!’ Mrs. Sitwell said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - - -‘Canon, what does this story mean which I meet wherever I go? I heard it -at the St. Clairs’ yesterday, but took no notice, and to-day there’s -poor Lady Thompson bursting and panting--what does it all mean?’ - -‘I should be better able to answer if you told me what it was.’ - -‘That is just like a man,’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson, ’as if you did not -know! When any gossip is going it always gets here first of all. I -believe you have a telephone, or whatever you call them. Is there -anything in it? What is the meaning of it? You have always had a fancy -for the girl, more than I saw any reason for--but that’s your way.’ - -‘The girl,’ said the Canon. ‘I suppose you mean old Hayward’s girl. -Well, and what do they say?’ - -‘I am very surprised that you should ask me; and now I feel sure there -must be something in it,’ Mrs. Jenkinson cried. - -‘That she was a schoolmistress, or something of that sort? I always -suspected as much. The mother was a governess--and if Hayward left her, -as he seems to have done, with poor relations--and what then, my dear?’ -said the Canon briskly. ‘Eh? that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s a -very nice girl.’ - -‘It alters the situation,’ said the Canon’s wife. ‘Miss Beachey is a -very nice girl; but I should not ask her to meet the St. Clairs, for -example, in my drawing-room.’ - -‘Empty-headed noodles,’ said the Canon. ‘Miss Beachey is worth the whole -bundle of them; but I hope you don’t compare Miss Beachey with Joyce.’ - -‘If that were all!’ said the lady, shaking her head. ‘I hear now that’s -not half. They say she’s nothing to the Haywards at all--only a girl -that took their fancy, and that they took out of her natural -position----’ - -‘I’ll swear she never took Mrs. Hayward’s fancy, Charlotte!’ - -‘Well, well. Mrs. Hayward is a woman of sense; she knows it is vain to -go against a man when he has taken a notion in his head. The Colonel saw -her, it appears, and thought her like his first wife. These romantic -plans never succeed. It appears she was engaged to a man in her own -class, and he has been here making a disturbance. I am very distressed -for these poor people. Well? You know all about it, of course, a great -deal better than I do.’ - -‘My dear, I think that notion of yours about a telephone is quite just. -Of course I have heard it all--first, that she had been a schoolmarm, as -these troublesome Americans say (we’ll all find ourselves speaking -American one of these days), then a board schoolmistress, additional -horror! Yesterday, however, nobody had any doubt she was old Hayward’s -daughter. The other thing has come up to-day. I don’t believe a word of -it, if that’s any satisfaction to you.’ - -‘It is very little satisfaction to me, Canon,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, -shaking her head, ‘for I know how you are swayed by your feelings. You -like her, therefore nothing that tells against her can be true. But -unfortunately I can’t give up my judgment in that way.’ - -‘What has your judgment got to do with it? That’s a big thing to be put -in movement for such a small matter,’ said the Canon, pushing his chair -from the table. The rotundity of the vast black-silk waistcoat burst -forth from under that shadow with an imposing air. He crossed one leg -over the other, filling half the vacant space with a neat foot in a -black gaiter and well-brushed shoe. - -‘I don’t call it a small matter. I am very surprised that you should -think so. A Scotch country girl, with a pupil-teacher’s training, -brought among us--presented to us all as a young lady!’ - -‘Well, wasn’t she a young lady? What fault have you to find with her? -She puts me to my p’s and q’s, I can tell you, with what you call her -pupil-teacher’s----’ The Canon changed his position impatiently, -bringing his other foot into that elevated position. ‘It’s all a horrid -nuisance!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know when I’ve been more vexed. Hayward’s -an old fool--I always knew it. I wish they had never settled here.’ - -‘I knew you’d think so, Canon,’ Mrs. Jenkinson cried. - -‘What was the good, if you knew I’d think so, of aggravating everything? -I’ll tell you what it is,--it’s those pernicious people at St. -Augustine’s. That woman _must_ be in mischief. I told you so. She can’t -keep out of it. And to fall foul of the people who have been her best -friends! But for that poor girl, whom she’s fixing her fangs in, neither -old Sam nor I would have moved a step. I’ve a great mind to go and stop -the building. It would serve them right.’ - -‘I don’t defend Dora Sitwell, Canon; but if there had been nothing wrong -she could not have made a story. It is the people who shock all the -instincts of society and break its rules--as the Haywards have done----’ - -‘Well, I said he was an old fool,’ said the Canon, getting up and -marching about the room, which shook and creaked under him--the windows -rattling, the boards bending. ‘I give him up to you--flay him alive, if -you like---- Still, at the same time,’ he added, stopping in front of -her, with his long coat swinging, and his thumbs in the armholes of his -waistcoat, ‘if a man should happen by any misfortune to find his own -child in an inferior position--suppose she had been a housemaid instead -of a board schoolmistress--should he have left her there? is that what -you ladies think the right thing to do? Respect the delicate breeding of -girls who have run about town for two or three seasons, and don’t bring -the rustic Una here.’ - -‘The Una!’ said Mrs. Jenkinson. ‘Canon, when you are very excited, you -always become extravagant. Una was a princess, not a schoolmistress. Oh -yes, of course, it’s all one in a fairy tale; but a Una, with a lover -who comes and makes a disturbance----! And besides, everybody says she’s -not their daughter--only a country girl to whom they took a fancy.’ - -‘A strange fancy on the wife’s part!’ - -‘I do wish you would be reasonable. The wife, of course, saw the -difficulties, poor woman! Very likely she disapproved of all that -romantic nonsense, adopting a stranger--if it had been a child even! but -a grown-up girl with a lover. It has not been for her happiness either, -poor thing. To have been left in her own sphere, and married, as she -would naturally have done, would have been far better. I am sorry for -her, and I am sorry for Mrs. Hayward. As for him, it is all his fault, -and I have no patience with him,’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson. ‘You are quite -right, Canon; he is an old fool.’ - -‘Still, I don’t see, if he had been Solomon, how he was to have left the -poor little girl behind him when he had once found her. Do you?’ - -‘Canon,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, with a dignified look of reproach, ‘I -allow that you may be a partisan; but don’t keep up that transparent -fiction with me.’ - -The Canon said, ‘By!’ in an access of feeling, and with a fling which -made the rectory ring. It is not permitted to a Churchman to swear: even -By Jove! comes amiss with a clerical coat and gaiters; but the use of -that innocent monosyllable can be forbidden to no one--the wealthy -English language would fall to pieces without it. He said ‘By!’ making a -fling round the room which caused every window in the old house to -tremble, and then he came to a sudden stop in front of his wife, like a -ship arrested in full sail. ‘Fiction!’ he said; ‘the girl’s the image of -her mother. My brother Jim was in Hayward’s regiment. I remember the -poor thing, and the marriage, and all about it. Hayward behaved like a -fool in that business too--he’ll probably wreck his daughter’s happiness -now,--but mind you, Charlotte, there’s no fiction about it. You can say -I said so. I mean to say so myself till I make the welkin ring--whatever -that may be,’ he added, with a short laugh. - -‘Oh, you’ll make the welkin ring, I don’t doubt, anyhow: but, of course, -that’s strong evidence, Canon--if you stick to it.’ - -‘I’ll stick to it,’ Dr. Jenkinson said. ‘Poor little girl! I knew she’d -get into trouble; but, my dear, if I were you, I’d go forth to all the -tea-parties and sweep these cobwebs away.’ - -‘My dear, if I were you, I’d do it myself,’ said the lady. ‘You had -better go now, while you are so hot, to Lady St. Clair’s.’ - -The Canon flung himself down in his study chair, once more making the -rectory ring. He said something about tabbies and old cats, which a -clerical authority ought not to have said, and then he informed his wife -that he was writing his sermon--the sermon which she knew he had to -preach before a Diocesan Conference. ‘I felt very much in the vein -before you came in. I must try to gather together my scattered ideas.’ - -‘You don’t seem to have made much progress,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, -looking severely at a blank sheet of paper on the writing-table. The -Canon uttered a low chuckle of conscious guilt, and drew it towards him. - -‘I’ll tell you what--I’ll give them a good rousing sermon on scandal and -tea-parties.’ - -‘Oh, tea-parties! your clubs and things are worse than all the -tea-parties in the world,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, rising with dignity. The -rectory was an old house, and very ready to creak and rattle; but -scarcely a window moved in its frame, or a board vibrated under her -movements. The Canon’s lightest gesture, when he threw himself back in -his chair, or pulled it forward in the heat of composition, made every -timber thrill. - -Mrs. Jenkinson took her way with dainty steps along the road, where -there were puddles, for it had been raining, to Lady St. Clair’s. Now -that the days were closing in, and winter approaching, the season of -tea-parties had set in. The gardens were all bare and desolate, not so -much as a belated red geranium left in the beds. Everything naked and -sodden with autumn rains. But in Lady St. Clair’s, who followed the -fashion even in flowers, there was a sort of supernatural summer in the -conservatory, a many-coloured glow of chrysanthemums which lit up one -side of her drawing-room. The day was mild, the fire was hot, and so was -the tea; and the crowd of people in the warm room were hot too, in their -unnecessary furs and wrappings, and disposed to be sour and out of -temper. Lady Thompson had got a seat near the fire; she had a cup of tea -in her hand; she was being served with hot tea-cake and muffins, and she -wore a sealskin cloak trimmed with deep borders of another and still -more costly fur. Her good-humoured countenance was crimson, her breath -came in gasps. By her side sat Mrs. Sitwell, busy and eager. ‘Of course -I was interested,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘A tale of true love. We -ought all to do what we can for them. You, dear Lady Thompson, that have -so much influence----’ - -‘I don’t think,’ said Lady St. Clair, with emphasis, ‘that anything of -the kind should be asked from us. We have been made to receive a girl on -false pretences, who should never have been admitted among us. I always -had a feeling about that girl. She was so _gauche_. One could see she -had been accustomed to _no_ society. And my girls had quite the same -feeling. It was instinctive; one has a sort of creepy sensation just as -when one rubs against some one in a crowd--some one who is not of one’s -own class.’ - -‘I was always fond of ’er,’ said Lady Thompson, in the middle of her -muffin. ‘I never ’ad no creepy feeling. If you ask my opinion, she’s a -pretty dear.’ - -‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, clasping her hands with enthusiasm, -‘everything, everything that has come out has been favourable to Joyce!’ - -‘Not to thrust herself into society on false pretences,’ said the eldest -Miss St. Clair. ‘I really know nothing of her. I have been from home -most of the summer; but to push her way among gentlepeople--a little -schoolmistress! Why, Dolly and Daisy were very nearly making a _friend_ -of her!--a girl with these antecedents!’ - -‘It was dreadful cheek,’ said Dolly aforesaid. - -Miss Marsham, who had been pulling the lace round her thin wrists into -tatters, here put forward a timid plea. ‘Oh, I am sure there was no -thrusting herself forward! If there was anything, she was too shy--dear -Joyce! She always said it was the schools she was interested in--from -the first. Mrs. Sitwell, you remember, in Wombwell’s field.’ - -‘Oh,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, ‘I never have said anything but praise of her. -I think it is noble to work like that,--to exert yourself for your -people. Her poor old parents were so poor, living in a wretched cottage -upon oatmeal and I don’t know what messes, as the Scotch do. And she -occupied herself to get them a little comfort in their old days. It was -noble of her; everything is to Joyce’s credit--everything! Wild horses -would not have drawn it out of me but for that.’ - -‘I never ’ad no creepy feeling,’ said Lady Thompson, pulling at the -velvet strings of her bonnet (which had been carefully pinned, poor -woman, by a careful maid). ‘She’s always been as nice as nice to me.’ - -‘What seems very strange,’ said another of the company, ‘is that the -Bellendeans, really nice people, who must have known all about it, -should have countenanced such an imposition; and your little cousin, -Lady St. Clair.’ - -‘Oh, Greta’s a mere child,--and you know the silly ways some girls have. -They think it’s fine to take up people, and have a _protégée_ out of -their own class--bringing the rich and poor together, don’t you -know--that’s what they say.’ - -‘They are so silly, all those revolutionary ways!’ - -‘And then Captain Bellendean, who should have known better, dangling -after her everywhere--compromising the girl, I always said.’ - -‘Oh, we always knew,’ said Lady St. Clair, with a smile, ‘that nothing -would come of _that_. A young man, of course, will take his amusement -where he can find it--and if a girl allows herself to be compromised it -is her own fault.’ - -‘The parents are most to blame, I think,’ another lady said. - -‘The parents!’ said Miss St. Clair, with a laugh. - -‘My dear Mrs. John--a mere matter of adoption, and not a successful one. -Mrs. Hayward, I believe, never approved of it. It was all the Colonel’s -doing--a foolish fancy about a resemblance.’ - -‘And who was she, then, to begin with?’ - -‘A foundling--picked up by the roadside--adopted by some cottagers--the -lowest of the low.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Miss Marsham, behind backs, with a cry of pain. ‘Poor child, -poor dear!--if it is so, it’s not her fault.’ - -Mrs. Sitwell had grown pale. She was not done up in velvet strings like -Lady Thompson, who sat gasping, making vain efforts to release herself, -unable to speak. ‘I don’t think it is so bad as that. I never said--I -was never told--only poor people, that was all--poor village -people--very respectable. And everything to Joyce’s credit, or I never -should have said a word.’ - -Mr. Sitwell and Mr. Bright had come in from one of their many services -in the pause of awe which followed the severe statement of Joyce’s -fabulous origin. ‘Who was that?’ said the curate, in Miss Dolly’s ear. - -‘Oh, the girl at the Haywards’--don’t you know? You ought to know, for -you saw a great deal of her in the summer. You ought to have found out -all her secrets.’ - -‘I never pry into a lady’s secrets,’ said the curate. - -‘Oh, don’t you just! But she turns out to be nothing and nobody, though -they took her everywhere. Did you ever hear such awful cheek?’ - -‘I always tell you, Miss Dolly, human nature is so depraved--except in -some exceptional cases,’ Mr. Bright said, with an ingratiating smile, -bending over the young lady’s chair. - -Mr. Sitwell asked the same question of the elder circle, standing up in -the severity of his clerical coat amid the group of ladies. Two or three -answered him at once. - -‘It is Joyce, Austin,’ his wife said, in a faint voice. - -‘It is Miss Hayward.’ - -‘It is,’ said Lady St. Clair, emphatically, ‘the young person--Colonel -Hayward’s _protégée_--whose appearance has always been such a wonder to -us.’ - -‘Dora,’ the parson said, in consternation, ‘you never told me this.’ - -‘Oh no--oh no. I told Lady St. Clair so. It was not half so much, not -half so much! only that they were poor people, quite respectable; and -that Colonel Hayward recognised her directly. Didn’t I say so? I never, -never meant it to be understood----’ - -‘Mrs. Sitwell evidently thinks--which is a pity--that all my information -on the subject is derived from her,’ Lady St. Clair said. ‘She forgets -that my husband is Scotch, and that we have many connections about the -country. The story is no novelty to me.’ - -Lady Thompson could bear her dreadful position no longer. She stumbled -from her seat, a mass of hot furs, and thrust her teacup into Mr. -Sitwell’s hand. ‘Then how was it that Miss Dolly was nearly making a -friend of ’er?’ she cried. ‘Oh, let me get away from the fire--there’s a -dear!’ - -This cry of anguish took something from the force of the strong point -which the homely lady had made. A little bustle ensued, and general -changing of places, in the midst of which Mrs. Jenkinson came in, full -of the important contribution which her husband had made to the evidence -on the subject. But she found the conclave breaking up, and had no -opportunity of putting forth her testimony. It was still discussed in -corners. Mrs. Sitwell, quite pale, and very eager and demonstrative, -stood under her husband’s shadow, who looked exceedingly severe and -grave, making explanations to two ladies aside; and Lady Thompson had -been led into the conservatory to recover, where she had been joined by -Miss Marsham. These two poor women were in a great state of emotion and -excitement. It was not tears, indeed, which the soap-boiler’s wife was -wiping from her crimson forehead. Yet she was all but crying, too. - -‘I took a fancy to ’er the first day. If she ain’t a lady, Miss Marsham, -dear, I don’t know when I ’ave seen one,’ Lady Thompson said. - -‘Oh, poor dear! poor dear! If she has made a sacrifice for the sake of -her people, who could blame her?’ the other gentle creature cried, with -sniffs and sobs. They were the helpless ones who could not affect -society--even the suburban society which was led by Lady St. Clair. - -Lady Thompson had loosed her great cloak: the coolness of the -conservatory gave her courage. ‘How can we help ’er?’ she said. ‘Me and -Sir Sam would do anything. And I don’t believe--not one word. Not one -word!’ she repeated with emphasis--‘as them cats says.’ She was vulgar, -it could not be denied, but her heart was in the right place. - -Miss Marsham, poor lady, was not vulgar at all. She could not refuse to -believe what was told her, being incapable of understanding how anybody -could, as she said, ‘Look her in the face’ and tell a lie--a -characteristic which the school children and the people in her district -knew and worked pitilessly. ‘Oh, poor dear! poor dear!’ she said, ‘I for -one would never, never blame her. There is nothing in the world so -natural as to sacrifice yourself, if it’s to do anybody any good. I -understand her,’ said the good woman. ‘I am sure there’s been nothing -wrong in it. But, oh, I don’t know in the least what to do.’ - -Lady St. Clair, however, was talking of other things among her guests, -who had begun to disperse, and there was no opportunity for Mrs. -Jenkinson. This roused that lady to a wholesome sense of opposition, and -a growing determination to interfere. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - - -The storm subsided which had raged around Joyce for that long and -miserable day. When a few others had passed in their usual calm, the -Colonel, who had elaborately refrained from all allusion to what had -occurred, saying even from time to time, ‘We must not speak of that,’ -made up his mind with great satisfaction that Joyce had dismissed it -from her mind. ‘She is so full of sense,’ he said to his wife; ‘she -doesn’t go fretting and worrying about a thing as I do. When she knows -that there is nothing to be done, she just puts it aside. I wish we were -all as sensible as Joyce.’ - -‘Then take care you don’t remind her of it,’ said Mrs. Hayward. - -‘I--remind her! Why, I have said from the first-- We’ll say nothing of -that. Time will settle it. I have said it every day. And you think I -would remind her!’ - -‘Well, Henry, I would not say even that if I were you. I have given -Baker his orders never to let that man in again. I hate to take servants -into my confidence, but still---- Fortunately nobody has seen him or -knows anything about him,’ said the deceived woman, with mistaken calm. -She was not so sure about Joyce’s good sense as her husband was; but -even in the midst of her annoyance a certain compassion for Joyce had -awakened in her mind. Poor thing! to feel herself bound to such a man. -‘And we are not done with him,’ Mrs. Hayward said to herself. She sighed -for the calm of those days when there were no complications--when it was -quite unnecessary to give Baker any instructions as to who should be -admitted--when a disturbance and angry controversy in her pretty -drawing-room would have been a thing inconceivable. She thought she -could decipher a trace of Andrew’s country boots on the Persian rug, a -delightful specimen upon which (she had remarked at the time) he had -placed his chair. The Colonel in his anger had crushed up between his -hands a piece of fine embroidery, and ravelled out some of the gold -thread which formed the exquisite pattern. In spite of these things -Mrs. Hayward, for the first time, was sorry for Joyce. She felt with an -impatient vexation that if Captain Bellendean had but ‘spoken’ when she -thought he did, all this might have been avoided. There would no doubt -still have been a struggle. The schoolmaster would not have given in -without a fight; but Mrs. Hayward knew human nature well enough to be -sure that with a man behind her whom she loved, Joyce would have felt -her bond to the man whom she did not love to be still more impossible. -In such a case fidelity was no longer a virtue but a crime. - -But Bellendean had gone, and had not spoken. Mrs. Hayward had been both -angry and disappointed by this failure. She had blamed Joyce for it, and -she had blamed the Colonel for it. That a man should _afficher_ himself -and then go away was a thing not to be endured, according to her ideas. -And now she was really sorry for Joyce, in both these aspects of her -case. If Joyce had but known how much her stepmother divined, all her -troubles would have been increased tenfold. But fortunately she did not -know, although the additional kindness of Mrs. Hayward’s manner gave her -now and then a thrill of fear. - -She was walking with her father in the park one morning, not long after -these events. Winter was coming on with great strides, and the leaves -fell in showers before every breath of wind. Some of the trees were -already bare. Some stood up all golden yellow against the background of -bare boughs, lighting up the landscape. The grass was all particoloured -with the sprinklings of the fallen leaves. Under the hill the river -flowed down the valley, coming out of distances unseen. The Colonel and -his daughter paused at a favourite point of theirs to look at the -prospect. The wide vault of firmament above and the great breadth of air -and space beyond were always a refreshment and consolation. ‘O Thames! -flow softly while I sing my song,’ Joyce said, under her breath. - -‘Eh?--what were you saying, Joyce?’ - -‘Nothing,’ she said, with a smile; ‘only a line out of a poem.’ - -‘Ah! you know so much more about books, my dear, than I have ever done. -You must get that turn in your education early, or you never take it of -yourself. I have never asked you, Joyce, though it has often been on the -tip of my tongue. How do you like the place, now you know it? I hope you -like your home.’ - -‘It is very--bonnie. I use that word,’ said Joyce, ‘because it means the -most. Pretty would be impertinent to the Thames--and beautiful----’ - -‘Do you think beautiful’s too much? Well, my dear, tastes differ; but I -never saw anything that pleased me like the course of the river and the -splendid trees. You should have lived in a hot climate to appreciate -fully English trees.’ - -‘Oh, but I do,’ cried Joyce. ‘They are finer than we have--in Scotland,’ -she said, after a pause. It had been on her lips to say ‘at home.’ - -‘Much finer,’ said the Colonel, with conviction; ‘but that is not -exactly an answer to my question. I asked if you liked it--as your -home.’ - -Joyce raised her eyes to him, moist and shining. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘it -is you who are my home.’ - -‘My love!’ the Colonel stammered and faltered, in unexpected emotion. -The water came to his eyes and blotted out the landscape. ‘You make me -very happy and very proud, Joyce. This is more, much more than I had any -right to.’ He took her hand in his and drew it within his arm. ‘I have -wanted,’ he said, ‘to surround you with everything that your poor mother -did not have--to make you happy if I could, my dear: but I scarcely -expected such a return as this. God bless you, Joyce! Still,’ said the -pertinacious inquirer, caressing the hand upon his arm, ‘that’s not -quite what I asked, my dear.’ - -Joyce had twice avoided the direct response he demanded. She paused -before she replied. ‘Some,’ she said, ‘father, are happy enough never to -need to think, or ask such a question. I wish I had been always where -you were, and never to have had any life but yours; or else----’ -Colonel Hayward fortunately did not remark these two syllables, which -were softly said, and breathed off into a sigh. - -‘My dear,’ he said, ‘under the best of circumstances that could never -have been, for you know the most of my life has been spent in India. The -worst of India is, that parents must part with their children. We should -not really have known very much more of each other if--if you had been -born, as you should have been, in your father’s house.’ - -‘Then there is little harm done,’ said Joyce, this time with a smile. - -‘Not if you trust us fully, my dear, and love your home.’ He patted her -hand again, then moved on unsatisfied. ‘I think, however, you are -beginning to like the people, and feel at home among them. And they like -you. I am sure they like you--and admire you, Joyce, and feel that you -are---- There is Lady St. Clair, my dear, with all her bevy of girls. -You will want to stop and speak to them. My wife says they’re the best -people, but I’m not myself very fond---- How do you do?’ cried the -Colonel cheerily, taking off his hat with a flourish. ‘Lovely morning! -How do you do?’ - -The old soldier stood the image of good-humour and cheerful courtesy, -holding his hat in his hand. There were so many ladies to share his bow -that it was longer than usual, and gave the wind time to blow about a -little the close curly locks, touched with gray, which covered the -Colonel’s head with all the vigour of youth. His countenance beamed with -kindness and that civility of the heart which made the fact that he was -not himself very fond of this group inoperative. But when Lady St. -Clair, picking her steps to the other side of the road, delivered in -return the most chilling of faint bows, while her daughters hurried like -a flock of birds across the park to avoid the encounter, Colonel Hayward -stood dumb with consternation in the middle of the path. His under lip -dropped in his astonishment, he forgot to put on his hat. He turned to -Joyce, holding it in his hand, with dismay in his face. ‘What--what,’ he -cried, ‘is the meaning of that?’ - -‘Indeed I don’t know,’ said Joyce. She was not aroused to the importance -of the action. Unfortunately she did not care, nor did it seem to her -that so slight a matter was worth noticing. ‘They were perhaps in a -hurry,’ she said. - -‘In a hurry! They meant to avoid us. They would rather not have seen us. -What does it mean, Joyce? They consulted together, and the girls rushed -off, and their mother--I am utterly astounded, Joyce.’ - -‘But,’ said Joyce, very calmly, ‘if they did not wish to speak to us, -why should they? I do not think I care.’ - -The Colonel put on his hat. He had grown a little pale. ‘Elizabeth will -not like it,’ he said. ‘She will not like it at all. For a long time she -would not go into society, because of---- But now that she does she likes -to know all the best people. I am not myself fond of those St. Clairs. -But any unpleasantness, I am sure, would make her unhappy. Can I have -done anything, I wonder? I am a blundering old fellow,--I may have -neglected some etiquette----’ - -‘Perhaps it would be better to say nothing about it,’ said Joyce. - -‘Much better!’ cried the Colonel. ‘That’s the right way--take no notice. -I am glad you are of that opinion. But I’m very bad at keeping a secret, -Joyce. Probably I’ll blurt it out.’ - -‘No, father. I will look at you when I see you approaching the subject,’ -said Joyce. She was quite unconscious of any seriousness in the matter. -Lady St. Clair and her girls seemed incapable of any influence on her -fate. She even laughed, looking up at him with a lightness quite unusual -to her. ‘It will be a little secret between us,’ she said. - -‘So it will,’ said the Colonel, brightening; ‘but you must keep your -eyes upon me, Joyce. I never could keep a thing to myself in my life, -particularly from Elizabeth. But this cannot be of any importance after -all, can it? No, I don’t think it can be of any importance. Lady St. -Clair may be vexed with me perhaps for the moment. I may have done some -silly thing or other. I would not for the world have a secret from -Elizabeth--but such a trifle as this.’ - -‘It cannot be of the least importance,’ said Joyce. She was more -confident of being right than he had ever known her before. - -‘Well, my dear: but you must keep your eyes upon me,’ Colonel Hayward -said. - -He came back to the subject several times as they went on, and worked -out the shock, so that by the time they reached home, he himself had -come to regard Lady St. Clair’s incivility as a matter of little -importance. ‘Perhaps she had something on her mind, my dear; their -eldest boy, I believe, gives them a great deal of trouble. And I know -they are not rich--and with that large family. People are not always in -the mood for a conversation on the roadside. You are quite right, Joyce. -I daresay it meant just nothing at all but the humour of the moment. It -will be a little secret between you and me--but you must keep your eyes -upon me. Give a little cough, or put your hand up to your brooch, or -some sign I shall know--for I am an old goose, I know it: I can keep -nothing to myself.’ - -When they reached home, however, the incident and the secret were both -forgotten in the surprise which awaited them. They found Mrs. Hayward in -the drawing-room entertaining Mrs. Bellendean. Joyce, though she had -always been more shy of her dear lady since she had discovered how much -Mrs. Bellendean’s behaviour to herself was influenced by her change of -circumstances, was startled out of all her preventions by this -unexpected visit. But the sight of the woman to whom she had looked up -with such sincere reverence, and admired before everybody in the world, -was not now to her so simple a matter as it had once been: after the -first burst of pleasure it was impossible to forget how closely -associated she was both with the old life and the new. And Mrs. -Bellendean herself was changed. There were lines of anxiety and care in -her face. She was no longer the calm queen in her own circle, the centre -of pleasure and promotion she had once appeared to Joyce. The peace of -the old life was gone from her, and something of its largeness and -dignity. She talked of her present plans and purposes in such a way that -Joyce, though little accustomed to the subtleties of conventional life, -slowly came to perceive that the object of Mrs. Bellendean’s visit was -not that which it professed to be. She explained to them that she was -about to leave England with her husband for Italy, and that she had come -to take leave of her friends--but this was not all. Joyce’s training in -the net-work of motives which lie under the surface was very imperfect. -She wondered, without at all divining, what the other object was. - -‘Things have changed very much since Bellendean ceased to be our -headquarters,’ she said with a smile which was not a very cheerful one. -‘You remember how much I threw myself into it, Joyce. After having -nothing particular to do, to come into that full life with so many -things to look after was delightful to me. But my husband never liked -it,’ she added quickly. ‘He dislikes the worry and the responsibility. -He thinks it worry: you know I never did.’ - -‘My friend Norman,’ said the Colonel, ‘will be lost without you. It must -have been such a thing for him.’ - -‘Oh, Norman has been very good.’ Lines came out on Mrs. Bellendean’s -brow which had not been there before. ‘You saw something of him during -the summer?’ - -‘Something--oh, a great deal! We got quite used to see him appearing in -his flannels. Fine exercise for a young fellow: It helped him to support -London,’ said the guileless Colonel. ‘I think he found us very handy -here.’ - -‘Old fellows, I suspect, think more of exercise than young fellows,’ -said Mrs. Hayward; ‘and London is very supportable in Captain -Bellendean’s circumstances--but we did see a little of him from time to -time.’ - -Joyce said nothing at all. She kept a little behind, away from Mrs. -Bellendean’s anxious eyes. She could not prevent the colour from -deepening in her face, or her heart from beating high and loud in her -breast--so loud that she felt it must be heard by others as well as -herself, the most distinct sound in the room. - -‘He has not been here very lately, I suppose?’ Mrs. Bellendean said. - -‘Oh no, not since August--when he came to bid us good-bye.’ - -‘As I am doing now,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. She could not see Joyce, who -was behind her, but she was noting, with the intensest observation, -every movement and word. She was on a voyage of discovery, not quite -knowing what she expected, almost too eager to distinguish what she -imagined from what she saw. - -‘Shooting, I suppose,’ said the Colonel. ‘I hope he has had good sport. -There was some talk of his coming back, but I never expected him for my -part, until the moors began to pall; and that doesn’t happen soon, your -first year at home. You preserved, of course, at Bellendean.’ - -‘There are always plenty of partridges--nothing more exciting. He has -been up in the Highlands, coming and going. I think he has thoroughly -enjoyed himself--as you say, the first year at home.’ - -These words were all very simple and natural; but there was a little -emphasis here and there, which betrayed a meaning more than met the ear. -Joyce felt them fall upon her heart like so many stones, thrown singly, -resolutely, with intention. It had never occurred to her before that any -one could wish to give her pain: and that her own lady should do it--her -model of all that was greatest and sweetest! The cruel boys throw stones -at wounded, helpless things. She remembered suddenly, with that -quickness of imagination which enhances every impression, a scene which -detached itself from the past--a boy in the village aiming steadily at a -lame dog, and how she had flung herself upon him in a blaze of -indignation, to his supreme astonishment. Why this should come into her -head she could not tell. The dog could yelp at least, but Joyce could -not cry out. It seemed to her that it was Mrs. Bellendean, in her -mature, middle-aged beauty, tall, dignified, and serene, who stood and -took aim. It was all new to Joyce--the covert blow, the deliberate -intention, the strong necessity of keeping still, uttering no sound, -giving no look even of consciousness. Nothing in her past experience had -prepared her for this. - -‘I have more sympathy with your plans than with Captain Bellendean’s -amusements,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Sport’s monotonous, at least to women -who only look on. But to get away for the winter is always delightful. -Oh, not to you, Henry, I know! You like your walks. And he tells me it -is so English, so like home. Very English indeed, and pleasant, for -girls who skate, and all that; but when one begins to get old and go -about in a shawl!’ - -‘I would willingly compound for the shawl,’ said the visitor. ‘It is -cold enough at Bellendean; but there one had both duties and pleasures. -I hate to be one of a useless crowd, drifting about pleasure-places. -When it’s health it is dismal enough; but at least there is some meaning -in that.’ - -‘Oh, there is a great deal of meaning in being warm,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, with a little shiver, ‘in seeing sunshine and the blue sky -instead of universal greyness and fogs. The Colonel takes a pleasure in -it, even in east wind; but so do not I.’ - -‘My dear,’ cried Colonel Hayward anxiously, ‘if you really do feel so -strongly about it, you don’t think that I would ever object? I like my -own country, I confess; and to understand what everybody’s saying--but -if you feel the cold so much----’ - -It was not much wonder that he should not understand; but Joyce, for -whom the thing was done, knew almost as little as he did that this -diversion was for her benefit. A half-forlorn wonder arose in her mind -that so much useless, aimless talk should mingle with the torture -through which she was going. Better that the stones should all be -thrown, and the victim left in peace. But this was not how it was to be. -The gong sounded, beaten by Baker’s powerful hand, and the little -procession went in to luncheon. Joyce had to expose her face, with all -its clouds, the burning red which she felt on her cheek, the heavy -shadow about her eyes, to the full daylight and Mrs. Bellendean’s -searching gaze. Nobody could help her now. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - - -‘At last I can get a word with yourself, Joyce!’ - -Mrs. Bellendean led her out under the verandah to the garden path beyond -with an anxiety and eagerness which startled Joyce. She half enveloped -the girl in the warmth of her cloak and of the caressing arm which held -hers. It was a caressing hold, but very firm, not leaving any -possibility of escape. More than an hour had passed slowly in the usual -vague interchanges of drawing-room conversation, when there is nothing -particular to talk about on either side; but the visitor had said -nothing about going--had not even mentioned, as such visitors are bound -to do, the train by which she intended to leave. She had kept a furtive -watch upon Joyce, following all her movements, but she had not -transgressed against decorum and domestic rule by asking to speak with -her alone. Accident, however, had done what Mrs. Bellendean did not -venture to do. Mrs. Hayward had been called away for some domestic -consultation, the Colonel had gone out, and Joyce was left with her -visitor alone. - -‘Are you afraid of the cold?--but it isn’t cold--and I do want to say a -dozen words where no one can possibly hear. Joyce, my dear girl, do let -me speak to you while there is time. Joyce--I don’t know how to open the -subject--I would not venture if I were less anxious. Joyce, you heard -what I was saying about Norman, my stepson?’ - -‘Yes.’ Joyce did not look up, nor did she feel herself able to say more. - -‘You used to be--devoted to me, Joyce; as I always was very fond of you. -A little cloud has come between us somehow--I can’t tell how--but it has -made no difference to my feelings.’ Mrs. Bellendean was a little short -of breath. She paused, pressing Joyce’s arm with hers, leaning over her, -with anxious eyes upon her face. But something prevented Joyce from -making any response--that cloud was still between them, whatever it -was. - -‘You know very well the interest I have always taken in you from the -very beginning, before any one suspected---- And Greta--Greta was always -fond of you. You have not met much lately.’ - -‘No.’ Nothing would come but monosyllables. - -‘I want to speak to you of Greta, Joyce. She is younger than you are, -though you are young enough. She has never been crossed or disappointed -in her life. I can’t think of _that_ for her without a shudder. She -would die. It would break her heart.’ - -‘What?’ said Joyce. - -‘Joyce, I am going to take you into our confidence--to tell you our -secret; you will never betray us. If things should happen so that what -we wish never came to pass, you would not betray us?’ - -For the first time Joyce raised her eyes to Mrs. Bellendean’s face. - -‘I know--I know--I never doubted for a moment. It will rest with you to -decide. Joyce, you have got Greta’s life in your hands.’ - -‘I! in my hands.’ She looked up again into the face which was bending so -closely with such an anxious look over hers. The lace of Mrs. -Bellendean’s veil swept her forehead. The breath, which came so quick, -breathed upon her cheek. - -‘Joyce,’ said the lady again, ‘I know that it was not a little that you -saw Norman. I know that he was here day after day. I know that he -was--in love with you.’ - -Joyce detached herself suddenly from that close enlacement. She drew her -arm away, shook off the draperies which half enveloped her. ‘I do not -think you have any right--to say that to me,’ she said. - -‘If I did not know it to be true--and you know it’s true. He came here -day after day till he imagined--he was in love with you. And then he -came to Bellendean. All this time he has been seeing Greta every day. He -has made her believe that it is she whom he loves.’ - -The heart of Joyce gave one bound as if it would have burst out of her -breast. - -‘And she believes it,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘She is a tender little -flower; she has never been crossed in her life. She believes that it is -she whom he loves--and she loves him.’ - -There was a momentary silence, complete and terrible. A little gust of -wind burst forth suddenly, and sent a small shower of leaves at their -feet. They both started, as if these had been the footsteps of some -intruder. - -‘It has always been our desire:’--the visitor began again in a low -voice, as if she were afraid of being overheard--‘everybody has wished -and expected it. They suit each other in every way. She has been brought -up for him. She has always thought of Norman all her life. Poor little -Greta! she is so young--not strong either; her mother died quite young. -And she doesn’t know what disappointment is. We are all to blame; we -have petted her and made her think there was nothing but happiness -before her. And she was always fond of you, Joyce. You, too’--Mrs. -Bellendean added, after a pause--‘you were devoted to her.’ - -Joyce’s voice sounded harsh and hoarse. After the silence it came out -quite suddenly, all the music and softness gone out of it: ‘What have I -to do with all this? What has it to say to me?’ - -‘Joyce! do you think I would come to you without strong -reason--betraying Greta?’ - -‘This has nothing to do with me,’ said Joyce again. - -‘It has everything to do with you. So long as he has been at home all -has been well. He has seen her every day. He has got to appreciate her, -and to see that she is the right wife for him, his own class, his own -kind, fit to take her place in the county, and help him to his right -position. But he is coming up to town. He will be coming here,’ said -Mrs. Bellendean, putting her hand again upon the girl’s arm. ‘Oh, Joyce, -Joyce----’ - -‘I have nothing to do with it,’ said Joyce. ‘What--what do you think I -can do?’ - -‘He--can be nothing to you,’ said the visitor tremulously. ‘You--you’re -engaged already. You’ve given your word to a--good respectable man. -Norman is only a stranger to you.’ - -Joyce did not reply. She drew herself away a little, but could not -escape the pressure of that eager, persuasive hand. - -‘I understand it all,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘He is not clever, but he -has the manners of a man that knows the world, and he has been very much -struck with you. And you have been--flattered. You have liked to have -him come, even though he could never be anything to you.’ - -She had got Joyce’s arm again in her close clasp, and she felt the -strong pulsations, the resistance, the movements of agitation, which, -with all her power of self-control, the girl could not restrain. - -‘Oh, think, Joyce, before it goes any further! Will you for simple -vanity--or like one of the flirts that would have every one at their -feet--will you break Greta’s heart, and make a desert of both their -lives? All for what?--for a brag,--for a little pleasure to your -pride,--for it can be nothing else, seeing you’re engaged to another -man!’ - -The woman was cruel, remorseless,--for she felt Joyce’s arm vibrate in -her clasp, which she could not loosen,--and thus commanded her secrets, -and forced her to betray herself. The girl felt herself driven to bay. - -‘I don’t understand--the things you say,’ she answered slowly at last. -‘You speak as if I had a power--a power--that I know nothing about. And -oh, you’re cruel, cruel! to put all that in my mind. What--do you think -I can do?’ - -‘Oh, Joyce, I knew you would never fail me. You have such a generous -heart. Let him see, only let him see, that between him and you there can -be nothing. He will accept it quickly enough. A man’s pride is soon up -in arms. It has only been a passing fancy, and he will soon see that -everything is against it; while everything is in favour of the other. If -you will only be firm, and let him see--oh, Joyce, you who are so -clever! dear Joyce!’ - -Joyce’s heart swelled almost to bursting. ‘You call me clever, and -dear,’ she cried; ‘and you tell me I must save Greta’s heart from -breaking; but what if I were to break mine,--and what if I were to hurt -his,--and what if I were to make three miserable instead of one? You -never think of that.’ - -‘No,’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, with a tone of indignation; ‘because I -would never do you that wrong, Joyce,--you that are honour itself and -the soul of truth,--to believe that you had even a thought of Norman, -being engaged to another man.’ - -Joyce shrank as if she had received a blow. ‘Oh,’ she cried, in a broken -voice, ‘you never ceased to say that I had done wrong--that it was not a -fit thing for me--that I would change, that I would find it not possible -to keep my word. You said so--not I.’ - -‘My dear! my dear!’ cried Mrs. Bellendean. - -‘No,’ said Joyce, ‘don’t call me so. I am not dear any more. You know -that there was a time when Joyce would do what you said, if it was small -or great, if it was to give you a flower or to give you her heart; and -then you changed, and that ceased to be; and we got all wrong because I -was Colonel Hayward’s daughter. And now you come and put me back again -in my old place, but far, far lower--the girl engaged to Andrew -Halliday, whom you never could bear to hear of--and bid me do what may -be, perhaps, for all you know, a heartbreak to me----’ - -‘No, Joyce--no, dear Joyce!’ - -‘For what?’ she said sadly--‘that you may call me _that_--you that -raised me up to your arms, for being not myself but my father’s -daughter--and now drop me down, down again, for fear I should come in -your way. And why should I break my heart more than Greta? why should I -be disappointed and not she? why should I give up my hope to save -her--if it was so?’ - -‘But, Joyce, Joyce!--it is not so!’ - -Joyce made no reply. - -The two figures moved on together slowly in silence, with the autumn -leaves dropping over them, and the afternoon growing grey. Mrs. -Bellendean felt upon her arm the strong beating of the girl’s heart, and -the tremor that went through her; and her own heart smote her for what -she was doing: but not for so little as that did she give up the work -which was already more than half done. She followed all the movements of -the girl’s mind with an extraordinary sympathy, even while she set -herself to the task of overcoming them; for she was not the less fond of -Joyce, and scarcely felt with her less, for this determination to subdue -her. She was conscious of the commotion, the revolt, the sense of -personal wrong, yet underneath all the strong fidelity and loyalty of -the spirit over which she was exercising a tyrannical power. She let her -own influence work in the silence, without saying a word, with an -assurance of victory. The only thing that lessened the cruelty of the -undertaking was that she did not really know whether Joyce’s heart was -or was not engaged--even now she could not fathom that--but was able to -persuade herself that the girl’s protest was one of indignation only, -not of outraged love; and that the sacrifice, if she made it, would only -be a sacrifice of her pleasure in a conquest and of her vanity, not of -any real happiness or hope. - -Mrs. Bellendean’s confidence was justified. After a minute or two, which -had seemed hours, Joyce spoke again. ‘There is no need to tell you,’ she -said, very low, so that the lady had to stoop to hear her--for Joyce’s -head was bent, and her voice scarcely audible--‘there is no need to tell -you--that as far as in me lies I will do what you say.’ - -‘My dearest, kind girl--my own Joyce!’ - -‘No,’ she said, with a shudder, drawing away her arm, ‘not that--never -that. It is all changed and different, Mrs. Bellendean. I am not even -Joyce, your schoolmistress, that was so proud to please you; but in -another parish, with another name--as you think best for me.’ - -‘Oh, Joyce,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, with real pain, ‘don’t say that! I -only think so because you yourself thought so; and with your father’s -help and that of your friends, it need not be another parish, nor any -parish. He is a most respectable, clever man. We will find him something -far better, something more worthy of _you_.’ - -Joyce said nothing more. She turned round and led the way back to the -house, keeping apart from her companion, walking with a new-born dignity -and pride. There was not another word said as they returned to the -verandah, from which Mrs. Hayward was looking out, looking for them. She -had a shawl wrapped close round her, yet shivered a little in the early -falling twilight. ‘You will both get your death of cold,’ she cried. -‘Come in, come in, and have some tea. Joyce, you really carry rashness -too far: you must be chilled to death.’ - -‘I am afraid it is my fault,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘I forgot she had no -wrap. It was such a pleasure to have a little talk with her’--the lady -hesitated for a moment, then added with a tremble in her voice--‘as in -the old days.’ - -As in the old days!--a pleasure to talk! ‘Yes, it is very cold,’ said -Joyce, holding her hands to the fire. She stood up there, a dark shadow -against the warm glow. A strange fascination kept her in the presence of -the woman whom she had so loved, who had turned her love to such -account. She stood there without moving, trembling with the cold, and -something more than the cold. So long as these entreaties were not -repeated here! so long as her step-mother was not taken into the lady’s -confidence too. Nothing was further from Mrs. Bellendean’s mind. She -took with pleasure the warm cup of tea, which, and the warm air of the -fire-lighted room, brought back a genial heat all over her. She was a -little tremulous, yet satisfied, feeling that she had done all for which -she had come. And no harm had been done to Joyce--no harm. She wished -the girl would not stand there, cold, reproaching her by the silent -shiver with which she held her hands to the fire. But that was all. What -is a little cold at her age?--no more than the little puncture of her -vanity, the little salutary wound which was all, Mrs. Bellendean -persuaded herself, that she had given. - -‘It was foolish of me to forget that Joyce had no shawl. She has always -been so hardy, I hope it will not matter. It is such a long time since -I have seen her.’ It seemed impossible to change the subject, to get out -of these _banalités_ which meant so much worse than nothing, which -conveyed so false a sense to Joyce’s keen ear. Mrs. Bellendean was -embarrassed, but she was not conscious of being false. She added, ‘And -it will be a long time before we meet again. I shall have to try and -dismiss all my anxieties about my friends from my mind. Joyce is one -whom I can always trust not to misunderstand me, not to forget -anything,’ Mrs. Bellendean said. - -Joyce heard everything, even the rustle of Mrs. Bellendean’s gown, the -movement of her arm as she lifted her teacup to her lips, but could not -move or say a word. She stood still, warming herself, while the two -ladies carried out the usual little interchange of nothings. All they -said entered into her brain, and remained in her memory like something -of importance. But it was of no importance. Presently Mrs. Bellendean -remembered that she must go by a certain train, and a cab had to be sent -for. There was a little bustle of leave-taking. Joyce felt herself -enclosed in a warm embrace, tenderly kissed, still more tenderly said -farewell to. ‘I don’t say, Remember, for I am sure you will not forget -me, Joyce,’ were Mrs. Bellendean’s last words, ‘nor what I have said.’ -But to this also Joyce replied nothing. - -‘I thought she was never going away,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She must have -had something very particular to say to you, Joyce.’ - -Joyce was walking across the hall towards the stair without any -response. Mrs. Hayward stood still under the light and cried -impatiently, ‘You don’t seem to have heard me. You look dazed. What had -she to say to you, Joyce?’ - -Joyce turned half round, holding by the banister of the stair. She said, -‘Nothing--it was I myself----’ then paused. ‘She was telling me about -Greta. Greta--has never been disappointed--not like--like other folk.’ - -‘Never disappointed!’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘Do they think she can get -through life like that? And was this all Mrs. Bellendean came to say? I -think she might have saved herself the trouble. I would let Miss Greta -look after her own affairs.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XL - - -Never had been disappointed--never crossed! - -Perhaps that is as real a claim upon human compassion as is the claim of -the long-suffering and much-tried. Perhaps it is even a stronger claim. -It is the claim of a child. Who would be the one to open the doors of -human trouble to a child?--to give the first blow?--to begin the -disenchantment which is the rule of life? People get used to -disappointments as to the other burdens of human existence; but to -snatch the first light away and replace it by darkness, who would do -that willingly? to change the firmament and eclipse the sunshine, where -all had been brightness and hope! There had been a sombre anger roused -in Joyce’s heart by that appeal. She had said, Why should one be spared -by the pain of another? Why should her heart break, that Greta’s should -be saved from aching? But she no longer asked herself that question. She -said to herself that it was just. There are some that must be saved -while the others go bleeding. It is the rule of life--not justice, -perhaps, but something that is above justice. Some must have flowers -strewn upon their path, while others walk across the burning -ploughshares. There was no reason in it, perhaps, no logic, but only -truth: for some object unknown, which God had made a law of life. Greta -had been the idol of her family all her life. Everybody had loved her, -and cared for her. She had been sheltered from every wind that blew. -Joyce was only a little older, but already had passed through so many -experiences. _She_ knew what it was to be disappointed, to have all her -dreams cut short, and the current of her being changed. Another pang to -her, who was accustomed to it, would not be half so much as the first -pang of wounding misery to Greta. Poor little Greta! fed on the roses, -and laid in the lilies of life, to give her all at once the apples of -Gomorrah, to wrap her in the poisoned robe. Oh no! oh no! It was a just -plea. Let the heart that is used to it go on breaking; let the child’s -heart go free. - -Joyce’s room was the one full of thoughts in the middle of that peaceful -house. In all the others was the regular breathing of quiet -sleepers--the rest of the undisturbed. She alone waked, with her little -light burning, throwing a faint gleam across the invisible river-banks, -on the dark stream floating unseen. Had there been any wayfarer belated, -any boat floating down-stream, the gleam from that window would have -given cheer in the middle of the darkness and night. But there was not -much cheer in it. The room it lighted was full of thoughts and cares, -and sheltered a human creature facing a sea of troubles, doing her best -to keep afloat--sometimes almost submerged by these rising waves: and -there is this additional pang in the troubles of a woman--of a girl like -Joyce--that there is no motive to strive against them. The Hamlets of -existence have a great life and great possibilities before them; but -what profit is there to the world in one poor girl the more or less? If -she is glad or sad--a victim or a conqueror--what matter? Her poor old -people were separated from her. They would never know. Her father would -not suffer, and no one else in the world would care. There was no -mother, no sister, to wish her woes their own--not even a friend--not a -friend! for Mrs. Bellendean and Greta were those who had been most dear. -There would be some use in her suffering, but none in her -happiness--none at all: rather evil to all concerned. A selfish good -purchased by others’ disadvantage. No good--no good to any one in the -world. - -Joyce said to herself, in her profound discouragement, that after all -Mrs. Bellendean’s prayer had made no change in anything. She had already -made up her mind. Happiness was a very doubtful thing in any case, -everybody said. It was not the end of existence, it was a chimera that -flew from you the more you sought it. But your honour was your life. To -be faithful and true, to be worthy of trust, to stand to your word -whatever happened, that was the best thing in the world, the only thing -worth living and dying for. Even if you could not keep your word to the -letter, she said to herself with a shudder, at least to do nothing -against it, not to contradict it before earth and heaven! No human -creature but can do that. She would never, never turn her back upon her -pledge. What was the need of invoking another motive, of adjuring her by -Greta’s happiness, by Norman’s advantage? This was only to irritate, to -import into the question a sense of injustice and wrong. It had been -decided before there was a word of all that. Everything that Mrs. -Bellendean had said had been an irritation to Joyce. To take it for -granted that her happiness should yield to that of Greta,--that Norman’s -interests should be considered before hers,--that she would be a burden, -a disadvantage to Norman, while Greta would be nothing but good and -happiness:--and finally to thrust her back to what they considered her -own place, into the arms of the man whom they all had thought unworthy -of Joyce in Joyce’s humblest days,--to thrust her back into his arms, to -speak of promotion for him, of humble advancement, comfort which would -make him a match for her! - -Mrs. Bellendean’s appeal had only brought a succession of irritations, -one more keen than the other. Joyce felt herself angered, wounded, -driven to bay. She had not needed any inducement to do what she felt to -be right; but now it required an effort to return to the state in which -she had been when she had renewed her pledge and promised to keep to her -word. She would stand by that resolution whatever might be said; but she -was angry, offended, wounded, in her deepest heart. Her friends, her own -friends, those who were most dear, had torn away all veils from the -helpless and shrinking soul. She had been Joyce, their handmaiden--oh, -eager to do their will; ready to spend her life for them, in proud yet -perfect humility. And then they had lifted her up, called her their -equal, pretended to treat her as such, because of the change--though -there was no change in her. And yet again, last phase of all, they had -flung her down from that fictitious position, and shown her that to them -in truth she never had been more than a handmaiden, a being without -rights or feelings, born only to yield to them. And these were her -dearest friends, the friends of her whole life, whose affection had -elevated her above herself! Joyce hid her face, that she might not see -the thoughts that rent her heart. Her friends, her familiar friends, in -whom she had trusted; her dear lady, who had been to her like the saints -in heaven; her Greta, whom she had thought like an angel. They had -betrayed her, and after this, what did it matter what man or woman could -do? - -The night was half over before the little light in the window -disappeared from the darkling world through which the Thames flowed -unseen. It disappeared, and all was black and invisible, the dark sky -and the darker earth lost in the night and the blackness of the night -and its silence. No such watch had ever been kept in that peaceful house -before. - -Next morning, when Joyce came downstairs, looking very pale and -sleepless, with dark lines under her eyes, she found her stepmother -standing in the hall, turning over a letter, with great surprise in her -face. ‘It is inconceivable,’ she was saying. - -‘It must be a mistake,’ said the Colonel; ‘depend upon it, it must be a -mistake.’ - -‘To ask you and me and not Joyce,--I cannot understand it. Can Joyce -have done anything to offend them? Why should I be asked to a ball but -for Joyce? We are not dancing people, you and I. I might have gone for -Joyce, and Joyce is left out. What can it mean? She must have done -something to offend them.’ - -‘That reminds me, my dear.’ said the Colonel, ‘of something that -happened yesterday. We met the St. Clairs, that huge regiment. I took -off my hat--oh!’ said the Colonel suddenly, beholding Joyce with her -finger up, standing behind Mrs. Hayward. - -‘What do you mean by breaking off like this?’ What happened?’ cried his -wife. - -‘Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear,’ said the veteran, with confusion and -dismay. - -‘Nothing, Henry? you change your tone very quickly. You spoke as if it -had some bearing upon this strange invitation, which wants explanation -very much.’ - -‘No, my dear, no. I was mistaken; it couldn’t have anything to do with -that. In short, it was nothing--nothing--only a piece of nonsense--one -of my mistakes.’ He looked piteously at Joyce, standing behind, who had -dropped her hand, as if abandoning the warning which she had given him. -Joyce, in the extremity of her trouble, had fallen into that quiescence -which comes with the failure of hope. She remembered the bargain that -had been made between them at the instant, but that and everything else -seemed of too little importance now to move her beyond a moment. Mrs. -Hayward, however, turned round, following her husband’s look. - -‘Oh, it is you, Joyce! You wish your father not to tell me.’ - -‘The fact is,’ said the Colonel, eager to speak, ‘we thought it might -annoy you, Elizabeth.’ - -‘You are taking the best way to annoy me,’ she cried. ‘What is this you -have been making up between you? Henry, I have a right at least to the -truth from you.’ - -‘The truth!’ he said; ‘surely, my dear, the truth, if it was of any -consequence. Joyce will tell you what happened. It was of no -importance. Most likely Lady St. Clair is short-sighted. Many ladies -are, you know. Most likely she didn’t make out who we were. That was -your opinion, Joyce, wasn’t it?’ The Colonel felt that the best thing he -could do, as Joyce did not help him out in safety, was to drag her into -her share of the danger. - -‘There might be many reasons. I did not think it mattered at all,’ said -Joyce. - -‘Reasons for what?’ said Mrs. Hayward, stamping her foot on the ground. -‘I think between you you will drive me mad.’ - -‘My dear! for nothing at all, Elizabeth. She scarcely returned my -salutation. The girls all scuttled off across the park like so many -rabbits. They are not unlike rabbits,’ the Colonel said, with an -ingratiating smile. ‘But we agreed it was of no importance, and that it -was useless to speak to you of it, as it might annoy you: we agreed----’ - -‘You agreed!’ Mrs. Hayward gave Joyce an angry look. ‘I wish in such -matters, Henry, you would act from your own impulse, and never mind any -one else.’ She swept in before the others into the dining-room, where it -was the wont of the household that the Colonel every morning should read -prayers. But it is to be feared that these prayers were not so composing -to the soul of the mistress of the house as might have been wished. ‘We -agreed’--these words kept ringing through the devotions of the family, -as if some sprite of mischief had thrown them, a sort of demoniac squib -or cracker through the quiet air. To have her husband consult with his -daughter as to what should or should not be told to her was more than -she could bear. - -Mrs. Hayward went out in the afternoon alone to make a call at a much -frequented house, where she hoped to discover what was the cause of Lady -St. Clair’s rudeness and Mrs. Morton’s strange invitation. She met a -great many acquaintances, as was natural in a small place, where all -‘the best people’ knew each other. Among them was Lady St. Clair, who, -instead of avoiding her as she had done the Colonel, came forward with -_empressment_, showing the most sympathetic civility. ‘How are you, dear -Mrs. Hayward? I hope you are well. I do hope you are bearing--the -beginning of the severe weather,’ that lady said, shaking her hand -warmly, and looking with tender meaning in her eyes. - -‘I don’t pay much attention to the weather, thank you,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, ‘and we can’t complain of it so far. I am glad to see _you_ so -well. My husband thought he saw you yesterday, and that you were put out -about something.’ - -‘Put out! I did see Colonel Hayward,’ said Lady St. Clair, with dignity; -‘but I am sure you will understand, dear Mrs. Hayward, that charming as -he is, and much as we all like him, there are circumstances----’ - -‘Circumstances!’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘I don’t know indeed any -circumstances which can possibly affect my husband. None, certainly, -that don’t affect me.’ - -‘Oh, we all feel for you,’ said the leader of society, pressing Mrs. -Hayward’s hand. - -She had to pass on, fuming with indignation and astonishment, and next -minute it was her fortune to meet the lady who had sent her the -invitation of the morning: for Mrs. Hayward had by chance stumbled into -a tea-party specially convoked for the purpose of talking over the last -great piece of news. Though she had as yet no clue to what it was, she -felt there was something in the air, and that both in the salutations -and the silence of those about her, and the evidently startling effect -of her unexpected appearance, there was a secret meaning which was at -once perplexing and exasperating. The mere fact of a tea-party of which -she knew nothing, in a house so familiar, was startling in the highest -degree. She went up eagerly to Mrs. Morton, with a belligerent gaiety. -‘How kind of you,’ she said, ‘to ask me to your ball, the Colonel and -_me_! It is very flattering that you should think me the young -person--unless it was all a mistake, as I am obliged to believe.’ - -‘Oh, no mistake,’ said the lady, a little tremulous. ‘I hope you can -come.’ - -‘I--come? But you must be laughing at me,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, with a -little burst of gaiety. ‘Of course I go everywhere as Joyce’s chaperon: -but to ask _me_, at my age, to _a dance_! My dear Mrs. Morton, you must -think me an old fool.’ - -‘Oh, indeed, I should have liked to ask--indeed, if it hadn’t been for -what was said,--but I hope, I do hope you will come. I am sure I did not -mean any--any disrespect----’ - -‘Disrespect! oh, flattery I call it! to think a dance was just the thing -for me. My step-daughter will be asked to the dinner-parties, I suppose, -now that it is evident the balls are for a young creature like me.’ - -This lady, who could not conduct matters with so high a hand as Lady St. -Clair, slid away behind backs, and concealed herself from those severe -yet laughing looks. She had thought it would please Mrs. Hayward to be -the one chosen, while the other was left out. Presently Mrs. Hayward -fell into the hands of the lady of the house, who led her aside a -little. ‘I am so glad,’ said this friendly person, ‘to see you here by -yourself. It is so lucky. Of course I should have asked you to come if -it had not been--many of us, you know, don’t think we would be doing -right if we were to countenance----’ - -‘To countenance--what?’ Mrs. Hayward grew pale with astonishment and -wrath. - -‘But I assure you,’ cried this lady, ‘no one blames _you_. We quite -understand how you have been led to do it to please him and for the sake -of peace. We don’t think one bit the less of you, dear.’ - -‘The less--of me!’ - -‘Rather the more,’ said the mistress of the house, giving her bewildered -guest a hasty kiss; and then she was hurried off to receive some -new-comers. Mrs. Hayward stood and stared round her for a minute or two, -neglecting several kind advances that were made to her, and then, -without any leave-taking, she walked out of the room and out of the -house. She was in a whirl of anger and astonishment. ‘Don’t blame--me! -don’t think the less--of me!’ This was the most astounding deliverance -that had ever come to Elizabeth’s ear. She was not in the habit of -supposing that any one could think less than the highest of her. The -assertion was the profoundest offence. And what could it mean? What was -the cause? - -Coming down the hill she was met by the Thompsons’ big resplendent -carriage, which stopped as she drew near, and Lady Thompson leant out, -holding forth both hands. ‘Oh, how is the poor dear?’ said Lady -Thompson, beginning to cry: ‘I am sure you ’ave too much heart to -forsake ’er whatever happens. Oh, how is the poor dear?’ - -‘I don’t know whom you mean, Lady Thompson. I never forsake anybody I am -interested in--but I don’t know what you mean.’ - -‘Oh, I’m sure you’re a good woman. I’m sure you’re a real lady,’ Lady -Thompson cried. - -Mrs. Hayward walked away from the side of the carriage. Her head seemed -turning round. What did it mean? _She?_ Who was _she_? Utter perplexity -took possession of her. She was so angry she could scarcely think: and -Lady Thompson, notwithstanding that warm unnecessary expression of -confidence, was, with her blurred eyes and eager tone, almost more -incomprehensible than the rest. She walked quickly home to avoid any -further insinuated confidence, to think it over, to make out what it -meant. Who could tell her what it meant? She saw Mrs. Sitwell at a -little distance, and concluded that she would be the most fit -interpreter; but the parson’s wife saw her too, and quickened her -steps, hurrying away. ‘It is her doing,’ Mrs. Hayward said to herself. -At last she came to her own door. Some one was there before her, -standing in the porch waiting till the door should be opened. He turned -round at the sound of her step, and stood aside to let her pass, holding -out at the same time his hand. - -‘Captain Bellendean! it is a long time since we have seen you.’ - -‘Yes, a long time. I have been a fool. I mean I have been--busy. I hope -you are all well, Mrs. Hayward. My dear old Colonel, and----’ - -‘He is quite well--but I fear you will not find him at home. This is not -his hour for being at home.’ She stood between him and the open door, -barring his passage, as it seemed. It was a way of working off the -disturbance and trouble in her mind. - -‘I hope you will let me in,’ he said humbly. ‘It is not a mere call. I -could wait till he came back. I--I have something important to say to -him: and--and--I hope you will let me come in and wait.’ - -‘That is a modest prayer. I cannot refuse it,’ she said, leading the -way. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI - - -Joyce had to come to a resolution at which she herself wondered, in -forlorn helplessness, as if some other being within her had decided upon -it and not she. That she, all shy, shrinking, reticent as she was, with -the limitations of her peasant pride and incapacity for self-revelation, -should attach a last desperate hope to the possibility of enlightenment -from some one else’s judgment, was wonderful to herself. For how could -she lay that tangled question before any one, or unfold her soul? how -could any stranger know what her perplexity was, between the claims of -the old tranquil yet enthusiastic affections of her youth, and the -strange unconfessed dream of absorbing feeling which had swept her soul -of late--between the pledges of her tender ignorance, and the -fulfilments of a life to which fuller knowledge had come? She did not -herself understand how she had come to stand at this terrible -turning-point, or why she should thus be summoned to decide not only her -own fate, but that of others; and how could she explain it to strangers -who knew nothing, neither how she was bound, nor wherein she was free? -And yet there came a longing over her which could not be silenced--to -ask some one--to make a tribunal for herself, and plead her cause before -it, and hear what the oracle would say. Perhaps it was because all her -lights had failed her, and all her faculties contradicted each other, -that this despairing thought suggested itself--to discover an oracle, -and to find out what it would say. - -Of whom could she ask, and who could fill this place to her? Not her -father. Joyce did not say to herself that the good Colonel was not a -wise man, though he was so kind. Had he been the wisest of men, she -would have shrunk from placing her heart unveiled in his hand. For to -the father everything must be said. He is no oracle; he is a sovereign -judge: that was not the help her case required. Her step-mother was more -impossible still. If not to him, still less to her, could the girl, so -cruelly wounded, so torn in divers directions, lay open her misery and -difficulty. Not to any one could she lay them open. It was an oracle she -wanted--something to which a half-revelation, an enigmatical confession -would suffice--who would understand before anything was spoken, and give -a deliverance which, perhaps, would be capable of various -interpretations, which should not approach too closely to the facts. -This was what she wanted without knowing what she wanted, with only a -strong longing to have light--light such as was not in her own troubled -self-questionings and thoughts. - -Joyce had not many friends among the people who surrounded Mrs. Hayward -with a flutter of society and social obligations. Indeed Mrs. Hayward -herself had not many friends, and it is doubtful whether she would have -found one to whose judgment she could resort for advice, as Joyce meant -to do. But, the girl was perhaps more discriminating by a natural -instinct as to who was to be trusted--perhaps in her far higher ideality -more trustful. At all events, there were two very different persons to -whom, after much tossing about on the dark sea of her distress, her -thoughts turned. A little light might come from them; she might unfold -herself to them partially, fancifully, leaving them to guess the word of -the enigma, finding some comfort in what they said, even if it should -fall wide of the mark. When Mrs. Hayward set out to pay her visits in -the afternoon, Joyce stole forth almost furtively, though all the world -might have seen her going upon her innocent search after wisdom; but the -world, even as represented in a comparatively innocent suburban place, -would have been at once startled and amused to note at what shrine it -was that Joyce sought wisdom and the teaching of the oracle. She went -not to any of the notable people, not to the clergy, or even to Mrs. -Sitwell, who was supposed to be her friend, and who was known to be so -clever. Joyce did not at all know that the parson’s wife had played her -false, and she had seen more of that lady than of any one else in the -place. But this was not because of any innate sympathy, but because of -the pertinacity with which Mrs. Sitwell had seized upon Joyce as a -useful auxiliary in the carrying out of her own ends--and the girl’s -instinct rejected that artificial bond, and put no faith in the -cleverness which she acknowledged, nor even in the goodness after its -kind, which Joyce’s mind was large enough to acknowledge too. She went -not to Mrs. Sitwell, nor to the parson, Mrs. Sitwell’s husband, but she -threaded through many lanes and devious ways until she came to a door in -a wall with a little bright brass knocker, and a grating, and great -thorny branches of a bare rose-tree straggling over. Within was a small -neat green garden, and a little house looking out upon it with shining -windows. And within that, coming hastily to the door to meet her, was -Miss Marsham, whom everybody knew to be as good as gold, but nobody -imagined to be wise or instructive in any way. Joyce had come to find -her oracle here. - -The room was small and low, full of old china, old pictures, a little -collection of relics, in the midst of which their gentle mistress, a -mild spirit clad with only as much body as was strictly essential, and -with an old gown constructed on the same principles, with just as much -old and somewhat faded silk as was strictly necessary, appeared in -perfect harmony, the soul of the little dainty place. She received Joyce -with the tenderest welcome, in which there was something more than her -usual kindness, and an anxiety which Joyce, full of her own thoughts, -never perceived. Miss Marsham was ready and prepared to be confided in. -She was prepared for the story of Joyce’s youth, for the revelation of -her peasant parents, and how for their good she had sacrificed herself -to Colonel Hayward’s fancy--ready to understand at half a word, to -condone and to condole, to give praise for the noble motive, the -self-sacrifice, and only gently--very gently--to touch upon the -deception, which the severest critic could not consider to be Joyce’s -fault. She kissed her and said, ‘My dear child, my poor Joyce,’ with a -tender pity which forestalled every explanation. Did she then already -know Joyce’s trouble and sore perplexity? but how was it possible that -she should know? - -‘You must not think I have come just to call,’ Joyce said. - -‘No, dear? but why shouldn’t you come just to call? There will never, -never be any circumstances in which I shall not be glad to have you -come. My dear, circumstances don’t matter at all to me when I know any -one as I know you!’ - -Joyce was a little bewildered by this effusion. She said, with a faint -smile, ‘And yet you don’t know me well. I have been here just five -months, and part of that away----’ - -‘My love, when you understand a person and love a person, as I do you, -the time does not count by months.’ - -‘That is what I feel: and I have nobody--nobody to look to:--you will -say my father, Miss Marsham. He is kind, kind--but oh, I have not been -brought up with him nor used to open my heart,--and in some things he -knows only one language and me another--and besides, if I were to tell -him everything, he would say what I was to do, and I would have to obey. -And Mrs. Hayward with him, they would settle it all,--and I am not used -to it, and I cannot----’ - -‘No, Joyce, I understand--it is they who have led you into it--you can’t -ask advice from them.’ - -‘They did not lead me into it,’ said Joyce. ‘It was just nature led me -into it, and the perversity of things. Will you ever have noticed in -your life how things go wrong? Nobody means any harm, and all you do is -innocent; and even if you were very prudent and weighed everything -beforehand, there would not be one step that you could say -afterwards--This was wrong. And yet things all turn wrong, and your -heart is broken, and nothing is to blame.’ - -‘Oh, Joyce, words cannot say how sorry I am! There was one thing -perhaps, my dear, a little wrong--for to deceive in any way, even if it -seems to do no harm and is with the best motive--the highest motive, to -help those you love----’ - -Joyce sighed softly to herself, no longer asking how Miss Marsham could -know, then shook her head. ‘I wish it had been for that motive; but -there was no love, no love,--I,’ with a sudden blush, ‘did not know what -love meant.’ - -Miss Marsham looked up with an exclamation of astonishment on her lips, -but stopped with her mouth open, wondering. Joyce, whose eyes were cast -down, did not see the impulse at all. - -‘He had read a great deal--a great deal,’ said the girl. ‘I have never -met any one--oh, not here nor anywhere--so well instructed. I thought -then that there was nothing so grand as that. He had read a great deal -more than I!--he was my--superior in that. It is true, I always knew all -the time that I was not--what seemed---- But that might never have come -to anything, and besides, I would have thought shame. For I thought that -to know the poets, and all that has been written--that was what made a -gentleman. Oh, I think shame to say such a thing,--it doesn’t---- how -can I say it? It seems there must be something more.’ - -Miss Marsham remained silent in simple bewilderment. Joyce was now -talking her own language, which nobody understood. - -‘You may say it was deceiving to let him think I cared for him, but that -was never what I intended. He said at first, it was enough for him to -care for me. Oh, but that is nothing, nothing!’ cried Joyce suddenly, -‘that is only the beginning. Though I cannot keep my word to him, I need -not break it,--that would have been easy. It is far, far worse what is -to come.’ - -Miss Marsham took Joyce’s hands into hers. She was lost in amazement, -and felt herself swimming, floating wildly, at sea, among things -altogether strange and incomprehensible. She could not reply, but there -is always sympathy in a pressure of the hands. - -‘There was nothing wrong in meeting another man that was my father’s -friend, that was my dear lady’s son,’ said Joyce, very low; ‘how was I -to know that he and me would see each other different from--common folk? -How was I to know that they had made it up for him to be the love of--of -another girl? And now here I stand,’ she cried, rising up holding out -her hands in piteous explanation, ‘pledged to one, and caring nothing -for him, harming another that but for me would do what was meant for -him, would do--would do well--with a lady bred like himself, born like -himself, not one that had been abandoned like me. Tell me what you would -do if you were me! The lady comes and asks me--she has no right. She -says that I know trouble and sorrow, but Greta never a disappointment, -never a thing that was not happy--and that she’ll break her heart; and -nobody cares for mine. And she says I should keep my word, though she -was the first to say he was not the one for me. And oh, what am I to -do--what am I to do?’ - -Joyce sank down again upon the seat, and covered her face with her -hands. - -‘Oh, my poor Joyce--my dear Joyce!’ Miss Marsham cried. - -Her head was not very clear at any time--it was apt to get confused with -a very small matter. And Joyce’s story was confusion worse confounded to -the anxious hearer. Even what she thought to be her knowledge of the -circumstances deepened Miss Marsham’s bewilderment. She knew of the man -to whom Joyce was engaged, from whom all the information came; but the -after episode--half told, hurried over, which Joyce had no mind to -explain fully, which she addressed to the oracle--was as a veil thrown -over poor Miss Marsham’s understanding. She knew none of these people; -the name of Greta brought no enlightenment to her, nor did she know who -the lady was, nor who the man was who was mixed up inextricably in this -strange imbroglio. She drew Joyce’s hands from her face, and laid that -hidden face upon her own kind breast, kneeling down to caress and to -soothe the poor girl in her trouble. But what to say or what to do Miss -Marsham knew not. She did not understand the delicate case upon which -her advice was required. And the oracle was mute. There was no response -to give. ‘Oh, my poor child, my dear child, my poor dear love!’ Miss -Marsham cried. - -After a minute Joyce raised her head and looked at her friend in whom -she trusted. She was very pale, her eyes were wet with tears, and looked -large and liquid in caves of trouble,--her mouth quivered a little, -like the mouth of a child when its passion-fit is over, and there was a -pathetic little break in her voice. ‘Tell me,’ she said, with a look -that searched the very soul, ‘tell me what you would do--if you were -me.’ - -‘Oh, my pretty Joyce--my poor dear!’ - -‘Tell me,’ the girl said, ‘would you break _her_ heart and wound _him_, -all for yourself? Would you break your word and your pledge that you -gave when you were poor, all for yourself? as if you had to be happy -whatever happened--you! And what right had you to be happy, any more -than Greta--or Greta more than you?’ - -The question, heaven knows, was vague enough--but the oracle was no -longer mute. The pilgrim at the shrine had touched the true chord, and -at last the priestess spoke. She had a moment of that ecstasy, of that -semi-trance of mingled reluctance and eagerness, which makes those pause -who have the response of the unseen to give forth to feeble men. Her -gentle eyes lit up, then dimmed again; a brightness came over her faded -face, giving it a momentary gleam of eternal youth, then disappeared. -She trembled a little as she held the votary to her breast. - -‘Oh Joyce! my darling Joyce! I don’t know that I quite understand you, -dear. It is all so mixed up. Things that I have heard and that you tell -me are so different. I don’t know what to think--but if it’s a question -between you and another, which is to take the happiness and let the -other suffer--oh, my child, my dear! do I need to say it to you--do I -need to tell you? Joyce, your heart tells you--it’s like a, b, c, to a -woman. You know----’ - -‘I thought,’ said Joyce, with that sob in her throat, following with -intent eyes every little movement of her agitated instructor-- ‘I thought -that was what you would say.’ - -‘Yes,’ said the vestal, the priestess of this new Dodona, ‘it is not in -our will to choose or to change. You can’t leave the heartbreak to -another. You have to take it, though your spirit may cry out and refuse. -I am not wise to give you advice, oh my darling! but I know this, and -every woman knows it. Oh, it isn’t all that do it, I know, for it’s not -an easy thing. But when you have strength from above, you can do it. And -what is more, it is not in your nature to do anything else. So don’t ask -me what I would do. You could not--do--any other thing: being you and -nobody else: Joyce _that_ I know.’ - -‘No,’ said Joyce, stumbling, rising to her feet, meeting with a solemn -look the wet and weeping eyes of her oracle, ‘no, not any other thing.’ - -‘Not any other thing.’ Miss Marsham would have kept her in her arms, -would have wooed her to further speech, would have wept over her and -caressed her, and expended all the treasures of her heart in soothing -the martyr whom she had thus consecrated. But of this Joyce was not -capable. She had got her oracle, and it was clear. It was what she had -wanted, not advice, but that divine and vague enigma which corresponded -with the enigma of her confession. She resisted gently the softness of -her friend’s clinging embrace. Her eyes were full of the awe of the -victim who consents and accepts, and is restrained by every solemnity of -her religion from any struggle--but who already feels herself to be -outside this world of secondary consolations, face to face with the -awful realities of the sacrifice. ‘Don’t keep me,’ she said faintly, -putting away the thin kind hands that would have held her, ‘I must go--I -must go.’ - -‘Oh Joyce,’ cried Miss Marsham, stricken with a secret terror, ‘I hope I -have said right!’ - -‘I am sure you have said right; it is what I knew. I could not--do--any -other thing. Let me go, Miss Marsham, let me go, for more I cannot -bear.’ - -‘Oh, my dearest, I hope I have done right! Oh, stay a little and tell me -more! Oh Joyce, God bless you, God bless you, my dear, if you must go!’ - -She followed the girl to the little door, so flowery and embowered in -summer, now overshadowed by those straggling bare branches of the -rose-tree, which were good for nothing but to make, had that been -wanted, a sharp garland of thorns. Joyce scarcely turned to answer her -blessings and good-byes, but went on straight from the door as if -hurrying to the place of sacrifice. The thought was folly, Miss Marsham -said to herself, and yet it went with a chill to her heart and would not -be chased away. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII - - -You could not do--any other thing. If there could be a proof of the -divinity of the oracle it was this. It addressed that something within -which is more than any external hearing. ‘When thou wast under the -fig-tree.’ Who could tell what was in the spirit in secret but the -perfect Teacher, who saw all? Joyce received in something of the same -way the utterance which had been given in such darkness on the part of -its exponent, as is the way of oracles. She felt that it was the true -and only revelation. She hurried along in the wintry twilight, her head -bent down, avoiding the cold night wind; her heart beating loudly; her -eyes hot and suffused with scalding tears, which did not fall; her feet -cold, stumbling over every little stone. The certainty which had -replaced her doubts and conflicts of mind was scarcely less confusing -than they: it did not inspire her as in the procession to the place of -sacrifice. Ah! had she to do that boldly in the face of man for a great -cause, Joyce knew how high she could have carried her head, and marched -with what steady force and triumph. But the way was dark and tortuous, -and full of fears,--the wind in her face so cold, the sensation in her -heart so full of misery. The oracle had spoken right. It had been what -she wanted. It had made her see clearly, driving from her eyes those -films of weakness that come up upon the wind and obscure the vision, -even when it is most clear. She remembered now that there never could -have been any doubt, that she was even pledged to that sole course. Had -she not said, ‘I will do as you wish?’ and had not she been blessed and -thanked for her resolution? and yet it had failed, and she had sought -the oracle--to have it confirmed, as it was right it should be. - -Ah! but the oracle is pitiless too. It has no regard for the weakness -of--common folk. Joyce was one who had held her head very high, who -never in her consciousness had been one of the common folk. But now, in -her despair, consenting to the sacrifice demanded of her, yet with -partial revulsions of her mind against it, she took refuge in that -common strain of humanity. Those oracles which spoke out of the veiled -heights, from which the votaries with bleeding hearts, all torn with -special wounds, received such stern and abstract answers--they were -right, but they were remorseless. They took nothing into consideration, -not the weakness of the victim, nor that bewildering way in which, -though cleared off for a moment, doubts and mists would rise again, -obscuring, confusing the most certain truth. They had no pity. The -devotee, indeed, went to them only for that--to have the support of a -certain reply, to hear what, beyond all control of circumstances, was -just and right. And for a moment there would be a great calm after the -reply had come. But then there would start into the aching heart this -complaint: It was remorseless that reply, there was no pity in it. You -could not--do any other thing. It was true, true! and yet there were so -many other things that could be done; and it was hard, hard for flesh -and blood to conform to that pitiless abstract law: it had no regard for -the weakness of--common folk. And what was Joyce, after all, but a girl -like another?--very little different from Greta, who had to be shielded -from trouble: just like the rest--young, fragile, like the girls whom -everybody took care of. Oh, the oracle was hard! it had no pity. It -never took into account how much or how little a girl could bear! - -This murmur in the heart growing louder as she went on, with strange -additions and exasperations from the cold, and the dark, and the -physical discomfort around, at last roused Joyce to a kind of despairing -rebellion. After you have made your _sortes_ and read your fate, does it -ever happen that you do not try, or wish to try, another time? Open the -book again--be it Virgil, be it the Bible, be it anything, at haphazard, -from which superstition or fancy can take a fancied guidance. Try the -oracle again. It was the suggestion of despair. But Joyce had always -thought of two from whom she might seek the direction she could no -longer give herself. She reminded herself now, stopping in her hurried -walk towards home, saying with natural sophistry that her consultation -of fate was incomplete, that she had always meant the trial to be -double. She had always intended it. She had meant to lay her case before -him too. He was very unlike the other--the priestess, the vestal, whose -decisions Joyce felt in her despair no one could have doubted for a -moment. He was very, very different. It was only just that he too should -give his verdict. They were the two sides which ought to stand in every -question, which see the matter from different points, which balance and -temper each other. Joyce’s heart beat very high; the blood again began -to run warm in her veins, reaching her feet, her hands, which were so -cold. She turned and hastened back to the rectory, which she had passed. - -It was dark by this time, and the lamps were being lighted, coming into -life one by one along the darkling way. And the house was half dark, the -lights dazzling her in the hall, while there was nothing but soft -firelight in the drawing-room, which she passed hastily, telling the -servant that it was the Canon she came to see. The Canon was seated at -his table writing, or pretending to himself to write, his sermon. He -bounded up from his seat with a violent convulsion through all the -house, making the windows ring and the boards creak, and the very walls -shake, when with some difficulty he realised who his visitor was. -‘Joyce!’ he cried, with a roll of mild thunder in his voice, and took -her by the hand and placed her in a chair. He was much astonished by her -visit, yet felt that he knew what had brought her here. The poor girl -had heard what was being said about her, and she had come perhaps to -confess, if there was anything in that story, that she was a mere -foundling, and not Hayward’s daughter (but the Canon knew there was -nothing in that)--perhaps to ask him for his help, for his advice. And -he was pleased beforehand, before she opened her mouth, that she should -come to him--not to that man at St. Augustine’s, though she had been so -much with those Sitwells, but to himself, a much better guide, whom she -had said she liked best. Jealousies do not exist between man and man, we -know, as they do between woman and woman--and especially not between -clergyman and clergyman--but yet the Canon was pleased that it was to -him Joyce had come. - -‘Well,’ he said, ‘here you are, and I’m delighted to see you. It is not -often you go about paying visits, Joyce.’ - -‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘never.’ The shock of finding herself here, opposite -to him, in the place of a penitent, come to tell her tale, brought the -colour to Joyce’s face. She gave him one look, and then turned her eyes -away. He was very, very different from Miss Marsham. To sit there and -tell him everything struck Joyce as impossible. She had never intended -to tell everything. She had meant that the oracle should half divine, -should understand before she spoke. - -‘Come,’ he said, ‘don’t lose courage now you are here. You’ve come to -tell me all about it, Joyce.’ - -Joyce only looked at him again, her eyes enlarged with alarm and -terror, wondering after all, she who desired to be understood without -speaking, what and how he knew. She said under her breath, her eyes -being the chief speakers, the words seeming nothing, ‘I want you to tell -me what to do.’ - -‘You want me----? What are you saying, Joyce? Come, you are not afraid -of me. I’m your father’s old friend, you know. I don’t believe any of -that nonsense, and I’m your friend against the world, my dear. Come, -speak out, don’t be afraid of me.’ - -He drew his chair nearer hers, once more making the house quiver, and -laying his hand upon her shoulder, patted it encouragingly. ‘Come, -Joyce, be a man,’ the Canon said, with the little tremble of a laugh in -his big voice. - -Joyce answered him only with her eyes. They seemed to grow bigger and -bigger in her pale face, telling him a hundred things; but she could not -find her voice. She had meant to tell him as much at least as she had -told Miss Marsham; but when she found herself before him, a man, with -that confused story of hers which was not for a man’s ears, Joyce was -struck dumb. She made an effort to say something, but failed again. He -kept his hand on her shoulder patting it, encouraging her as if she had -been a child, ‘Come, Joyce, tell me all about it. You are not afraid of -me.’ - -Her voice burst forth suddenly, as if she had forced it, or rather as if -it had forced an outlet for itself from some place where it had been -pent up. ‘Oh, sir!’ Joyce cried, ‘I cannot speak; but tell me one -thing,--if there are two and one must suffer, and you are one of -them--must you never make a question, but consent and accept that it -shall be you?’ - -The Canon was altogether taken by surprise. The burst of the voice, -hoarse at first, afterwards clearing and quickening in its passionate -strain, the question that had nothing to do with what he had expected to -hear, but was an abstract question, startled him beyond expression. -‘Why, Joyce, Joyce--what is this?’ he said. - -She turned to him, growing bolder. ‘If you are one of two, and one of -them must break her heart--and you are the one that is used to that, and -the other has known no trouble. Do not ask me what I mean,’ said Joyce, -‘but oh, you that are a minister, you that have to guide those that are -wandering and lost, tell me! They say that it is like a, b, c, and every -woman knows; but you are not a woman, you are a man. You will not be -carried away by feeling as they are. You will be more just. You will -know.’ - -‘My poor child,’ said the Canon. He too, like Miss Marsham, took her -hand, in utter failure of any other way to help her, and held it, -patting it softly between his. ‘Joyce,’ he said, ‘my dear you’re right. -I am only a man, I can’t divine what you mean unless you tell me. As far -as I can make out, somebody has been talking nonsense to you. What is -this a, b, c, that every woman knows? If you’ll believe me, Joyce, a -woman is just like a man so far as duty goes. There’s no law for one -more than the other. Tell me what it is, seriously, Joyce.’ - -She looked up at him once more and opened her lips to speak; but again -the impossibility of telling that tale to him closed her lips. Joyce was -nearly in despair, and she had a clinging to him as to her friend, one -who would help her if he could, one who knew many things and might -understand. But when she looked up at the Canon’s middle-aged -countenance and at his large prosperous person, and the capacious round -of his black silk waistcoat, and the air about him of a man who had -everything and abounded, her courage and confidence failed her. She was -dumb. To tell her youthful trouble to him, all mixed up as it was with -love and lovers and trifling things, though so great to her, a matter of -life and death--to him, who would be moved by none of these matters--how -could she do it? She drew a long breath, which ended in something like a -sob-- ‘It is--it is a case of conscience,’ she said, with her wistful -eyes fixed upon him, making revelations which he could not understand. - -‘A case of conscience!’ he said; ‘this is one of your evasions not to -speak out. You’re like other women, Joyce, which is no shame to you; you -would like me to be at all the expense of the talk, my dear, and give -you my advice without any knowledge of the circumstances. Let us see -what premisses we’ve got. If I were one of two and knew that one must -suffer, would I take it upon me without question that the sufferer must -be I--is that what you call the a, b, c, that every woman knows? A great -many women are fools, my dear, but not such fools as that. No, Joyce! I -should take up no such idea. I should say, let him suffer who deserved -it, who had brought it on himself.’ - -‘No,’ said Joyce very low. ‘She has not done that: we are not -ill-deserving--it’s no--no wrong--oh, neither her nor me!’ - -‘It is something between two women,’ said the clear-sighted Canon. ‘It -is love then, and there is a man in the question too.’ - -She made him no reply; but she turned away her face from him, and the -Canon saw the colour rise like a fire over her cheek from throat to -brow. - -‘And somebody has put it into your head that the easy way out of it--the -fairest way--is to sacrifice yourself? It was a woman that said that, -and told you it was the a, b, c. I shouldn’t wonder if it was that old -fool Cissy Marsham, it would be just like her. Now, Joyce listen to -me----’ - -‘She is not a fool,’ said Joyce, turning her face to him again. - -‘Don’t tell me! She’s worth a dozen of any of us, but she may be a fool -for all that. Now listen to me, Joyce. I say no: do you hear? There’s no -a, b, c, but plain right and wrong. As for self-sacrifice, in the -majority of cases it’s a mere silly, idiotic, if not horrible, mistake. -Generally it does good to nobody. You fling your own happiness away, and -you don’t secure any one else’s. My dear girl, to consider other people -first is in some cases not only uncalled for but wrong.’ - -Joyce had kept her eyes fixed upon his face. At this there came over -hers a faint smile, and she softly shook her head. - -‘She doesn’t believe me,’ said the Canon,--‘none of them do; on this -point good women are all fools, and the better they are the greater -fools they are. God bless my soul!--who made you your brother’s keeper? -How do you know what’s best for him? Who gave you the right to humiliate -him by sacrificing yourself to him--or her? what does it matter? it’s -all the same, him or her. I tell you,’ cried the Canon, jumping up -suddenly, walking round to the fireplace, and standing up against the -glow of the fire, his large person rising like a mountain, flinging over -Joyce a great shadow, ‘women like Cissy Marsham are a pest, they’re a -plague in the place, with their a, b, c, and their creed for a woman. -Nonsense, my dear! that’s all nonsense, my dear! What’s law for a man is -law for a woman. There’s no other. Don’t break anybody’s heart if you -can help it; but in the name of common-sense, go your own way and take -what God gives you, and have the courage to be happy if He puts -happiness into your hands!’ The Canon puffed out a hot breath of -impatience, and shook himself in his easy large garments as if to settle -them all into their places, shaking the house at the same time and -making everything ring--‘whatever Cissy Marsham may say, the old fool, -God bless her!’ he cried, with a laugh, throwing himself down again into -a big easy-chair. - -But Joyce made no reply. It is in the nature of an oracle to divine what -is congenial to the nature of the devotee--to give a deliverance which, -however confusing, will have something in it which will carry out its -natural tendencies, and agree with his inner sense. But to Joyce this -voice brought no such message. To be bidden to be happy was no part of -her requirements. She did not understand what happiness in the abstract -was. According to her austere peasant training, it was so far from being -the object of life, that to seek it was an unworthy and undignified, -even wrong thing. She had been happy all her life without knowing; but -to look for happiness, to seek it, to make it the object of every -exertion, was incompatible with all the rules of life which she knew. -‘Happy! you will just do your work and your duty, and be thankful for -what the Lord sends ye,’ Janet Matheson would have said. What the Canon -said was not very different: ‘Go your own way and take what God gives.’ -But the meaning was different; oh, the meaning was different! Don’t -break anybody’s heart if you can help it; but if you do, never -mind--have the courage to be happy all the same. This oracle spoke too -loudly, too plainly, with too distinct a note. It found no echo in her -heart. It was not the guidance for which she craved. - -The Canon saw perhaps that he had not been successful. He tried to draw -her into conversation of a less momentous kind. ‘I hear you’ve had some -visitors from your old home, Joyce. I fear they’ve been injudicious -visitors, talking a great deal of nonsense; but I hope they brought you -good news at least of your people--old people, weren’t they, that -brought you up? I’m ready to give them a certificate of success in that -line,’ the Canon added in his fine bass, which lent itself very tenderly -to these paternal words, and with a pleasant laugh. - -Joyce looked up at him with a startled glance. She had, indeed, put no -question to Andrew as to the beloved old people. There had not been a -word about them, or any other question of life--nothing but his claim, -and her resistance yet acknowledgment, and all the confused miserable -discussions. She seemed to fall into a slough of despond, the miry pit -and the horrible clay of the Scriptures, when her heart went back, sick, -to that visit. Ah! she thought, had that been all--had there been -nothing but Andrew! But with the instinct of her natural reticence she -only replied, ‘They are well--they always write that they are well.’ - -‘That’s good.’ Dr. Jenkinson meant to take advantage of the opportunity -to ask further questions, to elicit, if he could, something of the true -story upon which Mrs. Sitwell had built her romance; but when he looked -at Joyce’s pale and musing face, and saw that the girl could scarcely -withdraw herself from the consideration of her perplexity, whatever it -was, to answer him, and that she had no attention to give to other -matters, his heart smote him. He could not question her, force her out -of herself, to satisfy his curiosity. He said nothing more for a whole -minute; but the silence did not frighten Joyce, nor force her to speak. -She sat lost in her own problem, to which he felt his energetic counsel -had brought no light. The Canon had been impatient; he had thought it -best to crush these foolish womanish thoughts on the threshold of her -mind; but he had not succeeded. What he had said had been a -disappointment and confusion only--no enlightenment to Joyce. - -‘Come,’ he said, ‘we can’t sit silent like this and look at the fire. -When you and me get together we want to talk, Joyce. Give me some of -your opinions. You’re not satisfied with mine, I can see.’ - -She looked up at him without any smile and shook her head. - -‘Out with it!’ cried the Canon. ‘We always do have a little fight. Let -me hear where I am wrong. That’s the worst of your Saint Cissy, and -other such. They don’t say a word for themselves, they’re only meekly -obstinate after the manner of saints. Come! out with it, Joyce!’ - -‘Oh,’ said Joyce, ‘I cannot speak! My heart says no to you, but I cannot -give a reason--it’s because it’s far too serious. I thought of her and -of you, that are so different, that might give me a light where all is -dark--but I can give no reason. I must just go on till the moment, and -then do--what is put into my heart.’ - -‘My poor child!’ cried the Canon, alarmed, ‘can’t you tell me what is -wrong? Do nothing rash, whatever it is--do nothing that can’t be undone. -Joyce, I am afraid of you. You are not like the rest of them: never mind -any nonsense I have said, but tell me, tell me sincerely, what is wrong. -Don’t shake your head. You have come to consult me of your own free -will--tell me what it is----’ - -‘I cannot,’ she said piteously; ‘I cannot!--oh, I would if I could: it’s -maybe nothing at all--I cannot speak. It’s--it’s love that is stronger -than death,’ cried the girl, ‘and love that is nothing, that is but -fancy, and a dream---- I’ll think nothing more of it. I’ll think -nothing! The moment may never come, and if it comes, no one can help me. -I must do--what is in my heart----’ - -The Canon drew his chair in front of her with a look that was more -searching than his questions, and which she could not support save for a -second. ‘Mind what I say, Joyce. Nobody made you your brother’s keeper. -If it’s beautiful to make a sacrifice, as you women think, it’s shameful -to accept one. Remember that. You’ve no right to put a shame and -humiliation upon another. It’s a humiliation--you would yourself refuse -it and scorn it. Joyce, whatever you may be tempted to do, remember -what I say----’ - -She tried to speak, struggling with tears. ‘The greatest of all--was a -sacrifice, a sacrifice----’ - -‘Hush!’ he said imperatively. ‘When there is One to be found in His -conditions there need be no discussion. And that one man should die for -the people, I allow--and that you should die physically rather than let -another die, if it is in your heart to do it, that I allow. But that you -should make yourself the judge in other circumstances, and shame another -by suffering for him when you know neither his heart, nor what is best -for him, nor anything but your own wild enthusiasm--that I forbid, -Joyce. I forbid it, being your priest, to whom you have come for light.’ - -Joyce raised her wistful eyes, which were wet with tears hanging on the -lashes. But she shook her head. She was a little Presbyterian, as he had -said. Perhaps the name of the priest lessened instead of strengthening -his power. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII - - -Captain Bellendean followed Mrs. Hayward into the house. It was -unusually silent, no one stirring, not even a dog. The air was very warm -and soft inside, the fire having the room to itself, and burning in a -quiet genial way to keep itself company, with a clear red glow that -lighted up everything. The tea-table stood untouched--the curtains drawn -a little more than usual over the sides of the windows to keep out the -cold, and making a still earlier twilight than that outside. The -emptiness and silence and vacancy of that warm and luxurious room, so -softly carpeted, curtained, cushioned, so evidently expectant of -inhabitation, with all its certain signs and marks of habitual tenancy, -yet all empty and silent, were more impressive almost than the emptiness -of real abandonment. Mrs. Hayward opened the door of the room for her -visitor, and bade him go in while she herself looked for the others. -‘I’ll see if they are in,’ she said; and her heart gave a little jump of -expectation as she said it. If she had found Joyce, she would have sent -the girl into the drawing-room, while she herself took off her ‘things’ -in the most leisurely way upstairs; and she would not have pursued her -researches with any idea of finding the Colonel. It annoyed her very -much to find Joyce’s room empty, and no trace of her visible. She went -over every room where her step-daughter could be before she gave up the -search, asking the maids, and finally Baker, though she had no desire to -take that personage into her confidence. Colonel Hayward’s lamp was -already burning in the library. It was his hour for reading the rest of -the paper left unfinished in the morning, and sometimes for a doze; but -Joyce was not there. - -‘Miss Hayward have gone out, ma’am,’ Baker said. - -‘Oh, has she? I had something to say to her. (She would not have Baker -think that it was because of Captain Bellendean’s visit that she wanted -Joyce.) Ask her to come to me in the drawing-room the moment she comes -in.’ - -‘I will, ma’am,’ said Baker, with stolid gravity; but he chuckled when -his mistress, much put out, turned towards the drawing-room door. _He_ -knew very well why Joyce was so urgently wanted. ‘He ’ave come up to the -scratch at last,’ Baker said to himself. - -Captain Bellendean stood by himself upon the Persian rug before the -fire. He was in a very restless mood. There was something in this warm, -soft afternoon atmosphere, the sense of domestic calm, the composure of -settled life, which was like an insufficient opiate, exciting instead of -calming. He was not in a comfortable or happy state of mind. The last -time he had been here he was at the height of warm and spontaneous love, -bewitched by the presence of the girl who had transported him out of all -his bachelor reluctances and defences. This is perhaps a strange way in -which to speak of the lover. It is the woman who is supposed to defend -herself, to hold back with reluctance, either real or assumed. However, -it is one of the enlightenments of our age to recognise that there are -two sides to that question. Norman Bellendean had not made up his mind -to marry when he took possession of his estate. He did not want even to -take possession of his estate; he would have preferred that his father -should have held it in his place a few years longer, until he felt more -disposed to settle down. But that had not suited Mr. Bellendean’s ideas -or plans: and Norman, fresh from India, and with a natural desire after -the pleasant experiences of a rich young man’s untrammelled career at -home, found himself at once introduced into the responsibilities of an -estate and the bondage of a conspicuous position much against his will. -But he had set his face against the natural results. He knew that it was -expected of him that he should marry and ‘settle down.’ He had an idea -even that his neighbours had kindly selected for him a certain number of -eligible young ladies among whom he would be expected to make his -choice. To be sure nobody could force him to make any such choice. He -was free as the air to choose elsewhere, or not to choose at all. But -the consciousness that this was what was expected of him chafed the -young man. He was coy at first like a girl, on his defence, yet -sometimes, with laughter and shame, became conscious of his own little -coquetries, and felt how ludicrous was the situation altogether. And -then he fled to town, to the excitements of the season, to take his -share, for the first time, in that whirl and hurry of entertainment and -assembling together which we call society. And then--but this was the -thing unaccountable in the midst of so many things which he saw through -and understood--he fell in love; and before he knew, was on the eve of -asking to share his fortunes, and to ‘settle down’ with him at -Bellendean, the girl who had been, a few months before, the village -schoolmistress there. - -Norman had fallen in love honestly, spontaneously, without any -preparation or _arrière-pensée_. He had neither said to himself that -this was the one woman for him, or that she was altogether out of the -question for him being what she was. Before he had begun to suspect it, -the thing was done. He had thought it was the river, the rowing, the -greater simplicity and freedom of the merry party, something in the -summer air that was itself delicious as an escape out of London, before -he found out that it was Joyce. He had indeed just found out that it was -Joyce on the last occasion, when he walked with her home from the -garden-party at Sir Sam’s. He had found it out, and in the rush and -flood of feeling had told her--he scarcely knew what. He tried to -recollect after what he had said, and he could not. He knew that she had -not responded; that she had kept him at arm’s-length; and that when he -had rushed away, unable to bear the constraint of other people’s society -while it was she--she only--whom he wanted, he had said he would come -back. The recollection was all confused, disturbed, made uncertain even -by excessive thinking over and attempts to remember every detail. And -then he had been called away, and it was not possible for him to go -back; and then cold afterthought had seized upon him in his heat of -love. She had made no reply--what she had said had been ‘No,’ though he -did not believe that she had meant the final ‘No’ which would annihilate -all his pretensions. He had known that she did not mean that: he had -seen in her something of the flood of feeling which had overwhelmed -himself. He had gone up to town with his heart throbbing and his head -swimming, in anticipation of what would happen when he went back. That -was not how a man felt when he expected the ‘No’ which would make an end -of all. - -But he did not come back--for the moment could not, being called back to -Bellendean; and then--did not. Why? Because of the chill of the -afterthought which took possession of him; because he remembered, not -immediately but after a time, who Joyce was. She was his old Colonel’s -daughter, it was true, who was a match for any gentleman. Yes, a match -for any gentleman. Colonel Hayward’s daughter, a distinguished soldier, -a man who was as good as the best. Under royalty, Colonel Hayward’s -daughter might have married any one--no man daring to have said that it -was a _mésalliance_. But then at Bellendean she was the village -schoolmistress. Nobody knew much about Colonel Hayward, though they had -all heard the story; but everybody knew Joyce. He was aware, for he had -heard it talked of, that for Joyce herself it was hard to throw off the -habits of her previous existence; and that she was wounded even when -told that she must no longer say Miss Greta, and must submit to be -treated on a footing of equality by the lady to whom she had looked up. -He remembered all this with an acute sense of pain, when he had time to -think. That his wife should still have these instincts of inferiority; -that she should wish to say Miss Greta; that she should look up to his -step-mother as to a being of a superior kind--he grew hot and red at the -thought. His wife! It was impossible--it could not be. - -These thoughts chilled him to his very heart, and stopped the flood of -love which was carrying him away. And many other thoughts came in to add -to them. Norman himself was not well known in his county. There was a -slight feeling against him as a man who had (though quite innocently on -his part) supplanted his own father. He wanted a wife who should be -unquestionable, who should be popular--able to help him to the full -acquisition of his proper standing in the place. And if he were to bring -home to be the mistress of Bellendean a girl whom everybody knew indeed, -but knew as Joyce the schoolmistress!--his heart sank within him at that -thought, which was suggested by several concurring things; by his -step-mother, who, without mentioning Joyce, had laid the state of -affairs very clearly before him, and by other incidental remarks and -occurrences which supported her view. All these things disturbed his -mind greatly. And he had occupations, perhaps arranged for the purpose, -to keep him at home. And Greta’s home was at hand, where there was -always a sympathetic listener for everything he wanted to say. He did -not speak to Greta of Joyce, but Greta spoke of her freely, always with -love and admiration, which soothed him, yet at the same time diverted -his thoughts a little in affectionate gratitude and approval of this -generous little creature, who combined everything that was most -desirable in a wife, just as Joyce combined everything that was least -desirable. And then there were the poor couple in the village, whom -Norman went religiously to see at first, to tell them about their lost -child; then with a hunger of the heart that could not be satisfied, to -talk about her. He never asked himself how he would like to have this -old couple, so excellent, so blameless--worthy of all respect, and more -than respect--at Bellendean, calling its mistress J’yce, and weeping -over her; but the thought, of which he was ashamed, shot across his mind -like lightning every time he heard their name. - -These things worked in his mind and made him miserable. His step-mother -talked to him of marrying, and of the necessity of making a wise choice -to establish his position; and Greta met him at every corner--either he -was invited to her father’s house, or she came to see her dear aunt -Margaret. The girl was entirely innocent of any conspiracy in the -matter; but Norman was her hero, and it was scarcely possible for her to -conceal her interest in him--her joy when he came, her regret when he -went away. It was not difficult for him to discover that in everybody’s -opinion Greta was the fittest of wives for him. He could not shut his -eyes to the fact that it was so. If he had never seen Joyce, if he had -never entered that enchanted country in which she dwelt, never floated -on that magic river, never strayed in that garden of dreams--never met -and parted--then Greta would have been his bride. She would have come to -Bellendean so naturally and simply, with such a carrying out of all good -wishes for its new lord, that the marriage would have been pronounced by -all to be one of those made in heaven. - -But now another image had come in. Sometimes he would wish in his -distress that it had never done so--that he had never seen her: but that -did not change the fact that she had come in and changed everything. The -conflict had grown harder every day. Then he had gone to the Highlands, -to the moors, and there the struggle took another form. His demon, his -other self, who maintained the controversy with him, began to put it -before Norman that he had ‘behaved badly’ to Joyce. Perhaps--we know so -little about these demons or dæmons, who are continually interfering in -our affairs, making and meddling, and have so little light as to their -motives--perhaps that most secret of companions meant to deter him by -the shame of that bad behaviour from going near Joyce again. But if so, -he calculated without his host. For Norman, in a blaze of shame and -self-indignation which drove him like a fiery wind, hurried straight off -to London, on the spot, to see Joyce instantly and put himself right. - -It was in this mood that he arrived, and found himself in the familiar -scene of his summer romance, under grey twilight skies, and in the cosy -empty room, lighted with the red firelight, silent, comfortable, full of -the poetry of domestic life, which is different from the poetry of the -river and the garden. He knew that Mrs. Hayward had gone to look for -Joyce, and that she would not come back to disturb the _tête-à-tête_, -but would leave them together, as mothers seemed to do, with an instinct -of what is coming. He would rather have met Joyce unawares without any -warning, without any possibility of a concerted meeting of which the -parents should be in the secret. It annoyed him to think that she would -be warned, that along with the sudden intimation that he was there, -there would be a word of advice or at least a look, to show her what was -expected of her. This added to his restlessness as he stood before the -red glow of the fire changing from one foot to the other, anxious, -impatient, yet feeling that the chill fit, the mental ague which -alternated with the fever, might be on its way. He heard little -movements in the house--some one walking overhead--some one running -upstairs--a voice sounding faintly calling some one. Was Joyce reluctant -then to come? Was she angry with him for not returning sooner? Was she -displeased with the warning given her, and unwilling to come down to him -in the empty drawing-room while everybody knew what must take place -there? It would be like her to refuse. It would be what he should expect -of her; but in what a position would it place _him!_--a lover understood -yet undeclared, whose object was unmistakable, yet who was not to be -allowed to carry it out. His heart began to beat, partly with anger, -partly with suspense, partly with love. Would not she come? He was so -impatient that he could have seized her and shaken her in exasperation -and excitement; and yet he could not but grumble in his moustache, that -by Jove she was right, and that it was just what he would have expected -of Joyce. - -Presently, however, the sounds outside became more audible, and he made -out that it was the Colonel’s step which was coming towards the -drawing-room. ‘Captain Bellendean!’ Colonel Hayward was saying; ‘why -didn’t you bring him to the library? Why, Norman, my fine fellow! how do -you do?--I’m delighted to see you; but why that ass should have sent you -in here in the dark--I can’t see you a bit--is more than any mortal -could divine--when he knew the ladies were out, and I was sitting by -myself.’ - -‘I came in with Mrs. Hayward. I assure you it wasn’t the man’s fault.’ - -‘Oh, well, if Elizabeth knows. She’ll be down immediately, no doubt. -Bring us some light, Baker. Yes, yes, the firelight is very pretty, but -I always like to see to talk. Come up about business, Bellendean?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Norman, with a little hesitation. ‘I may say it is business, -though not quite what is usually called by that name.’ - -‘I thought so. Nothing else would bring one of you young fellows to town -at this time of the year. Tell your mistress, Baker, we are waiting for -her to give us some tea. Mrs. Bellendean was here yesterday to bid us -good-bye; or perhaps I should say to bid good-bye to Joyce: for I think -we came a long way after Joyce in her estimation, my wife and I.’ - -‘I hope,’ said Bellendean, with a catch in his breath, ‘that Miss -Hayward--is quite well.’ - -‘Oh yes, she is very well. I have thought sometimes that this air didn’t -suit her--it’s a great change from the North. It gave me great pleasure, -however, to find, when we were talking the other day, that she likes it -on the whole. She has a wonderfully pretty way of expressing herself. I -should like to tell you a thing she said to me. I was questioning her on -this subject, anxious to get her true sentiments. And she said, “You are -my home, father."--Eh, don’t you think it was pretty? Well, I’m an old -fool--it brought the water to my eyes. Hush, here’s Elizabeth; she says -I am like a child with a new toy. I bore everybody with my stories of -Joyce.’ - -‘It would not be easy to bore me--on that subject.’ - -These last words were drowned by the entrance of Mrs. Hayward. She had -taken off her things, leaving it to her husband to entertain the -visitor. Joyce’s absence annoyed her exceedingly. It was quite unusual, -and seemed a sort of climax of misfortune--or perversity: perversity was -the view to which Mrs. Hayward inclined. - -‘I don’t know what can have become of Joyce,’ she said, after she had -poured out tea for the gentlemen. ‘She is never out at this hour. It is -getting dark, too late for her to be out.’ - -‘Are you anxious, my dear?’ cried the Colonel, rising. ‘Bless me! it is -always you who think of everything. I’ll go at once and bring her home.’ - -‘Nonsense, Henry!--there is nothing to be anxious about. She has stayed -somewhere for tea. Last time we saw you, Captain Bellendean, you -expected to return to town--earlier than this. I suppose you had still a -good deal to arrange before your father and Mrs. Bellendean left you to -your own devices?’ - -‘I have been very busy,’ said Bellendean in a subdued tone, which the -Colonel did not understand. - -‘He has come up about business now,’ said Colonel Hayward; ‘and very -dull you will find it, Bellendean, I don’t doubt, though I am told that -more people come to London at this time of the year than used to do so. -You must run down as often as you can and look us up--as you did in -summer, you know----’ - -‘Summer and winter are two very different things,’ said Mrs. Hayward; -‘and Captain Bellendean feels that, Henry. In summer there’s the river, -you know, and--other things.’ - -‘The other things,’ said Norman with an effort, ‘last all the year -through; and they are more important even than the river.’ - -Captain Bellendean was very ill at ease. He had not thought of these -surroundings at all, nor of any questions that might be put to him on -the subject of his long delay, nor of anything indeed but Joyce. It had -been comparatively easy in the outdoor summer life to secure an -interview with her. Now as he looked round him, and saw Mrs. Hayward -seat herself in her habitual chair by her habitual table, with that air -of settled and permanent possession which the mistress of a house has in -her own corner, and the Colonel thrown back in a larger chair on the -other side, a sense of being surrounded and shut in came upon him. Joyce -was not here, which took all the meaning out of his coming; but if she -had been here between this pair to whom she belonged, what could he have -said to her? Colonel Hayward’s daughter surrounded by all the -fortifications of life was a different thing from Joyce,--the girl whom -to love and seek was a sort of social crime. There was no question here -of a tremendous social downfall, of the _mésalliance_ and mistake -against which he had been warned. He had fully understood that side of -the question, and it had chilled him even in his heat of love. Now the -tables were turned; it was he who was suspected and disapproved of, and -from whom the parents were defending their daughter. This unexpected -drawback chilled him still more. - -Norman sat for a long time in that exceedingly comfortable, warm, -beautifully furnished room, with his old Colonel, for whom he had the -greatest respect, and the Colonel’s commander, the much-famed Elizabeth, -over whose name he had jested, but of whose personality he had always -been a little afraid. He sat and made conversation, or rather listened -to that which went on across him, growing more and more embarrassed and -uncomfortable. He seemed to hear doors opening and closing all over the -house, but Joyce never appeared; and footsteps in the hall and on the -stairs, but no sign of her coming. His head began to get confused with -the contrariety and annoyance. Fate and Mrs. Hayward seemed to have -joined the conspiracy against him, in which everybody was at -Bellendean--and, as he now blushed to think, he had not expected any -contrariety here. He had thought--coxcomb that he was!--that here he -would be master of the situation. He had thought he knew that Joyce -would not say him nay. The shy glance, the rising colour, even the -startled opposition to his half-spoken love-making on their last -interview, had given him an assurance that Joyce was not indifferent. -But even this assurance came back upon him with a keen sense of shame -and wounded vanity. He had been a fool. How could he tell what she would -say to him, while here were the father and mother talking, perhaps -keeping her out of sight, at least securing that even if she came -nothing could be said? And she did not come--though it seemed to Captain -Bellendean that hours had elapsed since he entered the drawing-room in -the firelight, and imagined to himself the little comedy, the mother -seeking the daughter, hurrying her downstairs and into the arms of the -waiting lover. He realised with the most stinging shame that he had -imagined that--though the reality was so different, so ludicrously -different, he tried to say with a laugh at himself--so painfully -different, as he felt in his heart. - -After a long time he rose. ‘I am afraid it is getting late. I must not -lose--the next train. I have--something to do in town,’ he said. - -‘Go! without your dinner!’ said the Colonel, in his cheerful ignorance. -‘No, no, you must not think of that. And Joyce would be disappointed not -to see you. Tell him, my dear, he must stay to dinner at least. We don’t -let old friends go like this.’ - -‘I am afraid I must go,’ said Norman, with the stony air of a departing -Englishman, always uneasy lest he should be made to change his -resolution. He was offended, wounded, shamed by the difference between -the reality and his imagination. ‘I--have a great deal to do in -town--and the little time----’ - -‘Then you are leaving again soon?’ Mrs. Hayward said. She had risen from -her chair at once as if to give him no excuse for changing his mind; -though that was not what she meant. - -‘But we must see him again, Elizabeth. No, no, I’ll take no denial. Why, -Joyce will be distressed not to see you. You must come another day and -stay to dinner. It is a long time since we have had a good talk,’ cried -the Colonel. ‘I want to hear all your plans. Come, come, Bellendean, -there’s no getting off it. You must come another day.’ - -He was turned all the wrong way. He had come with great strain of -purpose, feeling all the magnitude of the step before him, knowing the -sacrifice that was involved as well as the gain. And nothing at all had -come of it, not even a recognition on the part of the spectators of the -immense importance of what he had been about to do. ‘I am afraid it’s -impossible,’ he said, with stony looks; and then there came over him a -sudden vision of Joyce in all her sweetness. Joyce, the only poetry he -had ever felt, the only romance that had ever revealed itself to him. -Was he to give her up for this? ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘if you are -disengaged on Thursday.’ His tone was ungracious, but his heart gave a -leap, belying the outward stolidity of disappointment and half offence. - -‘Thursday, or any day,’ cried the Colonel, in his hospitality. ‘You -don’t think we should count any trumpery little engagement against a -visit from you! Well, that’s better--that’s better, Bellendean; and -good-bye, my dear fellow; you’ll have a run for the train, if you must -go.’ - -The Colonel came out bareheaded to the door to hasten the departure of -the guest to whom it was so indispensable not to lose the train. He -stood there for a moment looking at his watch in the light of the lamp -in the hall. ‘It is all he will do to catch it,’ he said; ‘but he has -good long legs of his own, which is better than a cab when you’re in a -hurry. Shut the door, Baker, there’s a dreadful draught. Why, Jenkinson, -is that you? You’ve brought my girl home, like a good fellow. And, -Joyce, my dear, you’ve come five minutes too late. Norman Bellendean has -just darted off to catch his train.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV - - -The Canon had brought Joyce home. He had tucked her hand under his arm, -and led her through the dark as carefully as her father would have done, -talking much, but getting very little response. He looked like a -mountain moving along in the gloom, or like a big ship with a slim -little yacht in tow; and other wayfarers could hear his voice coming out -in the mist, with sometimes a faint note of reply. The Canon was not -talking to her of moral difficulties or cases of conscience, but of a -party which was to take place at the rectory, and at which he wished her -to look her best. ‘If you will do me a favour,’ he said, ‘you will put -those questions all away, and put on the pretty looks with which you -captivated me, Joyce. Eh? don’t you remember? it’s not so long ago; how -you went and put yourself on the other side, and waved your flag in my -face, you little---- But it was all in vain, my dear, for we fell in -love with each other just the same.’ - -A smile came upon her face as she looked up at him through the fog and -the faint lamplight that streamed in distinct rays across that solid -atmosphere. ‘Yes,’ she said. - -‘You can’t deny it,’ said the Canon; ‘for my part, it was at first -sight. Well, Joyce, to please me, and your father--though I don’t know -that he has the same right--you will go back to that moment, and look -your best. I want you to look very nice indeed--so does my wife. We -mustn’t give the adversary occasion to blaspheme.’ - -‘But I have no adversary,’ said Joyce, ‘unless it were----’ - -‘Eh? I don’t doubt you have somewhere, as all of us have, somebody -you’ve been too good to. And keep away from that little parson woman, -Joyce. I’m a parson myself, you will say; but there are parsons and -parsons. Is that some one leaving your house? and there is your father -standing out in the night air without a hat; the most foolish thing he -could do. You catch cold without any warning, and then there’s no -getting rid of it. Hey, Hayward! don’t shut the door upon us, please; -I’ve brought you home your little girl.’ - -The Colonel shouted, ‘Why, Jenkinson, is it you?’--as we have seen--and -stood in the doorway to greet his visitor. ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘come in -out of the fog. If you had been coming in the opposite direction you’d -have run into Bellendean. He has not been five minutes gone.’ - -‘I only wish we had run into him,’ said the Canon in his rolling bass; -‘it might have cleared up some things.’ - -‘What do you mean, Canon? He’s a nice fellow, but not particularly -clever. Come in, and don’t stand out in the fog.’ - -‘Go in yourself, and don’t catch cold. I’ve done my duty now; I’ve -brought you home, Joyce. Take care of her, Hayward,’ said the Canon, as -he strode away, marching like a regiment, with his long coat swinging, -and the black silk waistcoat charging the heavy air. Colonel Hayward -withdrew within the shelter of the door, putting up his hand to his -head, which was his vulnerable point. - -‘Take care of her!’ he said; ‘my own girl! I should think I would take -care of her. These parsons take a great deal upon them. They think they -always know better than other people though they have neither chick nor -child.’ The Colonel repeated these words to himself with a little -chuckle, as he went back to his library to finish something he had been -reading in the paper before dinner. The Canon looked very big and -imposing, and took a great deal of authority upon himself, but he was -wholly without experience in the point upon which he presumed to lecture -his old friend. Take care of her--his own little girl! a pretty thing -for a man to say who had never succeeded in securing anything of the -kind for himself. - -Joyce went into the drawing-room with her heart beating, sick and faint. -She seemed to feel in the air that he had been there. There was -something of him still about the room--the mark of his elbow on a -cushion, the sensation of his breath. He had come after all. She wanted -to stand where he had stood, to breathe the same air, and then--and -then--to fly where she could never see him--where it should be -impossible to be tempted to his destruction. No, no; and to break -Greta’s heart. Her own throbbed quick but low. There had been a -momentary spring, but only for a moment. No, no, not for his harm, and -the breaking of Greta’s heart. His coming seemed to have precipitated -and brought near what was so far off a little while ago. She was on the -edge of the precipice now--and there was something in the sense of the -giddy vacancy before her that seemed to sweep and suck her towards the -edge. She went in--and found Mrs. Hayward standing waiting for her in -the middle of the room. - -‘Where have you been, Joyce? where have you been?--to-day of all days! -Captain Bellendean has been here----’ - -She said, ‘Yes, I heard,’ almost under her breath. - -‘And why were you not here to meet him? I don’t suppose it was your -fault. It could not be your fault. But why, why were you not here? It is -like a bad fate.’ - -‘It would be rather a providence,’ said Joyce, in her subdued -voice--‘for it’s better; oh, it’s better not. I am--glad--I wasn’t -here.’ - -Mrs. Hayward grasped her hand with an impatient exasperation. ‘Glad--you -weren’t here--glad to have driven him almost frantic--and me too!’ - -Joyce looked at her step-mother, wondering. She was so forlorn that any -sympathetic tone, even though it was angry, caught her ear. And she felt -the circumstances to be so desperate that she was no longer afraid. -‘You?--are you caring--anyway?’ - -‘Am I caring! You mean, do I care? Yes, I care. Joyce!’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, gripping her hands tightly, then losing them with a little -impatient gesture, as if she had flung them away, ‘you are a strange -girl--you have never tried to make me love you. And I don’t know that I -do. It was a great change to me, that had been everything to my husband, -to have you a stranger brought in: and you never tried to make me -care----’ - -‘I was bewildered,’ the girl said. ‘I was--like a creature astray----’ - -‘Very likely. I am not asking the cause; I am only telling you. But now -there’s something got up that we must stand against. They’ve got to know -about that man--and that you were only--a poor girl before. They are -making a stand against you.’ - -Joyce stood up against the glow of the fire listening, yet only half -roused. She was taller than Mrs. Hayward, and the energetic, almost -impassioned little woman looked up at her pale face, and thought it like -a face in a dream. It was abstracted, the eyes veiled, as if they were -looking inward. And neither to have thus lost her lover’s visit, nor to -be threatened with a conspiracy against her, awakened her out of the -mist of her own thoughts. Mrs. Hayward put her hand on Joyce’s arm with -the quick impatience of her nature-- ‘Wake up,’ she said. ‘I don’t know -what you have in your mind: but give your attention to what I am -saying. Wake up! it is of the greatest importance, if not to yourself, -to your father and to me----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Joyce, with a little start; ‘I am hearing every word you -say, and minding. Oh, don’t think I’ve a cold heart. I am only just all -astray--since ever I came. I was a stranger, as you say. And I might -learn better--if there was time.’ - -‘There is plenty of time,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a little moisture in -her eyes. ‘Men never see it--but it was a great trial for you and me. -Yes, yes, for both of us. I always saw that. But we must make a stand -now, and do it together. They say you’re not your father’s daughter, but -a foundling--and they say you’ve got a man coming after you that made a -disturbance--a low man. Don’t contradict me or put my temper up! He was -not a low man, but quite respectable, I know that--but all the same a -man to be put a stop to. Joyce! don’t you understand what a vexation it -is that you were not here! He came with his heart in his mouth to lay -everything at your feet. And the triumph it would have been for us all -to have faced them, with you engaged to Norman Bellendean!’ - -A colour like the flash of a light passed over Joyce’s face. Her eyes -filled suddenly with large hot tears. She shook her head, with a -trembling going over her like the sudden shiver of ague. ‘No,’ she said, -‘no--never that; oh, never that!’ - -‘Why never that? Don’t be a fool, Joyce, don’t be a fool. Though he’s an -excellent match, there’s nobody near, nobody anywhere that would suit -you so well. You understand each other. For goodness’ sake,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, exasperated and anxious, ‘don’t spoil your life with any -romantic nonsense! Why, even his people like you and seek you. Mrs. -Bellendean----’ - -‘I must tell you the truth,’ said Joyce, ‘for oh, I am in a great -strait, and I know not what to do. Mrs. Bellendean would rather I were -dead than that. There is one he should marry that would break her -heart--and there is one I should marry: _that_ I will not do; but I will -marry nobody nor think of anything that could hurt her--or him. No, not -for all the world.’ - -Mrs. Hayward clapped her hands together in the wild impatience and rage -which could not find utterance in mere words. ‘Oh, that was it!’ she -cried. ‘I thought there was something treacherous in it. I thought she -did not come for nothing, that woman! I never liked her, for all her -show of kindness. I never put any faith in her. And she came to take -advantage of your simplicity, you poor thing--you poor innocent thing!’ -Elizabeth’s temper was warm, but her heart no less. She caught Joyce -suddenly in her arms, and gave her a quick kiss, which was like a soft -little blow--and the girl felt that the cheek which touched hers was -wet. But it was only a momentary touch, and Mrs. Hayward was half -ashamed of her emotion. She gave an imperative grasp to Joyce’s arms as -she let her go, and added with a little laugh, ‘But let us stand -together, Joyce--you and me! and we’ll be too many for them. I don’t -mind how strong they are--we’ll be too many for them yet--you and me!’ - -Colonel Hayward coming in at this moment, with his newspaper in his hand -to read something aloud to his wife (who had seen it before breakfast), -found them standing very close together, and heard the sound of his -wife’s laugh, which sounded to him more like crying than laughing. And -he knew that the sound meant a good deal of commotion in Elizabeth’s -mind. He did not know what might have been going on; and while he was -eager to interfere, his better angel kept him back by means of that -prejudice against prying, which is a happy part of English training. -Accordingly he did not come near, but pretended it was necessary to hold -up his paper to the lamp. ‘My dear, I just wished to read you this -little bit,’ he said, turning his shoulder to the pair. Mrs. Hayward -could scarcely restrain the exclamation of impatience on her lips; but -perhaps it was well that so exciting an interview should thus be brought -to a simple and unconcerted end. - -After this there followed two uneventful days--uneventful to the rest of -the world; not quite so to Mrs. Hayward, who was employed in searching -out all the ramifications of the social conspiracy against her husband -and Joyce, with a warmth of defensive feeling and determination to -support and vindicate what was her own side and her own belongings, -which roused every amiable sentiment--and there were many--in her heart. -She was kept in a subdued fever of expectation at the same time, looking -almost every hour for the arrival of Norman Bellendean, who would not, -she believed, keep to the invitation given him for Thursday, but might -at any moment burst in upon them and set everything right. She did not -believe that he would have the coolness to wait till that appointed -time, and her devices for retaining Joyce within reach were manifold and -sometimes very amusing, had there been any one with a mind free to -observe the situation. Colonel Hayward, without having any reason given, -was charged to be punctual in bringing her back from the morning walk at -a certain hour--and Elizabeth herself took the direction of affairs in -the afternoon, taking Joyce with her when she herself went out, and -regulating a succession of returns which made it impossible that any -visitor could have very long to wait. It must be allowed that this -extreme care was harassing to Joyce, unaccustomed to so numerous a round -of little engagements, and who hitherto had been free to follow her own -devices and think her own thoughts. These thoughts, it was true, could -be carried on anywhere, and were as possible in the drawing-room under -her step-mother’s eyes as when alone; but they were confused and -weakened by the sense of some one near--by the interruption of questions -which she had to answer, and remarks to which she was supposed to pay -attention. - -The gathering web of purpose and meaning was thus confused into a sort -of cobweb maze, like the threads of a spider twisted with everything -they encountered; and Joyce felt herself thus held in suspense, still -with that sweep and suction in the air which betrayed the precipice -close by--but rather with the sensation of one who lay upon the edge -bound and helpless, perhaps to be swept over by the first gale, but in -herself quiescent, capable of no movement--than of the despairing agent -of her own fate, by whose action alone the end could be accomplished. -She lay there still, listening for the hurricane that must sweep her -away--not taking, as she must do, that tremendous step for herself. But -the closeness of it half stupefied, half paralysed her. The moment would -come when she must wake, when the step would have to be taken; but what -if in the meantime some celestial storm, some great heavenly chance -impulse might burst in and carry her away? This happens sometimes--so -that a man who intended to kill himself dies innocently in the meantime, -and is saved all that trouble and pain. No one can tell what a day or an -hour may bring forth. ‘Perhaps the world may end to-night,’ as the poet -has said. But Joyce was not in hourly expectation like Mrs. Hayward. She -accepted Thursday as the limit of her suspense. Before Thursday -it must be done: but in the meantime, and for these two days, -quiescence--something that, in the pause of despair, looked almost like -peace. - -This was not, however, undisturbed. There came a little note from Mrs. -Bellendean with a final good-bye:-- - - - ‘Just my love to my dear Joyce before I go away. Wishing her every - good, and very confident that she will never forget me, nor all - that has passed between us for long years; and that I am always her - affectionate friend - - M. B.’ - - -All that had passed between them--for long years! No, Joyce would not -forget. - -There was also a letter from Andrew, announcing, as if nothing -particular had happened, his return home. - - * * * * * - -‘And though my visit was not all that could be desired, yet I am glad -that I made it, for it lets us both see, my dear Joyce, what is before -us, and forewarned is forearmed. Also, I am anxious to let you know that -I made acquaintance with a very respectable lady, the wife of a -minister, who was most kind, so kind, indeed, that it was a difficulty -to accept her attentions without the power of making any return. But I -thought it my duty, as she seemed to be a friend of yours, to speak -freely to her, so that you might find a support in her, as one lady can -with another, and a person to whom, being unfortunately not at ease at -home in that respect, you could talk freely of me.’ - - * * * * * - -It was a pity that nobody save Joyce saw this effusion of the -schoolmaster’s genius. She was not capable of seeing the humour in it. -It was so wonderful that her dreamy eyes opened wide with mingled -consternation and astonishment. That he should speak so calmly of the -tragic episode which had first opened to her the mystery of dreadful -life which lay before her! That he should be so little capable of -understanding what were the contradictions and the miserable limits of -humanity! But she was too deep in that mystery to think of it. The two -letters were found folded together afterwards. - -And the evening and the morning made another day. It was Wednesday, the -day of the party at the rectory, which had been turned into an -opportunity for magnifying and exhibiting Joyce. The Jenkinsons and Mrs. -Hayward had put their heads together for this object. That they thus -acted together was due to Mrs. Hayward, who in the heat of her -indignation and agitation had hurried to the rectory, on the morning -after her enlightenment, to demand, not apologetically but -passionately-- ‘Have you heard what they are saying about _our_ Joyce? Do -you believe it?’ Do you dare to believe it? was what Elizabeth’s tone -said. ‘She is a little hoity-toity,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson afterwards; -‘but you know, Canon, I have always said she was a good woman.’ The -Canon, who did nothing but walk about the house overseeing (as he -pretended) the preparations and making all the glass and the silver ring -again, agreed in the judgment. ‘But I think it was I that always upheld -Elizabeth,’ he said. Anyhow, whoever was in the right or wrong, these -three people were agreed. If the rectory was of any weight in society, -and Mrs. Jenkinson’s accent in pronouncing that _If_ was a model of -polished sarcasm, then there could be no further doubt as to the opinion -of the place. Everybody was coming--indeed one person was coming of whom -no one knew, no, not even the Canon, excepting Mrs. Jenkinson and Mrs. -Hayward alone. ‘You could not ask him, I allow--but there can be no -possible reason why I should not ask him. I will say I heard he was in -town. I might have heard that from any one, from the St. Clairs -themselves. No doubt they must know.’ The knowledge of this secret -invitation made Mrs. Hayward feel guilty when she confronted her husband -and Joyce, of whom she now spoke as ‘my daughter’ to all her friends. -But neither of these innocent persons observed her look of guilt: the -Colonel, because he knew nothing at all about it, neither the conspiracy -to shame Joyce, nor that which had been formed for her vindication; and -Joyce, partly for this same reason, partly because she was paralysed, -lying on the edge of that precipice, waiting for the cyclone, and that -everything outside passed over her like a dream. - -Mrs. Hayward herself superintended Joyce’s dressing for this party. She -came into the girl’s room carrying a small miniature in an old-fashioned -gold mount, to which was attached a knot of ribbon. ‘I wish you to wear -this,’ she said--‘your father sends it to you, Joyce. Look at the name -upon the back, and you will see why I am going to pin it where it may be -well seen. And if any one asks you who it is, say it is your mother.’ - -‘Is it my mother--was she like that?’ said Joyce, taking the miniature -in her hand with a great tremor. It seemed to send some strange -magnetism into her, tingling from the finger-points over her whole -frame. - -‘She must have been like that, for it is the image of you,’ said Mrs. -Hayward; ‘people will think it is your own picture you are wearing--but -if you like, Joyce, you can let them see the inscription on the back. It -is exactly you--but I think there is something more deep and steadfast -in your eyes,’ she said, looking at her earnestly. Mrs. Hayward was -greatly stirred and excited. Perhaps it was this more than any warm -impulse of feeling which made her give Joyce a sudden kiss after she had -inspected her. She was pleased with her ‘daughter’s’ appearance. Joyce -wore a dress of soft white Indian silk, made very simply, with little -ornament. It suited her slim youthful figure, which wanted no elaborate -drapings or loopings. The miniature with its bow of dark-blue ribbon -was pinned on her breast. It was a curious ornament. The Joyce in the -picture had her hair arranged in curls which fell upon her shoulders, -and her dress was of the fashion of twenty-five years before--otherwise -it was precisely like the Joyce who wore it now, only--and this thought -pleased Mrs. Hayward, and gave a little outlet to feelings less -admirable--there was something ‘more deep and steadfast’ in the eyes. -Mrs. Hayward herself pinned the ribbon upon the girl’s breast. ‘I was -always very sorry for her,’ she said in a low tone; ‘but she made great -misery by disappearing like that. I hope, I believe, you have more stuff -in you. Now, are you ready?’ - -The Colonel was standing in the hall waiting for his ladies, pleased and -proud, and somehow more happy than usual in the conviction that at last -Elizabeth had thoroughly ‘taken to’ Joyce. The thorn among his roses had -been the absence of sympathy between those two. He said to himself, -twinkling his eyes to get rid of a little moisture, that no mother could -be more anxious about a girl’s appearance than was his wife about Joyce. -She gave those little pats and pinches to her dress as they came -downstairs which happy girls sometimes resent, but which come only from -the mother’s hand. Now the crown of his happiness had come, for -Elizabeth certainly at last had taken to Joyce. How could she have stood -out against her, the Colonel thought, looking with pride at his child; -and yet even as this proud thought passed through his mind, a little -accompanying chill came with it. For she was pale, she was very quiet. -There was little expectation of pleasure, of conquest, of admiration in -her. Perhaps she had always been too grave and a little frightened in -society, though with gleams of brightness. She was very quiet to-night. - -Mrs. Hayward did not remark this. She was herself much excited, -tremulous with feeling both belligerent and tender. Joyce had become the -heroine of the most agitating romance--a romance in which she herself -was too much involved to be calm. That guilty secret made her heart -flutter. What if it might be thought to be her fault? What if Joyce -should think her dignity compromised? She was so strange a girl, so -little moved by ordinary motives. Mrs. Hayward took a little comfort -from the fact that Joyce was not at all suspicious, and would never -think of the possibility of a plot to bring her lover to her side--which -partially reassured her; but still there was a flutter at her heart. - -They were late of entering the rectory, and the rooms were full. -Everybody was there. Mrs. Jenkinson received her friends rarely, but -when she did so, invited all ‘the best people.’ It was a little -difficult to make the entrance which Mrs. Hayward had intended, so as to -strike all objectors dumb. Mrs. Jenkinson, however, at the door of the -room took Joyce in her arms in the sight of everybody with an unusual -demonstration of delight. She held her at arm’s-length for a moment and -looked at her with admiring criticism. ‘You are looking very nice--very -nice indeed, my dear!’ she said very audibly, as if she had been a niece -at least. There is nothing like being a partisan. She had never -perceived Joyce’s beauty before, and that curious dignity--which came of -the girl’s shyness, and ignorance of social rules, and anxiety not to -put her father to shame. ‘I don’t think there is any one here to compare -with her,’ she said to the Colonel, with a conviction which was -dogmatic, and at once made a different opinion heresy. - -Mrs. Sitwell, very ill at ease, had been hanging about the door until -the Haywards appeared. She made an instant effort to secure Joyce’s -attention. ‘Oh Joyce, let me speak to you--I have a great deal to say to -you! she cried, in a shrill whisper through the curious crowd. Mrs. -Hayward confronted the parson’s wife with an impulse of war which -tingled through and through her, and raised her stature and brightened -into fierce splendour her always bright eyes. ‘Perhaps I will do as well -as Joyce,’ she said grimly, facing the traitor. What happened in that -corner afterwards, we dare not pause to tell. - -In the meantime the Canon appeared, with his big round black silk -waistcoat, like a battering-ram cleaving the press before him, and held -out his arm, bent to receive hers, almost over the heads of the -wondering ladies. ‘Come and take a turn with me, Joyce,’ he cried, his -large mellow voice rolling like the pervasive and melodious bass it was, -making a sort of background to all the soprano chatter. He, too, paused -to look at her when he had led her through the line of the new arrivals. -‘Yes,’ he said approvingly, ‘you are looking very well and handsome; but -not as you used to do--I miss my little enemy. There’s neither war in -your eye nor fun to-night. Come, Joyce, not so serious! We’ve met to -enjoy ourselves. What’s that you are wearing on your breast? Bless my -soul!’ The Canon paused, drawing a quick breath. ‘Who put this upon you? -It’s your mother’s picture?’ He had turned so quickly to look at it, -that her hand was disengaged from his arm. He took it in his own and -held it while he gazed, and it became very evident to the circle about -that the Canon was winking his eyes suspiciously as if to get rid of a -little moisture there. ‘Poor little Joyce!’ he said. ‘Where did you find -it? I remember her exactly like that; and you are exactly like it. You -can never deny your parentage, my dear, as long as you wear that.’ - -It was not intended, nor in the programme; but the little surprise was -very effectual. It collected a little crowd round the pair. The people -who had been so deeply impressed by the imposture practised upon them in -respect to Joyce, and even Lady St. Clair herself, were drawn into that -circle by the strong inducement of something to see which is so potent -in an evening party. It had not been in the programme, it had all the -force of an accident. It brought spectators from all the corners of the -room to see what it was. ‘The most extraordinary resemblance,’ people -said. ‘A very pretty portrait; no one could have thought it was meant -for anybody but Joyce Hayward; but it appears it is her mother.’ ‘With -curls and an old-fashioned dress.’ ‘The dress we all wore in those -days.’ ‘Then that story about her that she was a foundling, etc., etc.’ -‘It was a cruel bad story,’ cried Lady Thompson, crying with pleasure -and kindness, and the heat of the room which upset her nerves. ‘I always -knew it wasn’t true.’ Lady St. Clair and her little coterie retired into -a corner, and there seemed to laugh and nod their heads among -themselves, commenting on the scene; but their discomfiture was clear. - -All this that was passing round her was uncomprehended by Joyce. She was -aware neither of the gossip nor of her own triumph. She stood by the -Canon’s side, confused with the flutter about her, the exclamations, the -many looks that passed from her to the portrait, from the portrait to -herself back again. The Canon had again drawn her hand within his arm, -and she stood silent, patient, with a faint smile, pleased enough to -find nothing more was required of her, leaning a little weight upon his -fatherly arm, a slim white figure against his substantial bulk of black. -Her other hand hung by her side amid the white folds of her dress. As -she stood thus quietly, subdued, her attention not lively for anything, -Joyce felt her hand suddenly taken and warmly, passionately pressed, -with a touch which was most unlike the usual shaking of hands. There -must have been something magnetic in it, for she started, and a sudden -flood of hot colour poured over her from head to foot. She turned her -head almost reluctantly yet quickly, and met, burning upon her in the -heat of feeling long restrained, the eyes of Norman Bellendean. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV - - -‘Joyce! Joyce!’ - -That seemed all she understood of what he said. The Canon had -disappeared, leaving them together--and other faces appeared and -disappeared as through a hot mist, which opened to show them for a -moment, then closed up again--everything seemed to say, Joyce, Joyce! -Her name seemed to breathe about her in a hundred tones--in warning, in -reproof, in astonishment, in low murmuring passion. They seemed to be -all speaking to her, calling to her, together: Mrs. Bellendean and Mrs. -Hayward and Andrew and her father, and a soft half-audible murmur from -Greta. And then this voice close by in her ear--Joyce, Joyce! Would they -but be silent! Could she but hear! - -Presently there seemed a movement in the scene, the figures around her -streaming away, but always his voice in her ears saying she knew not -what except her name. And after a while she found herself standing -outside the rectory under a great blue vault of sky all tingling with -stars. To her excited fancy they seemed to project out of the dark -blueness above, as if to take part in this scene. - -‘We are going to walk home,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘it is such a lovely -night, and only a little way.’ - -‘And I’m going with you,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘Yes, Colonel, I have -plenty of time for the train.’ - -‘Well, perhaps yes,--enough, but not too much,--but we all go the same -way.’ - -Something like this came to Joyce through the keen night air: and while -the voices were still ringing, her arm was within his, and they were -walking together as if it had been a dream. - -‘Joyce: I don’t know if you hear me or not, but you make me no reply.’ - -Then all at once she seemed to come to herself and to consciousness of -all around her: the hard dry road which rang underfoot, the great -vibrating stars above, intense with frost, with human interest (was it -possible?), with something which had never been in them before. She was -warmly cloaked and wrapped up, a fleecy scarf over her head, her arm -held closely in his, his face bending towards her. It seemed to be her -first moment of full consciousness since that time when all the ladies -were gathering round her looking at the miniature on her breast. - -‘Captain Bellendean, it is all very strange to me. I don’t understand -what is happening,’ she said. - -‘I thought it was so: the noise and the chatter of these people, and the -agitation--for you _were_ agitated, Joyce.’ - -‘I did not expect to see you. I was surprised to see you.’ - -‘I startled you--I know I did. Didn’t you hear that I had come and -waited on Monday--waited and waited in vain? I do not know what you can -have thought of me, Joyce. I should have come back months ago.’ - -She said nothing, and he thought he understood why, and it made him feel -more deeply guilty than ever. - -‘Some time when we are at our ease I will tell you everything and why I -did not come; but now I am here, and I want your answer, Joyce, the -answer you would not give me that summer evening. Don’t turn your head -away. You have scarcely spoken to me to-night. Don’t punish me so for my -delay. If I have been long of coming, it was not altogether my fault. -And now that I am here, and we are together----’ - -‘I know,’ she said, ‘why you have not come back, Captain Bellendean; and -your staying away was right, quite right, but not your coming. I heard -of it, and I approved’--she made a little pause, and added fervently, -using all her breath to say it--‘with all my heart!’ - -‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Joyce, you are vexed and angry: perhaps -you have reason; but not, not as you seem to think. How did you hear of -it? and what did you hear?’ - -‘Captain Bellendean,’ she said again, ‘we have two different ways in -this world. If I were to say what would please you, I would be mansworn. -And even with that it might not please you long. And for you to speak as -you are doing may be true; but it’s not well for either you or me.’ - -‘Joyce,’ he cried, ‘it is not natural to speak to me like that. Have you -no feeling for me? Is it all a dream that has been passing in the -summer, on the river, in the garden, the hours we have been -together,--all that time was it nothing, did it mean nothing? It did to -me. I ceased to think of anything but you--you swept away everything -else, every other thought. If we had not been interrupted that -day--would you have answered me as you are answering me now?’ - -She said nothing to this; and it was hard upon Joyce that while this -momentous conversation was going on her arm was linked in his, she was -close to him, her figure lost in his shadow, and all her resolution -unable to keep from him the sensation of the heavy beating of her heart. - -‘You must have felt something for me then?’ he said. ‘It is dark now and -I cannot see you; but I saw your face then: Joyce, don’t be hard upon -me. I have taken a long time to think, for there were many things -involved, but here I am; and if I’ve been long of coming, it shows the -more the force that’s brought me. Joyce, if you had not been the only -woman for me I should not have been here.’ - -‘It is a mistake,’ she said--‘it is a mistake,’ scarcely able to command -her voice; ‘there is another woman. And there is--another man! Oh, hold -your peace, Captain Bellendean! you and me, we have nothing to do with -each other. You would repent it all your life long. And I would be -mansworn.’ - -‘Are you thinking of that man? Joyce, you never loved that man--loved -him!--he is not fit to tie your shoes: he is not worthy to be named or -thought of, or---- Joyce, throw me off if you like--break my heart--but -don’t tell me you are going to make yourself miserable for the sake of a -childish promise. No, no! You shall not do it. I’ll go if I must, but -not to leave you to that fellow---- Joyce!’ - -His tone of alarm and indignation went through and through her; her -heart seemed to melt, and sink down in softness and weakness and -ineffable yielding. He was ready to put himself aside and think only of -her; anxious only to save her, not thinking of himself. He held her arm -close to his side, and his heart throbbed against it, not in heavy -beatings like hers, but leaping, bounding, in all the force of passion. -The woman in her was roused to wonder and awe of the superior excitement -of the man--and that it should be for her, to save her. But then, with -the wildest inconsistency, he began to pour out his love, forgetting -that he had said she was to throw him off if she liked, as she too -forgot and never saw the inconsistency, nor was aware that he had -changed from that tone of generous determination to save her into the -broken rapid flow of his own confessions and pleading. Joyce was -altogether carried away by this warm and impassioned tide. She said not -a word, but listened, drawn along upon his arm, close to him, swallowed -up in his shadow, to the mingled sounds of his voice and his heart -beating against her--a second voice, almost more potent than the first. -She listened and felt the mingled sounds with a growing -self-abandonment, a loss of all her powers of resistance, beginning at -last to draw her own breath hard, to sob, with her heart in her throat, -in sympathy rather than response. He was still pouring these words into -her ear, still affecting all her pulses by that throbbing, when suddenly -they arrived at the door of her father’s house. Joyce was altogether -inarticulate, incapable of disengaging herself or raising her face to -the light, and he made no attempt to let her go. She could hear him say, -‘Let me come in for a second,’ in a strange interruption to the other -words, and felt herself hurried in swiftly upon his arm, through the -hall where the others were standing, to the softly-lighted room. There -they stood together one long quiet moment, their hearts beating -together; and Joyce heard herself sob; and he took her into his arms and -kissed her, with a little cry of triumph. ‘This time,’ he said, ‘there -is no mistake! And there shall be none--never more.’ - - * * * * * - -‘Why shouldn’t I go in, Elizabeth? My dear, I must tell Bellendean he -must not think he has too much time--and this is the last train. Of -course I know you could put him up if he would stay all night. But he -has no clothes. A man may dine in his morning coat, but he cannot put on -his dress clothes in the morning--eh? He will think it very queer to be -left only with Joyce.’ - -‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry, hold your tongue, and let them alone!’ - -‘Why, I should have thought you would be the first person to object to -that,’ the Colonel said, bewildered. He gave himself up to Baker to be -helped with his coat, while his wife hung about restlessly in a state of -excitement, for which the Colonel saw no reason. The door of the -drawing-room had been left slightly open, and no sound came from it as -if the young people were talking. Young people, who have been together -to an evening party generally talk and laugh over its humours. Colonel -Hayward felt that Joyce was not entertaining the guest, and that it was -his own duty to remind Bellendean of that imminent train. And why his -wife should hold him back he could not divine. Presently, however, -Captain Bellendean appeared radiant, looking exceedingly nervous and -excited, with moisture in his eyes, and even on one cheek, to Colonel -Hayward’s great astonishment. ‘I know,’ he cried, ‘you’re in trouble -about my train. I know I must fly. Mrs. Hayward, give me joy: _you_ -divine it all. And, Colonel, I must speak to you to-morrow.’ - -‘Yes, yes, delighted! as long as you please; but if you are to catch -that train,’ the Colonel cried, having already flung open the door. -‘To-morrow, my dear fellow! all right--as long as you please; but we -must speed the parting guest! Good night, good night! God bless you!’ he -shouted with his cheerful voice out into the night. - -Such a night! every star throbbing, vibrating, as if it knew--the dry -frost-bound road giving forth a triumphant ring of sound wherever his -foot fell. He seemed to himself to fly against the keen exhilarating -air, which filled his breast like a spiritual wine. Perhaps there might -come a cold fit after; but at present he was warm with love and -enthusiasm and excitement and triumph. As he hurried along to the train, -about which the Colonel was so concerned, Norman Bellendean sent out -into the air a laugh of pleasure and delight. Whenever he should be -hurried for a train, that vulgarest matter of every day, he thought to -himself, in the triumphant satisfaction of his heart, that it would -recall to him this night--the brightest moment, the sweetest -recollection of his life. - -Mrs. Hayward still stood in the hall--stood as nearly still as a woman -in the highest excitement, scarcely able to speak for the whirl of -suspense and expectation in her mind, could stand. She had taken off the -white Shetland shawl which she had worn upon her head, but was still in -her warm cloak, pulling her gloves in her hands, scarcely able to -contain herself. She wanted to dispose of her husband before she herself -flew to share, as she hoped, the happiness, the agitation of Joyce. -‘Where are you going, Henry? not into the drawing-room at this hour? -It’s quite late; go and have your cigar, and I’ll send Joyce off to -bed.’ - -‘It’s not so very late,’ said the Colonel. ‘I thought you would like a -chat by the fireside.’ - -‘A chat! Go, my dear, and have your cigar. I know Joyce is very tired; -it’s been an exciting evening for her. I’ll go and look after her, and -get her off to bed. You must not disturb her, Henry. I’ll come in and -let you know that all’s right.’ - -‘What could be wrong?’ said the innocent old soldier; ‘and why should -she be so tired? Well, Elizabeth, of course I will go away if you tell -me; but I don’t see----’ He made a few steps towards his library, which -Baker, much more in the secret of the evening than he, had thrown -invitingly open, showing the cheerful glow of the fire; and then -another thought seized him. ‘My love,’ he said, coming back, putting his -arm round her, ‘it gives me more pleasure than I can say, to see that -you are really and truly taking to Joyce.’ - -‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry, go and have your cigar!’ was his -Elizabeth’s unsympathetic reply, shaking herself free from him. She -added, with a nervous laugh, ‘Yes, yes; it’s all right; but there’s a -dear, leave us alone now.’ - -Even when, with wondering looks, he had obeyed her, Mrs. Hayward -lingered a moment longer. She was tingling with excitement and -satisfaction and triumph. She had defeated the miserable conspiracy -against Joyce, routing all her enemies, rank and file. She had secured -such a triumph over Lady St. Clair and her ‘set’ as goes to any woman’s -heart, carrying off, under her very eyes, a prize such as rarely -appeared in such suburban latitudes, not only the most excellent match -that had been heard of there for many a day, but the fit hero of a -romantic story, and a real lover--connected with the St. Clairs too, to -make the triumph sweeter, and carried over under their very nose. This -was the vulgarer part of Mrs. Hayward’s elation: but underneath was -something truer, that genuine sympathy for a motherless girl, which is -never far from a good woman’s heart. She must miss her mother to-night, -if never before. She must want some woman to take her into her arms, to -hear her story. Elizabeth’s heart had been touched the moment she had -become Joyce’s partisan and taken up the office of her defender and -protector against all the world. It was touched still more tenderly now, -as she thought to herself what a moment it was, the turning-point of the -girl’s life. The moisture came to her eyes only with thinking of it. She -was ready to take Joyce in her arms, and cry over her, as if she had -been her very own. - -When she went into the room she found Joyce sunk down upon her knees by -the side of the fire, her face covered in her hands. She lay there like -one overwhelmed under a burden she could not bear--no light, no -happiness, no elation in her. ‘Joyce!’ she cried, ‘Joyce!’ half alarmed, -half irritated--for what did the girl mean, what did she want more than -she had got? Mrs. Hayward was almost angry in the height of her -excitement, though something in the utter despondency of the white -figure sunk down upon itself restrained her. ‘Joyce!’ she repeated, -laying a hand upon her shoulder---- - -‘They all call me by my name,’ said Joyce, ‘you, and he--and the lady, -and all----’ - -‘What should we call you by, you silly girl? Joyce, you’ve made me quite -happy to-night. Get up and let me give you a kiss, and tell you how -pleased I am. There’s nothing to cry about now--though I can -understand,’ she added quickly, ‘that it’s all gone to your heart.’ - -Joyce rose up slowly to her feet. She did not resist the quick embrace -into which her step-mother took her. ‘I know, my dear!’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, in the transport of her quick feelings, ‘what you’ve had to -bear. I know you’ve had a great deal to bear--all this waiting and -uncertainty, and the cold chill--oh, my dear, I know!’ She pressed her -cheek against Joyce’s, and it was wet with lively generous emotion. ‘But -all is well that ends well, and now I am sure you will be as happy as -any woman in the world.’ - -‘No,’ said Joyce, ‘no;’ but her step-mother, in her elation and -excitement, did not hear that low-toned negative. Mrs. Hayward held the -girl against her breast, patting her shoulder with one hand. - -‘This has been a trying night,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a great deal to go -through: but I understand it all. And you’ve done exactly as I should -have wished you, Joyce. Everything went as I could have wished. Captain -Bellendean’s arrival like that, unexpected,’--Mrs. Hayward drew a long -breath, in which there was an internal prayer that she might be forgiven -for so very white, so very innocent a lie: not a lie, only a fib, the -very worst that could be said of it--‘his arrival unexpected, gave a -sort of tone to the whole--a tone. And I suppose, in the thought of that -you forgot everything else. But apart from him altogether--if you can -think of anything apart from him--all went just as I should have wished. -You conducted yourself just as I could have wished. And everything is as -it should be, Joyce.’ - -Joyce said, ‘No, no,’ again, with a shiver. She stood scarcely -responsive in Mrs. Hayward’s embrace--making an effort to yield to it, -to return the warm pressure a little, to lean upon the new prop so -suddenly put up for her. But, happily, Mrs. Hayward felt too strongly -herself, and was too much absorbed in her own quite unusual emotions to -be sensible of the absence of response. She was occupied in feeling and -expressing her feeling, not in studying that of another. She wanted to -say a great many things; she wanted to prove to Joyce her motherly -sympathy. That Joyce should only listen and say nothing did not occur to -her as strange. Even when she left the girl in her own room, going in to -poke the fire and make everything comfortable, Mrs. Hayward’s sensation -was that she had been made Joyce’s confidante, and that all the -love-tale had been poured into her warmly sympathetic ear. She kissed -Joyce and bade her good-night with all the fervour of a trusted friend. -‘To-morrow we must return to prose a little,’ she said--‘to-morrow will -be a good settling day. He is coming to talk to your father, and -everything will be arranged. But for the present, good-night, my dear, -and I hope you will sleep. Anyhow, whether you do or not, you’ll be -happy, Joyce. Good-night, my dear, good-night.’ - -Mrs. Hayward herself was so happy that she could not contain herself. It -was nearly midnight, but she did not want to sleep. She had routed the -enemy all round, and triumphed and brought home her spoil. To think that -Joyce, who had at one time vexed her so much, should have been the -occasion of this triumph! Poor Joyce, poor little Joyce! with this -working in her mind all the time, poor dear, and making her abstracted -and silent! And that man on the other side, and Mrs. Bellendean, who no -doubt was trying all the time to put things wrong between them! A -generous partisanship was in Mrs. Hayward’s mind--a generous compunction -for injustice done to Joyce--a generous wish to get everything for her -that heart could desire--all enhanced by a far-off anticipation perhaps -not so generous, a glimmer far distant in the recesses of her soul, that -by and by Joyce, in the manner happiest for herself, would be taken -away! But Mrs. Hayward felt that she loved Joyce, and would do anything -for her in the strong and delightful exhilaration of the triumph of -to-night. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI - - -When Joyce was left quite alone, and felt the shelter of the silence and -solitude, she dropped again, as she had done in the room downstairs, -upon the rug before the fire. Great distress and trouble are chilling -things; they make the sick heart creep to the fire--the warmth gives a -little forlorn comfort when all is low and ice-bound in the soul. She -dropped there like a child--half seated, half on her knees. There was a -kind of luxury in the feeling that no one could see or interrupt or -sympathise with her--that she was safe for the long hours of the winter -night, safe and alone. - -What had she done? She had listened when she could not silence him. She -had lost herself in listening, feeling his heart beat against her and -his voice in her ears. She seemed to hear them now as soon as other -people had left her--as soon as she was free from interrupting, -unintelligible voices of others. He had told her, over and over again, -what she knew--nothing but what she knew; and he must have felt her -heart beating too, though not like his--beating heavily, -loudly,--beating like a thing half stifled in bonds and ligatures--for -he had not waited for any answer. He had taken her to himself when the -climax came, and between them there could be no more said. Joyce -recognised that there could have been no more said. She remembered that -she was sobbing, unable to draw her breath, and that his breath too was -exhausted, and all the words that could be used. She was not angry with -him for taking her consent for granted--it was all that remained to be -done. Their marriage and their long life together, and the height and -crown of mortal existence, were all summed up in that moment. It had -been, it was, and now it was past. She sat sunk upon herself by the fire -and went over everything. That was the only way it could have been. She -had for a time held him apart from her with good reasons, telling him -how it could not be. And then she had been silenced; the words might -have been withstood, but the throbbing of the heart (she could feel it -still against her arm)--how could that be withstood? That was something -more than words; and her own, so heavily throbbing, had sprung for a -moment into the same measure, like something Joyce had never heard of -nor read of--something that made an end of time and space and all -limits. It had been too bewildering, too transporting, to think of. It -was for a moment only; and whether it ought to have been or not was a -different question. It had been, and nothing could undo it. And it was -past. That was the one thing of which she was sure. - -She had never consented, she had said nothing, she had not deceived him. -Though she might have deceived others, him she had not deceived. So long -as she could speak to him, she had said No. Afterwards, when her voice -failed her, when she could only sob, that moment had been--not by her -will, but by his will--by something which was inevitable and could not -be resisted. But now it was all over and past. Now she was separated -from him as far as if worlds lay between them. There was no longer any -time to hesitate. It was all fixed and settled, like the laws of the -Medes and Persians. She had seen him for the last time. It was not on -that subject that she had any further conflict with herself. The -question was not that--not that any longer. The question was, What must -be done? what in the few hours that remained to her she must do? - -She lay there for a long time where she had sunk down, quite still and -motionless, notwithstanding that she had so little time, not even -thinking at all. Things flitted across her brain, but scarcely moved -her--broken scenes, broken words, a look there, an exclamation here. -Oftenest in her confusion it was her own name she seemed to hear--Joyce! -Joyce!--called out by everybody in turn, as everybody had appealed to -her. Andrew whom she had deceived--he had the most right to blame her. -She had never said that she loved him, but he had believed it. Poor -Andrew! It would not be any gain to him though she lost. And her lady, -who had been so dear, and then had changed--to whom she had said that -Joyce would do what was wished of her. And then the oracle--the oracle -that had said, ‘You could do--no other thing.’ No, she could do no other -thing. That was settled. It was not to be discussed; there was no change -possible in that. The only thing was what to do--oh, what to do! - -Joyce never thought of taking away her own life. She would have given it -joyfully for any of them to save them a pang; but take it away at her -own caprice, no. She did not consciously reject this way, for she never -took it into consideration. It was not among the things that were -possible. And though she roused herself now and then at the end of a -long discursive round of imaginations, some of them having no connection -at all with what had happened, or was about to happen, to ask herself -what she was to do, for a long time she did not think at all. Her -candles burned, showing a light at her window long after every other -light was out. In the barges lying about the bridge some way down the -river, there were people who saw it shining, as was reported afterwards, -through all the night. But Joyce was not even thinking. What roused her -at last was the chill creeping over her--the cold of the deep night: her -fire had fallen low, almost to nothing, a faint little red glow all -blackening into darkness, and she shivered, and felt in her uncovered -arms and shoulders the creeping dead cold, as if the frost had got in. -This physical sensation, the shivering dullness, and ague of the cold, -roused her when her trouble did not rouse her. She rose benumbed, her -limbs stiff, and her heart sore, and wrapped a shawl round her, drawing -it close for warmth. How grateful warmth is, when everything else has -gone! It is the one thing in which there seems a little comfort. It -brought her to life again, and the necessary movement helped that good -effect. But bringing her back to life was to bring her back to thought; -and she became conscious that time was running on, and that she had not -yet decided what to do. - -Time was running on. It was long past midnight, it was morning--the -black morning of winter when everything is at its coldest, and all the -world is desolate. Folding her arms in her shawl over her bosom to keep -warm, her hand encountered the little frame of the miniature pinned on -her breast. The touch woke her up with a keen prick of reality--as if it -had been a sharp cold steel that had touched her. She unpinned it from -her breast, and held it in her hand, and looked at it. There must have -been magnetism in it. It seemed to bring a new flood of feeling, and -will, and impulse over her. She had felt that strange inspiration in her -veins before, that desire to arise and flee, she knew not whither. Her -mother’s inheritance left behind her when she had fled--where no one -could follow. It was a sad inheritance to come into the world with, but -it was the only one that Joyce had. She looked at the pictured face so -like her own, and that brief long-ended tragedy became clear to Joyce. -The other Joyce had endured as long as she could, and then there had -come upon her that irrestrainable despairing desire to fly and be seen -no more. Oh that I had wings like a dove! It had not perhaps in some -ways been so difficult for her as for the second Joyce it would be. -There was nobody to go after her, to move heaven and earth to find -her--there were perhaps, Joyce thought, confusedly exaggerating the -time, and its changes, as youth is so apt to do--no telegraphs, no -railways then--at least there was no father, no lover, no friends ready -to put all modes of discovery in motion. For a moment she envied her -mother; but then said to herself, with a sudden warm flush all over her. -No, no! Thank God, in her case there was no second life involved; nobody -to come into the world as she herself had done, in confusion and -trouble, with all the lines of her life wrong from her birth, and this -tragic conclusion always coming! The touch of the cold little miniature -seemed to send thrills and icy touches through her veins. The eyes had a -strange look in them, like the eyes of a hunted creature. Mrs. Hayward -had said that her own eyes were more deep and true. She rose up to look -at herself, to see if perhaps that look had come to her too. A girl does -not think what is the expression in her eyes; but they had always been -quiet eyes, she thought--not with that look. She went to the glass, with -the miniature in her hand, to see. But when she stood before the glass, -it was not her own expression, but the strange world of darkness and -vacancy beyond, which caught Joyce’s confused and troubled intelligence. -She remembered all the fanciful superstitions, half poetry, half mirth, -of the countryside. How some one would come behind you and look over -your shoulder, and you would see in the mirror the man you were to -marry,--your fate; or how perhaps it might be a white-robed ghost, or a -death’s-head that would advance out of the unseen and look over your -shoulder; or how in that strange fathomless darkness of the mirror there -might rise before you scenes--of what was going on among those you -loved, or what was to happen in the future, shadows of the real. She -could not see her own eyes for the wonder which carried her beyond them, -which made her look into the reflected air as if it were another world. - -What a waste of time it was, and how the time was running on! Only a few -hours now before the step must be taken, and as yet no decision come to -as to what it was to be! She went and sat down at the table where were -her writing things, and in her writing-case the letters--Mrs. -Bellendean’s note of farewell, and Andrew’s--poor Andrew’s! Even now she -could not think, but only look at these two momentous bits of paper, and -wonder what _they_ would think, how they would feel, whether they would -blame themselves. She even smiled to herself at the astonishment, the -incredulity that would come over Andrew’s face, and his conviction that -whoever she had fled from it could not be from him. The lady would know -better--it would give her a pang--but so long as everything came as she -wished, the pang would not hurt her, it would go away. And then the -wonder, and the questions, and the strong feelings would widen out and -die away like circles in the water, and Joyce would go down and -disappear like a stone. - -Again this vague round of thought and nothing decided on, nothing -done--and the time was running on. Twelve hours hence it would be the -afternoon of the November day, and _he_ would be here. And before then -all must be settled and done. And in the meantime the glow of the fire -had gone out in the blackness of the night, and it was cold--cold--a -cold that went to the heart. - -At breakfast next morning Joyce showed little trace of a sleepless -night; her eyes were quite clear, her colour varying, but sometimes -bright, her aspect not radiant as might become a girl in her position, -yet very clear, like a sky that has cleared after rain. Thinking it all -over in the light of after events no one could recollect anything about -her that had called for special notice. She was grave, yet not without a -smile: and a girl on the eve of the greatest change in her life, though -she may be very gay if she is happy, has reason to be grave as well. -Joyce was always thoughtful, and there was nothing wonderful in the fact -that underneath the soft smile with which she responded to what was said -to her there should be a gravity quite natural in the circumstances. No -doubt there was a great deal to think about--the opposition that might -be raised, the difficulties she would have to encounter. It would not be -all plain sailing. Mrs. Hayward, a little anxious in the strength of her -newly awakened sympathies, thought that she quite understood. Joyce went -out for her usual morning walk with her father, just as usual so far as -the Colonel could see. She talked a little more than usual, perhaps to -prevent him talking of the great subject of the moment. He for his part -was much excited with the information his wife had given. He was full of -enthusiasm for Norman. ‘If I had chosen the whole world through I could -not have found a man whom I should have liked better,’ he said. ‘I -always liked Norman Bellendean. I never could have imagined when we -first came in contact in India, he a young sub and I his commanding -officer, that he would ever be my son-in-law. How could I, not even -knowing that I had--what good fortune was in store for me in finding -you, my dear? But he was always a capital fellow. I liked him from the -very first--fond of his profession and always ready for whatever was -wanted--as good a fellow as ever lived,’ cried the Colonel, as he had -done on his first introduction into these pages, taking upon him to -answer to all the neighbours and tenants for the excellences of Captain -Bellendean. Joyce listened very gravely, very sweetly, with a little -inclination of her head in assent to all these praises. It pleased her -to hear them, even though it was no business of hers. - -‘But you must remember,’ she said, ‘always--that if there’s a pain in -it, it’s leaving you. You’ve been good, good to me. I never knew what it -was----’ - -‘Good!’ cried the Colonel, ‘there’s no credit in being good to you--and -as for pain, my dear, no doubt we’ll miss you dreadfully, but it’s not -as if he had to go away with the regiment to the end of the world. We’ll -come and see you at Bellendean, and you’ll come to see us. I scarcely -consider, with a man I like so thoroughly as Bellendean, that it will be -leaving me.’ - -‘I was very ignorant when I came here,’ said Joyce; ‘I did not know what -a father was. I was shy--shy to call you so. My old grandfather was so -different. But, father, you have always understood, never discouraged me -when I was most cast down, never lost patience. And I wish I could make -you always mind that, when perhaps you may think of me--differently from -what you do now.’ - -‘Why should I think of you differently? I may grudge a little to see my -pretty Joyce marrying so soon, when I would have liked to keep her to -myself: but it is the course of nature, my dear, and what parents must -expect.’ - -‘I will always think upon you like this,’ she said: ‘the river flowing, -and the banks green even though it’s winter, and the red oak-leaves -stiff on the branches, and all the other big trees bare. And the sky -blue, with white clouds flitting, and with a little cheerful wind, and -the shining sun.’ - -‘Why in winter, Joyce?’ he said, smiling. ‘You might as well put me in a -summer landscape if you are so fanciful! but you need not speak as if we -were to be parted for ages, or as if you might not see me again. I’m not -so dreadfully old, if that is what you mean.’ - -‘You will not be angry, father, if I speak to you of my old grandfather -at home. When I saw him last he did not see me. He was walking through -the corn, with his head bent and his heart sore. It was a bonnie summer -day, and the corn all rustling in the wind, and high, almost up to his -old bent shoulders. But he saw nothing, for he was thinking of poor -little Joyce that he had bred up from a baby, and that was going away. -I have been a great trouble to everybody that has cared for me.’ - -‘I am afraid I did not think enough of what it was to these old people, -Joyce. To be sure, it was a loss never to be made up; but then when they -knew it was for your good----’ - -‘It is for our good,’ said Joyce, ‘when we die: but it’s hard, hard to -take comfort in that. I have never had that to bear, but I’ve seen it; -and though a poor woman will believe that her little child has become -one of the angels and will never have any trouble more, yet her heart -will break just the same.’ - -‘That’s true, that’s true,’ he said: ‘but it’s not a cheerful subject, -my dear, and just when your life is at its happiest----’ - -‘Don’t you think, father,’ said Joyce, ‘that when you are at your -happiest it is like coming to an end?--for it seems as if heaven itself -couldn’t do any more for you, and the next step must just be coming down -among common folk.’ - -‘Don’t say that to Bellendean,’ cried the Colonel, ‘for you may be sure -he thinks that heaven can do a good deal more for him, and you too.’ - -But it was always an effort on the Colonel’s part to bring her back to -the contemplation of more cheerful prospects. She came in, however, -freshened by the lively wind, her colour raised, her hair playing about -her forehead in little rings, disentangled by the breeze, and was -cheerful at luncheon, responding to all that was said. When they had -left the table, she drew Mrs. Hayward aside for a moment, and asked if -she might keep the miniature which had been given her to wear the -previous night. - -‘I think so, Joyce: you have the best right to it. Ask your father, if -you have any doubt on the subject.’ - -‘I would rather ask you. It was kind, kind to bring it to me: nobody -else would have had that thought.’ - -‘I have always wanted to be kind,’ Mrs. Hayward said, moved by an -emotion which surprised her. ‘We may not always have understood each -other, Joyce. I may have been sometimes not quite just, and you were not -responsive. It was neither your fault nor mine. The circumstances were -hard upon us: but in the future----’ - -‘I cannot call you mother,’ said Joyce. ‘You would maybe not like it, -and I’m slow, slow to move, and I could not. But I would like to call -you a true friend. I am sure you are a true friend. And we will never -misunderstand each other again.’ - -‘My dear, there’s a kiss to that bargain,’ said Elizabeth, with her eyes -full of tears. She said after a moment, with a tremulous laugh, ‘But -we’ll misunderstand each other a hundred times, only after this it will -always come right.’ - -There were no tears in Joyce’s eyes, but there was something in them -which was not usually there. Mrs. Hayward, after she had kissed her, -looked at her again with mingled anxiety and curiosity. ‘Joyce,’ she -said, ‘you are tired out. I don’t think you can have slept last night. -Go and lie down and rest a little. You have got that look that is in -your mother’s eyes.’ - -When Joyce had gone upstairs, Mrs. Hayward went to the library, where -the Colonel was seated with his paper. She said to him that she was not -half so sure as she had been that Joyce was happy. ‘I thought there -could be no doubt about it. If ever two people were in love with each -other, I thought these two were: but I don’t feel so comfortable about -it now.’ - -‘Nonsense, my dear!’ said the Colonel, who was a little drowsy. The room -was warm, and the paper not interesting, and he had been proposing to -himself to have a doze before Bellendean came to talk business and -settlements. Mrs. Hayward did not disturb him further, but she was -uneasy and restless. Some time after, she heard the outer door close, -and came out into the hall with a little unexplainable anxiety to know -who it was. ‘It was Miss Hayward, ma’am, a-going out for a walk,’ Baker -said. Mrs. Hayward thought it was strange that Joyce should choose that -time for going out, when Captain Bellendean might arrive at any moment. -And then she suggested to herself that perhaps Joyce had gone to meet -her lover----’ Anyhow, a little walk in the fresh air will do her good,’ -she said to herself. - -Norman arrived about half an hour afterwards, and was astonished and -evidently annoyed that Joyce was not there to receive him. He went into -the library, and had a long talk with the Colonel, and he came out again -to the drawing-room where the tea-table was set out; but no Joyce. - -‘Send up one of the maids to see if Miss Hayward is in her room,’ Mrs. -Hayward said. - -‘Miss Hayward have never come in, ma’am,’ said Baker; ‘for she never -takes no latch-key, and nobody but me has answered the door.’ - -‘It is quite extraordinary. I cannot understand it,’ cried the mistress -of the house. And then the usual excuses were suggested. She must have -walked too far; she must have been detained. She had not taken her -watch, and did not know how late it was. Norman said nothing, but his -looks were dark; and thus the early evening past. The dinner-hour -approached, and they all went upstairs somewhat silently to dress. Mrs. -Hayward was pale with fright, though she did not know of what she was -afraid. She had already sent off her own maid to go to Miss Marsham’s, -to Mrs. Sitwell’s, to the rectory, to inquire if Joyce was at either of -these places. But the answer was No; she had not been seen by any one. -What did it mean? They met in the drawing-room--Mrs. Hayward more scared -and pale, Captain Bellendean more dark and angry, than before. - -‘Where is Joyce?’ said the Colonel. ‘You don’t mean to say she has never -come back! Then there must be something wrong.’ - -‘If she is staying away on account of me----’ said Bellendean, looking -almost black, with his eyebrows curved over his eyes, and his moustache -closing sternly over his mouth. - -‘On account of you! My dear fellow, what a strange idea! It’s only -because of you that I’m surprised at all,’ said the Colonel, as if it -had been the most ordinary thing in the world that Joyce should not come -home to dinner. Mrs. Hayward said nothing, but she was very pale; though -why Joyce should absent herself, or what was the meaning of it, she -could not guess. ‘Let us go in to dinner,’ said the Colonel. ‘If -anything had happened to her we must have heard at once. Probably she is -dressing in a hurry now, knowing that we will all fall upon her as soon -as she shows. Give my wife your arm, Bellendean.’ He was quite cheerful -and at ease now that there was really, as Mrs. Hayward reflected, -something to be anxious about; and he continued to talk and keep up the -spirits of the party throughout dinner; but it was a lugubrious meal. - -Mrs. Hayward ran upstairs to Joyce’s room as soon as she was free. She -made a hurried survey of her tables and drawers, where nothing seemed to -be wanting. She stood bewildered in the orderly silent room, where -nothing had been disturbed since the morning--no signs of usage about, -no ribbon or brooch on the table, or disarray of any kind. How cold it -looked, how dead!--like a place out of which the inhabitant had gone. It -exercised a kind of weird influence upon her mind. She stood back in -alarm from the glass before which Joyce had stood last night, gazing -into the unknown. Mrs. Hayward was not at all superstitious, but it -frightened her to see the blank of the reflected vacancy, as if -something might come into it. It could not be more blank than the vacant -room, which threw no light whatever on the mystery. Where had she gone? -There could not be anything in those suggestions which she had made, not -without a chill of doubt, in the afternoon. Joyce could not be detained -anywhere all this time, could not have taken too long a walk, or -mistaken the time. It was impossible to believe in any such simple -solution now: nearly nine o’clock--and she knew that her lover was to be -here; and all the decorums of the dinner-hour and the regulations of the -house. No, no, that was impossible. Could she be ill?--could she---- - -Mrs. Hayward started violently, though it was only a soft knock at the -door. ‘If you please, Miss Marsham is downstairs wishing to see you.’ -Ah, it was that then! she cried to herself, her heart giving a bound of -relief. She was ill. Something had happened--a sprained ankle, or some -easy matter of that kind. She ran downstairs relieved, almost gay. It -might be a troublesome business, but so long as that was all---- - -Miss Marsham was standing in front of the fire with a large black veil -tied over her hat. She was one of the feeble sisters who are always -taking cold. She came forward quickly, holding out cold hands without -gloves. ‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘has Joyce come back? is it all right? is there -anything wrong?’ - -‘Do you mean,’ cried Mrs. Hayward harshly, ‘that you’ve only come to ask -me questions--not to tell me anything?’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Miss Marsham, clasping her thin hands, ‘then she must have -done it, though I did not advise her to do it: I did not understand----’ - -‘What?’ cried Mrs. Hayward, darting upon her, seizing her arm. - -Miss Marsham told her story incoherently, as well as in her agitation -she could tell it. ‘She asked my advice. There was some lady whose heart -would be broken--who had never suffered, never been disappointed, and -who had to be saved. And there were two gentlemen---- I cannot tell you -any more--indeed, I cannot; I only half understood her. I told her--that -to sacrifice one’s self was always the easiest.’ - -The gentlemen came in while Miss Marsham was speaking. The Colonel, -still quite cheerful, saying, ‘Depend upon it, we shall find her in the -drawing-room.’ Captain Bellendean was as dark as night. ‘I told -her--that to sacrifice one’s self was always the easiest,’ were the -words they heard as they came into the room; the sound of voices had -made their hearts jump. Norman had taken a quick step forward when he -saw that Mrs. Hayward was not alone. This strange figure was not like -Joyce, but who could tell?---- - -‘I told her that it came easiest to women--that to sacrifice one’s -self----’ - -‘To whom did you say that?’ - -‘Oh, Captain Bellendean! if I said what was wrong. I did not understand -her. There was some one whose heart would be broken, a girl who had -never been disappointed. I said to sacrifice one’s self----’ - -‘To sacrifice one’s self!’ cried Captain Bellendean, with a roll of low -sound like the roar of an animal in pain. - -‘I said it was the easiest--rather than to let some one else suffer, -whoever it might be. Oh, God forgive me--God forgive me--if I said -wrong!’ - -At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hayward’s maid -came in. ‘If you please, ma’am,’ she said. - -‘What is it? Miss Hayward has come back?’ - -‘If you please, ma’am,’ said the maid, ‘some of her clothes are--not -there. And Mr. Baker says she sent away a box this morning.’ - -‘Where is Baker?’ said the Colonel. - -He was not far off, but at the door, fully prepared for the emergency. -He did not wait to be questioned. ‘It was a box,’ he said, ‘like as Miss -Hayward have sent off before,--I didn’t take particular notice. The -baker took it to the station. He had his cart at the door.’ - -‘What do you mean by a box!’ said the Colonel, to whom they all left -this examination, and who asked the question without excitement, as only -partially understanding the importance of it. - -‘A box, Colonel!--well, just a common sort of a box--like the ladies -sent to the ’Ospital Christmas-time--like Miss Hayward have sent off -before----’ - -‘Did you see the address?’ - -‘You see, ma’am, the baker, his cart was at the door,--and he ups and -says, if the young lady had no objection, he’d take it and welcome. So I -gives him a hand up with it, and never see the address--except just -London.’ - -‘You are sure it was London?’ - -‘Oh yes, Colonel--at least, I wouldn’t like to take nothing in the -nature of an oath: but so far as being sure----’ - -‘That will do,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly. ‘Now, you may go.’ She burst -forth as soon as the door was closed, ‘She has done what her mother did; -but why--but why?’ - -A little later, before this mournful company separated, Joyce’s little -writing-case was brought downstairs, and in it was found Andrew’s letter -and Mrs. Bellendean’s folded together. On a piece of paper -separate--which, however, had no appearance of being intended for a -letter--Joyce had written something in a large straggling hand, very -different from her usual neat writing. It was this---- - -‘I can do no other thing. To him I would be mansworn--and to her no true -friend. And what I said was, Joyce will do--what is wanted of her. I can -do no other thing.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII - - -Nearly twenty-four hours later the chill of the wintry night had closed -over the village of Bellendean. The frosty weather had gone, and was -replaced by the clammy dampness and heavily charged atmosphere of a -thaw. There had been showers during the day, and a Scotch mist had set -in with the falling of the night. Janet Matheson and her old husband -were sitting on either side of the fire. Peter had got to feel the -severity of the winter weather, and though he still did his day’s work, -he was heavy and tired, and sat stretching his long limbs across the -hearth with that desire for more rest which shows the flagging of the -strength and spirit. Janet on the other side of the fire was knitting -the usual dark-grey stocking with yards of leg, which it was astonishing -to think could be always wanted by one man. They were talking little. An -observation once in half an hour or so, a little stir of response, and -then the silence would fall over them again, unbroken by anything but -the fall of the ashes from the grate, or the ticking of the clock. -Sometimes Janet would carry on a little monologue for a few minutes, to -which Peter gave here and there a deep growl of reply; but there was -little that could be called conversation between the old pair, who knew -all each other’s thoughts, and were ‘company’ to each other without a -word said. There were few sounds even outside: now and then a heavy foot -going by: now and then a boy running in his heavy shoes on some cold -errand. The cold and the rain had sent indoors all the usual stragglers -of the night. - -‘Yon letter’s near a week auld,’ said Peter. They had not been talking -of Joyce; but a quarter of an hour before had briefly, with a few -straggling remarks at long intervals, discussed the crop which ‘the -maister’ had settled upon for the Long Park, a selection of which Peter -did not approve; but no explanation was needed for this introduction of -a new subject. There could be no doubt between them as to what ‘yon -letter’ meant. - -‘There’ll be anither the morn,’ said Janet, ‘when she has passed the -Thursday, it aye comes on the Saturday. She will have been thrang with -something or other. It’s the time coming on for a’ thae pairties and -balls.’ - -Peter gave a long low subterraneous laugh. ‘It would be a queer thing,’ -he said, ‘for you and me to see oor Joyce at ane o’ thae grand balls.’ - -‘And wherefore no?’ said Janet. ‘Take you my word for’t, she’ll aye be -ane o’ the bonniest there.’ - -‘I’m no doubtin’ that,’ he said; and silence fell again over the cottage -kitchen--silence broken only after a long time by an impatient sigh from -Janet, who had just cast off her stocking, rounding the ample toe. - -‘Eh,’ she said, ‘just to hae ae glimpse of her! I would ken in a -moment.’ - -‘What are ye wantin’ to ken?’ - -‘Oh, naething,’ said Janet, putting down the finished stocking after -pulling it into shape and smoothing it with her hand. She took up her -needles again and pulled out a long piece of worsted to set on the -other, with again a suppressed sigh. - -‘Siching and sabbing never mean naething,’ said Peter oracularly. - -‘Weel, weel! I would like to see in her bonnie face that she’s happy -amang thae strange folk. If ye maun ken every thocht that comes into a -body’s heart----’ - -‘Hae ye ony reason----’ said Peter, and then paused with a ghost of his -usual laugh. ‘Ye’re just that conceited, ye think she canna be happy but -with you and me.’ - -‘It’s maybe just that,’ said Janet. - -‘It’s just that. She has mair to mak’ her happy than the like of us ever -heard tell of. I wouldna wonder if ye were just jealous--o’ a’ thae -enterteenments.’ - -‘I wouldna wonder,’ Janet said. And then there was a long silence again. - -Presently a faint sound of footsteps approaching from a distance came -muffled from the silence outside. The old people, with their rural habit -of attention to all such passing sounds, listened unawares each on their -side. Light steps in light shoes, not any of the heavy walkers of -Bellendean. Would it be somebody from the Manse coming from the station? -or maybe one of the maids from the House? They both listened without any -conscious reason, as village people do. At last Peter spoke---- - -‘If she wasna hunders o’ miles away, I would say that was her step.’ - -‘Dinna speak such nonsense,’ said Janet. Then suddenly throwing down her -needles with a cry, ‘It’s somebody coming here!--whisht, whisht,’ she -added to herself, ‘that auld man’s blethers puts nonsense in a body’s -heid.’ Janet rose up to her feet with an agitated cry. Some one had -touched the latch. She rushed to the door and turned the key-- ‘We were -just gaun to oor beds,’ she cried, in a tone of apology. - -And then the door was pushed open from without. The old woman uttered a -shriek of wonder and joy, yet alarm, and with a great noise old Peter -stumbled to his feet. - -It was _her_ or her ghost. The rain glistening upon her hat and her -shoulders--her eyes shining like brighter drops of dew--a colour on her -cheeks from the outdoor air, a gust of the fragrance of that outdoor -atmosphere--the ‘caller air’ that had always breathed about -Joyce--coming in with her. She stood and smiled and said, ‘It’s me,’ as -if she had come home after a day’s absence, as if no chasm of time and -distance had ever opened between. - -No words can ever describe the agitated moment of such a return, -especially when so unexpected and strange, exciting feelings of fear as -well as delight. They took her in, they brought her to the fire, they -took off her cloak which was wet, and the hat that was ornamented like -jewels with glistening drops of the Scotch mist. They made her sit down, -touching her shoulders, her hair, her arms, the very folds of her dress, -with fond caressing touches, laughing and crying over her. Poor old -Peter was inarticulate in his joy and emotion. Nothing but a succession -of those low rolling laughs would come from him, and great lakes of -moisture were standing under the furrows of his old eyebrows. He sat -down opposite to her, and did nothing but gaze at her with a tenderness -unspeakable, the ecstasy which was beyond all expression. Janet retained -her power of movement and of speech. - -‘Eh, my bonnie lamb! eh, my ain bairn! you’ve come back to see your auld -folk. And the Lord bless you, my darlin’! it’s an ill nicht for the like -of you--but we’ll warm you and dry you if we can do naething mair; and -there’s your ain wee room aye ready, and oh, a joyfu’ welcome, a joyfu’ -welcome!’ - -‘No, granny, I cannot go back to my own room. I’ve come but for a -moment. I’m going away on a journey, and there’s little time, little -time. But I couldn’t pass by----’ - -‘Pass by---- No, that would ha’ been a bonny business,’ said Peter, with -his laugh--‘to have passed by.’ - -Joyce told them an incoherent story about a ship that was to sail -to-night. ‘I am going from Leith--and there was just an hour or two--and -I must be back by the nine o’clock train. It’s not very long, but I must -not lose my ship.’ - -‘And are they with you, Joyce, waitin’ for you? and whatfor did ye no -bring the Cornel? The Cornal wasna proud--he didna disdain the wee bit -place. And no even a maid with ye to take care of ye! Oh ay, my bonnie -woman, weel I understand that--you would have naebody with ye to disturb -us, but just a’ to oorsels----’ - -‘Ony fule,’ said Peter, ‘would see that.’ - -‘We’re a’ just fules,’ said Janet, ‘for weel I see that, and yet I’m no -sure I’m pleased that she’s let to come her lane--for I would have her -guarded that nae strange wind, no, nor the rain, should touch her. I’m -wantin’ twa impossible things--that she should be attendit like a -princess, and yet that we should have her her lane, a’ to you and me.’ - -‘It’s very cold outside,’ said Joyce, ‘and oh, so warm and cosy here! I -have never seen a place so warm nor so like home since I went away. -Granny, will you mask some tea though it’s so late? I think I would like -a cup of tea.’ - -‘That will I!’ cried Janet, with a sense of pleasure such as a queen -might feel when her most beloved child asked her for a duchy or a -diamond. Her face shone with pure satisfaction and delight, and her -questions ran on as she moved to and fro, making the kettle boil (which -was always just on the eve of boiling), getting out her china teapot, -her best things, ‘for we maun do her a’ honour, like a grand visitor, -though she’s our ain bairn and no the least changed----’ These -observations Janet addressed to Peter, though they were mingled with a -hundred tender things to Joyce, and so mixed that the change of the -person was hard to follow. - -‘Whatfor should she be changed?’ said Peter, with his tremulous growl of -happiness. The old man sat, with an occasional earthquake of inward -laughter passing over him, never taking his eyes from her. He was less -critical than Janet; no suspicions or fears were in his mind. He took -her own account of herself with profound faith. Whatfor should she be -changed? Whatfor should she be otherwise than happy? She had come to see -them in the moment she had in the middle of her journey, alone, as was -natural--for anybody with her would have made a different thing of it -altogether, and weel did Joyce ken that. He was thoroughly satisfied, -and more blessed than words could say. He sat well pleased and -listened, while Janet told her everything that had passed. Although it -had been told in letters, word of mouth was another thing, and Joyce had -a hundred questions to put. She was far more concerned to hear -everything that could be told her than to tell about herself; but if -Peter remarked this at all, it was only as a perfection the more in his -‘bonnie woman’--his good lassie that never thought of herself. - -‘And oh, but the Captain was kind, kind!’ said Janet. ‘He came and sat -where ye are sitten’, my bonnie doo, and just tauld me everything I -wanted to ken--how ye were looking, and the way ye were speaking, and -that you and the Cornel were great friends, and the very things ye were -dressed in, Joyce. He must have taken an awfu’ deal of notice to mind -everything. He would just come and sit for hoors----’ - -Joyce moved her seat a little farther from the fire. The heat was great, -and had caught her cheek and made it flush. It grew white again when she -withdrew from the glow, but she smiled and said in a low tone, ‘He is -very kind: and you would see the lady, granny, and Miss Greta.’ - -‘No for a long time. You had always a great troke with them, Joyce, and -they with you, but when once my bonnie bird was flown, it’s little they -thought of your old granny. There was a great steer about the Captain -and her, but I kenna if it was true. There’s aye a talk aboot something, -but the half o’t is lees. He’s owre good for her, it’s my opinion. I’ve -a real soft corner for the Captain.’ - -‘He kent the way to get roond ye,’ said Peter, ‘aye flatterin’ aboot -that bit lassie there.’ - -‘He was real kind. He would just sit for hours, and mind everything.’ - -‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, interrupting hastily, ‘you have told me nothing -about the new mistress, and how she took up my place.’ - -‘But I wrote it a’ down in my letters,’ said Janet. ‘That’s no like word -of mouth, you’re thinking? Well, you see, Joyce’--and Janet went over -the whole career of the new schoolmistress, who had not given entire -satisfaction. ‘As wha could?’ said the old woman. ‘Ye just spoiled them, -they could get nobody that would have pleased them after you.’ - -‘You’re no asking aboot Andrew,’ said Peter. - -‘Eh, poor lad!’ cried Janet, ‘I wouldna have wondered if he had come -ower the nicht: but now it’s too late.’ - -‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, with a little cry of alarm, ‘you’ll say nothing -to Andrew? Oh, not a word! Never let him know I was here. I would fain, -fain not be unkind--but there are some things that cannot be. Oh, I was -very silly, I should have known. You’ll tell him to think of me no -more--that I’m not worthy of it; but, oh, never tell I’ve been here.’ - -‘No, my bonnie lamb, no, my ain dear. He never was worthy o’ you. He -shall hear not a word--nor nae ither person, if that’s your pleasure, -Joyce.’ - -‘Oh, granny dear! but it’s time now, and I must go.’ - -Janet’s heart was very heavy; but there was no time for questions, and -she saw that Joyce was little disposed to explain. ‘We’ll go with her to -the station, and see her off,’ she said, taking her big shawl out of the -aumrie. ‘I’m laith, laith to part with you, Joyce: but it would be nae -kindness to make ye late, and they’ll be meeting you at the train.’ - -‘I must not be late,’ Joyce replied. She looked round with a faint -smile, and tears were in her eyes, and her lips moved as if she was -saying something. Janet’s heart was sore for her child. Why was she left -to travel all alone in a wild and dark night like this? Why should she -say nothing of her father, or of any one that was with her? Janet’s mind -misgave her--she was full of fears: Joyce was ‘no hersel’. She was very -loving, very tender, and smiled, and tried to look at ease; but she -could not deceive the old woman whom love enlightened, who knew all her -ways and her looks. There was something in her eyes which Janet did not -know. She did not understand what it meant, but it meant trouble. There -was trouble written all over Joyce. Her fond old guardian knew not what -it was, only knew it was there. - -The two old people went to the station with her through the windy, -weeping night, saying little on either side. Joyce clasped her old -grandmother’s arm tightly in hers, but scarcely spoke, and Peter stalked -beside them, half exhilarated, half heart-broken--he did not know which. -To have had her for a little was sweet, but then to see her go away. She -clung to them, crying quietly under her veil, as they put her into a -corner of a vacant carriage--not without a forlorn pride that it was -first class--and wrapped her cloak round her. They had no fine phrases, -but to smooth the folds of her dress, to tuck the cloak round her, was -always some faint satisfaction. ‘I’ll write,’ she said, ’as soon as I -can, but it may be long. You’ll not lose heart, only wait, wait, and -I’ll write----’ - -‘Oh, my darlin’, we’ll wait--but, Joyce, where are you goin’, where are -you goin’, that you speak like that?’ - -‘Good-bye, grandfather,--good-bye, granny, dear granny!’ - -Janet clutched Peter with a grasp that hurt even that old arm of his, -all muscle and sinew. ‘Noo,’ she said, in an imperative whisper, ‘gang -hame to your bed: I’m goin’ after her. Dinna say a word to me, but gang -hame to you bed. I’ll come back the morn’s morning, or as soon as I -can.’ - -‘Gaun after her! and what good will that do her?’ cried Peter in -consternation. - -‘At least, I’ll see her safe,’ said Janet, clambering into a third-class -carriage. The train was almost in motion, and carried her off before her -astonished husband could say another word. The old man stood bewildered, -and looked after the train which carried them both from him. But he had -that inexhaustible rural patience which makes so many things -supportable. After a few minutes he went away, slowly shaking his head. -‘She has nae ticket,’ he said to himself, ‘and little money in her -pooch, and what guid can she do in ony case?’ But after a while he -obeyed Janet’s injunction and went slowly home. - -It was hard work for Janet to keep sight of Joyce when they came to the -great Edinburgh station: she was little accustomed to crowds--to be -hustled and pushed about as a poor old woman getting out of a -third-class carriage so often is: but fortunately her eyes had kept the -long sight of youth, and she managed to trace the movements of her -child. One thing was sure, that nobody was there to meet Joyce, not even -a maid. The girl made her way by dark passages and corners to the place -where another little train was starting for Leith, where Janet followed -her breathless. It was very raw and cold, windy and gusty, the wind -blowing about the light of the lamps, driving wild clouds across the -sky, dashing rain from time to time against the carriage windows, and -the atmosphere was dreary with a sense of the wilder darkness of the -approaching sea. Presently they came to the port and to the quay, where -a confused mass of vessels, made half visible by the flaring melancholy -lights, lay together, with lamps swinging at their masts. The pavement -was wet and slippery, the wind was keen and cold, and blew blasts of -stinging rain like tears over her face as she toiled along. But she -never lost sight of Joyce. The Firth was tumbling in dark waves, faintly -visible in a liquid line, apparent at least so far that it was not solid -earth, but something wilder, more dreadful, insecure--and it raved and -dashed against the pier and the sides of the ships, sometimes sending up -a leaping white vision of spray like something flying at your throat, -and always a sound as of contending voices, the shout of oncoming, the -long grinding drag of the withdrawal as wave followed wave. The boats -moved and creaked at anchor, the lamps and dim masts and funnels rising -and falling. There were gangways each with its little coloured smoky -lamp, from one steamboat to another, lying ready to start, three or four -deep against the pier. Janet saw the solitary figure which she had -tracked so long pause, as if with a moment’s hesitation, at the first of -these gangways, and she made a rush forward at the last after this long -course, to grip her child by the dress, by whatever thing she could -clutch and hold, and cry, ‘No, no; you’ll gang no further! oh, Joyce, my -bairn, you’ll gang no further!’ But she slipped and fell, being -exhausted with the long and weary walk, and, breathless with labour and -fatigue, could get nothing out but a panting No, no, which had no -meaning. When she got to her feet again the slim figure was gone. She -thought she could trace it on the farthest point, standing upon the -paddle-box of the steamer, and ever after believed that the speck of -whiteness in the dark was Joyce’s face turned back towards home. That -was the last she saw. - -The old woman stood upon the pier for long after. She stood and watched -while a few other passengers arrived, talking dolefully about the stormy -night, and tried to take a little comfort thinking that perhaps ‘the -Cornel’ might be among them, and Joyce after all have a protector and -companions. There was one tall man, indeed, speaking ‘high English,’ -whom Janet almost made up her mind, with an unspeakable lightening of -her heart, must be ‘the Cornel.’ Her old eyes could not trace him -through the maze of the steamboats to the one upon which she had kept a -despairing watch: but fatigue and misery had by this time dimmed her -faculties. Then that farthest boat, the one that held her child, with -shouts and shrieks of steam, and lights wavering through the gloom, and -every dreadful noise, got into motion, and went out upon the tumbling, -stormy sea. Janet watched the light rising and sinking, the only thing -visible, till that too disappeared in the darkness. And then all was -quiet but the booming of the Firth against the piers, and the creek and -jar of the other steamboats preparing to follow. She withdrew a little -and leant against a post, and dried her eyes with a trembling hand. ‘Oh, -my bairn! my bairn!’ she said to herself. - -‘What ails the woman?’ said the watchman on the pier. ‘There’s naething -to make a wark about; they’ll get a bit heezy, but nae danger. It’ll be -a son or a daughter ye’ve been seeing off.’ - -‘Oh, man, I’m thankful to you!’ said Janet. ‘Are they a’ for the same -airt.’ - -‘They’re a’ for the far north,’ said the watchman, continuing his heavy -march. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII - - -Janet had scarcely recovered the use of her tired limbs next morning and -begun languidly to ‘redd up’ the cottage, with many anxious thoughts in -her breast, when an unusual sound of masculine footsteps attracted her -attention. She was in a very nervous, vigilant state, expecting she knew -not what, although it had seemed as if everything had happened that -could happen, now that Joyce had come--and gone so mysteriously: that -she should come had always been a possibility before, but now was so no -longer. The tramp of these imperative feet, not the slow tread of -labouring men, attracted her anxious ear some distance off. She put away -her brush and listened. The door stood open though the morning was cold, -and a ray of pale and watery sunshine came in. Janet was afraid to look -out, with an instant swift intuition and alarm lest somehow her child’s -interest might be involved, and she could scarcely be said to be -surprised when she saw the Captain, accompanied by an older grey-haired -man whom she at once recognised as ‘the Cornel.’ ‘Eh, but I must be -careful. She wasna with him after a’,’ said Janet to herself. She had -been very tremulous and shaken with fatigue and anxiety, but she braced -herself up in a moment and stood firmly on the defensive, whatever might -be about to happen. The two gentlemen looked harassed and anxious. They -came straight to the cottage door without any pause or hesitation. ‘Is -Miss Joyce here?’ the Captain asked breathless, without even mainners to -say good morning, as Janet remarked. - -‘Na, Captain, she’s no here.’ - -‘My good woman,’ said the Colonel, breathless, too, ‘don’t be unkind, -but tell us where my daughter is. We’ve come from London. I never denied -your interest in her--never opposed her love for you. Bellendean will -tell you. Let me see Joyce, for God’s sake!’ - -‘Colonel,’ said Janet, with a little tremble, ‘you should see her if she -was in my keeping without such a grand plea. But she’s no here. I -thought till this moment she was with--her ain folk.’ - -‘Don’t try to deceive us,’ cried Captain Bellendean, ‘we have traced her -here.’ He was very much agitated to have forgotten his ‘mainners’ in -this wonderful way. - -‘Track or no track,’ said Janet, ‘you’ll get no lies frae me. Yes, she’s -been here. There’s the chair she sat upon only yestreen and late at -nicht wi’ Peter and me.’ - -The Colonel came in and looked at the chair with the instinct of a -simple mind. It seemed to throw a certain light upon Joyce’s -disappearance. ‘Then where is she now?’ he said, with a sigh of -impatience and disappointment. ‘Let me sit down, if you please, for all -my strength seems to have gone out of me. Where is she now?’ - -‘That’s mair than I can tell,’ said Janet with the fervour of undeniable -truth. - -‘We are in great trouble,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘She has gone -away--in a mistake. Janet, you’re very fond of her, I know. She has been -troubled about Halliday the schoolmaster, and--some one else. She has -thought the best thing was to go away--and it’s the worst thing. It’s -misery to everybody. I know you’re fond of her.’ - -‘Fond of her!’ said Janet. She said to herself that it was a bonnie -question to be asked of her that would give her last drop of blood for -Joyce. ‘Ay, ye may say I’m fond of her,’ she replied grimly. - -‘And it is all a mistake. She’s taken up a mistaken idea. Halliday had -no such claim upon her--nor had--any other. It was altogether a false -fear. I would never--for pity’s sake, if you can tell us anything. You -know me! She would never be forced to anything. She might have been sure -of that,’ the Captain added hurriedly, with a flush of forlorn pride. - -‘Eh, Captain,’ said Janet, ‘I would be far, far happier if I kent where -she was. She just said, “I’m goin’ on a voyage, and that she had come to -see us.” And it was my belief that the Cornel and his lady were just -waiting upon her at Leith.’ - -‘At Leith!’ they both exclaimed. Then Colonel Hayward turned to the -Captain with an air of relief. ‘It’s but a little port, isn’t it? We’ll -soon be on the track now.’ - -‘At least,’ said Janet, ‘I’m thinking it was Leith, for where else would -she gang to join a ship? but I thought naething but that the Cornel and -his lady were waiting upon her--for ane o’ your toors, or whatever you -ca’ them,’ she added, with a certain tone of disdain. - -‘And she said she was going--where?’ - -‘She said it would be a long voyage. Ye needna think to trap me, -Captain--it’s no like you--as if I was speaking a falsehood with your -“Where?” Na; she said not a word to me, but just a long voyage. I would -gie my little finger to ken,’ cried Janet, with tears; ‘but she said not -a word to me.’ - -‘Are there boats for America at Leith? God bless my soul! poor little -trading things--not even a mail-boat where she could have been -comfortable,’ cried the Colonel. And then he added, ‘You must think -we’ve been cruel to her to drive her away; but it’s not so--it’s not so. -Bellendean will tell you.’ - -Janet remained grimly silent, offering no contradiction. - -As for the Captain, he turned his back upon them both before he gave the -called-for testimony. ‘She is flying from love,’ he said, in a choked -voice. ‘And to sacrifice herself for--us: and to make us all miserable!’ -If he was angry as well as unhappy, there was perhaps little wonder. - -‘That’s a’ I can tell ye,’ said Janet. ‘We saw her off from the station, -Peter and me. I had nae thought but that her father--her father that she -belonged to, that took her from me--would be waitin’ for her at the -other end. I never said a word to keep her from her duty to her ain -folk; but if I had kent she was her lane, going forth upon the wide -world and the sea, on a wild night--Lord! I would have followed her to -the ends o’ the earth,’ cried Janet, with hot fervour and tears. - -But she said nothing of how far she had followed. How did she know that -it might not be prejudicial to Joyce? If Joyce had left them it could -not be without reason. No doubt she had kept secret about her -destination lest it should be found out by her pursuers. ‘She might have -kent me better, that I would have stood for her against all the land and -never let on I kent,’ the old woman said to herself. But it was no doubt -better that within the strict boundaries of truth she could thus baffle -the pursuit and confuse all researches. But what had the Captain to do -with it? and what did they mean by flying from love? This gave Janet a -cold thrill for many a day. - -The search was long, and extended over many seas. Though there was no -mail-boat for America, there were, as the Colonel divined, ‘trading -things,’ but no trace in any of them of Joyce; and there were ships for -the Mediterranean and many other places. Half a dozen times at least -they thought they were on her track, but failed and failed again. She -had but little money for a long voyage. All indeed was darkness from the -time when they traced her to the station at Bellendean. A young lady in -company with an old woman had been seen at Leith; but Janet, who alone -could have thrown any light on this, remained silent. Indeed, she had no -confession to make, for she had only been with Joyce as a watcher is -with the object of his stealthy pursuit. And Janet was all the more safe -a guardian that she knew absolutely nothing. There never departed from -her old eyes the vision of the lamp upon the mast, tossing with the -movement of the waves, disappearing into the blackness of the night, a -forlorn spark in the immeasurable vacancy of invisible sky and sea. -Where had that symbol of humanity gone? what fathomless gloom had it -penetrated with its faint-coloured gleam of living? All her superiority -over the others lay in the image of that tossing light, and the faint -spars it illuminated for a moment in the black gulf of the unknown. - -So Joyce disappeared and was seen no more. - -Miss Marsham never forgot nor could think, without a sinking of the -heart, of that unfortunate night when the oracle had spoken by her -mouth, all unaware of the nature of the being addressed, or the tragical -matters involved. For the consequences of that self-sacrifice were -disastrous all round. The Haywards’ pleasant house was shut up, while -they travelled the world, looking for the lost girl. Mrs. Hayward was -the most energetic in the pursuit--for the Colonel, though he missed her -more, and was more ‘fond’ of Joyce, had neither any sense of wrong to -move him, nor any prick of the intolerable such as wrings the heart of -an impatient woman, half thinking herself to blame. Canon Jenkinson, -though so much less concerned, would probably not have gone to America -at all on that famous expedition of his, about which his well-known book -was written, had it not been for a hope that in some American school or -lecture-hall he would find her, though everybody else failed. Norman -Bellendean was affected most of all. He had a dreadful scene with his -step-mother, from which that poor lady did not recover for a long time; -and instead of going home, and finally allowing himself to be drawn into -the natural circle of county politics and relationships, with Greta for -his pretty and happy wife, as had been desired and hoped--he went back, -sullen and wretched, a misanthrope and woman-hater, to his regiment in -India, leaving his estate in the hands of an agent, the house shut up -and uninhabited. Greta married after a while, and was just as -comfortable as if she had attained the man of her first choice, whose -loss it was believed would break her heart. She was the only one quite -unaffected by all that had taken place, although her comfort was the one -prevailing cause of all this trouble. Mrs. Bellendean was severed once -for all from Bellendean and everything near. And yet she could say to -herself truly that she meant no harm, that she had never expected -serious harm to follow. All she meant was to avert an unsuitable -marriage, which it is every woman’s duty to do, by encouraging a girl, -who was already engaged, and had no right to accept another man’s -attentions, to keep to her plighted word. Perhaps it was hard upon her -to suffer so much for so little--and almost harder, seeing that Greta, -in whose interests she acted, did not suffer at all. - -Andrew Halliday, who also was, so far as he was aware, perfectly -innocent, and who never knew what harm he had done by betraying Joyce’s -story to the very respectable lady, the minister’s wife, who had been so -kind to him--came through the trial as a man of native worth and -respectability was likely to do. He waited for some time hoping to hear -from Joyce, who, he felt sure, even if circumstances separated her from -her family, would communicate with him. He thought the step she had -taken ill-judged and excessive, even though it was in consequence of -their opposition to the wishes of her heart in respect to himself. -‘These hasty steps are always to be regretted,’ Andrew said, ‘especially -as no doubt the Cornel would have been brought to see what was best for -her interest if she had but given him a little time.’ But when months -came and brought no sign, Andrew’s dignified disapproval changed into a -judicial anger. ‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘she never had any real -perception of her own best interests.’ And in course of time he married -a very respectable lady with a little money, and was much happier than -he could have been with Joyce. - -And silence closed over Joyce and all her ways: she sank out of sight as -if she had never been. Her name and image lingered in some faithful -recollections, then in mystery and silence disappeared, and was seen and -heard no more. - -It was curious, however, that within a year Janet and Peter Matheson -disappeared also from their cottage. They sold their few goods, ‘no able -to bide the place after what had happened,’ Janet said. But Peter, -instead of echoing this judgment, shook with a long low subterranean -laugh, such as used to mark his enjoyment of Joyce’s remarks and -pleasant ways. They disappeared and nobody ever knew where they had -gone. ‘To their friends in the North,’ the village people said, but -nobody before had ever heard of these friends. - - * * * * * - -It was not till years after that there came a curious rumour to the -mainland far away at the most distant point of Scotland, of a great -transformation that had been going on in one of the most remote and -inaccessible of the isles. Whether it was St. Kilda or the Fair Isle, or -some other scrap of rock and mountain in the middle of the wild northern -seas, this chronicler has no information. But the legend ran that -suddenly, upon a wild wintry afternoon, a lady had landed on that -island. Whether her wealth was boundless and her power miraculous, as -some said, could not be proved save by rare visitors to the islands. But -at all events, there seemed no reason to doubt that she had acquired a -wonderful ascendancy, and made many extraordinary changes among the -primitive people. She taught them many things, among others what -domestic comfort and cleanliness and beneficent learning meant, and knew -everything, according to the story. The few sportsmen who touched upon -these wild shores were not, however, ever gratified with a sight of this -Princess of the Isle. 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B.).--MONOGRAPH OF THE BRITISH CICADÆ, OR TETTIGIDÆ. 2 vols. -33_s._ 6_d._ each net; or in 8 Parts. 8_s._ each net. - -LUBBOCK (Sir John).--THE ORIGIN AND METAMORPHOSES OF INSECTS. -Illustrated. Cr. 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ - -SCUDDER (S. H.).--FOSSIL INSECTS OF NORTH AMERICA. Map and Plates. 2 -vols. 4to. 90_s._ net. - - -Ornithology. - -COUES (Elliott).--KEY TO NORTH AMERICAN BIRDS. Illustrated. 8vo. 2_l._ -2_s._ - ----- HANDBOOK OF FIELD AND GENERAL ORNITHOLOGY. Illustrated. 8vo. 10_s._ -net. - -FOWLER (W. W.). (_See_ NATURAL HISTORY.) - -WHITE (Gilbert). (_See_ NATURAL HISTORY.) - - - - -INDEX. - - - PAGE - -ABBEY (E. A.), 37 - -ABBOT (F. E.), 33 - -ABBOTT (Rev. E.), 3, 13, 30, 31, 33 - -ACLAND (Sir H. W.), 22 - -ADAMS (Sir F. O.), 28 - -ADDISON, 4, 20 - -AGASSIZ (L.), 3 - -AINGER (Rev. A.), 4, 16, 20, 33 - -AINSLIE (A. D.), 14 - -AIRY (Sir G. B.), 2, 27 - -AITKEN (Mary C.), 20 - -AITKEN (Sir W.), 23 - -ALBEMARLE (Earl of), 3 - -ALDRICH (T. B.), 14 - -ALEXANDER (C. F.), 20 - -ALEXANDER (T.), 8 - -ALEXANDER (Bishop), 33 - -ALLBUTT (T. C.), 22 - -ALLEN (G.), 6 - -ALLINGHAM (W.), 20 - -AMIEL (H. F.), 3 - -ANDERSON (A.), 14 - -ANDERSON (Dr. McCall), 22 - -ANDREWS (Dr. Thomas), 26 - -APPLETON (T. G.), 37 - -ARCHER-HIND (R. D.), 36 - -ARNOLD, (M.), 8, 14, 19, 20, 21, 30 - -ARNOLD (Dr. T.), 9 - -ARNOLD (W. T.), 9 - -ASHLEY (W. J.), 3 - -ATKINSON (J. B.), 2 - -ATKINSON (Rev. J. C.), 1, 38 - -ATTWELL (H.), 20 - -AUSTIN (Alfred), 14 - -AUTENRIETH (Georg), 7 - -AWDRY (F.), 38 - - -BACON (Francis), 19, 20 - -BAINES (Rev. E.), 33 - -BAKER (Sir S. W.), 28, 30, 37, 38 - -BALCH (Elizabeth), 12 - -BALDWIN (Prof. J. M.), 26 - -BALFOUR (F. M.), 5, 6 - -BALFOUR (J. B.), 6 - -BALL (V.), 38 - -BALL (W. Platt), 6 - -BALL (W. W. R.), 22 - -BALLANCE (C. A.), 22 - -BARKER (Lady), 2, 8, 37 - -BARNARD (C.), 27 - -BARNES (W.), 3 - -BARTHOLOMEW (J. G.), 3 - -BARTLETT (J.), 7 - -BARWELL (R.), 22 - -BASTABLE (Prof. C. F.), 28 - -BASTIAN (H. C.), 6, 22 - -BATESON (W.), 6 - -BATH (Marquis of), 28 - -BATHER (Archdeacon), 33 - -BAXTER (L.), 3 - -BEESLY (Mrs.), 9 - -BENHAM (Rev. W.), 5, 20, 32 - -BENSON (Archbishop), 32, 33 - -BERLIOZ (H.), 3 - -BERNARD (J. H.), 25 - -BERNARD (H. M.), 6 - -BERNARD (M.), 12 - -BERNARD (T. D.), 33 - -BERNERS (J.), 11 - -BESANT (W.), 4 - -BETHUNE-BAKER (J. F.), 33 - -BETTANY (G. T.), 6 - -BICKERTON (T. H.), 22 - -BIGELOW (M. M.), 12 - -BIKÉLAS (D.), 17 - -BINNIE (Rev. W.), 33 - -BIRKS (T. R.), 6, 25, 30, 33 - -BJÖRNSON (B.), 17 - -BLACK (W.), 4 - -BLACKBURNE (E.), 3 - -BLACKIE (J. S.), 9, 14, 19 - -BLAKE (J. F.), 2 - -BLAKE (W.), 3 - -BLAKISTON (J. R.), 8 - -BLANFORD (H. F.), 9, 27 - -BLANFORD (W. T.), 9, 24 - -BLOMFIELD (R.), 9 - -BLYTH (A. W.), 11 - -BÖHM-BAWERK (Prof.), 28 - -BOISSEVAIN (G. M.), 28 - -BOLDREWOOD (Rolf), 17 - -BONAR (J.), 28 - -BOND (Rev. J.), 31 - -BOOLE (G.), 26 - -BOOTH (C.), 29 - -BOSE (W. P. du), 34 - -BOUGHTON (G. H.), 37 - -BOUTMY (E.), 12 - -BOWEN (H. C.), 25 - -BOWER (F. O.), 6 - -BRIDGES (J. A.), 19 - -BRIGHT (H. A.), 9 - -BRIGHT (John), 28, 29 - -BRIMLEY (G.), 19 - -BRODIE (Sir B. C.), 7 - -BRODRIBB (W. J.), 13, 37 - -BROOKE (Sir J.), 3 - -BROOKE (S. A.), 13, 14, 21, 33 - -BROOKS (Bishop), 33 - -BROWN (A. C.), 26 - -BROWN (J. A.), 1 - -BROWN (Dr. James), 4 - -BROWN (T. E.), 14 - -BROWNE (J. H. B.), 11 - -BROWNE (Sir T.), 20 - -BRUNTON (Dr. T. Lauder), 22, 33 - -BRYCE (James), 9, 28, 37 - -BUCHHEIM (C. A.), 20 - -BUCKLAND (A.), 5, 28 - -BUCKLEY (A. B.), 9 - -BUCKNILL (Dr. J. C.), 23 - -BUCKTON (G. B.), 40 - -BUNYAN, 4, 19, 20 - -BURGON (J. W.), 14 - -BURKE (E.), 28 - -BURN (R.), 1 - -BURNETT (F. Hodgson), 17 - -BURNS, 14, 20 - -BURY (J. B.), 9 - -BUTCHER (Prof. S. H.), 13, 19, 36 - -BUTLER (A. J.), 37 - -BUTLER (Rev. G.), 33 - -BUTLER (Samuel), 14 - -BUTLER (W. Archer), 33 - -BUTLER (Sir W. F.), 4 - -BYRON, 20 - - -CAIRNES (J. E.), 29 - -CALDECOTT (R.), 12, 38, 39 - -CALDERWOOD (Prof. H.), 8, 25, 26 - -CALVERT (Rev. A.), 31 - -CAMERON (V. L.), 37 - -CAMPBELL (J. F.), 37 - -CAMPBELL (Dr. J. M.), 33 - -CAMPBELL (Prof. Lewis), 5, 13 - -CAPES (W. W.), 13 - -CARLES (W. R.), 37 - -CARLYLE (T.), 3, 14 - -CARMARTHEN (Lady), 17 - -CARNARVON (Earl of), 36 - -CARNOT (N. L. G.), 27 - -CARPENTER (Bishop), 33 - -CARR (J. C.), 2 - -CARROLL (Lewis), 26, 38 - -CARTER (R. Brudenell), 23 - -CASSEL (Dr. D.), 9 - -CAUTLEY (G. S.), 14 - -CAZENOVE (J. G.), 33 - -CHALMERS (J. B.), 8 - -CHALMERS (M. D.), 29 - -CHAPMAN (Elizabeth R.), 14 - -CHASSERESSE (Diana), 30 - -CHERRY (R. R.), 12 - -CHEYNE (C. H. H.), 2 - -CHEYNE (T. K.), 30 - -CHRISTIE (J.), 23 - -CHRISTIE (W. D.), 20 - -CHURCH (Prof. A. H.), 6 - -CHURCH (Rev. A. J.), 4, 30, 37 - -CHURCH (F. J.), 20, 37 - -CHURCH (Dean), 3, 4, 13, 19, 31, 33 - -CLARK (J. W.), 20 - -CLARK (L.), 2 - -CLARK (S.), 3 - -CLARKE (C. B.), 9, 28 - -CLIFFORD (Ed.), 3 - -CLIFFORD (W. K.), 19, 26 - -CLIFFORD (Mrs. W. K.), 38 - -CLOUGH (A. H.), 14, 19 - -COBDEN (R.), 29 - -COHEN (J. B.), 7 - -COLENSO (J. W.), 32 - -COLERIDGE (S. T.), 14 - -COLLIER (Hon. John), 2 - -COLLINS (J. Churton), 19 - -COLQUHOUN (F. S.), 14 - -COLVIN (Sidney), 4, 20 - -COMBE (G.), 8 - -CONGREVE (Rev. J.), 33 - -CONWAY (Hugh), 17 - -COOK (E. T.), 2 - -COOKE (C. Kinloch), 24 - -COOKE (J. P.), 7, 34 - -CORBETT (J.), 4, 17, 38 - -CORFIELD (W. H.), 11 - -CORRY (T. H.), 6 - -COTTERILL (J. H.), 8 - -COTTON (Bishop), 34 - -COTTON (C.), 12 - -COTTON (J. S.), 29 - -COUES (E.), 40 - -COURTHOPE (W. J.), 4 - -COWELL (G.), 23 - -COWPER, 20 - -COX (G. V.), 9 - -CRAIK (Mrs.), 14, 17, 19, 20, 37, 38 - -CRAIK (H.), 8, 29 - -CRANE (Lucy), 2, 39 - -CRANE (Walter), 39 - -CRAVEN (Mrs. D.), 8 - -CRAWFORD (F. M.), 17 - -CREIGHTON (Bishop M.), 4, 10 - -CRICHTON-BROWNE (Sir J.), 8 - -CROSS (J. A.), 30 - -CROSSLEY (E.), 2 - -CROSSLEY (H.), 37 - -CUMMING (L.), 26 - -CUNNINGHAM (C.), 28 - -CUNNINGHAM (Sir H. S.), 17 - -CUNNINGHAM (Rev. J.), 31 - -CUNNINGHAM (Rev. W.), 31, 33, 34 - -CUNYNGHAME (Sir A. T.), 24 - -CURTEIS (Rev. G. H.), 32, 34 - - -DAHN (F.), 17 - -DAKYNS (H. G.), 37 - -DALE (A. W. W.), 31 - -DALTON (Rev. J. N.), 37 - -DANIELL (Alfred), 26 - -DANTE, 3, 13, 37 - -DAVIES (Rev. J. Ll.), 20, 31, 34 - -DAVIES (W.), 5 - -DAWKINS (W. B.), 1 - -DAWSON (G. M.), 9 - -DAWSON (Sir J. W.), 9 - -DAWSON (J.), 1 - -DAY (L. B.), 17 - -DAY (R. E.), 26 - -DEFOE (D.), 4, 20 - -DEIGHTON (K.), 15 - -DELAMOTTE (P. H.), 2 - -DELL (E. C.), 12 - -DE MORGAN (M.), 39 - -DE VERE (A.), 20 - -DICEY (A. V.), 12, 29 - -DICKENS (C.), 5, 17 - -DIGGLE (Rev. J. W.), 34 - -DILKE (Ashton W.), 19 - -DILKE (Sir Charles W.), 24, 29 - -DILLWYN (E. A.), 17 - -DOBSON (A.), 4 - -DONALDSON (J.), 33 - -DONISTHORPE (W.), 29 - -DOWDEN (E.), 4, 13, 15 - -DOYLE (Sir F. H.), 14 - -DOYLE (J. A.), 10 - -DRAKE (B.), 36 - -DRUMMOND (Prof. J.), 34 - -DRYDEN, 20 - -DU CANE (E. F.), 29 - -DUFF (Sir M. E. Grant), 20, 29, 37 - -DUNSMUIR (A.), 17 - -DÜNTZER (H.), 4, 5 - -DUPRÉ (A.), 7 - -DYER (L.), 1 - - -EADIE (J.), 4, 30, 31 - -EASTLAKE (Lady), 32 - -EBERS (G.), 17 - -EDGEWORTH (Prof. F. Y.), 28 - -EDMUNDS (Dr. W.), 22 - -EDWARDS-MOSS (Sir J. E.), 30 - -EIMER (G. H. T.), 6 - -ELDERTON (W. A.), 9 - -ELLERTON (Rev. J.), 34 - -ELLIOT (Hon. A.), 29 - -ELLIS (T.), 2 - -EMERSON (R. W.), 4, 20 - -EVANS (S.), 14 - -EVERETT (J. D.), 26 - - -FALCONER (Lanoe), 17 - -FARRAR (Archdeacon), 5, 30, 34 - -FARRER (Sir T. H.), 29 - -FAULKNER (F.), 7 - -FAWCETT (Prof. H.), 28, 29 - -FAWCETT (M. G.), 5, 28 - -FAY (Amy), 24 - -FEARNLEY (W.), 27 - -FEARON (D. R.), 8 - -FERREL (W.), 27 - -FESSENDEN (C.), 26 - -FINCK (H. T.), 1 - -FISHER (Rev. O.), 26, 27 - -FISKE (J.), 6, 10, 25, 29, 34 - -FISON (L.), 1 - -FITCH (J. G.), 8 - -FITZ GERALD (Caroline), 14 - -FITZGERALD (Edward), 14, 20 - -FITZMAURICE (Lord E.), 5 - -FLEISCHER (E.), 7 - -FLEMING (G.), 17 - -FLOWER (Prof. W. H.), 39 - -FLÜCKIGER (F. A.), 23 - -FORBES (A.), 4, 37 - -FORBES (Prof. G.), 3 - -FORBES (Rev. G. H.), 34 - -FOSTER (Prof. M.), 6, 27 - -FOTHERGILL (Dr. J. M.), 8, 23 - -FOWLE (Rev. T. W.), 29, 34 - -FOWLER (Rev. T.), 4, 25 - -FOWLER (W. W.), 24 - -FOX (Dr. Wilson), 23 - -FOXWELL (Prof. H. S), 28 - -FRAMJI (D.), 10 - -FRANKLAND (P. F.), 1 - -FRASER (Bishop), 34 - -FRASER-TYTLER (C. C.), 14 - -FRAZER (J. G.), 1 - -FREDERICK (Mrs.), 8 - -FREEMAN (Prof. E. A.), 2, 4, 10, 29, 32 - -FRENCH (G. R.), 13 - -FRIEDMANN (P.), 3 - -FROST (A. B.), 38 - -FROUDE (J. A.), 4 - -FULLERTON (W. M.), 37 - -FURNISS (Harry), 38 - -FURNIVALL (F. J.), 14 - -FYFFE (C. A.), 10 - -FYFE (H. H.), 9 - - -GAIRDNER (J.), 4 - -GALTON (F.), 1, 27 - -GAMGEE (Arthur), 27 - -GARDNER (Percy), 1 - -GARNETT (R.), 1 - -GARNETT (W.), 4 - -GASKELL (Mrs.), 12 - -GASKOIN (Mrs. H.), 30 - -GEDDES (W. D.), 13, 37 - -GEE (W. 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PALMER, PRINTER, ALEXANDRA STREET, CAMBRIDGE. - -6/50/7/92 - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] Grounds of a country-house. - -[B] Large oval dish. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Joyce, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE *** - -***** This file should be named 61378-0.txt or 61378-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/7/61378/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Joyce - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 11, 2020 [EBook #61378] -[Last updated: August 10, 2020] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="322" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:2px solid gray;padding:.1em;"> -<tr><td class="c"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter: I, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">XLVI, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">XLVII, </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">XLVIII.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c">J O Y C E</p> - -<h1>JOYCE</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF ‘THE SECOND SON,’ ‘A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN,’<br /> -‘THE WIZARD’S SON,’ ‘EFFIE OGILVIE,’ ETC.<br /></small> -<br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -AND NEW YORK<br /> -1891<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> -<i>First Edition</i> (<i>3 Vols. Crown 8vo</i>), 1888<br /> -<i>Second Edition</i> (<i>1 Vol. Crown 8vo</i>), 1889<br /> -<i>Reprinted 1891</i><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a coming of age, and yet not a coming of age. The hero in honour -of whom all these festivities were, was a bearded man, who had been -absent in all sorts of dangerous places since the moment when he was -supposed formally to have ended the state of pupilage. That had been -later than common, since the will of his uncle, whom he had succeeded, -had stipulated that he was to come of age at twenty-five. He was nearer -thirty when he came home, bearded as has been said, bronzed, with -decorations upon his breast, and a character quite unlike that of the -young hero to whom such honours are usually paid. His position -altogether was a peculiar one. The estates of the family were not -entailed, and Mr. Bellendean of Bellendean, the uncle, had passed over -his own brother, who was still living, and left everything to his -nephew; so that Norman was in the peculiar position of being received by -his father and mother in a house which was not theirs but his, and of -standing in the place of the head of the family, while the natural head -of his own branch of the family was put aside. The character of the -people made this as little embarrassing as it was possible for such a -false position to be, but still it was not easy; and as the young man -was full of delicate feeling and susceptibility, notwithstanding an -acquaintance with the world unusual in his circumstances, he had looked -forward to it with some apprehension. Perhaps it would be wiser to say -that he thought he was acquainted with the world. He had been ‘knocking -about’ for the last ten years, seeing all the service that was to be -seen, and making acquaintance with various quarters of the globe. He -thought he knew men and life. In reality he knew a little of Scotland, a -great deal of India, and had a trifling acquaintance with some of the -colonies; but of London, Paris, all the capitals<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> that count for -anything, and all the life that counts for anything, he was as ignorant -as a child.</p> - -<p>This combination is one which was not at all unusual in Scotland a -generation since, and produced a kind of character full of attraction, -the most piquant mixture of experience and ignorance, of simplicity and -knowledge, that can be conceived. A man who had an eye as keen as -lightning for the wiles of an Eastern, were he prince or slave, but -could be taken in with the most delightful ease by the first cab-driver -in the streets; who could hold his own before a durbar of astute -oriental politicians, but was at the mercy of the first flower-girl who -offered him a rosebud for his buttonhole, or <i>gamin</i> who held his horse. -He had the defects as well as the virtues common to a dominant race, and -probably was imperious and exacting in the sphere which he knew best; -but this tendency was completely neutralised by the confusion which -arose in his mind from the fact of finding himself suddenly among a -population entirely made up of this dominant race, to whom he could be -nothing but polite, whatever their condition might be. He was very -polite and friendly to the railway porters, to all the people he -encountered on the journey home, and reluctant to give trouble to the -pretty fair chambermaids at the hotels, or to pass, without inquiring -into their story, the women who begged or sold trifles on the streets. -‘A respectable-looking woman, and English by her accent,’ he would say. -‘We must stop and inquire into it. There must be a reason, you know.’ -‘Oh yes; probably there’s a reason. Come along, or you’ll have all the -vagrants at your heels,’ his more experienced companion would reply. -They had thus a little difficulty in getting him safely through the -streets at his first arrival. Home was strange to him; it was a place -where all the men were honest and all the women true. He was ready to -believe everything that was said to him in the new England which somehow -was so unlike the old which he had seen only in passing so long ago.</p> - -<p>The party he had brought with him consisted of two or three brother -officers, unnecessary to dwell upon here; an older friend, Colonel -Hayward, whom he had known very well and served under, and who had now -retired from the service, who joined young Bellendean in Edinburgh, -being already in the North; and a young man about town called Essex, who -had made a tour in India a year before, and was very willing to repay -the kindness shown him then by taking care of his military friend and -steering him through the dangers of London. Essex, who had a mild handle -to his name, and was Sir Harry, would have liked to prolong the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> period -of his tutorship, and lead his young soldier about into pleasures and -wonders unknown. But the claims of Bellendean and the great festivities -concerted there were supreme. It was thus a party of four or five young -men, chaperoned, if the word is applicable, by the <i>vieux moustache</i>, -the steady old soldier, as ready for a frolic as any of them, who was -yet, as he assured them, old enough to be their father, who arrived at -the Bellendean station, where flags were flying, and the militia band -blaring forth its welcome, and a body of mounted farmers waiting to -escort their landlord to his paternal halls. For Bellendean it was a -very fine reception indeed; and Norman himself, being of a simple mind, -was much impressed. If the others laughed a little, that was partly, no -doubt, because they were by no means the heroes of the day, and because, -in the eagerness about ‘the Ca’aptain,’ the desire to identify him, and -the disdainful indifference shown to everything that was not he, these -gentlemen were thrown into the background, where they grinned and looked -on. Colonel Hayward, however, was as much impressed and still more -delighted than Norman. He would have liked to shake hands with all the -tenantry as he did with Mr. Bellendean the father, and assure them all -that ‘there could not be a finer fellow;’ and when they raised a cheer -as the carriage drove off, joined in it lustily, with a sense of being -at once a spectator yet an actor in the scene which it was delightful to -see.</p> - -<p>Bellendean was a handsome house, of no particular age or pretensions, -not very far from Edinburgh. That beautiful town was indeed visible from -various points in the park, which, on the other hand, commanded a view -of the Firth and the low hills of Fife, at the point where the great -estuary closes in, and with a peaceful little island in mid-stream, and -a ruin or two on the margin of the water, forms that tranquil basin, in -which, driven by storms of wind and storms of nations, the Athelings, -pious folk, the Confessor’s kindred—not strong enough by themselves to -hold head against fierce Normans and Saxons any more than against the -wild tides of the Northern Ocean—once found a refuge. The rich and -mellow landscape, brightened with vast rolling fields of corn and -ripening orchards, startled the visitors from India, whose ideas of -Scotland were all Highland; but increased their respect for their lucky -comrade, of whom they had been accustomed to think that his estate was -some little patrimony among the mountains, where there might indeed be -grouse and perhaps deer to make poverty sweet, but nothing more -profitable. The Lowland landscape lay under a flood of afternoon light. -The roads were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> populous with passengers,—there were groups of ladies -in front of the house, on the terrace to which the long windows opened: -a beautiful park and fine trees, and all the evidences of that large -life which a country potentate leads in what our fathers called his -‘seat.’ Everything was wealthy, almost splendid; Bellendean himself felt -a certain awe as he looked upon all this which was his own. He -remembered everything keenly, and yet it had not seemed to him so great, -so imposing in his recollection as it was in reality. He had remembered -his own favourite haunts, which were not the most important features in -the scene. He turned to his father with a curious shyness and -embarrassment. ‘I had forgotten what a fine place it was,’ he said; but -his eyes said something else, which natural reserve and the presence of -strangers kept from his lips. What his eyes said was—‘Pardon! that it -should not be yours but mine.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a fine place,’ said Mr. Bellendean. ‘The places we have known -only in youth are apt to look diminished when we come back. I am glad it -has not that effect on you. All the same, my dear boy, I am glad it is -you and not I that have to live in it. Neither my wife nor I care much -for Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>At this Norman grasped his father’s hand, and said, ‘You are very good, -sir,’ in a way which much perplexed the excellent Colonel, who did not -understand wherein the virtue lay, and who was further stricken dumb by -the next question. ‘In the confusion and excitement of seeing you again, -I believe I have not asked for Mrs. Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>The reader is too experienced not to perceive that this question, which -bewildered Colonel Hayward, conveyed the not very extraordinary fact -that Norman had a step-mother, which was one of the chief reasons of his -long absence. Not that Mrs. Bellendean was a harsh or cruel step-mother, -or one of those spoilers of domestic peace who flourish in literature -under that title; but only that the young man remembered his mother, and -could ill bear to see another in her place. She stood on the steps of -the great door at this moment, awaiting the carriage—a woman not more -than forty, tall and fair, dressed a little more soberly than her age -required, but full of youth and animation in look and figure. A number -of ladies stood behind her, some of them ’as pretty creatures as ever I -saw,’ the Colonel said to himself—cousins of all degrees, old -playfellows, old friends. The <i>vieux moustache</i> stood by while these -pleasant spectators surged about young Bellendean. He stood aside and -made his remarks. ‘I shouldn’t wonder now if he might marry any one of -them,’ he said to himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> ‘Lucky fellow. I shouldn’t wonder now if -they were all waiting till he throws the handkerchief. Talk about -sultans! all those pretty English—no, they are Scotch—girls: and he -could have any one of them!’ The Colonel sighed at the thought. He -belonged himself to an age in which statistics had no place, before it -was known that there was a million or so of superfluous women, and being -a chivalrous soul he did not like it. He was much pleased to discover -afterwards that several of the young ladies were married, and so out of -the competition. But it was a pretty sight.</p> - -<p>After this the days were tolerably well filled. There was a dinner to -the neighbouring gentry, and a dinner to the tenantry. There was a ball. -There was a great supper in tents to the labourers and cottagers on the -estate; finally, there was a vast entertainment for the school children -in the united parishes of Bellendean and Prince’s Ferry. The Colonel -went through them all manfully. He carried out his original impulse, -shook hands with everybody, and said, ‘I assure you he’s a capital -fellow.’ ‘I had him under my command at So-and-so, and So-and-so, and I -know what’s in him.’ In this way Colonel Hayward was himself a great -success. The old county neighbours liked the assurance he gave them, and -the farmers delighted in it. And when it came to the turn of the masses, -and the old soldier went about among the tables at the labourers’ supper -repeating his formula, the enthusiasm was immense. ‘Eh, Cornel, but -that’s a real satisfaction,’ the old men said. ‘Sae lang as he’s done -his duty, what can mortal man do mair?’ His own assurances and -reassurances went to the good Colonel’s head. He felt like a trumpeter -whose note was the word of command to everybody, and marched about with -his head high. ‘I assure you he’s a capital fellow, a capital fell——’ -He was in the very act of repeating them, when the words seemed to fail -him all at once. He stopped in the middle with his mouth open, and gazed -at some one who at that moment for the first time caught his eye.</p> - -<p>Was it because her place did not seem to be there? A girl of twenty or -so—tall, slight, her figure like a lily-stalk slightly swaying forward, -her head raised, with a tremor of sympathy in every feature. Her face -was like a lily too, pale, with large eyes, either brown or blue, he -could not be sure which, and long eyelashes uplifted; and the most -sensitive mouth, which smiled yet quivered, and made as though repeating -the words, which the eyes seemed to divine before they were said. She -was seated at the end of a table with two old people, too old to be her -father and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> mother, looking as if she had strayed there by some strange -chance, as if she had nothing to do with the vulgar features of the -feast, like a young princess who had sat down among them to please them. -The words were stopped upon the Colonel’s lips. He broke down in the -middle, and stood staring at her, not knowing where he was. Good Lord! -that face: and sitting there among the common people, among the -labourers, the ploughmen! It did not seem to Colonel Hayward that -anybody about was surprised at his stare. They, too, turned round and -looked at her kindly, or—not kindly, as the case might be. But they -were not surprised. They understood his wonder. ‘Ay, sir, she’s a very -bonnie lass,’ said one old man. ‘A bonnie lass! a bonnie lass!’ the -Colonel repeated; but not with the tone in which he had spoken about the -capital fellow. It was as if some blow had been struck at him which took -away his utterance. He hurried up to Mrs. Bellendean, who stood at the -head of the tent looking on. ‘A young lady, my dear Colonel? there are -no young ladies there.’ ‘You must know her if I could but point her out -to you. She is like no one else about her. It is not curiosity. I have a -particular reason for asking.’ ‘Tell me what she was like,’ the gracious -lady said; but just then her husband came to consult her about -something, and the opportunity was lost.</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward retired from his trumpeting for that night. He let -Norman’s reputation take its chance. He was very silent all the rest of -the evening, not even repeating his question when he had an opportunity, -but sitting by himself and thinking it over. It was a remarkable face: -but no doubt the resemblance must be a chance resemblance. There are so -many faces in the world, and some of them here and there must resemble -each other. It must be something in his own mind, some recollection that -had come to him unawares, an association from the Scotch voices he heard -round him. That, when he came to think of it, must have been working in -his mind all day; indeed, ever since he came. And this was the issue. -Every mental process (people say) can be explained if you trace it out. -And this one was not so difficult after all, not difficult at all, when -you came to think of it, he said to himself, nodding his head; but all -the same, he could not help wishing that Elizabeth had been here. And -then he began to think again of that girl. She was not like a girl to be -found sitting with the ploughmen’s families. He seemed to see her before -him, especially when he shut his eyes and gave himself up to it, which -he did in a retired corner on the terrace after everybody had gone away. -Though it was late, there was still light in the skies, partly the -lingering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> northern daylight, partly the moon, and he shut his eyes -while he smoked his cigar and pondered. He could see her before him, -that girl, in a dark dress made (he thought—but then he did not know -much about it) like a lady’s—certainly with a face like a lady’s, or -how could she have resembled——? Of course, it was only association, -and the recollections that came back to him with those Lowland voices. -The Highland ones had never affected him in the same way. The fact was, -he said to himself, he was never half a man when Elizabeth was not with -him. She would have understood the sequence of ideas at once. She would -have found out in five minutes who the girl was and all about her, and -set him at rest. He was interrupted in those thoughts by the sudden -irruption of the band of young men with their cigars into the balmy -quiet of the night. It was warm, and they had found the smoking-room -hot. ‘And there is old Hayward gone to sleep in a corner,’ he heard one -of them say.</p> - -<p>‘He must not sleep,’ said Mr. Bellendean; ‘wake him up, Norman. The air -here is too keen for that.’</p> - -<p>‘I am no more asleep than any one of you young fellows,’ the Colonel -said, jumping up. ‘But as old Hayward has more sense than a set of boys, -he kept outside here in the cool while you were all heating yourselves -in the smoking-room. I don’t think they’ve got the best of it this time, -Mr. Bellendean, eh?’</p> - -<p>‘They don’t half so often as they think,’ said the other old gentleman. -They were neither of them very old, but they drew together with a -natural sympathy amid that band of youth.</p> - -<p>Next day was the concluding day of the Bellendean festivities, and it -was chiefly to be devoted to the children. In the afternoon the park was -turned into an immense playground. Every kind of game and entertainment -that could be thought of was provided. There was a conjurer, there was -Punch, there was a man with marionettes, and what the children liked -still better, there were games of all kinds, in which they could -themselves perform, which is always more agreeable than seeing other -people do so. And finally, there was tea—a wonderful tea, in which -mountains of cake and cookies innumerable disappeared like magic. The -ladies were all there, serving actively the flushed and happy crowds of -children, throwing themselves into it with much more sympathy than they -had shown with the substantial feasts of the previous days. The young -men were set free, they were not required to help in the entertainment -of the boys and girls; and except Norman, who had bravely determined to -do his duty to the end, the male portion of the company was represented -only by Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> Bellendean and the Colonel, who looked on from the terrace, -and finally took a walk round the tent where the meal was going on, and -partook, as the newspapers say, of a cup of tea at a little separate -table in a corner, where Mrs. Bellendean was taking that refreshment. It -was when the Colonel (who liked his tea) was standing with a cup in his -hand, just outside the great tent, which was steaming with the -entertainment, that he suddenly stopped once more in the midst of a -little speech he was making about the pleasure of seeing children enjoy -themselves. He stopped with a little start, and then he set down his cup -and turned back to watch something. It was afternoon, but the sun was -still high in the skies, and even under the tent there was full -daylight, impaired by no shadows or uncertainty. The shade within gave a -suppressed and yellow glow to everything, something like the air of a -theatre: and in the midst there she stood once more, the girl of last -night! The Colonel gazed at her with an absorption, an abstraction, -which was extraordinary. He saw nothing but only her alone. She had been -seated by the old ploughman on the previous night as if she belonged to -him; but now she was moving about among the children as the young ladies -were doing, serving and encouraging: her dress was very simple, but so -was theirs, and there was not one of them more graceful, more at her -ease. Everybody knew her. She seemed to be referred to on all hands; by -the children, who came clinging about her—by the visitors, who seemed -to consult her upon everything. Who could she be? The clergyman’s -daughter perhaps; but then, how had she come to be seated last night -between the old couple, who were clearly labouring people, at the -cottagers’ supper? And how had she come by that face? Whoever she might -be, gentlewoman or rustic maiden, how had she come by that face? There -was the wonder.</p> - -<p>The Colonel stood fascinated, immovable, at the tent-door, looking in, -seeing all the moving crowd of faces only as a background to this one, -which seemed, in his fancy, to reign over them all. Her face was not -still and attentive, as on the previous night, but full of animation and -life. He watched the children come round her as they finished their -meal, which was pretty to see; he watched the ladies coming and going, -always circling more or less about this one figure. He watched Norman -going up to her, holding out his hand, which she took, showing for the -first time a little rustic shyness, curtseying as if he had been a -prince. Then he saw a quite different sort of man from Norman, one of -the schoolmasters, go to her in his turn and say something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> in her ear, -with an evident claim upon her attention and a lingering touch on her -arm, which spoke much, which made the Colonel angry, as if the fellow -had presumed. But the girl evidently did not think he presumed. A smile -lighted up her face, which she turned to him looking up in his. Colonel -Hayward felt a movement of impatience take possession of him: and then a -still stronger feeling swept across his mind. As she turned her face -with that look of tender attention to the man who addressed her, she -turned it also to the spectator looking at her from the tent-door. The -line of the uplifted head, the soft chin, the white throat, the eyes -raised with their long eyelashes—‘Good God! who is she?’ he said aloud.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean saw the absorbed expression in his face, and came and -stood beside him to see what he was looking at. Her own face relaxed -into smiles when she found out the object of his gaze. ‘Oh, I don’t -wonder now at your interest, Colonel. I am sure she has had no tea; she -would never think of looking after herself. Now, come, you shall see her -nearer; she is worth looking at: Joyce!’ she cried.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></p> -<p>‘Joyce! Good God!’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Colonel Hayward</span> sank down upon a bench which stood close to the tent -door. The light swam in his eyes. He saw only as through a mist the -light figure advancing, standing docile and obedient by the side of the -great lady. The name completed the extraordinary impression which the -looks had made; he kept saying it over to himself under his breath in -his bewilderment. ‘Joyce! Good Lord!’ But presently the urgency of the -circumstances brought him to himself. He breathed in his soul a secret -desire for Elizabeth: then manned himself to act on his own behalf, -since no better could be.</p> - -<p>‘This is the very best girl in the world, Colonel Hayward,’ said Mrs. -Bellendean, with a hand upon Joyce’s shoulder. ‘I don’t wonder she -interested you. She has taught herself every sort of thing—Latin and -mathematics, and I don’t know all what. Our school is always at the head -in all the examinations, and she really raises quite an enthusiasm among -the children. I don’t know what we should do without her. Whenever we -come here, Joyce is my right hand, and has been since she was quite a -child.’</p> - -<p>If it was condescension, it was of the most gracious kind. Mrs. -Bellendean kept patting Joyce on the shoulder as she spoke, with a -caressing touch: and her eyes and her voice were both soft. The girl -responded with a look full of tenderness and pleasure. ‘Oh, mem, it is -you who are always so good to me,’ she said.</p> - -<p>The schoolmistress then! That was how the ploughman’s daughter had got -her superior look. When he saw her closer, he thought he saw -(enlightened by this knowledge) that it was only a superior look, not -the aspect of a lady as he had supposed. Her dress had not the dainty -perfection of the young ladies’ dresses; her hands were not delicate -like theirs: and she said ‘mem’ to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> her patroness with an accent -which—— Ah! but what did that accent remind him of? and the face? and, -good heavens! the name? These criticisms passed like a cloud across his -mind; the bewilderment and anxiety remained. He rose up from the bench, -nobody having thought anything of his sudden subsidence, except that -perhaps the old Colonel was tired with standing about. Oh that Elizabeth -had been here! but in her absence he must do what he could for himself.</p> - -<p>‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘would you tell me how you got your name? It is a -very uncommon name: and your face is not a common face,’ he added, with -nervous haste. ‘I knew some one once——’</p> - -<p>His voice seemed to go away from him into his throat. It was curious to -see him, at his age, so unsteady and agitated, swaying from one foot to -another, stammering, flushing under the limpid modest eyes of this -country girl, who, on her part, coloured suddenly, looked at him, and -then at Mrs. Bellendean, with a faint cry, ‘Oh, sir!’</p> - -<p>‘Where she got her name?’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘It is not so easily -answered as perhaps you think. I will tell you afterwards. It is a very -uncommon name. Joyce, my dear, what is the little secret you have been -plotting, and when is it to be made known?’</p> - -<p>The young woman stood for a moment without replying. ‘How can I help -wondering?’ she said, with a long-drawn breath. ‘How can I think of -common things? Nobody has ever asked me that question before.’ Then, -with a sudden effort, she recovered her self-control. ‘It will be -nothing,’ she said quickly, as if to herself; ‘it will be some fancy: -I’ll go back to my work. It was no secret worth calling a secret, Mrs. -Bellendean—only some poems they learned to please me—to say to you and -the other ladies, if you will take your seats.’</p> - -<p>‘Where would you like us to take our seats, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘Yonder, under the big ash-tree. It’s very bonnie there. You can see the -Firth, and the ships sailing, and St. Margaret’s Hope; and you will look -like the Queen herself, with her ladies, under the green canopy. Will I -put the chair for you?’ cried the girl, in a Scotch confusion of verbs. -She gave the Colonel one glance, and then hurried off, as if determined -to distract her own attention. There were a few garden-chairs already -scattered about under a clump of trees, which crowned a little platform -of green—a very slight eminence, just enough to serve as a dais. She -drew them into place with a rapid and cunning hand, and caught quickly -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> a Turkish rug of brilliant colour, which lay beside the tea-table, -placing it in front of the presiding chair. Her movements were very -swift and certain, and full of the grace of activity and capacity. -Meantime the Colonel stood by the side of Mrs. Bellendean, surveying -all.</p> - -<p>‘She is excited,’ said the lady. ‘She is a strange girl: your -question—which I have no doubt is a very simple question—has set her -imagination going. See what a picture she has made! and she could sketch -it too, if there was time. She is a sort of universal genius. And now -she is all on fire, hoping to find out something.’</p> - -<p>‘Hoping to find out—what?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear Colonel, it is a long story. I will tell you -afterwards—not a word more now, please. I don’t want her to form -expectations, poor girl—— Well Joyce—is that where I am to sit? I -shall feel quite like the Queen——’</p> - -<p>‘With the young ladies behind,’ said Joyce, breathless. Her eyes were -full of impatient light, her sensitive lips quivering even while they -smiled—a rapid coming and going of expression, of movement and colour, -in her usually pale face. The Colonel stood gazing at her, his mouth -slightly open, his eyes fixed. Oh, if Elizabeth were but here, who would -know what to do!</p> - -<p>The scene that followed was very pretty, if his mind had been -sufficiently free to take it in. The little girls, in their bright -summer frocks, subdued by the darker costumes of the boys, poured forth -from their eclipse under the tent, and gathered in perpetually moving -groups round the little slope. The ladies took their places, smiling and -benignant—Mrs. Bellendean in the centre, two of the prettiest girls -behind her chair, the others seated about. They all submitted to Joyce, -asking, ‘Shall I sit here?’ ‘Shall I stand?’ ‘What am I to do?’ with gay -docility. When it was all arranged to her liking, Joyce turned towards -the children. She stood at one side, pointing towards the pretty group -under the trees, holding her own fine head high, with a habit of public -speaking, which the Colonel thought—and perhaps also Norman Bellendean, -who was looking on—one of the prettiest sights he ever saw.</p> - -<p>‘Children,’ said the young schoolmistress, lifting her arm, with simple -natural eloquence, ‘this is a tableau—a beautiful tableau for you to -see. If you ever read the word in a book, or in the papers, you will -know what it means. It is a French word. It means a living group—that -is like a picture. This is our Scots Queen Margaret—a far grander Queen -than her they call the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> Queen of Scots in your history-books—Margaret -that was the Atheling, that married Malcolm Canmore, that was the son of -King Duncan, who was murdered by—who was murdered by—— Speak quick! -What do you mean, you big girls? Why, it’s in Shakespeare!’ cried Joyce, -with a ring of indignant wonder in her voice, as if the possibility of a -mistake in such a case was beyond belief.</p> - -<p>There was a movement among a group of girls, and some whispering and -hasty consultation: then one put forth a nervous hand, and cried, but -faltering, ‘Macbeth.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought you would not put me to shame before all the ladies!’ cried -Joyce, with a suffusion of sudden colour: for she had been pale with -suspense. Then she added, in a business-like tone: ‘It is you, Jean, -that are to say Portia. The Queen will hear you. Come well forward, and -speak out.’</p> - -<p>It was not a masterpiece of elocution. The speaker blushed and fumbled, -and clasped and unclasped her fingers in agonies of shyness—while Joyce -stood by with her head on one side, prompting, encouraging, her lips -forming the words, but only twenty times more quickly, as her pupil -spoke them. The Colonel was so absorbed in this sight that he started -when a voice spoke suddenly at his elbow, and recoiling a step or two -instinctively, saw that it was the young man, evidently a schoolmaster, -who had been with Joyce in the tent. He was looking at her with a -mixture of tenderness and pride.</p> - -<p>‘It is quite wonderful how she does it,’ he said. ‘I’ve no reason to -think I’m unsuccessful myself with my big boys; but I have not got them -under command like that. They will make very acute remarks, sir, that -would surprise you, in the Shakespeare class—but answer like that, no. -It is personal influence that does it—and I never saw anybody in that -respect to equal Joyce.’</p> - -<p>It gave the Colonel a sensation of anger to hear this fellow call her -Joyce. He turned and looked at him again. But there was nothing to -object to in him. He was not a gentleman; but he was what is called in -his own class quite a gentleman—a young fellow of very tolerable -appearance, whose clothes were of the most respectable description, and -who wore them as if he were used to them. He had as good a necktie as -Norman’s, and a flower in his coat. But when he stood by Norman it was -apparent that there was a good deal wanting. He was in all probability -much cleverer than Norman. He spoke of Shakespeare with an awe-striking -familiarity as if he knew all about him—which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> more than the -Colonel did. All the same he felt a sensation of offence at the use by -this man of the girl’s Christian name.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Joyce—is evidently a young lady of unusual gifts,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The face of the young man flushed with pleasure. ‘Sir,’ he cried, ‘you -never said a truer word. She is just running over with capability. She -can do anything she sets her hand to. I sometimes feel as if I grudged -her to be in the line of public tuition all her life. But when there are -two of us,’ he added proudly, ‘we will see what we can do.’</p> - -<p>What did the fellow mean? two of them! and one this wonderful girl? the -Colonel turned his back upon him in indignation, then turned again in -curiosity. ‘Is it common,’ he said, ‘in Scotch parish schools to have a -Shakespeare class?’</p> - -<p>‘Our common people, sir,’ said the young man quietly, with a look of -self-complacence which made the Colonel long to knock him down—‘our -common people are far more educated as a rule than you find them in -England. But no—I would not say it was common. There are many of my -friends that have poetry classes, which are optional, you know, on a -Saturday afternoon or other free moment. I’m not ashamed to say that it -was from her <i>I</i> took the hint—though you will think it is seldom a -woman takes the lead in such a matter. She started it, and several of us -have followed her example. She is, as you say, a creature of most -uncommon gifts.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet a ploughman’s daughter in a Scotch village: with that face—and -that name!’</p> - -<p>The young schoolmaster gave a sort of doubtful cough, the meaning of -which the Colonel could not divine. ‘That is how she has been brought -up,’ he said; ‘but you are perhaps not aware, sir, that many a wonderful -character has come from a Scotch ploughman’s house. Not to speak of -Burns, there was——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I am aware the Scotch are a most superior nation,’ cried the -Colonel, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>‘That is just the simple truth,’ the young man said.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the recitations were going on, which perhaps were not equal in -quality to the rest of Joyce’s arrangements. She was in extreme earnest -about it all, it was evident to see, and eager that everything should -produce the best effect. A few mothers, who had known what was going to -happen, had gathered about, listening with proud delight yet anxiety -lest they should break down, each to her own child. Among them was a -little old woman, sunburnt and rosy as a winter apple, with an -old-fashioned black bonnet tied down over her ears, and a huge Paisley -shawl almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> covering her dark cotton gown. ‘You think but of your own -bairns,’ she was saying, ‘but I think of them a’; for it’s a’ my J’yce’s -doing, and she will just break her heart if there’s any failure.’</p> - -<p>‘There will be nae failure; they’re owre weel trained for that.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ve no a word to say against J’yce; but she’s awfu’ fond of making a -show,’ another woman said.</p> - -<p>‘If she’s fond of making a show, it’s never of hersel’,—it’s always -your bairns she puts to the front; and if you dinna like it,’ cried the -old woman, ‘what brings ye here?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel, who had the best of manners, stepped forward and took off -his hat. ‘I guess by what you say, ma’am, that you are Miss Joyce’s -mother?’ he said.</p> - -<p>The old woman was a little startled and fluttered by this unexpected -address. She, too, hesitated, as they all seemed to do. ‘Weel,’ she -said, ‘sir, I’m all the poor thing has had for one; but no so good as -she deserved.’</p> - -<p>‘Ma’am,’ said the Colonel, ‘the result of your training speaks for -itself, and that is the best practical test. Will you let me ask you a -question—and that is, whether the name Joyce is a family name?’</p> - -<p>The old woman’s mouth and her eyes opened in astonishment. ‘Joyce,’ she -said feebly, ‘a family name?’</p> - -<p>‘I mean—does she take it from a relation, as I have always heard was -the admirable Scotch way?’</p> - -<p>‘Weel, sir,’ said the old lady, ‘if that is all, I have little doubt ye -are quite right. She would get it, it’s mair than probable, from her -mither.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel gazed upon her with surprise. More than probable! what did -she mean? ‘Then it is your name too,’ he said, with a little -disappointment. There arose from the group a sudden burst of laughter -and explanation and denials, of which he could not make out a word. ‘Na, -na,’—that was all that reached him clearly. But what was meant by -it—whether that it was not the old mother’s name, or what other -negative—he could not make out: and just at this moment Mr. Bellendean -and Norman came up to him and drew him away.</p> - -<p>‘You have had enough of this, I am sure, Colonel. Come along, we are -going down to the Ferry to see what Essex and the rest are after. It’s -very good of you to give us your countenance to the last.’</p> - -<p>‘My countenance! nothing of the sort, Norman. I’m very much -interested.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘In the little girls and their “pieces?"’ said Mr. Bellendean.</p> - -<p>‘In the young lady there who has taken so much trouble.’</p> - -<p>‘What young lady?’ said the elder gentleman, looking about. Then he -added, in a careless tone, ‘Oh, Joyce! Yes, she’s an interesting -creature, isn’t she! It will please my wife if you admire Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘I think then, sir,’ said Norman, ‘I’ll please Mrs. Bellendean too.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you! you’re a different matter. You had better keep to your own -set, my boy,’ said the father. ‘If you are so absorbed, Colonel, we’ll -leave you till you have had enough. You’ll find us at the Ferry. Come, -Norman, and look after your friends.’</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen went away, the Colonel stayed. He was becoming -accustomed to the name and the face which had so much disturbed him. If -indeed it was a family name—and likenesses, we know, are very -fantastic—still for the sake of the name and face, he would like, he -thought, to see something more of her; he would like to give her some -token of his interest, if she would let him. He did not think that he -had ever been so much interested in any one before. He thought he could -never forget this little scene. Perhaps, on the whole, he was tired of -the recitations. He took a little stroll about, but came back always to -a point where he could see her. If Elizabeth were but here! She would -have known in a moment what to do. She would have found out all about -it; how the girl got that name at least, if not how she got that face. -By and by the little performance came to an end, and Mrs. Bellendean -made a gracious little speech praising every one, and got up from the -place under the trees where she had been posing as Queen Margaret; and -the children began to get into movement, to arrange themselves in their -respective bands, and to prepare for going away.</p> - -<p>‘How good of you to stay all the time, Colonel Hayward! They did their -best, poor things; but even Joyce cannot create a soul in the Jeanies -and Jennys. Now I think we had better go in; it is almost time to -dress,’ Mrs. Bellendean said.</p> - -<p>The Colonel could not but follow, but he cast wistful looks behind him. -‘I suppose it would only annoy her: but I should like to see more of -her,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Of Joyce? Colonel Hayward, I am afraid you are a dangerous person. I -can’t have you turning the head of the best girl in the world.’</p> - -<p>He looked round again, lingering, unable to quit the spot. The little -procession was marshalled and ready to set out. But on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> spot where -she had stood prompting and directing her pupils the young -schoolmistress was still standing, lingering like himself. She was -looking after him with wistful eyes, with a look of wondering -disappointment, as if she had expected something more. That look -awakened all the old excitement, which had partially calmed down in the -Colonel’s heart. The attitude, the raised head, the wistful look in the -eyes, all moved him again as at the first, with an overpowering sense of -likeness, almost identity. ‘What does it mean?’ he said; ‘I feel as if I -could not tear myself away. Who is she? There must be something in a -resemblance like that.’</p> - -<p>‘Whom does she resemble, Colonel Hayward?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel turned round again and gave his questioner a look. He looked -at her as if he wanted to know how far he could trust her. And then his -eyebrows and his mouth worked. ‘Of some one—a lady—who has been long -dead,’ he replied, ‘and her name—her name!’</p> - -<p>‘You are very serious, Colonel; it is not only a passing interest? It is -really something—something! Oh, forgive me. I cannot have her -disturbed. She is all quivering with imagination and wonder.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Bellendean, there is some mystery about this girl. Why should she -wonder, why should she be disturbed? Me, yes. I am much disturbed. It is -something—of which I have not spoken for years. Oh, if Elizabeth were -only here!’</p> - -<p>‘Then come with me to my room,’ Mrs. Bellendean said; ‘if we stay here -we shall be interrupted every moment. I am beginning to get excited -myself. Come this way. The window is always open, and nobody will know -we are there.’</p> - -<p>She turned for a moment and waved her hand to Joyce, who had just taken -her place at the head of the band; then, turning up a side path, led -Colonel Hayward round an angle of the house to the open window of a -little morning-room. ‘Here,’ she said,—‘we can talk in quiet here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a little business-room, but the business in it was chiefly -feminine. There were baskets of work, shelves full of books in homely -covers, a parish or Sunday-school library, and all the paraphernalia of -a country lady who ‘takes an interest’ in her poorer neighbours. It was -the room in which Mrs. Bellendean interviewed those of her dependants or -retainers who came to ask her advice, or whom she sent for to be -reproved or counselled. Her own chair stood in front of a -formidable-looking writing-table, and one other stood close by, awaiting -the respondent or defendant, whoever he or she might be. The windows -looked into a closely surrounding shrubbery, which shut out the view—as -if landscapes and such vanities had nothing to do with the sternness of -the business transacted here. Over the mantelpiece hung a large -engraving of Dr. Chalmers—the presiding divinity. Colonel Hayward came -in after her, somewhat tremulous, with a sense that some revelation was -about to be made to him. The excitement which he had tried to put off, -which he had tried to represent to himself as without foundation, as -proceeding from merely accidental resemblances, had once more gained -command of him, and with more power than ever. He felt certain now that -some discovery deeply concerning him was about to be made.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Bellendean began, ‘is——’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon. Joyce what? Tell me her other name.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Colonel Hayward, if you will only listen to me! Joyce—has no -other name. Oh yes, she takes the name of the good old people who have -brought her up, who love her like their own child. She is a foundling, -Colonel Hayward.’</p> - -<p>‘A foundling!’ The word did not discompose him as she had expected, but -evidently took him by surprise. A look of profound perplexity came upon -his face. He shook his head slightly, and gazed at her, as if he did not -know what to think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘The story has been told to me so often that I feel as if I had known -all about it throughout, though this happened long before I came here. -It is a little more than twenty years ago. A lady arrived one evening at -the inn in the village. It is a very poor little place—the sort of -place where people coming out from Edinburgh on Sundays——’</p> - -<p>He made her a little silent yet impatient sign of assent.</p> - -<p>‘You understand? Yes, a little bit of a place, where they had a humble -room or two sometimes to let in summer. She arrived there quite -unexpectedly. She had been going by Queensferry to Fife and the North, -and was too tired to go on. And they had no room for her at the Ferry -hotel. She had no maid or any one with her, but she seemed a lady to the -people here. They were all quite sure she was a lady—very like what -Joyce is now, pale, with that little movement of her lips which I tell -Joyce—— Colonel Hayward, you look as if you knew, as if you had -known—— Oh, do you think you can throw any light——’</p> - -<p>‘For God’s sake go on—go on!’</p> - -<p>‘To spare you the details,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘the poor thing was -about to have a baby: but showed her condition very little—so little -that there was no alarm, nor any idea of a—of a catastrophe. She walked -about a little in the evening, and perhaps over-tired herself. Anyhow, -in the middle of the night she was taken ill. The people made a great -fuss when they knew what it was, and wanted her to tell them who her -friends were, and her husband, and all that, which probably made -everything worse, though they had no unkind meaning. And so when the -child was born——’</p> - -<p>The Colonel got up from his seat. He went to the window and looked out, -turning his back upon her; then returned to his chair like a man -distracted. Mrs. Bellendean paused in her narrative, startled by the -sudden movement, and sat silent watching him. He said, in a sort of -hoarse whisper, ‘She died?’</p> - -<p>‘Not immediately. What happened was almost worse than dying; she went -out of her mind. Women have many things to bear that nobody thinks of. -They are subject to attacks of that kind at such times. The doctor -thought she would get better of it; but she did not live to get better, -poor thing! My sister-in-law, who was here then, heard of her, and was -very much interested and did all she could. But the poor girl died in -about three weeks, without ever being able to tell them where she came -from or who she was. They made out that her name was Joyce, from her own -wanderings and from the letters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward said with his lips, ‘The letters?’ scarcely making any -sound.</p> - -<p>‘There was one letter, without any envelope or address, which appeared -to be from her husband. And on the night she arrived, before she was -taken ill, she had begun to write, to him apparently, about something -that had come between them, something that had driven her nearly mad. -Colonel Hayward! Yes, they were read by the people who took charge of -the poor little baby and who managed everything. I understand what you -mean; it was like prying into the secrets of the poor dead lady. But -what could they do? What do you say? Name? No, there is no name. The -husband’s letter is signed only H—— Ah! you know! I am sure you know!’</p> - -<p>The Ah! which came from Mrs. Bellendean’s lips was very nearly a scream. -The Colonel had risen to his feet, with a pallor upon his face and a -gasp for breath which frightened her. He stood as if any touch would -have knocked him down, as if scarcely conscious what he was about. His -faculties seemed to fail him for the moment. He put up his hand with a -sort of dumb appeal, as if to stop what she was saying. Then he himself -with an effort broke the silence. She leaned forward with the greatest -excitement and expectation. But all that was audible were the words that -had been going through his mind all day, ‘Oh, if Elizabeth were only -here!’</p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth—who is Elizabeth?’ Mrs. Bellendean cried.</p> - -<p>He did not make any reply, nor did he seem to hear, but began to walk up -and down, passing and repassing between her and the window. He seemed to -be arguing, talking to himself, comparing what he had heard with -something else. ‘But I never suspected that—never. She said nothing. -There might be another—another. It might be all the while, it might be -all the while—some one else. How can I tell? Only a name, a name! and -so long ago. Oh, if I only had Elizabeth here! Elizabeth would know.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean here rose up too and touched him on the arm. She was -trembling with the excitement of this encounter, which suddenly made the -story of the poor young mother—a sort of tradition in the village—into -something real. ‘Colonel,’ she said, ‘you know something; you can tell -us something? For God’s sake, if there is any clue, don’t let it go. -Tell me, for that poor girl’s sake.’</p> - -<p>Her touch seemed to restore him to himself. He looked round vaguely, and -seeing that she was standing, drew forward her chair with old-fashioned -politeness. ‘A boorish fellow,’ he cried, ‘a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> boorish fellow you must -think me, not to perceive that you were standing. How can I beg your -pardon? The fact is, that without Elizabeth—without Elizabeth—there is -no good to be got out of me.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean was a woman full of energy and promptitude. ‘If that be -so, then let us send for her at once,’ she said.</p> - -<p>The Colonel made a hasty movement of satisfaction. ‘But I am scarcely -known to you myself,’ he cried. ‘How could I take such a liberty? Only -your son’s old colonel; and he is not even your son.’</p> - -<p>‘He is a great deal more—he is the master of this house. Who should be -so welcome as his own friends? And if I count for anything, and any -light can be thrown on this mystery—oh, Colonel!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘I don’t know. My mind is all in a whirl. There -are some things that make me think—and then there are other things. It -is more than I can make head or tail of—alone. And then it’s a serious -thing—oh, a very serious thing. If I were to do anything hasty, and -then it were to turn out a mistake——’</p> - -<p>He said this with such an air of trouble, and at the same time of -confidence, that his listener met his look with one of involuntary -sympathy, and murmured an assent.</p> - -<p>‘She will say I am hasty. I am always hasty; but then, in the -circumstances—— And it is not a case for half measures. If this should -be!’ A shiver of strong feeling seemed to pass over him. ‘It would make -a revolution in our lives,’ he went on; ‘it would change everything. -There must be no half measures. If ever there was a case in which she -had a right to be consulted—— And then she’ll understand in a -moment—she’ll see through it. If it’s credible: it sounds incredible; -but on the other hand——’ He gave her once more that appealing look, -as if the dilemma in which he found himself must be evident to her, then -added hastily, ‘Will you really be so very good, notwithstanding the -little you know of us? But I might go and get rooms at the Ferry, and -not trouble you.’</p> - -<p>‘You shall do nothing of the kind,’ she said peremptorily, with a -decision that was balm to him. ‘Let us not lose a moment, Colonel -Hayward. Here is a telegraph paper; will you write it yourself, or shall -I?’</p> - -<p>He took it from her, and lifted a pen from the table, but his hand -shook. ‘I am very nervous,’ he said. ‘It is absurd, but I can’t help it. -If you will write, “Come at once; I am in great need of you.” That will -do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Come at once. I am in great need of you,’ repeated Mrs. Bellendean; -‘had not you better add that you will meet her by the early train? Will -she be likely to travel by night?’</p> - -<p>‘She will come by the first train, whenever that may be.’</p> - -<p>‘That will be the night express. I shall add, “Will meet you at -Edinburgh.” And now you must put the address.’</p> - -<p>He paused a little without replying. ‘You would think that alarming, -perhaps, if you got it all at once without any warning?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, with a smile, ‘I fear I should; but then no one thinks -my help so important as you evidently feel your—this lady’s to be.’</p> - -<p>‘My wife,’ he said gravely; ‘my wife. Yes, she is very important. -Perhaps you will put at the last, “Nothing that is alarming—rather -good.” I think that will do. To Mrs. Hayward, Rosebank, Fairhill, -Surrey. How can I ever thank you enough!’ He stooped over her hand, -which held out the paper, and kissed it with old-fashioned -gratitude—‘To let me send for her, when I am but a stranger myself.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope she will be able to help you, Colonel Hayward; and I hope my -poor Joyce will get the benefit.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he cried. He had come to himself by means of the ready -intervention of the practical in the person of Mrs. Bellendean, but -faltered again at this as if she had struck him a blow.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps,’ she added hastily, ‘you would like to see—the letters, and -the other relics? perhaps——’</p> - -<p>He rose up from his seat. ‘I must go and send this,’ he said, and -hurried from the room. He came back again, however, a moment after, -looking in through the half-opened door. ‘When Elizabeth comes,’ he -said, and disappeared again.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean had been greatly excited by the idea of thus touching -upon a real romance of life—a story such as comes to light rarely in -the commonplace world. The old Colonel’s emotion, the excitement with -which he had listened to the narrative, the evident stirring up of old -recollections in his mind, and attempt to piece it out from his own -knowledge of something which had passed long ago—had wound her up to a -pitch of suspense and eagerness almost as great as his own. But a -certain comic element came in with the sudden summons of Elizabeth, and -the evident determination to put the whole matter, whatever it might be, -on his wife’s shoulders, and to put off the inquiry until she should -appear. Poor Elizabeth!—probably a comfortable mother, suddenly shaken -out of domestic peace, and sent for in hot haste to unravel a mystery -with which most likely she had nothing to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> do. Mrs. Bellendean laughed -softly to herself: but then changed her expression, and sighed. She was -herself of no such importance to any one. She reflected that, if any -difficulty should happen in the life of her own husband, she would be -the person from whom, above all others, it would be concealed. No one in -the world would think of summoning <i>her</i> to aid him in a desperate -crisis. She would be spared all unpleasant knowledge: what everybody -would say would be—Don’t say anything to her; why should we disturb -her? Perhaps the Elizabeth of Colonel Hayward’s thoughts would have been -glad to be so exempted from the troubles of life. But Mrs. Bellendean -was not glad. She envied the other woman, upon whom it appeared that, -habitually, all that was troublesome was thrown. What kind of a woman -must she be—an old campaigner, a strong-minded person—who kept the -good old Colonel in subjection? That was the most probable explanation.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean sat a little thinking this over, and then she went back -to her duties, to see after her guests. The school treat had been -happily the end of all the public performances; but with so many people -in the house, every dinner was a dinner-party. When she went out again -upon the terrace, the children were just disappearing in a many-coloured -line through the avenue of limes, watched by the ladies who had been -made to form Queen Margaret’s Court under the great ash-tree. The -younger ladies of the party gathered about her as she reappeared. There -was one of them who was her special favourite—the only daughter of one -of her dearest friends, a distant relation—a little Margaret, to whom -she had given her name, and in whom, accordingly, every element of -preference centred. Mrs. Bellendean had said to herself that if Greta -(which was her pet name, to distinguish her from Maggies and Margarets -without number) and Norman should by any chance take to each other—why -then! But it must be understood that no match-making was thought of, no -scheme, no trap laid—only if they should happen to take to each other! -Greta was one of the eager band who came forward to meet the lady of the -house. She was a slim girl of nineteen, with silky brown hair and grey -eyes—the slightest willowy figure, the most deprecating expression,—a -fragile creature, who begged pardon for everything—though in looks, not -in words—and yielded at a touch to the bolder spirits about. It was -perhaps for this cause that Greta was always made the spokeswoman when -anything was wanted in her family and connections; no one had the heart -to refuse the pleading of her eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Aunt Margaret, they want so much to have tableaux to-night, after -dinner, before the gentlemen come in, just for ourselves.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t see that,’ said a voice out of the group behind her. ‘We -may as well have an audience.’</p> - -<p>‘And we want them to help. We must have an Edgar Atheling, and a Malcolm -Canmore, and all the Court gentlemen.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no; dresses for the gentlemen are <i>impossible</i>,’ said another, more -peremptory. ‘We can manage for ourselves, but how could we get things -for them? Oh no, no!’</p> - -<p>Greta stood looking round upon her somewhat rebellious following. ‘I -wish,’ she said, with a slight vexation in her tone, ‘you would make up -your mind what you do want, before you send me to ask. Aunt Margaret, -may we get them up? and will you be Queen Margaret, as you were to-day! -And will you let us ask Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we must have Joyce!’ cried the chorus. ‘Joyce is indispensable. -None of us know much about Queen Margaret. Please let us have Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘The tableaux as much as you like,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘I have no -objection; but Joyce—Joyce is quite another matter.’</p> - -<p>‘How is Joyce another matter?’ cried the little surging crowd. ‘Joyce is -the very first necessity of all. Oh, Aunt Margaret! Oh, Mrs. Bellendean! -Oh, Queen, Queen! Why, she is the one that knows. She is the one——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear girls, you don’t think. How do you suppose she can like it, to -come and take her part with you, and be complimented by everybody, and -then to go away to Peter Matheson’s cottage and boil the potatoes for -supper? Besides, there are other circumstances——’</p> - -<p>‘What other circumstances? Oh, tell us! Oh, I hope she is going to break -it off with that Mr. Halliday. He is not half good enough for her. But -why should that keep her from helping us?’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t ask me fifty questions all in a moment. Hush! don’t say anything. -Perhaps she may be going to find out about her mother.’</p> - -<p>This was very indiscreet of Mrs. Bellendean: but she was so full of her -new information that she could not restrain herself. And then there -arose from all those soft throats a unanimous ‘Oh!’ which ran like a -little breeze about the house, and disturbed the flowers in the big -baskets. ‘Who is she? Is she a lady? I am sure she is a lady!’ the girls -cried.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t tell you any more. And you must none of you say a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> word, for -she knows nothing; neither do I. I only know that I think—some one -knows about her—some one who is here.’</p> - -<p>Who could it be? the girls consulted each other with their eyes, and -immediately ran over every name of all the dwellers in the house and all -the guests, excepting only the old Colonel, of whom nobody thought.</p> - -<p>‘If there is to be the least hint given, or so much as a look, or -anything to awaken her attention—remember in that case she must not -come. She must not come: I cannot have her excited and disturbed.’</p> - -<p>There was a universal cry of indignant protestation. Tell her! oh no! No -one would do such a thing. What did Mrs. Bellendean think of them? Were -they such silly things, with so little feeling as <i>that</i>? Oh no, no! On -the other hand, to be taken out of herself, to be made to forget it, -would be such a good thing for Joyce. And how exciting and delightful -for everybody! To think she might be a duke’s daughter perhaps, or a -foreign princess, or, in any case, something altogether out of the -common way!</p> - -<p>‘Well, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘Greta, I think I can -trust you to take care of her. Not a word; not a hint. For after all, it -is the very vaguest possibility, and it may come to nothing at all.’</p> - -<p>‘In that case, don’t you think it was a pity to say anything about it?’ -said the matter-of-fact, common-sense voice of Mr. Bellendean.</p> - -<p>He was a man said to be full of common-sense. His wife considered him a -wet blanket, always putting out her fires, and quenching all enthusiasm. -He had a horrible way of being right which was doubly exasperating. And -she had of course regretted that premature hint of hers the moment she -had made it. When she turned round and found out that she had taken her -husband and his son unwittingly into her confidence, she felt, to use -her own words, ’as if she could have cried.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it was a pity,’ she said; ‘but one can’t always be prudent, and -none of you will say a word.’</p> - -<p>The young ladies redoubled their protestations, and hurried away to make -up to Joyce before she reached the village with her charge. As for Mrs. -Bellendean, to avoid further criticism, she turned quickly round upon -Norman, who had said nothing, but whose eyes had followed the girls with -pleased observation. It was natural, for they were a pretty group.</p> - -<p>‘Are you very well acquainted with Colonel Hayward?’ she asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Acquainted? with old Hayward? Oh yes, I think so,’ he said, with a -little surprise.</p> - -<p>‘Then who is Elizabeth?’</p> - -<p>The young man had been looking at her with some curiosity. His face -suddenly changed now from grave to gay. His eyes lighted up with humour. -‘Elizabeth!’ he said, with a laugh, ‘have you found her out? She is Mrs. -Hayward, I know; but I have never seen her. She is his other self—no, -that’s not the right way of putting it. She is himself, and he is the -other. Oh, everybody knows about Elizabeth.’</p> - -<p>‘She is coming here to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Bellendean.</p> - -<p>‘Coming here! none of us have ever seen her,’ he replied. ‘She was -always at the hills, or home for her health, or something; though some -people said she kept close in the bungalow like a native lady, and never -would show——’</p> - -<p>‘Good heavens! she is not a native, Norman, I hope? Don’t say that, -please.’</p> - -<p>‘One of your usual hasty proceedings, my dear; but it would be some fun -to have a Begum in the house.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it is likely; but I don’t know. He was always wishing for -her. We made rather a joke of it, I fear. I have heard him, when he was -giving his orders—and he is a very smart soldier, dear old fellow, -though perhaps you think him a—— I have heard him say between his -teeth, “If Elizabeth were but here,” when most men were only too -thankful their wives were out of the way.’</p> - -<p>‘I like that,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, with a sigh. ‘I like it very much. -Women would be a great deal happier if their husbands would always treat -them so.’</p> - -<p>‘What! take them out to face the enemy?’ her husband said. But he knew -very well what she meant; and though he was a very well-bred man, and -showed no sign of it, he resented both her little speech and her smaller -sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not very far from the terrace at Bellendean to Peter Matheson’s -cottage in the village, which was a cottage with a but and a ben—that -is, an outer and an inner, two rooms downstairs, into one of which the -door opened, and two others above. There was nothing in front but the -village street, from which you could tap at the window of the kitchen in -which the family lived; but behind there was a little garden, with some -large lilac and rose bushes, and an ash-tree with a small plot of grass -round its patriarchal feet. Joyce had come back tired from the dusty -walk with the children just as her granny, as she called the old woman -who had been her guardian all her life, had taken off the large Paisley -shawl and the close black satin bonnet, which were her state costume out -of doors. Mrs. Matheson—called Janet in the village, a freedom which -Joyce resented—had folded up carefully her ‘grand shawl’ and laid her -bonnet upon it, to be put away presently, and had seated herself in the -high-backed wooden chair to rest. The kettle was beginning to boil on a -fire kept as low as possible in compliment to the hot June day. Though -she had shared in the refreshment under the tent, Janet was not -contented to accept that in place of the much-prized cordial of her own -brewing. ‘Na, na; what ye get out o’ an urn may be gran’ drinking,’ she -said, ‘but it’s never like my tea.’ She was waiting till the kettle -should boil to ‘mask the tea,’ which even Joyce did not do altogether to -her liking. When the door opened and the girl came in, Janet was -sitting, musing as she waited, near the fire, according to cottage -custom. She was old, and it was not too warm for her, and she was tired -and enjoying what it requires the long habit of toil to enjoy -thoroughly, the entire quiescence of physical rest. To sit there, doing -nothing, was sweet at her age. In former times she could remember being -impatient for the boiling of the kettle. In these days she would have -whipped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> up her bonnet and shawl and ran upstairs with them, thinking it -an idle thing to leave them there even for a moment; and she would have -set out the cups while she waited. But now she was not impatient. There -was no hurry, and rest was sweet. She looked up when her child came -in—who was her child certainly, though not her daughter—with a pride -and admiration of her looks, and her dress, and everything about her, -that never failed. Joyce wore a dark dress, which she had made herself, -after the model of a dress of Greta’s. Her little collars and cuffs were -like those the young ladies wore, without the slightest ornament. It -vexed Janet a little that she would not wear a locket, as all the girls -did in the village, and as the young ladies also did. It was as if they -took her siller from her, or hoarded it up, or grudged her any bonnie -thing she would wear. ‘Eh! if it was me,’ Janet said, ‘she would be just -as fine as the best. There’s naething I would not ware upon her—a gold -chain on her neck, and a gold watch at her side, and a ring upon her -finger; but she will not be guided by me. And to see her looking like a -young queen, and no a thing to show for it but just her ain bonnie -looks; eh! I hope it’ll not be remembered against us if we’re awfu’ -proud; for Peter is just as bad as me.’ But all this was said in the -absence of Joyce, and to her face the old mother gave utterance to -little phases of detraction, as it is the part of a mother to do.</p> - -<p>‘You’re very soon back; you’re back maist as soon as me. I am just -waiting for the water to come a-boil, and then I’ll mask the tea. You -will be better, after a’ yon botheration, and the trouble you’ve been -giving yoursel’, of a good cup of tea.’</p> - -<p>‘I had some in the tent, granny,’ said Joyce, sitting down wearily near -the door.</p> - -<p>‘Oh ay! in the tent. If yon’s what pleases the leddies it doesna please -me. What’s the matter with ye? You’ve just weariet yoursel’ with thae -weans and their pieces, till ye canna tell whether you’re on your head -or your heels. Na, na; sit still and rest. I’ve had naething to tire me. -I’ll get out the cups mysel’, and we’ll keep the teapot warm at the side -of the fire for Peter. He likes it a’ the better the mair it tastes o’ -the pot.’</p> - -<p>‘What did you think of it all, granny? Who did you like best? Did you -like the tableau, with the Queen and the ladies? Wasn’t it like a -picture? I wonder if the real Queen Margaret was as handsome as ours, -and all her maidens as sweet.’</p> - -<p>‘Your head is just turned with them, J’yce; and yon would be your doing, -too? Putting up Mrs. Bellendean upon a throne, as if she was the -duchess. I thought that bid to be one o’ your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> fancies; and they just do -what ye tell them, it seems to me, young and auld, and the leddy -hersel’. Your head would be just turned, if it werena for me, that never -spoilt ye. Sit to the table like a reasonable creature, and take your -tea.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want any tea, granny. I am only tired. There was a gentleman -there——’</p> - -<p>‘And what’s that to you, if there were a hundred gentlemen?’ said her -guardian quickly. ‘Na, na; there’s to be nae talk about gentlemen -between you and me.’</p> - -<p>‘It was an old gentleman, granny,’ said Joyce, with a smile curving -slightly the grave lines of her mouth.</p> - -<p>‘The auld anes are often waur than the young anes,’ the old woman said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, granny!’ cried Joyce, ‘what is that to me, if they are old or -young? This one asked me—granny, listen! listen! for my heart is -beating hard, and I must get some one to listen to me;—he asked me, -where I had got my name,—who had given me my name? with a look—oh, if -I could let you see his look! Not as some do, just staring, which means -nothing but folly—but a look that made his eyes open wide, and the -colour go out of his face.’</p> - -<p>‘It was just very impident of any man to look at you like that.’</p> - -<p>‘No, it was not impudent. He was an old man with a sweet face, as if he -was somebody’s father—some girl’s father that is my age. And he asked -me, “Young lady” (he did not know who I was)—“young lady, where did you -get your name?"’</p> - -<p>The terms of this address moved Janet much more than the meaning. ‘Well, -I’ll not say that I’m surprised: for if ever there was a young lass that -looked like a lady, no to flatter ye—for flattery’s no my way——’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, granny, you don’t see what I mean. It was not me that he was -thinking of. He was wondering to hear me called Joyce; and he knew -somebody—he knew—some one that was like me—that had the same name.’</p> - -<p>Old Janet paused in the act of pouring out the tea. ‘I mind now,’ she -said. ‘There was somebody asking me where ye got it,—if it was a name -in the family; but I took no thought. Bless me! can ye no be contented -with them that have done their best for you all your life?’</p> - -<p>‘I am very well contented,’ said Joyce; but the involuntary movement of -her mouth contradicted her words. She added, after a little pause, ‘No -one is so well off as I am. I have the kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> work I like, and my big -girls that learn so well, and you, granny dear, that are always so -kind.’</p> - -<p>‘Kind!’ said the old woman, with quick offence; ‘if you think I’m -wanting to be thought kind——’</p> - -<p>‘But I should like,’ said Joyce, who in the meantime had been murmuring -something to herself about the ‘Happy Warrior,’ and had not given much -attention to this disclaimer—‘oh, I should like to hear who I am,—to -hear something about <i>her</i>, to know——’ She paused, as if words were -insufficient to express her thoughts, with a thrill of meaning more -intense than anything she could say, quivering in her lips.</p> - -<p>‘Oh ay,’ said Janet, ‘I ken what you mean; to hear that you were born a -grand lady, though you’ve been bred up a cottage lass; that you’re Leddy -Joyce or maybe Princess—how can I tell?—instead of just what you are, -Joyce Matheson, that has made herself very weel respectit, and a’ her -ain doing—which is a far greater credit than to be born a queen.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, you whip me, but it’s with roses—no, not roses, for there are -thorns to them, but lily flowers. Oh no, not Lady Joyce, nor anything of -the kind,’ she went on, with a tell-tale blush suddenly dyeing her pale -face. ‘I might have thought that when I was young—but not now. It is -only a kind of yearning to know—to know—I cannot tell what I want to -know—about my mother,’ she added in a lower tone.</p> - -<p>‘Bairn,’ said Janet, ‘let that be—let it be. Poor young thing, she’s -been long long in her Maker’s hands, and a’ forgotten and forgiven.’</p> - -<p>‘If there was anything to forget and forgive; you take that for granted, -granny!’ cried the girl, with a sudden flush of indignation.</p> - -<p>‘Onything to forgive? There’s aye plenty to forgive even to the best; -but oh, J’yce, my poor lassie, take my advice and let it be. Many -strange things happen in this world: but a poor thing that wanders into -a strange place her lane with no a living creature to care if she lives -or dies—oh, J’yce, my bonnie bairn, let it be!’</p> - -<p>Joyce had risen, as if the remark was intolerable, and stood at the -window looking out blankly. It was a discussion which had taken place -often before, and always with the same result. Old Mrs. Matheson took, -as was natural, the matter-of-fact view of the question, and felt a -certainty that shame as well as sorrow must be involved in the secret of -Joyce’s birth, and that to inquire into it was very undesirable. But, as -was equally natural, Joyce,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> since she had been old enough to -understand, had built a hundred castles in the air on the subject of her -birth, and occupied many an hour with dreams of perhaps a father who -should come and seek her, perhaps a mother’s mother, like an old -queen—people who would be noble in look and thought—perhaps, who could -tell, in birth too? The Lady Joyce, with which old Janet taunted her, -had not been altogether a fiction. Who could say? Mysteries were more -common among the great than among the small, the girl said to herself. -And how many romances are there in which such a story appears? There was -the ‘Gentle Shepherd,’ the one poem beside Burns and Blair’s ‘Grave,’ -which was to be found in the cottage, and which she had known by heart -almost before she could speak. Was not the shepherd Patie a gentleman -all the time and Peggy a lady? and both of them in their first estate -full of poetry, and distinguished among their seeming peers, as Joyce -was well aware she had always been?</p> - -<p>By some strange grace of nature Joyce had escaped the self-conceit which -is so common to the self-taught, so usual, must we say it, in Scotland? -Her consciousness of being able to do a great many things as other -people could not do them, got vent in a little innocent astonishment at -the other people, who either were dull beyond what is permitted, or -would not ‘give their thoughts’ to the proper subjects. She grew -impatient by times with their determined stupidity, but thought it their -fault, and not any special gift of hers that made the difference. It was -for this reason that she had very sedately accepted the addresses of Mr. -Andrew Halliday, who was schoolmaster in the next parish. He was a young -man who was full of intellectual ambitions. He could talk of books, and -quote poetry as long and as much as any one could desire. Joyce had been -moved by enthusiasm on their first acquaintance. She had felt herself -altogether lifted out of the vulgarities of common life, when he talked -about Shakespeare and Shelley, and Scott and Burns—and with a little -smiling commendation, as from a superior altitude, even of the ‘Gentle -Shepherd.’ It sobered her a little to find that, like the other ‘lads’ -in the village, he was intent upon a ‘lass,’ and that she was the object -of his choice. But she gave in to it with dignity, feeling that he was -indeed the only person with whom she could mate; and looked forward to -the career of the schoolmistress, the schoolmaster’s wife, with an -adaptation to herself of the now so well-worn lines of the ‘Happy -Warrior,’ which Joyce was not aware anybody had ever appropriated -before. Yes; she would work out her life upon the plan which had pleased -her childish thought. For it had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> her ambition since ever she began -to be able to do and learn so many things which the girls around her -would not in their invincible ignorance be persuaded to attempt to -do—to coax, or drag, or force them into better things. Who but a -teacher who would never let them rest, who would give them no peace till -they understood, could do that? And she was resolved to do it, with a -hope that Providence might throw in the possibility of something -heroical—the saving of somebody’s life, the redemption of some one who -was going wrong—to make up. This was all laid out before her, the -career which was to be hers.</p> - -<p>But nevertheless (though she had abandoned all that folly about the Lady -Joyce), when her mind was free, and nothing before her that compelled -her attention, the romance of her unknown origin would come in, with a -hundred vague attractions; and Colonel Hayward’s question was more than -enough to call everything back. ‘Young lady, where did you get your -name?’ and then his look! She had caught that look again, constantly -coming back to her. Joyce was well enough aware what looks of admiration -are like. She had met them of every kind—the innocent, the modest, the -bold—but this was not one of them; not even the fatherly kind, of which -she had been conscious too. This look was very different: it was the -look of a man so startled, so absorbed, that he could think of nothing -else; and then he had said, ‘I once knew—some one’—Joyce stood and -listened, yet did not listen to what old Janet went on saying behind. -The old woman was launched on a subject which filled her with eloquence. -She was jealous of the poor little mother who had died—jealous at least -of the idea that somebody might arrive some fine morning who would turn -out to have a better claim than herself upon her nursling. In her heart -Janet had always been certain that this was what would happen some day. -She had spoken of it freely when the child was young, bidding Peter, her -husband, to ‘haud a loose grip.’ ‘We maunna think too much of her,’ she -had said; ‘for just when we’re bound up in her, and canna do without -her, her ain kith and kin will come and carry her away.’ She had gone on -saying this until the slumbering light in Joyce’s eyes had leaped out, -and her quick intelligence had seized upon the expectation; after which -Janet had changed her tone. She went on now in a very different strain, -while Joyce stood at the window turning her back. ‘If I were in your -place,’ she was saying, ‘I wouldna hear a word—no a word—that would -maybe make me think shame o’ my mother. Oh, I wouldna listen—no, if it -was the Queen hersel’!’ Joyce made no reply to these exhortations, but -her heart burned. Her imagi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>nation rejected the idea with a fervour of -suppressed indignation and resentment, which it needed all her gratitude -and affection to keep in check. She stood and looked out, her foot -tapping impatiently on the floor, her hand on the window. It was hard, -very hard, to keep silent, though it was her duty so to do.</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ she said at last, ‘say no more, please. For one thing, I -cannot bear it—and for another, here is Miss Greta, and I think she is -coming to our door.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Greta! They might have kept her to her ain right name, which is a -hantle bonnier than ony of your outlandish names; but she’s very free to -come and very welcome, and grand company for you—I’m aye glad to see -her coming here: is that her at the door? Come in, come in, my bonnie -leddy. Joyce was just telling me—and we’re just awfu’ fain to see you, -both her and me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, thank you, Mrs. Matheson. Joyce! you are to come up to the house -to-night,’ said the young lady, coming in, in the gaiety of her pretty -summer dress, like a sunbeam. ‘Aunt Margaret has sent me to tell you: -and I’ve run half the way, but I could not catch you up; you are to come -to-night.’</p> - -<p>Once more Joyce became crimson with expectation and excitement. Her eyes -seemed to send out eager questions, and her lips to repeat the answer -before the question was made. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Has the -gentleman——’ and then stopped short, devouring the young visitor with -eager eyes.</p> - -<p>‘We want to have tableaux,’ cried the girl; ‘it was you yourself that -put it into our heads: and you must come and help us—we could do -nothing without you. Joyce, we want to do Queen Margaret—the same scene -we had on the lawn for one. Captain Bellendean said it was beautiful: -and then—something else. You are the one that knows all about Queen -Margaret, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>While Greta made her little speech, with a wondering sense after a word -or two that she had stumbled into the midst of some dramatic scene which -she did not understand, the face of Joyce was like a changing sky, save -that the changes upon it were of swifter operation than those which -alter the face of the heavens. It was full of a brilliant glow and flush -of expectation at first: then the clouds suddenly swept over it, -extinguishing all the higher lights: and then the shadows in their turn -wavered and broke, and a chill clearness of self-repression came in -their place, a calm which was like the usual calm of the countenance in -repose, but intensified by the fact that this repose was not that of -nature but of a violent effort, and had in it the gleam of self-scorn -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> answered in a certain vivid paleness to the effect of the light. -A few instants were enough to work out all this drama, which was the -truest reflection of Joyce’s mind. For one wild moment of hope, she had -thought with a kind of certainty that her patroness, ‘the lady,’ the -source of so many pleasures in Joyce’s life, was sending for her to tell -her that her anticipations were realised, that her birth and kindred -were discovered, and that she was to be told who she was. So swift are -the operations of the mind that in her instantaneous conception of this, -Joyce had time to make sure that there was no shame but only happiness -in the revelation about to be made, or Mrs. Bellendean, always kind, -would not have sent for her in this marked way. The thought sent the -blood dancing through her veins, and though, perhaps, she did not -picture herself as Lady Joyce, her mind yet rushed towards unknown -glories in which insignificance at least had no place. And then there -came a sense of absolute and sickening disappointment, such as seems to -check the very fountains of life—disappointment so overwhelming that -she felt herself stand up merely like a piece of mechanism by no -strength or will of her own—a state of mental collapse from which she -awoke to such scorn of herself for her former incoherent hopes as -brought the blood to her cheeks again.</p> - -<p>It takes longer time to describe these varying moods than it did to go -through them, one sensation sweeping through her mind after the other. -She had come to herself again after mounting to those heights and -descending to those depths, when she replied, rather coldly, vaguely, to -Greta’s petition, ‘If I can get away—if I can be spared from home.’</p> - -<p>‘Spared from home! oh ay, she can be spared, Miss Greta, weel spared. -She is aye so busy and taken up with thae bairns that a little pleasure -will just do her a great deal of good.’</p> - -<p>‘Pleasure!’ said Joyce, echoing the word. ‘I will come if the lady wants -me; but there is a good deal to do—things to prepare. And then—and -then——’ She paused with a conscious effort, making the most of her -hindrances— ‘I am expecting a friend to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘A friend?—that will be Andrew Halliday,’ said the old woman, again -interposing anxiously; ‘you can see him ony day of the week; he’s no -that far away nor sweared to come. Where are your manners, Joyce? to -keep Miss Greta standing, and hum and ha, as if ye werena aye ready to -do what will pleasure the lady—aye ready, night or day.’</p> - -<p>‘If Joyce is tired, Mrs. Matheson,’ said Greta, ‘I will not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> her -troubled. But are you really so tired, Joyce? We cannot do anything -without you. And it was all my idea, for there is no party or anything: -but I thought it would please—all of them. Only I could do nothing -without you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, I am coming,’ cried Joyce suddenly; ‘I was only what granny -calls cankered and out of heart.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should you be out of heart,’ said the other girl, ‘when everything -went so well and everybody was so pleased? It is perhaps because you -will miss Mr. Halliday? But then he can come up for you, and it’s -moonlight, and that will be better than sitting in the house. Don’t you -think so, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘The moonlight is fine coming down the avenue,’ Joyce said vaguely. And -then she asked, ‘Will the old Colonel—the old gentleman—will he be -there?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, did you take a fancy to him, Joyce? So have I. Yes, he will be -there—they will all be there. We are to have it in the great -drawing-room—and leave to rummage in all the presses in the red room, -you know, where the old Lady’s dresses are kept, and to take what we -like.’</p> - -<p>‘That would be fine,’ said Joyce, ‘if it was for last century; but if -Queen Margaret is what you are wanting, that’s far, far back, and the -old Lady’s dresses will do little good. There will be nothing half so -old as Queen Margaret——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ cried Greta, her countenance falling, ‘I never thought of that.’</p> - -<p>Joyce hesitated a moment, and the light returned to her eyes. ‘I will go -up with you to the house now, if granny can spare me, and I will speak -to Merritt, and we will think, she and I; and when you come out from -your dinner we will have settled something. Oh, never fear but we will -find something. It is just what I like,’ said Joyce, restored to full -energy—‘to make out what’s impossible. That’s real pleasure!’ she -cried, with sparkling eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Did ever ony mortal see the like,’ said Janet to herself as she stood -at the door watching the two girls go down the village street. ‘What’s -impossible! that’s just what she likes, that wonderful bairn. And if -onybody was to ask which was the leddy, it’s our Joyce and not Miss -Greta that ilka ane would say. But, eh me! though I am so fain to get -her a bit pleasure, what’s to come o’ a’ that if she is just to settle -doon and marry Andrew Halliday? That’s what is impossible, and nae -pleasure in it so far as I can see!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> tableaux had taken place to everybody’s satisfaction. There had been -much applause, and Joyce had been called for to receive the thanks of -the audience; but all muffled up in a dark cloak in which she had -figured as one of Queen Margaret’s travelling retinue, she had not -revealed anything to the amused look of the gentlemen and ladies who -were spectators, except a dark and indistinct outline against the light. -When the others, throwing off the veils and cloaks in which she had -enveloped them, joined their friends in the drawing-room, which was to -Joyce the emblem of everything that was most splendid and beautiful in -the world, she stole away, getting her hat from Merritt’s room. Merritt -would gladly have detained her for a gossip afterwards; but Joyce, -though she told herself with an angry humility, which was more stinging -than pride, that it was Merritt who was her equal and not Greta, would -not stay. She went out into the silence of the night, hearing the voices -of the company, with a keen desire to know what they were saying, and to -share in the enjoyment which imagination represented to her as so much -more delightful than any kind of social intercourse she had ever known. -Joyce felt this with a sharp and keen sensation which she said to -herself was not envy. Oh no, no! for envy is unkind, whereas she desired -no harm, but only good and every pleasantness to the delightsome company -where there were so many whom she was fond of; but only a forlorn -consciousness of her own position as one who could not get access there, -yet was at home nowhere else. No; all that youthful folly about Lady -Joyce was nonsense, she knew. She would never be Lady Joyce, never find -a place in the Queen’s Court, or among the people who are grand and -great, and the flower of the land; but yet there was her place, and -nowhere else was she at home.</p> - -<p>She did not venture to say this to herself, yet the thought was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> in her -mind as she stepped out with a sigh down the terrace steps, leaving the -lights blazing, and the voices, so refined, as she thought, and -delightful, rising in a soft tumult behind. She was tempted to steal -along the terrace to an open window, to hear what they were saying, to -peep in for a moment out of the gloom. But Joyce would not, could not do -this thing. The temptation wounded her pride even while it moved her. -What! she, Joyce, go and peep and listen, like a waiting-maid in a play! -No, no; though they were so sweet, though they drew her as if with a -magnet—no, no. She turned round resolutely away from this snare. On the -other side the housekeeper’s room was shining too, and there was quite a -fine company there—the ladies’-maids so fine, and gentlemen in evening -clothes, quite equal to anything that was to be seen in the -drawing-room. Joyce flung her head high—not there at least! though with -a keen pang of self-humiliation she felt that there everybody would -think was her appropriate place. But the fine ladies’-maids were too -fine for her. There was something in that. It enabled her to feel a -consolatory thrill of disdainful pride.</p> - -<p>When she had gone on a little, and reached the beginning of the avenue, -a shadow shaped itself out of the darkness of the night, and a shawl, -unnecessary and undesired, was quickly put upon her shoulders. ‘I was -told to bring you this—and I’ve been waiting half an hour. Oh, keep it -on, the night is chilly—to please me, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should you make me do what I don’t wish, to please you?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, if it is what you don’t wish; but consider that your health is of -great consequence, and if you were to catch cold—or any unpleasant -thing——’</p> - -<p>‘There could not be a better time,’ said Joyce, ‘at the beginning of the -holidays.’</p> - -<p>‘Has something gone wrong with you to-night?—you are not as sweet as -your ordinary—oh yes—sweet always, sweet ever to me. But something has -come over you. You are so merry about them sometimes. You make me laugh, -though I am not sure that it is right to laugh at the aristocracy—they -have their difficulties, as we have ours.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder at you! Wherein are they different?—the same flesh and blood, -I hope—no better education, often not so good. What then? Who was it -they referred to for everything to-night?—to know all about the story -and the history: the history of their own country, and we in sight of -the very scene! Who did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> they come to ask from as if I were an oracle? -and you say that knowledge is power——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, in a way, assuredly it is. There is a moral superiority; there is -a sense of true nobility——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, stop, stop! In spite of all, if I had stayed there,’ cried Joyce, -with an indignant sweeping motion of her arm towards the lighted -windows, which now shone like faint stars in the distance, ‘should I -have been like them? They would have talked and been kind; they would -have asked me questions. What would you like, Joyce?—a cup of tea? Have -you seen these pictures, Joyce? What can we show her to amuse her? And a -gentleman would have come forward and said something, looking as if he -were afraid I would curtsey when I spoke to him, like one of the -children! and there would be little looks at me as if it were wonderful -I could behave myself. And the lady herself, who is all goodness—yes, -she is all goodness!—would give me a glance after a while, or perhaps a -whisper, Now, Joyce, run away. Why—why should it be—so little -difference, and yet so much? To feel nothing but scorn at the thought -they are our betters, and yet never to feel at ease with them!’ Her foot -gave an impatient mortified stamp on the ground, and her eyes, unseen, -overflowed with hot and angry tears.</p> - -<p>‘These are questions which are sometimes painful—but not necessarily -so,’ said the young schoolmaster. ‘Take hold of my arm going down the -avenue. Oh do! It is dark, and you might stumble, and the moon gives -little light under the trees. And then, don’t you think I have a right -to a little, just a little, kindness, more than everybody else? Well, -then,’ he went on in a satisfied tone, as Joyce, moved by this argument, -conceded the arm, though with some reluctance. ‘I will tell you all -about it. It would be painful if it were not looked at from a high point -of view. It is mortifying when there is no difference—when you are just -as well instructed, perhaps better, and acquainted with all the rules of -politeness, and even etiquette, and all the rest of it’—Joyce moved -uneasily, impatiently, on his arm, and he had to hold her fast to retain -it—‘to feel that there is a difference!’ he went on hastily; ‘and -founded upon nothing reasonable, upon no solid ground. For to call them -our betters is folly. Wherein are they our betters? not in acquaintance -with everything that is best—with literature, with science, with what -Tennyson calls the long results of time.’</p> - -<p>‘If you think you are explaining, you are making a mistake,’ said -Joyce,—‘you are only repeating what I said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>The young schoolmaster laughed, but with confusion and a little -resentment. ‘I am coming to the explanation,’ he said. ‘For one thing, -it’s against our dignity, yours and mine, that are just as good as they -are, to take offence. It’s a pitiful thing to take offence.’</p> - -<p>He said ‘peetiful,’ and now and then made other betrayals in accent of -his northern origin; but that was nothing, for some of the gentlemen did -the same. This thought flew through Joyce’s mind with the rapidity of -light, followed, like its attendant shadow, by another, a painful, -hateful consciousness of this involuntary proof of the differences which -they were discussing. The gentlemen! Why or how this distinction, which -she herself made without knowing? In the darkness, unsuspected of her -companion, who was going on quite easily, she blushed to her hair, to -her heels, with a glow all over her.</p> - -<p>‘But we must reflect,’ he said, ‘that in this world there must always be -a certain sacrifice to appearances. And it’s more lovely and of good -report to keep up different grades. Abstract justice is one thing, but -fair-seeming also has to be considered. An aristocracy is a graceful -thing. People like us, that consider these matters, may well consent to -keep it up for the beauty of it. We cultivate flowers for the same end. -It would be more profitable to fill all the garden beds with cabbages or -gooseberries. We yield that for beauty, and we yield the other too. And -then you and I, Joyce,’ he said, pressing her arm, ‘we have the -advantage or the disadvantage, whichever you like to call it, of -belonging to an exceptional class.’</p> - -<p>Here again a murmur made itself heard in Joyce’s mind. Did <i>he</i>? For -herself she made no question. She put him in her mind beside Captain -Bellendean,—the Captain, as everybody called him—and her brain grew -confused. But Halliday continued, with an equable sense of giving -instruction, which confused her more and more.</p> - -<p>‘We are, so to speak, everybody’s equal,’ he said. ‘We are probably -superior to most of these people, but we are not going to compete with -them in their way. There is no doubt that we are superior to the other -classes, who cannot, in any manner, hold their own with us, except just -by sheer force of money, or something of that measurable kind. We have -therefore a rank—a rank, Joyce, that is by itself, that is becoming -more and more acknowledged every day.’</p> - -<p>He pressed her arm as he spoke, and she, wildly roving in her mind -through every kind of bye-way of thought, did not like it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> but made no -sign, restraining herself, answering nothing, which was not Joyce’s way. -She was thus caught and attached to reality, while her mind went -wandering through space, in no way agreeing in the supposed triumphant -argument of his—sometimes flashing a contradiction upon him which he -could not see; chafing at the restraint; eager to throw him off, yet not -doing so; held fast by circumstances and her fate.</p> - -<p>‘When you and I set up together, Joyce,’ he said, clasping her arm -closer, ‘which I hope will be soon, for I’m weary waiting—when you and -I have our home together, we’ll have a home where any one may be proud -to come to; where every meal will be a feast, and nothing spoken of or -thought of that is not high—above the ideas of the common. We’ll have -nothing common there. We’ll talk of the grandest things. We’ll be better -than princes or kings; and by and by, when the world’s a little -wiser—as we’re making it wiser every day—when a great statesman comes -to Mid-Lothian, or a great scholar or a poet, it’s you and me he’ll come -to. We’ll not have grand rooms to put him in, but it’s with us he’ll -find the minds to understand him. Even now, if Tennyson were to be up -yonder,’ he pointed back to the house—‘would he care for them, who -could not quote a line he ever wrote, or us, who could say—what could -we not say?—all his poems, I believe between you and me.’</p> - -<p>At this Joyce laughed aloud with a sudden burst of ridicule. ‘Do you -think he would care to hear his own poems? I think he would rather go up -to the house, where nobody would be afraid of him.’</p> - -<p>‘Afraid of him! why should we be afraid? I hope our manners are good -enough for—as good as——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, what do you mean about manners? doesn’t that just prove what I -say?—we should be afraid of him. We could quote all his poems one after -another. What would he care for that? Miss Greta, that knows none of -them, except perhaps the Queen of the May, would please him better. Why? -Oh, how can I tell you? but <i>I know it</i>! She would know the people he -knows; and, don’t you see, when you speak about manners, that alone -shows—— Oh yes, we are different, and that is the truth. We may know -more—and we might know double again, and it would not make any -difference. There is more in it than that.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, there is money in it, if that is what you mean,’ said the -schoolmaster scornfully.</p> - -<p>‘That is not what I mean; but it’s true—there is money in it—and -beautiful rooms, and people that have lived in them all their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> life, and -their fathers before them, and that are used to be the best wherever -they go. We say we’re the best, but we’re not used to it. It is in our -thoughts, but not in other people’s. Oh, there is a difference! I feel I -don’t belong to the cotters’ houses, but I am at ease in them: and in -the farmers’ I feel—oh, a little queerish, as if I were smiling at -their money and their notion that they were better than me—superior as -you say. But in Bellendean I would be awkward and blush. I would say, -Thank you, mem, or sir. Perhaps I could talk better than the rest if I -were to try——’</p> - -<p>‘You could—you could.’</p> - -<p>‘What would that matter?’ cried this stern philosopher. ‘I would be just -Joyce Matheson among them all. But here I’m not Joyce Matheson, -I’m—anything. I’m Desdemona or even Rosalind. I’m Lady Joyce, as granny -says. I’m no match for any but a prince—oh, Andrew!—what I meant to -say was that in my thoughts I’m a grand lady, but in Bellendean, -nobody—nobody! a little schoolmistress, a little country girl.’</p> - -<p>‘I know what you mean,’ he said, recovering the hand she had drawn from -his arm. ‘But if you love me, Joyce, I’m prince enough for anything,’ he -said in a lower tone.</p> - -<p>This touch of feeling suddenly coming in silenced Joyce. She made no -reply. Love had been little talked of between them. They had thought -more of Shakespeare and the poets generally, and of that culture which -levels all distinctions, and makes of those who are engaged ‘in tuition’ -the superiors of the world. There was always this strange question, too, -so little explicable, of class distinctions, which contradicted all -theories, and set culture aside as if it meant nothing. They were both -aristocrats by birth, holding fondly to the doctrine of a superior race, -but feeling also a wistful, nay, sometimes angry, wonder why their own -special affinities for that race were not more justly recognised.</p> - -<p>‘After all, the class that we belong to is the greatest of all,’ said -Halliday. ‘The greatest men have come out of it. The peasant is a kind -of king. He has nothing to do with money-making, and poor sordid trades. -He digs his bread out of the soil. However we may get up and up, we have -no reason to be ashamed of him. In the cottages you are at your ease, -you said——’</p> - -<p>‘But not because I belong to them,’ cried Joyce, with a flash of her -eyes. ‘If I did, I would not say so; it would be natural. But I don’t: I -belong to nobody: if I were a peasant, I would be a peasant and nothing -more; but I am nobody, and I think and think—and sometimes I have silly -dreams.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>He tried again to take her hand. ‘Not silly, perhaps,’ he said; ‘the -world is before us. I see nothing that we might not do—you and me -together, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>You and me together! This was not what she was thinking of. The vague -exaltation and vaguer hope which sometimes swept her up to heights -unknown had nothing to do, it must be confessed, with Andrew Halliday. -She drew herself apart from him, on the evident ground that they were -emerging from the darkness of the avenue into the bright moonlight at -the park gates. The village street opened beyond, with various groups -about enjoying the freshness of the night. The women were out at their -doors; a knot of men smoking their pipes and talking in their slow -rustic way, stood together at a corner. Without a doubt, there were two -or three pairs, not so bashful as Joyce, taking advantage of the -moonlight. But it was in conformity with Halliday’s principles as well -as her own to maintain the loftiest decorum. They walked down side by -side, with quiet gravity and propriety, talking of what Mr. Halliday -called ‘the topics of the day’: the success of all the festivities in -honour of the Captain’s return, the Captain himself and his character, -and other cognate subjects,—a kind of conversation which anybody might -have listened to with edification. Indeed, even in the avenue, where it -was dark, and Joyce’s arm was in that of her lover, the talk had not -been any drivel of love-making, as the reader knows. But Joyce had not -said a word to him of the excitement which lay deep at the bottom of her -heart. She had never said a word to Halliday of the commotions which the -thought of her possible origin awoke; and of Colonel Hayward and his -strange questions and looks she had said nothing. All this was kept a -secret from her lover; she kept it jealously, but she could scarcely -have told why.</p> - -<p>Old Peter Matheson stood at his door, in the full light of the moon, -which threw all the roughnesses upon his surface into shadow, as if he -had been a mountain. He was a mountain in his way, or rather an angular -tall old crag, his face seamed as with torrents. The moon subdued the -high colour, the deep frosty-red and russet-brown of his weather-beaten -countenance, and made his scanty circle of white locks like a silver -crown. He was standing in the middle filling up the doorway, with a -lordly indifference to his wife, who stood spying at the moonlight from -under his arm.</p> - -<p>‘Yon’ll be them,’ Janet had said, as the two slim figures suddenly rose -out of the white distance.</p> - -<p>‘How can ye tell it’s them? It might be onybody,’ said Peter, in his -deep voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Wha would it be but them? It’s no the Captain and some young -lady—therefore,’ said Janet, ‘it’s bound to be our twa. There’s nae -ither twa like them. And I would ken our Joyce at ten mile.’</p> - -<p>Peter grumbled something about the impossibility of seeing anything -except the hills or the sea at ten miles, and about the nonsensical -character of her remarks generally. But with a swelling at his old heart -which almost brought the water to his eyes (not hard to do), decided -that she was right, and that Joyce could be distinguished as far as -mortal vision would carry. The way she stepped, and the carriage of -her—like a lady! she was just like the Queen!</p> - -<p>‘Sae it’s you after a’. I was thinking nae ither pair would move along -like twa steeples, nae nearer. Come away. It’s a bonnie night, but I’m -wantin’ my supper. I canna fill my wame with the moonlicht, like you -twa.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it late, grandfather? I might have known it was late, as it’s so -dark, or would be but for the moon.’</p> - -<p>‘Na, na,’ said the old man, with a laugh as deep and bass as his voice; -‘it wasna to be expected you should mind. We’re no lookin’ for -impossibilities. But there is a fine smell of stoved ta’aties. Your -granny is a woman that loses no time.’</p> - -<p>‘Now that they are come,’ said Janet from within, ‘come in, come in to -your supper. Dinna stand and chatter there.’</p> - -<p>The supper was simple enough. There were oatcakes and cheese on the -table, a large dish of stoved potatoes, steaming and savoury, and a jug -of milk. The potatoes were a feast for a king; the steam of them rose -like domestic incense to the dim roof. The table was set as far from the -fire as possible, the door left open, the moonlight, silver to the -threshold, stopped about a yard within, drawing a clear line of -separation between its intense ethereal whiteness and the ruddy light of -the little lamp. Joyce sat facing the moonlight, looking out across the -homely table into that mystic world outside: conscious of the contrast -between the little human group, so well defined and distinct, the smoky -lamplight on their faces, and the great universe beyond, all filled with -spiritual light, with moving shadows and subdued voices—mystic, -mysterious. Now and then a step passed, the line of some flitting figure -crossed the doorway, and sometimes a cheerful voice called ‘Good-night’ -at them in passing, while the talk went on within.</p> - -<p>‘Weel, and did a’ yon nonsense come to pass, and were ye satisfied?’ -Janet asked.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, granny; pretty well. Everybody was pleased.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Except yoursel’, ye exacting thing! They wouldna do just a’ ye told -them, that would be the cause.’</p> - -<p>‘J’yce is a lass that likes her ain gait. Ye manna gang into it wi’ your -eyes blindfold, Andrew, my man.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, they did what I told them, granny. But the Scots maidens could -hardly be distinguished from the Saxon maidens, which was a mistake; and -we could not get anything like right costume, there was so little time. -But they knew no better,’ said Joyce, with a slight inflection of -contempt; ‘they were quite pleased.’</p> - -<p>‘And that is a very difficult question,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘Do you -think there would be much difference at that early period?’</p> - -<p>‘What!’ cried Joyce, lighting up, ‘between the Saxon ladies that were -with the Athelings, that had been in a Court, and the wives of the wild -Picts, or whatever they were—for history knows little of them—on the -other side!’</p> - -<p>‘And what were you?’ said Janet, while Peter burst into one of his long, -derisive, admiring laughs, with a ‘Hearken to her!’ which brought the -water to his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I was nobody. I was a tirewoman. I was not thinking of <i>me</i>. I was in -the lady’s train in her journey, with a big cloak of the Captain’s,’ -said Joyce, permitting herself to laugh.</p> - -<p>‘And wherefore no’ a Scots lady, to wait upon her in her kingdom,’ said -Janet, half offended. ‘You have aye an awfu’ troke with thae English, as -if you liked them the best.’</p> - -<p>‘How can she do that when she never kent ane?’ said Peter, in his -innocence.</p> - -<p>But Joyce made no reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Colonel Hayward</span> was in waiting on the platform at Edinburgh when the -morning express came in from the south. It was a lovely morning. The -unconventional freshness, as of a day still in its childhood and -doubting nothing, was in the air, even in the grimy precincts of the -railway station, where all was black below, yet all fresh above, the sun -shining, the air full of that keen sweetness which, even in a July -morning, breathes in the air of the north. The platform was already full -of people waiting for their friends; and when those friends arrived, and -came pouring from all the carriage doors, with the noise combined of a -crowd and a train, the Colonel was confused by the din and numbers. -Though he had the habit of command, and could have made his authority -felt in a moment had they been soldiers under him, he was pushed out of -his way by women and children and railway porters, without power of -asserting himself; and therefore it was not till most of the passengers -had poured out of the train, that he got to the particular object of his -search—a small, very bright-eyed woman, who stood in the door of the -carriage she had travelled in, looking out calmly upon the confused -scene. She was not grimy, as most of the passengers were, or untidy with -the night’s travelling, or hurried and flustered as everybody else was. -She stood calmly looking down from the height of the doorway, quite -patient and composed. She knew that the Colonel would come: she knew -that he was not very good at pushing his way: therefore she possessed -her soul in patience, making no fuss, showing no anxiety about her box, -calm, commanding the situation. ‘Ah, here you are,’ she said quietly, as -he came up to her, stepping lightly down.</p> - -<p>‘Have you been waiting long, my dear?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no; it didn’t matter. I knew you would come. I have one box, and I -know exactly where it is. Don’t let us hurry. I don’t suppose there is -any hurry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘No—perhaps not,—but something very serious, very serious, Elizabeth.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so, or you would not have sent for me. Wait till we get out -of the noise. I could not hear you, so what would be the use? We are -going to a hotel, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>‘We are going to Bellendean, where I am staying. Don’t be surprised.’</p> - -<p>‘But I am surprised, Henry. To the great house you wrote to me about? -full of ladies? You forget——’</p> - -<p>‘I—forget? No; I forget nothing—all you have done for me, your -kindness, your patience.’</p> - -<p>The little lady took him by the arm, with a look of alarm in her face. -She had already sighted her box, and in the course of her dialogue with -her husband, had managed telegraphically to secure a porter and a cab. -Evidently she was of the order of women who take care of others, and do -not expect to be taken care of. She led him towards the cab, as if a -little afraid of his sanity. ‘Where is he to drive to? tell him,’ she -said, keeping a close hold to the Colonel’s arm. She held him fast -still, when they were seated together, until they had got clear of the -tumult of the railway station. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me. It must be -something very much out of the ordinary when you talk of my kindness, -Henry. My kindness!’ In this Mrs. Hayward resembled old Janet Matheson. -It was an offence to her to be praised in that way.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I am more perplexed than I can tell you. You will -say I have often been perplexed before, when you saw little cause for -it; and this is why I sent for you so suddenly; for if anybody can bring -light out of darkness, it is you.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it? I am very willing to be sent for, Henry; the only -difficulty is going to this house, when you know my principle, and how -long I have kept out of all invitations and acquaintances.’</p> - -<p>‘You that would shine anywhere!’ said the Colonel, with the water in his -eyes, ‘and all for my sake.’</p> - -<p>She looked at him again for a moment with a sort of consternation. -‘There you are making a mistake, my dear—for my own. Because I did not -choose that there should ever be a remark.’</p> - -<p>He put his hand upon her arm with a heavy pressure. ‘Elizabeth, I am -dreadfully perplexed; but I think, if I am not wrong, that I have come -upon the settlement of all that question; of everything—of what has -hung over us. I think, my dear, that all is right—that all has been -right from the very beginning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span>’ He stopped a little, and then added, -drawing a long breath, ‘I never had any doubt of it myself.’</p> - -<p>A gleam, half of anger, half of fun, darted up into her bright eyes, and -flashed like an arrow of light at him, which the good man did not even -see, and which ended, on her part, with a quick laugh, in which there -was a little amusement, a little excitement, though not very much -expectation. ‘You never had any doubt!’ she said. Then she added, with a -half sigh of impatience— ‘Tell me all about your new discovery, and -we’ll pull it to pieces and see if there’s anything in it. Have we a -long drive before us? Is there time to get it all out?’</p> - -<p>‘Plenty of time; and, oh, the comfort to know that you are here, and to -be able to tell you! I will do what you like best, Elizabeth. I will -tell you all the facts, and then you can judge for yourself. I came to -Bellendean, you know, nearly a week ago. There has been all sorts of -things going on. Great dinners, and all the fine people of the -county—and then the tenantry. It is a—a tidy estate—a number of -tenants—not small farms like what we are used to, but men, you know, -whom really I should have taken for country gentlemen—men paying big -rents, and able to make speeches—and—and that sort of thing.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward kept her eyes upon her husband’s face. She was used, it was -evident, to long explanations, and expected them, and had learned that -patience which comes of necessity. He knew this fact, that she always -heard him out, and never interrupted him, as other people did. But what -he did not know, was that a thrill of natural impatience, never -altogether overcome, was in the veins of the little woman who sat by -him, keeping him to the point with her eyes, never interrupting him in -any other way. ‘Yes,’ she said, when he paused to take breath: but that -was all.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; and then, last of all, there was a supper to the labourers and -cottagers. Well, no, not exactly last of all, for the last was the -children’s entertainment—the school-feast we should have called it, but -they don’t say school-feast here—a sort of gathering in the afternoon, -you know, with a band and games, and tea in a great tent, and—you -know?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know what a school-feast is.’</p> - -<p>‘Well!’—he drew a long breath now, and settled himself down in a manner -which betokened, as his wife by long experience knew, that he was about -coming to the point; but she could scarcely believe it after so short a -preamble. ‘The first thing that happened was at the labourers’ supper: -we were all walking about, and I for my part said a word now and then, -while they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> cheering Norman Bellendean—that he was a good fellow, -you know, and all that—the sort of thing one would say at an affair of -the kind, when you do think well of the fellow, you know, and get into -the swim——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes?’ said Mrs. Hayward again.</p> - -<p>‘Well then. I had the very words in my mouth, when at the end of one of -the tables, between an old man and an old woman, evidently cottagers, I -saw—I declare to you, Elizabeth, my heart leapt into my mouth—I was -choked, I could not say another syllable. I saw her as clear as I see -you.’</p> - -<p>‘Whom did you see, Henry?’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!’ He got out the word with difficulty, and, taking out his -handkerchief, fanned himself, puffing forth a hot breath of excitement. -His bronzed face took a coppery tone in the heat of his reawakened -feelings; and this time Mrs. Hayward did not retain her usual calm. She -repeated the cry, ‘Joyce!’ with a tone of mingled astonishment and -dismay— ‘Joyce!—then why in the name of heaven did you bring <i>me</i> -here?’</p> - -<p>‘Stop a minute, stop a minute, Elizabeth: you have not heard all; and -how is it possible you could understand? I have described her to you -often. It was as if I saw her, exactly as I had seen her last—the same -looks, the same age.’</p> - -<p>‘You must be dreaming,’ cried his wife, almost with anger. ‘If she is -living, according to all you have always said, she must be as old as I -am——’</p> - -<p>Sudden indignation seemed to burst from her in these words. She grew -red, she grew pale. The impatience, so entirely concealed before, showed -now in every finger, in every limb, mingled with angry surprise. ‘If you -have sent for me, disturbed me, exposed me, only to tell me this at the -end—that you saw her—the same age as you saw her last! I hope she has -a good reason to give for all the misery she has caused—but the same -age!’ Mrs. Hayward gasped, and said no more.</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ said the Colonel, shaking his head, ‘you don’t see, you don’t see! -No more did I. I couldn’t say a word—I just stopped and stared—a young -lady, clearly a lady, between the two old cottagers—and that look. -Well! I came to myself, Elizabeth, and I thought it is just some chance -resemblance, and I left the place: but disturbed—disturbed beyond what -words could say. I got little sleep—you know how little sleep I get -when I am upset.’</p> - -<p>‘I know you think so,’ said his wife, in an undertone.</p> - -<p>‘But in the morning I felt calm. I said to myself that it must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> be some -chance—— Of course there are people who are like each other all over -the world. I knew myself, up in the Punjaub, a man—but that is neither -here nor there. However, next day I was quite easy. I thought nothing -more of it. And then there came the school-feast I told you of—well, -the thing that was the same as a school-feast, though they didn’t call -it a school-feast, you know. I was walking about, thinking of nothing in -particular, and of course it was daylight, and everything quite -clear—when I saw that girl again.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you call her a girl now!’ Mrs. Hayward said, with that air of -resentment which he did not understand. He paused and looked at her with -sudden anxiety.</p> - -<p>‘You are not feeling poorly, Elizabeth? You are not over-tired? You are -not——?’ He could not say angry, it seemed ridiculous; but his -attention was roused, and nothing but her health could be the cause, he -thought, of her change of tone.</p> - -<p>‘Go on,’ she said, ‘go on. I am not feeling anything—but a wish to know -what you mean.’</p> - -<p>There was a difference in her for all that. And if Elizabeth was going -to fail him, what would become of him? He gave her a serious, anxious, -inquiring look. Then, in reply to an impatient movement on her part, -continued—</p> - -<p>‘That’s not all. I went and asked Mrs. Bellendean who she was—though I -had scarcely breath to ask. Elizabeth—conceive what I felt when she -turned round and called Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!—well I suppose you did not expect she had changed her name?’ -She said this sharply; then added, with an evident effort, ‘My dear, I -beg your pardon. I don’t wonder you were upset. Joyce—and it is a name -one never hears. Did she—know you?’</p> - -<p>‘Know me? She had never seen me, nor heard of me—how should she know -me? And I was left for a long time in a state I can’t -describe—wondering whether it could be a relation—God knows what I -didn’t think! Everybody knew the girl. She was the schoolmistress, as it -turned out, but a lady every inch of her. Everybody liked her, consulted -her, clustered about her. I heard nothing but Joyce, Joyce, wherever I -turned.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward’s impatience seemed to have died away. She patted his arm -with her small hand, saying, ‘Poor Henry!’ with a tone of compunction in -her pity. She had done him wrong, or else she had done wrong to Joyce. -To Joyce—the very name, though she had heard it so often, was like an -arrow quivering in her heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth, all that is as nothing to what I am going to tell you now. I -want all your attention. I have waited till you came: I haven’t even -tried to think: I have said to myself, Elizabeth will know. Now you must -give your mind to it, and tell me what to do. Elizabeth, this is the -story I heard. Twenty years ago, just the date I’ve often told you—the -date I remember so well—you know, my dear, you know——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know.’</p> - -<p>‘Well!—Just then this girl’s mother came to Bellendean—all by herself, -going north, it was thought. She was going to have a baby——’ The old -Colonel here fell a trembling, and his wife took his hands and held them -in her own, caressing them—two large brown tremulous hands—between her -small white nervous ones. He leant back on her shoulder too, which was -not half broad enough to support him. ‘The short and the long is this: -she had her baby, and she died. And the baby is Joyce—named after her -mother; and there are clothes and letters to prove who she was——’</p> - -<p>‘My poor Henry! God help you, my dear! You have seen them? it was—she?’</p> - -<p>‘No—I haven’t seen them. I hadn’t the courage. I could think of nothing -but you. You’ll do it for me, Elizabeth? you’ll see what you think. I—I -couldn’t look up the old things. I—couldn’t—decide—I couldn’t——’</p> - -<p>He could do nothing but tremble, it seemed, and falter out these broken -words, and lean back upon her, the colour going out of his face. She -thought he was about to faint.</p> - -<p>‘Come, Henry, this will never do,’ she said quickly. ‘Rouse yourself, my -dear fellow—rouse yourself up. We will bear it together, whatever it -may be. And it doesn’t seem, so far as I can see, as if there would be -anything new to bear.’</p> - -<p>‘If it was so. She never told me, Elizabeth—that anything like that -could happen.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps she did not know. You have always said she was young and -inexperienced. Oh, poor thing! poor thing!’</p> - -<p>He loosed his hands from hers, and suddenly threw his arms round her, -enfolding her, with something like a sound of sobbing. ‘If it was fault -of mine, God forgive me! God forgive me! But, Elizabeth, my dear! it has -always been all right between you and me—as I felt sure all along.’</p> - -<p>Her bright eyes were for a moment dimmed too. She gave him a sudden -light kiss upon his old cheek, and then softly detached herself. ‘We -will say no more about that just now. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> all this is as you think, -Henry, there is something more important even than you and me—the -girl.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, the girl!’ He spoke vaguely, as if his attention had been -distracted from that part of the subject. ‘You will see her,’ he said, -‘the very living image—and then the name—just as she was the last time -I ever saw her. Elizabeth: you will understand the kind of creature she -was—the—the impetuosity—the——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t dwell on all that, or you will upset yourself again. See her! of -course I shall see her. You don’t seem to realise what a wonderful -change for her—and us too. But don’t you think it is you who ought to -see her first and tell her—you who are, after all, the chief person——’</p> - -<p>‘I!’ he cried with dismay, interrupting her. ‘Why the chief person? Did -I ever set myself up as the chief person? We have gone along with each -other, Elizabeth, in everything that has been done.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but in the case of—Joyce.’ She made a little pause before she -said the name. ‘Henry, Joyce, whether living or dead, must be -yours—yours alone. She would have a right to complain if you left her -to me.’</p> - -<p>He caught her again, with an alarmed look, by her arm. ‘Is there -anything mine that is not yours too? Has there ever been anything of -mine that was not yours? Don’t go and make a separation just when—just -when——’</p> - -<p>‘Separation! it is likely that I should make a separation,’ she cried, -with a laugh in which there was, though he was unconscious of it, a -great deal of nervous excitement. Then she looked out of the carriage -with a little cry of admiration: ‘What is this? Have we got to -Bellendean already? What beautiful trees! I did not know there were such -fine trees in the north. And now I must think of meeting Mrs. -Bellendean. Isn’t it rather bold of you to bring me here?’</p> - -<p>‘Not bold at all. The invitation was from her. I did not ask for it. It -was she herself—entirely she——’</p> - -<p>‘I know what you did,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a smile. ‘You said, I -wish Elizabeth were here. And she heard it, and suggested that you send -for me. Most likely she was a little amused about Elizabeth. I know your -way, and what the young fellows say, that you always want Elizabeth, -whatever happens.’</p> - -<p>‘So I do—so I do; though I can’t tell how they know, the jackanapes. -Here we are at the door.’</p> - -<p>‘You must smuggle me upstairs before anybody sees me, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> I’m very -untidy; and I know how fresh they will all look in their morning -things,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, with a shade of disquietude in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, you shall be smuggled upstairs,’ cried the Colonel, confident -in the security of the early hour. And presently the pair found -themselves in the cheerful room prepared for the newcomer, with tea set -out upon a table. Elizabeth took at once the command of the position. -She gave him some tea, then dismissed him to an easy chair in his own -room, which communicated with hers, where, as he began to doze, he could -see her little figure moving about, appearing and disappearing, as she -unpacked her things and made herself comfortable. She looked, he -thought, as if she had been there all her life. It was a faculty -peculiar to her. She made the barest barrack-room look like herself -somehow, before she had been half an hour in it. Wherever she was, the -place began to appear like home directly. He had the immense sense of -relief which a man in charge of a difficult post feels on the arrival of -his commanding officer who takes over the responsibility, and that -delightful loosening of moral tension filled him with pleasant -drowsiness. His eyes, half shut, half open, were conscious of her, and -that everything was being looked after; and, as a matter of fact, he had -not slept well for two or three nights, though Elizabeth had scoffed at -this. He had a most refreshing doze while she dressed and made herself -look as fresh as the morning. As for her having been untidy, even after -the night-journey, that was a thing impossible to Elizabeth. But he knew -that she would come out looking fresher than the day.</p> - -<p>She was a little woman of about forty-five, with the complexion of a -girl, and eyes that were as blue as an infant’s, but with the quality of -brightness which belongs more frequently to a darker hue. Not soft and -dreamy as blue eyes should be, but keen and clear, dancing with -light—eyes which saw behind as well as before, and which nothing could -elude. There was no sleep or weariness in them, but there was, visible -to her own perception as she looked at herself in the glass, a keener -glitter of uneasiness, a little curve of anxiety in the lids. He seemed -to think only of this possible revelation of the past—which, no doubt, -was important, very important; but of the future, which she saw so -distinctly opening upon them, a future entirely new, distracting, for -which neither she nor he had any preparation, he seemed to take no -thought. That was Henry’s way, she said to herself, to be overwhelmed by -one view of a question, which had half a dozen other aspects more -important, and to make himself quite comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span>able about it when the -first shock was over, without an idea of what the consequences might be: -dear old stupid that he was! She, too, glanced at him as she passed and -repassed the doorway, with a tenderness in which there was a mixture of -amusement and partial irritation and fun and sympathy, all mingled -together. His goodness, his strength, his helplessness and confusion of -mind, his high courage and authority and judgment, and his complete -dependence and docility, were all so evident to those keen eyes of hers, -which adored him, laughed at him, smote him with keen shafts of -criticism, made haloes of glory about him all at one and the same -moment. He had brought her many a ravelled skein to disentangle, but -never any so serious as this. Joyce dead had been a shadow often -discouraging upon her life, but Joyce living filled her lively soul with -a shrinking of dismay. And of this he did not seem to have a thought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Janet Matheson</span> was busy with her broth, which was boiling softly, slowly -over the fire, ready to receive the vegetables—red, white, and -green—the carrots and turnips and early crisp cabbage, all nicely cut -and glistening with freshness and cleanness, which she had just prepared -to add to the contents of the pot. She had a large brown holland apron -covering her cotton gown, and a thick white cap surrounding her -frosty-apple cheeks. The room was as neat and bright as her own little -active figure. The little greenish window behind was open to admit the -scent of the mignonette in the garden, and the pale pink monthly rose -which looked in. On the sill of the opened window there was a line of -books, and a writing-table stood under it, slightly inappropriate, yet -disturbing nothing of the homely harmony of the cottage. The door to the -street was open too, and any passing stranger could have seen Janet, who -now and then looked out, with a carrot in one hand, and the knife with -which she was scraping it in the other, wondering where that lassie -J’yce could have gone to. The holidays had begun, and Joyce was free. -She had done her share of the household service before she went out; but -her tender old guardian was of opinion that about this hour ‘a piece’ -was essential, though that was a thing of which Joyce could never be got -to take proper heed. She had turned her back to the world, however, and -was emptying her bowlful of vegetables into the pot, when Mrs. Hayward -tapped at the open door. Janet said mechanically, ‘Come in—come away -in’ without hurrying the operation in which she was engaged. When she -turned she found another bright-eyed woman looking in at her from the -pavement.</p> - -<p>‘May I come in?’ said Mrs. Hayward.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, mem, ye may come in, and welcome. Come away,’ said Janet, -lifting a wooden chair, and placing it, though the day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> was very warm, -within reach of the fire. It was clean as scrubbing could make it, yet -she dusted it mechanically with her apron, as is the cottager’s use. -Mrs. Hayward watched every movement with her bright eyes, and observed -all the details of the little house. A simple woman, looking like a -French peasant with her thick cap; a little rustic village house, -without the slightest pretension of anything more. And this was the -house in which the girl had been bred who Henry said was a lady—a lady! -He knew so little, poor fellow, and men are taken in so easily. No doubt -she was dressed in cheap finery, like so many of the village girls.</p> - -<p>‘I wanted, if you will allow me, to make some inquiries about your—but -she is not your daughter?’</p> - -<p>‘About Joyce?’ said the old woman quickly. She put down the bowl and -came forward a few steps, from henceforward departing from her <i>rôle</i> of -simple hospitality and friendliness, and becoming at once one of the -parties to a duel, watching every step her adversary made. ‘And what -will ye be wanting with Joyce?’ she asked, planting her foot firmly on -the floor of her little kingdom. She was queen and mistress there, let -the other be what she might.</p> - -<p>‘It is difficult to say it in a few words,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘I have -heard that though you have brought her up like your child, and been so -tender to her, yet that she is no relation of yours.’</p> - -<p>‘There are idle folk in every place,’ said Janet sententiously, ‘who -have nothing to do but to stir up a’ the idle tales that ever were heard -about the country-side.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean, then, that this is an idle tale?’</p> - -<p>The two antagonists watched each other with keen observation, and Janet -saw that there was something like pleasure, or at least relief, in her -adversary’s manner of putting the question. ‘It a’ depends on the sense -it’s put in,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘We can’t go on fencing like this all day,’ cried Mrs. Hayward quickly. -‘I will tell you plainly what I want. My husband has seen the girl whom -you call Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Mem, you might keep a more civil tongue in your head,’ said Janet, ‘and -ca’ her something else than the girl.’</p> - -<p>‘What should I call her? I have not seen her. It is not with any will of -my own that I am here. I hear her very highly spoken of, and your great -kindness to her, and her—what is far more uncommon—gratitude to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Mem,’ said Janet, ‘we Scots folk, we’re awfu’ unregenerate in the way -of pride. We are little used to have leddies coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> inquiring into our -maist private concerns, ca’ing a woman’s affection for her bairn -kindness, and a good lassie’s good heart for her faither and mither -gratitude.’</p> - -<p>‘I quite agree with you,’ said Mrs. Hayward, rising up suddenly and -putting out her hand. ‘You are quite right, and I am—unregenerate as -you say. The reason is, I have been a little put out this morning, and I -have inquiries to make which I don’t make with any heart. I have come to -ask you to let me see the things which Joyce’s mother left behind -her—or at least the letters which Mrs. Bellendean told my husband of. A -glance at them would possibly settle the question. My husband -thinks—that he knows who she is.’</p> - -<p>Janet had wiped her hand with her apron, and given it to her visitor, -but with some reluctance. ‘And wha may your husband be, mem?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘He says he spoke to you the other day. He is, though I say it, a -distinguished soldier. He is Colonel Hayward, who was Captain -Bellendean’s commanding officer.’</p> - -<p>Janet was not greatly moved by Colonel Hayward’s distinction, nor by his -grade, but that he should be the Captain’s commanding officer impressed -her at once. ‘Then he’ll be a gentleman that’s far aboon the like of -us,’ she said, ‘and no’ a man that would put forth his hand for naught, -or disturb a decent poor family without just cause.’ She stood a little, -fingering her apron, ‘glowering frae her,’ as she would have said, -casting a wistful look into vacancy. ‘It will maybe be something—that -would make a great change,’ she said, her lips quivering a little, ‘if -it cam’ true.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid it would make a great change,’ said Mrs. Hayward, and she -added with a sigh, ‘both to you and to me.’</p> - -<p>‘To you!’ Janet clasped her hands. ‘What will you have to do with it? -What would it be to the like of you? You’re no—you’re no——? or the -Cornel——?’ The old woman put her hand with natural eloquence to her -breast. ‘My heart’s just louping like to choke me. Oh mem, what would it -be to you?’</p> - -<p>‘Look here,’ said her visitor. ‘We may be giving ourselves a great deal -of unnecessary trouble. It may happen that when I see the letters it -will all come to nothing. Then let me see them directly, there’s a dear -woman. That is the best and the only thing to do.’</p> - -<p>There was a sweep of energetic movement about this rapid little lady -that pressed forward Janet’s reluctant feet. She took a step or two -forward towards the stair. But there she paused<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> again. ‘I’ve aye said -to Peter we must keep a loose grip,’ she said. ‘And when she was only a -wean it would have been nothing: but she’s come to be that between him -and me, that I canna tell how we’re ever to part. I’ve never said it to -her. Na. I’m no’ one to spoil a young cratur’ with praisin’ her. I’ve -kept it before her, that if she had mair headpiece than the rest, it was -nae credit of hers, but just her Maker that had made her sae. It’s no’ -for that. It’s no because she’s an honour and a glory to them that have -brought her up. Whiles the one that ye are proudest of is just the one -that will rend your heart. But she’s that sweet—and that bonnie—bonnie -in a’ her ways—ye canna help but see she’s a leddy born; but to take -upon hersel’ because o’ that. Na, na. That shows ye dinna ken our J’yce. -Oh, I aye said haud a loose grip!’ cried the old woman, with broken sobs -interrupting her speech. ‘I’ve said it to my man a thoosan’ times and a -thoosan’ to that; but it’s mair than I have done mysel’ at the hinder -end.’</p> - -<p>The stranger’s bright eyes grew dim. She put her hand on Janet’s arm. ‘I -should like to cry too,’ she said—‘not like you, for love, but for pure -contrariness, and spite, and malice, and all that’s wicked. Come and -show me the letters. Perhaps we are just troubling ourselves in vain, -both you and I——’</p> - -<p>‘Na, na, it’s no’ in vain,’ said Janet, restraining herself with a -vehement effort. ‘If it may be sae this time, it’ll no’ be sae anither -time. We may just be thankful we have keepit her sae lang. I never -looked for it, for my pairt. I’ll gang first, mem, though it’s no’ -mainners, to show you the way. This is her cha’amer, my bonnie darling; -no’ much of a place for a leddy like you to come in to, or for a leddy -like her—God bless her!—to sleep in. But we gave her what we had. We -could do nae mair—if ye were a queen ye could do nae mair. And she’s -been as content all her bonnie days as if she was in the king’s palace. -Oh, but she’s been content; singing about the house that it was a -pleasure to hear her, and never thinking shame—never, never—of her -auld granny, wherever she was. She has ca’ed me aye granny—it was mair -natural; and nae slight upon the poor bonny bit thing that is dead and -gone.’</p> - -<p>Janet went on talking as she placed a chair for the visitor, and went -forward to the rude little desk where Joyce kept her treasures. She -talked on, finding a relief in it, a necessity for exertion. Mrs. -Hayward looked round the little homely place, meanwhile, with a -curiosity which was almost painful. It was a tiny little room with a -sloping roof, furnished in the simplest way, though a white<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> counterpane -on the little bed, and the white covering of the little dressing-table -in the window, gave an air of care and daintiness amid the simple -surroundings. A few photographs of pictures were pinned against the -wall. But the place of honour was given to two photographic groups -framed, one representing a group of school children, the other a band of -(Mrs. Hayward thought) very uncouth and clumsy young men. Janet, with a -wave of her hand towards these, said— ‘Hersel’ and her lassies,’ and -‘Andrew and some of his freends.’ It seemed to the keen but agitated -observer, in the formality of the heavy cluster of faces, as if all were -equally commonplace and uninteresting. She sat down and watched, with an -impatience which nothing but long practice could have kept within -bounds, while Janet opened the desk which stood against the wall, and -then a drawer in it, out of which at last, with trembling hands, she -brought a little parcel, wrapped in a white handkerchief. Janet was as -reluctant as her visitor was eager. She would fain have deferred the -test, or put it aside altogether. Why had she kept these papers for her -own undoing? She undid the handkerchief slowly. There fell out of it as -she unfolded it several small articles, each done up in a little -separate packet. ‘A’ her bit things that she had,’ Janet explained. ‘A -locket round her neck, and a bit little watch that winna go, and the -chain to it, and twa rings. I wanted Joyce to wear them, but she will -wear nothing o’ the kind, no’ so much as a bit brooch. Maybe you will -ken the rings if you see them,’ said Janet, always anxious to postpone -the final question, putting down the larger packet, and picking up with -shaking fingers, which dropped them two or three times before they were -finally secured, the tiny parcel in which the ornaments were enclosed.</p> - -<p>‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘The letters are the only things. Show me -the letters, I implore you, and don’t let us torture ourselves with -suspense.’</p> - -<p>‘Ae kind of torture is just as bad as another,’ said the old woman, -undoing with great unsteadiness the cotton-wool in which the trinkets -were enclosed. She held them out in the palm of her brown and -work-scarred hand. A little ring of pearl and turquoise, made for a very -slender finger, in a simple pattern, like a girl’s first ornament, and -beside it another, equally small, a ruby set round with brilliants. The -glimmer of the stones in the old woman’s tremulous hand, the presence of -these fragile symbols of a life and history past, gave the spectator a -shock of sympathetic pain almost in spite of herself. She put them away -with a hurried gesture— ‘No, no; nothing but the letters. I never saw -these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> before; I know nothing—nothing but the letters. Show me the -letters.’</p> - -<p>Janet looked at the trinkets and then at Mrs. Hayward, with a rising -light of hope in her eyes. ‘Ye never saw them before? It will just be -somebody else and no her ye was thinking of? That’s maist likely, that’s -real likely——’ wrapping them up again slowly in their cotton-wool. -Her fingers, unused to delicate uses, were more than ever awkward in -their tremor. To put them back again was the business of several -minutes, during which she went on: ‘You will not be heeding to see the -other things? I have them here in her box, just as she left them—for -Joyce would never hear of puttin’ on onything—and they’re -auld-fashioned, nae doubt, poor things. You’ll no be heeding?—oh ay, -the letters—I’m forgetting the letters. But, mem, if ye’ve nae -knowledge of her bit rings and things, ye will get nothing out of the -letters. There’s nae information in them. I’ve read them mysel’ till I -could near say them off by heart, but head or tail of them I could mak’ -nane. Here they are, any way. She’s made a kind of a pocket-book to put -them in—a’ her ain work, and bonnie work it is—flowered with gold; I -never kent where she got the gift o’t. Ye would think she could just do -onything she turned her hand to. Ay, there they are.’</p> - -<p>And with no longer any possible pretence for delay, she thrust a little -velvet case into Mrs. Hayward’s hand—who between impatience and -suspense was as much excited as herself. It was worked in gold thread -with a runic cross, twisted with many knots and intertwinings, and -executed with all the imperfections of an art as uninstructed as that of -the early workers in stone who had wrought Joyce’s model. Inside, -wrapped carefully in paper, were the two silent witnesses—the records -of the tragedy, the evidence which would be conclusive. Mrs. Hayward’s -hands trembled too as she came to this decisive point—they dropped out -of her fingers into her lap. Her heart gave a leap of relief when her -eye fell on the handwriting of the uppermost, which was unknown to her. -The other was folded, nothing showing but the paper, yellow and worn at -the edges with much perusal. In spite of herself, she took this up with -a feeling of repugnance and dread—afraid of it, afraid to touch it, -afraid to see—— what instinct told her must be there. She paused, -holding it in her hand, and gave Janet a look. No words passed between -them, but for the moment their hearts were one.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward opened the folded paper, then gave a low cry, and looked at -Janet once more—and to both the women there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> a moment during which -the solid earth, and this little prosaic spot on it, seemed to go round -and round.</p> - -<p>‘It will be what you was looking for?’ said Janet at last. She had been -full of lamentation and resistance before. She felt nothing now except -the hand of fate. The other shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she replied, and said no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the meantime Colonel Hayward was walking up and down the village -street, waiting for his wife. He passed and repassed the door two or -three times. He was very nervous, hanging about, not knowing what to -make of himself. The church stood at the end of the street, and a path -led down by the side of the churchyard, in the direction of Bellendean. -As he came to the end of this, he stopped in the abstraction of his mind -to look down the line of shade which a high hedgerow opposite to the low -mossy wall of the churchyard threw half-way across the path. Some one -was coming along in this clear and soft shadow, which was so grateful in -the midst of the sunshine. It startled him to see it was Joyce, in her -dark dress, her face relieved against the broad brim of an untrimmed -straw hat, which added in its tone of creamy white additional force to -the very delicate tints of her face, so clear in the shadowy air, with -an impression of coolness in the midst of great warmth. He cast an -anxious look of suspense over his shoulder towards the house where his -wife was; but as he did not see her, nor any sign of her coming, he -turned down the path to meet Joyce. It was rather by way of diverting -his own anxiety than from any eagerness to address her. He seemed to -want somebody to whom he could talk to relieve his own mind; for up to -this moment, except from curiosity and anxiety in respect to the past, -and a certain admiration of herself and her demeanour, it had not been -Joyce, upon her own account, who had interested the Colonel. He had not -had leisure as yet to get so far as her—for herself. He went on to talk -to her because she was in it, concerned like himself, though she might -not be aware of the fact, in the matter which his wife at present was -engaged in clearing up. It was as if the scene then going on at the -cottage was a consultation of doctors upon the life or death of a -beloved patient. Those who are waiting breathless for the opinion, which -is at the same time a sentence, are glad to get together to ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> each -other what they think,—at least, to stand together and wait, feeling -the support of company. This was Colonel Hayward’s feeling. He went -towards the girl with a sense that she had more to do with it than any -one else—but not with any perception of its immense importance to her.</p> - -<p>Joyce had gone out in the freedom which comes to all the members of the -scholastic profession, small and great, with the first morning of the -holidays. To have no lessons to give, no claim of one kind or another, -nothing but their own occupations, whatever they may be, gives to these -happy people a sense of legitimate repose. For one thing, the members of -almost every other profession have to go away to secure this -much-desired leisure, but to the teacher it comes, without any effort, -by appointment of nature, so to speak, by a beneficent arrangement which -takes all selfishness out of the enjoyment, since it has been invented, -not for the good primarily of himself, but of the flock who are so -happily got rid of, to their own perfect satisfaction. The sweet -consciousness that the happiness and freedom of so many sufferers have -been consulted before one’s own, gives sweetness and grace to it. Joyce -had risen this morning with that exquisite sense of freedom, and she had -gone out with a book as soon as the household work she never neglected -was over, to read and muse on a favourite spot, a point in the park at -Bellendean out of reach of the house, where behind a great screen of -trees the wayfarer came suddenly in sight of the Firth, the circle of -low hills which protects the narrower sea at the Queen’s Ferry, and the -sheltered basin of St. Margaret’s Hope. The sight of this wonderful -combination of sea and sky and solid soil, the soft hills rising round, -the mass of grey stones on the water’s edge, which marks a ruined -castle, the island in the midst, the widening out beyond into the -infinite, into the wider Firth and the stormy waters of the northern -sea, affording an ever-open door for the fancy,—were delightful to this -imaginative girl. She had taken her book, but she did not open it—for -which she upbraided herself, confessing in the secret depths of her soul -that Andrew would not have done so,—that he would have read and -expounded and discussed and found a new beauty in every line, where she, -so much his intellectual inferior, did nothing. She did not even -think—if further avowal must be made, she did not even see the lovely -landscape for the sake of which she had come here. It entered into her, -reflecting itself in her dreamy eyes, and printing itself in her mind; -but she did not look as Andrew would have done, finding out beautiful -‘lights,’ and commanding all the details<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> of the scene. Joyce was a -little short-sighted, and did not see the details. It was to her a large -blurred celestial world of beauty and colour, and abundant delicious air -and sunshine. Her thoughts went from her, where she sat in the heart of -the morning, looking over the Firth, with all its breadth of melting -light and reflection, to those low hills of the farther shore.</p> - -<p>It had been thus that she had entered upon her holidays in the other -days when life had no cares. The dreamings about Lady Joyce, and all the -speculations as to her future, had come in other scenes, where there was -a want of brightness and of a stronghold of her own to retire into. Here -she had not needed that fanciful world of her own. But to-day Joyce was -in a different mood. After a while she began to become insensible -altogether to the scene, and resumed more personal musings instead. -‘Young lady, where did you get your name?’ It was not the first time she -had been so questioned. Half the people she met asked her the same: but -not as Colonel Hayward did. ‘I knew some one once’—what did he mean? -why did he not come back and tell her? These thoughts became urgent -after a while, so that she could not sit and dream, as was her wont in -her favourite spot. She got up with a little impatience and vexation and -disappointment to return home. But in the lane which led up to the -village street, in the clear shadow of the tall hawthorn hedge, behold -some one advancing to meet her, at sight of whom her heart began to -beat—more loudly than it had ever beaten at the sight of Andrew -Halliday; it sprang up thumping and resounding. ‘He knows who I am,’ she -said to herself. ‘Perhaps he will tell me; perhaps he is looking for me -to tell me. Perhaps he is something to me.’ Her veins seemed suddenly to -fill with a rushing quick-flowing stream.</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward took off his hat as he came up. This was to him an -everyday action, but to her an unusual grace, a homage which only lately -had ever been given to her, and which she esteemed disproportionately as -a sign of special chivalry. It brought the colour to her cheeks, which -ebbed again the moment after in the fluctuations of her anxiety. The old -Colonel looked very anxious too; his face was agitated, and paler than -usual. When he came up to her he stopped. ‘I don’t think,’ he said, -‘that we were ever introduced to each other; but still—— You have been -taking a walk this fine morning?’</p> - -<p>‘The holidays have just begun, sir,’ said Joyce respectfully. ‘This is -the first day: and though I am very fond of my work, freedom is sweet at -first.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Only at first?’</p> - -<p>‘It is always sweet,’ she said, with a smile; ‘but never so delicious as -the first day.’</p> - -<p>Their hearts were not in this light talk, and here it came to an end. He -had turned with her, and they were walking along side by side. Great -anxiety—tremulous and breathless suspense—were in the minds of both on -the same subject—and yet they regarded it in aspects so different! The -soft transparent shadow of the hedge kept them from all the flicker of -light and movement outside, giving a sort of <i>recueillement</i>, a calm of -gravity and stillness, to the two figures. Had they been in a picture, -there could have been no better title for it than ‘The Telling of the -Secret.’ But yet there was no secret told. He was absorbed in his own -thoughts, and unconscious of the wistful looks which she gave him -timidly from time to time. At last he turned upon her, and asked the -strangest question, with a tremor and quiver in all his big frame.</p> - -<p>‘Do you remember your mother?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘My mother!’ The sudden shock brought a wave of colour over her. ‘Oh, -sir,’ said Joyce, ‘how could I remember her? for she died when I was -born.’</p> - -<p>‘True, true—I had forgotten that,’ he said, with an air of confusion. -Then added— ‘You must forgive me. My mind was full——’</p> - -<p>Of what was his mind full? He fell silent after this, and for some time -no more was said. But it gradually came to be impossible to Joyce to -keep silence. She turned to him, scarcely seeing him in the rush of -blood that went to her head.</p> - -<p>‘Did you know my mother?’ she said. ‘Oh, sir, will you tell me? Do you -know who she was?’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t tell—I can’t tell,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It may be all -a mistake. We must not make too sure.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you think——’ she cried, and stopped, and looked at him, -searching his face for his meaning—the anxious open face which was held -before her like a book—though he did not look at her in return. She put -her hand, with a light momentary touch, on his arm. ‘Perhaps you don’t -know,’ she said hurriedly, ‘that I have things of hers—things she -left—that would settle it—that would show you——’</p> - -<p>He made a little gesture of assent, waving his hand. ‘My wife is there: -that is what keeps me in this suspense.’</p> - -<p>‘Where? Where?’</p> - -<p>He pointed vaguely in the direction of Joyce’s home. ‘She has gone—to -see everything,’ he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span></p> - -<p>For the moment a flash of sudden anger came to the eyes of Joyce. ‘They -are all mine!’ she cried. ‘It was to me she ought to have come. I am the -one chiefly concerned!’ Then the flash quenched itself, and her look -grew soft and wistful once more. ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘if it was the -Joyce you thought—if it was her you supposed—who was she? To tell me -that, even if it should turn out all different, would do no harm.’</p> - -<p>‘It would do no good either,’ he said: then turned round to her, and -took her hand between his two large brown hands, which were trembling. -‘You are very like her,’ he said—‘so like her that I am forced to -believe. She looked just as you are doing when I saw her last. Some -relationship there must be—there must be!’ Here he dropped her hand -again, as if he had not known that he held it. ‘There was wrong done to -her—the Joyce I mean. She was made very unhappy; but no wrong was meant -on—on my—on—on <i>his</i> part. Would you really like to hear the story? -But it may turn out to be nothing—to have nothing to do with you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, tell me; it will fill up the time; it will ease the suspense.’</p> - -<p>‘That is what I feel,’ he said; ‘and you will keep the secret—that is, -there is no secret; it is only what happened to—— what happened long, -long ago—to—to one of my friends: you understand,’ he said -tremulously, but with an effort to be very firm, looking at her, -‘to—one of my friends.’</p> - -<p>Joyce made a sign of assent, too much absorbed in what she was about to -hear to think what this warmth of asseveration meant. It was a relief to -him to speak. It was like going over all the changes of the illness when -a beloved sufferer lies between life and death.</p> - -<p>‘They met,’ he said, ‘abroad, at a foreign station. She was very young. -She was with people that were not kind to her. They married in a great -hurry, without proper precautions, without thinking that anything could -be wrong. They came home soon after for her health, and I—I had -to—I—I don’t quite remember——’ his voice seemed to die away in his -throat; then with another effort he recovered it and went on— ‘Her -husband had to leave her and go back—to his duty: and then she heard -from some wicked person—oh, some wicked person!—God forgive her, for I -can’t—that it was not a true marriage. It was, it was! I protest to you -no thought of harm—good Lord! nothing but love, honest love—and it was -all right, all right, as it turned out.’</p> - -<p>‘But she thought—she had been deceived!’ Joyce listened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> with her head -drooping, keeping down the climbing sorrow in her throat, hardly able to -find her voice.</p> - -<p>‘She was always hasty,’ he said. ‘I am not the one to blame her—oh no, -no—it was not wonderful, perhaps, that she should believe. And letters -to India were not then as now—they took so long a time; and something -happened to delay the answer. It was what you call nobody’s fault—only -an accident—an accident that cost——’</p> - -<p>‘You are very, very kind—oh, you are kind; you speak as if you had felt -for her with all your heart—as if she had been your very own.’</p> - -<p>He gave her a startled look, and made a momentary pause: then he -proceeded, ‘That’s all,—all that anybody has known. She disappeared. -His letter came back to him. He could not get home to search for her. It -had to be trusted to others. After years, when I came back, I—I—but -nothing could ever be found.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Joyce, gasping a little to keep down her sobs, ‘I think that -must have been my mother. I—think it must be. She begins in her letter -to tell him—she calls him Henry—was that his name?’</p> - -<p>The old Colonel made a noise in his throat which sounded like a sob too: -he nodded his head in assent, as if he could not speak.</p> - -<p>‘She begins to tell him—is he living still?’</p> - -<p>This question had the strangest effect upon Colonel Hayward. He turned -round upon her, steadying himself, looking her in the face, with -momentary wonder and something like indignation: then the energy died -out of him all at once, and he nodded his head again.</p> - -<p>‘My father! then I have a father,’ said Joyce, with a voice as soft and -tender as a dove’s. She was not now paying any attention to him or his -looks, but was entirely absorbed in this new wonderful discovery of her -own.</p> - -<p>But he started with a sudden cry— ‘Good God!’ as if something -new—something too astounding to understand—had flashed upon him. Her -father! why, so it was!—so he was—— He had thought of no subject but -this for days, and yet this point of view had not opened upon him. They -had reached the head of the lane, and were now in the village street, -turned towards the cottage in which Joyce had lived all her life, and -near enough to see the light little figure of Mrs. Hayward standing at -the door. This caught his attention, but not hers. For Joyce had plunged -suddenly with a new impulse back into the enchanted country of her -dreams. A father—and one who had done no wrong—who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> was not to -blame—a living father! It was only when she turned to Colonel Hayward, -after the first bound of exhilaration and breathless pleasure, to ask -him, clasping her hands unconsciously, ‘Who is my father?’ that she saw -the extraordinary commotion in his face. He was looking at her, and yet -his eyes made quick voyages to and from his wife. The lines of his face -had all melted into what Joyce felt to be the ‘kindest’ look she had -ever met. And yet there was alarm and boundless anxiety in it. He looked -as if he did not hear her question, but suddenly laid his hand upon -hers, and gave it a strong momentary pressure. ‘I must know first. I -must speak to my wife,’ he said incoherently. ‘God bless you!—I must -ask Elizabeth. You must wait: I must speak to Elizabeth. But God bless -you, my dear!’</p> - -<p>He was already gone, hastening with long steps up the street. The -thought passed through Joyce’s mind that this must have been a dear -friend,—some one, perhaps, who had loved her mother: and a man with the -tenderest heart. There was something in his ‘God bless you’ which seemed -to fall upon her like the dew—a true blessing; the blessing of one who -had always been her friend, though she had never known him. She did not -hurry to follow him to satisfy herself, but went on quietly at her usual -pace, looking at the old gentleman’s long swift steps, and thinking of a -camel going over the ground. He was from the East, too; and he devoured -the way, hastening to the little figure which had perceived and which -was waiting for him. Joyce had the faculty of youth to remark all this, -yet keep up her own thoughts at the same time. She saw old Janet -standing at the door looking out, with the hem of her apron in her hand, -which was her gesture when her mind was much occupied or troubled: and -the little lady in the street standing waiting, and then, her own old -friend, the Colonel, hurrying up, putting his arm within the lady’s, -leading her away with his head bent over her. There was a certain -amusement in it all, which floated on the surface of the great -excitement and wonder and delight of the discovery she had made. A -father; and a dear old friend, the kindest, the most sympathetic, who -blessed her, and who had a right to bless her, having loved (she could -not doubt it) her mother before her.</p> - -<p>Joyce did not know what the next disclosure might be,—did not think for -the moment that, whatever it was, it must change the whole tenor of her -life. Nor did she think that there was still a doubt in it,—that it -might yet come to nothing, as he had said. Oh no, it could not come to -nothing; everything pieced in to the story. The doubt with which Janet -had always chilled her, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> a young creature disappearing so utterly, -with no one to care for her, no one to inquire after her, must have had -a story in which shame was involved—how completely was it dissipated -and explained by this real tale! Oh, no shame! she had felt sure there -could not be shame—nothing but the cruel distance, the fatal accident -that had delayed the letter, those strange elements of uncertainty which -mix in every mortal story, which (Joyce remembered from that reading -which had hitherto been her life) the ancients called fate. And what -could they be called but fate? If it had come in time that letter! as -letters which mean nothing, which are of no consequence, come every -day—and yet he had said the delay was nobody’s fault. Was it less -fatal, less fateful than those incidents that lead towards the end of a -tragedy in the poets? and this was a tragedy. Oh, how sad, how pitiful, -to the Joyce of twenty years ago! but not to our Joyce, who suddenly -found this July morning her vague dreams of youth, her fancies that had -no foundation, coming true.</p> - -<p>‘You’ve been a long time away,’ said Janet from the door. She had -watched Joyce’s approach until they were within a few steps of each -other, when she had suddenly withdrawn her eyes, and taking to examining -the hem of her apron, which she laid down and pinched between her -fingers, as if preparing it to be hemmed over again. The corners of -Janet’s mouth were drawn down, and a line or two marked in her forehead, -as when she was angry and about to scold her nursling. ‘I could wuss,’ -she said, ‘that ye wouldna stravaig away in the mornin’ without a piece -or onything to sustain ye, and maybe getting your death o’ cauld, -sittin’ on the grass.’</p> - -<p>‘It is the first day of the holidays, granny,’ said Joyce. She came in -smiling, and put down her book, and going up to her faithful guardian, -put an arm round her, and laid her cheek against hers. Caresses are rare -in a Scotch peasant’s house. Janet half turned away her own wrinkled -cheek. The intensity of the love within her rose into a heat which -simulated wrath.</p> - -<p>‘I’m no a wean to be made o’. I like nane o’ your phrasin’s. I like when -folk do as I bid them, and make nae steer.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, granny,’ said Joyce, ‘but my heart is so full, and I have so much -to tell you.’</p> - -<p>‘What can ye have to tell me? I have maybe mair to tell you than ever ye -thought upon; and as for a full heart, how can the like of you, with a’ -your life before ye, ken what that means?’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, I have had a long talk with that gentleman—the gentleman that -thought he knew my mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘And what had he to say to you? I’m thinking your mother has been just -killed among them. That’s my opinion. A poor young solitary thing, that -had naebody to stand up for her. And sae will ye be if ye lippen to -them,’ cried Janet, suddenly sitting down and covering her face with her -apron,—‘sae will ye be. Ye are weel off now, though maybe ye dinna -think sae.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, have I ever given you any reason to say that?’</p> - -<p>Janet withdrew her apron from her eyes. Her eyes were red with that -burden of tears which age cannot shed like youth. The passion of love -and grief which overflowed her being could only get vent in this -irritation and querulous impatience. Her long upper lip quivered, a hot -moisture glistened on the edges of her eyelids. She looked at the young -creature, standing half on the defensive before this sudden attack, yet -half disposed to meet it with tender laughter and jest. ‘Oh, ye can make -licht o’t,’ she cried. ‘What is’t to you? just the life ye’ve aye been -craving for,—aye craving for,—ye canna say nay. But to me what is it?’ -said the old woman. ‘It’s just death. It’s waur than death; it’s just -lingering and longin’ and frettin’ wi’ my Maker for what I canna have! -When we took ye to our airms, a bit helpless bairn, maybe there was that -in our hearts that said the Lord was our debtor to make it up to us. But -them that think sae will find themselves sair mista’en; for He has just -waited and waited till ye had come to your flower and were our pride! -And now the fiat has gaen forth, no’ when ye were a little bairn; and I -aye said, “Haud a loose grip!” But now that a’ the danger seemed -overpast, now that—wheesht!’ cried Janet suddenly, coming to an abrupt -pause. In the silence that followed they heard a slow and heavy foot, -making long and measured steps, advancing gradually. They heard that -among many others, for it was the time when the labourers were coming -home to dinner; but to Janet and Joyce there was no mistaking the one -tread among so many. Janet got up hurriedly from the chair. ‘Wheesht! -no’ a word before him; it’s time enough when it comes,’ she said. Joyce -had not waited even for this, but had begun to lay the table, so that -Peter when he came in should find everything ready. He came in with his -usual air of broadly smiling expectation, and took his bonnet from his -grizzled red locks, which was the fashion Joyce had taught him, as he -stepped across the threshold. ‘It’s awful warm the day,’ were his first -words, as he went in, notwithstanding, and placed himself in the big -chair near the fire. The fire was the household centre whether it was -cold or warm. ‘So you’ve gotten the play?’ he added, beaming upon Joyce, -awaiting some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span>thing which should make him open his mouth in one of those -big brief laughs that brought the water to his eyes. It was not -necessary that it should be witty or clever. Joyce was wit and -cleverness embodied to her foster-father. When she opened her lips his -soul was satisfied.</p> - -<p>And before Peter the cloud disappeared like magic. Janet was cheerful, -and Joyce like everyday. They listened to his talk about the ripening -corn, and where it was full in the ear, and where stubby, and about the -Irish shearers that will be doun upon us like locusts afore we -ken,—‘and a wheen Hieland cattle too,’ said Peter, who was not -favourable to the Celts. Then the broth was put on the table and the -blessing said, and the humble dinner eaten as it had been for years in -the little family which held together by nature, and which, so far as -had appeared, nothing could ever divide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Colonel took his wife’s arm, drawing her close to him, leaning over -her little figure: he could hold her closer in this way, and take her -strength more completely into his own than if she had taken his arm in -the ordinary fashion. But she gave him but an uncertain support for the -first time in their life. The group made up of those two figures linked -into one, making but one shadow, tottered as they set out. And she made -no reply to his look, to the urgent clasp of his arm on hers, until they -had passed out of the village street, and gained the quiet and stillness -of the avenue within the gates. Then Elizabeth—unprecedented -action!—detached herself almost with impatience. ‘You hurt me, Henry,’ -she said quickly, with a sharp intolerance in her tone. This brought the -painful excitement of the morning to a climax; for when had she -complained before?</p> - -<p>‘My dear!’ he cried, with a tone of compunction and horror, ‘I—hurt -you?’ as if he had been accused of high treason and brutal cruelty -combined.</p> - -<p>This accent of amazed contrition brought Mrs. Hayward to herself. ‘Oh -no, Henry,’ she said, ‘you did not hurt me at all. I am not fit to speak -to any good Christian. I am a wretched creature, full of envy, and -malice, and all uncharitableness. Let me alone a little till I come to -myself.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel gave her a piteous look. ‘As long as you please, my dear,’ -he said; then added apologetically, ‘I can’t help feeling very anxious. -There is more in this than meets the eye—there is more in it than I -realised: there is—the—the young lady, Elizabeth.’</p> - -<p>In spite of herself his wife looked at him with a momentary scorn which -was almost fierce. ‘Do you mean to say that this is the first time you -have thought of that?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel was very apologetic. ‘I am afraid I am dense,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>’ he said; -‘but, my dear, I always like to wait till I know what you think—and as -yet you have said nothing. How was I to suppose——’ Here he broke off, -seeing in his wife’s eyes more than he could read all at once, and with -a tremulous movement laid his hand again upon her arm. ‘What is it?’ he -said.</p> - -<p>She was tremulous too, but in a different fashion. She began to open out -a little parcel which she held in her hand quickly, almost with -indignation. ‘You will know what to think when you see you own hand and -name,’ she said. ‘There! that’s been laid up waiting for me—fancy! for -<i>me</i> to find it—these twenty years.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel looked at the yellow old letters with increasing agitation, -but no increase of understanding. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What does it -mean, Elizabeth? I did not go through all this, only to come to an old -letter of my own at the last.’</p> - -<p>The little woman stamped her foot with a kind of fury. ‘I think you are -determined not to understand,’ she cried. ‘Look who that letter is -addressed to—look at this other along with it; for God’s sake, Henry, -don’t worry me any more! don’t ask what I think: look at them for -yourself.’</p> - -<p>He did look, but with so bewildered an expression that compassion -overcame her. She took the papers over which he was puzzling, looking at -his own writing vaguely, with a quick impatient movement.</p> - -<p>‘You have been right, quite right in your conjectures,’ she said; ‘the -poor girl that came here alone twenty years ago, and had her baby, and -went wrong in her head, and died, was your poor young wife, Joyce -Hayward, Henry. There is your letter to her—not the kind of letter I -should have thought you would have written; and there is hers to you, a -voice out of the grave. Don’t look at me in that pitiful way. I don’t -expect you to read it here. Go away to your own room or into the woods, -Henry, and read your wife’s letter. Go away! go away! and do this for -yourself without me. I am not the person,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, thrusting -them into his hands, and pushing him impatiently from her,— ‘I am not -the person to read your wife’s letter. Go away! go away!’</p> - -<p>‘My wife’s letter,’ he said, with a momentary look of awe and trouble. -Then suddenly he put one arm round her, and, half sobbing, said, ‘Twenty -years since! it has always been right, all the time, my darling, between -you and me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Henry!—is that all you think of at such a moment?’</p> - -<p>He patted her shoulder with his large and unsteady hand, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> held her -close. ‘If it is not all, it’s the first and foremost,’ he said; ‘you -will never again, Elizabeth, never any more——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, go away! go away!’ she cried, stamping her foot upon the path. -There were tears in her eyes, half love and softness, half impatience -and fury. She pushed him away from her with all her strength, and -turning her back upon him, walked quickly through the trees and across -the park in the full sunshine. She was distracted with conflicting -sentiments, unwilling to be melted, yet touched to the heart; determined -that he should go back by himself into that distant past with which she -had nothing to do, yet scarcely able to resist the habit of doing -everything for him, of encountering even that for him. She hurried along -until she had got within the shade of a belt of wood, and out of sight -of the spot where she had left her husband. Here Mrs. Hayward suddenly -sat down upon the grass, and hid her face in her hands. Sometimes it -became necessary for her, even in the ordinary course of affairs, to -escape for a moment now and then from the Colonel’s constant demands. -But to-day it seemed to her that she must do this or die. The sudden -summons, the long journey, the agitating news, the commission so -suddenly put into her hands, the discovery she had made, all united had -overwhelmed her at last. She cried heartily, as she did everything, with -an abundant natural overthrow of feeling which relieved and exhausted -her, and a sensation underneath all which she could not define whether -it was happiness or pain.</p> - -<p>This Joyce, who had been from the beginning the shadow upon her married -life, in despite of whose possible claims she had married, and whom she -had regarded all through with a mixture of pity and indignation and -fear, roused in her, dead, almost as strong feelings as if she had been -a living claimant to the name and place which were hers. The very fact -that the poor girl’s story was so pitiful, and that nothing could take -away the interest and compassion roused by the image of a young forsaken -creature dying so miserably with no one near who loved her, was to Mrs. -Hayward at this moment an additional aggravation, adding a pang to all -the rest. And yet there was in it an unspeakable relief; and the fact -that this, and not any revival of the romance of his youth, had been her -husband’s first thought, was exquisite to her, yet with a certain acrid -sweetness, not unmingled with pain and the contradictoriness of a highly -sensitive, impatient, and intolerant soul, sharply conscious of every -complication. For notwithstanding her strong personal share in the -matter, it was clear to Elizabeth that he ought to have thought of the -other, the poor girl in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> her youth and misery, first; and that the sight -of her letter, the words written in her anguish, coming to him as it -were from her grave, across the silence of twenty years, ought to have -transported the man to whom these words were addressed out of all -recollection of the present,—out of everything save that tragedy of -which, however innocently, he was the cause. She could not but feel it -sweet that it was herself and not the dead Joyce of whom in reality he -had thought: yet, in a manner, she resented it, and was wounded by it as -a thing against nature which ought not to have been. ‘That is all that a -man’s love is worth,’ she said to herself. ‘He cost her her life, and it -is me he thinks of, who am well and strong, and in no trouble.’ And yet -it went to her heart that he should have so thought.</p> - -<p>In this keen complication of feeling, Mrs. Hayward, for the time, could -realise nothing else. It was not possible to think of the dead girl and -herself but as rivals: and this, too, gave her a pang. How mean, how -ungenerous, how miserable it was! Such a story in a book, much more in -real life, would have moved her to warm tears; but in this, which -touched herself so closely, she could feel no true pity. It was her -rival; it was one who had come before her, whose shadow had lain upon -her life and darkened it, who even now was bringing trouble into -it—trouble of which it was impossible to fathom the full extent. How -could there be tenderness where such sharp antagonism was? And yet, how -poor, how small, how petty, how unworthy was the feeling!</p> - -<p>In these contrarieties her mind was caught, and thrilled with sharp -vexation, shame, scorn of herself, and sense of that profound vanity of -human things which makes the present in its pettiness so much greater -than the past, and dims and obliterates everything that is over. To -think that such a tragedy had been, and that those who were most -concerned thought of their poor share in it first, and not of her who -was the victim! That contradiction of all that was most true and just, -that infidelity which is in every human thing, the callousness and -egotism which ran through the best, jarred her with a discord which was -in herself as well as in all the rest. But when she had cried her heart -out, Mrs. Hayward, as was natural, exhausted that first poignant -sensation, and came to contemplate, apart from all that was past, the -present condition of affairs, which was not more consolatory. Indeed, -when, putting the tragedy of the poor Joyce who was dead out of her -mind, she returned to the present, the figure of the living Joyce -suddenly rose before her with a sharp distinctness that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> made her spring -to her feet as a soldier springs to his weapon when suddenly confronted -by an enemy. Mrs. Hayward had never seen Joyce, so that this figure was -purely imaginary which rose before her, with a stinging touch, reminding -her that here was something which was not past but present, a -reality,—no affair of memory or sentiment, but a difficulty real and -tangible, standing straight before her, not to be passed by or -forgotten. She sprang up as if to arms, to meet the new antagonist who -thus presented herself, and must be met, but not with arms in hand, nor -as an antagonist at all. Joyce herself would scarcely have been so -terrible to encounter as Joyce’s child thus coming between her husband -and herself, taking possession of the foreground of their existence -whether they would or not. What Mrs. Hayward would be called upon to do -would be—not to retire before this new actor in her existence, not to -withdraw and leave the field as she had always felt it possible she -might have to do, but to receive, to live with,—good heavens! perhaps -to love her! Yes! no doubt this was what the Colonel would want; he -would require her to love this girl who was his child. He would take it -for granted that she must do so; he would innocently lay all the burden -upon her, and force her into a maternity which nature had not required -of her. A mother! ah yes, she could have been a mother indeed had God -willed it so; but to produce that undeveloped side of her, that capacity -which she had been so often tempted to think Providence had wronged her -by leaving in abeyance, for the benefit of this country girl, this -Scotch peasant, with all her crude education, her conceit (no doubt) of -superiority, her odious schoolmistress’s training!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward could not sit still and look calmly at what was before her. -There was something intolerable in it, which stung her into energy, -which made her feel the necessity of being up and doing, of making a -stand against misfortune. However much she might resent and resist in -her private soul, she would have to do this thing, and put on a -semblance of doing it with, not against, her own will and liking. Talk -of the contradictions of fate! they seemed to be all grouped together in -this problem which she had to work out. If the child had been a boy, the -Colonel would have been compelled more or less to take the charge upon -himself. There would have been school or college, or the necessities of -a profession, to occupy the newcomer; but that it should be a girl—a -girl, a young woman, a creature entirely within the sphere of Colonel -Hayward’s wife, whose business it would be not only to be a mother to -her, but to receive her as a companion, to amend<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> her manners, to watch -over all her proceedings, to take the responsibility night and day!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward felt that she could have put up with a boy. He would not -have been her business so much as his father’s, and he would not for -ever and ever have recalled his mother, and put her in mind of all that -had been, and of all she herself had already borne. For though she had -accepted the position knowing all that was involved, and though it was, -so to speak, her own fault that she had encountered these difficulties, -still there could be no doubt that she had for years had much to bear; -and now what a climax, what a crown to everything! A second Joyce, no -doubt, with all the headstrong qualities which had made the first Joyce -spoil her own life and the lives of others, with all the disadvantages -of her peasant training, of her education even, which would be rather -worse than ignorance. Mrs. Hayward conjured up before her the image of a -pupil-teacher, a good girl striving for examinations, immaculate in -spelling, thinking of everything as the subject of a lesson: looking up -with awe to the inspector, with reverence to some little prig of a -schoolmaster, a girl with neat collars and cuffs, knowing her own -condition in life, and very respectful to her superiors: or else -bumptious, and standing upon her dignity as an educated person, which -Mrs. Hayward had heard was more the way of the Scotch. In either point -of view, what a prospect, what a companion!</p> - -<p>And the Colonel’s wife knew how that good man would conduct himself. He -would remonstrate with her if the girl were <i>gauche</i>, or if she were -disagreeable and presuming. He would say, ‘You must tell her’—‘you must -make her do so-and-so.’ If his taste was shocked, if the girl turned out -to be very dreadful, he himself, who ought to know so much better, would -throw all the blame upon her. Or perhaps, which would be still more -intolerable, his eyes would be blinded, and he would see nothing that -was not beautiful and amiable in his child. With a sudden flush of -irritation, Mrs. Hayward felt that this would be more unbearable still. -Joyce had been the bugbear of his life in the past; what if Joyce were -to be the model, the example of every good quality, the admiration and -delight of his life to come: and she herself, the step-mother, the -half-rival, half-tyrant, the one who would not appreciate the new -heroine! No one was so ready as Elizabeth to perceive all her husband’s -excellent qualities. He was good as an angel or a child—there was no -soil in him. His kindness, his tenderness, his generous heart, his -innocent life, were her pride and delight. And the perpetual appeal -which he made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> to her, the helplessness with which he flung himself upon -her for inspiration and counsel, made him dearer still. She herself -laughed and sometimes frowned at the devout aspiration, ‘If only -Elizabeth were here!’ for which all his friends smiled at the Colonel; -but at the same time it warmed her heart. And yet there was no one in -the world so feelingly alive to the irritations and vexations which were -involved in this supreme helplessness and trust. There were moments when -he worried her almost beyond endurance. She had to be perpetually on the -watch. She had to subdue herself and forget herself, and make a thousand -daily sacrifices to the man whom she ruled absolutely, and who was ready -at her fiat almost to live or die. But of all intolerable things, that -which was most intolerable was the suggestion that he might in this -matter judge for himself without her aid,—that he might admit this -strange girl into his heart, and place her on the pinnacle which had -hitherto been sacred to Elizabeth alone.</p> - -<p>She had seated herself on a grassy bank under the shade of the trees -which skirted one side of the park of Bellendean. Instinctively she had -chosen a spot where there was ‘a view.’ How many such spots are there to -which preoccupied people, with something to think out, resort half -unawares, and all-unconscious of the landscape spread before them! -Edinburgh, gray in the distance, with her crags and towers, shone -through the opening carefully cut in the trees, the angle of the castled -rock standing forth boldly against the dimness of the smoke behind; and -the air was so clear, and the atmosphere so still, that while Mrs. -Hayward sat there the sound of the gun which regulates the time for all -Edinburgh—the gun fired from the Castle at one o’clock—boomed through -the distance with a sudden shock which made her start. She was not a -fanciful woman, nor given to metaphors. But there was something in the -peace of the landscape, the summer quiet, broken only by the hum of -insects and rustle of the waving boughs, the distant town too far off to -add a note to that soft breathing of nature, which made a centre to the -picture and no more—when the air was suddenly rent by the harsh and -fatal sound of the gun, making the spectator start—which was to her -like an emblematic representation of what had happened to herself. To be -sure, if she had but thought of it, that voice of war had been tamed -into a service of domestic peace, a sound as innocent as chanticleer; -but Mrs. Hayward was a stranger, and was unaware of this. As she rose up -hurriedly, startled by the shock in the air, she saw her husband coming -towards her across the sunshine. He was moving like a man in a dream, -moving instinctively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> towards where she was, but otherwise unconscious -where he was going, unaware of the little heights and hollows, stumbling -over the stump of a tree that came in his way. The sight of his -abstraction brought her back to herself. He came up to her, and held out -the little packet in his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Put them away,’ he said hoarsely; ‘lock them up in some sure place, -Elizabeth. To think all that should have been going on, and I -ignorant—oh, as ignorant as the babe unborn!’</p> - -<p>‘How could you know when she never told you?’ Mrs. Hayward cried -quickly, instinctively taking his part, even against himself. He put his -large hand upon her small shoulder, and patted her with a deprecating, -soothing touch, as if the wrong and the sorrow were not his but hers.</p> - -<p>‘But she meant us to know—that letter, if I had ever got it! She was -young and foolish, young and foolish. Put it away, my dear; don’t -destroy it, but lock it away safe, and let us think of it no more.’</p> - -<p>‘That is impossible, Henry. You must think of it, in justice to -her—poor thing;’ this Mrs. Hayward said unwillingly, from a sense of -what was right and fitting, and with a compunction in her heart,—‘and -for the sake,’ she added firmly, after a moment, ‘of your child.’</p> - -<p>‘The girl,’ he said vaguely. Then he came closer to her, and put his arm -within hers. ‘You will see to all that, Elizabeth. You understand these -sort of things better than I do. It would be very awkward for me, you -know, a man.’ To describe the persuasive tone, the ingratiating gesture -with which, in his simplicity, he put this burden upon her, would be -impossible. Even she, well as she knew him, was struck with surprise—a -surprise which was half happiness and half indignation.</p> - -<p>‘Henry!’ she cried, resisting the appealing touch, ‘have you no heart -for your own child?’</p> - -<p>He leant upon her for a moment, drawing as it seemed her whole little -person, and all her energy and strength, into himself. ‘I’m all upset, -Elizabeth. I don’t know what I have, whether heart or anything -else—except you, my dear, except you. Everything will go right as long -as I have you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the perplexity of this extraordinary crisis they both went, without -another word, ‘home’: though it was no more home than these wonderful -new circumstances were the course of everyday. If we were to prophesy -the conduct of human creatures in moments of great emotion by what would -seem probable, or even natural, how far from the fact we should be! -Colonel Hayward, a man of the tenderest heart and warmest affections, -suddenly discovers that he has a child—a child by whose appearance, and -everything about her, he has been pleased and attracted, the child of -his first love, his young wife to whose cruel death he has contributed, -though unwittingly, unintentionally, meaning no evil. Would not all -ordinary means of conveyance be too slow, all obstacles as nothing in -his way, the very movement of the world arrested till he had taken this -abandoned child into his arms, and assured her of his penitence, his -joy, his love! But nothing could be further from his actual action. He -went back to Bellendean with a feeling that he would perhaps know better -what to do were he within the four walls of a room where he could shut -himself and be alone. It would be easier to think there than in the -park, where everything was in perpetual motion, leaves rustling, -branches waving, birds singing,—the whole world astir. ‘If we were only -in our own room,’ he said to his wife, ‘we could think—what it was best -to do.’</p> - -<p>She said nothing, but she longed also for the quiet and shelter of that -room. She recognised, as indeed she might have done from the first, that -whatever had to be done, it was she that must do it. And Mrs. Hayward -was entirely <i>dépaysée</i>, and did not know how to manage this business. -Janet Matheson was a new species to a woman who had done a great deal of -parish work, and was not unacquainted with the ordinary ways of managing -‘the poor.’ She did not understand how to deal with that proud old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> -woman, to whom she could not offer any recompense, whom she would -scarcely dare even to thank for her ‘kindness.’ Janet had repudiated -that injurious word, and Mrs. Hayward felt that it would be easier to -offer money to Mrs. Bellendean than to this extraordinary cottager. To -be sure, that was nothing—a trifle not worth consideration in face of -the other question, of Joyce herself, who would have to be adopted, -removed from the cottage, taken home as Miss Hayward, a new, and perhaps -soon the most important, member of the family. Elizabeth’s heart beat as -it had never done before, scarcely even when she married Captain -Hayward, accepting all the risks, taking him and his incoherent story at -a terrible venture. That was an undertaking grave enough, but this was -more terrible still. She felt, too, that she would be thankful to get -into the quiet of her own room to think it over, to decide what she -should best do.</p> - -<p>This, however, was more easily said than done. The anxious pair were met -in the hall by Mrs. Bellendean with looks as anxious as their own. She -was breathless with interest, expectation, and excitement: and came up -to them in a fever of eagerness, which, to Mrs. Hayward at least, seemed -quite unnecessary, holding out a hand to each. ‘Well?’ she cried, as if -their secrets were hers, and her interest as legitimate as their own. In -short, the pair, who were very grave and preoccupied, having exhausted -the first passion of the discovery, had much less appearance of -excitement and expectation than this lady, who had nothing whatever to -do with it. A shade of disappointment crossed her face when she saw -their grave looks; but Mrs. Bellendean’s perceptions were lively, and -she perceived at the same moment tokens of agitation in the old -colonel’s face which reassured her. It would have been too much if, -after all her highly-raised expectations, nothing had happened at all.</p> - -<p>‘Come into my room,’ she said quickly; ‘we have half an hour before -luncheon, and there we shall be quite undisturbed.’ She led the way with -a rapidity that made it impossible even to protest, and opening the -door, swept them in before her, and drew an easy-chair forward for Mrs. -Hayward. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me! You have found out something, I can -see.’</p> - -<p>They looked at each other,—Mrs. Hayward with the liveliest inclination -to tell the lady, whom she scarcely knew, that their affairs were their -own. It would have been a little relief to her feelings could she have -done so; but this was just the moment, as she knew very well, in which -the Colonel was sure to come to the front.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, with a sigh, in which there was distinct relief. (He -found it so easy to relieve himself in that way!) ‘We have found -out—all we wanted, more than we expected. Apart from all other -circumstances, this is a memorable visit to me, Mrs. Bellendean. We have -found—or rather Elizabeth has found—— She is always my resource in -everything——’</p> - -<p>‘What?’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, clasping her hands. ‘Please excuse me—I -am so anxious. Something about Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘You must understand that I had no notion of it, no idea of it all the -time. I was as ignorant—— There may have been things in which I was to -blame—though never with any meaning: but of this I had no idea—none: -she never gave me the slightest hint—never the least,’ said the Colonel -earnestly. ‘How could I imagine for a moment—when she never said a -word?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean looked at Mrs. Hayward with an appeal for help, but she -gave a smile and glance of sympathy to the Colonel, who seemed to want -them most. His wife sat very straight, with her shoulders square, and -her feet just visible beneath her gown—very firm little feet, set down -steadily, one of them beating a faint tattoo of impatience on the -carpet. She was all resistance, intending, it was apparent, to reveal as -little as possible; but the Colonel, though his style was involved, was -most willing to explain.</p> - -<p>‘It is,’ he said, ‘my dear lady, I assure you, as much a wonder and -revelation to me as to any one. I never thought of such a -possibility—never. Elizabeth knows that nothing was further from my -mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Henry,’ said his wife suddenly, ‘you have been very much agitated this -morning. All these old stories coming up again have given you a shake. -Go up, my dear, to your room, and I will tell Mrs. Bellendean all that -she cares to hear.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh? do you think so, Elizabeth? I <i>have</i> got a shake. It agitates a man -very much to be carried back twenty years. Perhaps you are right: you -can explain everything—much better than I can—much better always; and -if Mrs. Bellendean thinks I am to blame, she need not be embarrassed -about it, as she might be before me. I think you are right, as you -always are. And perhaps she will give you some good advice, my love, as -to what we ought to do.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I shall not think you to blame, Colonel Hayward,’ cried Mrs. -Bellendean, with that impulse of general amiability which completed the -exasperation with which Elizabeth sat looking on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, no doubt, she will give me good advice,’ she said, with -irrepressible irritation; ‘oh, no doubt, no doubt!—most people do. -Henry, take mine for the moment, and go upstairs and rest a little. -Remember you have to meet all the gentlemen at luncheon: and after that -there will be a great deal to do.’</p> - -<p>‘I think I will, my dear,’ Colonel Hayward said: but he paused again at -the door with renewed apologies and doubts—‘if Mrs. Bellendean will not -think it rude, and even cowardly, of me, Elizabeth, to leave all the -explanations to you.’</p> - -<p>Finally, when Mrs. Bellendean had assured him that she would not do so, -he withdrew slowly, not half sure that, after all, he ought not to -return and take the task of the explanation into his own hands. There -was not a word said between the ladies until the sound of his steps, a -little hesitating at first, as if he had half a mind to come back, had -grown firmer, and at last died away. Then Mrs. Hayward for the first -time looked at the mistress of the house, who, half amused, half -annoyed, and full of anxiety and expectation, had been looking at her, -as keenly as politeness permitted, from every point of view.</p> - -<p>‘My husband has been very much agitated—you will not wonder when I tell -you all; and he is never very good at telling his own story. A man who -can do—what he can do—may be excused if he is a little deficient in -words.’</p> - -<p>She spoke quickly, almost sharply, with a little air of defiance, yet -with moisture in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Surely,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘we know what Colonel Hayward is; but -pardon me, it was a much less matter—it was about Joyce I wanted to -know.’</p> - -<p>‘The one story cannot be told without the other. My husband,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, with a long breath, ‘had been married before—before he married -me. He had married very hurriedly a young lady who came out to some -distant relations in India. They were at a small station out of the way. -She was not happy, and he married her in a great hurry. Afterwards, when -she was in England by herself, having come home for her health, some -wicked person put it into the poor thing’s head that her marriage was -not a good one. She was fool enough to believe it, though she knew -Henry. Forgive me if I speak a little hastily. She ought to have known -better, knowing him; but some people never know you, though you live by -their side a hundred years.’</p> - -<p>She stopped to exhale another long breath of excitement and agitation. -It was cruel to impute blame to the poor dead girl, and she felt this, -but could not refrain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘And suddenly, after one letter full of complaint and reproach, she -wrote no more. He was in active service, and could not get home. It was -not so easy then to come home on leave. He wrote again and again, and -when he got no answer, employed people to find her out. I can’t tell you -all the things that were done—everything, so far as he knew how to do -it. I didn’t know him then. I daresay he wasted a great deal of money -without getting hold of the right people. He never heard anything more -of her, never a word, till the other day.’</p> - -<p>‘Then that poor young creature was—— And Joyce—Joyce!—who is Joyce? -Mrs. Hayward, do you mean really that Joyce——’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce—was his first wife: and this girl—who has the same name,—I -have not seen her, I don’t know her, I can express no feeling about -her,—this young lady is my husband’s daughter, Mrs. Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘Colonel Hayward’s daughter!’ Mrs. Bellendean sprang to her feet in her -surprise and excitement. She threw up her hands in wonder and delight -and sympathy, her eyes glittered and shone, a flush of feeling came over -her. Any spectator who had seen the two ladies at this moment would have -concluded naturally that it was Mrs. Bellendean who was the person -chiefly concerned, while the little woman seated opposite to her was a -somewhat cynical looker-on, to whom it was apparent that the warmth of -feeling thus displayed was not quite genuine. The Colonel’s wife was -moved by no enthusiasm. She sat rigid, motionless, except for that one -foot, which continued to beat upon the carpet a little impatient measure -of its own.</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, ‘I always knew it! One may deceive one’s -self about many people, but there was no possibility with Joyce. She -was—she is—I never saw any one like her—quite, quite unprecedented in -such a place as this: like nobody about her—a girl whom any one might -be proud of—a girl who—oh yes, yes! you are right in calling her a -young lady. She could be nothing less. I always knew it was so.’</p> - -<p>‘She is my husband’s daughter,’ said Mrs. Hayward, without moving a -muscle. She remained unaffected by her companion’s enthusiasm. She -recognised it as part of the burden laid upon her that she should have -to receive the outflowings of a rapture in which she had no share.</p> - -<p>‘And what did Joyce say?’ asked the lady of Bellendean. ‘And poor old -Janet! oh, it will not be good news to her. But what did Joyce say? I -should like to have been there; and why, why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> did you not bring her up -to the house with you? But I see,—oh yes, it was better, it was kinder -to leave her a little with the old people. The poor old people, God help -them! Oh, Mrs. Hayward, there is no unmixed good in this world. It will -kill old Janet and her old husband. There’s no unmixed good.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mrs. Hayward quietly. She sat like a little figure of stone, -nothing moving in her, not a finger, not an eyelash,—nothing but the -foot, still beating now and then a sort of broken measure upon the -floor.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean sat down again when she had exhausted her first -excitement. There is nothing that chills one’s warmest feelings like the -presence of a spectator who does not share one’s satisfaction. Mrs. -Hayward would have been that proverbial wet blanket, if there had not -been in the very stiffness of her spectator-ship signs of another and -still more potent excitement of her own. Strong self-repression at the -end comes to affect us more than any demonstration. Mrs. Bellendean was -very quick, and perhaps felt it sooner than a less vivid intelligence -might have done. She sat down, almost apologetically, and looked at her -guest.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid,’ she said, faltering, ‘you are not so glad as I am. I hope -it is not anything in Joyce. I hope—she has not displeased you. If she -has, I am sure, oh, I am very sure she did not mean it. It must have -been—some mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Bellendean,’ cried Elizabeth suddenly, ‘I am sure you are very -kind. You would not have invited me here as you have done, without -knowing anything of me, if you had not been kind. But perhaps you don’t -quite put yourself in my place. I did not mean to say anything on that -subject, but my heart is full, and I can’t help it. I married Colonel -Hayward—he was only Captain Hayward then—knowing everything, and that -it was possible, though not likely, that this wife of his might still be -alive. It was a great venture to make. I have kept myself in the -background always, not knowing—whether I had any real right to call -myself Mrs. Hayward. Joyce has not been a name of good omen to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear Mrs. Hayward!’ cried the impulsive woman before her, leaning over -the table, holding out both her hands.</p> - -<p>‘No, don’t praise me. I believe I ought to have been blamed instead; -but, anyhow, I took the risk. And I have never repented it, though I did -not know all that would be involved. And now, when we are growing old, -and calm should succeed to all the storms, here is her daughter—with -her name—not a child whom I could influence, who might get to be fond -of me, but a woman,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> grown up, educated in her way, clever:—all that -makes it so much the worse. No! don’t be sorry for me; I am a wicked -woman, I ought not to feel so. Here I find her again, not a -recollection, not an idea, but a grown-up girl, the same age as her -mother. Joyce over again, always Joyce!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean did not know how to reply. She sat and gazed at the -woman whom she wanted to console, who touched her, revolted her, -horrified her all in one, and yet whose real emotion and pain she felt -to the bottom of her sympathetic heart. Too much sympathy is perhaps as -bad as too little. She was all excitement and delight for Joyce, and yet -this other woman’s trouble was too genuine not to move her. It was very -natural too, and yet dreadful,—a pain to think of. ‘I am sure,’ she -said, faltering, ‘that when you know her better—when you begin to see -what she is in herself: there is no one who does not like Joyce.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward had got rid, in this interval, of a handful, so to speak, -of hot sudden tears. She was ashamed of them, angry with herself for -being thus overcome, and therefore could not be said to weep, or make -any other affecting demonstration, but simply hurried off, threw from -her angrily, these signs of a pang which she despised, which hurt her -pride and her sense of what was seemly as much as it wrung her heart. -She shook her head with a sudden angry laugh in the midst of her -emotion. ‘Don’t you see! that is the worst of all,’ she cried.</p> - -<p>But at this moment, in the midst of this climax of pain, exasperation, -self-disapproval, there arose in soft billows of sound, rising one after -the other into all the corners of the great house, the sound of the -gong. It reached all the members of the household, along the long -corridors and round the gallery, roused Colonel Hayward from the -softened and satisfied pause of feeling which his withdrawal upstairs -had brought him, and called Mrs. Bellendean back from the wonderful -problem of mingled sentiments in which she was embroiling herself, -taking both sides at once, into the more natural feelings of the -mistress of the house, whose presence is indispensable elsewhere. But -she could not break off all at once this interview, which was so very -different from the ordinary talks between strangers. She hesitated even -to rise up, conscious of the ludicrous anti-climax of this call to food -addressed to people whose hearts were full of the most painful -complications of life. At the same time, the sound of her guests -trooping downstairs, and coming in from the grounds, with a murmur of -voices, and footsteps in the hall, became every moment more and more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> -clamant. She rose at last, and put her hand on Mrs. Hayward’s shoulder. -‘The gentlemen speak,’ she said, ‘of things that are solved walking. It -will be so with you, dear Mrs. Hayward. It will clear up as you go on. -Everything will become easier in the doing. Come now to luncheon.’</p> - -<p>‘I—to luncheon!—it would choke me,’ cried Elizabeth, feeling in her -impatience, and the universal contrariety of everything, as if this had -been the last aggravation of all.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, putting her arm through that of her guest; -‘it will do you good, on the contrary: and the Colonel will eat nothing -if you are not there. You shall come in your bonnet as you are; and -Colonel Hayward will make a good luncheon.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe he is capable of it,’ Mrs. Hayward cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> party was diminished, but still it was a large party. The -dining-room at Bellendean was a long room lighted by a line of windows -at one side in deep recesses, for the house was of antique depth and -strength. The walls were hung with family portraits, a succession of -large and imposing individuals, whose presence in uniform or in robes of -law, contemplating seriously the doings of their successors, added -dignity to the house, but did not do much to brighten or beautify the -interior, save in the case of a few smaller portraits, which were from -the delightful hand of Raeburn, and made a sunshine in a shady place. -The long table, with its daylight whiteness and brightness, concentrated -the light, however, and made the ornaments of the walls of less -importance; and the cheerful crowd was too much occupied with its own -affairs to notice the nervousness of the newcomer, the Colonel’s wife, -who had only made a brief appearance at breakfast to some of them, and -attracted as little warmth of interest as a woman of her age generally -does. She sat near Mr. Bellendean at the foot of the table, but as he -was one of the men to whom it is necessary to a woman to be young and -pretty, Mrs. Hayward had full opportunity to compose and calm herself -with little interference from her host. She was separated almost by the -length of the table from her husband, and consequently was safe from his -anxious observation; and in the bustle of the mid-day meal, and the -murmur of talk around her, Mrs. Hayward found a sort of retirement for -herself, and composed her mind. Her self-arguments ended in the ordinary -fatalism with which people accept the inevitable. ‘If it must be, it -must be,’ she said to herself. Perhaps it might not turn out so badly as -she feared; that vision of the pupil-teacher, the perfectly -well-behaved, well-instructed girl, who would make her life a burden, -and destroy all the privacy and all the enjoyment of her home, was a -terrible image: but the sight of so many cheerful faces gradually drove -it away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Who was I, Uncle Bellendean? I was a Saxon court lady. I was in -attendance upon Queen Margaret. But she was not queen then; she was only -princess, and an exile, don’t you know? We had all been nearly drowned, -driven up from the Firth by the wind in the east.’</p> - -<p>‘And where were you exiled from? and what were you doing in the Firth?’ -said Mr. Bellendean, who was not perhaps thinking much of what he said.</p> - -<p>‘Well I am sure,’ said Greta, with her soft Scotch intonation, ‘I don’t -very well know; but Joyce does. She will tell you all about it if you -ask her.’</p> - -<p>‘This Joyce is a very alarming person. I hear her name wherever I turn. -She seems the universal authority. I thought she must be an old -governess; but I hear she’s a very pretty girl,’ said young Essex, who -was at Greta’s side.</p> - -<p>‘Far the prettiest girl in the parish, or for miles round.’</p> - -<p>‘Speak for yourself, Greta,’ said a good-natured, blunt-featured young -woman beside her, with a laugh. ‘I have always set up myself as a -professional beauty, and I don’t give in to Joyce—except in so far, of -course, as concerns Shakespeare and the musical glasses, where she is -beyond all rivalry.’</p> - -<p>Sir Harry, who was as little open to the pleasantry of Mid-Lothian as -the Scotch in general are supposed to be to English wit, stared a little -at the young person who assumed this position. He thought it possible -she might be ‘chaffing,’ but was by no means sure. And he had no doubt -that she was plain. He was too polite, however, to show his perplexity. -‘Does she receive any male pupils?’ he asked. ‘My tastes are quite -undeveloped: even Shakespeare I don’t know so well as I ought. One has -to get up a play or two now and then for an exam.: and there’s “Hamlet,” -etc., at the Lyceum of course.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce would never forgive you that “Hamlet,” etc.,’ said the plain -young lady. ‘You need never hope after that to be pupil of hers.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, what should I say? Irving has done a lot of them. Shylock and—and -Romeo, don’t you know? You don’t expect me to have all the names ready. -A middle-aged fellow had no business to try Romeo. Come, I know as much -as that.’</p> - -<p>‘They are all real people to Joyce,’ said Greta. ‘She is not like us, -who only take up a book now and then. She lives among books: she thinks -as much of Shakespeare as of Scotland. He is not only a poet, he is -a—he is a—well, a kind of world,’ she said, blushing a little. ‘I -don’t know what other word to use.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘You could not have used a better word,’ said Norman Bellendean. ‘I am -not a very great reader, but I’ve found that up at a hill-station where -one had neither books nor society. I think that was very well said.’</p> - -<p>Norman looked with a friendly admiration at his little cousin, and she, -with a half glance and blush of reply, looked at Mrs. Bellendean at the -head of the table, who, on her side, looked at them both. There was a -great deal more in this mutual communication than met the eye.</p> - -<p>‘Decidedly,’ said Sir Harry; ‘no one is good enough for this society -unless he has undergone a preliminary training at the hands of Miss -Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you think,’ said a new voice hurriedly, with a ring of impatience -in it, ‘that to bandy about a young lady’s name like this is -not—not—quite good taste? Probably she would dislike being talked -about—and certainly her friends——’</p> - -<p>The young people turned in consternation to the quarter from which this -utterance came. The Colonel’s wife had not hitherto attracted much -attention. It had been settled that he was ‘an old darling:’ but Mrs. -Hayward had not awakened the interest of these judges. They had decided -that she was not good enough for him—that she had been the governess -perhaps, or somebody who had nursed him through illness, or otherwise -been kind to him—and that it was by some of these unauthorised methods -that she had become Colonel Hayward’s wife. Greta blushed crimson at -this rebuke.</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ she said, ‘no one meant anything that was not kind. I would not -allow a word to be said. I—am very fond of her. She is my dear friend.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it is not very good taste to discuss any one,’ said the plain -young lady. ‘But Mrs. Hayward probably does not know who she is.’</p> - -<p>‘I know that she is your inferior,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly; ‘but that -should make you more particular, not less, to keep her name from being -bandied about.’</p> - -<p>‘What is that my wife is saying?’ said Colonel Hayward from the other -end of the table. ‘I can hear her voice. What are you saying, Elizabeth? -She must be taking somebody’s part.’</p> - -<p>‘It is nothing, Henry, nothing; I am taking nobody’s part,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, becoming the colour of a peony. He had leaned forward to see -her, for she sat on the same side of the table; and she leaned forward -to reply to him, meeting the looks of half the table, amused at this -conjugal demand and response.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> And then she shrank back, obliterating -herself as well as she could, half angry, half ashamed, with a look of -high temper and nervous annoyance which the young people set down to her -disadvantage, whispering between themselves, ‘Poor Colonel Hayward!’ and -what a pity it was he had not a nicer wife!</p> - -<p>After this another wave of conversation passed over the company. A new -subject, or rather half a dozen new subjects, drew the attention and -interest of the young people away from this, of which the new and -crowning interest was still unknown; and it was not till some time -after, in the course of a lively debate upon the universally attractive -theme of private theatricals, that the name which had caused that little -controversy and stir of discussion was mentioned again.</p> - -<p>Naturally, as it had been already subject to comment, there was at that -moment a sudden pause all round the table, and the word came forth with -all the more effect, softly spoken with a pause before and -after— ‘Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Bellendean impatiently, ‘I agree with Mrs. -Hayward. The girl is not here, and she has done nothing to expose -herself to perpetual comment. We hear a great deal too much of Joyce.’</p> - -<p>And now it was that there occurred the extraordinary incident, -remembered for years after, not only in Bellendean but elsewhere, which -many people even unconnected with that part of the country must have -heard of. There rose up suddenly by the side of Mrs. Bellendean, at the -other end of the table, a tall figure, which stood swaying forward a -little, hands resting on the table, looking down upon the astonished -faces on either side. At sight of it Mrs. Hayward pushed back her chair -impatiently, and bent her flushed face over her plate; while every one -else looked up in expectation, some amused, all astonished, awaiting -some little exhibition on the part of the guileless old soldier. Norman -Bellendean turned his face towards his old Colonel with a smile, but yet -a little regret. The <i>vieux moustache</i>, out of pure goodness of heart -and simplicity of mind, was sometimes a little absurd. Probably he was -going once again to propose his young friend’s health, to give testimony -in his favour as a capital fellow. Norman held himself ready to spring -up and cover the veteran’s retreat, or to take upon himself the -inevitable laugh. But he was no more prepared than the rest for what was -coming. Colonel Hayward stood for a moment, his outline clear against -the window behind him, his face indistinct against that light. He looked -down the table, addressing himself to the host at the end, who half rose -to listen, with a face of severe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> politeness, concealing much annoyance -and despite. ‘The old fool,’ Mr. Bellendean was saying to himself.</p> - -<p>‘I want to say,’ said the Colonel, swaying forward, as if he rested on -those two hands with which he leant on the table, rather than on his -feet, ‘that a very great event has happened to me here. I came as a -stranger, with no thought but to pass a few days, little thinking that I -was to find what would affect all my future life. I owe it to the -kindness of your house, Mr. Bellendean, and all I see about me, to tell -you what has happened. Her name is on all your lips,’ he said, looking -round him with the natural eloquence of an emotion which, now that the -spectators were used to this strange occurrence, could be seen in the -quiver of his lips and the moisture in his eyes. ‘It is a name that has -long been full of sweetness but also of pain to me. Now I hope it will -be sweetness only. Joyce—my kind friends, that have been so good to her -when I knew nothing—nothing! How can I thank you and this kind -lady—this dear lady here! Joyce—belongs to me. Joyce—is Joyce -Hayward. She is my daughter. She is my—my only child.’</p> - -<p>Close upon this word sounded one subdued but most audible sob from the -other end of the table. It was from Mrs. Hayward, who could contain -herself no longer. That, at least, might have been spared her—that the -girl was his only child. She pushed back her chair and rose up, making a -hurried movement towards the door; but fortunately Mrs. Bellendean had -divined and frustrated her, and in the universal stir of chairs and hum -of wondering voices, Mrs. Hayward’s action passed unnoticed, or almost -unnoticed. And she escaped while the others all gathered round the -Colonel, all speaking together, congratulating, wondering. These were -moments when he was very able to act for himself, and did not think at -all what Elizabeth would say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> Peter had got his dinner and had gone out again to his work, a -silence fell upon the two who were left behind in the cottage. They had -breathed no word, nor even exchanged a glance that could have awakened -his suspicions—which was easy enough, for he had no suspicions. And -they had avoided each other’s eyes: they had talked of nothing that -contained any reference to the subject of which their hearts were full. -And when they were left alone, they still said nothing to each other. -Janet would have no help from Joyce in the ‘redding up.’ ‘Na, na,’ she -said; ‘go away to your reading, or sew at some of your bonnie dies. This -is nae wark for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, I am going to help you as I have always done.’</p> - -<p>‘This is nae wark for you, and I’ll no’ let you touch it,’ said the old -woman, with a sudden stamp of her foot on the ground. ‘I’ll no’ let you -touch it! do ye hear me, Joyce? As long as you are here, you sall just -do what I say.’</p> - -<p>The girl retreated, almost overawed by the passion in the old woman’s -eyes; and then there was silence in the cottage, broken only by the -sound of Janet’s movements, as she cleared away everything, and moved -about with her quick short step from one place to another. Joyce sat -down beside the writing-table, which was her own especial domain, and -the quietness of impassioned suspense fell upon the little house. The -scent of the mignonette still came in through the window from the little -garden behind; but the door was shut, that no cheerful interruption, no -passing neighbour with friendly salutations, pausing for a minute’s -gossip, might disturb the breathless silence. They both expected—but -knew not what: whether some fairy chariot to carry Joyce away, some -long-lost relatives hurrying to take her to their arms, or some one -merely coming to reveal to them who she was,—to tell her that she -belonged to some great house, and was the child of some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> injured -princess. Strangely enough, neither of them suspected the real state of -affairs. Janet divined that Mrs. Hayward had something to do with it, -but Joyce had not even seen Mrs. Hayward; and the Colonel was to her an -old friend who had known and probably loved her mother—but no more.</p> - -<p>Thus they waited, not saying a word, devoured by a silent excitement, -listening for some one coming, imagining steps that stopped at the door, -and carriage-wheels that never came any nearer, but not communicating to -each other what they thought. When Janet’s clearing away was over, she -still found things to do to keep her in movement. On ordinary occasions, -when the work was done, she would sit down in the big chair by the -window with the door open (it was natural that the door should be open -at all seasons), and take up the big blue-worsted stocking which she was -always knitting for Peter. And if Joyce was busy, Janet would nod to her -friends as they passed, and point with her thumb over her shoulder to -show the need of quiet, which did not hinder a little subdued talk, all -the more pleasant for being thus kept in check. ‘She’s aye busy,’ the -passers-by would say, with looks of admiring wonder. ‘Oh ay, she’s aye -busy; there was never the like of her for learning. She’s just never -done,’ the proud old woman would say, with a pretence at impatience. How -proud she had been of all her nursling’s wonderful ways! But now Janet -could not sit down. She flung her stocking into a corner out of her way. -She could not bear to see or speak to any one: the vicinity of other -people was of itself an offence to her. If only she could quench with -the sound of her steps those of the messenger of fate who was coming; if -only she could keep him out for ever, and defend the treasure in her -house behind that closed door!</p> - -<p>The same suppressed fever of suspense was in Joyce’s mind, but in a -different sense. With her all was impatience and longing. When would -they come? though she knew not whom or what she looked for. When would -this silence of fate be broken? The loud ticking of the clock filled the -little house with a sound quite out of proportion to its importance, -beating out the little lives of men with a methodical slow regularity, -every minute taking so long; and the quick short steps of her old -guardian never coming to an end, still bustling about when Joyce knew -there was no longer anything to do, provoked her almost beyond bearing. -So long as this went on, how could she hear <i>them</i> coming to the door?</p> - -<p>They both started violently when at last there fell a sharp stroke, as -of the end of a whip, on the closed door. It came as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> suddenly, and, to -their exaggerated fancy, as solemnly, as the very stroke of fate: but it -was only a footman from Bellendean, on horseback, with a note, which he -almost flung at Janet as she opened the door, stopping Joyce, who sprang -forward to do it. ‘Na, you’ll never open to a flunkey,’ cried the old -woman, with a sort of desperation in her tone, pushing back the girl, -whose cheeks she could see were flaming and her eyes blazing. Janet -would not give up the note till she had hunted for her spectacles and -put them on, and turned it over in her hand. ‘Oh ay, it’s to you after -a’,’ she said; ‘I might have kent that,—and no a very ceevil direction. -“Miss Joyce,” nothing but Miss Joyce: and its nae name when you come to -think on’t—no’ like Marg’et or Mary. It’s as if it was your last name.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ said Joyce, in great excitement, ‘we are to go to the House -immediately, to see Mrs. Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘We—are to gang? Gang then,’ said Janet; ‘naebody keeps ye. So far as I -can judge, what with one call and another, you’re there ‘maist every -day.’</p> - -<p>‘But never, never on such a day as this! And you are to come too. -Granny, I’ll get you your shawl and your bonnet.’</p> - -<p>‘Bide a moment. What for are ye in such a hurry? I’m no at Mrs. -Bellendean’s beck and call, to go and come as she pleases. You can go -yoursel’, as you’ve done many a time before.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, putting her arm, though the old woman resisted, -round Janet’s shoulders, ‘you’ll not refuse me? Think what it may -be,—to hear about my mother—and who I am—and whom I belong to.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay,’ said Janet bitterly; ‘to hear when you’re to drive away in your -grand carridge, and leave the house that’s aye been your shelter -desolate; to fix the moment when them that have been father and mother -to ye are to be but twa puir servant-bodies, and belang to ye nae mair!’</p> - -<p>‘Granny!’ cried Joyce, in consternation, drawing Janet’s face towards -her, stooping over the little resisting figure.</p> - -<p>‘Dinna put your airms about me. Do you ken what I’ll be for you the -morn?—your auld nurse—a puir auld body that will be nothing to you. -Oh, and that’s maybe just what should be for a leddy like you. You were -aye a leddy from the beginning, and I might have kent if my een hadna -been blinded. I aye said to Peter, “Haud a loose grip,” but, eh! I never -took it to mysel’.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, ‘do you think if the Queen herself were my -mother,—if I were the Princess Royal, and everything at my beck and -call,—do you think I could ever forsake <i>you</i>?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how do I ken?’ cried Janet, still resisting the soft compulsion -which was in Joyce’s arms; ‘and how can I tell what ye will be let do? -You will no’ be your ain mistress as ye have been here. Ye will have to -conform to other folks’ ways. Ye will have to do what’s becoming to your -rank and your place in the world. If ye think that an auld wife in -Bellendean village and an auld ploughman on the laird’s farm will be let -come near ye——’</p> - -<p>‘Granny, granny!’ cried Joyce, as Janet’s voice, overcome by her own -argument, sank into an inarticulate murmur broken by sobs,—‘granny, -granny! what have I done to make you think I have no heart?—and to give -me up, and refuse to stand by me even before there’s a thing proved.’</p> - -<p>‘Me!—refuse to stand by ye?’</p> - -<p>‘That is just what you are doing—or at least it is what you are saying -you will do; but as you never did an unkind thing in your life——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, many a one, many a one,’ cried the old woman. ‘I’ve just an -unregenerate heart—but no’ to my ain.’</p> - -<p>‘As you never did an unkind thing in your life,’ cried Joyce, out of -breath, for she had hurried in the meantime to the aumry—the great oak -cupboard which filled one side of the room—and made a rapid raid -therein. ‘I have brought you your bonnet and your shawl.’</p> - -<p>She proceeded to fold the big Paisley shawl as Janet wore it, with a -large point descending to the hem of the old woman’s gown, and to put it -round her shoulders. And then the large black satin bonnet, like the -hood of a small carriage, was tied over Janet’s cap. It is true she wore -only the cotton gown, her everyday garment, but the heavy folds of the -shawl almost covered it, and Janet was thus equipped for any grandeur -that might happen, and very well dressed in her own acceptation of the -word. When these solemn garments were produced she struggled no more.</p> - -<p>But though the ice was partially broken, there was very little said -between them as they went up the avenue. Joyce’s heart went bounding -before her, forestalling the disclosure, making a hundred mad -suggestions. She forgot all the circumstances,—where she was going, and -even the unwilling companion by her side, who plodded along, scarcely -able to keep up with her, her face altogether invisible within the -shadow of the big bonnet, which stooped forward like the head of some -curious uncouth flower. Poor old Janet! the girl’s head was full of a -romance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> more thrilling than any romance she had ever read; but Janet’s -was tragedy, far deeper, sounding every depth of despair, rising to -every height of self-abnegation. And Peter! poor old Peter, who had no -suspicion of anything, whom she had always adjured to keep a loose grip, -and to whom ‘the bit lassie’ was as the light of his eyes. Not only her -own desolation, but his also, Janet would have to bear. She had no heart -to speak, but plodded along, scarcely even seeing Joyce by her side, -ruminating heavily, turning over everything in her mind, with her eyes -fixed upon the ground under the shadow of the black bonnet. ‘Oh, haud a -loose grip!’ she had said it to Peter, but she had not laid her own -advice to heart.</p> - -<p>There were two or three servants in the hall when Joyce went up the -steps, leading, against her will, the old woman with her, who would fain -have stolen round to the servants’ entrance as ‘mair becoming.’ And the -butler and the footman looked very important, and were strangely -respectful, having heard Colonel Hayward’s oration, or such echo of it -as had been wafted to the servants’ hall. ‘This way, this way, Miss -Joyce,’ the butler said, with a little emphasis, though he had known her -all his life, and seldom used such extreme civility of address. ‘This -way, Janet.’ They were taken across the hall, where Janet, roused and -wondering, saw visions of other people glancing eagerly at Joyce, and at -her own little figure, stiff as if under mail in the panoply of that -great shawl—to Mrs. Bellendean’s room. There a little party of agitated -people were gathered together. Mrs. Hayward seated very square, with her -feet firm on the carpet: Mrs. Bellendean leaning over her writing-table, -with a very nervous look: the Colonel standing against the big window, -which exaggerated his outline, but made his features undiscernible. -Janet made them a sort of curtsey as she went in, but held her head -high, rather defiant than humble. For why should she be humble, she who -had all the right on her side, and who owed nobody anything? It was they -who should be humble to her if they were going to take away her child. -But she could not but say the gentleman was very civil. He put out a -chair for her. As she said afterwards, not the little cane one that Mr. -Brown, the butler, thought good enough, but a muckle soft easy-chair, a’ -springs and cushions, like the one his wife was sitting in. He didna -seem to think that was ower good for the like of her. Joyce did not sit -down at all. She stood with her hand upon Mrs. Bellendean’s table, -looking into the agitated face of the lady to whom she had always looked -up as her best friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘You have got something to tell me?’ said Joyce, her voice trembling a -little. ‘About my mother—about my—people?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>The girl said nothing more. She did not so much as look at Mrs. Hayward, -who sat nervously still, not making a movement. Joyce supported herself -upon the back of the writing-table, which had a range of little drawers -and pigeon-holes. She stood up, straight and tall, the flexible lines of -her slim figure swaying a little, her hands clasped upon the upper -ledge. Her hands were not, perhaps, very white in comparison with the -hands of the young ladies who did nothing; but, coming out of her dark -dress, which had no ornament of any kind, these hands clasped together -looked like ivory or mother-of-pearl, and seemed to give out light. And -then there was an interval of tremulous silence. Old Janet, watching -them all with the keenest scrutiny, said to herself, ‘Will nobody -speak?’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Bellendean said at last, with a trembling voice, ‘it will -be a great, great change for you. You are a wise, good girl; you will -not let it alter you to those who—deserve all your gratitude. My dear, -it is a wonderful thing to think of. I can but think the hand of Heaven -is in it.’ Here the poor lady, who had been speaking in slow and -laboured tones, struggling against her emotion, became almost inaudible, -and stopped, while old Janet, wringing her hands, cried out without -knowing she did so, ‘Oh, will naebody put us out o’ our agony? Oh, will -naebody tell us the truth?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel made a step forward, then went back again. His child, his -dead wife’s child, filled him with awe. The thought of going up to her, -taking her into his arms, which would have been the natural thing which -he had meant to do, appalled him as he stood and looked at her, a young -lady whom he did not know. What would she say or think? There had been -nothing to lead up to it, as there was when he had met her in the -morning, and when his heart had gone forth to her. Now anxiety and a -sort of alarm mingled with his emotion. What would she think? his -daughter—and yet a young lady whom he did not know? ‘Elizabeth?’ he -said tremulously, but he could say no more.</p> - -<p>‘Young lady,’ said another voice behind, with a touch of impatience in -it,— ‘Joyce: it appears I must tell, though I have never seen you -before.’</p> - -<p>Joyce had all but turned her back upon this lady, who, she thought, -could have nothing to do with her. She turned round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> with a little -start, and fixed her eyes upon the new speaker. It was curious that a -stranger should tell her—one who had nothing to do with it. The little -woman rose up, not a distinguished figure, looking commonplace to the -girl’s excited eyes, who felt almost impatient, annoyed by this -interference. ‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Hayward repeated again, ‘we don’t even know -each other, but we shall have a great deal to do with each other, and I -hope—I hope we shall get on. Your poor mother—was Colonel Hayward’s -first wife before he married me. He is not to blame, for he never knew. -Joyce: your name is Joyce Hayward. You are my husband’s daughter. Your -father stands there. I don’t know why he doesn’t come forward. He is the -best man that ever was born. You will love him when you know him—— I -don’t know why he doesn’t come forward,’ cried his wife, in great -agitation. She made herself a sudden stop, caught Joyce by the arm, and -raising herself on tiptoe gave the girl a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I am -your step-mother, and I hope—I hope that we will get on.’</p> - -<p>Joyce stood like a figure turned to stone. She felt the world whirling -round her as if she were coming down, down some wonderful fall, too -giddy and sickening to estimate. The colour and the eagerness went out -of her face. She took no notice of Mrs. Hayward, whose interference at -this strange moment she did not seem to understand, although she -understood clearly all that she said. Her eyes were fixed, staring at -the man there against the window, who was her father. Her father! Her -heart had been very soft to him this morning, when she believed he was -her mother’s friend: but her father!—this was not how she had figured -her father. He stood against the light, his outline all wavering and -trembling, making a hesitating step towards her, then stopping again. -Colonel Hayward was more agitated than words could say. Oh, if he had -but taken her in his arms in the morning when his heart was full! He -came forward slowly, faltering, not knowing what to say. When he had -come close to her, he put out his hands. ‘Joyce!’ he said, ‘you are your -mother’s living image: I saw it from the first; have you—have you -nothing—to say to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Joyce, making no advance, ‘my mother—must have had much to -complain of—from you.’</p> - -<p>His hands, which he had held out, with a quiver in them, fell to his -sides. ‘Much to complain of,’ he said, with a tremulous astonishment; -‘much—to complain of!’</p> - -<p>A murmur of voices sounded in Joyce’s ears; they sounded like the hum of -the bees, or anything else inarticulate, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> mingled tones of -remonstrance, anger, entreaty: even old Janet’s quavering voice joined -in. To hear the girl defying a gentleman, the Captain’s colonel, a grand -soldier officer, took away the old woman’s breath.</p> - -<p>‘You left her to die,’ cried Joyce, her soft voice fierce in excitement, -‘all alone in a strange place. Why was she alone at such a time, when -she had a husband to care for her? You left her to die—and never asked -after her for twenty years: never asked—till her child was a grown-up -woman with other—other parents, and another home—of her own.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, dinna speak to the gentleman like that!’ cried old Janet, getting -up with difficulty from her easy-chair. ‘Oh, Joyce, Joyce!’ cried Mrs. -Bellendean. Mrs. Hayward said nothing, but she came up to the indignant -young figure in the centre of this group, and laid an imperative hand -upon her arm. Joyce shook it off. She did not know what she was doing. -An immense disappointment, horror, anger with fate and all about her, -surged up in her heart, and gave force to the passion of indignant -feeling of which, amid all her thinkings on the subject, she had never -been conscious before. She turned away from the three women who -surrounded her, each remonstrating in her way, and confronted once more -the man—the father—whose great fault perhaps was that he was not the -father whom the excited girl looked for, and that the disillusion was -more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward came to himself a little as he looked at her, and -recovered some spirit. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he said, ‘for thinking so. -No, Elizabeth, don’t blame her. I was in India. Short of deserting, I -couldn’t get home.’</p> - -<p>‘Why didn’t you desert, then,’ cried the girl in a flush of nervous -passion, ‘rather than let her die?’ Then she turned round upon Janet, -who stood behind, burdened with her great shawl, and threw herself upon -the old woman’s shoulder. ‘Oh granny, granny, take me home, take me home -again! for I have nothing to do here, nor among these strange folk,’ she -cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was no one who could detain her, for the agitated group in Mrs. -Bellendean’s room were too much taken by surprise, in this curious -development of affairs, to do anything but gaze astonished at Joyce’s -unlooked-for passion. She went out of the room and out of the house, -with old Janet, in her big shawl, following humbly, like a tall ship -carrying out a humble little lugger in her train. Joyce seemed to have -added to her stature in the intensity of her excitement. The nervous -swiftness with which she moved, the air of passion in all her sails, to -continue the metaphor, the unity of impassioned movement with which she -swept forth—not looking back nor suffering any distracting influence to -touch her—made the utmost impression upon the spectators who had been, -to their own thinking, themselves chief actors in the scene, until this -young creature’s surpassing emotion put them all into the position of -audience while she herself filled the stage. Joyce would not see her -father’s face, though it appealed to her with a keen touch of -unaccustomed feeling which was like a stab—nor would she suffer herself -to look at Mrs. Bellendean, whose faintest indication of a wish had -hitherto been almost law to the enthusiast. The girl was possessed by a -tempest of personal excitement which carried her far beyond all the -habitual restraints and inducements of her life. Nothing weighed with -her, nothing moved her, but that overwhelming tide which carried her -forth, wounded, humiliated, indignant, angry, she could not tell why, in -the desperation of this most bitter and entirely unreasonable -disappointment which swept her soul. To think that it had come, the -long-looked-for discovery—the revelation so often dreamt of—and that -it should be this! Only a visionary, entirely abandoned to the devices -of fancy by the bareness of all the facts that surrounded actual life in -her experience, could have entertained such a vague grandeur of -expectation, or could have fallen into such an abyss of disen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span>chantment. -It thrilled through and through her, giving a pride and loftiness -indescribable to the carriage of her head, to the attitude of her -person, to the swift and nervous splendour of her movements. Joyce, -stung to the heart with her disappointment—with the <i>bourdonnement</i> in -her ears and the jar in her nerves of a great downfall—was like a -creature inspired. She swept out of the house, and crossed the open -space of the drive, and disappeared in the shadows of the avenue, -without a word, with scarcely a breath—carried along by that wind of -passion, unconscious what she did.</p> - -<p>Old Janet Matheson followed her child with feelings of almost equal -intensity, but of a contradictoriness and mingled character which defies -description. Her despair in the anticipation of losing Joyce was mingled -with elation in the thought that Joyce was proved a lady beyond all -possibility of doubt, fit to be received as an equal in the grand -society at the House—which, however, in no way modified her profound -and passionate sense of loss and anger against the fate which she -declared to herself bitterly she had always foreseen. That she should -not have felt a momentary joy in her child’s apparent rejection of the -new life opening before her was impossible; but that too was mingled -still more seriously by regret and alarm lest the girl should do -anything to forfeit these advantages, and also by the dictates of honest -judgment which showed her that resistance was impossible, and that it -was foolish, and Joyce’s revolt a mere blaze of temporary impulse which -could not, and must not, stand against the necessities of life. All -these mixed and contradictory sentiments were in Janet’s mind as she -hurried along, trying vainly to keep up with the swift, impassioned -figure in front of her; trying, too, to reason with the unreasonable, -and bring Joyce—strange travesty of all the usual circumstances of her -life—to bring Joyce, the quick-witted, the all-understanding, to see -what was right and wrong, what was practicable and impracticable. Her -efforts in this respect were confined at present to a breathless -interjection now and then— ‘Oh, Joyce!’ ‘Oh, my dear!’ ‘Oh, my bonnie -woman!’ in various tones of remonstrance and deprecation. But Joyce’s -impulse of swift passion lasted long and carried her far, straight down -the long avenue, and out into the village road beyond; and her mind was -so preoccupied that she did not take into consideration the fatigue and -trouble of her companion, as, under any other circumstances, Joyce would -have been sure to do. It was only when the sight of the village houses, -and the contact once more with other human creatures, and the necessary -reticences of life suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> checked Joyce in her career, that she -slackened her pace, and, turning round to keep her face from the keen -investigation of some neighbours grouped around a door, suddenly -perceived a little behind her the flushed cheeks and labouring breath of -Janet, who would not be separated from her side, and yet had found the -effort of keeping up with her so difficult. Joyce turned back to her -faithful old friend with a cry of self-reproach.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, granny! and I’ve tired you struggling after me, and had not the -sense to mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh ay, you have the sense to mind. You have sense for most things in -this world—- but no’ the day, Joyce, no’ the day; you havena shown your -sense the day.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ said Joyce, with trembling lips, ‘there has been nothing in my -life till now that you have not had all authority in: but you must say -nothing about this. I must be the judge in this. It is my business, and -only mine.’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing,’ said Janet, ‘that can be your business and no’ mine: -until the time comes when you yoursel’ are none of my business—when -you’re in your father’s hands.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, no,’ said Joyce under her breath, clasping her hands,—‘oh no, -no, no!’</p> - -<p>‘What are you murmurin’ and saying ower as if it was a charm? No, you -havena shown your sense. You think the like of that can be at your -pleesure to tak’ it or to leave it? Na, na, my bonnie woman. I’m the one -that will have the most to bear. Ye needna answer me, though I can see -the words in your mouth. I’m the one, whatever happens, that will have -the maist to put up with. But I say it’s no’ at your pleesure. What’s -richt is richt, and what’s nature is nature, whatever ye may say. I tell -ye, Joyce Matheson—but you’re no Joyce Matheson: eh! to think me, that -never used it, that I should gie ye that name noo! Ye’re Joyce Matheson -nae mair.</p> - -<p>‘Granny, granny, don’t throw me off—don’t cast me away, for I’ve nobody -but you,’ cried Joyce, with a voice full of tears.</p> - -<p>‘Me cast ye off! but it’s true ye’ve nae richt to the name, and Peter -and me, we’ve nae richt to you; and the moment’s come which I’ve aye -foreseen: oh, I have foreseen it! I never deceivit mysel’ like him, or -made up dreams and visions like you. And it’s no’ at your command to -tak’ it or to leave it—na, na. I’m no’ one that can deceive mysel’,’ -said Janet, mournfully shaking her head, and in the depth of her trouble -finding a little sad satisfaction in her own clear-sightedness. ‘The -rest o’ ye may think that heaven and earth will yield to ye, and that -what ye want is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> the thing ye will get if ye stand to it; but no’ -me—oh, no’ me! It’s little comfort to the flesh to see sae clear, but I -canna help it, for it’s my nature. Na, na. We canna just go back to what -we were before, as if nothing had happened. It’s no’ permitted. Ye may -do a heap o’ things in this world, but ye canna go back. Na, na. -Yesterday’s no dead, nor ye canna kill it, whatever ye may do. It’s mair -certain than the day or the morn, and it binds ye whether ye like it or -no,—oh, it binds ye, it binds ye! We canna go back.</p> - -<p>These little sentences came from her at intervals with breaks and pauses -between, as they went along towards the cottage, sometimes interrupted -by an exclamation from Joyce, sometimes by the greeting of a neighbour, -sometimes by Janet’s own breathlessness as she laboured along in the -warm evening under the weight of her big shawl. Such monologues were not -unusual to her, and Joyce had accompanied them by a commentary of -half-regarded questions and exclamations, in all the mutual calm of -family understanding on many a previous occasion. The girl had not lent -a very steady ear to the grandmother’s wisdom, nor had the grandmother -paused to answer the girl’s questions or remonstrances. Half heard, half -noted, they had gone on serenely, the notes of age and experience -mingling with the dreams and impulses of youth. But that soft concert -and harmony in which the two voices had differed without any jar, -supplementing and completing each other, was not like this. The old -woman was flushed and tearful, and Joyce was pale, with excited eyes -that looked twice as large as usual, and a trembling in the lips which -were so apt to move with impatient intelligence, answering before the -question was made. It was apparent even to the neighbours that something -must have happened, and still more apparent to Peter, who stood at the -open door of the cottage looking out for them with a look which varied -from the broad smile of pleasure with which he had perceived their two -familiar figures approaching, to a troubled perception of something -amiss which he could not fathom. Peter’s mind was slow in operating; and -as all previous information had been kept from him, he was without any -clue to the origin of the trouble which he began to feel about him. To -return and find the cottage closed, and neither wife nor child waiting -for him, was in itself a prodigy; and though his astonishment had been -partly calmed by the explanation of the neighbours who gave him the key -of the door, and informed him that Joyce and her granny had been sent -for to ‘the Hoose,’ it was roused into a kind of dull anxiety by the -agitated air which he slowly recognised as he watched them approaching, -convinced, against his will, that something ailed them,—that some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> new -event had happened. Nevertheless, Peter, in the voiceless delicacy of -his peasant soul, assumed the smile, trembling on the edge of a laugh, -which was his usual aspect when addressing his womenfolk.</p> - -<p>‘Weel,’ he said, ‘ye’re bonnie hoosekeepers for a man to come hame to, -wanting his tea! ‘Deed, I might just whistle for my tea, and the twa of -you stravaigin’ naebody kens where. Joyce, my bonny lass, ye should just -think shame of yoursel’, leading your auld granny into ill ways.’ He -ended with a long, low laugh, which was his expression of content and -emotion and pleasure, and which turned the reproach into the tenderest -family jest—and made way for them, but not till he had said out his -say. ‘Come awa,’ noo ye’re here; come awa’ ben, and mask the tea: for -I’m wanting something to sloken me,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my poor man—oh, my poor auld man!’ said Janet. She had not ceased -to shake her head at intervals while he was speaking, and she uttered a -suppressed groan as she went into the cottage. So long as all was -uncertain, Janet had carefully kept every intimation of possible -calamity from Peter; but now that the truth must be known, she had a -kind of tragic pleasure in exciting his alarm.</p> - -<p>‘What ails the woman?’ he said, ‘girnin’ and groanin’ as if we were a’ -under sentence. What ails your granny, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘And so we are,’ said Janet, ‘a’ under sentence, as ye say, and our days -numbered, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. But, eh, that’s no’ -what we do—far, far from it. And when misfortin’ comes, that comes to -a’, it’s rare, rare that it doesn’t come unexpected. We’re eatin’ and -drinkin’ and makin’ merry—or else we’re fechtin’, beatin’ our -fellow-servants, and a’ in a word that the Lord delayeth his comin’. And -in a moment,’ said the old woman, with a sob, ‘our house is left unto us -desolate. That’s just the common way.’</p> - -<p>‘What is she meaning with the house left desolate?’ said Peter, the -smile slowly disappearing from his face. ‘The woman’s daft! Joyce what -is she meanin’? I’m no’ very gleg at the uptake,—no’ like you, my -bonnie woman, that are just as keen as a needle. What’s she meanin’? -Janet, woman, as lang as the lassie is weel and spared——’</p> - -<p>‘The lassie, says he—naething but the lassie. And have I no’ foreseen -it a’ the time? How often have I cried out to ye, Peter, to keep a loose -grip! oh, to haud a loose grip! But ye never would listen to me. And now -it’s just come to pass, and neither you nor me prepared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Peter’s face, gazing at her while she went on, was like a landscape in -the uncertain shining of a Scotch summer. It lightened all over with a -smile of good-humoured derision which brought out the shaggy eyebrows, -the grizzled whiskers, the cavernous hollows round the eyes, like the -inequalities of the mountainous land. And then the light fled -instantaneously, and a pale blank of shadow succeeded, leaving all that -surface grey, while finer lines of anxiety and chill alarm developed -about the large mouth and in the puckers of those many-folded eyelids, -like movements of the wind among the herbage and trees. He stood and -gazed at her with his eyes widely open, his lips apart. But Janet did -not meet that look. She went to the fire, which burned dully, -‘gathered,’ as she had left it in her careful way, to smoulder frugally -in her absence, and poked it with violence, with sharp thrusts of the -poker, standing with the back of her great shawl turned towards her -companions, and her big bonnet still on her head. There was nothing said -till with those sudden strokes and blows she had roused the dormant fire -to flame, when she put on the kettle, and swept the hearth with -vigorous, nervous movements, though always encumbered by the weight of -the shawl. Then Janet made a sudden turn upon herself, and setting open -the doors of the aumry, which made a sort of screen between her and the -others, proceeded to take off and fold away that shawl of state. ‘I’ll -maybe never put it on again,’ she said to herself, almost under her -breath, ‘for whatfor should I deck mysel’ and fash my heid about my -claes or what I put on? It was a’ to be respectable for her: wha’s -heeding when there’s nane but me?’</p> - -<p>‘There’s something happened,’ said Peter, in his low tremulous bass, -like the rolling of distant thunder. ‘Am I the maister of this hoose, -and left to find oot by her parables and her metaphors, and no’ a word -of sense that a man can understand? What is’t, woman? Speak plain out, -or as sure’s death I’ll——’ He clenched his large fist with a sudden -silent rage, which could find no other expression than this seeming -threat—though Peter would have died sooner than touch with a finger to -harm her the old companion of his life.</p> - -<p>‘Grandfather,’ said Joyce, ‘I will tell you what has happened. Granny -takes a thing into her head, and then you know, whatever we say, you or -me, she never heeds, but follows her own fancy.’ The girl spoke quickly, -her words hurrying, her breath panting,—then came to a sudden pause, -flushed crimson, her paleness changing to the red of passionate feeling, -and added, as slowly as she had been hurried before, ‘Somebody has been -here—that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> knows who my mother was: somebody that says—that says he is -my father. And she thinks I am to rise up and follow him,’ cried Joyce, -in another burst of sudden, swift, vehement words,—‘to rise up and -follow him, like the woman in the Old Testament, away from my home and -my own people, and all that I care for in the world! But I’ll not do -it—I’ll not do it. I’ll call no strange man my father. I’ll bide in my -own place where I’ve been all my days. What are their letters, and their -old stories, and their secrets that they’ve found out, and their -injuries that they’re sorry for—sorry for after costing a woman’s life! -What’s all that to me? I’ll bide in my own place with them that have -nourished me and cherished me, and made me happy all my days.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh, lassie! eh, lassie!’ was all Peter could say. His large old limbs -had got a trembling in them. He sat down in the big wooden arm-chair -which stood against the wall, where it had been put away after dinner, -and from that unaccustomed place, as if he too had been put away out of -the common strain of life, gazed at the two alternately,—at his wife -still folding, folding that shawl that would not lie straight, and at -Joyce, in her flush of impassioned determination, standing up drawn to -her full height, her head thrown back, her slim young figure inspired by -the rush and torrent of emotion which she herself scarcely understood in -its vehemence and force. The little quiet, humble cottage was in a -moment filled as with rushing wings and flashing weapons, the dust and -jar of spiritual conflict: but not one of the three visible actors in -this little tragic drama had for the moment a word to say. When this -silence of fate was broken, it was by Janet, who had at last shut up her -shawl in the aumry, and, coming and going from the fire to the table, -filling the intense blank of that pause with a curious interlude of -hasty sound and movement, said at last, almost fiercely, ‘Come to your -tea. You’ll do little good standing glowering at ane anither. Sit down -and tak’ your tea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> first day of the holidays had also been a delight to Mr. Andrew -Halliday’s virtuous soul. More systematic in all he did than Joyce’s -irregular impulses permitted her to be, he had taken advantage of the -leisure of the morning to enjoy to the utmost the quietness and freedom -of a man who has no rule but his own pleasure for the government of his -time. He got up a little later than usual, lingered over his breakfast, -exhausted the newspaper over which, on ordinary occasions, he could cast -only a hurried glance, and tasted the sweetness of that pause of -occupation as no habitually unoccupied man could ever do. Then he -sallied forth, not, as Joyce did, to dream and muse, but to enjoy the -conscious pleasure of a walk, during which, indeed, he turned over many -things in his mind which were not unallied to happy dreams. For Andrew -had come to a determination which filled him at once with sweet and -tender fancies, and with the careful calculations of a prudent man in -face of a great change in life. He had made up his mind to insist upon a -decision from Joyce, to have the time of their marriage settled. Of this -she had never permitted him to speak. Their engagement had been -altogether of a highly refined and visionary kind, a sort of bond of -intellectual sympathy which pleased and flattered the consciousness of -superiority in Halliday’s mind, but in other respects was sometimes a -little chilly, and so wanting in all warmer demonstration as to carry -with it a perpetual subdued disappointment and tremor of uncertainty. -Had not the schoolmaster possessed a great deal of self-approval and -conscious worth, he might have sometimes lost confidence altogether in -Joyce’s affection; but though he was often uncomfortable with a -sensation of having much kept from him which was his due, he had not as -yet come so far as to be able to imagine that Joyce was indifferent to -him. He could not have done her that wrong. She had met nobody, could -have met nobody,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> who was his equal, and how was it possible then that -she could be unfaithful? It seemed to Halliday a wrong to Joyce to -suppose her capable of such a lamentable want of judgment.</p> - -<p>But he was heartily in love with her at the same time, as well as so -much with himself, and the <i>régime</i> under which she held him was cold. -He had become impatient of it, and very anxious to bring it to an end: -and there was no reason, except her fantastic unreadiness, for delay. He -said to himself that he must put a stop to it,—that he must step -forward in all the decision of his manhood, and impress this -determination upon the weaker feminine nature which was made to yield to -his superior force and impulse. There was no reason in the world for -delay. He had attained all the promotion which was likely for a long -time to be his; and the position of schoolmistress in his parish was -likely to be soon vacant, which would afford to Joyce the possibility of -carrying on her professional work, and adding to their joint means, as -no doubt she would insist upon doing. This was not a thing which -Halliday himself would have insisted upon. He felt profoundly that to be -able to keep his wife at home, and retain her altogether like a garden -enclosed for his private enjoyment, was a supreme luxury, and one which -it was the privilege of the superior classes alone to prize at its -proper value. He had been a prudent young man all his life, and had laid -by a little money, and he felt with a proud and not ungenerous expansion -of his bosom that he was able to afford himself that luxury; but he -doubted greatly whether it would be possible to bring Joyce to perceive -that this was the more excellent way, and that it would be meet for her -to give up her work and devote herself entirely to her husband. He -comprehended something of her pride, her high independence, and even -indulgently allowed for the presence in her of a great deal of that -ambition which is more appropriate to a man than a woman; therefore he -was prepared to yield the question in respect to the work, and to find a -new element of satisfaction in the thought of placing her by his own -side in the little rostrum of the school as well as in the seclusion of -the home. The Board would be too glad to secure the services of Miss -Matheson, so well known for her admirable management at Bellendean, as -the mistress at Comely Green. And thus every exigency would be -satisfied.</p> - -<p>He went over his little house carefully, room by room, when he came in -from his walk, and considered what it would be necessary to add, and -what to repair and refresh, for Joyce’s reception. His mind was a -thoroughly frugal and prudent one, tempted by no vain desires, spoiled -by no habits of extravagance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> Amid all the fond visions which filled -him, as he realised the new necessities of a double life, he yet -calculated very closely what would be necessary, what they could do -without, how many things were strictly needful, and how and at what -price these additions could be procured. The calculations were full of -enchantment, but they were not reckoned up less carefully. He returned -to them after he had eaten his dinner, and they occupied the greater -part of the afternoon, with many an excursion into the realms of fancy -to sweeten them, although of themselves they were sweet. And it was with -the result of his calculations carefully jotted down upon a piece of -paper in his pocket-book, that he set out before tea-time for -Bellendean, to make known to Joyce his desires and determination, and to -sway her mind as the female mind ought to be swayed, half by sweet -persuasion, half by the magnetism of his superior force of impulse, to -adopt it as her own. The idea that she might insist, and decline to be -influenced, was one which he would not allow himself to take into -consideration, though it lay in the background in one of the chambers of -his mind with a sort of chill sense of unpleasant possibility, which, so -far as possible, he put out of sight.</p> - -<p>It was a lovely afternoon, and the road from Comely Green to Bellendean -lay partly by the highroad within sight of the Firth, and partly through -the woods and park of Bellendean House. Everything was cheerful round -him, the birds singing, the water reflecting the sunshine in jewelled -lines of sparkle and light. Andrew could not think of any such black -thing as refusal, or even reluctance, amid all the sweet harmony and -consent to be happy, which was in the lovely summer day.</p> - -<p>When he reached the cottage it gave him a little thrill of surprise to -find the door shut which usually stood so frankly open, admitting the -genial summer atmosphere and something of the sights and sounds outside. -It was strange to find the door closed on a summer evening; and an idea -that somebody must be ill, or that something must have happened, sprang -into instant life in Andrew’s mind. His knock was not even answered by -the invitation to come in, which would have been natural in other -circumstances. He heard a little movement inside, but no cheerful sound -of voices, and presently the door was opened by Janet, who, looking out -upon him with a jealous glance through a very small opening, breathed -forth an ‘Oh! it’s you, Andrew;’ and, letting the door swing fully open, -bade him come in. Within he was bewildered to see old Peter and Joyce -seated at the table, upon which the tea-things still stood. There they -were all three,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> nobody ill, no visible cause for this extraordinary -seclusion. Peter gave him a grim little nod without speaking, and Joyce -put forth—it almost seemed unwillingly—her hand, but without moving -otherwise. He took the chair from which Janet had risen, and gazed at -them bewildered. ‘What is the matter? Has anything happened?’ he said.</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Peter drummed upon the table with his fingers, with -something almost derisive in the measured sound; and Joyce half turned -to him as if about to speak, but said nothing. It was Janet who answered -his question. There was a hot flush upon her cheeks—the flush of -excitement and emotion. She answered him shaking her head.</p> - -<p>‘Ay, Andrew, there’s something happened. We’re no’ like oursel’s, as ye -can see. Ye wouldna have gotten in this nicht to this afflicted house if -ye had not been airt and pairt in it as weel as Peter and me.’</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter?’ he repeated, with increased alarm.</p> - -<p>‘Ye better tell him, Joyce. Puir lad, he has a richt to hear. He’s maybe -thought like me of sic a thing happening, without fear, as if it might -be a kind of diversion. The Lord help us short-sighted folk.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it?’ he said; ‘you are driving me distracted. What has -happened?’</p> - -<p>Upon this Peter gave a short, dry laugh, which it was alarming to hear. -‘He’ll never find out,’ said the old man, ‘if ye give him years to do -it. It’s against reason—it’s against sense—a man to step in and take -another man’s bairn away.’</p> - -<p>Joyce was very pale. He observed this for the first time in the -confusion and the trouble of this incomprehensible scene. She sat with -her hands clasped, looking at no one—not even at himself, though she -had given him her hand. It was rare, indeed, that Joyce should be the -last to explain. Halliday drew his chair a little nearer, and put his -hand timidly upon hers, which made her start. She made a quick movement, -as if to draw it away, then visibly controlled herself and permitted -that mute interrogation and caress.</p> - -<p>‘It is just what I aye kent would happen,’ said Janet, unconscious or -indifferent to her self-contradictions; ‘and many a time have I implored -my man no’ to build upon her, though I wasna so wise as to tak’ my ain -advice. And as for you, Andrew, though I took good care you should hear -a’ the circumstances, maybe I should have warned you mair clearly that -you should not lippen to her, and ware a’ your heart upon her, when at -ainy moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>—at ainy moment—’ Here the old woman’s voice failed her, -and broke off in a momentary, much-resisted sob. Halliday’s astonishment -and anxiety grew at every word. His hand pressed Joyce’s hand with the -increasing fervour of an eager demand.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce! Joyce! what do they mean? Have you nothing to say?’</p> - -<p>Joyce turned upon him, with a sudden flush taking the place of her -paleness. ‘Granny would make you think that I was not worthy to be -trusted,’ she said; ‘that to ware your heart upon me, as she says, was -to be cheated and betrayed.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no,—<i>I</i> never could believe that!’ he cried, not unwilling to -prove the superiority of his own trust to that of the old people, who, -Halliday felt, it would not be a bad thing to be clear of, or as nearly -clear of as circumstances might permit.</p> - -<p>Joyce scarcely paused to hear his response, but, having found her voice, -went on hurriedly. ‘People have come that say—that say—— They are -just strangers—we never saw them before. They say that I—I—belong to -them. Oh, I am not going to pretend,’ cried Joyce, ‘that I have not -thought of that happening, many a day! It was like a poem all to myself. -It went round and round in my head. It was a kind of dream. But I never -thought—I never, never thought what would become of me if it came true. -And how do I know that it is true? Grandfather, you and granny are my -father and my mother. I never knew any other. You have brought me up and -cared for me, and I am your child to the end of my life. I will never, -never——’</p> - -<p>‘Hold your peace!’ cried Janet. She put up her hard hand against Joyce’s -soft young mouth. The little old woman grew majestic in her sense of -justice and right. ‘Hold your peace!’ she cried. ‘Make no vows, lest you -should be tempted to break them and sin against the Lord. Ye’ll do what -it’s your duty to do. You’ll no’ tell me this and that—that you’ll take -the law in your ain hands. Haud your tongue, Peter Matheson! You’re an -auld fool, putting nonsense into the bairn’s head. What!’ cried Janet, -‘a bairn of <small>MINE</small> to say that she’ll act as she likes and please hersel’, -and take her choice what she’ll do! and a’ the time her duty straight -forenenst her, and nae mainner o’ doubt what it is. Dinna speak such -stuff to me.’</p> - -<p>In the pause of this conflict Andrew Halliday’s voice came in, -astonished, yet composed, with curiosity in it and strong -expectation—sentiments entirely different from those which swayed the -others, and which silenced them and aroused their attention from the -very force of contrast. ‘People who say—that you belong to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> them? Your -own people—your own friends—Joyce! Tell me who they are,—tell me—— -You take away my breath. To think that they should have found her after -all!’</p> - -<p>They all paused in the impassioned strain of their thoughts to look at -him. This new note struck in the midst of them was startling and -incomprehensible, yet checked the excitement and vehemence of their own -feelings. ‘Ah, Andro,’ said old Peter, ‘ye’re a wise man. Ye would like -to hear a’ about it, and wha they are, and if the new freends—the new -freends’—the old man coughed over the words to get his voice—‘if -they’re maybe grander folk and mair to your credit’—he broke off into -his usual laugh, but a laugh harsh and broken. ‘Ye’re a wise lad, Andro, -my man—ye’re a wise lad.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very natural, I think,’ said Andrew, reddening, ‘that I should -wish to know. We have spoken many a time of Joyce’s—friends. I wish to -know about them, and what they are, naturally, as any one in my position -would do.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce’s freends!—I thocht I kent weel what that meant,’ said Janet. -‘Eh! to hear him speak of Joyce’s freends. I thocht I kent weel what -that meant,’ she repeated, with a smile of bitterness. Halliday had -taken her seat at the table, and she went and seated herself by the wall -at as great a distance from the group as the limits of space would -permit. The old woman’s eyes were keen with grief and bitter pain, and -that sense of being superseded which is so hard to bear. She thought -that Joyce had put her chair a little closer to that of the -schoolmaster, detaching herself from Peter, and that the young people -already formed a little party by themselves. This was the form her -jealous consciousness of Joyce’s superiority had always taken, even when -everything went well. She burst forth again in indignant prophetic -strains, taking a little comfort in this thought.</p> - -<p>‘But dinna you think you’ll get her,’ she cried, ‘no more than Peter or -me!—dinna you believe that they’ll think you good enough for her, -Andrew Halliday. If it’s ended for us, it’s mair than ended for you. Do -you think a grand sodger-officer, that was the Captain’s commander, and -high, high up, nigh to the Queen herself,—do you think a man like that -will give his dauchter—and such a dauchter, fit for the Queen’s Court -if ever lady was—to a bit poor little parish schoolmaister like you?’</p> - -<p>The comfort which Janet took from this prognostication was bitter, but -it was great. A curious pride in the grandeur of the officer who was -‘the Captain’s’ commander made her bosom swell. At least there was -satisfaction in that and in the sudden downfall,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> the unmitigated and -prompt destruction of all hopes that might be entertained by that -whippersnapper, who dared to demand explanations on the subject of -Joyce’s ‘friends’—friends in Scotch peasant parlance meaning what -‘parents’ means in French, the family and nearest relatives. Janet had -rightly divined that Halliday received the news not with sympathetic -pain or alarm, but with suppressed delight, looking forward to the -acquisition to himself, through his promised wife, of ‘friends’ who -would at once elevate him to the rank of gentleman, after which he -longed with a consciousness of having no internal right to it, which old -Janet’s keen instincts had always comprehended—far, far different from -Joyce, who wanted no elevation,—who was a lady born.</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ said Joyce, with a trembling voice, ‘you think very little, -very, very little—I see it now for the first time—of me.’</p> - -<p>‘Me think little of ye! that’s a bonnie story; but weel, weel I ken what -will happen. We will pairt with sore hearts, but a firm meaning to be -just the same to ane anither. I’ve seen a heap of things in my -lifetime,’ said Janet, with mournful pride. ‘Sae has my man; but they -havena time to think—they’re no’ aye turning things ower and ower like -a woman at the fireside. I’ve seen mony changes and pairtings, and how -it was aye said it should make no difference. Eh! I’ve seen that in the -maist natural way. It’s no’ that you’ll mean ony unfaithfulness, my -bonnie woman. Na, na. I ken ye to the bottom o’ your heart, and there’s -nae unfaithfulness in you—no’ even to him,’ said Janet, indicating -Halliday half contemptuously by a pointing finger, ‘much less to your -grandfaither and me. I’m whiles in an ill key, and I’ve been sae, I -dinna deny it, since ever I heard this awfu’ news: but now I am coming -to mysel’. Ye’ll do your duty, Joyce. Ye’ll accept what canna be -refused, and ye’ll gang away from us with a sair heart, and it will be -a’ settled that you’re to come back, maybe twice a year, maybe ance a -year, to Peter and me, and be our ain bairn again. They’re no’ ill -folk,’ she went on, the tears dropping upon her apron, on which she was -folding hem after hem—‘they’re good folk; they’re kind, awfu’ -kind—they’ll never wish ye to be ungrateful,—that’s what they’ll say. -They’ll no’ oppose it, they’ll settle it a’—maybe a week, maybe a -month, maybe mair; they’ll be real weel-meaning, real kind. And Peter -and me, we’ll live a’ the year thinking o’ that time; and ye’ll come -back, my bonnie dear—oh, ye’ll come back! with your heart licht to -think of the pleasure of the auld folk. But, eh Joyce! ye’ll no’ be in -the house a moment till ye’ll see the difference; ye’ll no’ have graspit -my hand or looked me in the face till ye see the difference. Ye’ll see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> -the glaur on your grandfaither’s shoon when he comes in, and the sweat -on his brow. No’ with ony unkind meaning. Oh, far frae that—far frae -that! Do I no’ ken your heart? But ye’ll be used to other things—it’ll -a’ have turned strange to ye then—and ye’ll see where we’re wanting. -Oh, ye’ll see it! It will just be mair plain to ye than all the rest. -The wee bit place, the common things, the neebors a’ keen to ken, but -chief of us, Peter and me our ainsels, twa common puir folk.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny!’ cried Joyce, flinging herself upon her, unable to bear this -gradual working up.</p> - -<p>Peter came in with a chorus with his big broken laugh— ‘Ay, ay, just -that, just that! an auld broken-down ploughman and his puir auld body of -a wife. It’s just that, it’s just that!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Great</span> was the consternation in Bellendean over the unsatisfactory -interview which it was so soon known had taken place between Joyce and -her father. Colonel Hayward’s public intimation of the facts at luncheon -had created, as might have been expected, the greatest commotion; and -the ladies of the party assembled round Mrs. Bellendean with warm -curiosity when the whisper ran through the house that Joyce had -come—and had gone away again. Gone away! To explain it was very -difficult, to understand it impossible. The schoolmistress, the village -girl, to discover that she was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, and not to be -elated, transported by the discovery! Why, it was a romance, it was like -a fairy tale. Mrs. Bellendean’s suggestion that there was a second side -to everything, though the fact was not generally recognised in fairy -tales, contented no one; and a little mob of excited critics, all -touched and interested by Colonel Hayward’s speech, turned upon the -rustic heroine and denounced her pretensions. What did she expect, what -had she looked for—to turn out a king’s daughter, or a duke’s? But it -was generally agreed that few dukes were so delightful as Colonel -Hayward, and that Joyce showed the worst of taste as well as the utmost -ingratitude. Mrs. Bellendean was disappointed too; but she was partly -comforted by the fact that Captain Bellendean, who was much bewildered -by the girl’s caprice and folly, had fallen into a long and apparently -interesting argument on the subject with Greta, her own special -favourite and <i>protégée</i>. It is almost impossible for any natural woman -to find a man in Norman’s position, well-looking, young, and rich, -within her range, without forming matrimonial schemes for him of one -kind or another; and Mrs. Bellendean had already made up her mind that -the pang of leaving Bellendean would be much softened could she see her -successor in Greta, the favourite of the house, a girl full of her own -partialities and ways of thinking, and whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> she had influenced all her -life. She forgot Joyce in seeing the animated discussion that rose -between these two. It was disappointing, however, that when in the very -midst of this discussion Captain Bellendean saw from the window at which -he was standing his old Colonel walking to and fro on the terrace with -heavy steps and bowed head, his point of interest changed at once. He -looked no more at Greta, though she was a much prettier sight: evidently -all his sympathy was for Colonel Hayward; and after the talk had gone on -languishing for a few moments, he excused himself for leaving her. ‘Poor -old chap! I must go and try if I can do anything to console him,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>Norman found Colonel Hayward very much cast down and melancholy. He was -pacing up and down, up and down—sometimes pausing to throw a blank look -over the landscape, sometimes mechanically gathering a faded leaf from -one of the creepers on the wall. He endeavoured to pull himself up when -Captain Bellendean joined him; but the old soldier had no skill in -concealing his feelings, and he was too anxious to get support and -sympathy to remain long silent. He announced, with all the solemnity -becoming a strange event, that Mrs. Hayward was lying down a little. -‘She travelled all night, you know; and though she can sleep on the -railway, it never does one much good that sort of sleep; and there has -been a great deal going on all day—a great deal that has been very -agitating for us both. I persuaded her to lie down,’ Colonel Hayward -said, looking at his companion furtively, as if afraid that Norman might -think Elizabeth was to blame.</p> - -<p>‘It was the best thing she could do,’ said Captain Bellendean.</p> - -<p>‘That is exactly what I told her—the very best thing she could do. It -is seldom she leaves me when I have so much need of her; but I insisted -upon it. And then I am in full possession of her sentiments,’ said the -Colonel. ‘She told me exactly what she thought; and she advised me to -take a walk by myself and think it all out.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps, then, I ought to leave you alone, Colonel? but I saw you from -the window, and thought you looked out of spirits.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear boy, I am glad—too glad—to have you. Thinking a thing out is -easy to say, but not so easy to do. And you had always a great deal of -sense, Bellendean. When we had difficulties in the regiment, I well -remember—— But that was easy in comparison with this. You know what -has happened. We’ve found my daughter. For I was married long before I -met with my wife. It was only for a little time; and then she -disappeared,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> poor girl, and I never could find out what became of her. -It gave me a very great deal of trouble and distress—more than I could -tell you; and now we have found out that she left a child. I told you -all to-day at luncheon. Joyce, the girl they all talk about, is my -daughter. Can you believe such a story?’</p> - -<p>‘I had heard about it before; and then what you said to-day—it is very -wonderful.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; but it’s quite true. And we told her—in Mrs. Bellendean’s room. -And if you will believe it, she—— She as good as rejected me, -Norman—refused to have me for her father. It has thrown me into a -dreadful state of confusion. And Elizabeth can’t help me, it appears. -She says I must work it out for myself. But it seems unnatural to work -out a thing by myself; and especially a thing like this. Yes, the girl -would have nothing to say to me, Bellendean. She says I must have -ill-treated her mother—poor Joyce! the girl I told you that I had -married. And I never did—indeed I never did!’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure of that, sir. You never injured any one.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, my dear fellow! you don’t know how things happen. It seems to be -nobody’s fault, and yet there’s injury done. It’s very bewildering to -me, at my age, to think of having a child living. I never—thought of -anything of the kind. I may have wished that my wife—and then again it -would seem almost better that it shouldn’t be so.’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward put his arm within that of Norman; he quickened his pace -as they went up and down the terrace, and then would stop suddenly to -deliver an emphatic sentence. ‘She looked me in the face, as if she -defied me,’ he said, ‘and then went away and left me—with that old -woman. Did you ever hear of such a position, Bellendean? My daughter, -you know, my own daughter—and she looks me in the face, and tells me I -must have harmed her mother, and why did I leave her? and goes away! -What am I to do? When you have made such a discovery, there it is; you -can’t put it out of your mind, or go upon your way, as if you had never -found it out. I can’t be as I was before. I have got a daughter. You may -smile, Bellendean, and think it’s just the old fellow’s confused way.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t indeed, sir. I can quite understand the embarrassment——’</p> - -<p>‘That’s it—the embarrassment. She belongs to me, and her future should -be my dearest care—my dearest care—a daughter, you know, more even -than a boy. Just what I have often thought would make life perfect—just -a sort of a glory to us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> Elizabeth and me; but when you think of it, -quite a stranger, brought up so different! And Elizabeth opposed, a -little opposed. I can’t help seeing it, though she tries to hide it, -telling me that it’s my affair—that I must think it out myself. How can -I think it out myself? and then my daughter herself turning upon me! -What can I do? I don’t know what to do!’</p> - -<p>‘Everybody,’ said Captain Bellendean—though a little against the grain, -for he was himself very indignant with Joyce—‘speaks highly of her; -there is but one voice—every one likes and admires her.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel gave a little pressure to the young man’s arm, as if in -thanks, and said with a sigh, ‘She is very like her mother. You would -say, if you had known her, the very same—more than a likeness. -Elizabeth has had a good deal to put up with on that account. You can’t -wonder if she is a little—opposed. And everything is at a standstill. -<i>I</i> have to take the next step; they will neither of them help me—and -what am I to do? Children—seem to bring love with them when they are -born in a house. But when a grown-up young woman appears that you never -saw before, and you are told she is your daughter! It is a dreadful -position to be in, Bellendean. I don’t know, no more than a baby, what -to do.’</p> - -<p>‘That is rather an alarming view to take,’ said Norman. ‘But when you -know her better, most likely everything will come right. You have a very -kind heart, sir, and the young lady is very pretty, and nice, and -clever, and nature will speak.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel shook his head. ‘I believed this morning in nature -speaking—but I am sadly shaken, sadly shaken, Bellendean. Why did she -turn against me? You would have thought that merely to say, I am your -father—but she turned upon me as if I had been her enemy. And what can -I do? We can’t go away to-morrow and leave her here. We must have her to -live with us, and perhaps she won’t come, and most likely she’ll not -like it if she does. I am dreadfully down about it all. Joyce’s girl -whom I don’t know, and Elizabeth, who gives me up and goes to lie down -because she’s tired—just when I need her most!’</p> - -<p>‘But, Colonel, it is true that Mrs. Hayward must be very tired: and no -doubt she feels that you and Miss Joyce will understand each other -better if you meet by yourselves, when she is not there.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh? Do you think that’s what she means, Bellendean? and do you think so -too? But even then I am no further advanced than I was before; for my -daughter, you know, she’s not here,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> and how do I know where to find -her, even if I were prepared to meet her? and heaven knows I am less -prepared than ever—and very nervous and anxious; and if she were -standing before me at this moment I don’t know what I should say.’</p> - -<p>‘I can show you where to find her,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘Come and -see her, sir; you don’t want to be prepared—you have only to show her -that she may trust to your kind heart, and settle everything before Mrs. -Hayward wakes up.’</p> - -<p>‘My kind heart!’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘I’m not so sure that my heart is -kind—not, it appears, to my own flesh and blood. I feel almost as if I -should be glad never to hear of her again.’</p> - -<p>‘That is only because you are out of sorts, and got no sleep last -night.’</p> - -<p>‘How do you know I got no sleep? It’s quite true. Elizabeth thinks I -only fancy it, but the truth is that when my mind is disturbed I cannot -sleep. I am dreadfully down about it all, Bellendean. No, I haven’t the -courage, I haven’t the courage. If she were to tell me again that her -mother had much to complain of, I couldn’t answer a word. And yet it’s -not so. I declare to you, Bellendean, upon my honour, it was no fault of -mine.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure of it, sir,’ said Bellendean. ‘Don’t think any more of that, -but come with me and see Miss Joyce, and settle it all.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel said little as he walked down to the village leaning on -young Bellendean’s arm. He was alarmed and nervous; his throat was dry, -his mind was confused. Norman’s society, the touch of his arm, the moral -force of his companionship, kept Colonel Hayward up to the mark, or it -is possible that he might have turned back and fled from those -difficulties which he did not feel himself able to cope with, and the -new relationship that had already produced such confusion in his life. -But he was firmly held by Norman’s arm, and did not resist the impulse, -though it was not his own. He did not know what he was going to say to -Joyce, or how to meet this proud young creature, filled with a fanciful -indignation for her mother’s wrongs. He had never wronged her mother. -Pitiful as the story was, and tenderly as he had always regarded her -memory, the Joyce of his youth had been the instrument of her own misery -and of much trouble and anguish to him, though the gentle-hearted -soldier had accepted it always as a sort of natural calamity for which -nobody was responsible, and never blamed her. But even the -gentlest-hearted will be moved when the judgment which they have -refrained from making is turned against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> themselves. It was not his -fault, and yet how could he say so? How could he explain it to this -second hot-headed Joyce without blaming the first who had so suffered, -and over whom death had laid a shadowy veil of tenderness, an oblivion -of all mistakes and errors? Colonel Hayward did not articulately discuss -this question with himself, but it was at the bottom of all the -confusion in his troubled mind. He was afraid of her, shy of her -presence, not knowing how to address or approach this stranger, who was -his own child. He had looked with a tender envy at other people’s -daughters before now, thinking if only Elizabeth—— But a daughter who -was not Elizabeth’s, and to whom his wife was even, as he said to -himself, a little—opposed, was something that had never entered into -his thoughts. How easy it was in the story-books!—how parents and -children long separated sprang into each other’s arms and hearts by -instinct. But it was very different in real life, when the problem how -to receive into the intimacy of so small a household a third person who -was so near in blood, so absolutely unknown in all that constitutes -human sympathy, had to be solved at a moment’s notice! He had been very -much excited and disturbed the day before, but he had not doubted the -power of Elizabeth to put everything right. Now, however, Elizabeth had -not only for the first time failed, but was—opposed. She had not said -it, but he had felt it. She had declared herself tired, and lain down, -and told him to work it out himself. Such a state of affairs was one -which Colonel Hayward had never contemplated, and everything accordingly -was much worse than yesterday, when he had still been able to feel that -if Elizabeth were only here all would go well.</p> - -<p>The party in the cottage were in a very subdued and depressed condition -when Captain Bellendean knocked at the door. The heat of resistance in -Joyce’s mind had died down. Whether it was the strain of argument which -Janet still carried on, though Joyce had not consciously listened to it, -or whether the mere effect of the short lapse of time which quenches -excitement had operated unawares upon her mind, it is certain that her -vehemence of feeling and rebellion of heart had sunk into that -despondent suspension of thought which exhaustion brings. Resistance -dies out, and the chill compulsion of circumstance comes in, making -itself felt above all flashes of indignation, all revolts of sentiment. -Joyce knew now, though she had not acknowledged it in words, that her -power over her own life was gone,—that there was no strength in her to -resist the new laws and subordination under which she felt herself to -have fallen. She had not even the con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span>sciousness which a girl in a -higher class might have been supported by, that her father’s rights over -her were not supreme. She believed that she had no power to resist his -decrees as to what was to become of her; and accordingly, after the -first outburst of contradictory feeling, the girl’s heart and courage -had altogether succumbed. She had fallen upon the neck of her old -guardian—the true mother of her life—with tears, which quenched out -every spark of the passion which had inspired her.</p> - -<p>Joyce felt herself to be within the grasp of fate. She was like one of -the heroines of the poets in a different aspect from that in which she -had identified herself with Rosalind or Miranda. What she was like now -was Iphigenia or Antigone caught in the remorseless bonds of destiny. -She did not even feel that forlorn satisfaction in it which she might -have done had there been more time, or had she been less unhappy. The -only feeling she was conscious of was misery, life running low in her, -all the elements and powers against her, and the possibility even of -resistance gone out of her. Old Janet had pressed her close, and then -had repulsed her with the impatience of highly excited feeling; and -Joyce stood before the window, with the light upon her pale face, quite -subdued, unresistant, dejected to the bottom of her heart. The only one -of the group who showed any energy or satisfaction was Andrew Halliday, -who could not refrain a rising and exhilaration of heart at the thought -of being son-in-law to a man who was the ‘Captain’s’ commanding officer, -and consequently occupied a position among the great ones of the earth. -Andrew’s imagination had already leaped at all the good things that -might follow for himself. He thought of possible elevations in the way -of head-masterships, scholastic dignities, and honours. ‘They’ would -never leave Joyce’s husband a parish schoolmaster! He had not time to -follow it out, but his thoughts had swayed swiftly upwards to promotions -and honours undefined.</p> - -<p>‘Wha’s that at the door?’ said Janet, among her tears.</p> - -<p>‘It’s the Captain,’ said Joyce, in a voice so low that she was almost -inaudible. Then she added, ‘It’s—it’s—my father.’</p> - -<p>‘Her father!’ Peter rose up with a lowering brow. ‘My hoose is no’ a -place for every fremd person to come oot and in at their pleasure. Let -them be. I forbid ainy person to open that door.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, haud your tongue, man!’ cried Janet; ‘can ye keep them oot with a -steekit door—them that has the law on their side, and nature too?’</p> - -<p>The old man took his blue bonnet, which hung on the back of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> his chair. -‘Stand back, sir,’ he said sternly to Andrew, who had risen to go to the -door; ‘if my hoose is mine nae mair, nor my bairn mine nae mair, it’s -me, at least, that has the richt to open, and nae ither man.’ He put his -bonnet on his head, pulling it down upon his brows. ‘My head’s white and -my heart’s sair: if the laird thinks I’ve nae mainners, he maun just put -up wi’t, I’m no’ lang for this life that I should care.’ He threw the -door wide open as he spoke, meeting the look of the newcomers with his -head down, and his shaggy eyebrows half covering his eyes. ‘Gang in, -gang in, if ye’ve business,’ he said, and flung heavily past them, -without further greeting. The sound of his heavy footstep, hastening -away, filled all the silence which, for a moment, no one broke.</p> - -<p>Norman made way, and almost pushed the Colonel in before him. ‘They -expect you,’ he said. And Colonel Hayward stepped in. A more embarrassed -man, or one more incapable of filling so difficult a position, could not -be. How willingly would he have followed Peter! But duty and necessity -and Norman Bellendean all kept him up to the mark. Joyce stood straight -up before him in front of the window. She turned to him her pale face, -her eyes heavy with tears. The good man was accustomed to be received -with pleasure, to dispense kindness wherever he went: to appear thus, in -the aspect of a destroyer of domestic happiness, was more painful and -confusing than words can say.</p> - -<p>‘Young lady,’ he began, and stopped, growing more confused than ever. -Then, desperation giving him courage, ‘Joyce—— It cannot be stranger to -you than it is to me, to see you standing here before me, my daughter, -when I never knew I had a daughter. My dear, we ought to love one -another,—but how can we, being such strangers? I have never been used -to—anything of the kind. It’s a great shock to us both, finding this -out. But if you’ll trust yourself to me, I’ll—I’ll do my best. A man -cannot say more.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Joyce; her voice faltered and died away in her throat. She -made an effort and began again, ‘Sir,’ then broke down altogether, and, -making a step backwards, clutched at old Janet’s dress. ‘Oh, granny, -he’s very kind—his face is very kind,’ she cried.</p> - -<p>‘Ay,’ said the old woman, ‘ye say true; he has a real kind face. Sir, -what she wants to tell ye is, that though a’s strange, and it’s hard, -hard to ken what to say, she’ll be a good daughter to ye, and do her -duty, though maybe there’s mony things that may gang wrang at first. Ye -see she’s had naebody but Peter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> and me: and she’s real fond of the twa -auld folk, and has been the best bairn’—Janet’s voice shook a little, -but she controlled it. ‘Never, never in this world was there a better -bairn—though she’s aye had the nature o’ a lady and the mainners o’ -ane, and might have thought shame of us puir country bodies. Na, my -bonnie woman, na,—I ken ye never did. But, sir, ye need never fear to -haud up yer head when ye’ve <small>HER</small> by your side. She’s fit to stand before -kings—ay, that she is,—before kings, and no before meaner men.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel gazed curiously at the little old woman, who stood so firm -in her self-abnegation that he, at least, never realised how sadly it -went against the grain. ‘Madam,’ he said, in his old-fashioned way, ‘I -believe you fully; but it must be all to your credit and the way you -have brought her up, that I find her what she is.’ He took Janet’s hand -and held it in his own,—a hard little hand, scored and bony with work, -worn with age—not lovely in any way. The Colonel recovered himself and -regained his composure, now that he had come to the point at which he -could pay compliments and give pleasure. ‘I thank you, madam, from the -bottom of my heart, for what you have done for her, and for what you are -giving up to me,’ he said, bowing low. Janet had no understanding of -what he meant; and when he bent his grizzled moustache to kiss her hand, -she gave a little shriek of mingled consternation and pleasure. ‘Eh, -Colonel!’ she exclaimed, her old cheeks tingling with a blush that would -not have shamed a girl’s. Never in her life had lips of man touched -Janet’s hand before. She drew it from him and fell back upon her chair -and sobbed, looking at the knotted fingers and prominent veins in an -ecstasy of wonder and admiration. ‘Did you see that, Joyce? he’s kissed -my hand; did ever mortal see the like? Eh, Colonel! I just havena a -word—no’ a word—to say.’</p> - -<p>Joyce put out both her hands to her father, her eyes swimming in tears, -her face lighted up with that sudden gleam of instantaneous perception -which was one of the charms of her face. ‘Oh, sir!’ she said: the other -word, father, fluttered on her lips. It was a gentleman who did that, -one of the species which Joyce knew so little, but only that she -belonged to it. In her quick imagination rehearsing every incident -before it happened, that was what she would have had him do. The little -act of personal homage was more than words, more than deeds, and changed -the current of her feelings as by magic. And the Colonel now was in his -element too. The tender flattery and sincere extravagance of all those -delicate ways of giving pleasure were easy and natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> to him, and he -was restored to himself. He took Joyce’s hands in one of his, and drew -her within his arm.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ he said, with moisture in his eyes, ‘you are very like your -mother. God forgive me if I ever frightened her or neglected her! I -could not look you in the face if I had ever done her conscious wrong. -Will you kiss me, my child, and forgive your father? She would bid you -do so if she were here.’</p> - -<p>It was very strange to Joyce. She grew crimson, as old Janet had done, -under her father’s kiss. He was her father; her heart no longer made any -objections; it beat high with a strange mixture of elation and pain. Her -father—who had done her mother no conscious wrong, who had proved -himself, in that high fantastical way which alone is satisfactory to the -visionary soul, to be such a gentleman as she had always longed to meet -with: yet one whom she would have to follow, far from all she knew, and, -what was far worse, leaving desolate the old parents who depended upon -her for all the brightness in their life. Her other sensations of pain -fled away like clouds before the dawn, but this tragic strain remained. -How would they do without her?—how could they bear the separation? The -causeless resentment, the fanciful resistance which Joyce had felt -against her father, vanished in a moment, having no cause; but the other -burden remained.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile there was another burden of which she had not thought. Andrew -Halliday had discreetly withdrawn himself while the main action of the -scene was going on. He stepped aside, and began to talk to Captain -Bellendean. It was not undesirable in any circumstances to make friends -with Captain Bellendean; and the schoolmaster had all his wits about -him. He took up a position aside, where he could still command a perfect -view of what was going on, and then he said, ‘We are having very good -weather for this time of the year.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ Norman said, a little surprised, ‘I think so. It is not very -warm, but it is always fine.’</p> - -<p>‘Not warm! That will be your Indian experiences, Captain; for we all -think here it is a very fine season—the best we have had for years. The -corn is looking well, and the farmers are content, which is a thing that -does not happen every year.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed,’ said Norman. He was not very much interested in the -farmers, who had not yet begun to be the troublesome members of society -they now are; but he did not wish to have his attention distracted from -the scene going on so near; and but for innate civility, he would -willingly have snubbed the school<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>master. Andrew, however, was not a -person to be suppressed so.</p> - -<p>‘You are more interested,’ he said confidentially, ‘in what’s going on -here; and so am I, Captain Bellendean. I have reason to be very deeply -interested. Everything that concerns my dear Joyce——’</p> - -<p>‘Your dear—what?’ cried the Captain abruptly, turning quickly upon him -with an indignant air. Then, however, Captain Bellendean recollected -himself. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quickly; ‘I believe I have -heard—something.’</p> - -<p>‘You will have heard,’ said Halliday, ‘that we’ve been engaged for some -time back. We should have been married before now but for some -difficulties about—about her parents and mine. Not that there was not -perfect satisfaction with the connection,’ he added, with his air of -importance, ‘on both sides of the house.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Norman. He felt himself grow red with annoyance at this -intrusive fellow, whose affairs were nothing to him. He added with -conscious sarcasm, ‘Let us hope it will always continue to be equally -satisfactory.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope so,’ said Halliday. ‘It could scarcely, indeed, be otherwise, -seeing that Joyce was my choice in very humble circumstances, when I -might well have found a partner in a different sphere. My mother’s first -word was, “Andrew, you might have done better;” but Joyce’s own merits -turned the scale. She is an excellent creature, Captain Bellendean, -admirable in tuition. She raises an enthusiasm in the children, -especially the bigger girls, which really requires quite a gift. I -looked forward to the day when she should be transferred to my own -parish, and work under me. Judicious guidance was all she required—just -a hint here, a suggestion there—and there would not be a head-mistress -in Scotland to equal her.’</p> - -<p>‘I fear,’ said Norman, smoothing his annoyance into a laugh, ‘that -Colonel Hayward will put a stop to schoolmistressing.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, sir, why? it’s a noble office. There could not be a finer -occupation, nor one in which you can serve your country better. Ladies, -indeed, after marriage, when they get the cares of a family, sometimes -begin to flag a little,’ said Halliday, giving a complacent look at -Joyce. ‘Of course,’ he added, after a pause—and, though he did not know -it, he had never been so near being kicked out of a house in his -life—‘if Colonel Hayward should wish her to settle near him, there are -many fine appointments to be had in England. I would not say that I -should insist upon remaining here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘That would be kind,’ said Captain Bellendean, with a sarcasm which was -scarcely intentional. He was confounded by the composure and by the -assurance of this fellow, who was so calmly persuaded of his own -property in Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘I would think it only duty,’ said Halliday; ‘but you’ll excuse me, -Captain,—I think I am wanted.’ He turned with a smile towards Joyce, -still awed and astonished by the sudden change in her own sentiments, -who continued to stand shy and tremulous within her father’s encircling -arm.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘I am glad to see this happy conclusion; but you -have not yet introduced me to the Cornel—and we can have no secrets -from him now.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel turned with astonishment and something as like <i>hauteur</i> as -was possible to his gentle and courteous temper, to the new speaker. He -looked him over from head to foot, with a dim recollection of having -seen him before, and of having somehow resented his appearance even -then. He resented it much more now, when this half-bred person, whose -outside was not that of a gentleman, yet was not that of a labouring -man, came forward claiming a place between his daughter and himself. He -turned upon Andrew that mild lightning of indignant eyes which had -proved so efficacious in the regiment. But Halliday was not to be -intimidated by any man’s eyes. He drew still nearer with an ingratiating -smile, and said again, ‘Introduce me to the Cornel, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>Joyce had accepted Andrew Halliday’s love—as little of it as possible: -because he had forced it upon her, because his talk and acquaintance -with books had dazzled her, because she had found a certain protection -in him from other rustic suitors. She had allowed it to be understood -that some time or other she would marry him. He was the nearest to -herself in position, in ambition, of any in the country-side. But she -lifted her eyes to him now with a shrinking and horror which she herself -could not understand. He stood between her and Captain Bellendean, -contrasting himself without the smallest reluctance or sense of danger -with the man whose outward semblance was more like that of a hero than -any man Joyce had seen. She made in a moment the comparison which it had -never occurred to Halliday to make. His under-size, his imperfect -development, the absence of natural grace and refinement in him, made -themselves apparent to her sharply, as if by the sting of a sudden blow. -She gazed at him, the colour again flushing over her face, with a slight -start of surprise and something like repugnance. He had got her promise -that she would marry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> him, but she had never promised to present him to -her unknown dream-father as his future son.</p> - -<p>‘Who is it?’ said Colonel Hayward. He curved his eyebrows over his eyes -to assist his vision, which gave him a look of displeasure; and he was -displeased to see this man,—a man with whom he had some previous -unpleasant association, he could not tell what,—thrusting himself in at -such an inappropriate moment between his daughter and himself.</p> - -<p>‘It is—Andrew Halliday,’ said Joyce, very low, turning her head away. -Halliday held his ground very sturdily, and acknowledged this abrupt -description with an ingratiating smile.</p> - -<p>‘How do you do, Cornel?’ he said. ‘After all, she’s shy—she leaves me -to introduce myself; which is not perhaps to be wondered at. We have -been engaged for nearly a year. I came here to-day, knowing nothing, to -try and persuade her to name the day, and put an end to a wretched -bachelor’s life. But when I arrived I found everything turned upside -down, and Joyce quite past giving any heed to me. I hope I may leave my -cause in your hand, Cornel,’ said the schoolmaster, with the utmost -absence of perception. He thought he had made a very agreeable -impression, and that his affairs were, as he said, safe in the Cornel’s -hands.</p> - -<p>‘You are engaged to this—gentleman?’ Colonel Hayward said.</p> - -<p>Joyce felt herself quail as she looked into her father’s face. She read -all that was in his at a glance. Colonel Hayward was quite ignorant of -Halliday, quite unaccustomed to the kind of man, unprepared for this new -claim; and yet his eyes expressed the same thoughts which were in hers. -A little shiver of keen sympathetic feeling ran through her. She felt -herself unable to say anything. She assented with a look in which, with -horror at herself, she felt the shrinking, the reluctance to acknowledge -the truth, the disinclination which she had never allowed even to -herself up to this time. The Colonel looked from Joyce, standing with -downcast eyes and that half-visible shrinking in every line of her -figure and attitude, to the commonplace man with the smirk on his -countenance: and breathed once more the habitual aspiration of his life, -‘Oh that Elizabeth were here!’ But then he remembered that Elizabeth had -sent him away to work it out for himself.</p> - -<p>‘We always knew,’ said Halliday, ‘that this day would come some time, -and that her real origin would be known. I have looked forward to it, -Cornel. I have always done my best to help her to prepare—for any -position. I am not rich,’ he added, with demonstrative frankness; ‘but -among people of high tone tha<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span>t’s but a secondary matter, and I know -you’ll find we are true partners and mates, Joyce and myself, in every -other way.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir, I am very much confused with one discovery,’ said the Colonel, -hesitating and tremulous. ‘I—I—can scarcely realise yet about my -daughter. Let the other stand over a little—let it wait a little—till -I have got accustomed—till I know how things are—till I——’</p> - -<p>He looked at Joyce anxiously to help him out. But for the first time in -her life Joyce failed in this emergency. She stood with her eyes cast -down, slightly drawn back, keeping herself isolated by an instinctive -movement. She had never been in such a strait before.</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Halliday, ‘I understand. I can enter into your feelings, -Cornel; and I am not afraid to wait.’ He took Joyce’s hand, which hung -by her side, and clasped it close. ‘Joyce,’ he said, ‘will speak for me; -Joyce will see that I am not put off too long.’</p> - -<p>A sudden heat like a flame seemed to envelop Joyce. She withdrew her -hand quickly, yet almost stealthily, and turned upon her father—her -father whom she had known only for a few hours, whose claims she had at -first rejected—an appealing look. Then Joyce, too, remembered herself. -Truth and honour stood by Halliday’s side, though he was not of their -noble strain. The flame grew hotter and hotter, enveloping her, -scorching her, turning from red to the white flames of devouring fire. -She turned back to her betrothed lover, scarcely seeing through eyes -dazzled by that glare, and put out her hand to him as if forced by some -invisible power.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> little family party left Bellendean two days after. It was not -expedient, they all felt, to linger long over the inevitable separation. -Even old Janet was of this mind. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then -it were well it were done quickly.’ The sentiment of these words was in -the old woman’s mind, though possibly she did not know them. Joyce was -finally taken from her foster-parents when she left them for Bellendean -on the evening before, half heart-broken, yet half ecstatic, not knowing -how to subdue the extraordinary emotion and excitement that tingled to -her very finger-points. She was going to dine at the table which -represented everything that was splendid and refined to the village -schoolmistress, to be waited on by the servants who thought themselves -much superior to old Peter and Janet, to hear the talk, to make -acquaintance with the habits of those whom she had looked up to all her -life. The Bellendean carriage came for her, to bring her away not only -from the cottage, but from all her past existence—from everything she -had known. By Janet’s advice, or rather commands, Joyce had put on her -one white dress, the soft muslin gown which she had sometimes worn on a -summer Sunday, and in which the old people had always thought she looked -like a princess. Peter sat by the open door of the cottage while these -last preparations were being made. The anger of great wretchedness was -blazing in the old man’s eyes. ‘What are you doing with that white dud?’ -he said, giving her a glance askance out of his red eyes. ‘I aye said it -was not fit for a decent lass out of my house. Mak’ her pit on a goon -that’s like her place, no like thae lightheaded limmers.’ He waved his -hand towards the east end of the village, where there lived an ambitious -family with fine daughters. ‘Dod! I would tear it off her back.’</p> - -<p>‘Haud your tongue,’ said his wife; ‘what good will it do you to fecht -and warstle with Providence? The time’s come when we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> maun just submit. -Na, na, never heed him, Joyce. The white’s far the best. And just you -step into your carriage, my bonnie lady: it’s the way I’ve aye seen you -going aff in my dreams. Peter, dinna sit there like a sulky bear. Give -her a kiss and your blessing, and let her go.’</p> - -<p>A laugh of hoarse derision burst from Peter’s lips. ‘I’m a bonnie man to -kiss a grand lady! I never was ane for thae showings-off. If she maun -go, she will hae to go, and there is an end o’t. Farewell to ye, Joyce!’</p> - -<p>He got up hastily from his seat at the door. The footman outside and the -coachman on the box, keenly observant both, looked on—and Peter knew -their fathers and mothers, and was aware that any word he said would be -public property next day. He gave himself a shake, and pulled his bonnet -over his eyes, but did not stride away as he had done before. He stood -leaning his back against the wall, his face half buried in the old -coat-collar which rose to his ears when he bent his head, and in the -shadow of his bonnet and the forest of his beard. It was Janet, in her -quavering voice, who gave the blessing, putting up two hard hands, and -drawing them over Joyce’s brown satin hair and soft cheeks: ’"The Lord -bless thee and keep thee: the Lord lift up the light o’ His countenance -upon thee.” Gang away, gang away! It will maybe no’ be sae hard when -you’re out o’ our sight.’</p> - -<p>The horses seemed to make but one bound, the air to fill with the sound -of hoofs and wheels, and Joyce found herself beginning again to perceive -the daylight through her blinding tears. And her heart, too, gave a -bound, involuntary, unwilling. It was not so hard when they were out of -sight, and the new world so full of expectation, of curiosity, of the -unknown, opened before her in a minute. Joyce in her white dress, in the -Bellendean carriage driving up the avenue to dinner, with her father -waiting at the other end to receive her, was and could be Joyce Matheson -no more. All that she knew and was familiar with departed from her like -the rolling up of a map, like the visions of a dream.</p> - -<p>There was, however, so much consciousness, so much curiosity, so many -comments made upon Joyce and her story, that the strange witching scene -of the dinner-table—a thing of enchantment to the girl, with its -wonderful flowers and fine company—was for the other guests somewhat -embarrassing and uncomfortable. Strangely enough Joyce was almost the -only one at table who was unaffected by this feeling. To her there was -something symbolical in the novelty which fitted in with all her dreams -and hopes. The flowers, the pretty dresses, the glitter and show of the -white table<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> with its silver and porcelain, the conversation, a dozen -different threads going on at once, the aspect of the smiling faces as -they turned to each other,—all carried out her expectations. It seemed -to Joyce, sitting almost silent, full of the keenest observation, that -the meal, the vulgar eating and drinking, was so small a part of it. She -could not hear what everybody was saying, nor was she, in the excitement -and confusion of her mind, very capable of understanding the rapid -interchange of words, so many people talking together; but it -represented to her the feast of reason and the flow of soul better than -the most brilliant company in the world, more distinctly heard and -understood, could have done. She was not disappointed. Joyce knew by the -novels she had read that in such circumstances as hers the newcomer full -of expectation generally was disappointed, and found that, seen close, -the finest company was no better than the humblest. Her imagination had -rebelled against that discomfiting discovery even when she read of it; -and now it was with great elation that she felt she had been right all -through and the novels wrong. She was not disappointed. The food and the -eating were quite secondary, as they ought to be. When she looked along -the table, it was to see smiling faces raised in pleasure at something -that had been said, or saying something with the little triumphant air -of successful argument or happy wit, or listening with grave attention, -assenting, objecting, as the case might be. She did not know what they -were saying, but she was convinced that it was all beautiful, clever, -witty, true conversation, the food for which her spirit had hungered. -She had no desire for the moment to enter into it herself. She was -dazzled by all the prettiness and brightness, moved to the heart by that -sensation of having found what she longed for, and at last obtained -entrance into the world to which she truly belonged. She smiled when she -met Mrs. Bellendean’s eye, and answered slightly at random when she was -spoken to. She was by her father’s side, and he did not speak to her -much. She was kindly left with her impressions, to accustom herself -gradually to the new scene. And she was entirely satisfied, elated, -afloat in an ethereal atmosphere of contentment and pleasure. Her -dreams, she thought, were all realised.</p> - -<p>But next morning the old life came back with more force than ever. Joyce -went over and over the scene of the evening. ‘Gang away, gang away! It -will maybe no’ be sae hard when you’re out o’ our sight.’ Her -foster-parents had thrust her from them, not meaning to see her again; -and though her heart was all aching and bleeding, she did not know what -to do, whether to attempt a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> second parting, whether to be content that -the worst was over. She made the compromise which tender-hearted people -are so apt to do. She got up very early, following her old habit with a -curious sense of its unusualness and unnecessariness—to use two awkward -words—and ran down all the way to the village through the dewy grass. -But early as she was, she was not early enough for Peter, whom she saw -in the distance striding along with his long, heavy tread, his head -bowed, his bonnet drawn over his brows, a something of dreary <i>abandon</i> -about him which went to Joyce’s heart. He was going through a field of -corn which was already high, and left his head and shoulders alone -visible as he trudged away to his work—the sun beating upon the rugged -head under its broad blue bonnet, the heavy old shoulders slouched, the -long step undulating, making his figure fall and rise almost like a ship -at sea. The corn was ‘in the flower,’ still green, and rustled in the -morning air; a few red poppies blazed like a fringe among the sparse -stalks near the pathway; the sky was very clear in the grey blue of -northern skies under summer heat; but the old man, she was sure, saw -nothing as he jogged onward heavy-hearted. Joyce dared not call to him, -dared not follow him. With a natural pang she stood and watched the old -father bereaved going out to his work. Perhaps it would console him a -little: she for whom he sorrowed could do so no more.</p> - -<p>But Joyce had not the same awe of Janet. Is it perhaps that there is -even in the anguish of the affections a certain luxury for a woman which -is not for the man? She ran along the vacant sunny village street, and -pushed open the half-closed door, and flung herself upon the old woman’s -neck, who received her with a shriek of joy. Perhaps it crossed Janet’s -mind for a moment that her child had come back, that she had discovered -already that all these fine folk were not to be lippened to; but the -feeling, though ecstatic, was but momentary, and would indeed have been -sternly opposed by her own better sense had it been true.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, and it’s you!’ she cried, seizing Joyce by the shoulders, gazing -into her face.</p> - -<p>‘It is me, granny. For all you said last night that I was better out of -your sight, I could not. I could not go—without seeing you again.’</p> - -<p>‘Did I say that?—the Lord forgive me! But it’s just true. I’ll be -better when you’re clean gane; but eh! I am glad, glad. Joyce—my bonnie -woman, did ye see him?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, granny, I saw him going across the big cornfield. Tell him I stood -and watched him with his head down on his breast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span>—but I daredna lift my -voice. Tell him Joyce will never forget—the green corn and the hot sun, -and him—alone.’</p> - -<p>‘What would hinder him to be his lane at six o’clock in the morning?’ -said Janet, with a tearful smile. ‘You never gaed wi’ him to his work, -ye foolish bairn. If he had left ye sleeping sound in your wee garret, -would he have been less his lane? Ay, ay, I ken weel what you mean; I -ken what you mean. Well, it just had to be; we maunna complain. Run -away, my dawtie: run away, my bonnie lady—ye’ll write when ye get -there; but though it’s a hard thing to say, it’ll be the best thing for -us a’ when you’re just clean gane.’</p> - -<p>Two or three hours afterwards, Joyce found herself, all the little -confusion of the start over, seated in the seclusion of the railway -carriage, with the father and mother who were henceforward to dispose of -her life.</p> - -<p>She had seen very little of them up to this moment. Colonel Hayward, -indeed, had kept by her during the evening, patting her softly on her -arm from time to time, taking her hand, looking at her with very tender -eyes, listening, when she opened her mouth at rare intervals, with the -kind of pleased, half-alarmed look with which an anxious parent listens -to the utterances of a child. He was very, very kind—more than kind. -Joyce had become aware, she could scarcely tell how, that the other -people sometimes smiled a little at the Colonel—a discovery which awoke -the profoundest indignation in her mind; but she already began half to -perceive his little uncertainties, his difficulty in forming his own -opinion, the curious helplessness which made it apparent that this -distinguished soldier required to be taken care of, and more or less -guided in the way he had to go. But she had done nothing towards making -acquaintance with Mrs. Hayward, whose relation to her was so much less -distinct, and upon whom so much of her comfort must depend. This lady -sat in the corner of the carriage next the window, with her back to the -engine, very square and firm—a far more difficult study for her new -companion than her husband was. She had not shown by look or word any -hostility towards Joyce; but still a sentiment of antagonism had, in -some subtle way, risen between them. With the exclusiveness common to -English travellers, they had secured the compartment in which they sat -for themselves alone; so that the three were here shut up for the day in -the very closest contact, to shake together as they might. Joyce sat -exactly opposite to her step-mother, whilst the Colonel, who had brought -in with him a sheaf of newspapers, changed about from side to side as -the view, or the locomotion, or his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> restlessness required. He -distributed his papers to all the party, thrusting a <i>Graphic</i> into -Joyce’s hands, and heaping the remainder upon the seat. Mrs. Hayward -took up the <i>Scotsman</i> which he had given her, and looked at it -contemptuously. ‘What is it?’ she said, holding it between her finger -and her thumb. ‘You know I don’t care for anything, Henry, but the -<i>Times</i> or the <i>Morning Post</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘You can have yesterday’s <i>Times</i>, my dear,’ said the Colonel; ‘but you -know we are four hundred miles from London. We must be content with the -papers of the place. There are all the telegrams just the same—and very -clever articles, I hear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t want to read Scotch articles,’ said Mrs. Hayward. She meant -no harm. She was a little out of temper, out of heart. To say something -sharp was a kind of relief to her; she did not think it would hurt any -one, nor did she mean to do so. But Joyce grew red behind her <i>Graphic</i>. -She looked at the pictures with eyes which were hot and dry with the -great desire she had to shed the tears which seemed to be gathering in -them. Now that Bellendean was left behind like a dream, now that the -familiar fields were all out of sight, the village roofs disappeared for -ever, and she, Joyce, not Joyce any longer, nor anything she knew, shut -up here as in a strait little house with the people,—the people to whom -she belonged,—a wild and secret anguish took possession of her. She sat -quite still with the paper held before her face, trying to restrain and -subdue herself. She felt that if the train would but stop, she would -dart out and fly and lose herself in the crowd; and then she thought, -with what seemed to her a new comprehension, of her mother who had done -so—who had fled and been lost. Her poor young mother, a girl like -herself! This thought, however, calmed Joyce; for if her mother had but -been patient, the misery she was at present enduring need never have -been. Had the first Joyce but subdued herself and restrained her hasty -impulses, the second Joyce might have been a happy daughter, knowing her -father and loving him, instead of the unhappy, uneasy creature she was, -with her heart and her life torn in two. She paused with a kind of awe -when that thought came into her mind. Her mother had entailed upon her -the penalty of her hastiness, of her impatience and passion. She had -paid the cost herself, but not all the cost—she had left the rest to be -borne by her child. The costs of every foolish thing have to be borne, -Joyce said to herself. Some one must drink out that cup to the dregs; it -cannot pass away until it has been emptied by one or another. No; -however tempting the crowd might be in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> she could disappear, -however many the stations at which she could escape, she would not take -that step. She would not postpone the pang. She would bear it now, -however it hurt her; for one time or another it would have to be borne.</p> - -<p>The conversation went on all the same, as if none of these thoughts were -passing through the troubled brain of Joyce,—and she was conscious of -it, acutely yet dully, as if it had been written upon the paper which -she held before her face.</p> - -<p>‘You must not speak in that tone, my dear, of Scotch articles—before -Joyce,’ the Colonel said. ‘I have never found that they liked it, -however philosophical they might be——’</p> - -<p>‘Does Joyce count herself Scotch?’ Mrs. Hayward asked, as if speaking -from a distance.</p> - -<p>‘Do you hear your mother, my dear, asking if you call yourself Scotch?’ -he said.</p> - -<p>Both Joyce and Mrs. Hayward winced at the name. There was nothing to -call for its use, and neither of them intended to pick it up out of the -oblivion of the past, or the still more effectual mystery of the might -have been, to force it into their lives. But Joyce could not take notice -of it: she could only reply to his question with a little exaggerated -warmth— ‘I have never been out of Scotland, and all I care for has been -always there. How could I call myself anything else?’</p> - -<p>It was not very long since Peter had accused her of ‘standing up for the -English.’ That had been partially true, and so was this. She thought of -it with almost a laugh of ridicule at herself. Now she felt Scotch to -the tips of her fingers, resenting everything that was said or hinted -against her foster-country.</p> - -<p>‘I see I must mind my p’s and q’s,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘but, -fortunately, there will be no means of getting the <i>Scotsman</i> in -Richmond, so we shall be exempt from that.’</p> - -<p>There was something in Mrs. Hayward’s tone which seemed to imply that -other subjects of quarrel would not be wanting, and there was a little -smile on her lips which gave further meaning to what she said, or seemed -to do so; though, as a matter of fact, poor Mrs. Hayward had no meaning -at all, but could not, though she tried, get rid of that little bit of -temper which had sprung up all lively and keen at sight of the Colonel’s -solicitude about his daughter and her ‘things’—a solicitude which was -quite new and unaccustomed, for he was not in the habit of thinking of -any one’s ‘things,’ but rather, whenever he could, of losing his own. -Among Joyce’s small baggage there was one little shabby old-fashioned -box—a box which Mrs. Hay<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span>ward divined at the first glance must contain -the little relics of the mother, of itself a pitiful little object -enough. There had not been a word said on the subject, but the Colonel -had been startled by the sight of it. He had recognised it, or imagined -that he recognised it, she said to herself severely, and had himself -seen it put in the van, with a care which he had never taken for -anything of hers. It was only a trifle, but it touched one of those -chords that are ready to jar in the wayward human instrument of which -the best of men and women have so little control. She could not get that -jarring chord to be still; it vibrated all through her, giving an acrid -tone to her voice, and something disagreeable to the smile that came, -she could not tell how, to her lip. All these vibrations were hateful to -her, as well as to the hapless antagonist who noted and divined them -with quick responding indignation. But Mrs. Hayward could not help it, -any more than she could help Joyce perceiving it. The close vicinity -into which this little prison of a railway carriage brought them, so -that not a tone or a look could be missed, was intolerable to the elder -woman too. But she knew very well that she could not run away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Colonel Hayward’s</span> house was at Richmond, in one of the most beautiful -spots that could be imagined. It stood on the slope of the hill, and -commanded a view of the winding of the river upward towards Twickenham: -and the grounds about it were exquisite, stretching down to the Thames, -with a long if somewhat narrow sweep of lawn descending to the very -water’s edge. Nothing could be more warm and sheltered, more perfect in -greenness and shade, nothing more bright and sunny than the combination -of fine trees and blossoming undergrowth and elastic velvet turf, the -turf of age, which had been dressed and tended like a child from before -the memory of man, and never put to any rude use. The perfection of the -place was in this lawn and the gardens and grounds, which were the -Colonel’s hobby, and to which he gave all his attention. But the house -was also a very pretty house.</p> - -<p>It was not large, and it was rather low: a verandah, almost invisible -under the weight of climbing roses, clematis, honeysuckle, and every -kind of flowering thing, went round the front; and here, looking over -the river, were the summer quarters of the family. Wicker-chairs, some -of Indian origin, little tables of all convenient kinds, Indian rugs in -all their subdued wealth of colour, like moss under the feet, made this -open-air apartment delightful. It combined two kinds of luxury with the -daintiest yet most simple success. If there was a drawback it was only -in bad weather, when the pretty drawing-room behind was by reason of -this verandah a little wanting in light; but no one could think of that -in the June weather, when the sunshine touched everything with -pleasantness.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward was as proud of the house as the Colonel was of the garden. -After India it cannot be described how delightful it was to them, both -very insular people, to get back to the greenness and comfort of this -English home; and they both watched for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> effect it would have upon -Joyce, with highly raised expectations. To bring a girl out of a Scotch -cottage to such a place as this, to open to her all at once, from Peter -Matheson’s kitchen, in which the broth was made and the oatcakes baked, -the glories of that drawing-room, which Mrs. Hayward could scarcely -leave to be tended by a mere housemaid, which she herself pervaded every -morning, giving loving touches everywhere, arranging draperies, altering -the positions of the furniture, laying out those lovely pieces of -oriental stuff and Indian embroideries which, always put carefully away -at night, adorned the sofas and chairs. Though she did not love ‘the -girl’ she yet looked forward to the moment when all this splendour -should dawn upon Joyce, with a feeling half sympathetic, realising the -awe and admiration with which for the first time her untutored eyes must -contemplate the beautiful room, and all the luxury of the place, which -to her must look like splendour. Mrs. Hayward did not pretend that it -was splendid—‘our little place’ she called it, with proud humility; but -she knew that it was more perfect than anything about, and in itself -without comparison, a sight to see. That Joyce would be dazzled, almost -overwhelmed, by her sudden introduction into such a home, she had no -manner of doubt. And this anticipation softened her, and gave her a -certain interest in Joyce. She talked to her husband at night, after -their arrival, about his daughter in a more friendly tone than she had -yet employed.</p> - -<p>‘I thought of giving her the little west room for herself. She will want -a place to herself to be untidy in—all girls do: a place where she can -keep her work—if she works—or her books: or—whatever she is fond of.’ -Mrs. Hayward had a distinct vision in her eye of a little old-fashioned -box—the ark of the relics which the Colonel had recognised—and made up -her mind that it should be at once endued with a chintz cover, so that -it might be recognisable no more.</p> - -<p>‘There is nobody like you, Elizabeth, for kind thoughts,’ he said -gratefully. Then with the same expectation that had softened her, he -went on— ‘She has never been used to anything of the kind. I shouldn’t -wonder if it was too much for her feelings—for she feels strongly, or -else I am mistaken; and she is a girl who—if you once bind her to you -by love and kindness——’ The Colonel’s own voice quivered a little. He -was himself touched by that thought.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak nonsense, Henry—we know nothing about the girl, neither -you nor I. The thing in her favour is, that all those Scotch friends of -yours thought very well of her: but then the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> Scotch stick to each other -so——’ She has a spirit—and a temper too, I shouldn’t wonder.’</p> - -<p>‘No, my dear, it was only a flash, because she thought—because she was -taken by surprise.’</p> - -<p>‘I think none the worse of her for having a little temper; I have one -myself,’ said Mrs. Hayward with candour. ‘People like that are far safer -than the sweet yielding ones who show nothing. And another thing—we -shall have to account for her. I don’t know if you have thought of -that.’</p> - -<p>‘Account for her?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, to be sure. People will be calling—and they will wonder how it -was they never heard of your daughter before. One of the hardest things -in life is, that whenever you are in any society you must explain. That -was one advantage of being in none.’</p> - -<p>‘I never liked it, Elizabeth. I always thought you were too -particular—as the event has proved, my dear, as the event has proved!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward withdrew a little from him and his congratulations. Now -that her position was beyond question, she was unwilling in her -impatient soul that any reference should be made to the doubt which had -shadowed her life before. That was all over. She would have had it -forgotten for ever, and in her heart resented his recollection of it. -She resumed the previous subject without taking any notice of this.</p> - -<p>‘Fortunately, we don’t know the people here so well that we need go into -it from the beginning and tell everything. I have been thinking it over, -and this is what I shall say—I shall say, Your daughter has been -brought up by some old relations in Scotland, but that we both felt it -was time she should come home. If they say, “O! we did not know Colonel -Hayward had any family,” I shall answer, “Did I never tell you?” as if -it had been quite an accidental oversight. Now don’t go and contradict -me, Henry, and say more than there is any occasion for. Let us both be -in one tale.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ he said, ‘to think that you should have settled all that -while I was thinking about nothing; but why should we be in a tale at -all? Why shouldn’t I just say simply——’</p> - -<p>‘It is such a simple story, isn’t it?’ she cried, ‘that you should have -had a child—an only child, as you said in Bellendean——’</p> - -<p>There was a tone of exasperation in this which made Colonel Hayward look -up. He said, ‘But it was quite true, Elizabeth. Providence has not -thought meet to give us——’</p> - -<p>‘As if I did not know that!’ cried the woman whom Provi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span>dence—that -synonym of all that goes against the wishes of humanity—had not -permitted to be a mother. ‘But,’ she added quickly, taking up the thread -again, ‘you will see, if you think of it, that we can’t go into all that -story. There would be so much to explain. And besides, it’s nobody’s -business.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why say anything at all, my dear?’ the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>‘Why know anybody at all, you mean? As if we could avoid explaining a -thing which is a very strange thing, however you take it! Unless you -have anything better to suggest, that is what I shall say. Brought up by -some old relations in Scotland—you can say her mother’s relations if -you please; but that we felt it was not right to leave her there any -longer, now we are quite settled and she is grown up. Don’t contradict -me just when I am in the middle of my story, Henry. Back me up about the -relations—unless you have anything better to suggest.’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward, however, had nothing to suggest, though he was much -embarrassed by having a story to tell. ‘I’ll forget what it is you want -me to say—or I’ll go too far—or I’ll—make a muddle of it one way or -other,’ he said. ‘I shall feel as if there was something wrong about it, -Elizabeth: and there is nothing wrong—nothing, nothing! all the time.’</p> - -<p>‘Go to bed,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘you are too tired to begin to think at -this hour. You know the railway always upsets you. Go to bed, my -dear—go to bed.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, perhaps it will be the best thing,’ the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>They both got up next morning with one pleasant thought in their minds, -that of dazzling Joyce. It took away the line even from Mrs. Hayward’s -brow. It was pleasant to anticipate the astonishment, the admiration, -the deep impression which all these unaccustomed splendours would make. -Poor girl! it would be almost too much for her; and they both wondered -what she would say—whether she would break down altogether in amazement -and rapture—whether it would be by words or tears that she would show -her sense of this wonderful change in her life.</p> - -<p>Alas! Joyce had awoke with a pang of disappointment almost as keen as -that which seized her when she was first told that Colonel Hayward was -her father. She woke in a pretty room all dainty and fresh, with pretty -paper, pretty furniture, everything that was most suitable and becoming -for the character and dimensions of the place; and she hurried to the -window and looked out eagerly upon the pretty English lawn so trim and -well cared for, the trees that formed two long lines down to the river, -shutting it out from other enclosures on either side, the brilliant -flower-beds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> near the house, the clustering climbers that surrounded her -window. And the cottage girl felt her high-vaulting thoughts go down, -down, with a disappointment which made her giddy. Was ever anything so -foolish, so wicked, so thankless? From the little garret in the cottage -to this room filled with convenient and pretty things, of some of which -she did not even understand the use—from the village street of -Bellendean, seen through the open door or greenish bad glass of the -cottage windows, to this warm luxurious landscape, and the silver -Thames, and the noble trees! And yet Joyce was disappointed beyond what -words could say.</p> - -<p>She had no knowledge of this limited comfortable luxurious littleness; -all that she knew was the cottage life—and Bellendean. There were, to -be sure, the farmers’ houses, and the manse; but neither of these types -resembled this, nor was either consistent with the image of Colonel -Hayward, the Captain’s colonel, the ‘distinguished soldier’ with whose -name Joyce had begun to flatter herself everybody was acquainted. She -stood half dressed and gazed out upon the long but confined stretch of -lawn, and the low gable which was within sight from the window, with -dismay. A chill struck to her heart. She thought of Bellendean, not half -so daintily cared for as this little demesne, with its groups of great -trees, its wide stretches of park, its careless size and greatness. Poor -Joyce! had she been the minister’s daughter at the manse, she might have -been dazzled and delighted, as was expected from her. But she understood -nothing of this. She knew the poor and their ways, and she knew the -great people—the great houses and big parks, the cottages with a but -and a ben and a little kailyard. The one was all-familiar to her—the -other was her ideal, the natural alternative of poverty: but this she -knew nothing about—nothing at all.</p> - -<p>She did not understand it. The toil and care which made that lawn like -velvet, perfect, without a weed, elastic, springing under the foot, soft -as moss, and green as constant waterings and mowings could make it, was -totally lost upon Joyce. She saw the two lines of trees and flowering -shrubs, elaborately masking all more arbitrary lines of limitation on -each side, shutting it off—and the sight of those green bonds made her -heart turn back upon herself. Her father had recovered in her mind the -greatness necessary for her ideal: he was a distinguished soldier—what -could be better? He was finer in his fame (she said to herself) than if -he had been a prince or a duke. But his house! She retired from her -window and covered her face with her hands, and went back into the -secret citadel of herself with a dismayed heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> She had never -calculated upon this. To be just one among a crowd, to be nobody in -particular, to have suffered this convulsion in her life and rending -asunder of her being, for nothing—to be nobody. And all the time these -two good people were forestalling each other in their anticipations, -making pictures to themselves of Joyce’s transport and delight!</p> - -<p>How she got through the ordeal will be best seen in the long letters -which she wrote that evening to her old home.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>‘My dearest old Granny, my own real true Mother—I wonder how you are, -and how the day has passed, and how grandfather is, and even the cat, -and everything at home. Oh what a thing it is to go away from your home, -to be taken from the true place you belong to! You will never know how I -felt when it all melted away into the sky, and Bellendean was a thing I -could see no more. Oh my bonnie little Bellendean, where I’ve lived all -my life, and the old ash-tree, and the rose-bushes, and my garret-window -where I could see the Firth, and our kindly table where we ate our -porridge and where I could see <i>you</i>! O Granny, my own Granny, that’s -all gone away into the skies, and the place that has known me knows me -no more: and here I am in a strange place, and I cannot tell whether I’m -Joyce still, or if I’m like the woman in the old song, “and this is no’ -me.”</p> - -<p>‘Dear Granny, the journey was well enough: it was the best of all. I got -a paper full of pictures (the <i>Graphic</i>, you know it), and they just -talked their own talks, and did not ask me much: and then the country -span along past the carriage-window, towns and castles, and rivers, and -fields of corn, and all the people going about their business and -knowing nothing at all of a poor lassie carried quick, quick away from -her home. I pictured to myself that I might be going away for a -governess to make some money for my grandfather and you—but that would -not have been so bad, for I would have gone back again when I got the -money: and then I tried to think I might be going to take care of -somebody, perhaps a brother I might have had that was ill, and that you -would be anxious at home—very anxious—but not like the present: for he -would have begun to get better as soon as I was there to nurse him, and -every day the time would have come nearer for taking him home. And I -tried a great many other things, but none was bad enough—till I just -came back to the truth, that here I was flying far away to a new life -and a new name, and to try and be content and live with new people that -I never saw, and leave all my own behind. Oh, Granny, I am ungrateful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> -to say this, for they’re very good to me, and my father is kind and -sweet and a real true gentleman: and would be that, as grandfather is, -if he were a ploughman like grandfather: and what could you say more if -you were Shakespeare’s self and had all the words in the world at your -command?</p> - -<p>‘We stopped in London, but I could not see at all what like it was, -except just hundreds of railway lines all running into each other, and -trains running this way and that way as if they were mad—but never any -harm seemed to be done, so far as I could see: and then we took another -train, and, after a little while, came here. To tell you about it is -very difficult, for it is so different from anything that ever was -before. Do you remember, Granny, the place where Argyle took Jeanie -Deans after she had spoken to the Queen? where she said it would be fine -feeding for the cows, and he just laughed—for it was the finest view -and the most beautiful landscape, with the Thames running between green -banks and big beautiful trees, and boats upon the river, and the woods -all like billows of green leaves upon the brae? You will cry out when I -tell you that this is <i>here</i>, and that the house is on that very brae, -and that I’m looking out over the river, and see it running into the -mist and the distance, going away north—or rather coming down from the -north—where my heart can follow, but farther, farther away. And it is a -very beautiful landscape: you never saw anything to compare to it; but -oh, Granny, I never knew so well before what Sir Walter is and how he -knew the hearts of men, for I’m always thinking what Jeanie said, “I -like just as well to look at the craigs o’ Arthur Seat, and the sea -coming in ayont them.” For me, I think of Bellendean and the Firth, and -the hills drawing close round Queen Margaret’s Hope; but chiefly because -you are there, Granny, and all I care for most.</p> - -<p>‘I will tell you one thing: my father’s house is not, as we were fond to -think, like Bellendean. The houses here are not great houses like that. -I think they wonder I am not an enthusiast, as Mrs. Bellendean always -said I was, for the things they have here. All the policy,<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> and -everything in the house, is taken care of—as you used to take care of -me. I can’t think of any other image. They are always at them. Mrs. -Hayward puts on the things upon the chairs and the tables with her own -hands. The things I mean are pieces of beautiful silk, sometimes woven -in flowers like Mrs. Bellendean’s grandest gown, sometimes all worked -with the needle as they do in India, fine, fine. I would like to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> copy -some of them: but what would be the use? for they have them all from -India itself, and what I did would be but an imitation. I am afraid to -sit down upon the chairs for fear there should be some dust upon my -gown, and I think I ought to take off my shoes before I go upon the -carpet. You would like to go round and round as if you were in a -collection, and look at everything. It will sometimes be ivory carving, -and sometimes china that is very old and precious, and sometimes -embroidery work, and sometimes silk with gold and silver woven in. And -what you will laugh at, Granny, Mrs. Hayward has plates hung up instead -of pictures—china plates like what you eat your dinner from, only -painted in beautiful colours—and an ashet<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> she has which is blue, and -very like what we have at home. All these things are very pretty—very -pretty: but not to me like a room to live in. Of the three—this house, -and Bellendean, and our own little housie at home—I would rather, of -course, have Bellendean, I will not deny it, Granny; but next I would -rather have our own little place, with my table at the back window, and -you aye moving about whatever there was to do. They are more natural; -but I try to look delighted with everything, for to Mrs. Hayward it is -the apple of her eye.</p> - -<p>‘She has never had any children.</p> - -<p>‘My father is just as fond of his policy and his gardens—(but it’s too -little for a policy, and it’s more than a garden). The gardeners are -never done. They are mowing, or they are watering, or they are sweeping, -or they are weeding, all the long day. And it’s all very bonnie—very -bonnie—grass that is like velvet, and rose-bushes not like our roses at -home, but upon a long stalk, what they call standards, and trees and -flowers of kinds that I cannot name. I will find out about them and I -will tell you after. But oh, Granny, the grand trees are like a hedge to -a field; they are separating us from the garden next door. It is very, -very strange—you could not think how strange—to be in a fine place -that is not a place at all, but just a house with houses next door—not -like Bellendean, oh, not like Bellendean—and not like any kind of -dwelling I have seen, so pretty and so well kept, and yet neither one -thing nor another, not poor like us—oh, far from that!—and yet not -great. I am praising it all, and saying everything I can think—and -indeed it’s very pretty, far finer than anything I ever saw: but I think -she sees that I am not doing it from my heart. I wish I could; but oh, -Granny dear, how can I think so much of any place that takes me away -from my real home?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘My dear, dear love to my grandfather, and tell him I never forget -his bowed head going through the corn, as I saw him last when he -did not see me. To think his good grey head should be bowed because -of Joyce, that never got anything but good from him and you, all -her life! Tell me what they are all saying, and who is to get the -school, and if the minister was angry. What a good thing it was the -vacation, and all the bairns away! You must not be unhappy about -me, Granny, for I will do my best, and you can’t be very miserable -when you do that; and perhaps I will get used to it in time.</p> - -<p>‘Good night, and good night, and God be with us all, if not joy, as -the song says.—Always your own and grandfather’s</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Joyce.</span>’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>She wrote at the same time her first letter to Halliday, lingering with -the pen in her hand as if unwilling to begin. She was a little excited -by what she had just written, her outpouring of her heart to her -foster-mother. And this was different. But at last she made the plunge. -She dried her eyes, and gave herself a little shake together, as if to -dismiss the lingering emotion, and began, ‘Dear Andrew’; but then came -to another pause. What was in Joyce’s thoughts? There was a spot of ink -on the page, an innocent little blot. She removed the sheet hastily from -the other paper, and thrust it below the leaves of her blotting-book. -Then she took a steel pen, instead of the quill with which she had been -hurrying along the other sheets—a good hard, unemotional piece of iron, -which might make the clean and exact writing which the schoolmaster -loved—and began again: and this time a little demure mischief was in -Joyce’s eyes:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear Andrew</span>—We arrived here last night, tired but not worn out, -and came home at once to my father’s house. The journey was very -interesting—to see so many places I had heard of, even if they -only flew past the carriage-windows. Of course it was the train -that flew, and not Durham and Newcastle and all the rest. You have -been to London yourself, so you will not require me to tell you all -I saw, and I was thinking a great deal on what I left behind, so -that I did not see them with an easy heart, so as to get the good -of them, as you would do.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder if you have ever seen Richmond—it is a beautiful place: -the Thames a quiet river, not like any I know; but I have seen so -little. It is like a picture more than a river, and the trees all -in waves of green, one line above another, rich and quiet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> with no -wind to blow them about. I thought upon the poem, “As idle as a -painted ship upon a painted ocean:” though there is neither ship -nor ocean, but only the stream that scarcely seems to flow, and the -little boats that scarcely seem to move—everything so warm and so -still. My father’s house is called Rosebank, as you will see by the -printing on the paper. It is rather a foolish name, but it was the -name of the house before they came here. It is the most wonderful -place I ever saw, so carefully kept and beautifully furnished. I -never understood before what all the novels say now about furniture -and the pretty things scattered about. There is a quantity of -things in the drawing-room which I should have taken the children -to an exhibition to see, and I should have had to read up a great -deal to explain everything to them. But no one thinks of -explaining: they are just lying about, and no one pays any -attention to them here. My father takes a great interest in the -gardens and the grounds, which are beautiful. And the best thing of -all is the view of all the bits of the Thames, and the beautiful -woods.</p> - -<p>‘It is a great change, and it makes one feel very unsteady at -first, and I scarcely realise what the life will be, but I must -trust that everything will turn out well: and my father and Mrs. -Hayward are very kind. I am to have a sitting-room to myself to do -what I like in, and I am to be taken about to see everything. You -will not expect me to tell you much more at present, for I don’t -know much more, it being only the first day; but I thought you -would like to hear at once. It is a great change. I wonder -sometimes if I may not perhaps wake up to-morrow and find I am at -home again and it is all a dream.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will go and see Granny, when you can, and cheer them a -little. Grandfather is glad of a crack, you know. They will be -lonely at first, being always used to me. I will be very thankful -to you, dear Andrew, if you will see them when you can, and be very -kind—but that, I am sure, you will be. When I think of them -sitting alone, and nobody to come in and make them smile, it just -breaks my heart.—Yours affectionately,</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Joyce Hayward</span>.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Joyce Hayward—it was the first time she had signed her name. Her eyes -were too full thinking of the old people to see how it looked, but when -that lump had melted a little in her throat, and she had dried her eyes, -turning hastily aside that no drop might fall upon the fair page and -blot the nice and careful writing, Joyce looked at it, and again there -came upon her face a faint little smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> Joyce Hayward—it did not look -amiss. And it was a beautifully written letter, not a <i>t</i> but was -crossed, not an <i>i</i> but was dotted. She had resisted all temptations to -abridge the ‘affectionately.’ There it stood, fully written out in all -its long syllables. That would please Andrew. When she had put up her -letters, she rose from her seat and looked out once more, softly pushing -aside the carefully drawn curtains, upon the landscape sleeping in the -soft summer haze of starlight and night. All so still—no whisper of the -sea near, no thrill of the north wind—a serene motionless stretch of -lawn and river and shadowy trees. It was a lovely scene, but it saddened -Joyce, who felt the soft dusk fill her soul and fold over all her life. -And thus ended her first day in her father’s house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Joyce</span> was sadly uncertain what to do or how to behave herself in her new -home. She took possession of the room which was given to her as a -sitting-room, with a confused sense that she was meant to remain there, -which was half a relief and half a trouble to her. To live there all -alone except when she was called to meals was dreadfully dreary, -although it felt almost a pleasure for the first moment to be alone. She -brought out her writing things, which were of a very humble description, -and better suited to the back window in the cottage than to the pretty -writing-table upon which she now arranged them,—a large old -blotting-book, distended with the many exercises and school-papers it -had been accustomed to hold, and a shabby rosewood desk, which she had -got several years ago as the prize of one of her examinations. How -shabby they looked, quite out of place, unfit to be brought into this -beautiful house! Joyce paused a moment to wonder whether she herself was -as much out of place in her brown frock, which, though it was made like -Greta’s, and so simple and quiet that it could not be vulgar, was yet a -dress very suitable for the schoolmistress. She brought down her few -books, some of which were prizes too, and still more deplorable in their -cheap gilding than the simply shabby ones. Nobody could say that the -bindings were not vulgar, although it was <i>Milton</i>, and <i>Wordsworth</i>, -and <i>Coleridge</i>, and the <i>Lay of the Last Minstrel</i> that were within. -She made a row of them in the pretty bookshelves, and they looked like -common people intruding into a fine house, as she herself was doing. -Common people! Milton and Wordsworth! That showed how little was told by -the outside; and Joyce was not without a proud consciousness swelling in -her breast that she, too, in her brown frock, and with her village -schoolmistress’s traditions, was not common or unworthy.</p> - -<p>Her father had met her coming downstairs with her arms full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> of the -books, and had stopped to take them from her with a shocked look, and -insisted on carrying them down for her. ‘But why didn’t you ring for -somebody to do it, my dear?’ he said. ‘They are not heavy,’ said Joyce; -‘they are no trouble,—and I always do things for myself.’ ‘But you must -not here,’ Colonel Hayward said, putting them down on the table, and -pausing a moment to brush off with his handkerchief the little stains of -dust which they had left on his irreproachable coat. Joyce felt that -little movement with another keen sensation of inappropriateness. It was -not right, because she was unaccustomed to being served by others, that -Colonel Hayward, a distinguished soldier, should get specks of dust on -his coat. A hot blush enveloped her like a flame, while she stood -looking at him, not knowing whether to say anything, whether to try to -express the distress and bewilderment that filled her being, or if it -would be better to be silent and mutely avoid such an occurrence again.</p> - -<p>He looked up at her when he had brushed away the last speck, and smiled. -‘Books will gather dust,’ he said. ‘Don’t look as if you were to blame, -my dear. But you must remember, Joyce, you are the young lady of the -house, and everything in it is at your command.’ He patted her shoulder, -with a very kind encouraging look, as he went away. It was a large -assurance to give, and probably Mrs. Hayward would not have said quite -so much; but it left Joyce in a state of indescribable emotion, her -heart deeply touched, but her mind distracted with the impossibilities -of her new position. How was she to know what to do? To avoid giving -trouble, to save herself, was not the rule she could abide by when it -ended in specking with dust the Colonel’s coat, and bringing him out of -his own occupations to help her. Joyce sat down when she had arranged -her books, and tried to thread her way through all this maze which -bewildered her. She had nothing to do, and she thought she was intended -to spend her life here, to sit alone and occupy herself. It was very -kindly meant, she was sure, so as to leave her at her ease; and she was -glad to have this refuge, not to be always in Mrs. Hayward’s way, -sitting stiffly in the drawing-room waiting to be spoken to. Oh yes; she -was glad to be here: yet she looked about the room with eyes a little -forlorn.</p> - -<p>It was a nice little room, with a large window looking out upon the -flower-garden, and it was, so far as Joyce knew, very prettily -furnished, but without the luxuries and decorations of the other rooms. -There were no pictures, but a little standing frame or two on the -mantelpiece, no doubt intended for those endless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> photographs of friends -which she had seen in Greta’s room at Bellendean, always the first -things taken out of her boxes when her belongings were unpacked. But -Joyce had few friends. She had a little rude picture on glass, shut up -in a little case, of old Peter and Janet, the old woman in her big -bonnet and shawl, her husband, all one broad smile, looking over her -shoulder—very dear to Joyce, but not to be exposed on the mantelpiece -for Mrs. Hayward’s quick look of criticism. Joyce felt that Greta in a -moment would make that room her own. She would bring down her -photographs; she would throw down her work, which never was done, with -all the pretty silks about. She would spread out her paper and her pens, -and the letters she had received and those she had begun to write, upon -the table where Joyce’s big old blotting-book lay, and the rosewood -desk, closed and looking like an ugly oblong box as it was—long, bare, -and miserable; but none of all these things could Joyce do. She had no -work, and no photographs of her friends, and no letters, and nothing to -do—nothing to do! And was this how she was to spend her life?</p> - -<p>She sat there until the bell rang for lunch, saying to herself that it -was far better than being in the drawing-room in Mrs. Hayward’s way; and -then she went timidly out into the hall, where her father was standing, -just come in from some supervision in the garden. ‘I have had a busy -morning,’ he said, beaming upon her, ‘and so I suppose have you, my -dear; but we’ll soon settle down. Mrs. Hayward——’ here he paused with -a little uneasiness, and after a moment resumed—‘your mother—has been -very busy too. There is always a great deal to do after one has been -away.’</p> - -<p>‘Considering that I was only away four days,’ said Mrs. Hayward, coming -in from the other side, and leading the way to the dining-room. Joyce -could not help feeling stiff and awkward as she followed, and hastily -got into her seat before the butler could come behind and push forward -the chair. She was a little afraid of him hovering behind, and wondered -if he knew.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you like your room,’ Mrs. Hayward said. ‘It is small, but I -think it is nice; and, Baker, remember to let down the sun-blinds before -the afternoon sun gets in. Miss Hayward will not like to find it all in -a blaze. That is the worst of a western aspect. Henry, some invitations -have come——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the Colonel, ‘we have more to consider now than we used to -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>have, Elizabeth. There is Joyce to be thought of——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ Joyce cried, growing very red, ‘I hope you will not think of me!’</p> - -<p>‘For some things, of course, we must consider her, Henry,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, taking no notice of Joyce’s hurried exclamation. ‘There are -nothing but garden-parties all about, and she must go to some of them. -It will be the best way of making her known.’</p> - -<p>‘You always think of the right thing, my dear,’ the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>‘But when it is for dinner, Henry, until people know her, Joyce will not -mind, she will stay at home.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish,’ said Joyce, with a horrified alarm—‘oh, I wish you would -never think of me! I would not like—I could not think, I—I would be -afraid to go to parties—I——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, ‘perhaps there may be—dressmakers to -think of—or something of that sort.’</p> - -<p>‘I think you may trust me to look after that,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a -glance at Baker, who was listening with benignant interest. Joyce had a -keen enough feminine sense to know that Baker was not to be taken into -the confidence of the family; and accordingly she made no further -interruption, but allowed the conversation to go on without attempting -to take any part in it. She heard them discuss names which were without -any meaning to her, and kept shyly, and, as she felt, stiffly still, -endeavouring with all her might to look as if she knew nothing at all -about it, as if it did not at all refer to her—which went sadly against -her with her step-mother, who was eagerly on the outlook for indications -of character, and to whom Joyce’s apparent indifference was an -offence—though she would probably have been equally offended had the -girl shown too much interest. When Baker left the room, Mrs. Hayward -turned to her again.</p> - -<p>‘The Colonel was quite right,’ she said; ‘though I didn’t wish to -discuss it before the servants. You must want some dresses. You are very -nice as you are for indoors, but there is a great deal of dress now worn -at garden-parties. And what is called a simple toilet is just the most -troublesome of all. For it has to be so fresh and so perfect, not a -crumpled ribbon, not a fold out of order. You must go with me to choose -some patterns.’</p> - -<p>Joyce coloured high again. She felt offended, proud—and yet knew she -had no right to be either. ‘If I may speak,’ she said, ‘I never thought -of parties. I would perhaps not know—how to behave. Oh, if you will be -so kind as never to mind me! I will stay at home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward put out his hand with his tender smile, and patted hers -where it touched the table. ‘You will behave prettier—than any of -them,’ the old soldier said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t put nonsense in the girl’s head, Henry!’ cried his wife with -impatience. ‘You may very likely be wanting a little, Joyce. You may -feel awkward: it would be quite natural. The only thing is, you must -begin some time—and the best way is to get your awkwardness over as -soon as possible. Afternoon parties are more informal than dances, and -so forth. They don’t demand so much, and you could pass in the crowd.’</p> - -<p>Though Joyce had been frightened at the idea of parties, and though it -was her own suggestion that she would not know how to behave, she did -not like this. It sent the blood coursing through her veins. To pass in -a crowd—to be tolerated where much was not demanded! How different was -this from the old dreams in which Lady Joyce had been supreme! But these -were but dreams, and she was ashamed to have ever been so vain. She -stole away, while they stood in the hall discussing this question, with -a sense of humiliation unspeakable, and retreated so quickly that her -disappearance was not remarked, back to the west room once more. She -shut the door upon herself, and said half aloud in the silence and -solitude, how good a thing it was that they had given her this room of -her own in which she could take shelter, and be in nobody’s way: and -then for want of anything else to do, she fell suddenly, without -warning, into a long fit of crying, tears irrestrainable, silent, -overwhelming, that seemed as if they would carry her away.</p> - -<p>Poor Joyce felt that her fate was harder than she could bear—to be -carried away from her homely state, in which she had been accustomed to -something of the ideal eminence of her dreams, into this, which was -supposed by everybody to be social elevation, and was humiliation, -downfall—a fall into depths which she had never realised, which had -never seemed possible for her. She cried like a child, feeling no power, -nor indeed any wish, to stop crying, in a hopeless self-abandonment. -Altogether, she was like a child, feeling herself lost, undervalued, -neglected, and as if all the rest of the world were happy and in their -natural places, while she was left here in a little room by herself all -alone. And to add to the humiliation, Baker came in, soft, stepping like -a large noiseless black cat, to put down the blinds, as his mistress had -told him, and found her in the midst of that speechless torrent of -weeping, unable to stop herself or to keep up appearances in any way. -‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Hayward,’ Baker said, in subdued apology,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> -shot with a glance of eager curiosity and inquisitiveness: for he wanted -very much to know something about this daughter who had appeared so -suddenly, and of whom no one had ever heard before. Joyce started up to -her feet, and hurrying to the bookcase, took out all the books again in -order to give herself a countenance. She turned her back upon him, but -he could see very well the quivering of her shoulders, which all her -pride and dismay at having betrayed herself could not stop.</p> - -<p>This curious state of affairs continued for two or three days. Joyce -withdrew to her room when the meals were over, at which she was -nervously on the watch for anything that might be said concerning her -and her mode of existence. It was the third or fourth day before -anything was said. Then Mrs. Hayward stopped her as she was stealing -away, and laid a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Joyce, wait for a moment; let -me speak to you. I am not going to interfere with what you wish: but do -you really like best to spend all your time alone?’</p> - -<p>‘I thought,’ said Joyce, with a choking voice, for her heart had -suddenly begun to thump so in her throat that she could scarcely -hear,— ‘I thought—that I was to stay there: that perhaps you thought it -best.’</p> - -<p>‘How could you think I was such a barbarous wretch! Joyce, if you mean -to make life a fight——’</p> - -<p>The girl opened her eyes wide with wonder and dismay.</p> - -<p>‘That is not what you meant to say, Elizabeth,’ said the Colonel, coming -up to them: his wife had thought he was out of the way, and made a -little gesture of impatience on seeing him.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t interfere, for heaven’s sake, Henry! unless you will manage -affairs yourself, which would be much the best way. You make things much -more difficult for me, as perhaps you are aware, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘No; I did not know. I thought when you said I should have a room—for -myself——’</p> - -<p>‘That I meant you to live there like a prisoner in your father’s house? -Are you aware that you are in your father’s house?’</p> - -<p>Joyce turned her eyes from one to the other with a mute appeal. Then she -said, ‘Yes,’ faintly, not with the vehemence of her former impulses. ‘If -<i>she</i> had been patient and not run away,’ she added, with a little -solemnity, after a pause, ‘it would not have been so unhappy for us all. -I would at least have known—my father.’</p> - -<p>‘You see that?’ cried Mrs. Hayward, though she did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> understand why -these words were said. ‘Then you have some common-sense after all, and -surely you will get to understand.’</p> - -<p>‘Why do you say that, Joyce—why do you say that?’ said the Colonel, -laying his hand upon her arm. He was growing very pale and anxious, -nervous and frightened, distinguished soldier as he was, by this sudden -outburst of hostilities. To see two armies engaged is one thing, but it -is quite another to see two women under your own roof——’ Joyce, you -must not say that,’ he repeated, leaning his hand, which she could feel -tremble, upon her arm; ‘you must listen to what Elizabeth—I mean, to -what your mother says.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t call me her mother, Henry. She doesn’t like it, and I am not sure -that I do either. But we might be friends for all that—so long as she -has sense—— Don’t you see, child, that we can’t live if you go on in -this way? It is getting on my nerves!’ cried Mrs. Hayward with -excitement, ‘and upon <i>his</i> nerves, and affecting the whole house. Why -should you like to shut yourself up as if we were your enemies, and -upset everybody? I can’t settle to anything. I can’t sleep. I don’t know -what I am doing. And how you can like——’</p> - -<p>‘But I do not like it,’ said Joyce. ‘I did not think I could bear it any -longer: everything is so strange to me. I used to think I would know by -instinct; but it appears I was very silly all the time—for I don’t -think I know how to behave.’</p> - -<p>Joyce hated herself for feeling so near crying: why should a girl cry at -everything when she does not wish to cry at all? The same thought was -flying through Mrs. Hayward’s mind, who had actually dropped one hot and -heavy tear, which she hoped no one saw. She put up her hand hastily to -stop the Colonel, who was about to make one of those speeches which -would have given the finishing touch.</p> - -<p>‘Then,’ she said, ‘run and get your work, if you have any work, or your -book, or whatever you are doing, and come to the drawing-room like a -Christian: for we should all go out of our senses altogether if we went -on much longer in this way.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel patted his daughter’s arm and hastened to open the door for -her like an old courtier. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘turning round to his -wife, ‘that as soon as you spoke to her, Elizabeth, she would respond. -You are a little hasty, my dear, though never with me. I knew that as -soon as she saw what a heart you have——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, never mind my heart, Henry! Don’t talk to Joyce about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> my heart. I -think she has a little common-sense. And if that’s so, we shall get on.’</p> - -<p>And then Joyce began to spend all her time in the drawing-room, sadly -ill at ease, not knowing what to do. She sat there sounding the depths -of her own ignorance, often for hours together, as much alone as when in -the west room, feeling herself to sit like a wooden figure in her chair, -conscious to her finger-tips of awkwardness, foolishness, vacancy, which -had never come into her life before. She had no needlework to give her a -pretence of occupation: and as for books, those that were about on the -tables were not intended to be read, except the novels from Mudie’s, -which had this disadvantage, that when they were readable at all, Joyce -got absorbed in them, and forgot herself, and would sometimes forget -Mrs. Hayward too. She had a feeling that she should be at Mrs. Hayward’s -disposal while they were together, so that this lapse occurring now and -then, filled her with compunction and shame. But when visitors came, -that was the worst of all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">On</span> one of these mornings the Colonel came to her almost stealthily, with -a very soft step, while she was in the drawing-room alone. Joyce had no -book that morning, and was more in despair than ever for something to -do. She was kneeling in front of one of the pretty pieces of Indian -work, copying the pattern on a sheet of paper. When she heard her -father’s step, she started as if found out in some act of guilt, grew -very red, and dropped her pencil out of her trembling hand.</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ she said involuntarily. ‘I—had nothing to do. It -is a wonderful pattern. I thought I should like to copy it——’</p> - -<p>‘Surely, my dear—and very prettily you have done it too; but you must -try to recollect that everything is yours, and that you have no need to -ask pardon. I want you to come with me into my library. I believe you -have never seen my library, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>No, she had not been able to take the freedom either of a child of the -house or of an ordinary visitor. She was afraid to go anywhere beyond -the ordinary thoroughfare, from dining-room to drawing-room. ‘I saw an -open door,’ she said, ‘and some books.’</p> - -<p>‘But you did not come in? Come now. I have something to say to you.’ -There was a look in the old soldier’s eye of unlawful pleasure, a -gratification enhanced by the danger of being found out, and perhaps -suffering for it. He led Joyce away with the glee of a truant schoolboy. -‘My wife is busy,’ he said, with an air of innocent hypocrisy. ‘She -can’t want either of us for the moment. Come in, come in. And, my dear,’ -he said, putting again his caressing hand upon his daughter’s shoulder, -‘remember, that when I am not in the garden, I’m here: and when you have -anything to say to your father, I’m always ready—always ready. I hope -you will learn—to take your father into your confidence, Joyce.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>She did not make any reply; her head drooped, and her voice was choked. -He was so kind—and yet confidence was so hard a thing to give.</p> - -<p>‘That reminds me,’ he said, still more gently, ‘that I don’t think you -ever call me father, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ she said, not daring to lift her eyes, ‘but I think it—in my -heart.’</p> - -<p>‘You must say it—with your lips, my dear; and you must not be afraid of -the people who are nearest to you in the world. You must have confidence -in us, Joyce. And now look here, my little girl; I have something to -give you—not any pretty thing for a present,’ said the Colonel, sitting -down before his desk and pulling out a drawer, ‘but something we can’t -get on without. I got it for you in this form that you might use it as -you please; remember it is not for clothes but only for your own -pleasure, to do what you like with.’ He held out to her, with the most -fatherly kind smile, four crisp and clean five-pound notes. Joyce looked -at them bewildered, not knowing what they were, and then gave a choking -cry, and drew back, covering her face with her hands.</p> - -<p>‘Money!’ she cried, and a pang of mortification went through her like -the sharp stab of a knife.</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear, you must have money, and who should give it you but your -father? Joyce! why, this is worse and worse.’ The Colonel grew angry in -his complete bewilderment, and the disagreeable sensation of kindness -refused. ‘What can you mean?’ he cried; ‘am I to have nothing to do with -you though you are my daughter?’ He got up from his chair impatiently. -‘I thought you would like it to be between ourselves. I made a little -secret of it, thinking to please you. No; I confess that I don’t -understand you, Joyce: if Elizabeth were here, I should tell her so.’ He -flung down the notes upon his table, where they lay fluttering in the -morning breeze that came in at the open window. ‘She must do what she -can, for I don’t pretend to be able to do anything,’ the Colonel cried.</p> - -<p>Joyce stood before him, collecting herself, calming down her own -excitement as best she could. She said to herself that he was quite -right—that it would have to be—that she had no independent life or -plan of her own any more—that she must accept everything from her -father’s hands. What right had she either to refuse or to resent? How -foolish it was, how miserable, ungenerous of her, not to be able to -take! Must it not sometimes be more gracious, more sweet to take, to -receive, than to give? And yet to accept this from one who was almost a -stranger though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> her father, seemed impossible, and made her whole -being, body and soul, quiver with that sensation of the intolerable in -which there is neither rhyme nor reason. Though she was so young, she -had provided for her own necessities for years. They were very few, and -her little salary was very small; but she had done it, giving rather -than getting—for naturally there was nothing to spare from Peter -Matheson’s ploughman’s wages. She stood shrinking a little from her -father’s displeasure—so unused to anything of the kind!—but with all -these thoughts sweeping through the mind, which was only a girl’s mind, -in many ways wayward and fantastic, but yet at bottom a clear spirit, -candid and reasonable. This would have to be. She must accept the money, -she who had been so independent. She must learn how to live, that -tremendous lesson, in the manner possible to her, not in her own way. -Once more she thought of her mother obeying her foolish impulse, flying -from her troubles—only to fall fatally under them, and to leave their -heritage to her daughter. It did not require a moment to bring all these -reflections in a flood through her mind, nor even to touch her with the -thought of her father’s little tender artifice, and of how he had -calculated no doubt that she would have presents to send, help to -offer—or, at least, pleasure to bestow. Perhaps her imagination put -thoughts even more delicate and kind into the Colonel’s mind than those -which were there—which was saying much. She recovered her voice with a -great effort.</p> - -<p>‘Father——’ she said, then paused again, struggling with something in -her throat,— ‘I hope you will forgive me. I—never took money—from any -one—before——’</p> - -<p>‘You never had your father before to give it you, Joyce.’ A little word -calmed down the Colonel’s superficial resentment. It did more, it went -straight to his heart. He came up to her and put his arm round her. ‘My -child,’ he said, in the words of the parable, ’"all that I have is -thine.” You forget that.’</p> - -<p>‘Father, if I could only feel that <i>you</i> were mine. It is all wrong—all -wrong!’ cried Joyce. ‘It is like what the Bible says; I want to be born -again.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel did not know what to say to this, which seemed to him almost -profane; but he did better than speaking—he held her close to him, and -patted her shoulder softly with his large tender hand.</p> - -<p>‘And I will, I will,’ said Joyce, with a Scotch confusion of tenses, ‘if -you will have a little patience with me. It cannot come all in a moment; -but I will, I will.’</p> - -<p>‘We’ll all have patience,’ said the Colonel, stooping over her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> feeling -in his general weakness, and with even a passing sigh for Elizabeth -going through his mind, that it was sweet to have the positions reversed -sometimes, and to feel somebody depend upon him, and appeal to his -superior wisdom.</p> - -<p>At this moment Mrs. Hayward opened the door of her husband’s room -quickly, coming in with natural freedom. She stopped ’as if she had been -shot’ when she saw this group—Joyce sheltered in her father’s arm, -leaning against him. She made a rapid exclamation, ‘Oh!’ and turning as -quickly as she had come, closed the door after her with a quick clear -sound which said more than words. She did not slam it—far from that. -She would not have done such a thing, neither for her own sake, nor out -of regard for what the servants would say: but she shut it sharply, -distinctly, with a punctuation which was more emphatic than any full -stop could be.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon there were callers, and Joyce became aware, for the -first time, of the social difficulties of her position. She heard the -words, ‘brought up by relations in Scotland,’ as she went through the -drawing-room to the verandah where the visitors were sitting with Mrs. -Hayward. Joyce did not apply the words to herself, but she perceived a -little stir of interest when she appeared timidly at the glass door. The -lady was a little woman, precise and neat, with an indescribable air of -modest importance, yet insignificance, which Joyce learned afterwards to -understand, and the gentleman was in a long black coat, with a soft felt -hat in his hands. Eyes more instructed would have divined the clergyman -and clergywoman of the district, not rector and rectoress, but simple -incumbents. They rose up to meet her, and shook hands in a marked way, -as ‘taking an interest’ in a new member of their little cure; but Joyce, -unaccustomed, did not understand the meaning of this warmth. It -disconcerted her a little, and so did the conversation into which Mr. -Sitwell at once began to draw her, while his wife conversed in a lower -tone with the lady of the house. He talked to her of the river and -boating, of which she knew nothing, and then of lawn-tennis, to which -her response was not more warm. The good clergyman thought that perhaps -the game had not penetrated to the wilds of Scotland, and changed the -subject.</p> - -<p>‘We are going to have our children’s treat next week,’ he said. ‘It -would be very kind of you to come and help my wife, who has everything -to manage. Our district is but a new one—we have not much aid as yet. -Do you take any interest in schools, Miss Hayward?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, a great interest,’ cried Joyce, lighting up, ‘that is just -my——’ she was going to say profession, having a high opinion of the -dignity of her former office: but before the word was said she caught a -warning glance from Mrs. Hayward—‘it is what I care most for in the -world,’ she said, with a sudden blush of shame to feel herself stopped -in that avowal of enthusiasm for the work itself.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed!’ cried the clergyman. ‘Do you hear, Dora? here is a help for -you. Miss Hayward says that schools are what she cares most for in the -world.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce says a little more than she means,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly. -‘Young ladies have a way of being enthusiastic.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t damp it, please!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, clasping her hands; -‘enthusiasm is so beautiful in young people: and there is so little of -it. Oh, how delighted I shall be to have your help! The district is so -new—as my husband would tell you.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course I have enlisted Miss Hayward at once,’ cried he. ‘She is -going to help at the school feast.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, thank you, <small>THANK</small> you,’ cried the clergyman’s wife, with devotion, -once more clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward’s voice was more dry than ever—there was a sharp ring in -it, which Joyce had begun to know. ‘You must let her give you an answer -later,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t know her engagements yet. We have several -things to do. When must I send in the cakes, Mrs. Sitwell? We always -calculate, you know, on helping in that way.’</p> - -<p>‘You are always so kind, dear Mrs. Hayward, <i>so</i> kind! How can we ever -thank you enough!’ said the clergywoman. ‘Always kind,’ her husband -echoed, with an impressive shake of Mrs. Hayward’s hand, and afterwards -of Joyce’s, who was confused by so much feeling. Her step-mother was -drier still as they went away.</p> - -<p>‘I must ask you, just at first, to make no engagements without -consulting me,’ she said very rigidly. ‘You cannot know—at first—what -it is best for your own interests to do.’</p> - -<p>Should she say that she had made no engagements, and wished for none? It -is hard not to defend one’s self when one is blamed. But Joyce took the -wiser way, and assented without explanations. She had scarcely time to -do more when other people came—people more important, as was at once -evident—a large lady in black satin and lace, a younger, slimmer one in -white. They filled the verandah, which was not very broad, with the -sweep of their draperies. They both gave a little glance of surprise -when Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> Hayward was presented to them, and the elder lady permitted -herself an ‘Oh——!’ She retired to the end of the verandah, where Mrs. -Hayward had installed herself. ‘I never knew before that you had a -grown-up daughter. I always thought, indeed, that there were no——’</p> - -<p>‘My husband’s daughter by his first marriage,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She -has never lived at home. In India, you know, children can never be kept -with their parents.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a dreadful drawback. I am so glad my girls will have nothing to -say to Indian men.’</p> - -<p>The lady in white had begun to talk to Joyce, but the girl’s ears were -intent on the other conversation which she felt to concern herself. She -made vague replies, not knowing what she said, the two voices in the -distance drawing all her attention from the one more near.</p> - -<p>‘So she had to be left with relations—quite old-fashioned people—and -she is very simple, and knows very little of the world.’</p> - -<p>‘The less the better,’ said the visitor, whose name Joyce had not -caught; and then there was a pause, and the young lady’s voice became -more audible, close to her ear.</p> - -<p>‘Brought up in Scotland? Oh, I hope you are not one of the learned -ladies. Don’t they go in tremendously for education in Scotland?’ her -visitor said.</p> - -<p>‘They say our Scotch schools are the best,’ said Joyce sedately, with a -mixture of national and professional pride.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, so everybody says; you are taught everything. I know Scotland a -little: everybody goes there in the autumn, don’t you know? I wonder if -I have been in your part of the country? Papa has a moor whenever he can -afford it. And we have quantities of Scotch cousins all over the place.’</p> - -<p>‘It was near Edinburgh,’ said Joyce, with a little hesitation.</p> - -<p>‘Yes? I have been at several places near Edinburgh,’ said the young -lady. ‘Craigmoor where the Sinclairs live, for one. They are relations -of ours. And there is another house, a very nice house close by, -Bellendean. I suppose you know the Bellendeans.’</p> - -<p>The colour rushed over Joyce’s face. She remembered her difficulties no -more. The very sound of the name filled her with pleasure and -encouragement.</p> - -<p>‘Bellendean!’ she said; ‘oh, indeed, I know Bellendean! I know it better -than any place in the world. And I know the lady—oh, better than any -one. And would it be Miss Greta that was your cousin——?’ Joyce’s -countenance shone. She forgot all about those bewildering explanations -which she had overheard:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> and about herself, whose presence had to be -accounted for. For a moment her natural ease and unconsciousness came -back, and she felt herself Joyce again.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward rose suddenly from her chair. She, too, had been listening, -through her own conversation, to the other voices. She made a step -forward— ‘So you know the Bellendeans,’ she said, with an agitated -smile. ‘We have just been staying there, and can give you the latest -news of them. What a small world it is, as everybody says! I only heard -of them for the first time when we went to fetch Joyce: and now I find -my nearest neighbours know all about them! Joyce, will you ask if Baker -is bringing tea?’</p> - -<p>Lady St. Clair and her daughter gave each other a glance of mutual -inquiry. And Joyce, as she obeyed, with a curious pang of wonder and -pleasure and annoyance, heard the discussion begin, the interchange of -questions mingled with remarks about her friends, the names so dear to -her passing from mouth to mouth. She was sent away who knew all about -them, while her stepmother, who knew so little, talked, adopting an air -of familiarity. Why was she sent away? Then she remembered suddenly on -what a humble footing she could alone claim knowledge of the -Bellendeans, and divined with a shock of sudden pain that it was to stop -any revelations on that subject that she had been despatched on this -unnecessary errand. Joyce paused in the luxurious room, which seemed -somehow to absorb all the air and leave none to breathe. Oh for the -freedom of Bellendean, where everybody knew who she was and thought no -harm! Oh for the little cottage, where there were no pretences! The -great and the small were easy, they understood each other; but this -middle country, all full of reserves and assumptions which lay between, -how was an ignorant creature to learn how to live in it, to avoid the -snares and keep clear of the pitfalls, not to contradict or expose the -falsehoods, and yet to be herself true?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward, on her side, sitting painfully talking as if she knew all -about these people, whom she thought she hated, so much were they -involved with this painful episode of her life, was no more happy than -Joyce. To think that her neighbours, the best people about, those whose -friendship was most desirable, should be mixed up with the Bellendeans, -who knew everything! So that now her skilful little romance must fall to -the ground, and all the story be fully known.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> discussions held upon this question in the Colonel’s room were many. -Mrs. Hayward had kept herself for many years out of society, rejecting -it all the more sternly because she loved it and held all its little -punctilios dear. And now that all necessity for such self-denial was -over, to have everything risked again was terrible to her. She who had -so carefully kept her husband from annoyance, in this matter departed -from all her traditions. The good Colonel himself was fond of society -too. He liked to know people, to gather kindly faces about him, and to -be surrounded by a cheerful stir of human interests; but to tell the -truth, he did not care very much about Lady St. Clair and the best -people in the neighbourhood. It was seldom—very seldom—that it -occurred to him to criticise his Elizabeth; but on this point he thought -her a little mistaken, and not so infallible as she usually was.</p> - -<p>‘Have patience a little, my dear,’ he said, falling upon a simple -philosophy, which, indeed, he was not at all disposed himself to put in -practice, ‘and you’ll see all will come right.’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing will come right,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘unless we can get your -daughter properly introduced. It alters everything in our position, -Henry. We were settling down to society such as suits you and me; but -that will not do now. The moment there is a young lady in the house all -is changed. She must be thought of. A different kind of entertainment is -wanted for a girl. I ought to take her to balls, and to water-parties, -and to all sorts of gaieties. You would not like her to be left out.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear,’ said the Colonel, more cheerfully, ‘I like young faces, -and I don’t object to a little dance now and then. I always, indeed, -encouraged the young fellows in the regiment——’</p> - -<p>‘If it were giving a dance that was all!—you may be sure I shouldn’t -come to you about that. There is a great deal involved that is of much -more importance. If it all gets abroad about your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> daughter, everything -will suffer—she in the first place. It will be like a governess—every -one respects a governess——’</p> - -<p>‘Surely, my dear. A good girl who perhaps does it to help her family, or -support her old mother, or——’</p> - -<p>‘Henry, my dear, you are very old-fashioned. But however good she may -be, she is always at a disadvantage. It would be bad for us too. Colonel -Hayward’s daughter a governess! They would say you were either less well -off than you appeared, or that you had used her badly, or that I had -used her badly—still more likely.’</p> - -<p>‘But when we did not know of her very existence, Elizabeth!’</p> - -<p>‘How are you to tell people that? The best thing is to keep quite quiet -about it, if we only can. But now here is this new complication. These -Bellendean people will talk it all over with the St. Clairs, and the St. -Clairs will publish it everywhere. And people will be sorry for her, and -pick her to pieces, and say it is easy to see she is unused to our -world; they will be sorry for her for being with me, or else be sorry -for me for being burdened with her.’</p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth——’</p> - -<p>‘And the worst is,’ she said vehemently, ‘that it will be quite true on -both sides. She will be to be pitied, and I shall be to be pitied. If -only these friends of hers could be kept quiet! If only she could be -dressed properly, and taught to hold her tongue and say nothing about -her past!’</p> - -<p>The Colonel got up and began to walk about the room in great -perturbation of spirit. He could not say, as he had been in the habit of -saying, ‘If Elizabeth were but here!’ for it was Elizabeth -herself—extraordinary fact!—who was the cause of the trouble. Social -difficulties had not affected them till now; and what could he do or -suggest in face of an emergency which was too much for Elizabeth? The -poor gentleman was without resource, and he had a faint sense of injury, -a feeling that he had never expected to be consulted or to have to -advise in such a matter. All the difficulties in their way of a personal -character had been Elizabeth’s business, not his. He walked about with a -troubled brow, a face full of distress,—what could he do or say? It was -almost cruel of her to consult him, to put matters which he had never -pretended to be able to manage into his hands.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward, on her side, felt a faint gleam of alleviation in the -midst of the gloom from the spectacle of the Colonel’s perturbation. It -was his affair after all, and he had the best right to suffer; and -though she expected no help from him, there was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> certain satisfaction -and almost diversion in the depth of his helpless distress. They were, -however, brought to a sudden standstill, which was a relief to both, by -a ring at the door-bell, a very unusual thing in the morning. The clouds -dispersed from Mrs. Hayward’s brow. She put up her hand instinctively to -her cap. Agitation of any kind, though it may seem a remarkable effect, -does derange one’s cap, as everybody who wears such a head-dress knows. -‘It can’t be any one coming to call at this hour,’ she said. ‘It must be -some of your men intending to stay for lunch.’</p> - -<p>A weight was lifted off the Colonel’s mind by this resumption of -ordinary tones and subjects. He was always glad to see one of ‘his men,’ -as Mrs. Hayward called them, to lunch, being of the most hospitable -disposition; and it was his experience that the presence of a stranger -was always perfectly efficacious in blowing away clouds that might arise -on the family firmament. Besides, in the strained condition of family -affairs, a third, or rather fourth party, who knew nothing about the -circumstances, could not but make that meal more cheerful. They stood -and listened for a moment while some one was evidently admitted, with -some surprise that Baker did not appear to announce the visitor. -Presently, however, the door was opened with that mixture of swiftness -and hesitation which was characteristic of Joyce, and she herself looked -in, more awakened and with a brighter countenance than either of the -pair had yet seen in her. Her shyness had disappeared in the excitement -of a pleasant surprise; her cheeks had got a little colour; the eager -air which had struck Colonel Hayward when he first saw her, but which of -late had been so much subdued, had returned to her eyes and sensitive -mouth. ‘Oh, it’s the Captain!’ she said, with a sense of the importance -of the announcement, as if she had been presenting the Prince of Wales -at least, which changed the entire sentiment of her face. Mrs. Hayward -had never before seen the natural Joyce as she was in the humility of -her early undisturbed state. She acknowledged the charm of the girl with -a keen little sudden pang of that appreciation and comprehension of -jealousy, which is more clear-sighted and certain than love.</p> - -<p>‘The Captain!’ she said, not quite aware who was meant, yet putting on -an air of more ignorance than was genuine.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Bellendean!’ cried the Colonel, going forward with cordiality. ‘My -dear fellow, how glad I am to see you! You’ve got away, then, from all -your anxious friends. Elizabeth, you remember Captain Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not likely to have forgotten him,’ Mrs. Hayward said graciously, -yet with a meaning which perhaps was not so gracious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> as her speech. And -there darted through her mind, as is so usual with women, a question, a -calculation. Was it for Joyce? Men are so silly; who can tell how they -may be influenced? There flashed through her a gleam of delight at the -thought of thus getting rid of the interloper, and at the same time an -angry grudge that this girl, who seemed to have all the luck, should -come to such honour, and be thus set on high above so many who were her -betters. All this in the twinkling of an eye. She stood for a minute or -two and talked, asking the proper questions about his family, and when -he came to town, and how long he meant to stay; then left the visitor -with her husband, and hastened to say something about the luncheon to -Baker, who on his part was lingering outside with a message from the -cook. To those who feel an interest in such matters, we may say that -Mrs. Hayward, when one of the Colonel’s men made his appearance -unexpectedly for luncheon, generally added a dish of curry, for which -her cook was noted (the men being almost all old Indians), to that meal.</p> - -<p>When she returned to the drawing-room, Joyce was there, still with the -same look of exhilaration and liveliness. She was even the first to -speak—a singular circumstance. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘I was not wrong in -taking the Captain to the library. I thought, as you were not here, he -would like that better than just talking to me.’</p> - -<p>Was this false humility? or affectation? or what was it? ‘You were quite -right, no doubt; for it must have been your father he came to see,’ said -Mrs. Hayward, with a quick glance. She was prepared to see a conscious -smile upon Joyce’s mouth, the little air of demure triumph with which a -girl who knows herself the object of such a visit acquiesces in the fact -that it is for her father. But no such consciousness was upon Joyce’s -countenance. ‘You seem to be very much pleased to see him,’ she -continued. ‘And why do you call him the Captain, as if there were not -another in the world?’</p> - -<p>Joyce paused a little before she answered. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that -the people at Bellendean did think there was not another such Captain in -the world.’</p> - -<p>‘And you are glad to see him—because you know him so well? because he -reminds you of your old life?’</p> - -<p>Joyce grew red all at once with a blush, which surely meant something. -Again she paused a little, with that sense of walking among snares and -man-traps, which confuses the mind. ‘Oh no; I did not know him well. I -have only spoken to him two or three times. It is so difficult to -explain. You will perhaps not be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> pleased if I say it. To me that am not -accustomed—the Captain’s coming seemed like a great honour.’ She -stopped short, and the colour went out of her face as suddenly as it -came.</p> - -<p>‘A great honour!’ cried Mrs. Hayward with indignation,—‘to his -commanding officer!’ It was all she could do to keep her temper. Her -foot patted the carpet angrily, and she tore a band of calico off a -piece upon her lap with vehemence, as if she were inflicting pain and -liked to do so. ‘What an extraordinary notion!’ she cried. ‘Norman -Bellendean, a little Scotch squire—that anybody should think his visit -an honour to my husband!’ There was a sort of subdued fury in her laugh -of scorn.</p> - -<p>‘I can see,’ said Joyce, ‘it was very silly to say that; and it was only -a sort of instinct. I forgot when I saw him—all that has happened—and -that I was a—different creature.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ cried Mrs. Hayward quickly, ‘I warn you that unless you can get -over this constant going back upon your old life, and try and adapt -yourself to your present circumstances, it will be impossible for -us—impossible for me—almost beyond any one’s powers——’</p> - -<p>Joyce had become very pale. She did not make any reply, but waited with -her lips moving in an eagerness so different from that joyous eagerness -of her former aspect, for the next word that should be said. What was it -that would be impossible? There is something in a threat which rouses -the most placid blood. If it was impossible, what would happen? Joyce -was in no way in fault; the circumstances which had changed her life, -and transplanted her from her home, were not of her creating any more -than they were of Mrs. Hayward’s. But Mrs. Hayward said nothing more. -She went on tearing, wounding, cutting her calico with stabs and thrusts -of the scissors that seemed as if they must draw blood. But she had gone -as far as could be done unintentionally by sudden impulse—which, and no -set purpose, was what had moved her. And she had come to herself by dint -of that half-spoken threat. She had no desire to be cruel or even -unkind; her desire, indeed, was quite different, if one could have come -to the bottom of her heart. She would have given a great deal to have -been upon comfortable terms with her step-daughter, and to have been -able to quench the jealousy and the grudge with which, deeply ashamed of -them all the time, she had taken in this third between the two who were -so happy—this interloper, this supplanter, whom she had seen her -husband embrace so tenderly, and heard saying with a voice full of -emotion ‘father’—a word never to be addressed to him by child of her -own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span></p> - -<p>Once more, however, this uncomfortable state of affairs was brought to a -pause by the recurrence of the ordinary course of domestic events. The -voices of the Colonel and Captain Bellendean became audible crossing the -hall towards the drawing-room door. At the first sound of these voices, -Mrs. Hayward threw her calico into the work-basket, and tore and stabbed -at it no more. She relapsed suddenly into tranquil hemming, like a good -child at school. Joyce had not the same cover for her agitation, but yet -she collected herself as quickly as was possible, and made believe to be -as quietly occupied and at her ease as her step-mother was.</p> - -<p>‘I should have thought,’ said the Colonel, opening the door as he spoke, -and bringing in this new subject with him, ‘that a pokey house in -London, now that the season is more than half over, would be a bad -change after your beautiful place; but that’s our mistake thinking of -other people, as if they were just the same as we are—which nobody is, -as a matter of fact.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward thought her husband meant this for her, as a reproach in -respect to Joyce—which he did not, being totally incapable of any such -covert assault.</p> - -<p>‘My father has always been fond of society,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I -suspect my beautiful place, as you are kind enough to call it, was -always a great bondage to him.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, I want you to show Bellendean the garden and the river,’ said -the Colonel; ‘I have a—— letter to finish. Take him down to the water, -and show him the willows, and the poet’s villa, and all that. Have you -got a hat handy, my dear, or a parasol, or something? for it’s very hot. -You must take care not to get a sunstroke, or anything of that sort. -This is the way, Bellendean. It’s only a little bit of a place, not like -your castle; but we’re very much pleased with it for all that. The -verandah is our own idea. It is the nicest possible place in the -afternoon, when the sun is off this side of the house. My wife planned -it all herself. Walk down under the shrubbery: you will have shade the -whole way. The river’s sparkling like diamonds,’ he said, as he stood -bareheaded in the moderate English sun, which he kept up a pretence of -dreading as an old Indian ought, and watched the pair as they obeyed his -directions somewhat shyly, not quite understanding why they were sent -off together. Colonel Hayward came back to the drawing-room where his -wife sat, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. ‘I have sent them off -that they may have a quiet word, with nobody to interfere.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should they want a quiet word? Was it <i>her</i> he came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> to see? Do you -suppose he means anything?’ said Mrs. Hayward, in that unsympathetic -tone.</p> - -<p>‘They may not perhaps have anything particular to say; but they come -from the same place, and they know the same people, and probably they -would not like to talk their little talks about old friends with us -listening to every word; so I said I had a letter to finish,’ said the -Colonel, with a mild chuckle. ‘I must go and do it though, that they may -not think it was a pretence.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know, Henry,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that some people would say you -were throwing your daughter at Captain Bellendean’s head.’</p> - -<p>‘Bless me!’ said the Colonel, with a wondering look; ‘throwing my -daughter at—— Elizabeth, these would surely be very unpleasant people, -not the kind that ever had anything to do with you and me.’ He paused a -moment, looking at her with an appeal which she did not lift her eyes to -see. Then he repeated, ‘I must go, though, and finish my letter, or they -will think it was only a pretence.’</p> - -<p>Perhaps Captain Bellendean had some faint notion that it was, as he -walked along under the shade of the shrubbery skirting the long but -narrow lawn towards the river, which flowed shining and sparkling in the -full sun—half amused to find himself walking by the side of the heroine -of the curious story which had been worked out under his roof—the -little schoolmistress turned into a young lady of leisure, transplanted -out of her natural place. He was not without a little natural curiosity -as to how such a strange travesty would succeed. There was nothing in -her appearance to emphasise the change. She walked slowly, almost -reluctantly, with that shyness which is not unbecoming to youth, as if -she would have liked to fly and leave him unguided to his own devices. -He gave her a good many glances under his eyebrows as they walked along -very gravely together, scarcely speaking. Certainly if Colonel Hayward -meant to throw his daughter at the Captain’s head, she had no intention -that way.</p> - -<p>‘The last time I saw you, Miss Joyce,’ he said, ‘was the evening before -you left home. And you thought England and London would be a new world. -What do you think of the new world, now that you have seen them near?’</p> - -<p>‘Did I say they would be a new world?’ Joyce sighed a little, looking up -to the Captain with a faint smile, which made, he thought, a charming -combination. She added, ‘I have only seen London in passing; but I’m -beginning to think there is no new world, but just what we make it—and -the same in every place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘One of the old classical fellows says that, doesn’t he?’ said the -Captain. ‘I’ve forgotten all my Latin; but you’re up to everything of -that sort——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no; I am not a scholar. I just know a little at the very beginning. -But I understand what you mean. It is something about changing the skies -but not the mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder if that is what Mrs. Bellendean will do?’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I forgot; it was your father to whom I was speaking; but you will -know better all that this means. My father and his wife have left -Bellendean—for good, do you understand, not to come back.’</p> - -<p>‘For good! but I should think that would rather be for ill,’ Joyce said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I knew you would understand. I didn’t myself, however, till very -lately. I had no conception what she had done for the place, nor how -much it was to her. And now they have shaken the dust from off their -feet, and left it—as if I could have wished that.’</p> - -<p>‘They would think,’ said Joyce, with an explanatory instinct that -belonged to her old position—‘the lady would think that perhaps you -were likely——’</p> - -<p>Here she looked up at him, and suddenly realising that she was not Joyce -the schoolmistress, with a little privilege of place, making matters -clear, but a young woman discoursing about his own affairs to a young -man, stopped suddenly, blushed deeply, and murmured, ‘Oh, I beg your -pardon,’ with a horror of her own rashness which gave double meaning to -all she said.</p> - -<p>‘That perhaps I was likely——?’ said Norman. He found her very pleasant -company, with her intelligent eager looks, her comprehension of what he -meant before it was uttered. ‘Tell me what she would think likely. I -know so little about—the lady, as you call her. She was only my -step-mother, whom I didn’t much care for when I went away. It is a -mistake to judge people before one knows them,’ he added reflectively; -but this sentiment, so cognate to her own case, did not in the immediate -urgency of the moment arrest Joyce’s attention, especially as he -repeated with a smile, ‘what would she think me likely to do?’</p> - -<p>‘I was going to speak like an old wife in a cottage—like my dear old -granny.’</p> - -<p>‘Do so, please,’ he said, with a laugh; and Joyce yielded to the unknown -temptation, which had never come in her way before. The gentle malice of -society, the undercurrent of meaning, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> play with which youths and -maidens amuse themselves in the beginning of an intercourse which may -come to much more serious results, were quite out of her understanding -and experience; but there are some things which are very quickly learnt.</p> - -<p>‘She would think—the old wives would say—that now the Captain was come -back, he would be bringing home a lady of his own.’</p> - -<p>Joyce said this, not with the absolute calm of two minutes ago, but with -a smile and blush which altogether changed the significance of the -little speech. It had been an almost matter-of-fact explanation—it -became now a little winged arrow of provocation, a sort of challenge. -Captain Bellendean laughed.</p> - -<p>‘I see,’ he said; ‘and you think that is a course open to me? But a lady -of my own might not be so good as <i>the</i> lady—and then there are -difficulties about time, for instance. I might not be able to bring her -at once; and the one I wanted might not have me: and—— Miss Joyce, -your attention flags—you are not interested in me.’</p> - -<p>‘I was thinking,’ said Joyce, ‘that though you laugh, it would be no -laughing for her to leave Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>The Captain perceived that the joke was to go no further. ‘I do not -believe it is her doing at all—it is my father’s doing. He prefers -London—Half Moon Street, and rooms where you can scarcely turn round.’</p> - -<p>‘Half Moon Street!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know it?’</p> - -<p>‘No more than in books,’ said Joyce, with a smile; ‘there are so many -places that seem kent places because they are in books.’</p> - -<p>‘Italy, etc.,’ the Captain said, looking at her with a sympathetic -glance.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, but not etc.!’ cried Joyce. ‘Italy—is like nothing else in the -world.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Captain Bellendean, ‘when you are in the circumstances -which you have just been suggesting to me, no doubt you will go to -Italy; that is the right time and the right circumstances——’</p> - -<p>Before he had half said these words, a sudden vision of Andrew Halliday -flashed across his mind, and he stopped in sudden embarrassment. By this -time they had reached the river’s side, and Joyce turned dutifully to -point out to him the poet’s villa, as her father had bidden her; but -there was something in her tone which betrayed to the sympathetic -listener that the same image had suddenly overshadowed her imagination -too. Captain Bellendean<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> was very sympathetic—more so, perhaps, than he -would have been had his companion been older or less pretty. He -pretended to look with great interest at the willows sweeping into the -water, and the lawn, with its little fringe of forget-me-nots reflected -in the softly flowing stream. Joyce had lost the colour which was half -excitement, and had kept coming and going like the shadows over the sky, -while they walked together down the shady walk. It is very interesting -to see a face change in this way, and to think that one’s own society, -the quickening of the blood produced by one’s sudden advent, may have -something to do with it. He had felt that it was very pleasant to watch -these changes, and was conscious of a little agreeable thrill of -responsive exhilaration in his own veins. But when this sudden shadow -fell upon Joyce, his sympathy sprang into a warmer, energetic sentiment. -Could that be the fate for which this girl was reserved? Surely some one -must step in to save her from that fate!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was some days before the new difficulties which possessed all Mrs. -Hayward’s thoughts were fully revealed to Joyce. These early days were -long, being full of so many confusing circumstances and new problems to -be encountered, solved, or left aside for further trouble in their turn; -and what she had heard her stepmother say about her bringing up had -passed over Joyce’s mind with little effect. She had enough to do in -other ways: to find out a mode of living which would be practicable, to -subdue her own spirit, to reconcile herself with so many new necessities -all rushing upon her at once. How to apportion her time was in itself a -difficulty almost beyond her untried powers: to be long enough, yet not -too long, with Mrs. Hayward—to find something to do during these hours -which she had to pass in that drawing-room which was so pretty and -comfortable, but so little homelike to the stranger. Joyce had abundant -resources in herself. She was fully instructed in all kinds of work—a -mistress of fine-sewing and mending, able to clothe her household with -needlework, like the woman in the Proverbs; but there was no need for -these qualifications here. And she had gone through all the studies -which were open to her in design, besides having found out somehow, amid -those gifts of nature which to all her early friends had seemed so -lavish, a faculty for drawing, which had been of endless pleasure to -her, and pride to her belongings in the old time. Music, indeed, was -left out, except in so far as it belonged to her profession. She had -learned the Hullah system, or something like it, and could read easily -all the simple songs which were taught to the children; but a piano had -never been within her reach, nor had she heard anything that a musician -would think worth hearing. At home in Bellendean the old people thought -that nobody could sing the ‘Flowers of the Forest’, or the ‘Banks of -Doon,’ or the old Psalm tunes, which were still dearer, like, their -Joyce. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> these were not the sort of performances with which to please -Mrs. Hayward.</p> - -<p>Thus, though she was full of accomplishments in her way, none of Joyce’s -acquirements stood her in much stead in her new circumstances. She had -to contrive something for herself to do, which was far from being easy. -She had to think of what she could talk about, to take her fit part in -the household intercourse—not to sit like an uninterested spectator -between these two strange people, who were her nearest relations. And -this was almost the hardest of all; for Colonel Hayward and his wife -were like so many people of their class—they had read little, they were -puzzled by references to books, and did not understand that keen sense -of association and fellowship with her favourite writers and their -productions which made Joyce an inhabitant of a second world, to her -consciousness almost more real than the external sphere. The Colonel -said ‘Eh?’ as if he had become a little deaf, with a kind but bewildered -smile, when she adduced the example—to Joyce more natural than the most -familiar examples of every day—of somebody in Scott, or, as she loved -to say, Sir Walter, to illustrate a position; while Mrs. Hayward was -more apt to frown and to say impatiently that she thought it very wrong -for young people to read so many novels. They did not even know what she -meant by Sir Walter!—her father, with his puzzled look, suggesting, -‘Sir Walter—Gilbert, did you mean, my dear? Now, where can you have met -Gilbert, Joyce? and what could he know about the oyster-dredging in the -North?’ Thus it was against her that she knew more than they did, as -well as that she knew less: in either case, she was left out of their -circle, out of their world,—her very wealth futile, and more useless -than had she been without endowment at all.</p> - -<p>But in the preoccupation of so many matters, important beyond measure to -her new existence, and much pondering of the way to make that existence -possible, which seemed to her sometimes a problem almost beyond her -powers of solving, Joyce was not at all quick to catch up the allusions -of her stepmother, or to perceive what it was that filled Mrs. Hayward’s -mind with new alarms. The possibility of there being something to be -ashamed of in respect to herself—something to conceal or gloss over, in -case it might revolt the visitors, of whom Joyce, hitherto measuring -them by the standard of Bellendean, had not formed a very high idea—had -never entered her mind; and she was startled beyond measure when Mrs. -Hayward opened the subject directly in a moment of impatience, and -notwithstanding her own excellent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> resolutions against doing so. Joyce -had been betrayed into some reference to her old work, which she had -instinctively felt to be distasteful and seldom alluded to, but which -would crop up now and then. It was Mr. Sitwell, the clergyman, and his -school feast, which was the original subject of the talk.</p> - -<p>‘I think they are playing at school work,’ Joyce said. ‘I would like to -see the mistress, and hear what she says.’</p> - -<p>‘I beg you will do nothing of the kind,’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘I did not -at all like your enthusiasm about the schools when the Sitwells were -here. I think you said you were more interested in them than in anything -else in the world. I am never fond of extravagance.’</p> - -<p>‘But it was true,’ said Joyce, with a deprecating smile. ‘When you have -been interested about one thing all your life, and always thinking which -is the best way, what can you do but feel it the most important?’</p> - -<p>‘It is time,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that you should find another channel -for your thoughts. I didn’t mean to say anything to vex you, Joyce. But -you must know that your father’s daughter should have been brought up in -a very different way; and, to tell the truth, I would much rather our -friends here knew as little as possible—about your antecedents.’</p> - -<p>Joyce looked up astonished, with a quick cry, ‘Antecedents!’ which was a -word that seemed to imply something bad, like the reports in the -newspapers. She was, to be sure, too well instructed to think that -implication necessary; but there are prejudices of which even the -best-informed persons cannot shake themselves free.</p> - -<p>‘You know what I mean!—the teaching, and all that. That you should be -fond of the schools, and interested in them, is all very well; but that -you were a——’</p> - -<p>A flush of deep colour had rushed over Joyce’s uplifted face. -‘A—schoolmistress,’ she said, with the quiver of a piteous little -smile.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t bear to hear you say it—your father’s daughter!—and of course -it is impossible to enter into particulars, and explain everything to -everybody. I think it better, far better, to draw a veil. You were -brought up by relations in Scotland—that is what I mean to say.’</p> - -<p>‘Relations!’ repeated Joyce softly; ‘thank you for saying that. Oh, and -so they were!—the kindest relations that ever a poor little girl had.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad I have pleased you, so far as that goes,’ said Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> Hayward, -in a tone of relief. ‘Well, then, I hope you will back me up, and show -yourself grateful to your old friends. There are various other things I -may mention as we are on this subject. For instance, when you were -talking to Alice St. Clair you said <i>Miss</i> Greta. Now that young lady, -if you were to renew your acquaintance with her, would certainly not -allow you to call her Miss <i>now</i>.’</p> - -<p>Joyce opened her eager lips to reply, but, struck by a sudden sense of -the uselessness of any explanation, closed them again—a movement not -unnoticed by her companion.</p> - -<p>‘I notice also,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that you have a way of calling Mrs. -Bellendean the Lady. That’s all very well if it’s one of the fantastic -names that girls are so fond of nowadays—I mean, if other young people -use it as well as you; but if it’s one of your terms of respect—— -Remember, Joyce, that to go on speaking in that way is a—is a kind of -insult to your father and to your own family, which is quite as good as -Mrs. Bellendean’s.’</p> - -<p>As good as Mrs. Bellendean’s!—her heart revolted against this claim. -The old homage which she had given with youthful enthusiasm was not to -Mrs. Bellendean’s position or her family. But how was Joyce to explain -this to her judge, who did not look upon her or her romances with a -favourable eye? And yet she could not but say a word in self-defence. -‘It was for kindness,’ she said,—‘for,’ hesitating with her Scotch -shyness, ‘for love!’</p> - -<p>‘For love!’ Mrs. Hayward echoed the word with a tone of opposition, and -almost offence. ‘She is one of the women who seem to have the gift of -attracting girls. I don’t know how they do it, for girls have always -seemed to me the most uncertain, unappreciative——’ She sighed -impatiently, then added in a softened tone, ‘If it’s only a sort of pet -name, that’s different. But you must see that it is your duty to avoid -everything that could seem to—to discredit your father. And we can’t -explain the circumstances to everybody, and prove that it was not his -fault. For my part,’ she cried, with a flash of quick feeling in her -clear eyes, ‘I’d say anything or do anything rather than let it be -supposed for a moment that the Colonel—had anything to be ashamed of in -the whole course of his existence. He has not, and never had, whatever -you may think. That’s what I call love,’ she cried, vehemently, with a -sudden tear or two taking her by surprise.</p> - -<p>Joyce turned towards her step-mother with a quick responsive look; but -Mrs. Hayward was ashamed of her own emotion, and had turned away to -conceal it, thus missing the eager overture of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> sympathy. She went on in -another moment with a little laugh: ‘It shows we never should be sure of -anything. If there was one thing more unlikely than another, I should -have said it was the gossip of a Scotch village getting abroad here. I -should have thought that nobody here had ever heard the name of -Bellendean—when lo! it turns out that we are in a perfect wasp’s nest -of relations and connections. Your Miss Greta, as you call her, a -cousin, and the St. Clairs themselves visitors of the Bellendeans. I -suppose before another week is over all Richmond will know the story. It -is very vexatious, when I had planned to take you about everywhere, and -do all sorts of things!’</p> - -<p>She was called out of the room at this moment by some domestic -requirement, and did not hear Joyce’s troubled murmur. ‘Was there -anything, then, to think shame of?’ Joyce had said, her voice trembling, -with the Scotch idiom which Mrs. Hayward disliked. She added to herself, -‘in me,’ with a wondering pang. Perhaps the girl had too high a -conception of herself, which it was well to bring down; but such an -operation is always a painful one. Though she had been brought up in a -ploughman’s cottage, and occupied the humblest position, yet nothing had -ever happened in her life to humiliate Joyce. She had been admired and -praised, and placed upon a little pedestal from her earliest -consciousness: and that any one should be ashamed of her struck her as -something so incredible and extraordinary, that it took away her -breath,—‘anything to think shame of—in me.’ She had no defence against -such a sudden dart: it went through and through her, cutting to her -heart. She rose up quickly, with a sensation intolerable—a quick and -passionate impulse. To do what? She could not tell. To have the wings of -a dove and fly away—but where? She stopped herself, clasping her hands -together, holding herself fast that she might not be so unreasonable as -to do it. The mother had done it, and what had come of it? To herself -madness and death, and to her poor child this,—that the people to whom -she belonged were ashamed of her—ashamed of Joyce! It seemed a thing -impossible, not to be realised. She said it over to herself -incredulously, making an effort to smile. Ashamed!—but no, no! Whatever -there was to bear, it must be borne, even though those wings for which -so many have sighed should be given to her: she must not fly, she must -stay.</p> - -<p>But Joyce had in this particular still something more hard to bear. A -few days after the visit of the captain, Mrs. Bellendean came to -Richmond, bringing with her Greta. The two ladies came with a purpose. -They had been warned by Captain Bellen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span>dean that there were difficulties -in the Colonel’s household, and that Joyce’s position was not of the -happiest. How he had divined that much it would be difficult to say, for -divination was not Norman’s <i>forte</i>. But for once his sympathy or -interest had given insight to his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘You should go and let them see that the poor girl has friends,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘I shall go,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, who was very sure that she must know -better than Norman, ‘and make myself very agreeable to the step-mother. -She is not a bad sort of woman. She will be pleased if we go and call at -once, and I confess I shall do everything I know to make her like me and -trust me: that will be the best way of serving Joyce.’ With this intent -the ladies arrived and played their part very prettily. They were -delighted with the house, the drawing-room, the lovely things, Indian -and otherwise, admiring them with a comprehension and knowledge which -Joyce had not possessed, and making Mrs. Hayward glow with gratification -and modest pride. Joyce followed her beloved lady with her looks,—her -usual and faithful admiration of everything Mrs. Bellendean said and did -very slightly modified by surprise at this new aspect of her. They had -not failed in any mark of affection to herself—nay, had startled her by -the warmth of their greetings. Mrs. Bellendean had met her with -outstretched arms and a kiss which confused Joyce with pleasure, and -afterwards with—something else, which was not so agreeable. Joyce, -indeed, was the one silent in the midst of the effusive cordiality and -pleasantness of this meeting. She did not know how to respond or what to -say. It was the first time she had met her friends under this new -aspect. The night she had spent at Bellendean before leaving had been -different. She was then in all the excitement of the great revolution in -her life, and nothing seemed too extraordinary for that crisis; but -Joyce had calmed down, she had returned to life’s ordinary, though with -so amazing a difference—and her lady’s kiss and Greta’s eager -outstretched arms overwhelmed her with doubts and questions which half -blotted out the pleasure.</p> - -<p>Finally, they strayed out upon the lawn, and down the shaded walk -towards the river, as all visitors did. Joyce had made that little -pilgrimage only in company with Captain Bellendean as yet; and there did -not fail to pass through her mind a comparison which affected her in a -way she did not understand. She knew him so much less than Greta, cared -for him much less—and yet—— Joyce fled from the faint rising of an -uncomprehended thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> with a thrill of strange alarm, and turned to -her friend, who was so sweet, the admired of all her youthful thoughts, -her little paragon of prettiness and sweetness. Greta had twined her arm -within her companion’s, and was looking tenderly into her face.</p> - -<p>‘And are you happy?’ Greta said. ‘Oh, Joyce! I remember how you used to -fancy all manner of things. You would not have been surprised if you had -turned out to be a princess—like Queen Mary’s daughter, who was -“unknown to history."’</p> - -<p>‘If there ever was such a person,’ said schoolmistress Joyce. ‘Yes, I -think I was quite prepared to be a princess.’</p> - -<p>‘It would have been much more troublesome than this, and not half so -nice, I think. To have had that horrible Bothwell for a father, or some -one else as dreadful, instead of delightful Colonel Hayward.’</p> - -<p>‘My father,’ said Joyce, with a little flush and stir of feeling which -was always called forth by his name, ‘is better—than anything I ever -could have dreamed.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why are you not happy?’ cried Greta, going direct to the heart of -the matter, as children do.</p> - -<p>‘But perhaps I am happy,’ said Joyce, with a little sigh, followed by a -smile. ‘To be happy is a strange thing: it is not at your own will, nor -because you are well off, and have everything you can want. It is just -for nothing, and comes when it pleases. And life is very confusing. -There are so many things to think of that I never thought of before. How -to please them—and I always used to please, just because it was me. And -sometimes I think they are ashamed.’</p> - -<p>‘Ashamed, Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she said, ‘not of me, as me: but because of what I was. You used -all to say pretty things to me, Miss Greta, about the fine work I was -doing,—about the use I was to the children—even to the country,’ Joyce -added, with a light in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Greta, Joyce! is that like the friends we are? I shall call you -Miss Hayward if you say that again.’</p> - -<p>Joyce turned upon her with a sudden flash, raising her head with an -involuntary movement that looked like disdain. ‘See now,’ she said, ‘you -yourself! You never said <i>that</i> when I was Joyce Matheson, the -schoolmistress at Bellendean. And yet you all praised me, and said I was -doing a good work. I am doing no work nor anything here. I am just a -cumberer of the ground. They don’t know what to do with me, though they -want to be very kind. And I don’t know what to do with myself. But you -never said <i>that</i> to me in the old time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Joyce!’ cried Greta, with conviction and shame. She added, holding -her companion’s arm close, ‘Not that I didn’t want to say it—many and -many a time! You were always much better, much higher than I.’</p> - -<p>Joyce put her hand upon her friend’s, but shook her head, her cheeks -flushed with a transient glow of feeling, her eyes troubled and -unconvinced. ‘We’ll say nothing about that. It was all as it ought to -be, and natural: anything else would have been out of place both for you -and me. But you did not then; and now you would have me in a moment -change, and say Miss Greta no more, because I am no longer the -schoolmistress, but Colonel Hayward’s daughter. But how can I do that? -that would mean a change in me. And there is no change in me.’</p> - -<p>Greta did not understand what was in her friend’s face. Joyce no longer -looked at her, but away into the blue distance over the river among the -tufts and clusters of the soft English trees—looking but seeing not; -perceiving only the mists and confusion of a change with which her own -will and thoughts had nothing to do, against which she could not help -rebelling, though she was compelled to acknowledge that it was all -natural, inevitable, not to be resisted. It wounded her native sense of -dignity to be thus elevated, to have a position given to her, even in -the hearts of her friends, which had not been hers before. Mrs. -Bellendean’s kiss, and Greta’s eager affection, what were they to the -real Joyce, to whom both had been so kind, so friendly, even tender, but -never with this demonstration of equality? If Joyce had been embittered, -she would have considered them insults to her old and true self; but she -was not bitter. She was only humiliated, strangely wounded, and astray, -seeing the necessity of it, and the hardness of it, and only feeling in -her heart the absence of any place for her, herself, the true Joyce, who -had never changed amid all these strange alterations. She put her hand -upon that which was trembling yet clinging fast to her arm, and softly -patted it, with something of the feeling of the elder to the younger, -the superior to the inferior—which was a change too, though Joyce was -scarcely cognisant of it; for in her unawakened days she had looked up -with genuine faith to Miss Greta, making a little ideal of her. Now, -though Joyce did not know it, that balance had turned too, and she was -keenly perceiving, pardoning, excusing that in which her ideal had -failed. ‘I could have wished,’ she said, ‘<i>you</i> had not done it. I could -have wished that we should bide—as we always were—just you, and me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Joyce!’ faltered Greta, clinging more and more. ‘I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> been so -glad that you and I could be like sisters—as I have always felt.’</p> - -<p>‘You and—Colonel’s Hayward’s daughter, Miss Greta,’ she said.</p> - -<p>By this time the two elder ladies had followed to the water’s edge, and -stood looking up the Thames at the sweeping willows, and the spot, which -none of them cared the least about, where the poet’s villa had been -planted. Mrs. Bellendean, who was very quick in observation, saw that -Greta was disturbed, and came up, laying her hand on Joyce’s shoulder. -‘Let me have her a little now,’ she said. ‘Norman told us about your -river-side, Joyce, and how you had showed him everything. He could talk -of nothing else when he came back.’</p> - -<p>‘It was a beautiful day—which was all that is wanted; for you see -yourself there is not much to show.’</p> - -<p>‘And you,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘who were the first thing to be taken -into consideration, perhaps. Joyce, I want to speak to you, my dear. -Your—yes, I know, she is not your mother; but she wants to be as kind -as you will let her. She is troubled about all this story being known.’</p> - -<p>‘All what story?’ said Joyce, with a catching of her breath.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear, you know. And I don’t wonder at it. You were a miracle in -your own—I mean in that position. But now it is very natural your -parents should wish—no more to be said about it than is necessary. Mrs. -Hayward says very truly that it is better a girl shouldn’t be talked -about, even when it is all to her credit. She wanted to warn <i>me</i>,’ Mrs. -Bellendean said, with a smile at the ignorance thus manifested. She had -put her arm into that of Joyce, and led her along the velvet turf, as -far as the lawn extended, leaving Greta with Mrs. Hayward. ‘As if I were -likely to betray you! But I want you to promise, Joyce, that you -won’t—betray yourself, which is far more likely.’</p> - -<p>‘Betray!’ cried Joyce. She had been humiliated by Greta; she was -indignant now. ‘What have I to betray?’ she cried; ‘that I am a waif, -and a foundling, and an abandoned creature that belongs to nobody? or -that I am a trouble and a charge to everybody that has to do with me, -breaking my poor Granny’s heart because she wants me, and a shame to the -others that don’t want me? Myself! what is it to betray myself? Oh, you -are kind; you are very kind. You were my dear lady that I honoured above -everything. But you kiss me to-day because I’m—not Joyce, but Colonel -Hayward’s daughter; and you bid me not to betray myself. To betray that -I am myself—is that what you mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce! Joyce!’ cried Mrs. Bellendean.</p> - -<p>Joyce paused for a moment to dry the sudden tears which had betrayed -her, coming with a rush to her eyes—girls being such poor creatures, -that cannot do anything or feel anything without crying! She had drawn -her arm out of her friend’s arm, and her eyes were shining, and a swift -nervous movement, scarcely restrainable, thrilling through her. That -impulse, as of a hunted deer, to give one momentary glance round, and -then turn and fly—the impulse of her mother, which was in all Joyce’s -veins, though nothing had occurred till now to bring it out,—took hold -upon her, and shook her like a sudden wind. She knew what it was, though -no one else had any warning of it; and it frightened her to the depths -of her soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Notwithstanding</span> this sense of outrage and injury, time and the hour had -their usual effect upon Joyce. There are few things that the common -strain of everyday does not subdue in time—few things, that is, that -are of the nature of sentiment, not actual evil or wrong. She reconciled -herself to the affectionate demonstrations of her old friends, which -were such as they had not made in the old times, without at least saying -again that these were for Colonel Hayward’s daughter, and not for Joyce; -and she learnt to make new ones, or at least to receive shyly and -respond as much as her nature permitted to the overtures of -acquaintanceship made to her by the society among which she lived. The -sense of strangeness faded away; she became familiar with her -surroundings, and with the things which were required of her. She -acquired, to her astonishment and amusement, and pleasure too, when she -had become a little accustomed to her own appearance in them, a number -of new dresses and ornaments, the latter chiefly presents from her -father, who found it the most delightful amusement to make a little -expedition into town—a thing which was at all times a pleasant -diversion to him—to go to Hancock’s, or some other costly place, before -or after he went to his club, and bring Joyce a bracelet or a ring. -These expeditions were not always agreeable to Mrs. Hayward. She said, -‘If you would tell me what you wanted, Henry, I could get it a great -deal cheaper for you at the Stores—half the price: these Hancock people -are ruinous.’</p> - -<p>‘But, my dear, I bought it only because it chanced to take my fancy—in -the shop-window,’ said the scheming Colonel, with wiles which he had -learned of recent days. His wife knew as well as he did that this little -fable was of doubtful credence, but she said no more. After all, if he -could not give his child a bracelet or two, it would be a strange thing, -Mrs. Hayward said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> to herself with a little heat. She was determined to -be reasonable, but she could not help being slightly suspicious of his -meaning, when he announced his intention at the breakfast-table of -taking a little run up to town, and seeing how those fellows were -getting on. He meant his old cronies at the club, whom he was always -pleased to see; but it always turned out that there were other little -things to be done as well.</p> - -<p>And Joyce was far from being without pleasure in these pretty presents, -and in the tenderness which beamed from the Colonel’s face when he stole -his little packet out of his pocket with the air of a schoolboy bringing -home a bird’s nest. ‘My dear, I happened to see this as I passed, and I -thought you would like it.’ She did not know much about the value of -these gifts, overestimating it at first, underrating it afterwards—and -cared very little, to tell the truth, after the first sensation of awe -with which she had regarded the gold and precious stones, when she found -such unexpected treasures in her own possession. But what was of far -greater importance was the tender bond which, by means of all the kind -thoughts which resulted in these gifts, and the grateful and pleased -sentiment which these kind thoughts called forth, grew up between the -Colonel and his daughter. She became the companion of a morning walk -which up to this time he had been in the habit of taking alone—Mrs. -Hayward considering it necessary to be ‘on the spot,’ as she said, and -looking after her household. The Colonel, who never liked to be alone, -took advantage one lovely morning of a chance meeting with Joyce, who -was straying somewhat listlessly along the shrubbery walk, thinking of -many things. ‘I am going for my walk,’ he said—his walk being a habit -as regular as the nursery performance of the same kind. ‘If you have -nothing to do, get your hat and come with me, my dear.’ And this walk -came to be delightful to both, Joyce making acquaintance thereby with -those genuine reflections of a mind uninstructed save by life, which are -so often full of insight and interest; while the Colonel on his side -listened with delighted admiration to Joyce’s information on all kinds -of subjects, which was drawn entirely from books. He talked to her about -India and his old friends there and all their histories, enchanted to -rouse her interest and to have to stir up his memory in order to satisfy -her as to how an incident ended, or what became of a man.</p> - -<p>‘What happened after? My dear, I believe he was killed at Delhi, poor -fellow!—after all they had gone through. Yes, it was hard: but that’s a -soldier’s life, you know; he never knows where he may have to leave his -bones. The poor little woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> had to be sent home. We got up some money -for her, and I believe she had friends to whom she went with her baby. -That’s all I know about them. As for Brown, he got on very well—retired -now with the rank of a general, and lives at Cheltenham. The last time I -saw him, he was at Woolwich with his third boy for an exam. It is either -the one thing or the other, Joyce—either they get killed young, or they -live through everything and come home, regular old <i>vieux moustaches</i>, -as the French say, with immense families to set out in the world. The -number of fine fellows I’ve seen drop! and then the number of others who -survive everything, and are not so much the better for it after all.’</p> - -<p>‘When I read the vision of Mirza to my old granny at home—— at -Bellendean—she said life was like that,’ said Joyce gravely,—‘some -dropping suddenly in a moment, so that you only saw that they had -disappeared.’</p> - -<p>‘The vision of—— what, my dear? It has an Eastern sound, but I don’t -think it’s in the Bible. Very likely I’ve heard it somewhere: but my -memory is rather bad’—(he had been giving her a hundred personal -details of all kinds of people, in the range of some thirty or forty -years)—‘especially for books.’ Colonel Hayward added, ‘More shame to -me,’ with a shake of his grey head.</p> - -<p>And then she told him Mirza’s vision, with the warm natural eloquence of -her inexperience and profound conviction that literature was the one -deathless and universal influence. The Colonel was greatly pleased with -it, and received it as the most original of allegories. ‘It’s -wonderful,’ he said, ‘what imagination these Eastern chaps have, Joyce. -They carry it too far, you know, calling you the emperor’s brother, the -flower of all the warriors of the West, and that sort of thing, which is -nonsense, and never after the first time takes in the veriest Johnny Raw -of a young ensign. Well, but your old woman was very right, my dear. If -I were to tell you about all the fellows that started in life with -me—such a lot of them, Joyce; as cheery a set—not so clever, perhaps, -as the new men nowadays, but up to anything—it’s very like that old -humbug’s bridge, which, between you and me, never existed, you know—you -may be quite sure of that.’</p> - -<p>Joyce held her breath when she heard the beloved Addison called an old -humbug, but reflected that the Colonel did not mean it, and made no -remark.</p> - -<p>‘It is very like that,’ he continued musingly. ‘One doesn’t even notice -at the time—but when you look back. There was Jack Hunter went almost -as soon as we landed: such a nice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> fellow—I seem to hear his laugh now, -though I haven’t so much as thought upon him for forty years,—dropped, -you know, without ever hearing a shot fired, with the laugh in his -mouth, so to speak. And Jim Jenkinson, the first time we were under -fire, in a bit of a skirmish for no use. His brother, though—by George! -he hasn’t dropped at all; for here he comes, as tough an old parson as -ever lived, Joyce. Excuse the exclamation, my dear. It slips out, though -I hate swearing as much as you can do. We’ll have to stop and speak to -Canon Jenkinson. I think, on the whole, rather than grow into such a -pursy parson, I’d rather have dropped like poor Jim.’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward directed his daughter’s attention to a large clergyman, -who was walking along on the other side of the road. The Colonel had the -contempt of all slim men for all fat ones; and Joyce, too, being -imaginative and young, looked with sympathetic disapproval at the -rotundity which was approaching. Canon Jenkinson was more than a fat -man—he was a fat clergyman. His black waistcoat was tightly, but with -many wrinkles, strained across a protuberance which is often anything -but amusing to the unfortunate individual who has to carry it, but which -invariably arouses the smiles of unfeeling spectators; the long lapels -of his black coat swung on either side as he moved quickly with a step -very light for such a weight—swinging, too, a neatly rolled umbrella, -which he carried horizontally like a balance to keep his arm extended to -its full length. When he saw Colonel Hayward he crossed the road towards -him, with a larger swing still of his great person altogether. ‘Halloa, -Hayward!’ he said, in a big, rolling, bass voice.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Canon; I am glad to see you have come back.’</p> - -<p>‘And what is this you have been about in my absence, my good -fellow,—increasing and multiplying at a time of life when I should have -thought you beyond all such vanities? Is this the young lady? As a very -old friend of your father’s, Miss Hayward, and as he doesn’t say a word -to help us, I must introduce myself.’</p> - -<p>He held out a large hand in which Joyce’s timid one was for a moment -buried, and then he said, ‘You’ve hidden her away a long time, Hayward, -and kept her dark; but I’ve always remarked of you that when you did -produce a thing at the last, it was worth the trouble. My wife told me -you had sprung a family upon us. No story was ever diminished by being -retold.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, my daughter only—Joyce, who has been brought up by—her -mother’s relations—in Scotland.’ The Colonel had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> learned his lesson, -but he said it with a little hesitation and faltering.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ said the clergyman, and then he added in an undertone, ‘Your first -poor wife, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel replied only by a nod, while Joyce stood embarrassed and -half indignant. She was deeply vexed by the interrogatory of which she -was the subject, and still more by her father’s look and tone. For the -poor Colonel was the last person in the world to be trusted with the -utterance of a fiction, and his looks contradicted the words which he -managed to say.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Canon Jenkinson: and then he turned suddenly upon Joyce. ‘Are -you a good Churchwoman, or are you a little Presbyterian?’ he said. ‘I -must have that out with you before we are much older. And I hear you are -going to range yourself on the side of Sitwell, and help him to defy me. -His school feast, <i>par exemple</i>, when I am having the whole parish three -or four days after! You know a good deal of the insubordination of -subalterns, Hayward, but you don’t know what the incumbent of a district -can do when he tries. He is not your curate, so you can’t squash him. -Miss Hayward, I take it amiss of you that you should have gone over to -Sitwell’s side.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know even the gentleman’s name,’ said Joyce. ‘There was -somebody spoke of his schools—and I am very fond of schools.’</p> - -<p>‘His schools! You shall come and see the parish schools, and tell me -what you think of them. Don’t take a wretched little district as an -example. I’ll tell you what, Hayward,—she shall come with me at once -and see what we can do. I don’t go touting round for unpaid curates, as -Sitwell does. But I do think a nice woman’s the best of school -inspectors—in an unofficial way, <i>bien entendu</i>. I don’t mean to -propose you to the Government, Miss Hayward, to get an appointment, when -there are so much too few for the men.’</p> - -<p>He spoke with a swing, too, of such fluent talk, rolling out in the -deep, round, agreeable bass which was so well known in the -neighbourhood, that the two helpless persons thus caught were almost -carried away by the stream.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think she can go now, Jenkinson. Elizabeth will be wondering -already what has become of us.’</p> - -<p>‘Is that so?’ said the Canon, with a laugh. ‘We all know there’s no -going against the commanding officer. Another time, then—another time. -But, Miss Hayward, you must give me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> your promise not to let yourself be -prejudiced; and, above all, don’t go over to Sitwell’s side.’</p> - -<p>He pressed her hand in his, gave her a beaming smile, waved his hand to -the Colonel, and swung along upon his way, exchanging greetings with -everybody he encountered.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, ‘there is no telling what that man -might have plunged you into if I had not been here to defend you. Let us -go home lest something worse befall us. I think I see the Sitwells -coming up Grove Road. If you should fall into their hands, I know not -what would happen. Walk quickly, and perhaps they will not see us. -Elizabeth will say I am not fit to be trusted with you if I let you be -torn to pieces by the clergy. The Canon, you see, Joyce, was the means -of having this new district church set up. And Sitwell has not behaved -prudently—not at all prudently. He has played his cards badly. He has -taken up the opposition party—those that were always against the Canon, -whatever he might do. They are good people, and mean well, but—— Oh, -Mrs. Sitwell! I am sure I beg your pardon. I never imagined it was you.’</p> - -<p>There had been a quick little pattering of feet behind them, and Mrs. -Sitwell, out of breath, panting out inquiries after their health and the -health of dear Mrs. Hayward, captured the reluctant pair. She was a -small woman, as light as a feather, and full of energy. She took Joyce -by both her hands. ‘Oh, dear Miss Hayward!’ she cried, breathless, ‘I -ran after you to tell you about the school feast. I hope you don’t -forget your promise. Austin’s coming after me—he’ll be here directly, -but I ran to tell you. To-morrow afternoon in Wombwell’s field. Colonel -Hayward, you’ll bring her, won’t you? I know you like to see the poor -little children enjoying themselves.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear lady,’ said the Colonel, ‘I am distressed to see you so out of -breath.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, that’s nothing. There’s no harm done,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘I am -always running about. Here is Austin to back me up. He will tell you how -I have been calculating upon you, Miss Hayward. Dear, don’t pant, but -tell her. I have told every one you were coming. Oh, don’t disappoint -me—don’t, don’t!’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t help panting,’ said the clergyman; ‘it is my usual state. I am -always running after my wife. But, Miss Hayward, it is quite true. We -want you very much, and she has quite set her heart upon it. I do hope -you will come—as I think you said.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span></p><p>Mrs. Sitwell left Joyce no time to reply. ‘You must, you must, indeed,’ -she said. ‘Ah, Colonel Hayward, I saw what you did. You brought down the -Great Gun upon her. Was that fair? when we had been so fortunate as to -see her first, and when she had begun to take to us. And whatever he may -say, you are in our district. Of course the parish includes everything. -I think that man would like to have all England in his parish—all the -best people. He would not mind leaving us the poor.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, Dora,’ said her husband. ‘I don’t wonder you should form a strong -opinion: but we must not say what is against Christian charity.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, charity!’ cried the clergyman’s wife; ‘I think <i>he</i> should begin. I -am sure he told Miss Hayward that she was to have nothing to do with us. -Now, didn’t he? I can read it in your face. Austin himself, though he -pretends to be so charitable, said to me when we saw him talking, “Now -you may give up all hopes;” but I said, No; I had more opinion of your -face than that. I knew you would stick to your first friends and hold by -your word.’</p> - -<p>‘You ought to be warned, Miss Hayward,’ said the Rev. Austin Sitwell; -‘my wife’s quite a dangerous person. She professes to know all about you -if she only sees your photograph—much more when she has the chance of -reading your face.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t betray me, you horrid tell-tale,’ said his wife, threatening him -with a little finger. There was a hole in the glove which covered this -small member, which Joyce could not but notice as it was held up; and -this curious colloquy held across her bewildered her so much, that she -had scarcely time to be amused by it. For one thing, there was no need -for her to reply. ‘But I do know the language of the face,’ said Mrs. -Sitwell. ‘I don’t know how I do it, it is just a gift. And I know Miss -Hayward is true. Wombwell’s field at three o’clock to-morrow afternoon. -You won’t fail me! Colonel Hayward, you’ll bring her, now won’t you? or -it will quite break my heart.’</p> - -<p>‘Sooner than do that, my dear lady,’ said the Colonel, with his hat in -his hand——</p> - -<p>‘Ah, you laugh—you all laugh; you don’t think what it is to a poor -little woman trying to do her best. Good-bye, then, good-bye till -to-morrow—Wombwell’s field. I shall quite calculate on seeing you. My -love to dear Mrs. Hayward. Tell her we got the cakes this morning—such -lovely cakes. I shall keep a piece for my own chicks. Good-bye, -good-bye.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank heaven, Joyce, my dear,’ said the Colonel piously, ‘we have got -away without any pledge. If Elizabeth had only been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> there! but I don’t -think she is very sure herself which side she is on. The Canon is the -head of the parish, to be sure, and a sort of an old friend besides; but -these young people take a great deal of trouble. And we were all -instrumental in getting this new church built, so I think we ought to -stand by them. But, thank goodness, we neither said one thing nor -another. So we can’t be blamed, my dear, neither you nor I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">As</span> it turned out, they all went to the school feast.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward was not quite sure, as the Colonel had said, which side she -was on. The Canon had a great influence over her, as he had over most of -the ladies in the parish; but the Canon had a way of making jokes about -India and her husband’s youth, which were apt to turn Mrs. Hayward -sharply round to the other side. When the Colonel reported to her all -that happened, and the meeting in the road, and Canon Jenkinson’s -questions, Elizabeth’s suspicions were at once aroused. ‘What did you -tell him?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I said exactly what you told me, my dear. I don’t quite approve of -it—but I wouldn’t run the risk of contradicting you——’</p> - -<p>‘And what did he say?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, a little flushed by this rapid -questioning, ‘he said something about “your first poor wife"—which was -quite natural—for he knows that we have no——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs. Hayward cried indignantly. ‘I knew he was just the man -to make references of that sort.’ And after a few minutes she added, ‘I -think we’ll go to the school feast. It will please the Sitwells, who -have a great many difficulties, and who do the very best they can for -their people; and it will show the Canon——’</p> - -<p>‘But I assure you, my dear——’</p> - -<p>‘You have no occasion to assure me of anything, Henry—I hope I know him -well enough. He is just the sort of man,’ Mrs. Hayward said. And on the -next afternoon she dressed very well indeed, as for one of the best of -her afternoon parties, and went to the school feast. To see her going in -at the swinging-gate, with Joyce and the Colonel following in her train, -was a very fine sight. But the group was not so conspicuous as it might -have been, from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> the fact that a great many people equally fine had -already gathered in Wombwell’s field, where the Sitwells, though they -were poor, had gone to the expense of having a tent put up,—an -extravagance which the people who shared their humble hospitalities did -not forget for many a long day. It was not a school feast only, but a -demonstration of the faction of St. Augustine’s as against the parish. -Mrs. Sitwell had worked for this great end with an energy worthy of the -best of causes. She had not neglected any inducements. ‘The Haywards are -coming,’ she said, ‘with their daughter, you know,—the young lady whom -no one ever heard of before. I am sure there is some mystery about that -daughter.’ This was how it was that she had been so anxious and -importunate with Joyce.</p> - -<p>It was the very first occasion on which Joyce had found herself among a -company of ladies and gentlemen as one of themselves, and she had not at -all expected it. She had gone expecting to find children, among whom she -was always at home,—poor children who, though they would be English, -and talk with that accent which, to Joyce’s unaccustomed ears, meant -refinement almost as extraordinary as the strange acquirement of -speaking French, which continues to astonish unaccustomed travellers on -the other side of the Channel—would still be not so much unlike Scotch -children that one used to them should not find means of making friends. -She had made sure that there would be some young woman in charge of them -with whom, perhaps, she might be allowed to make acquaintance, who would -tell her how she managed, and what were her difficulties, and which was -the way approved in England. In short, Joyce had looked forward -wistfully to a momentary half-clandestine return to what had heretofore -been her life. It was disappointing to go in company with her father and -his wife, who would be on the outlook to see that she did not commit -herself. But then, on the other hand, she was unexpectedly reinforced by -the arrival of Captain Bellendean, in whom she found a curious support -and consolation. He knew—that she was Joyce the schoolmistress, not a -fine young lady. That of itself felt like a backing up—just as it had -been a backing up in the old times that the lady at Bellendean knew that -perhaps she was not altogether Joyce the schoolmistress, but Joyce the -princess, Lady Joyce, if all were known.</p> - -<p>But when Joyce found herself in the midst of this well-dressed company, -and understood that she was, so to speak, quite accidentally plunged -into the world, a great tremor came over her. The scene was very -animated and pretty, though not exactly what it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> professed to be. -Wombwell’s field was a large grassy space, very green and open, -surrounded on three sides by overhanging foliage, and with a few trees -at the upper end, where the ground sloped a little. In the flat ground -at the bottom the travelling menageries which visited Richmond were in -the habit of establishing themselves from time to time, whence its name. -The round spot created by innumerable circuses showed upon the grass; -but beyond the turf was of unbroken greenness, and there stood the -little tent within which tea was dispensed to the company. The children -were at the other end of the field occupied with divers games, with a -few of the faithful of the district superintending and inspiring. But -Joyce found herself not in that division of the entertainment, where she -might have been at her ease, but in the midst of all the well-dressed -people—the people who knew each other, and exchanged greetings and -smiles and polite conversation.</p> - -<p>‘Dear Mrs. Hayward, how kind of you to come to our little treat! Dear -Miss Hayward, how sweet of you to remember! Colonel, you are always so -kind; I am sure you have been working for me,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, -meeting them with extended hands. She was beaming with smiles and -delight. ‘I asked a few friends to look in, and people are so kind, -everybody has come. It is quite an ovation! Dear Austin is quite -overcome. It is such an encouragement in the face of opposition to find -his friends rallying round him like this.’</p> - -<p>‘Why are his friends rallying round him?’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I -thought it was a school feast.’</p> - -<p>‘And so did I,’ said Joyce, looking somewhat piteously round her, and -wistfully at the children in the distance. The Colonel and Mrs. Hayward -had both been swallowed up by the crowd. They were shaking hands with -all their acquaintances, exchanging smiles and remarks. Joyce said to -herself, with a thrill of mingled alarm and self-congratulation, What -should I have done had not the Captain been here?</p> - -<p>Norman looked round upon the company, though with different feelings -from those of Joyce. ‘I don’t know a soul,’ he said, with a little -amusement—the consciousness, so soon acquired by a man who has been for -however short a time ‘in society’—not only that it is a very -extraordinary thing to know nobody, but also that the people among whom -he cannot find a single acquaintance cannot be of much account.</p> - -<p>‘And neither do I,’ said Joyce, with a wistful look. Her feeling was -very different. She was a little fluttered by the sight of so many -people, and looked at them with a longing to see a face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> she knew, a -face which would smile upon her. She met many looks, and could even see -that there were little scraps of conversation about her, and that she -was pointed out to one and another; but there was no greeting or -recognition for her among the pleasant crowd. She turned round again, -very grateful, to the Captain, whose society sustained her—but, alas! -the Captain had been spied and seized upon by Lady St. Clair, and Joyce -felt herself left alone. She looked wistfully at the collection of -daughters who surrounded Lady St. Clair, ready to claim acquaintance -with a smile if the Miss St. Clair who had called should be among the -array. But either the Miss St. Clair who had called was not there, or -else she had forgotten Joyce. She stood for a moment shy yet desolate, -not knowing where to turn; then, with a little sense of taking flight, -moved quickly away to where the children were.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Hayward, Miss Hayward!’ cried a voice behind. She paused, glad -that some one cared enough to stop her, and saw Mr. Sitwell hastening -after her, with a young man following closely,—a very young man in the -long coat and close waistcoat which were quite unusual things to Joyce. -‘You are so kind as <i>really</i> to wish to help with the children? Let me -introduce my young friend and curate, Mr. Bright; he will take you to -them,’ the clergyman said.</p> - -<p>The other little clergyman made his bow, and said how fortunate they -were in having such a fine day, and what a pretty party it was. ‘I -always think this is such a nice place for outdoor parties: not so nice -as one’s own lawn, of course—but if one has no lawn, what can one do? -In most places there is no alternative but a vulgar field. Now this is -quite pretty—don’t you think it is quite pretty, Miss Hayward?’</p> - -<p>‘There is so much green, and such fine trees, that everything here is -pretty,’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘You put it much more nicely than I did; but I’m so glad you like the -place; and how very gratifying for the Sitwells! It really was time that -there should be a demonstration. After beguiling Sitwell here with such -large promises, to have the rectory set itself against him! But there is -a generosity about society, don’t you think, Miss Hayward, as soon as -people really see the state of affairs. It will be a dreadful slap in -the face for Jenkinson, don’t you think?’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed——’ Joyce had begun, meaning to say she was too ignorant to -form an opinion, but her new companion did not wait for the expression -of her sentiments.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, indeed—you are quite right; and for Mrs. Jenkinson,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> who, between -ourselves, is a great deal worse than the Canon. Every one who comes to -St. Augustine’s she seems to think is taking away something from her. -That is the greatest testimonial we can give to the ladies,’ said the -little gentleman, with a laugh; ‘when they are disagreeable, they are so -very disagreeable—beyond the power of any man. But, fortunately for us, -that happens very seldom.’ The curate glanced up for the smile of -approval with which his little sallies were generally received, but -getting none, went on again undismayed. ‘Which kind of children do you -like, Miss Hayward,—the quite little ones, the roly-polies, or the big -ones? I prefer the babies myself: they roll about on the grass like -puppies, and they are quite happy—whereas you have to keep the other -ones going. Miss Marsham takes the big girls in hand. You must let me -introduce her to you. She is our great stand-by in the district—a -little peculiar, but such a good creature. Well, Miss Marsham, how are -you getting on here?’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, oh, very well. We always do nicely. We have been playing at -Tom Tidler’s ground. We just wanted some one to take the head of the -other side. Oh, Mr. Bright,’ cried this new personage, clasping her -hands together, ‘what a pleasure for everybody; what a good thing; what -a thorough success!’</p> - -<p>‘Isn’t it?’ cried the curate; and they both turned round to look down -upon the many-coloured groups below with beaming faces.</p> - -<p>‘Nobody can say now that St. Augustine’s was not wanted,’ said the lady.</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed; I have just been saying to Miss Hayward what a slap in the -face for the Canon,’ the gentleman added, again giving vent to his -feelings in a triumphant laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, is this Miss Hayward?’ said Miss Marsham, offering her hand to -Joyce. She was a thin woman, with long meagre arms, and hands thrust -into gloves too big for her. Without being badly dressed, she had the -general air of having been taken out of a wardrobe of old clothes: -everything she wore being a little old-fashioned, a little odd, badly -matched, and hanging unharmoniously together. Even those gloves, which -were too big, had the air of having had two hands thrust into them at -random, without any thought whether or not they were a pair. But the old -clothes were all of good quality; the little frills of lace were what -ladies call ‘real,’ not the cottony imitations which are current in the -present day. She had a worn face, lit up by a pair of soft brown eyes, -in which there was still a great deal of sparkle left, when their owner -pleased.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘I have heard so much of you,’ she said. ‘Dear Mrs. Sitwell takes such -an interest! it is so very kind to come and see how the children are -getting on: and here they are all waiting for their game. Mr. Bright, -you must take the other side. Now then, children, I hope that is high -enough for you. Come on.’</p> - -<p>Joyce stood by with great gravity while the game proceeded—Mr. Bright -and Miss Marsham making an arch with their joined hands, through which -the children streamed. The curate, no doubt, would have taken this part -of his duties quite simply if it had not been for the presence of this -spectator, whose momentary smile died off into a look of very serious -contemplation as she stood by, taking no part in the fun, which, with -the stimulus of Mr. Bright’s presence, grew fast and furious. Joyce -could not have told why she felt so serious. She stood looking on at -Miss Marsham’s old clothes on the one side—the thin wrist, with its -little edge of yellow lace, the big glove, made doubly visible by the -elevation of the hand—and Mr. Bright in his neat coat, falling to his -knee, extremely spruce in his professional blackness, against the vivid -green of the sloping field. Joyce thought him very good to do it, nor -was she conscious of any ridicule. She compared Mr. Bright with the -minister at home, who would have looked on as she herself was doing, but -certainly would not have joined in the play: and she thought that the -children were very much made of in England, and should be very happy. -Presently, however, Mr. Bright detached himself from the game, and came -and joined her.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid you thought me a great gaby,’ he said; ‘but at a school -feast, you know, one can’t stand on one’s dignity.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘it was I that was the great—— for not joining -in. I should like to do something; but I don’t know what would please -them.’</p> - -<p>‘Something new to play at,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I always ask strangers -if they can’t recommend something new. Look, look!’ she cried, suddenly -clutching the curate’s arm; ‘do you see? the Thompsons’ carriage, his -very greatest supporters! Dear me, dear me! who could have thought of -that!’</p> - -<p>‘And Sir Sam himself,’ said the curate exultantly. ‘Well, this is -triumph indeed. I must go and see what they say.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir Sam himself,’ said Miss Marsham musingly. ‘Do you know, Miss -Hayward, if you will not think it strange of me to say it, I am -beginning to get a little sorry for the Canon. It is not that Sir Sam is -such a great person. He is only a soap-boiler, or something of that -sort; but he is enormously rich, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> Canon has always been by way -of having him in his pocket. Whatever was wanted, there was always a big -subscription from Sir Sam. Yes, dear, by all means. Hunt the Slipper is -a very nice, noisy—— You will think it very queer, Miss Hayward, but I -<i>am</i> beginning to get sorry for the Canon. I can’t help recollecting, -you know, the time before St. Augustine’s was thought of. Yes, yes, my -dear; but let me talk for a moment to the young lady.’</p> - -<p>‘I know so little,’ said Joyce,—‘scarcely either the one or the other.’</p> - -<p>‘And you must think us so frivolous,’ said the kind woman, with a sigh. -‘The fact is, I was very anxious it should be a success. St. Augustine’s -was very much wanted—it really was. There are such a number of those -people that live by the river, you know—boatmen, and those sort of -people—and so neglected. I tried a few things—a night-school, and so -forth; but by one’s self one can do so little. Have you much experience, -Miss Hayward, in parish work?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, none—none at all.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Miss Marsham, with a sigh, ‘that’s how one’s illusions go. I -thought you would be such a help. But never mind, my dear, you’re very -young. Oh, you’ve begun, children, without me! All right, all right; I -am not disappointed at all. I want to talk to this young lady. They -think we care for it just as much as they do,’ she went on turning to -Joyce; ‘but if truth be told, I am a little stiff for Hunt the Slipper. -And you can’t think how good the Sitwells are. He is in the parish—I -ought to say the district—morning, noon, and night. And she—well, if I -did not know she had three children, and did everything for them -herself, and really only one servant, for the other is quite a girl, and -always taken up with the baby—besides her work about the photographs, -you know—I should say she was in the parish too, morning, noon, and -night.’</p> - -<p>Joyce stood and looked down upon the people flitting in and out of the -tent, arranging and rearranging themselves in different groups, and on -the rush of the hosts to the swinging-gate, at which a fat man and a -large lady were getting down, and listened to the narrative going on in -her ear with the accompaniment of the cries and laughter of the -children, all in that tone which, to her northern ears, was high-pitched -and a little shrill. How strange it all was! She might have fallen into -a new world. It was curious to listen to this new opening of human life; -but she was young, and not enough of a spectator to be able to -disengage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> herself, and be amused with a free mind by the humours of a -scene with which she had nothing to do. She looked still a little -wistfully at the little crowd, where there was nobody who knew anything -of herself, or thought her worth the trouble of making acquaintance -with. Joyce had not heard any fine conversation as yet, nor had she -encountered any of the wit or wisdom which she had expected; but still -she could not free herself from the idea that to be among the ladies and -the gentlemen would be more entertaining than here, with Miss Marsham -giving her a sketch of the history of the Sitwells and the church -controversies of the place, and the school children quite beyond her -reach playing Hunt the Slipper in the background. She was much too young -to take any comfort in the thought that such is life, and that the gay -whirl of society very often resolves itself into standing in a corner -and hearing somebody else’s private history, not always so innocent or -from so benevolent a historian.</p> - -<p>But presently, and all in a moment, the aspect of affairs changed for -Joyce. It changed in a completely unreasonable, and, indeed, altogether -inadequate way,—not by an introduction among the best people, the crowd -whose appearance filled the clergyman and his wife, and all their -retainers, with transports a trifle short of celestial; not in making -acquaintance with Sir Sam Thompson, the soap-boiler, whose appearance -was the climax of the triumph—a climax so complete that it turned the -scale, and made the Sitwells’ hard-hearted partisan sorry for the Canon. -None of these great things befell Joyce. All that happened was the -appearance of a tall individual, separating himself from the crowd, and -walking towards her from the lower level.</p> - -<p>‘Here is a gentleman coming this way,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I don’t think -he is one of the school committee, or any one I know. But I am rather -short-sighted, and I may be mistaking him for some one else, as I do so -often. Dear Miss Hayward, I am sure you must have good eyes: will you -look and tell me. Ah, I see you know him.’</p> - -<p>‘It is Captain Bellendean,’ said Joyce. Her musing face had grown -bright.</p> - -<p>‘Who is Captain Bellendean? Does he take an interest in Sunday schools? -Is he——’ Here Miss Marsham turned to look at her companion, and -though she was short-sighted, she was not without certain insights which -women seldom altogether lose. ‘Oh!’ she said, and, with a subdued smile -and a sparkle out of her brown eyes, which for a moment made her -middle-aged face both young and bright, returned to the children who -were playing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> Hunt the Slipper, and though she had said she was too -stiff for that game, was down among them in a moment as lively as any -there.</p> - -<p>It is to be doubted whether Joyce was conscious that her friend of ten -minutes’ standing had left her, or how she left her. She stood looking -down upon the same scene, her face still full of musing, but touched -with light which changed and softened every line. ‘I have been looking -for you everywhere,’ said Captain Bellendean; ‘when I got free of that -rabble you were nowhere to be seen. I might have thought you would turn -to the children, who have some nature about them. And so I had the sense -to do at last.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you call them rabble?’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Not if it displeases you,’ he said. ‘But what are they after all? -Society is always more or less a rabble, and here you get it naked, -without the brilliancy and the glow which takes one in town.’</p> - -<p>Perhaps Captain Bellendean had not found himself so much appreciated as -he thought himself entitled to be in town, and thus produced these -sentiments, which are so common, with a little air of conviction, as if -they had never been heard before. And indeed, save in books, where she -had often met them, Joyce had never heard them before.</p> - -<p>‘And yet,’ said Joyce, ‘when educated people meet—people that have read -and have seen the world—it must be more interesting to hear them talk -than—than any other pleasure.’</p> - -<p>‘May we sit down here? the grass is quite dry. Educated people? I am -sure I don’t know, for I seldom meet them, and I’m very uninstructed -myself. But I’ll tell you what, Miss Joyce, you are the only educated -person I know. Talk to me, and I will listen, and I have no doubt it -will be far more entertaining to me than any other diversion; but -whether it may have the same effect on you——’ he said, looking up to -her from the grass upon which he had thrown himself, with inquiring -eyes.</p> - -<p>Oh, Andrew Halliday! whose boast was education, who would have tackled -her upon the most abstruse subjects, or talked Shakespeare and the -musical glasses as long as she pleased,—how was it that the soldier’s -brag of his ignorance seemed to Joyce far more delightful than any such -music of the spheres?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Norman Bellendean</span> appeared very often at Richmond. He made what Mrs. -Hayward considered quite an exhibition of himself at that school -feast—in a way which no man had any right to do, unless—— People -asked who he was—a distinguished-looking man, and quite new to society -in Richmond. It is well known that in the country a man who is really a -man—neither a boy of twenty nor an aged beau masquerading as such—is -always received with open arms. Half a dozen ladies, with water-parties, -or dances, or some other merrymaking in hand, asked Mrs. Sitwell -anxiously who her friend was. ‘And could you induce him to come to my -dance on the 23d?’ or to my picnic, or whatever it might be. He formed -in some degree the climax of that most successful entertainment; for the -little clergywoman was too clever to confess that in reality she knew -nothing whatever about Captain Bellendean. She replied evasively that -she did not know what his engagements were,—that he had only come from -town for that afternoon; and so got herself much worship in the eyes of -all around, who knew how very difficult it was, what an achievement -almost impossible, to get a man to come from town, while still the -season lingered on. It was just as well, the disappointed ladies said; -for a man who could <i>afficher</i> himself, as he had been doing with that -Miss Hayward, was either an engaged man, and so comparatively useless, -or a dangerous man, who had better be kept at arm’s-length by prudent -mothers with daughters. An engaged man, as is well known, is a man with -the bloom taken off him. He cannot be expected to make himself agreeable -as another man would do—for either he will not, being occupied with his -own young lady, or else he ought not, having a due regard to the -susceptibilities of other young ladies who might not be informed of his -condition. And to see him sitting on the grass at Joyce’s feet was a -thing which made a great impression upon two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> people—upon Lady St. -Clair, who knew Norman’s value, and whose heart had beat quicker for a -moment, wondering if it was for Dolly, or Ally, or Minnie, or Fanny, -that the Lord of Bellendean had come; whereas it appeared it was for -none of them, but for the Haywards, and that stiff girl of theirs. The -other person was Mrs. Hayward herself, who, after all the trouble she -had been at in making up her mind to Joyce, thus found herself, as it -seemed, face to face with the possibility of being released from Joyce, -which was very startling, and filled her with many thoughts. It would, -no doubt, be a fine termination to her trouble, and would restore the -household to its original comfortable footing. But besides that she -grudged such wonderful good luck to a girl who really had done nothing -to deserve it, Mrs. Hayward felt that, even with Joyce married, things -could not return to their old happy level. No revolution can be undone -altogether; it must leave traces, if not on the soil over which it has -passed, at least on the constitution of affairs. The house could never -be, even without Joyce, as easy, as complete, as tranquil, as before it -was aware that Joyce existed. Therefore her mind was driven back into a -chaos of uncertainties and disagreeables.</p> - -<p>Besides, it was not in the abstract a proper thing for a man to -<i>afficher</i> himself in such a way. It was wrong, in the first place, -unless he was very certain he meant it, compromising the girl; and even -if he meant it, it was an offence against decorum, and put the girl’s -mother, or the person unfortunately called upon to act in the place of -the girl’s mother, in a most uncomfortable position; for what could she -say? Should she be asked, as it would be most natural that people should -ask, whether it was a settled thing, what answer could she make? For she -felt sure that it was not a settled thing,—nothing indeed but a caprice -of this precious Captain’s. To amuse himself, nothing but that! And yet -she felt with an angry helplessness, especially galling to Elizabeth, -who had hitherto commanded her husband with such absolute ease and -completeness, that this was a case in which she could not get the -Colonel to act. He would not bring the man to book: he would not ask him -what he meant by it. Of this Mrs. Hayward was as certain as that night -is not day. Colonel Hayward could not be taught even to be distant to -the Captain. He could not behave coldly to him; and as for herself, how -could she act when the father took no notice? This was one of the things -which, even under the most skilful management, could not be done.</p> - -<p>It kept Mrs. Hayward all the more anxious that young Bellen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span>dean -continued to appear from time to time without invitation, sometimes -indeed bringing invitations of his own. Twice there was a water-party, -the first time conducted by Mrs. Bellendean, and to which a party came -from town, including Greta—a large and merry party, which the St. -Clairs were asked to join as well as the Haywards. The gratification of -this, which brought her into bonds of apparent intimacy with Lady St. -Clair, her most important neighbour, threw a pleasant mist over Mrs. -Hayward’s sharpness of observation; but she was suddenly brought back to -her anxieties by remarking the eagerness of Mrs. Bellendean to have -Joyce with her on the return voyage. Joyce had been in Norman’s boat on -the way up the stream, while Greta sat sedately by her elder relative; -but in coming back Mrs. Bellendean had shown so determined a desire for -Joyce, that the Captain’s plans were put out. Mrs. Hayward, till that -time rapt in the golden air of the best society, feeling herself -definitely adopted into the charmed circle of ‘the best people,’ had -forgotten everything else for the moment, when she suddenly became aware -of a little discussion going on. ‘Joyce, you must really come with me. I -have scarcely had the chance of a word. Greta will take your place in -the other boat, and you must—you really must give me your company.’ -‘What is the good of disturbing the arrangement?’ said Norman’s deeper -voice, in a slight growl. ‘Oh, I must have Joyce,’ said the other. And -Mrs. Hayward, looking up, saw a little scene which was very dramatic and -suggestive. The Captain, in his flannels, which are generally a very -becoming costume, making his dark, bronzed, and bearded face all the -more effective and imposing, stooping to hold the boat which Joyce had -been about to enter, looking up, half angry, half pleading, as his -glance was divided between the two ladies. Joyce’s foot had been put -forward to step on board, when her elder friend caught her arm; and Mrs. -Hayward’s keen eyes observed the change of expression, the sudden check -with which Joyce drew back. And the change was effected, notwithstanding -the Captain’s opposition. Mrs. Hayward did the girl the justice to say -that she did not look either dull or angry when she was transferred to -the other boat; but she was subdued—sedate as Greta had been, and as -was suited to the atmosphere of the elder people. The Colonel, it need -not be said, was among the younger ones, making himself very happy, but -not pleased, any more than his inferior officer, to have Joyce taken -away.</p> - -<p>This little episode was one concerning which not a word was said. The -immediate actors made no remark whatever, either<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> good or bad. Mrs. -Bellendean held Joyce’s hand in hers, and talked to her all the way with -the tenderest kindness; and save that she had fallen back into more of -her ordinary air, and was serious as usual, Joyce showed no -consciousness that she had been removed from one boat to another, <i>pour -cause</i>. Was she aware of it? her step-mother asked herself; did she -know? Mrs. Hayward replied to herself that a woman is always a woman, -however inexperienced, and that she must know: but did not specify in -her thoughts what the knowledge was.</p> - -<p>And in the evening, when all was over, when the visitors had departed -after the cold collation which Mrs. Hayward thought it necessary to have -prepared for them on their return, though that had not been in the -programme of the day’s pleasure—she held a conversation with the -Colonel on the subject, which gave much information to that unobservant -man. ‘Did you tell me, Henry,’ she said, opening all at once a sort of -masked battery upon the unsuspecting soldier, pleasantly fatigued with -his party of pleasure, ‘or have I only imagined, that there was some -man—in Scotland—some sort of a lover, or engagement, or -something—that had to do with Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear!’ the Colonel cried, taken by surprise.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but tell me. Did I dream it, or did you say something?’</p> - -<p>‘There was a man,’ the Colonel admitted, with great reluctance, ‘at the -cottage that day, who said—— But Joyce has never spoken to me on the -subject—never a word.’</p> - -<p>‘But there was a man?’ Mrs. Hayward said.</p> - -<p>‘There was a man: but entirely out of the question, quite out of the -question, Elizabeth. You would have said so yourself if you had seen -him.’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind that. Most likely quite suitable for her in her former -circumstances. But that is not the question at all. What I wanted to -know was just what you tell me. There was a man——’</p> - -<p>‘I have never heard a word of him from that day to this. Joyce has never -referred to him. I hope never to hear his name again.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Hayward, opposing the profound calm of a spectator to -the rising excitement of her listener. ‘I wonder, now, what he would -think of Captain Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘Of Bellendean? why, what should he think? What is there about -Bellendean to be thought of? Yes, yes, himself of course, and he’s a -very fine fellow; but that is not what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean to say, Henry, that you did not remark how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> the Captain, as -she calls him, <i>affiches</i> himself everywhere—far more than I consider -becoming—with Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘<i>Affiches</i> himself! My dear, I don’t know exactly what you mean by -that. So many French words are used nowadays.’</p> - -<p>‘Makes a show of himself, then—marks her out for other people’s -remark—can’t see her anywhere but he is at her side, or her feet, or -however it may happen. Why, didn’t you remark he insisted on having her -in his boat to-day, and paid no attention to the young lady from town -who was of his own party and came with him, and of course ought to have -had his first care?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I was in that boat. It was natural Joyce should be with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs. Hayward; ‘and accordingly Captain Bellendean, with -that self-denial which distinguishes young men, put out his own people -in order that you might have her near you. How considerate!’</p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth! not more considerate, I am sure, than you would be for any -one who might feel herself a little out of it,—a little strange, -perhaps, not knowing many people,—not with much habit of society.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Henry, you are an old goose,’ was what his wife said.</p> - -<p>But when there was another water-party proposed, she looked very closely -after her step-daughter—not, however, in the way of interfering with -Captain Bellendean’s attentions,—for why should she interfere on behalf -of Greta or any one else? let their people look after them,—but only by -way of keeping a wise control and preventing anything like this -<i>affichement</i>, which might make people talk. Captain Bellendean was a -free man, so far as any one knew; he had a right to dispose of himself -as he pleased. There was no reason why she should interfere against the -interests of Joyce. To be sure, it gave her a keen pang of annoyance to -think of this girl thus securing every gift of fortune. What had she -done that all the prizes should be rained down at her feet? But at the -same time, Mrs. Hayward began to feel a dramatic interest in the action -going on before her eyes—an action such as is a great secret diversion -and source of amusement to women everywhere—the unfolding of the -universal love-tale; and her speculations as to whether it would ever -come to anything, and what it would come to, and when the <i>dénouement</i> -would be reached, gave, in spite of herself, a new interest to her life. -She watched Joyce with less of the involuntary hostility which she had -in vain struggled against, and more abstract interest than had yet been -possible—looking at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> her, not as Joyce, but as the heroine of an -ever-exciting story. The whole house felt the advantage of this new -point of view. It ameliorated matters, both upstairs and down, and, -strangely enough, made things more easy for Baker and the cook, as well -as for Joyce, while the little romance went on.</p> - -<p>All this took place very quickly, the water-parties following each other -in rapid succession, so that Joyce was, so to speak, plunged into what, -to her unaccustomed mind, was truly a whirl of gaiety, before the day on -which Canon Jenkinson called with his wife in state—a visit which was -almost official, and connected with the great fact of Joyce’s existence -and appearance, of which they had as yet taken no formal notice. Mrs. -Jenkinson was, in her way, as remarkable in appearance as her husband. -She was almost as tall, and though there were no rotundities about her, -her fine length of limb showed in a free and large movement which went -admirably with the Canon’s swing. They came into the room as if they had -been a marching regiment; and being great friends, and having known the -Haywards for a number of years, began immediately to criticise all their -proceedings with a freedom only to be justified by these well-known -facts.</p> - -<p>‘So this is the young lady,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said. She rose up to have -Joyce presented to her, and, though Joyce was over the common height, -subdued her at once to the size and sensations of a small schoolgirl -under the eyes of one of those awful critics of the nursery who cow the -boldest spirit. ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear.’ -The Canon’s wife was a very well educated woman, but her English was not -perfect. She used various of those colloquialisms which are growing more -and more common in ordinary talk. The reader will not imagine that, in -reporting such dreadful forms of speech, the writer has any sympathy -with persons who are capable of saying that they are very pleased.</p> - -<p>‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson; ‘how -do you do? I think I ought both to have had information of this -wonderful appearance upon the scene and to have had you brought to see -me; but that is, of course, not your fault: and though late, I am very -delighted to make friends with you. She has a nice face,’ she added, -turning to Mrs. Hayward. ‘I like her face. No doubt she will give you a -great deal of trouble, but in your place I should expect to make -something of a girl with that kind of looks.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure Joyce is very much obliged to you for thinking so well of -her. It remains to be seen what we are to make of each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> other—but I -never pretended to be so clever,’ Mrs. Hayward said.</p> - -<p>‘As for pretending, that is neither here nor there. I want you to tell -me all about it now,—not for my sake, but that I may have something to -answer when people bother me with questions. That is the worst of not -being quite frank. When you make a mystery about anything, people always -imagine there is a great deal more in it. I always say it is the best -policy to make a clean breast of everything at once.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no clean breast to make. I have all along said precisely the -same thing—which is, that she couldn’t possibly have been with us in -India, and that she was brought up by her mother’s friends.’</p> - -<p>‘The first wife,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson; ‘poor thing, I have always heard -she died very young, but never before that she left a child.’</p> - -<p>‘Few people are so clever as to hear everything. You perceive that it -was the case, nevertheless,’ Mrs. Hayward said, with a sparkle in her -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘And I hear you are plunging her into all sorts of gaiety, and that -there is a follower, as the maids say, already, or something very like -one—a Scotch officer, or something of that sort. You are not so pleased -to have her, but what you would be resigned to get rid of her, I -suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t tell what you suppose, or what you may have heard,’ said the -Colonel’s wife. ‘I hope I will do my duty to my husband’s daughter -whatever the circumstances may be.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t mean to throw any doubt upon that; but we were very -surprised,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said.</p> - -<p>In the meantime the Canon had withdrawn to the other side of the room -and called Joyce to him, who had been considerably alarmed by the -beginning of this interchange of hostilities. ‘Come here and talk to -me,’ he said. ‘You have not kept faith with me. I have got a crow to -pluck with you, my new parishioner. You went to that affair of the -Sitwells after all.’</p> - -<p>‘My father took me,’ said Joyce, with natural evasion; and then she -added, ‘but there was no reason I should not go.’</p> - -<p>‘Here’s a little rebel,’ said the Canon; ‘not only flies in my face, but -tells me there’s no reason why she shouldn’t. Come, now, answer me my -question. Are you a good Churchwoman—they turn out very good Church -principles in Scotland when they are of the right sort—or are you a -horrid little Presbyterian? you wouldn’t answer me the other day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘I am a—horrid Presbyterian,’ Joyce said, with an unusual amusement and -sense of humour breaking through her shyness and strangeness. The Canon -was the first person who had touched any natural chord in her.</p> - -<p>‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘Hayward, here’s a pretty business. As if -it were not enough to have a nest of rebels conspiring under my very -nose, here’s a little revolutionary with no respect for any constituted -authority whom you’ve brought among us. But I must teach you the error -of your ways. You shall come and hear me preach my famous sermon on -Calvin, and if after that you find you have a leg to stand upon—but I -suppose you’re ready to go to the stake for your religion, however wrong -it may be proved to be?’</p> - -<p>‘I was never taught,’ said Joyce, with her schoolmistress air, ‘that it -was a religion at all—for them that instructed me said we were all at -one in our religion, and that it was only the forms of Church -government——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you hear that, Hayward! This will never do. I see she means to -convert me. And that’s why she sympathises with these Sitwells and their -demonstrations. You were there too. And they dragged that old boy—that -big Sir Sam—to their place, by way of a little extra triumph over -me—as if I cared for the soap-boiler. And, Hayward, you were there -too.’</p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth,’ said the Colonel abashed, ’as they made so great a point of -it, thought we might as well go.’</p> - -<p>‘And fly in the face of your oldest friend,’ said the Canon. ‘Look here, -I am going to be great friends with this girl of yours. I’ll bring her -over to my side, and she’ll help me to make mince-meat of these St. -Augustine people. What is her name?—Joyce—why, to be sure, that was -her mother’s——’ The Canon’s fine bass dropped into a lower key, and -he broke of with a ‘poor thing, poor thing! Well, my dear, I don’t mean -to stand on any ceremony with you. I mean to call you Joyce, seeing I -have known your father since before you were born. You shouldn’t have -taken him off to that business in Wombwell’s field, and made him take -sides against me.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not know—one side from another,’ said Joyce; ‘and besides, it -was not me.’</p> - -<p>It was very hard for her not to say ‘sir’ to him. He belonged to the -class of men who are in the way of visiting schools, and to whom a -little schoolmistress looks up as the greatest of earthly potentates; -but she resisted the inclination heroically.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t doubt both of these things are true, but you -shall hear all about it. Why, I set up the man!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> It was I who put him in -that district—it was I who got it constituted a district—<i>you</i> know, -Hayward. They were starving in a curacy when I put them there. Not that -I blame Sitwell—it’s that little sprite of a wife of his that is at the -bottom of it all. A little woman like that can’t keep out of mischief. -She runs to it like a duck to the water. And they thought they would -make an end of me by laying hold of that old soap-boiler—old Sam! Soapy -Sam, no doubt she’ll call him—that woman has a nickname for everybody. -She calls me the Great Gun, do you know? If she doesn’t take care she’ll -find that guns, and Canons too, have got shot in them. Why, she’s got -that good old Cissy Marsham away from me—that old fool that is worth -ten thousand soap-boilers.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no,’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘What?’ cried the Canon—‘not worth ten thousand soap-boilers? No, you -are right; I meant ten million—I was under the mark.’</p> - -<p>And then Joyce told her little story about Miss Marsham’s regrets. And -the Canon’s melodious throat gave forth a soft roar of laughter, which -brought a little moisture to his eyes. ‘I always knew I should have you -on my side,’ he said. ‘Here’s this little schismatic extracting the only -little drop of honey there was in all that prickly wilderness—and -laughing in her sleeve all the time to see the Church folks quarrelling. -But don’t you be too cock-sure: for I’ll have you converted and as -stanch a Churchwoman as any in the diocese before Michaelmas—if that -Scotch fellow leaves us the time,’ the Canon said, with another big but -soft laugh.</p> - -<p>That Scotch fellow! Joyce grew very red, and then very pale. There was -only one, as far as she was aware, who could be called by that name. And -how completely she had forgotten him and his existence, and those claims -of his! The shock made her head swim, and the very earth under her feet -insecure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> had been great exultation in St. Augustine’s over the -demonstration. At the lively supper-party which was held in the little -house which the Sitwells occupied, <i>en attendant</i> the parsonage which -had been promised them (it was one of their chief grievances that no -steps had been as yet taken towards carrying out this promise), on the -evening after the school-feast, the parson’s wife had been more -animated, more witty even, than usual. She had made quite a little drama -of the possible scene going on in the rectory, where the Canon and his -wife were supposed to be discussing the matter. She walked about the -room to represent Mrs. Jenkinson panting with rage, demanding, ‘Canon, -what were you doing that you let it be? Why didn’t you stop it? Why -didn’t you interfere? I’d rather have written to the bishop, and had -them turned off on the spot—that man: and that woman! The woman is far -the worst, in my opinion. I am very surprised that you didn’t -interfere!’ Then Mrs. Sitwell puffed herself out so that you would -actually have believed her to be Canon Jenkinson, and made her small -voice into something as like his softly rolling bass as was possible to -so different an organ. ‘If you will consider, my dear, there was nothing -to go to the bishop with. The most contemptible of creatures, even a -curate, is committing no crime when he gets up a school-feast; and he -may even be so abandoned as to give a garden-party, and still his bishop -would not interfere. Bishops have too little power—their hands are -dreadfully tied. If ever I take a bishopric, I hope they’ll be good for -something more——’ ‘I should hope so, indeed!’ cried the imaginary -Canon’s wife in asthmatic pants. ‘The Thompsons too—poor Sir Sam, who -is too good-natured for anything. You will see that odious little woman -will turn him round her finger. He’ll build their parsonage—he’ll back -them up in everything. He’ll get them a grant for their schools, Canon;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> -and it will be your fault if you let him slip through your fingers. -Austin, dear!’ cried little Mrs. Sitwell, suddenly becoming herself, -with her little ingratiating look, and her voice a little thin, -high-pitched, and shrill— ‘Austin, dear! will you turn upon me if I let -him slip out of mine?’</p> - -<p>Austin dear had laughed until he had cried over these sketches of his -ecclesiastical superiors, and so had the Rev. Mr. Bright, and even good -Miss Marsham—for they were well done; and the cleverness with which -this small person made herself into the semblance of two large people -was wonderful. But afterwards Mr. Sitwell shook his head a little. ‘I -hope he will do what you, or rather Mrs. Jenkinson, thinks,’ he said. ‘I -sha’n’t mind how much you turn him round your little finger: but these -fat men are not so easily influenced as you would suppose,’ he added, -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘And, my dear,’ said Miss Marsham, nervously pulling out the little bit -of yellow lace round her wrist, and keeping her eyes upon it, ‘though -you make me laugh—I can’t help it, it is so funny to hear you do -them—yet, you know, if they feel it as much as that, I am sorry. I want -you to get your parsonage, and I want St. Augustine’s to get on. I am -sure if I had money enough I should like, above all things, to give it -you for all your schemes; but I don’t want <i>them</i> to suffer—I don’t, -indeed,’ she said, making a little hole in her lace, and then trying -with nervous efforts to draw it together. Miss Marsham was of opinion, -ever after, that this hole in her old Mechlin was in some way -judicial,—a judgment upon her for having participated, however -unwillingly, in the ridicule of her old friends.</p> - -<p>‘As for Sir Sam, if he resists Mrs. Sitwell, he will be the first who -has done it,’ said Mr. Bright admiringly. He was not aware that she -called him ‘Angels ever Bright and Fair’ when he was not present, and -sang that sacred ditty with all his little airs and graces, so that the -circle permitted to see the performance nearly died with laughter—or so -at least they said.</p> - -<p>But the demonstration was over, and nothing more happened. The sudden -stop which comes to all excitement when it has been stirred up to a -boiling pitch, and afterwards has just to subside again and nothing -happens—is painful. The Sitwells went on from day to day expecting a -letter from Sir Sam, in which he should propose to build the parsonage -(he could so easily!—it would not have cost him a truffle from his -dinner, of which the doctor said he ate far too much), or to start the -subscription for it with a good round sum, so as to induce others to -follow—or, at the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> least, enclosing a cheque for the schools. But -nothing came, not even an invitation to dinner, which would have -afforded an occasion to the parson’s wife to turn the fat gentleman -round her finger, as she had almost engaged to do. Nothing came except, -in a fortnight’s time, an invitation to—a garden-party! Mrs. Sitwell -cried with anger and disappointment when this arrived. She took it in to -her husband in his study, after she had calmed down a little. ‘Look what -I have got!’ she said; ‘an invitation to Alkaleigh—to a -garden-party—next month. What shall I say?’</p> - -<p>‘A garden-party! is that all it has come to?’ cried the parson; and then -he added, angrily, ‘Say we’ve no time for such nonsense—say we never go -to garden-parties—say we’re engaged.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think we should do that. I was very angry too, for the first -moment; but when I came to think of it, I felt sure it was <i>her</i> doing. -Women never want their husbands to give away their money. And at a -garden-party, you know, Austin, there are such opportunities—when you -have your wits about you, and can make use of them.’</p> - -<p>‘It doesn’t seem as if we did much when we had him in Wombwell’s -field—at your command,’ the parson said.</p> - -<p>This change of pronouns was very significant, and the sharp little -clergywoman perceived it instantly. Austin did not like the idea of -wheedling a soap-boiler—especially when it was entirely unsuccessful. -He did not want it to be supposed, even by himself, that he ever -countenanced such unworthy ways. A man cannot (notwithstanding all -Biblical and other warrants for it) control his wife, or get her to -refrain from using her own methods; and so long as it is clearly -understood that he is not responsible for them—— Adam did not object -to the apple,—rather liked it, so far as we have any information; but -he wished it to be known that it was his wife’s doing, not any -suggestion of his. Unfortunately, however, he could not slide out of the -responsibility, as Mr. Sitwell, among a community always disposed to -think it was <i>her</i> doing, was not unhopeful of being able to do.</p> - -<p>‘I gave in to you about making a demonstration,’ he said. ‘It cost a -good deal of money, Dora, and I can’t say I ever heartily approved of -it; but I gave in, thinking you knew more of society than I did, and -that you might be right. And it was a great success, you all said. No; I -don’t say anything against that. I daresay it was a success; but what -has come of it? Nothing at all—except twenty pounds for the schools, -counting that ten of Cissy Marsham’s, which we should have had anyhow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Twenty pounds is always something, Austin,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ignoring -the drawback. ‘And it is a great deal to have made it so fully known. -Sow your bread, don’t you know, by all waters, and it will return to us -after many days.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s all very well, my dear,’ said the parson, a little subdued—for -how is a man of his cloth to answer when you stop his mouth with a text? -He added, however, somewhat dolefully, ‘And not a move about the -parsonage; and if we are to stay here another winter, when not a single -door or window fits, and the rain is always coming in through the -roof——’</p> - -<p>‘We must stay here another winter, and there is an end of it!’ cried his -wife.’ If the subscriptions were full and money to spare, they couldn’t -build the parsonage in four months. You must see the landlord, Austin, -and get him to do something. And we must think of something else to get -up the money; we haven’t tried half the things we might. Why, if the -worst comes to the worst we can have a bazaar. There’s always money to -be made in that way: and private theatricals, and a concert—and——’</p> - -<p>‘Dora, you know I hate bazaars.’</p> - -<p>‘Everybody says so,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘But everybody goes, and -everybody buys, no matter what rubbish it is. People that won’t give a -shilling will spend twenty in materials for making up some trumpery or -other, and twenty more in buying other trumpery that other people have -made. Bazaars must respond to some need of human nature, Austin, which -it has been left to this generation to find out.’</p> - -<p>‘It looks like it,’ says the parson. ‘But don’t talk to me about it, -Dora. If it has to be, I suppose I shall find philosophy enough to -tolerate it when the time comes.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, tolerate it! You will be out and in ten times a day, making pretty -speeches to all the ladies,’ cried little Mrs. Sitwell, with a laugh. -‘Depend upon it, you will find a bazaar responds to some need of your -nature too.’ She said this, though he did not find it out, so exactly in -her husband’s own tone, and with his manner, that she had to laugh -herself at the double joke of her own fun and his unconsciousness. ‘And -“Angels ever Bright and Fair” will enjoy it above all things. He will -wonder how we never thought of a thing so delightfully calculated to -bring people together before.’</p> - -<p>This time it was the parson who laughed, recognising the voice of Mr. -Bright and all his ways, and even his appearance evolved as if by -witchcraft.</p> - -<p>‘You are really incorrigible, Dora,’ he said, turning back to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> -sermon with a mind amused. But he did not know altogether how -incorrigible she was, and that he himself, all innocent and -unsuspecting, had been a victim too.</p> - -<p>‘And I’ll go and see whether I can’t get Joyce to make her father do -something,’ cried the parson’s wife.</p> - -<p>Joyce had been plunged in spite of herself into this new and strange -current of life. The Miss St. Clairs, notwithstanding the momentary -intimacy of the boating party, made few advances towards friendship; but -Mrs. Sitwell was very eager to secure her society, and also her help in -the many activities which absorbed the clergywoman’s busy life. And -there could be no doubt that it was very convenient to Mrs. Hayward that -her step-daughter should have a friend who would relieve herself from -the duty of tolerating Joyce’s constant companionship, and providing for -her entertainment. Joyce, with a singular impartiality and fairness of -mind, herself perceived the advantages of this, and what it must be to -her father’s wife to be now and then free of her presence, and able to -act as if no grown-up daughter, no unexpected much-claiming personage -had ever been in existence. She had a certain sympathy even with Mrs. -Hayward—and she allowed herself to be drawn into the other current, -with wistful yet genuine understanding of its expediency. Indeed, Joyce -went on day by day making discoveries, learning fully only now when she -seemed to have settled into her place in her father’s house, all the -difficulties, the almost impossibilities of it. She felt her disjunction -from her past growing day by day, and that was perhaps the worst of all.</p> - -<p>The very climax of disquietude and distress came upon her suddenly one -day when she was sitting in her room writing her usual letter to Janet, -the long journal-letter which had been her safety-valve in her early -troubles. In the midst of her writing, while she was giving that minute -account of herself and of all her actions, which was everything to her -old grandmother, Joyce suddenly awoke as from a dream, with a burning -blush, and threw away her pen out of her hand, as if it had been <i>that</i> -that was in the wrong. That little implement, which, one way or other, -does so much for us, betraying us, expounding us even to ourselves, -seemed to her for the moment like a tricksy demon drawing out of her -things which it was against her honour to say. She got up suddenly, -pushing away the table and the letter—things that were in the -conspiracy! and with a great deal of agitation walked about the room to -subdue the beating in her heart. How was it she had never felt, never -recognised till now, the difference? Not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> Janet’s child, free to secure -in everything the sympathy of those old people who belonged to her, but -Joyce Hayward, her father’s daughter, bound by a hundred ties, bound -above all to betray his household to no one, not to those who were -dearest to her. Joyce was very miserable for a time over this discovery. -It stopped not only her letter but the whole course of her thoughts. -When she resumed her writing, it was with a poignant sense of unreality, -a feeling that her letter was fictitious, written not to reveal but to -conceal, which took all the comfort and pleasure out of it. She felt -that Janet would read between the lines that it was no longer her Joyce -that was writing, but Colonel Hayward’s daughter. Their relationship -seemed to change in a moment, to become a thing unreal, no longer full -of solace and confidence, but fictitious, strained, and untrue.</p> - -<p>For a time she no longer cared to write at all, making excuses, finding -that she had not time—that to put off till to-morrow was a relief. The -change made her heart sick. She felt as if she had been over again cut -adrift from what she loved best. And yet it had to be. Hers was not the -hand to lift any veil from the doorways of her father’s house, or hand -over its household manners to remark, or take refuge from it in another. -She wrote a longer letter than usual to Janet after that abrupt -awakening, and kissed and cried over it when she sent it away, -redoubling the tender words in which she was usually shy of indulging, -and writing protestations of affection which had been unnecessary, and -which she felt to ring untrue. But how could she better it? It was her -first false letter, yet so loyal—the first little rift within the lute, -and the music was mute already. She accompanied it with many an anxious, -wondering thought, but never knew what Janet thought of it, if Janet had -perceived. If Janet did perceive, she never let her nursling suspect it. -And not a word was said between them; but it is scarcely to be believed -that the acute and keen intellect of the old woman, and her tremulous -sympathy with every movement in the mind of her child, could pass over -that change which to Joyce’s consciousness was so complete.</p> - -<p>To say that the letters to Andrew Halliday grew few and rare would be to -say little. Joyce began to feel the writing of them as the greatest -burden of her life. She did not know what to say to him—how to address -him. His very name made her tremble. Her heart, which had never beaten -two beats quicker for his presence, sank now into depths unknown at the -thought of him. What if he were to come to claim her! That he would do -so one day, Joyce felt a terrifying, awful conviction. And would she be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> -bound to arise and go with him—to leave everything that she was -beginning to love? Joyce knew nothing else that could be done. She had -pledged him her word. To withdraw from it because—because, as she had -said, she was Colonel Hayward’s daughter—how should she do that? He was -the inevitable, standing at the end of all things—a sort of visible -fate.</p> - -<p>Joyce shuddered and turned away from this thought. To escape from it, to -hide her face and not see that image in her pathway, became more and -more a necessity as the days went on. And this was another reason for -finding refuge in the society which was close to her, though it was so -perplexing and unfamiliar. Anyhow, it was more comprehensible than -garden-parties and lawn-tennis, which, to the spirit of the Scotch -peasant which was in her, were inscrutable pleasures regarded with awe. -Joyce did not understand these rites. She understood Mrs. Sitwell’s -schemes a little better, though still with wonderment and many failures -in comprehension. And it took her a long time to find out that the -parson’s wife intended to employ her for the furtherance of her own -purposes, and that it was the novelty of her and her unlikeness to other -people which made her attractive to her new friend. Mrs. Sitwell wooed -Joyce with flattering pertinacity. She showered invitations upon her. -She took the girl into her confidence, telling her how much she wanted, -how little she had, and unbosoming herself about her pecuniary concerns -in a way which horrified her listener. For Joyce had the strong Scotch -prejudice against any confession of poverty or appeal for help. She had -been trained in the stern doctrine that to starve or die was possible, -but not to beg or expose your sorrows to the vulgar eye. When the -parson’s wife told of her poverty, which she was quite willing to do, to -the first comer, Joyce listened with a painful blush, with a sense of -shame. She was very sorry—but horrified to see behind the scenes, to be -admitted thus, as she felt, to the sanctuary which ought to be kept -sacred. But for the woman who had bestowed upon her this painful -confidence, Joyce felt that she must be ready to do everything. It could -not be for nothing that such a confidence was bestowed.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sitwell, for her part, did not care at all for what poor Joyce -considered this exposure of her circumstances. She told her tale with a -light heart. She was not ashamed of being poor. ‘It’s very nice of you -to be so sorry,’ she said. ‘And, my dear, if you would just say a word -to the Colonel, and get him to set things agoing. He could do it quite, -<i>quite</i> easily. If you were to take an opportunity when you are walking -with him, or when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> you have him alone. But I don’t doubt you would have -done that, you kind thing, without being asked——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no,’ said Joyce; ‘I would not have betrayed your confidence, nor -said a word——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my confidence! It is only rich people that can hope to keep their -affairs to themselves. I didn’t want you to make any secret of it. Just -say to your father, who is so kind—whatever you please, my dear. I can -trust you. Say, “Dear daddy, those Sitwells are so poor! don’t you think -you could do something for them?” or any other thing that will please -him and make him think well of us.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Joyce, with a low exclamation of fright and horror. The -suggestion that she should say ‘dear daddy’ put a final crown upon the -extraordinary mission confided to her. But Mrs. Sitwell thought it the -most natural thing in the world.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t do it when Mrs. Hayward is by, that’s all. Oh, she’s an excellent -woman, I know; but it’s always the women, you know, that hold back. But -for the women, we should have had the parsonage long ago; they won’t let -people be liberal. I often say, if there were no ladies in the -parish—oh, what a difference! I shouldn’t be a bit afraid even of the -Great Gun himself.’</p> - -<p>‘You seem to think that it is women who do everything—especially -everything that is bad,’ said Joyce, with a gleam of amusement.</p> - -<p>‘And so it is,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, with a sigh. ‘If one could only get -hold of the gentlemen by themselves. I should like to be the one woman -to make them do all I wanted,’ she continued, with a laugh. She was the -product of a very advanced civilisation, much beyond anything which her -untrained companion knew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Joyce</span>, being so untrained, had, however, but a poor account to give of -her intercession. The Colonel could do nothing without Elizabeth, and -his promise to consult his wife and see what steps could be taken did -not convey much comfort to the parson’s wife. She listened to Joyce’s -account of the manner in which she had fulfilled her commission with a -lengthening face. At the end she jumped up and gave the girl a kiss -which took Joyce very much by surprise. To this inexperienced Scotch -peasant-girl the ways of the English were extravagant and full of -demonstration, as are to English persons the manners of ‘foreigners’ in -general, both being disposed to believe that to show so much was rather -an indication that there was little feeling to show.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you meant it as well as possible,’ she said, ‘but you should -have seized an opportunity and spoken to the dear Colonel when there was -nobody there. Oh, I am sure you are as good as gold—and perhaps if they -will really get up a movement—— But I’ve been promised that so often, I -have not much faith in it. I thought you might just whisper a word to -your dear father, who thinks all the world of you, and the thing would -have been done.’ ‘It is the women,’ continued this oracle, ’as I told -you before, who hold back. If we had only the men to deal with, it would -be much easier to manage. But the women calculate and reckon up, and -they say, “It will be a loss of so much on the year’s income;” or “There -is so and so I wanted to buy; if I let him give the money away, I shall -have to do without it.” That is how they go on. Whereas the men don’t -think; they just put their hands in their pockets, and the thing’s -done—or it isn’t done,’ she added, with a sudden smile, looking up in -Joyce’s face. ‘Never mind,’ she continued, ‘don’t let us make ourselves -unhappy about it. Come and see what I am doing.’ She returned to the -corner from which she had sprung up on Joyc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>e’s entrance. ‘Come and I’ll -show you my workshop, and how I keep the pot boiling,’ she cried.</p> - -<p>The room was divided into two, a larger and a smaller portion, with -folding-doors, as is usual in such small habitations; but these doors -were always open, and Mrs. Sitwell’s corner was at the farther end, -commanding the whole space. Joyce saw with amazement a quantity of small -photographs ranged upon the ornate but rather shabby little desk at -which her friend worked, and which was covered with sheets of paper, -each containing a piece of writing and a number. Mrs. Sitwell took up -one of the photographs and handed it to Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘what would you think was the character of that -gentleman, supposing that you were going to marry him, or to make him -your friend, or to engage him as your butler? What would you think of -him from his face?’</p> - -<p>‘I think,’ said Joyce, bewildered, ‘that I should not be—very fond of -him: but I don’t know why.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you dreadful little critic! why shouldn’t you be fond of him, as -you say? He is quite nice-looking—better than half the men you see. Now -here is what he really is,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, lifting one of the pieces -of paper and handing it to Joyce, who read with amazement: ‘No. -310.—This face is that of a man full of strength and character. The -brow shows great resolution, the eyes much courage and judgment. The -mouth is sensitive, and the nose expresses shrewdness and caution. He -will be very decided in action, but never rash; very steady in his -affections, but slow in forming any ties. There is a great but -suppressed love of art and music in the lines about his eyes.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, dear, do not stare at me so; don’t you think, now you look at him -again, that it’s all true? or perhaps you would like this one better.’ -The second was the photograph of a simpering girl, in that peculiar -combination of stare and simper which only photographs give. ‘Now, don’t -commit yourself,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, with a laugh. ‘Look at the account -of all her perfections before you say anything. “No. 603.—Ethelinda is -a young lady of many qualities. Her eyes show great sweetness of -disposition. She will be very true, and when she gives her heart, will -give it altogether. The lips show a highly sensitive and nervous -disposition, feeling too strongly for her own peace. There are also -signs of much musical power, and of great constancy in love."’</p> - -<p>Joyce put down these two extraordinary literary compositions with -something like consternation. ‘It is perhaps stupid of me,’ she said, -‘not to understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no; it is not stupid at all. Perhaps you have never seen the -<i>Pictorial</i>? It has quite a great circulation, and is very popular. This -is a new branch of the answers to correspondents that made the <i>Family -Herald</i> such a success. Don’t you know the Answers to Correspondents in -the <i>Family Herald</i>? Oh, you must indeed have been brought up out of the -world! But the <i>Pictorial</i> is quite in advance of that. If you send your -photograph to the editor, you receive next week a description of your -character from Myra. Now Myra is me.’</p> - -<p>‘Then those—are going into a newspaper,’ said Joyce, looking at the -pieces of written paper with a mingling of curiosity and shame.</p> - -<p>‘Those—are going into the <i>Pictorial</i>, and they are going to give a -great deal of pleasure to various people, and to put a little money into -my pocket, which wants it very much,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘Now, what -is there to object to in that?’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed,’ said Joyce, ‘I was not thinking of objecting. I was only taken -by surprise.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, with a little moisture enhancing the keen -sparkling of her eyes, ‘that is what you all say, you well-off people, -who never knew what it was to want a sovereign! You are surprised at the -way we poor unfortunates have to take to make a little money. Why, I -would simply do anything for a little money—anything that was not -wrong, of course. You don’t know what money means to us. It means -clothes for the children and a nursemaid to take care of them, and good -food, which they require, and a hundred little things, which you people -who never were in want of them never think of.’</p> - -<p>‘But I was not accustomed to be rich. I know what it means to have -nothing. No,’ Joyce added hurriedly, ‘perhaps that is not true; for when -I had nothing I wanted nothing, and that must be the same thing as -having everything. I find no difference,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Then you don’t know anything about it, just the same. The dreadful -thing is to have nothing and want a great many things—and this is the -case of so many of us. How could we live upon poor Austin’s little pay? -People think a clergyman ought to have private means—but where are we -to get the private means? We have a little something in my family, but -my mother has it for her life. I don’t want my mother to die, who is -always so kind to the children, that I may get my little share. It would -only be a few hundred pounds, after all. And Austin’s people thought -they did enough for him when they gave him his education, as they call -it—sending him to Oxford to learn expensive habits. A great deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> too -much is made of education,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘I don’t think I -shall take any trouble about education for my children. They get on -better without it, in my opinion.’</p> - -<p>This dreadful assertion made Joyce gasp with horror. Not take any -trouble about education!—which was the only thing in all the world to -take trouble about. But she did not trust herself to say anything, and -indeed Mrs. Sitwell did not leave her time.</p> - -<p>‘But they <i>shall</i> be comfortable and have things as nice as possible -while they are babies,’ cried the parson’s wife; ‘and when I found out -that I could do this, I was as pleased as Punch. One goes upon rules, -you know—it is not all guess-work; and my opinion is, there is a great -deal in it. Austin says that supposing these people had everything in -their favour, no bad influences or anything of that kind, then what I -find in their faces would be true. Let me see, now. Let me read yours. -You have a great deal that is very nice in you, dear. You are of a most -generous disposition. You would give anything in the world that you had -to give. But you are apt to get frightened, and not to follow it out. -And you are musical—I can see it in your eyes.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I don’t know anything at all about music.’</p> - -<p>‘That has nothing to do with it,’ said Mrs. Sitwell. ‘You would have -been if you had known. And you are <i>very</i> sensitive, dear. You put -meanings upon what people say, and take offence, or the reverse, when -none is meant. You are full of imagination; but you haven’t much -courage. You love people very much, or you dislike them very much. You -are devoted to them, or else you can’t endure them.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I ever do that,’ said Joyce sedately, taking it all with -great gravity.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, of course you have been modified by education, as Austin says. -Nobody is just as nature made them; but that is what you would be if you -had been left alone, you know. I’ll write it all out for you when I have -a little time. Give me back Ethelinda and No. 310. I have a kind of idea -these two simpletons are going to be married, and they want each to know -a little more of the other—that is, you know, they want the prophet to -agree with them; and say this is the sweetest girl that ever was—and -that is the nicest man. And you may be sure that the better you speak of -any one, the more you will agree with what they think of themselves. -When you say they are musical and intellectual, and all that, they think -how wonderful that you should understand them so well! though they may -be the stupidest of people that ever were seen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘But——’ Joyce said, with timidity.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want any buts. You would never let any one do anything if you -were to carry a “but” with you everywhere. If you heard me say to Sir -Sam the soap-boiler what excellent taste he had, and how beautiful his -house was, you would think it was wrong perhaps, and put in that “but” -of yours. But why? Gillow, who did it all, is supposed to have excellent -taste, and poor dear Sir Sam thinks it perfection. And it pleases him to -be told so. Why shouldn’t I please him? If I were of his way of -thinking, I would admire it too; and don’t you see, when you sympathise -with a man, and want to please him, you <i>are</i> of his way of -thinking—for the moment,’ the little lady added. ‘Now just wait a -minute till I finish off my people,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Joyce sat in a bewilderment which had become almost perennial in her -mind, and watched the woman of business before her. Mrs. Sitwell took up -photograph after photograph, examining each with every appearance of the -most conscientious care. She would put down the little portrait, and -write a few sentences, looking at it from time to time as a painter -might look at his model,—then pausing, biting her lips as if some -contradictory feature puzzled her, would take it up again and follow its -lines, sometimes with the end of her pen, sometimes with the point of -her finger, knitting her brows in the deepest deliberation. ‘I wish -people wouldn’t be so much alike,’ she said. ‘I wish they wouldn’t all -show the same traits of character. I can’t make all the ladies -affectionate and musical, and all the men determined and plucky, can -I?—but that’s what they expect, you know. Now here’s one,’ she cried, -selecting a photograph, ‘upon whom I shall wreak my rage. She shall be -everything she wouldn’t like to be; that will make the others laugh who -have got off so much better. I’ll put it as nicely as I can, but she -won’t like it. Listen!—“The brows denote much temper, verging upon the -sullen, against which I warn Arabella to be on her guard. There is a -tendency to envy in the lines of the nose; the thinness of the lips -shows an inclination to the use of language which might develop into -scolding in later life. The eyes show insensibility to love, which might -make her very cruel to her admirers if she has any. Arabella ought to -take great care to obtain a proper command of herself, so as to keep -these dangerous qualities under. There is a strength in all the lines, -which probably will assure her success if she tries; but she will have -much to struggle against. There is something in the form of her chin -which I suspect to mean love of money, if not avarice; and there seem -some traces of greed about the mouth, but of these last I am not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> quite -sure.” There! what do you think of that as a foil? It will make the -others more delighted than ever with their own good qualities.’</p> - -<p>‘And do you see all that in the face?’</p> - -<p>‘Look!’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, placing the photograph before Joyce with a -triumphant movement. It was a heavy, unattractive face, such as hang by -dozens in the frames of poor photographers, and are accepted by the -subjects with that curious human humility which mingles so strangely -with human vanity, and teaches us to be complacent about anything which -is our own. The parson’s wife snatched it back and threw it among the -little heap on the table. ‘Now I have done for to-day,’ she said; ‘and -you know you are going with me round my district. Don’t look so -miserable about Arabella; I have sacrificed her to the satisfaction of -the others—the greatest happiness of the greatest number, don’t you -know? But all the same, it’s all there—every word’s true. I’ve no more -doubt she’s a nasty, ill-speaking, ill-tempered toad, than I have that -you are the nicest girl I know—only it doesn’t always do to say it. If -there were many unfavourable ones, inquirers would fall off. I give them -one now and then to show what I can do when I think proper. Come along. -We’ll take a look at the children first, and then we’ll go—and forget -that there ever was a cheap photograph done. Oh, how I loathe them all!’ -Mrs. Sitwell said.</p> - -<p>They went upstairs accordingly to see the children, of whom there were -three, the youngest being a baby of some seven or eight months old. -‘They are not fit to be seen,’ said the nursemaid, who was maintained by -those photographs.</p> - -<p>‘They have got their nursery overalls on, and not very much underneath,’ -said their mother. ‘We keep our swell things for swell occasions. But -look at those legs!’ Joyce was not deeply learned in babies’ legs, her -experience lying among elder children. But there are few women to whom -the round, soft, infantine limbs—‘the flesh of a little child,’ as the -Old Testament writer says, when he wants to describe perfect health and -freshness—have not a charm, and she was able to admire and praise to -the mother’s full content. ‘Little Augustine—we give him his full name -to distinguish him from his father, and also because of the church—is -really wonderfully clever, though I say it that shouldn’t,’ said Mrs. -Sitwell; ‘and little May is the most perfect little mother! You should -see her taking care of baby! Do you know, I was at my Characters two -days after that boy was born. I couldn’t afford to lose a week! I sat up -in bed and did them. Don’t you think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> it was clever of me?’ she said, -with a laugh, as they went downstairs—‘and never did me the least -harm.’ The rapid succession of aspects in which this little person -disclosed herself took away Joyce’s breath. Her mind was of slower -action than that of her new friend. She had not been able to settle with -herself what she thought of the photographs and the <i>Pictorial</i> and the -sacrifice of the ugly Arabella, when her companion flashed round upon -her in the capacity of the devoted and admiring mother, which softened -her sharp voice, and lit up her face with love and sweetness.</p> - -<p>Joyce had further surprising experiences to go through in the district, -to which she now accompanied the parson’s wife, and where everything was -new to her. She thought within herself, if the minister’s wife had -fluttered into her granny’s cottage in the same way and stirred up -everything, that the reception Janet would have given her would have -been far from agreeable. Yet probably the minister’s wife had more means -of help than Mrs. Sitwell, and the poor women whom she visited more -actual money in the shape of wages than Janet had ever possessed. Joyce -felt herself retire with a shiver, feeling that quick resentment must -follow, when the charitable inquisitor put questions of a more than -usually intimate character—but no such result appeared. And there could -be no doubt about the practical advantage and thorough sympathy of the -visitor. She had a basket in her hand, out of which came sundry little -gifts, and her suggestions were boundless. ‘I have some old frocks of my -boy’s that would just do for that little man. Are you sure you can mend -them and make them up for him?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am, I could try,’ the poor woman would say, with a curtsey.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t believe in trying unless you know how to do it,’ said the -parson’s wife; ‘come up to my house at six, and bring the child, and -I’ll fit them on him, and show you how. You ought to go to the mothers’ -meeting, where they will show you how to cut out and put things -together. It would be so useful to you with all your children.’ ‘Well, -Mrs. Smith,’ she ran on, darting in next door, ‘I hope things are going -on all right with you. Now he’s taken the pledge, you ought to be so -much more comfortable. But, dear me! you are in as great a muddle as -ever.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s took the pledge, but he’s not kep’ it,’ said the woman sullenly.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t wonder, if he has only a house like this to come home to. Why, -if I were in a cotton gown and a big apron like you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> I’d have it all -spick and span in an hour. I wish I could turn to this moment,’ cried -the little lady, quivering with energy, ‘and show you what sort of a -place a man should come home to. Poor Mr. Smith, I don’t wonder he’s -broken the pledge. Why, that poor child makes my heart ache. When did it -have its face washed?’</p> - -<p>‘I haven’t the heart to begin,’ said Mrs. Smith, subsiding into feeble -crying— ‘I’m that ill and weak. And I don’t never get on with anything.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor thing! is that so? I thought you couldn’t be well, you’re so -helpless. I’ll send the mission woman tomorrow morning to put all -straight for you, and you’d better go to the doctor tomorrow and let’s -get at the bottom of it. If you’re ill we must get you set right. I’ll -come and see what the doctor says, and I’ll send you something down for -the man’s supper. But for goodness’ sake wash the baby’s face and get -the place swept up a little before he comes in. That can’t hurt you. -Come, you mustn’t lose heart—we’ll see you through it,’ said the -parson’s wife.</p> - -<p>There could not be a better parson’s wife, Joyce acknowledged, strange -though to her the type was. She petted and humoured the sick children as -if she had been their mother. She sat by a bedridden woman and listened -to a long rambling story about her illness and all its details, with -every appearance of interest and unquestionable patience. And when the -round was got through, she skipped out of the last house with the -satisfaction of a child to have got its task over. ‘Now let’s have a run -down to the river to see the boats, and then home to tea. You are going -to stay with us for tea? I want a good fast nice walk to blow all the -cobwebs out of my head.’</p> - -<p>‘But you must be tired. And it must make your heart sore.’</p> - -<p>‘You say that <i>sore</i> in such a pathetic way,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, -laughing and mimicking Joyce with her soft, low-toned, Scotch voice—an -action which Joyce only detected after a minute or two, and which made -her flush with a troubled sense of being open to ridicule. The sensation -of being laughed at was also a thing to which she was entirely -unaccustomed. ‘But you can’t help them unless you see what they want,’ -the parson’s wife went on. ‘And as half of them will cheat you if they -can, and you must find out the truth from your own observation, not from -what they tell you, you must simply put your heart in your pocket, and -think nothing of its being <i>sore</i>. And as for being tired, I’m never -tired, I have so many different things to do. If they were the same, I -should die of it. We are going to have some fun to-night—we are going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> -to have “Angels ever Bright and Fair” to meet you. Oh! don’t you know -what I mean by “Angels ever Bright and Fair”? I mean Mr. Bright, our -curate. He is the best little man in the world, and he is so pleased you -agree with him, only putting it so much more nicely.’ Then the little -mimic changed her tone, and was more Bright than Mr. Bright himself. ‘He -shall sing that song of his for you, and he will try to make a little -mild love to you, and it will all be great fun. But first let us go on -to the bridge and have a look at the boats.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was the afternoon of a brilliant summer day, and the Thames was full -of water-parties going home, full of frolic and merriment, and pretty -ladies in fine dresses, and men in flannels, in that <i>négligé</i> which -Englishmen alone know how to make agreeable and pleasant to behold. The -sight of all that pleasure had a pleasurable effect upon the parson’s -wife, though she had no share in it. And the charm of the scene—the -river, struck full by the level sunshine which made it blaze, the colour -and movement of the continually passing boats, the more tranquil -river-people about—fishermen in their punts, who had sat there all day -long, and looked ’as steadfast as the scene,’ immovable like the trees -that overhung the water—was delightful to Joyce, who had so soon -acquired associations with that river, and to whom her two expeditions -upon it were the most delightful of her life. She was leaning upon the -bridge, looking over, watching the measured movement of the oars, as a -party of small boats together swept down the stream, and thinking, not -of them, but of her own water-party, and the strange enchantment in -it—when she suddenly saw in one of the passing boats a figure which -made her heart jump with sudden excitement. It was Captain Bellendean, -who was standing up in the stern of the boat behind a gay party of -ladies, steering, which was a difficult operation enough at that moment. -He was too much absorbed in his occupation to look up, but Joyce had no -difficulty in identifying him. His outline, his attitude, would have -been enough for her quick eyes; his face was almost stern in the -intentness with which he was surveying the river, guiding the -deeply-laden boat through the dangers of that passage, amid a crowd of -other boats, many of them manned by very unskilful boatmen,—and -entirely unconscious of her observation.</p> - -<p>The sight of him gave the sensitive girl a curious shock. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> knew very -well that his life was altogether apart from hers, that he must be -engaged in many scenes and many pleasures with which she had nothing to -do, and that the point at which their two lives came in contact at all -was a very narrow one. She knew all this as well as it was possible to -know such an evident matter of fact; and yet, somehow, this sudden proof -of it, and sight of him passing her by, unconscious of her existence, in -the society to which, and not to her, he belonged, had an effect upon -Joyce altogether out of proportion to the easiness of the incident. -Where had he been? Who were the people who were with him? Had it been as -delightful to him as when he had made it a scene of enchantment and -delight to her? She did not ask herself these questions. She only -recognised in one swift moment that there he was in his own life, -altogether unaware of, and unconcerned by, hers. The shock, the -recognition, the instant identification of all these facts, were -complete in a moment—the moment which it took the boat, propelled by -four strong pairs of arms, to shoot within the shadow of the bridge—and -no more.</p> - -<p>‘Why! wasn’t that your friend, Captain Bellendean, standing up steering -that big boat?’ Mrs. Sitwell said.</p> - -<p>Joyce had a curious sensation as if she were standing quite alone, -separate from all the world, and that this was some ‘airy tongue that -syllables men’s names’ echoing in her ears. She heard herself murmur as -if she too were but a voice, ‘Yes, I think so’—while the glowing river -and the drooping trees, and all the gleams of mingled colour, melted and -ran into each other confusedly like the mists of a dream.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure it is. What a wonderful thing when one has all sorts of -things to do, to watch those people who have nothing to do but amuse -themselves! He has been philandering about with his ladies all day, and -probably he will be out at half-a-dozen parties, or lounging in his club -half the night—and the same thing to-morrow and to-morrow. Well, on the -whole, you know I think it must be dull, and not half so good as our own -hard-working life,’ Mrs. Sitwell said; but she sighed. Then turning upon -Joyce with a sudden laugh— ‘I forgot you were one of the butterflies -too.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘only twice’—thinking of those enchanted -afternoons upon the water, and having only half emerged from the curious -haze of enlightenment, of realisation, if such a paradox may be, which -had surrounded her. She thought, but was not sure, that her companion -laughed at this inconsequent reply. Only twice! How strange it was that -these two frivolous <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span>water-parties—mere pleasure, meaning -nothing—should have taken such a place in her life, more than all the -hard work of which Mrs. Sitwell (with a sigh) asserted the superiority! -The school, the labours in which Joyce had delighted, her aspirations, -her Shakespeare class, had all melted away and left no trace; while the -Thames with its pleasure-boats, the mingled voices of the rowers and -their companions, the tinkle of the oars, the sunshine on the water, -appeared to her like the only realities in the haze of her present life. -They came back to her with the most astonishing distinctness when this -sudden glimpse, which felt like a revelation, but was not—how could it -be so?—rather the most ordinary circumstance, the most natural -accident, befell her. It was at least a revelation to her; for it showed -her how distinctly she remembered every incident, every detail, every -word that had been spoken; how the Captain had handed her into the boat; -how she had been placed near him, her father on the other side; how he -had bent over his oar, speaking to her from time to time; how the others -had called to him by the name of Stroke—which at first Joyce had -supposed to be a playful nickname, not knowing what it meant—to mind -his business, to take care what he was about. Joyce did not know why, -but had a curious dazzled sense of his eyes upon her face, of his -attention to her every movement, of the curious change in everything -when she was drawn into the other boat on the way back, and the cloud -that had come over his eyes. All these things were as a picture or a -dream to her, not things she remembered as having been, but which seemed -to go on and continue and be, like an enchanted world, which, having -once come into existence, could never cease.</p> - -<p>Only twice! but remaining always—so that she could go back at her -pleasure, and float again upon the enchanted stream, and hear again the -merry mingled voices, the one of deeper tone sounding through. She -recognised with a strange confusion that this sudden, unexpected sight -of Captain Bellendean steering another boat, with another crew, -disturbed the previous image in her mind in some unexplainable way. It -was like the sudden plunge of a stone into the midst of a still water -full of reflections, breaking up the reflected images, spreading vague -circles of confusion through the lovely unreal world that had been -there. It was unreal altogether, everything, both that which had been -before and that which now was.</p> - -<p>Joyce walked back very soberly by Mrs. Sitwell’s side, vaguely listening -to the lively strain of talk, which conveyed scarcely any idea to her -mind—hearing, answering, knowing nothing, feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> as if the many-sided -practical life in which her companion was so busy, was an unfortunate -and troublesome unreality, breaking into experiences so far more vivid -and true. She was glad to be rid of Mrs. Sitwell for a moment when they -reached the house, where Joyce was to be entertained at tea.</p> - -<p>While its mistress flew about seeing that all was ready, Joyce sat down, -thankful to be alone, very happy to find silence and stillness round -her, even in the little shabby sitting-room, with the faded ornamental -desk and the mystery of the photographs at the other end. She wanted to -think, to make it all out, to realise what had happened. What had -happened! and yet nothing had happened at all. She had seen a boat -floating down, with a score of others, passing under the bridge; and -what was that to her or to any one? A boat passing, a water-party going -down the river, and nothing more. But this was not how it appeared to -Joyce: thinking is one thing and seeing another. Whatever she might say -to herself, what she continued to see was the Captain standing up in the -stern of the long boat, with the steerage-ropes in his vigorous hands, -with that pretty group of ladies in the shadow of his erect -figure,—another world, another life of which she knew nothing at all. -Norman Bellendean had by no means neglected his new friends. Only two -days before he had appeared in the afternoon, and had filled the place -with that something which Joyce did not understand—that influence and -personality which seemed to soften all tones and warm all tints, and -charm the common day into miraculous brightness. She said to herself -that this was society—that interchange of thoughts and feelings which -had always appeared to her the most desirable thing in the world. That -she should have found the charm in the sole possession of a cavalry -officer—who was, it is true, at the same time, a country gentleman, and -the lord and superior of the place which had been her early home, and in -which everybody regarded him with an interest half feudal, half -friendly—did not surprise her, though a cooler head might have found it -a very surprising thing. Joyce believed that Mrs. Bellendean produced -the same charmed atmosphere around her. They were the symbols of all -higher intelligence and finer breeding, and she was not as yet in any -way undeceived, nor suspected any other influence in the delightfulness -of the Captain’s visits—a delight which had begun with the very first -of them, and which had never failed. It was not, therefore, any kind of -jealousy which had sprung up in her mind, even unconsciously. She did -not suspect among the ladies in that boat some special one who might -have all his best looks and words<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> aside. Her mind was not at all in -that conscious phase. She only realised with a curious consternation -that he lived his life in another world—that the days when he was -absent were to him the same as other days, though to her lost in mystery -and the unknown. Where he spent them, with whom he was, mattered -nothing. She was not even curious as to who his companions were. The -wonder, the shock, consisted in the fact that his life had another side -to her absolutely unknown.</p> - -<p>In all this there was no pang of jealous love. She was unaware that -there was love in it, or anything save wonder and disappointment, and a -strange realisation of difference and separation. She did not know where -he had been, or who were with him: he might have passed her very -door—the other side of the hedge—and she would have been none the -wiser. She knew him so well, and yet not at all. Something of the -astonishment with which the primitive traveller recognises the existence -of a hundred circles of human creatures altogether beyond his ken, who -must have gone on living for all those years totally outside of his -knowledge, filled her now. The thought affected her with fantastic pain, -and yet she had not a word to say against it. Her heart made a claim all -unconsciously upon those people who had first awakened its sympathies; -and to pass him on the road, as it were, like this, he not even seeing -her, unexpectant of her appearance, like two strangers, out of reach of -even a passing salutation, was more strange, more overpowering, more -enlightening, than anything, she thought, that had ever happened before.</p> - -<p>The tea after this was bewildering and rather tedious to Joyce. She -wanted to get away to think over her new discovery by herself, and -instead she was compelled to share in an evening of lively wit and -laughter, solidified by much parish talk. A churchwarden, who was no -more than a local tradesman—though one of the ‘best people’—and much -overawed by finding himself there—and good Miss Marsham, were of the -party. Mrs. Sitwell’s voice ran through the whole like the <i>motif</i> of a -piece of music, never lost sight of. ‘You must sing, Mr. Bright, as soon -as you have recovered your voice a little after tea. Eating, we all -know, is very bad for the voice: we will give a little time for tired -nature to restore herself, and then the songster must be heard. Miss -Hayward has never heard you, don’t you know.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not very much to hear. Miss Hayward would not lose much if she -remained in that state of deprivation.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we don’t think so,—do we, Mr. Cosham? What would the choir do -without him? By the way, that dear boy of yours is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> coming on famously. -He must have a solo in the anthem on our Saint’s day. He is quite like a -cherub in his white surplice. That is one thing the Canon envies us. He -would give his little finger to have a surpliced choir—but they won’t -let him! Though he is so tyrannical to us, he has to knock under to all -the old women who sit upon him. They call it sitting under him, but I -don’t. Do you, Mr. Cosham?’</p> - -<p>‘Really, ma’am,’ said the churchwarden, with his mouth full, ‘you put it -so funnily, one can’t help laughing;’ and with humility, putting up his -hand to conceal it, he indulged in an apologetic roar.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, let’s laugh a little—it does nobody any harm,’ said the parson’s -wife. ‘What I should delight in would be to have a band for the -festival: it might be amateur, you know; there are so many amateurs -about the world that want nothing for it—that are too glad to be -allowed to play.’</p> - -<p>‘And oh, so badly,’ said Mr. Bright.</p> - -<p>‘Not always so very badly—especially when it is strings. Don’t you -think we might have a band, Mr. Cosham, so long as it was strings? it -would be such an attraction—with a solo from your dear little boy.’</p> - -<p>‘I think it would be a great attraction; what do you think, sir?’ said -the churchwarden, looking towards the chief authority. Mr. Sitwell shook -his head.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps we think too much of outside attractions when our minds should -be set upon higher influences; but if you think the people would like -it——’</p> - -<p>‘It helps a deal with the collection—does a band,’ said the -churchwarden. ‘There’s a church I know where they have the military -band, and the place is crowded, with people standing outside the doors.’</p> - -<p>‘Not from the best of motives, I fear,’ said the parson, still shaking -his head; ‘but to get them to come is something, by whatever means.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s what I think—like Mrs. Sitwell; and a brass band——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, Mr. Cosham!—strings! strings!’ cried the lady. ‘A brass band is -a deal too noisy.’ She turned upon the unsuspecting man eyes which had -suddenly become dull round orbs like his own, and spoke with the very -echo of his voice. ‘It would drown Johnny’s voice, bless him!’ the -little mimic cried. Mr. Cosham, good man, thought there was something a -little strange and thick in this utterance; but he did not understand -the convulsion of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> suppressed laughter on the curate’s face, nor the -smile that curled about the corners of Mr. Sitwell’s mouth. These signs -of merriment disturbed him a little, but he did not suspect how. He -turned to the ladies, who were quite grave, and replied with much -sincerity——</p> - -<p>‘That’s quite true, ma’am—it’s wonderful how you do see things; it -<i>would</i> drown Johnny’s voice—and he’s got a sweet little pipe of his -own, and pleased and proud his mother would be to hear him in church.’</p> - -<p>‘The boys’ voices are like angels,’ said Miss Marsham; ‘they’re -sometimes naughty little things, but their voices are like heaven. But I -can’t help saying, though I don’t like to disagree with you, that I’m -not fond of a band in church.’</p> - -<p>‘What! not strings?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, with such an air of ingenuous -and indeed plaintive surprise, that the tender-hearted woman was moved -in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>‘Well—perhaps strings are different,’ she answered, with hesitation.</p> - -<p>‘We never thought of anything else: when our kind friend said brass, it -was only a slip of the tongue. You meant violins all the time, Mr. -Cosham, didn’t you?’ said the parson’s wife, with her appealing gaze, -which made the churchwarden blush with emotion and pleasure.</p> - -<p>‘I believe I did, ma’am,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I’m sure that’s what’s -right if you say so: for naturally being so musical yourself, you know -about these things better than me.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, addressing Joyce, whom she no longer called -Miss Hayward, but whom she did not yet venture, in sight of a certain -dignity of silence and reserve about that young woman, to call, except -in her absence, by her Christian name,—‘you never give us your opinion -on anything. Do give us your opinion; we have all said our say.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed I don’t know anything at all,’ said Joyce—‘nothing at all. I -was never used to music—of that kind, in the church.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet,’ said Mr. Sitwell, ‘the Scottish Church has a fine ceremonial -of her own, where she has not been deadened by contact with Dissent. I -have always heard there were things in her service which went further -and were more perfect than anything attempted here—until quite -recently. But of course there is always a tendency to be deadened by the -atmosphere of Dissent.’</p> - -<p>The party all listened very respectfully to this, which had almost the -weight of an oracular statement. Joyce, for her part, was more -bewildered than ever. The words he used bore to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> a completely -different meaning, and she was not sufficiently instructed to be aware -of that which he intended to express. She understood the Canon when he -asked her if she was a horrid little Presbyterian, but she had no -comprehension of what Mr. Sitwell meant. She was wise enough, however, -to be silent, and keep her ignorance to herself.</p> - -<p>‘But we all believe the same in the chief points, after all,’ said Miss -Marsham, laying her thin hand caressingly on Joyce’s arm. This kind lady -could not bear the girl to be distressed if, perhaps, she might happen -to be one of those who had been deadened by the atmosphere of Dissent.</p> - -<p>‘Well, now that this great question is settled, and we are to have the -band and Johnny’s solo—and mind you keep him in good voice, Mr. -Cosham—let us go upstairs and have “Angels ever Bright and Fair.” We -are so fond of “Angels ever Bright and Fair,"—aren’t we, Austin?’ cried -the parson’s wife, putting her hand through her husband’s arm and -looking up in his face. He laughed and put her away with a little pat. -‘You are incorrigible, Dora,’ he said. Mr. Bright lifted his eyebrows -and looked at the others, asking why.</p> - -<p>And then there followed songs and sallies, and bits of that involuntary -mimicry of everybody in turn which the lively mistress of the house -seemed to be unable to keep under. Joyce saw her assume a serious -aspect, with a grave face and a little movement about her lips, as she -said something in slow and soft tones, at which Miss Marsham did not -laugh, but once more laid her thin hand tenderly upon Joyce’s arm, while -the gentlemen did,—the churchwarden bursting out in a short abashed -roar, while Mr. Bright went off to a corner, and Mr. Sitwell hid his -face with his hand. This little pantomime perplexed Joyce much, but it -was not till after that she realised how she herself had been ‘taken -off’ for the amusement of her friends.</p> - -<p>She got home at last in the dusk of the summer night, feeling as if the -world were full of a babble of voices, and of jests, and of calculations -and little intrigues, and attempts to do something unnamed by means of -something else. Joyce had not been altogether unaware that all was not -perfectly straightforward and true in the world before. She had been -fully acquainted with the extraordinary little deceptions and stories -made up by children to save themselves from punishment, or to procure -some pleasure, or even for nothing at all—out of pleasure apparently in -the mere invention; but these little falsities were of altogether a -different kind, and her brain throbbed with the contact of so many -unac<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span>customed trifles which were like the buzz of the flies in the air. -The piquancy of mimicking an individual in his own presence, though she -was not insensible to the fact, was strange to her serious soul: it -helped to increase the queer unreality of this world in which she found -herself, where there were droll little plays going on on all sides upon -somebody’s weakness, from the silly correspondents of the <i>Pictorial</i> to -the rich soap-boiler who was to be wheedled by praise of his house, and -the humble churchwarden who was bound hand and foot in reverential -servility by praise of his boy—and people who were to be brought to -church by the attraction of a band as being better than not going at -all. And what was it for? For the parsonage? Joyce was not so hard a -critic as to believe this. She saw the good parson tired with his day’s -work, and she had seen that kind mischievous little woman as good as an -angel to the poor people. Their meaning at the bottom was good, and the -parsonage only an incident in the strong desire they both had to make -the district of St. Augustine’s as near perfection as possible, and -chase all sorrow and sickness and trouble out of it, and set up a -beautiful service, and steal the people’s hearts with angelic voices in -the choir and celestial thrilling of violin-strings—to steal their -hearts, but only for God, or for what they thought God,—for the Church -at least. This part of it Joyce but faintly comprehended, yet more or -less divined.</p> - -<p>And then from the conception she dimly attained of this real and great -motive, her mind came down again to the laughter and the mimicry and the -photographs, and that perplexing utterance about an atmosphere deadened -by Dissent. What a strange world it was! making good things look bad by -dint of trying to get good out of evil! Joyce wondered whether it would -not succeed better to reject the artifices, and try what simple means -would do. And then having shaken off that coil, her mind suddenly -returned with a spring to what was for herself the central event of this -day—the Captain standing up in that boat among those unknown people, in -that other world. Strange! and he was her friend—but yet belonged to -her no more than the river itself flowing on its way, with so many other -lawns to reflect besides that little bit of green which Joyce, watching -the stream go by, had begun to think of as her own. But it was not hers, -and neither was he. Bellendean had been hers, and her old people, -and—— Joyce hurried her steps to get refuge in her father’s house from -that shadow which began to start up in her path and look at her, and -filled her with alarm—a shadow demure and serious, with no thought of -other worlds or other influences strong enough to eclipse his own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> next scene in which Joyce found herself which broke the ordinary -routine of her life was the great garden-party at the soap-boiler’s, -which was all that the poor Sitwells had got out of their supposed great -demonstration and triumph of the school-feast. Sir Samuel Thompson lived -in a large mansion on the hill overlooking the whole panorama of the -Thames valley, with its winding river and happy woods—a scene -enchanting enough to have satisfied any poet, and which this rich and -comfortable person looked upon with much complacency, as in a manner -belonging to himself, and deriving a certain importance from that fact. -He was a man who was fond of great and costly things, and it seemed -natural to him that his windows should command the best thing in the way -of a view that was to be had near enough London to be valuable. And it -gave him much satisfaction to gather around him all ‘the best people’ -from miles round: it was pleasant thus to be able to prove the value of -money, which was the thing that had made him great, and which he liked -to glorify accordingly. ‘They all knock under to it in the end,’ he was -fond of saying. ‘They think a deal of themselves and their families, and -rank and all that, but money’s what draws them in the end.’ And Sir Sam -was right. Some people came because his house was a show house, and his -table the most luxurious of any far or near; and some because to see him -swelling like a turkey-cock in the midst of his wealth was funny; and -some by that indefinable attraction which wealth has, which brings the -most rebellious to their knees: at all events, everybody came.</p> - -<p>Sir Sam was, to use his own phraseology, the chief partner in his own -concern. Nobody remarked Lady Thompson. She was not the leader of the -expenditure and display, as the wife of a self-made man so often is. She -was a homely stout little person, who did not love her grandeur—who -would have been far happier in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> the housekeeper’s room. Even in the -finest dresses—and she had very fine dresses—there was to -understanding eyes the shadow of an apron, a sort of ghostly -representation of a soft white comfortable lap to which a child might -cling, where stockings to be darned might lie. She stood a step behind -Sir Sam to receive their guests. He said, ‘How do you do? hope I see you -well. Hope you’ve brought a large party—the more the merrier; there’s -plenty of room for all;’ while she only shook hands with the visitors -and beamed upon them. She went everywhere with her husband, but always -in this subsidiary capacity. And Sir Sam was by no means reluctant to -bestow the light of his countenance. It was not so difficult a thing to -persuade him to appear at an afternoon party as the deluded Sitwells had -supposed. He liked to show himself and his fat horses and his carriage, -which was the last and newest and most comfortable that had ever been -fashioned. But there he stopped. He took a cup of tea from any one; but -if they thought to get anything more in return they were mistaken, and -justly too,—for why should a millionaire’s good offices be purchased by -a cup of tea? He had the right on his side.</p> - -<p>This poor Mrs. Sitwell found when she made her anxious and at last -desperate attempt to gain his ear. To waste his attentions upon the wife -of the incumbent of St. Augustine’s did not in the least commend itself -to Sir Sam. He was not aware that she was amusing, and could take off -all his friends; and he thought with justice that she was not worthy to -be selected out from that fine company only because she had asked him to -her school-feast. In return for the cup of tea offered to him -there—which he did not drink—he had asked her and her husband to his -gorgeous house, and put it within their power to drink tea of the finest -quality, coffee iced and otherwise, claret-cup or champagne-cup; and to -eat ices of various kinds, cakes, fruit, grapes, which at that time of -the year, had they been sold, would have been worth ever so much a -pound. Sir Sam thought he had given the parson of St. Augustine’s and -his wife a very ample equivalent for their cup of tea.</p> - -<p>Joyce went to this great gathering in Mrs. Hayward’s train, as usual, -following—with a silence and gravity which were gradually acquiring for -her the character of a very dignified and somewhat proud young -woman—her stepmother’s active steps. She knew a few people now, and -silently accepted offered hands put out to her as she bowed with a smile -and response to the greeting, but no more. The crowd was no longer a -blank to her. She did not now feel as if left alone and among strangers -when, in the course<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> of Mrs. Hayward’s more brilliant career, she was -left to take care of herself. On this occasion it was not long before -she saw the portly Canon swinging down upon her, with the lapels of his -long coat swinging too, on either side of the round and vast black silk -waistcoat. She had been watching, with a disturbed amusement, the -greetings made at the corner of a green alley between Mrs. Jenkinson and -Mrs. Sitwell. They had been full of cordiality—the elder lady stooping -to give the younger one a dab upon her cheek, which represented a kiss. -‘I could not think it was you,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said; ‘I have been -watching you these ten minutes. How are you, and how are the dear -children? I am very pleased to see you here. I did not know you knew the -Thompsons.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes; very well indeed,’ said the parson’s wife, with a beaming -smile. ‘What a pretty party it is!’</p> - -<p>‘A party cannot well fail to be pretty when it is given in such gardens -as these; and with such a house behind it, flowing with wine and oil.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean with ices and tea. It’s very fine, no doubt; but I like -something humbler, that one can call one’s own, quite as well.’</p> - -<p>‘No one should attempt these parties,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, ‘who has not -a large place to give them in, and plenty of things going on—tennis and -all that, or music, or a beautiful prospect: we have them all here.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘we did very well indeed, I assure you, in -Wombwell’s field. You did not do me the honour to come, but everybody -else did—the Thompsons and all.’</p> - -<p>‘Really,’ Mrs. Jenkinson said. She added pointedly, feeling that she was -not a match for the lively and nimble person with whom she was -engaged— ‘It must, I fear, have been very expensive.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, not at all,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘You see, we gave nothing but -tea. People don’t come for what they get, though dear Sir Sam thinks so; -they come to see other people, and meet their friends, and spend the -afternoon pleasantly. Don’t you think so, dear Mrs. Jenkinson? If I had -the smallest little place of my own, with a little bit of a garden, such -as we might have if there ever is a parsonage to St. Augustine’s, I -should not be at all afraid to ask even the Duchess to tea. She would -come for me, she is such a dear,’ Mrs. Sitwell said.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I am not half so courageous,’ the Canon’s wife replied; and -she added quickly, ‘There is Lady St. Clair; excuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> me, I must say a -word to her,’ and hastened away. She was routed, horse and foot; for -Mrs. Jenkinson did not know the Duchess, and this little district -incumbent, this nobody, this scheming, all-daring little woman, actually -did, by some freak of fortune,—and probably would have the -audacity—and succeed in it, as such sort of persons so often do—to ask -that great lady to tea.</p> - -<p>The Canon swooped down upon Joyce after this little scene was over. She -was standing by herself, only half-seeing the fun, perhaps because her -sense of humour was faint, perhaps only because of her vague -understanding of all that lay underneath, and made it funny. He took her -hand and drew it within his arm. ‘Here you are, you little rebel,’ he -said. ‘I have got you at last. There is nobody eligible within sight. -Come and take a walk with me.’</p> - -<p>Joyce had very little idea what he meant by some one eligible; but she -was very well content to be led away, hurrying her own steps to suit the -swinging gait of the big Churchman. He led her through the green alleys -and broad walks of the soap-boiler’s magnificent grounds to the mount of -vision which crowned them. ‘There now! look at that view,’ he said, ‘and -tell me if you have anything like it in Scotland. You brag us out for -scenery, I know; but where did you ever see anything like that?’</p> - -<p>Joyce looked up in his face for a moment, then answered, with a smile, -‘I like as well to see the Crags below Arthur’s Seat, and the sea coming -in ayont them.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh!’ cried the Canon, lifting his brows. ‘What do you mean by that? You -don’t generally speak like that.’</p> - -<p>With nobody was Joyce so much at her ease as with this big impetuous -man. ‘There was once,’ she said, in the tone, half bantering, half -reproachful, with which she had once been wont to recall her ‘big’ class -to the horror of having forgotten something in Shakespeare, ‘a little -Scotswoman whose name was Jeanie Deans.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh!’ cried the Canon again; and then he pressed, with half angry -affectionateness, the hand that was on his arm. ‘Oh, you are at me with -Scott!’ he said—‘taking a base advantage; for it’s a long time since I -read him. So Jeanie Deans said that, did she? I don’t remember much -about her. They say Scott is played out, you know, in these days.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, sir,’ said Joyce quickly, ‘they say what they don’t understand; -for look how it comes to me just as the natural thing to say. Sir Walter -knew—he and some others, they know almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> like God—what is in the -hearts of the common people that have no words to speak.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the Canon; and then he laughed and added, ‘So you are one of -the common people that have no words to speak? It’s not the account I -should have given of you. Sit down here, and let’s pluck our crow. You -have gone entirely off, you little schismatic, to the other side.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘No! how can you tell me no, when I know to the contrary? You’ve been -out in the district visiting with her. You are going to undertake -something about the schools. They’ve had you to tea in company with the -curate and that fat dolt Cosham whom they lead by the nose. Oh, you -wonder how I know! My dear,’ said the Canon, with a slight blush, if it -is to be supposed that a canon can blush, ‘a clergyman in a country -parish knows everything—whether he will or not. Now, isn’t it true?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it is quite true,’ said Joyce; and then she added, looking up at -him again with a smile, and a little rising colour, caused by what she -felt to be her boldness, ‘But still I like you best.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear girl,’ cried the Canon. He patted her shoulder with his large -white hand, and Joyce saw with astonishment a little moisture in his big -eyes. ‘I always knew you were an exceeding nice little girl,’ he said. -‘I took a fancy to you the first time I met you. It gives me the -greatest pleasure that you should like me best. But, my dear, why do you -go over to the other side if you are so wise and discerning and sensible -as to prefer me?’</p> - -<p>Joyce hesitated a little, and then she said, ‘They wish very much to do -everything that is best.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh?’ the Canon cried, this time in astonished interrogation.</p> - -<p>‘They want to do good to everybody,’ said Joyce, in her slow soft voice, -which to ears accustomed to lighter and louder tones had an air of being -very emphatic. ‘They would like to make their parish perfect.’</p> - -<p>‘District,’ said the Canon.</p> - -<p>‘District—but I don’t know the difference; and I don’t know many of the -things they want to do. I was not brought up that way. Many things they -say are all dark to me; but what they want in their hearts is to do good -to everybody. They would like to have their church service and -everything perfect.’</p> - -<p>‘High ritual, as they call it,—music and all sorts of fal-lals.’</p> - -<p>‘And to get everybody to come,’ continued Joyce, ‘and to teach -everybody, and to help the poor folk. I could not do it that way,’ she -added, shaking her head, ‘but to them it’s the right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> way. They have no -other thought but to be good and do their best.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ said the Canon, this time in a dubious and disturbed tone.</p> - -<p>‘They go among the poor folk every day,’ said Joyce; ‘they would like to -take the command of them, and give them everything, and guide them -altogether. It is not—oh, not my way—not our way at all, at home; but -they say it is the way here. They never spare themselves any trouble. -They would like to take it all on their shoulders; to nurse all the ill -people, and mend all the bad ones, and even cut out all the clothes for -the poor little things that have none. They will sometimes do things -that look as if they were—very different: but it is all for this end.’</p> - -<p>‘For making themselves important, and proving their own merit, and last, -but not least, getting themselves that parsonage about which they make -my life a burden to me. Why, your father has taken it up now—that must -be your doing. These people, though your excellent sense keeps you from -liking them, are taking you in, my dear. The parsonage—that’s what -they’re aiming at.’</p> - -<p>‘And why not?’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Eh?’ The Canon turned round upon her with a snort of impatience. Then -he elevated his large hands, and gave forth a still larger sigh. ‘You -women are so gullible,’ he said; ‘you believe whatever is told you.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe,’ said Joyce, ‘that it would be better to have a house of -your own, and not to pay rent when you have very little money for one -that lets in the rain, and is very, very small—so small, it would -scarcely hold you,’ she said, looking at her companion.</p> - -<p>‘It is fortunate I haven’t got to live in it,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Very fortunate—for you. But, sir,’ said Joyce, feeling more and more -the authority and power of this big friendly man, like a very kind -inspector in the old days—‘you are far more fortunate than they are. -You are like a prince to them. You have everything you want—money and -honour, and a beautiful house, and plenty of room, and power to do what -you please. They say in my country, “It is ill talking between a full -man and a fasting,"—if you understand that.’</p> - -<p>The Canon humphed and shook his head, and then he laughed and said, ‘Oh -yes, I understand that. So I am the full man and Sitwell the empty one, -you think, Miss Joyce.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘It makes a great difference,’ said Joyce; ‘and then they think—that it -was promised to them before they came here.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said the Canon, after a pause, ‘it <i>was</i> promised to them in a -way—before they showed what sort of free-lances they were.’</p> - -<p>‘And that makes a sense of wrong,’ said Joyce, wisely taking no notice -of the last remark. ‘If you think there is an injustice, it always hangs -on the heart.’</p> - -<p>‘The Canon is ‘ere before us,’ said the fat voice of Sir Samuel, as the -sound of much scattering of the gravel under heavy feet broke suddenly -upon this colloquy; ‘and I would say, by the looks of them, that this -young lady has been a-lecturing the Canon. Good joke that, preaching to -the Canon, that most times ’as it all his own way.’</p> - -<p>Sir Sam’s laugh was a little asthmatic—it shook him subterraneously and -in a succession of rolling echoes. ‘Good joke that, preaching to the -Canon,’ he went on, as if his announcement of the fact was the climax of -the joke. He was followed by Mrs. Jenkinson, tall and energetic, wrapped -in a white <i>chudder</i>, the softest and most comfortable of shawls—and by -Lady Thompson, panting and red in the face with the climb, and gorgeous -in all the colours of the rainbow. The Canon made room for the two -ladies on the bench, and Sir Sam got a garden-chair and seated himself -in front of them, against the view which they had come to see, half -shutting it out with his bulky person. But the view was no novelty to -any there.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said the Canon, ‘it is quite true. This little thing has been -lecturing me. Indeed I don’t hesitate to say she’s been giving it me hot -and strong—about the Sitwells,’ he added, in a sort of aside to his -wife.</p> - -<p>‘I must say,’ said that lady indignantly, ‘I think that young ladies -should keep their hastily-formed opinions to themselves. What can she -know about the Sitwells that we don’t all know?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, she says she likes us best,’ said the Canon, quite irrelevantly; -‘so it’s not from partiality, or taking their side.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson, darting a glance of anger mingled with a -certain respect at the girl, whom she immediately set down as a foeman -worthy of her steel.</p> - -<p>‘She says they’re very hard-working people, working at their district -night and day. She doesn’t understand their ways (she’s Scotch, you -know), but she sees they mean the best by their people—hush for a -moment, my dear. And she says that they think they were promised a -parsonage, and that this makes a sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> of wrong. Well, you know, she’s -about right there—they were promised a——’</p> - -<p>‘Before any one knew what they were—before we understood all the -schemes and designs—the setting up to be something altogether -above—the ridiculous fuss about everything—the flowers and the lights -and the surpliced choir, and Bach’s music, with little Johnny Cosham to -sing the soprano parts—if she doesn’t do it herself, as I verily -believe she does, done up in a surplice and put at the end of the row: -such a thing as was never heard of!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear—well, my dear! Joyce here’, patting her hand, ‘who has -no sympathy with all that (being Scotch, you know), says they mean it -all well, to get people to go to church. And they do get a number of -that hopeless lot down by the river to go. But, however, that’s not the -question; they were promised a parsonage if they got on and stayed a -year or two. I can’t say but what that’s quite true.’</p> - -<p>The Canon looked at Sir Samuel, and Sir Sam looked at the Canon. The -rich man’s countenance fell a little in harmony with that of his oracle, -and he replied subdued, ‘I don’t say neither but what it’s true.’</p> - -<p>‘She says it makes a sense of wrong: well, perhaps it does make a sense -of wrong. We have very nice houses, Sir Samuel,—mine naturally not -magnificent like yours, but on the whole a nice, comfortable, -old-fashioned place.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, very nice,’ sighed Lady Thompson, who till now had been recovering -herself, and had just got back her voice; ‘nicer than this, Canon, if -you were to ask me.’</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and the two pairs looked at each other, a little -conscious, pleased with their own good fortune, feeling perhaps a little -prick of conscience—at all events aware that a moral was about to be -drawn.</p> - -<p>‘Well, and what then?’ Mrs. Jenkinson said at last, in her highest pitch -of voice.</p> - -<p>Nobody spoke until Joyce said timidly, ‘They would be happier, and she -would not scheme any more. The rain comes in upon the little children.’ -She had half said ‘bairns,’ which was not at all Joyce’s way, and she -changed the word, which would have been very effective if she had but -known. ‘There is no room for the little children.’</p> - -<p>‘People in such circumstances ’as no business with children. I always -said so,’ said Sir Sam, with a wary eye upon his spiritual director, of -whose opinion he stood much in awe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p> - -<p>Joyce was as innocent and ignorant as a girl should be. She lifted up -her fair serene brow with no false shame upon it, knowing none. ‘How can -they help that?’ she said. ‘It is God that sends the children, not the -will of men.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my pretty dear!’ cried Lady Thompson, who was so homely a woman, -reaching across Mrs. Jenkinson’s prim lap to seize Joyce’s hand. ‘Oh, my -dear!’—with tears in her homely eyes—‘however you knows it, that’s -true.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Jenkinson did not say a word: emotion of this kind is contagious, -and these two women, though without another feature in common, were both -childless women, and felt it to the bottom of their hearts.</p> - -<p>‘Canon,’ said Sir Sam, with a slight huskiness in his voice, ‘if you’re -of that opinion I’ve got a cheque-book always ’andy. It was an -understood thing, so far as I can remember. There was to be an ’ouse.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, there was to be an ’ouse,’ the Canon replied, without any -intention of mimicry. At this moment of feeling he could not reprove the -soap-boiler even by too marked an accentuation of the h which he had -lost. He turned to his wife as he rose to accompany the soap-boiler, -laying his hand upon Joyce’s shoulder. ‘This child has got very pretty -turns of phraseology,’ he said. ‘Her Scotch is winning. You should have -heard one or two things she said.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, go away, Canon!’ cried his wife. ‘She is just a pretty girl, and -that is what you never could resist in your life.’</p> - -<p>Thus Joyce’s first interference, and attempt to ascertain whether plain -truth might not be more effectual than scheming, ended fortunately, as -such attempts do not always do. It was her first appearance separately -in the society of the new world she had been so strangely thrown into. -But she had not time for much more, and perhaps it was as well. Such a -success may happen once in a way, but it is seldom repeated. She was -found sitting on that garden-seat with those two ladies a short time -afterwards by her father, who had come late, and who brought with him -Captain Bellendean.</p> - -<p>Joyce had not seen Bellendean since that curious moment when she stood a -spectator and watched him like a stranger, passing with his friends, -steering the laden boat with all the ladies down the river. She was as -much startled by his appearance now as if some strange embarrassing -thing, requiring painful explanations, had passed since last they met.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Hayward</span> decided that she would walk home.</p> - -<p>For what reason?—for no reason at all, so far as she was aware; only, -apparently without knowing it, to help out the decisions of fate. There -was a stream of other people going home, some of them walking too, as it -was so lovely an evening. The air was the softest balm of summer, cool, -the sun going down, soft shadows stealing over the sky, the river still -lit with magical reflections—those reflections which are nothing, such -stuff as dreams are made of, and yet more beautiful than anything in -earth or heaven. The rose tints were in the atmosphere as well as the -sky. When you turned a corner, the resistance of the soft air meeting -you was as a caress—like the kiss with which one loving creature meets -another as they pass upon their happy way. It was no longer spring -indeed, but matured and full-blown summer, ready any morning, by a touch -of north wind or early frost, to become autumn in a moment, but making -the very best of her last radiant evening. The well-dressed crowd -streamed out of the gates of Sir Samuel’s great house on the hill, and -then separated, flowing in little rills of white and bright dresses, of -pleasant voices and talk, upon their several ways. Till then, of course, -they had all kept together. Afterwards the little accidents, the natural -effect of unequal steps and different pace, so arranged it that the -older pair dragged behind, having still some good-byes to make, and that -the other two, who had fallen together without any intention, went on -before.</p> - -<p>Joyce was always shy, but she had never been embarrassed by the presence -of Norman Bellendean. She had been able even to laugh with him when the -gloom of her arrival in this new sphere, and of her severance from the -old, was heaviest upon her. She had the reassuring consciousness that he -knew all about her, and could not be in any way deceived. No need of -fictions to account for her, nor apologies for her ignorance, were -necessary with him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> And she gave him from the first that most -flattering proof of preference by being at her ease with him, when she -was so with no one else. But there was something in the air to-night -which suggested embarrassment—something too familiar, over-sweet. Mrs. -Hayward and the Colonel did not feel this. They said to each other that -it was a lovely evening, and then they talked of their own concerns. -Joyce was not like them—the rose-tinted vapours on the sky had got into -her very soul.</p> - -<p>‘Was there ever such a sunset?’ said Norman Bellendean. ‘And yet, Miss -Joyce, you and I remember something better still,—the long, long -lingering of the warm days——’</p> - -<p>‘In summer,’ she said, with a little catching of her breath, ‘when you -never could tell whether there was any night at all.’</p> - -<p>‘And when the night was better than the day, if better could be, and -morning and evening ran into each other.’</p> - -<p>‘And it was all like paradise,’ said Joyce, chiming in. Their voices -were full of emotion, though they were speaking only of such unexciting -things as the atmosphere and the twilight—two safe subjects surely, if -any subjects could be safe.</p> - -<p>‘It is not like that,’ Joyce added, with a little reluctance; ‘but still -the river when the last flash of the sun is upon it, and all the clouds -hanging like roses upon the sky, and the water glimmering like a glass, -and making everything double like the swan——’</p> - -<p>Norman was one of the unread. He did not know what swan it was that -floated ‘double, swan and shadow,’ for ever and ever, since that day the -poet saw it: but he understood the scene and the little failure of -breath in the enthusiasm of her description with which Joyce spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was like that the other night—but there was a charm -wanting.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ Joyce said, still breathless; and she added, with an impulse that -was involuntary, beyond her power of control, not what she meant or -wished to say— ‘When you were up the river—the other night—passing——’</p> - -<p>Did she mean it as a reproach? He looked at her quickly. ‘Yes,’ he said, -‘it is true I passed—the very lawn, the enchanted place—and looked and -looked, but did not see you.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but I saw you, Captain Bellendean. I saw you go below -the bridge steering. It was strange, among all the strange folk, and the -boats coming and going, suddenly to see—a kent face.’</p> - -<p>She laughed, in a curious embarrassed way, as if laughing at herself, -yet with a rising colour, and eyes that did not turn to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> rather -avoided him. Norman had a sudden gleam of perception, and understood -more or less the little fanciful shock which Joyce had received to see -him pass.</p> - -<p>‘You could not think it more strange than I did,’ he said, in an -unconscious tone of self-defence, ‘nor half so disagreeable. To pass -with people I cared nothing for, the same way that has become associated -to me with—with—— And to look perhaps as if it were just the same -whether it was they or—others.’</p> - -<p>He began with self-defence, but ended with an inflection of half -complaint and subdued indignation in his tone.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed,’ said Joyce, startled, ‘I did not think——’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you did not think about me at all, and I am a fool -for supposing you did; but if you thought for a moment that it was any -pleasure to me to be there, apart from all that had made it -delightful——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ cried Joyce, in an anxious effort not to understand this inference -which flooded all her veins with a sudden rush of indescribable -celestial delight, ‘but the river was as bright as ever I saw it, and -the sky like heaven; and why should you not be happy—with your -friends?’</p> - -<p>He had given her a sensation more exquisite than any she had ever known -in all her life; and on her side she was giving him pain, and knew it, -and was not ill-pleased to have it so. Such, as the old moralists would -say, are the strange contradictions of human feeling! He turned upon her -an aggrieved expostulating glance.</p> - -<p>‘You think it was the same, whoever my companions might be? You don’t -understand what it was to me to be bound to the oar like the galley -slaves, to listen to all their inane nonsense and their jokes, when my -heart was in—oh, a very different place.’</p> - -<p>‘You have been all over the world, Captain Bellendean, you must remember -so many other places—more beautiful than this.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think that is what I mean?’ he said quickly, in a tone almost of -irritation. Joyce knew very well it was not what he meant. But she had -to defend herself with the first weapons that came in her way.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you know,’ he said, after a pause, ‘that this has been such a -summer as I never had before? I have been a great deal about the world, -as you say. I have had many experiences: but never yet have I felt as I -have felt this year. I never was romantic, nor had I much poetry in me. -But I begin to think the poets are the fellows, after all, who -understand best.’</p> - -<p>‘That is true, I am sure,’ said Joyce in a subdued voice. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> was -thankful to find something that she could say. She walked along -mechanically by the Captain’s side, feeling as if she were floating in -some vague enchantment, not able to pause or realise anything, not able -to escape, carried along by the delicious soft air which was breathing -within her being as well as without, a rapture that could not be -explained.</p> - -<p>‘I believe it is true—but I never thought so before. And the cause is -that I never knew—you before,’ the Captain said.</p> - -<p>Did the people know who were passing? could they see in the faces of -those two walking—nay, floating by, surrounded by a golden mist—what -was being said between them? A vague wonder stole into Joyce’s mind as -she perceived dimly through that mist the face of a wayfarer going by. -She herself but vaguely realised the meaning of the words. She -understood their sentiment well enough,—felt it in that silent ecstasy -that swept her along, but had no power to think or exercise her own -faculties at all, only to let herself be carried on, and away.</p> - -<p>‘You have been the enchantment to me,’ he said hurriedly; ‘and now it is -almost over, and I shall have to go away. The charm will be gone from -everything. I don’t know how I am to reconcile myself to the dull world -and the long days—unless——’</p> - -<p>‘Captain Bellendean——’ Joyce said faintly, hearing her own voice, as -if it came from a long distance, feeling a vague necessity for a pause.</p> - -<p>‘Unless I may—come back,’ he said. ‘I must go home and put things in -order—but it need not be for very long—if I may come back?’</p> - -<p>There was something vaguely defective in these words, she could not tell -what. For that very reason they relieved her, because they were not what -they might have been. She came to herself as if she had touched the -earth after that vague swaying, floating, in realms above the earth, in -the soft delicious air.</p> - -<p>‘Surely,’ she said, ‘you will come back. There is no reason for not -coming back.’</p> - -<p>He, it seemed, had not felt that touch of reality which had brought -Joyce out of her rapture. He was confused and floating still. ‘I mean,’ -he said, ‘not to return merely to town or—but to come back to this -moment, to those days. I have never known anything like them. They have -opened a new world to me: Joyce——’</p> - -<p>‘Captain Bellendean!’</p> - -<p>‘I mean no familiarity—no want of respect; could you think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> so? The -name came out without intention—only because I say it over, and -over—— Joyce—I may come back?’</p> - -<p>Surely the passers-by must see! He had turned and was looking at her -with pleading eyes; while she, with the red of the western sky in her -face, with the mist in her eyes, did not look at him, or make him any -reply.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t ask you to say more. This is not the place. I don’t want to -disturb your mind,—only say I may come, and that you will not send me -away?’</p> - -<p>Her heart had sprung up and was beating loud. A terror of what the -people on the road would think took possession of her. ‘No, it is not -the place,’ she murmured, scarcely knowing what she said.</p> - -<p>‘What could I do? there was no other: say I may——’</p> - -<p>‘Bellendean!’ cried Colonel Hayward’s cheerful voice from behind; ‘are -you coming in to have some dinner? You had better. Why, you are taking -the way to the river, Joyce and you.’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon!’ cried Captain Bellendean, with a startled air. ‘I -beg your pardon! I did not observe——’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce should have observed,’ said Mrs. Hayward quietly. ‘It is nearly -half-past seven. You cannot do less than stay to dinner—especially as I -hear you are going away.’</p> - -<p>‘I will, with many thanks,’ said Norman. He looked like a man waked out -of a dream; and Mrs. Hayward hastened on, not without a sense of -Christian charity, to let them have it out, as she said to herself. But -they were now both awakened. The charm was broken, and the golden air -dispersed. They walked on behind the elder pair to the door, and went in -very gravely both of them, without another word said.</p> - -<p>A more extraordinary evening never was. Joyce had known many agitated -and unhappy ones within the last six months, but none like this, during -which she saw everything through a haze of excitement, with something -weighing on her eyelids—something murmuring in her ears—something -which made it impossible for her to meet the light or clearly realise -what was going on. There seemed a sort of dumb expectation in the air -besides that curious sense of something arrested and untold that was in -her own mind. Her step-mother looked at her with a question in her eyes, -and even touched her with a half-caress as she went upstairs to prepare -for dinner. Joyce did not know why, and yet had a sort of far-off -perception of some meaning and kindness in it, which notwithstanding was -half an offence. And when she came downstairs the haze had filled the -dining-room, so that she could not see clearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> the face on the other -side of the table—the face which did not look at her any more than she -looked at him, and yet was keenly aware of every movement on her part, -as she was of his. She herself scarcely spoke a word during the whole -meal, and he not much,—not more than was necessary. The others went on -with their ordinary conversation, which seemed to drift about upon the -haze; names—the names with which Joyce’s mind had been busy a little -while before—floating about, falling now and then like stones, catching -her vague attention. Sir Sam, the Canon, the Sitwells—who were they, -all these people? It seemed so strange that any one could concern -themselves with their vague affairs.</p> - -<p>The dinner was very long, and yet flew like a dream; and then came the -twilight drawing-room, the dimness outside, the evening chilled out of -that heavenly warmth and calm. Joyce did not go out to-night as was her -wont, though she could not tell why. She kept by Mrs. Hayward, sedately -seated near a table, upon which there was work, as if that were her -object. Captain Bellendean stood near her when the gentlemen came from -the dining-room. There was not much light, and he stood up like a tall -pillar, slightly inclining over her, a sort of Pisan tower, leaning, yet -firm. If he had anything more to say to her, it was clear <i>that</i> was not -the place, any more than the road with the Colonel and his wife behind. -But he lingered there still, saying little, until Colonel Hayward had to -say, ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Bellendean. You’re always welcome, and -my wife would give you a bed with pleasure; but if you <i>are</i> going by -that train——’ Then Captain Bellendean roused himself like a man -startled out of a dream, and shook hands with them all. He said -Good-bye, not Good-night; and when Joyce had seated herself again, all -trembling after that pressure of her hand, which almost hurt her, he -suddenly came back, and looked in at the door. Mrs. Hayward’s back was -turned: she had indeed gone out to the verandah to look at the moon, as -she said afterwards. He looked in, then made one step to where Joyce was -sitting, and took her hand and kissed it. ‘Remember I am to come back!’ -he said, and then was gone.</p> - -<p>‘What did Bellendean forget? his gloves, or a book, or what was it?’ the -Colonel said, with some curiosity, when the door was closed and the -visitor departed.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,—I was in the verandah,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘What did he -forget, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>Joyce looked at them with a startled, guilty countenance, know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>ing what -they had said, yet not knowing, and made no reply. She dared not move, -nor speak, lest she should betray—what? There was nothing to betray, -except that he was coming back, and that was no information—for of -course he was coming back. She was very glad to escape to her room when -the lawful time came for that, and Mrs. Hayward gave the signal, but had -not the strength or courage even to rise from her seat till that signal -was given, not knowing whether she would be able to walk straight, or to -preserve her ordinary appearance if she relinquished, with both those -eyes upon her, the support of her chair. She was vaguely sensible of -Mrs. Hayward’s inquiring looks, which were half indignant, half angry, -as well. When they said good-night, her step-mother took her hand with a -quick monitory touch. ‘Have you anything to tell me, or would you like -to speak to your father?’ she said. Joyce gave her a wondering look, and -said ‘No.’ ‘I am not thrusting myself into your confidence: but tell -your father,’ Mrs. Hayward said again imperatively, with a gleam of -excitement in her blue eyes. Then as Joyce made no response, her -step-mother flung past her, flushed and indignant. ‘I might have known -better than to make any such appeal,’ she cried angrily, and shut her -door with a clang that rang through the silent house.</p> - -<p>Joyce stole away very silently into her room, disturbed and full of -trouble. What could she tell? there was nothing to tell. She felt guilty -without having any reason for it, and very sorry to offend without -knowing how to help it. Tell her father!—but when she had nothing to -tell him! There was a grieved look on his countenance, too, when he said -good-night. It was all a confusion, and wrong somehow; but what could -she do? Disturbed by this, there was a moment of troubled uncertainty in -Joyce’s mind a longing to be pardoned, to say that she was sorry, that -she was concealing nothing, which was, however, contradicted by the -desire she had to be alone, and the shrinking even from a look which -might penetrate her seclusion, and read the secret of her heart before -she had spelled it out to herself. Softly, apologetically, with a sense -of asking pardon, she closed her door and then sat down and came face to -face with herself.</p> - -<p>It was a very strange agitated meeting, as with some one she was -unwilling to see and still more unwilling to question—some one who had -a story to tell which would crush all the beginnings of peace and all -the gleams of happiness that had been in Joyce’s life. She thought in -the confusion of her mind of De Musset’s spectre, whom he had seen -sitting by him in all the conjunctions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> of his life—the being, <i>qui me -ressemblait comme un frère</i>; but Joyce’s meeting with herself was more -important than anything recorded by the poet. All trembling with the -sensations she had gone through, her nerves vibrating with the strain, -her energies all melted in the exquisite sense of happiness which had -floated her away, and in the chill check of the real which had brought -her to earth again, she had questions to revolve and discoveries to make -such as she knew now she had avoided and turned away from. She was -afraid to look into those eyes which were her own, and find out the -secret there. She sat down, putting her candle on the table, without -lighting any other, conscious that she preferred the darkness, and not -even to see, if she could help it, what she must see,—what could not be -hidden any more. What had she done? She had meant no harm, thought of -nothing that was wrong, nor of injuring any one, nor of failing in her -faith. If Joyce had been made to disclose her opinion of herself, she -would have described herself as true and faithful—faithful above all -things. She would not have claimed excellence, though she might think -perhaps that there was that in her which was above the multitude; but -she would have claimed to be faithful and constant, not variable in her -affections, true to the last, whatever temptation might come upon her.</p> - -<p>Oh, strange delusion! oh, failure beyond example! when all the time she -had failed, failed without knowing it, without meaning it, helplessly, -like a fool and a traitor! It all came upon her in a sudden scathing -flash of consciousness, which seemed to scorch her drooping face. She, -in whom Joyce had always felt such confidence, herself—she, betrothed -and bound and beyond all possibilities of other sentiment—almost as -much as a wife already in solemn promise and engagement—she! heaven -help her! what had she done? Her veins all swelled to bursting with the -rush of her guilty blood. Horror and darkness enveloped her all around; -she hid her face in her hands, and her lips gave forth a low quivering -cry. She—loved another man. It was all the worse for her that she had -felt herself superior to all vagaries of passion, thought herself above -them, and believed that her own half-shrinking acceptance of love was -all that was consistent with a woman’s dignity. She had thought this, -and she thought it still—yet discovered that she had departed from it, -thrown all those restraints to the winds, and loved—loved—Norman -Bellendean! The discovery horrified, humiliated, crushed her to the -ground, and yet sprang with an impulse of warmer life than she had ever -known before through all the throbbing of her veins.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">You</span> must try and get her to tell you when you are out this morning,’ -said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She is probably silent on account of me; but you are -her father, and you ought to know.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said the Colonel, ‘why should she be silent on account of -you?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we need not enter into that question, Henry. Get her to tell you; -it will be a relief to her own mind when she has got it out.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps, Elizabeth, after all, we are going too fast. Bellendean has -always been very friendly. He came to see me, and sought me out as his -old colonel, before there was any Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘So you think it’s for you!’ Mrs. Hayward cried. And then she added -severely, ‘If we should be going too fast, and there has been no -explanation, Henry, you must bring him to book.’</p> - -<p>‘Bring him to book? I don’t know what you mean, Elizabeth,’ said the -Colonel, with a troubled countenance.</p> - -<p>‘You must not allow it to go on—you must put a stop to it—you must let -him know that you can’t have your daughter trifled with. You must ask -him his intentions, Henry.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel’s countenance fell: he grew pale, and horror filled his -eyes. ‘Ask him—his intentions! his intentions! Good Lord! I might shoot -him if you like; but ask him—his intentions towards my daughter, -Elizabeth! Good Lord!’ The Colonel grew red all over, and panted for -want of breath. ‘You don’t know what you say.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>I</i>—don’t know what I say? As good men as you have had to do it, -Henry. You must not let a man come here and trifle with Joyce. Joyce -must not be——’</p> - -<p>‘I wish you would not bring in her name,’ cried the old soldier—‘a -young woman’s name! I know what you say is for—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> our good, -Elizabeth; but I can’t, indeed I can’t—it’s not possible. <i>I</i> ask a -man—as if I meant to force him into—— My dear, you can’t know what -that means; you can’t say what you’re thinking. I to put shame upon my -own child!’ The Colonel walked up and down the room in the greatest -perturbation. ‘I can’t—I can’t!’ he said; ‘you must never think of such -a thing again. <i>I</i>—Elizabeth! Good Lord——!’ He stopped. ‘My dear, I -beg your pardon. I don’t mean to be profane—but to tell me—oh, good -Lord!’ the Colonel cried, feeling that no words were adequate to express -the horror and incongruity of the suggestion.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward had stood watching him without any relaxation of her look. -There was a certain vulgar fibre in her which was not moved by that -incongruity. A faint disdain of his incapacity, and still more of his -delicacy about his daughter’s name, as if she were of more importance -than any one else, was visible in her face. Who was Joyce that she was -not to be warned, that her lover was not to be brought to book? Mrs. -Hayward, in that perpetual secret antagonism which was in her mind, -though she disapproved of it and suffered from it, was more vulgar than -her nature. She was ready to scoff at these prejudices about Joyce, -though in her natural mind she would have herself shielded a young -woman’s name from every breath.</p> - -<p>‘I am speaking in Joyce’s interests,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t want -to break her heart.’</p> - -<p>‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth!’ said the Colonel, ‘I beseech you, don’t talk -like that. Why, you can’t know, you can’t, you don’t realise what a girl -is to a man, especially when he is her father. It’s bad enough to think -of her caring for one of those fellows at all; but to break her -heart—good Lord!—and for me to interfere, to call up a man to—to the -scratch—to—— Oh, good Lord, good Lord!’ cried Colonel Hayward, with a -blush like a girl. ‘I might shoot him and take the penalty, but you -might as well ask me to—to shoot myself at once—as to do that: or to -acknowledge that my child, that young creature, my Joyce——’</p> - -<p>‘You can’t expect me to follow you in your raptures, Henry,’ said his -wife, sitting down at the breakfast-table, for this discussion had been -held in the morning, before Joyce appeared: and at that moment the door -opened and she came in, putting a stop to the conversation. She was -paler than usual, and graver; but the two were confused by her entrance, -and for the moment so much taken up in concealing their own -embarrassment, that they did not remark her looks. Joyce was very quiet, -but she was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> unhappy. How could she be with the thrill of Norman -Bellendean’s voice still in her ears, and his last look, which meant so -much, so clear before her? She was wrong, she was guilty; it might be -that misery and shame should be her portion. She knew that she had -failed to honour, if not to love, and that her way before her was very -dark; but do what she would, Joyce could not force herself to be unhappy -now. The first thing that had occurred to her when she opened her eyes -upon the morning light was not any breach of faith or failure in duty, -but that voice and those eyes with their revelation which made her heart -bound out of all the shadows of the night. She was pale with all this -agitation, uneasy even when she slept, distracted by spectres; but in -the morning light she could not be wretched, however she tried. She was -very quiet, however, much more so than usual; and the absence of that -eager vitality which kept continual light and shadow on her sensitive -face gave her a certain dignity, which was again enhanced by her -complete unconsciousness of it. Her father cast a glance at her in this -composed stateliness of aspect, and had to hasten away to the sideboard -and cut at the ham to hide the horrified shame of his countenance. A -creature like that to break her heart for any fellow! to be called upon -to ask any man his intentions—<i>his</i> intentions—in respect to her! The -Colonel hewed down the ham till his wife had to remonstrate. ‘You are -not cutting for a dozen people, Henry.’ ‘Oh, I beg your pardon my dear,’ -he cried, and came back to his seat very shamefaced with a small -solitary slice upon his plate.</p> - -<p>When the Colonel went out for his usual walk, with Joyce as his -companion, Mrs. Hayward came after them to the door, and laid her hand -significantly on her husband’s shoulder. ‘Now don’t forget,’ she said. -Forget! as if he were likely to forget what weighed upon him like a -mountain. He thought to himself that he would put off any allusion till -the walk was half over; but the Colonel had not the skill nor the -self-control to do this, the uneasy importance of his looks betraying -something of his commission even to the dreamy eyes of Joyce. Had she -been fully awake and aroused, she must have seen through all his -innocent devices at the first glance.</p> - -<p>‘It was rather a pleasant party, yesterday,’ he said, ‘especially -afterwards, when we were by ourselves.’ The Colonel meant no bull, but -had lost himself in a confusion of words.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Joyce very sedately, without even a smile.</p> - -<p>‘By the way,’ said the Colonel briskly, seizing the first means of -avoiding for a little longer the evil moment, ‘you did great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> execution, -Joyce. I don’t know what you said to the Canon, my dear, but I think you -accomplished in a minute what all the good people have been trying to do -for weeks and weeks. What did you say?’</p> - -<p>What did she say? She gave her father a wondering look. Who was the -Canon, it seemed to ask, and when was yesterday? It looked a century -ago.</p> - -<p>‘That is what I like to see a woman do,’ cried the Colonel, rousing -himself into enthusiasm for the sake of gaining a little time—‘not -making any show, but with a word of hers showing what’s kind and right, -and getting people to do it. That’s what I like to see. You have done -your friends the best turn they ever had done them in their life.’</p> - -<p>‘Was it so?’ said Joyce, with a faint smile. ‘I am very glad; but it was -the Canon that was good to pay attention to the like of me.’</p> - -<p>‘The like of you!’ cried the Colonel. ‘I don’t know the man that -wouldn’t pay attention to the like of you.’ Then he got suddenly grave, -being thus brought back headlong to the very subject which he had been -trying to escape. ‘Oh, I was going to say,’ he added, with a look that -was almost solemn— ‘I am afraid we shall miss him very much—I mean -Norman Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Joyce. He spoke slowly, and she had time to steady her -voice.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you knew before that he was going, my dear?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she replied, feeling all the significance of these monosyllables, -yet incapable of more.</p> - -<p>‘I thought he had perhaps told you—at least Elizabeth—Elizabeth -thought he might have told you.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should he have told me?’ said Joyce, with an awakening of surprise.</p> - -<p>The Colonel was full of confusion. He did not know what to say. He felt -guilty and miserable, like a spy, and yet he was faithful to his -<i>consigne</i>, and to the task that had been set him to do. ‘Indeed,’ he -said, in his troubled voice, ‘my dear, I don’t know; but it was -thought—I mean I thought, perhaps, that it would be a comfort to -you—if you could have a little confidence in me.’</p> - -<p>Joyce began to perceive dimly what he meant, and it brought a flush to -her pale face. ‘But I have confidence—a great confidence,’ she said, -very low, not looking at him. The Colonel took courage from these words.</p> - -<p>‘Your father, you know, Joyce,—that is very proud of you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> and to have -such a daughter—and that would let no one vex you, not for a moment, my -dear—not by a word or a thought—and that would like you to make a -friend of him, and tell him—whatever you might like to tell him,’ he -added, hastily breaking off in the middle of what he had meant to be a -long speech, and giving double force to so much as he had said by these -means.</p> - -<p>Joyce had gradually aroused herself out of her dreams to understand the -meaning in her father’s voice, which trembled and quickened, and then -broke with a fulness of tender feeling which penetrated all the mists -that were about her. There suddenly came to her a sense of help at -hand—a belief in the being nearest to her in the world—a sort of -viceroy of God more true than any pope—her father. What no one else -could do he might do for her. It would be his place to do it; and it -would be her right to appeal to him, to put her troubles into his hands. -She had never realised this before: her father—who would let no one vex -her, who would stand between her and harm, who would have a right to -answer for her, and take upon himself her defence. The tears rushed to -her eyes, and a sense of relief and lightening to her heart.</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I will mind that. I will never forget it: my father, -that is like God, to know the meaning in my heart, even if I am far -wrong: and not to be hard on me, but to see where I was deceived, and to -take my cause in hand.’</p> - -<p>‘Deceived!’ the Colonel faltered, with mingled consternation and wrath. -‘Show me the man that would deceive you, my dear child, and leave him to -me—leave him to me.’</p> - -<p>‘What man? There is no man,’ said Joyce, shaking her head. ‘Oh, if it -was but that! but when it is me that has been the deceiver—and yet -meant no harm!’</p> - -<p>Her eyes swimming in tears that made them larger and softer than ever -eyes were, the Colonel thought, turned to him with a tender look of -trust which went to his heart, and yet was less comprehensible to him -than all that had gone before. He was puzzled beyond expression, and -touched, and exalted, and dismayed. He had gained that confidence which -he had sought, and yet he knew less than ever what it meant. And she had -said he was like God, which confused and troubled the good man, and was -very different from the mission that had been given him to find out his -child’s secret, and to bring to book—what horrible words were -these!—to bring to book! But whatever Joyce had on her mind, at least -it was not Norman Bellendean.</p> - -<p>And here in the emotion of the moment, and the rising of other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> and -profounder emotions, the Colonel dropped his <i>consigne</i>, and gave up his -investigations. He did not in the least understand what Joyce meant; but -she had given him her confidence, and he was touched to the bottom of -his tender heart. She had said that he would take her cause in hand, -that he was her father like God—a new and curiously impressive view, -turning all usual metaphors round about—that he would know her meaning, -even if she were far wrong. Not a word of this did the Colonel -comprehend—that is, the matter which called forth these expressions -remained entirely dark to him; but it would have been profane, he felt, -to ask for further enlightenment after she had thus thrown herself upon -him for protection and help. He was glad to relieve the tension by -having recourse to common subjects, so that without any further strain -upon her, his delightful, tender, incomprehensible child might get rid -of the tears in her eyes, and calm down.</p> - -<p>The result was that the Colonel talked more than usual on that morning -walk, and told Joyce more stories than usual of his old Indian comrades, -and of things that had passed in his youth, going back thirty, forty -years with at first a kind conscious effort to set her at her ease -again, but after a while with his usual enjoyment in the lively -recollection of these bright days which the old soldier loved to recall. -And Joyce walked by his side in an atmosphere of her own, full of the -bewitchment of a new enchanting presence suddenly revealed to her, full -of the mystic, half-veiled consciousness of Love—love that was real -love, the love of the poets, not anything she had ever known before. Her -father’s voice seemed to keep the shadow away, the thought of the wrong -she had done and the troth she had broken, but did not interfere with -that new revelation, the light and joy with which the world was radiant, -the inconceivable new thing which had looked at her out of Norman -Bellendean’s eyes. She walked along as if she had been buoyed up by air, -her heart filled with a great elation which was indescribable, which was -not caused by anything, which looked forward to nothing, which was more -than happiness, a nameless, causeless delight.</p> - -<p>If she had been in a condition to examine what Captain Bellendean had -said, or in any way to question what Mrs. Hayward called his intentions, -Joyce’s feelings might have been very different. But of this she took no -thought whatever, nor asked herself any question. What she did ask, with -a triumphant yet trembling certainty, was whether this was not the Vita -Nuova of which she had read? The answer came in the same breath with -that question. She knew it was the Vita Nuova—the same which had made -the streets of Florence an enchanted land such as never was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> by sea or -shore, and turned the woods of Arden into Paradise. The pride and glory -and delight of having come into that company of lovers, and received her -inheritance, softly turned her dreaming brain. She had never been so -much herself—for all those references to other people and pervading -circumstances which shape a young woman’s dutiful existence had -disappeared altogether from her consciousness—and yet she was not -herself at all, but a dream. The accompaniment of her kind father’s -pleasant voice, running on with his old stories, gave her a delightful -shelter and cover for the voiceless song which was going on in her own -heart. She had put her cause into his hands, as she felt, though she was -not clear how it had been done. He would not blame her, though she was -wrong. He would defend her. And thus Joyce escaped from life with all -its burdens and penalties, and floated away upon the soft delicious air -into the Vita Nuova. Never was such a walk—her feet did not touch the -ground, her consciousness was not touched by any vulgar sound or sight. -Soft monosyllables of assent dropped from her dreaming lips as the -delighted historian by her side went on with the records of his youth. -He felt that he had all her interest—he felt how sweet it was to have a -dear child, a girl such as he had always wished for, who had given him -her full confidence, and who cared for everything that ever had happened -to him, and was absorbed in it as if the story had been her own. In all -their goings and comings together, there had never been a walk like -this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">Well</span>?’ said Mrs. Hayward, somewhat sharply, as she followed her husband -upstairs.</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear! everything is quite right and sweet and true about her, -as I always thought it was.’</p> - -<p>‘I daresay. That is all very charming, Henry, and I am delighted that -you are so much pleased. But what about Captain Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!—about Captain Bellendean,’ said the Colonel, rubbing his hands -with an attempt to look quite at his ease and comfortable. Then he added -still cheerfully, but with a sinking of his heart, ‘Do you know, I don’t -think there was anything quite definitely said between us about Norman -Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, there was nothing definitely said!’</p> - -<p>‘Not by name, you know,’ said Colonel Hayward, with a propitiatory -smile, still softly rubbing his hands.</p> - -<p>‘And what did you talk of definitely, may I ask? You’ve been a long time -out. I suppose something came of it,’ said Mrs. Hayward more sharply -than ever.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, certainly,’ said the Colonel, very conciliatory. ‘Joyce desired -nothing better than to give me her full confidence, Elizabeth. She has a -heart of gold, my dear. She said at once that she knew I would never -misunderstand her—that I would always help her; and nothing could be -more true. I think I may say we understand each other perfectly now.’</p> - -<p>Elizabeth’s keen eye saw through all this confidence and plausible -certainty. ‘What did she tell you then—about last night?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘About last night? Well, my dear, I told you we did not go into things -very definitely—we did not put all the dots on the i’s. It was rather -what you might call—general. No names, you know,’ he repeated, looking -at her with a still more ingratiating smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘No names, I know! In short, Henry, you are no wiser than when you went -out,’ Mrs. Hayward said, with an exasperation that was not unnatural. ‘I -knew how it would be,’ she added. ‘She has just thrown dust in your -eyes, and made you believe whatever she pleased. I never expected -anything else, for my part.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, my dear, you are quite mistaken. She said to me in the most -trusting way that she had the fullest confidence—— My dear Elizabeth, I -don’t think you do justice to Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, justice!’ she cried: perhaps she did well to be angry. ‘I must -trust, then, to myself,’ she said, ’as I generally have to do.’</p> - -<p>‘But Elizabeth—Elizabeth!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t bother me, <i>please</i>!’ the angry woman said.</p> - -<p>Joyce went up stairs to take off her hat, and as she did so her eyes -fell upon certain little closed cases upon her table. One of them was -that photograph of old Janet Matheson in her big shawl and black satin -bonnet, with Peter, a wide laugh of self-ridicule yet pleasure on his -face, looking over her shoulder. It was from no scorn of those poor old -people that the little case was closed. Mrs. Hayward’s maid had made -some silly remark about ‘an old washerwoman,’ and Joyce, almost with -tears of anger, had shut it from all foolish eyes. She took it up and -opened it now, and kissed it with quivering lips—wondering would granny -understand her? or would she be so overjoyed, so uplifted, by the -thought of the Captain, that everything else would be dim to her. Joyce -put down the little homely picture, but in so doing touched another, -which lay closed, too, beside it. She did not open that case—she -recoiled with a low cry. The outside was enough—it filled her with a -sudden repugnance, a kind of horror. She moved even from the side of the -table where it was. She thought she saw him standing there looking at -her, in the attitude in which he had stood for his portrait; and she -remembered, nay, saw with a clearness beyond that of mere vision, his -look as he had presented her with this memorial of himself. ‘It is said -to be very like,’ he had said; ‘I am no judge.’ She remembered the -ineffable little tone in which he had said it—a tone which even then -filled her with something between ridicule and shame.</p> - -<p>And now—oh, how could Joyce think of it! how could she look back upon -that time! Now it was odious to her to recall him at all, to see him -spring up and put himself into his attitude—so gentlemanly, as his -mother said. Joyce grew crimson, a scorching flush came all over her. -She shrank away from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> wretched little photograph as if it had been a -serpent, and could sting her. She had never liked it. It had always -seemed an uncomfortable revelation, fixing him there in black and white, -much worse even than he was: <i>even</i>! Joyce hid her face in her hands, in -an agony of self-horror and shame. Oh, how mean, dishonourable, vulgar, -she was! He had been better than all the lads about, who would have -thrust their awkward love upon her in the old days. An educated man, -able to talk about poetry and beautiful things. She had been honoured by -his regard—it had been a great thing for her to be engaged to such a -man—and now! There was nothing, nothing which could excuse the baseness -of her desertion of him. What could she say for herself? There was only -one thing she could say, and that was what no one would understand. The -one thing was, that she had not known what love was, and now love had -come. Ah! if it had been love for some one poorer, less desirable than -Andrew, her plea might have been believed. But love for Norman -Bellendean—love that would put her in the place which was as good as a -queen’s to all the country-side—love by which she would better herself -beyond conception.</p> - -<p>Joyce felt a chill come to her heart after that hot rush of shame—how -was she to say it, how accept it even in her own heart? Even granny -would be ashamed—granny who had prophesied that he would be the first -to be cast off—but without thinking that it would be Joyce—Joyce -herself, not any proud father—who would cast off the poor schoolmaster. -Joyce’s honest peasant breeding, with its contempt for the <i>parvenu</i>, -gave her a keener horror and shame than would have been possible, -perhaps, to any other class. She felt humiliated to the very dust, angry -with herself, disgusted at her own treachery. What should she do?—how -represent it to those keen cottage critics, who would look at her -behaviour with such sharp eyes? To give up Andrew Halliday for the -Captain,—the meanest woman might do that—the one that was most -ignoble. And who was to know, who was to understand, that it was true -love, the first love she had ever known, and not pride or advantage -that, before she knew it, had snatched Joyce’s heart away?</p> - -<p>She was not sufficiently composed to allow herself to think that she had -never shown to her rustic suitor any more preference than was natural to -the fact that he was more congenial to her than the ploughman. She had -accepted sedately his attentions. She had consented vaguely to that half -proprietorship which he had claimed in her; but there had been little -wooing between them, and Joyce had put aside all those demonstrations of -affection which Andrew had attempted. But she said to herself none of -these things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> She even did not say that it was a mistake, for which in -her youthfulness and ignorance she was scarcely to blame. She took it -very seriously, as a sin which she had committed, but meaning no harm, -meaning no harm, as she repeated to herself, with tears in her eyes. For -the other had come upon her like a flood, like a fire, like some natural -accident of which there was no warning. All had been tranquillity in her -heart one moment—and in the next she knew that she was a traitor, -forsworn. There had been no warning. She had not known of any -danger—but in a moment she had discovered that she was a false woman, -false and forsworn.</p> - -<p>She went down to the luncheon-table after a long interval—long enough -to make her late for that meal, which was a fault Mrs. Hayward did not -approve. But Joyce had to bathe her hot eyes which could not shed any -tears, but burnt in their sockets like fiery coals, she thought, and -then to wait till the glaze and flush produced by the bathing had worn -off. It had not altogether worn off when she came downstairs, but -remained in a suspicious glow, so that she seemed to have been crying, -though she had not been able to afford herself that relief. The Colonel -cried, ‘Why, Joyce!’ when she appeared, and was about to make some -further remark, when a look from his wife checked him. This looked like -mercy on Mrs. Hayward’s part, but perhaps it was only in order to -inflict a more telling blow.</p> - -<p>For, after some time when all was quiet, and Joyce, taking refuge in the -tranquillity, had begun to breathe more freely, Mrs. Hayward all at once -introduced a subject of which as yet there had been no discussion. ‘By -the way,’ she said, suddenly and lightly, ‘where are we going this -autumn? It is nearly August, and we have not yet settled that.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel answered, that for his part he was always very well disposed -to stay at home; and that he thought, as there had been a great deal of -excitement that year——</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t feel disposed to give up my holiday,’ said Mrs. Hayward. -‘Where shall we go? I know what you mean, Henry. You mean to beguile us -into staying quietly here, and then when the Twelfth comes you will find -some irresistible business that calls you away—to Scotland or -somewhere. And you do not care what we are to do in the meantime, Joyce -and me.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel protested very warmly that this was not what he meant. -‘Indeed it is very seldom I get an invitation for the Twelfth, not once -in half a dozen years; and as for leaving you behind——’</p> - -<p>‘We will not be left behind,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> alarming -gaiety. ‘No. I’ll tell you what we will do to suit all parties. You -shall go to Scotland for the Twelfth, and Joyce and I will do what I -know her heart is set upon. We will go to see her old people in her old -home. That will please you, Joyce, I know?’</p> - -<p>This terrible suggestion was to Joyce as if a gun had suddenly been -fired at her ear. She was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, -and she started so that the very table shook.</p> - -<p>‘To go to—my old home?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my dear. It would give the old people a great pleasure. We -promised, you know, to bring you back.’</p> - -<p>It was a cruel experiment to try. Joyce flushed and paled again with an -agitation beyond control. ‘It is very kind,’ she faltered, ‘to think -of—but they would not look for me now.’</p> - -<p>‘Why not now? They don’t go away on a round of visits in autumn, I -presume.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear!’ said the Colonel, in a shocked admonitory voice.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Henry! I mean no harm; but one time is the same as another to -them, I should suppose. And we all know how fond they are of Joyce, and -she of them. What more natural than that she should go to see them when -the chance occurs?’</p> - -<p>It was natural. There was nothing to reply. If all was true that Joyce -had professed of love and reverence for these old people, what could be -thought of her refusal, her reluctance to go and see them? She sat there -like a frightened wild creature driven into a corner, and not knowing -how to escape, or what to do, looking at them with scared eyes.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, that all looks reasonable enough, and -if Joyce wished it—but she must know best when it would be convenient -to them. It might not be convenient at this time of the year, for -anything we know.’</p> - -<p>‘It would be harvest,’ said Joyce, thankful for the suggestion; ‘they -would be busy, busy: another time it would be better. Oh,’ she cried -suddenly, in an outburst of despair, ‘how can I go home?’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I’m unnatural! I’m not fit to live! How am I to go home!’ cried the -girl, who, less than three months ago, had left old Peter and Janet -with, as she thought, a breaking heart. The two calm people at either -end of the table put down their knives and forks to look at her—the -Colonel with great sympathy, yet a certain pleasure; Mrs. Hayward with -suppressed scorn.</p> - -<p>‘It is not so very long since you were sighing for it, Joyce,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span>’ she -said; ‘but a girl at your age may be allowed to change her mind.’</p> - -<p>‘And, my dear,’ said her father, ‘I am very joyful to think that your -own real home is more to you than any other; for that’s how it ought to -be.’</p> - -<p>Joyce looked at them both with the troubled, dumb stare of helpless -panic and stupefied cruel terror which comes to a wild thing in a snare. -Her cry had been uttered and was over. She had no more to say; but she -had not sufficient command of herself to perceive that she should not -have uttered that cry, or should seek to put some gloss upon it, now -that it was beyond recall.</p> - -<p>‘And now you see that Joyce does not wish it, my dear,’ said Colonel -Hayward, ‘of course you will never press that. It was only because we -thought it would please you, Joyce; but you may be sure she is right, -Elizabeth. It would be too soon—too soon.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, that’s all right, if she thinks so,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Of course -I don’t mean to press it. I thought it would delight Joyce; but it -appears I have made a mistake. Let us think of something else, Henry. -Let us go abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘You would like that, my dear child?’ her father said. He was greatly -touched by this clinging to himself, as he thought it—this preference -of her new home to the old. To him there was neither variableness, nor -the desertion of old ties, nor anything in it which impaired the -character of his child, but only a preference for himself, a desire to -be with him and near him, her father, upon whom she had made so tender a -claim,—who, she had said, would be like God. Naturally she would rather -be with him than with any one. He put out his hand and stroked hers -caressingly. ‘You would like that? It would be a complete change. We -might go to Switzerland, or even to the Italian lakes. You are very fond -of Como, Elizabeth. Come now, say you would like that.’</p> - -<p>Their eyes were upon her, and how were they to know the tempest of -feeling that was in Joyce’s mind? She seemed to see the two old figures -rise reproachful, their faces looking at her across the table—oh, so -deeply wounded, with long looks of inquiry. Was it possible that -already—already her heart had turned from them? And Janet’s words came -surging back in the tempest of Joyce’s thoughts, how she would mean no -harm, yet be parted from them, and find out all the differences. So -soon, so soon! Janet’s eyes seemed to look at her with deep and grieved -reproach; but, on the other hand, who were these two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> who shut out -Janet’s face from her? Andrew in the attitude of the photograph, -complacent, self-assertive, and Norman Bellendean, stooping, looking -down upon her. Oh no, no, no! not home where these two were—not home, -not home!</p> - -<p>‘I must say I am surprised, Joyce. Still, if that is what you feel, it -is not for me to press the visit upon you. And so far as I am concerned, -I like home much the best. I am not very fond of Scotland. It’s cold, -and I hate cold. Of course Joyce would like Como—every girl would like -it—so long,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with meaning, ’as there was not -absolutely any other place which they liked best.’</p> - -<p>This arrow fell harmlessly upon Joyce, who had fallen into such a storm -of troubled thoughts that missiles from without failed to affect her. Of -all places in the world there was but one only which was impossible to -her, the beloved home where the man whom she loved was in the high -place, and the man who loved her was in the lowly. These two -antagonistic figures blurred out the two others—the old pair to whom -she owed everything, to whom her heart went out with an aching and -longing even while she thus abandoned them; and dear Bellendean, of -which she thought with such horror and panic, the place she loved best -in the world,—the only place in the world to which she dared not, must -not go.</p> - -<p>‘There is no engagement,’ said Mrs. Hayward to her husband when Joyce -had escaped to her room.</p> - -<p>‘No engagement?’ he repeated, with a surprised question.</p> - -<p>‘There has been no explanation. He has said nothing to her. And I think, -after dangling after her for nearly three months, that he is not -treating her well. If he comes back, Henry, I have told you what is your -duty. You must ask him what his intentions are.’</p> - -<p>‘I would rather shoot him, or myself. You don’t know what you are -saying, Elizabeth,’ the Colonel cried.</p> - -<p>‘Shooting him, or yourself, would not advance matters at all,’ his wife -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Andrew Halliday</span> had not spent a pleasant summer, and the winter closed -in upon him with still less consolation. His love, his ambition, and all -his hopes were centred in Joyce, and his mind was greatly distracted -from those occupations which hitherto had filled his life. He no longer -took the satisfaction he once had done in perfecting the school at -Comely Green, in pushing on his show pupils, and straining every nerve -for the approbation of the inspectors, and to acquire the reputation of -the best school in the district. All his pleasure in the nice -schoolhouse, which he had once inspected with such bright hopes, -thinking what a home Joyce would make of it, what a place it would be, -superior to all other schoolhouses, under her hands, which embellished -everything—was gone. And even his Shakespeare class, and all the -intellectual enthusiasms in which he had been stimulated by her, and -which were the pride of his life and buoyed him up, with that sense of -culture and superiority which is one of the most ineffable and -delightful of human sensations, failed to support him now. For that -beatific condition requires calm, and Andrew was no longer calm. He kept -looking night and day for a summons into higher spheres. He dreamed of -headmasterships in the ‘South’ which would be opened to him; of noble -English schools where every boy was a little lord, and for which his own -intellectual gifts, apart from any vain paraphernalia of university -degrees, would, backed by Colonel Hayward’s influence, make him -eligible. It may seem strange that a man of any education should have -believed in anything so preposterous; but Halliday was very ignorant of -the world, though he was entirely unaware of that fact, and had no -experience out of his own narrow circle. Little as this is recognised, -it is nevertheless true that a clever man in his position is capable of -misunderstandings and mistakes which would be impossible to a dolt in a -higher sphere. He did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> know that he had as little chance of becoming -a headmaster in a great school, by dint even of the greatest of natural -gifts, as of becoming Prime Minister—far less, indeed, for political -genius might force a way in the one direction, while the most exalted -intellectualism would do nothing in the other. Andrew, bewitched by hope -and aspiration, and the novel and intoxicating sense of having ‘friends’ -in high places, whose greatest object in life must be his advancement, -believed and hoped everything which the wildest fancy could conceive.</p> - -<p>This made his life much less satisfactory to him in the general, and -reduced the efficiency of the parish school of Comely Green, the success -of which was less to him than it had ever been, and its routine less -interesting. As for the house, and even the new furniture he had bought, -he looked at them with scorn, almost with disgust. What was the little -parlour, which was all that a set of prejudiced heritors allowed to the -schoolmaster, in comparison with the lovely old-fashioned mansions which -he had seen described in books, and which were full of every luxury -which a headmaster could desire? This hope, which at first was almost a -certainty, of better things, made life as it was very distasteful to -Andrew. For the first three months there was scarcely a day when he did -not expect to hear something. When he went out he thought it possible -that a letter, or better, a telegram, might be waiting for him when he -came back—and never stranger approached the school, that his heart did -not beat expectant of the messenger who should bring him news of his -promotion. When the inspector came for his annual examination, Andrew -thought that there was something particular about all that he said and -looked, and that this official was testing him and his success, to see -how he would do for the higher sphere which was opening to receive him. -The inspector happened to have letters to post as he passed through the -village, one with the mystic H.M.S. printed upon it, and the unfortunate -schoolmaster felt his heart beat, believing that it contained his -character, his certificate, the description of himself, which would -justify Government in translating him to a higher and a better sphere; -and in this suppressed excitement and expectation he passed his life.</p> - -<p>However, when the summer had given place to autumn a curious thing -occurred to Andrew. Joyce’s letters, which had been short but very -regular, and exceedingly nicely written, and so expressed as to trouble -his mind with no doubts—for, indeed, Andrew was scarcely capable of -doubting the faith of a girl who had the privilege of being chosen for -his mate—suddenly stopped.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> They had come weekly—an arrangement with -which he was satisfied—and it was not until for the second time the -usual day came and brought him no letter that he began to think her -silence strange. When he heard from Janet, whom he visited regularly, -with great honesty and faithfulness to his promise—though, as a matter -of fact, he was not anxious to be seen to be on terms of intimacy with -such very lowly people—that Joyce had gone abroad with her father, this -seemed a not inadequate excuse for her. Andrew’s heart swelled with the -thought that to him, too, the possibility might soon come of going -abroad for his holidays—a dignity and splendour which in anticipation -raised him to a kind of ecstasy.</p> - -<p>And for a time this satisfied him fully. But time went on, and Joyce, he -knew, returned, and yet no communication came. He could not think why -this should be, especially as Janet went on receiving letters, of which -she would read extracts with a scarcely suppressed sense of superiority -which was very galling to the schoolmaster. ‘Ou ay, Andrew; come ben and -tak’ a seat; there’s been a letter. She never lets an eight days pass -without one—she’s just as regular as the clock,’ Janet would say, not -unwilling to inflict that little humiliation; and then she would read to -him a little bit here and there. If it had not been for that still -lively hope, Andrew would have been seriously angry and anxious: and -even when another month had stolen away, he was, though greatly -surprised, yet still willing to believe that she was putting off in -order to give him a delightful surprise at last,—in order to be able to -tell him of some wonderful appointment which she was in the meantime -straining every energy to obtain. But there was no doubt that this -constant suspense did undermine his tranquillity. At the last, his -temper began to suffer; he began to grow jealous and irritable. When the -Captain came back to Bellendean and went to see Janet, and talked to her -for hours about her child—as the old woman reported with as much pride -as her dignity permitted—Andrew took heart again for the moment, -expecting nothing less than that a similar visit should be paid to him, -who certainly, he thought, was much more in the Captain’s way—far more -able to hold a conversation with him on topics either public or -individual than an old ploughman and his wife. But the Captain never -came; and there was no letter, no message, nothing but silence, and a -darkness in which not only the headmastership but Joyce—who, to do him -justice, was more to him than any promotion—seemed to be vanishing -away.</p> - -<p>This blank was made all the greater from the fact that Janet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> in the -meantime never failed to get her letter. Joyce wrote long tender letters -to her beloved granny, telling her everything—and nothing; a fact which -the keen-witted old woman had long ago discovered, but which naturally -she kept to herself, not even confiding to Peter—whose chief amusement -it was to hear these letters read over and over—the deficiency which -she felt. Joyce described all her travels with a fulness which was -delightful to the old people. ‘Ye can read me yon bit again about the -bells and the auld man in the kirk,’ Peter would say; or, ‘Yon about the -muckle hills and the glaciers—as daftlike a name as ever I heard; for -there’s no’ mony glaziers, I’m thinking, yonder away—na, nor plumbers -either.’ Janet fumbled for her spectacles, and got the letter out of a -work-box which had been a present from Joyce, and prepared to read with -every appearance of enthusiasm; but she said to herself, ‘She can tell -me about glaciers and snawy hills, but no’ a word about hersel’.’ It is -doubtful, however, whether Andrew would have perceived this want any -more than Peter. He would have been satisfied with letters about the -glaciers and all the wonders she was seeing; but to have that -information only at second-hand was hard upon him, and it was hard to be -left out. Even if this silence should be caused by her desire to give -him a delightful surprise—even if she were indeed waiting from week to -week always expecting to have that piece of news to tell him—even in -that case it was very hard to bear.</p> - -<p>He came to the cottage one evening when the early winter had set in. The -days had grown short and the nights long. The house of Bellendean stood -out with a half-naked distinctness among the bare trees, and every path -was thick with fallen leaves. Through the village street the wind was -careering as though pursuing some one, and breathing with a long sough -that told of coming rain among the houses. A dreary night, with little -light and little comfort in it—not a night to come out for pleasure. -Andrew Halliday had brought a lantern to light him on various parts of -his long walk, and he went in with a gloomy countenance like the night. -The scene was a very homely one: the occupants of the cottage were poor, -with none of the interest that attaches to beauty or youth, and yet -there was much that was touching in the little interior. The supper was -over, the things were all put away; it was nearly time for bed, for they -rose early, and were tired with the work of the day. The Bible was on -the table for the ‘worship’ which was their last waking act. But in the -meantime Peter sat in his old arm-chair beside the fire smoking his last -pipe, his rugged countenance lit up by its proud smile, and a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> -moisture in his eyes. The laugh with which he sometimes interrupted the -reading had the far-off sound of a sob in it. Janet sat on the other -side of the fire holding up the page she was reading to the light. It -was Joyce’s last letter. No book in the world had so much charm for -them. It provided their literature for the week, and Peter had nearly -got the current letter by heart before the next came. Out at his work -among the dark wintry furrows, he would sometimes burst forth into an -explosion of that tremulous laughter, repeating over one of the ‘bits’ -in Joyce’s letter, saying to himself, ‘It’s just extraordinar’! Whaur -did she get a’ thae remarks, that never would have come into my head, -and me her grandfaither?’ Of this admiration and emotion and tender love -the air of the little room was full.</p> - -<p>‘Is that you, Andrew? Dear, man, I hope naething’s the matter—you have -an awfu’ troubled countenance,’ Janet said.</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing particular the matter,’ said Andrew grimly, ‘but I’m -tired of waiting for what never comes, and I’m thinking of going up to -London. I thought it best to let you know, in case you might have any -message. Though, as you’re always in correspondence——’</p> - -<p>‘Ou ay, we’re always in correspondence,’ said Janet.</p> - -<p>‘Just read ower that bit again, Janet, my woman,’ said her husband. -‘It’s real diverting,—just like having a book to read that’s a’ your -ain. Whaur she gets it a’ is mair than I can tell.’</p> - -<p>‘No, thank you—I’ve no time,’ said Andrew, ‘and most likely it would -not divert me; for, to tell the truth, I’m very serious, and things have -come to that pass that I must just come to a settlement one way or -other. So if you have any parcel or any message——’</p> - -<p>‘But you’re no’ going to throw up the school, or do anything rash? Do -nothing rash, Andrew—that would be the warst of a’.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope I’m not an unknown person,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘if I throw -up one I’ll get another, for there’s plenty that knows my value. But I -have no intention to be rash. There’s three days’ vacation for the -preachings, and I am going then.’</p> - -<p>‘For the preachings! Dear, lad, would you be away at the preachings?’ -Janet cried.</p> - -<p>‘Preachings or no preachings, I’m going to London,’ he said, with -impatience. ‘I’ll hear what she has to say; but I’m not a man to be just -kept hanging on. She’ll have to take me or to want me.’ He was much -impressed with the tremendous character of the choice that Joyce would -have to make. It sobered his tone. ‘I hope nobody will think that I -would be hard upon her:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> but she must satisfy me that all’s well, or -else——’ He did not finish the sentence; but the sternness of the -determination which he would not utter was visible in his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I wouldna speak to her in a tone like that, if I was you. Ye may lead -Joyce with love and kindness many a mile, but ye’ll no’ drive her an -inch—no’ an inch. Though she’s our ain, she has her faults, like every -ither mortal creature. If ye wag your finger at her in the way of a -threat——’</p> - -<p>‘He’ll no’ do that,’ said Peter, in a tone of quiet decision, looking -the schoolmaster all over. Andrew was a much younger man, but the arm of -the gigantic old labourer could still have laid him low. Andrew, -however, was irritable and sore, and he looked up with by no means a -conciliatory demeanour.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll do what’s becoming,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be dictated to. A man has -a right to know what a woman means that has accepted him for her -husband. Either she’ll fulfil her contract or—we’ll have to come to -other terms.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Janet, unable to refrain from that little triumph. ‘Did I -no’ tell ye that? Ye were fain to make friends with yon grand gentleman, -and leave Peter and me on the ither side, but I telt ye ye would be the -first to feel it—and so it’s turned out.’</p> - -<p>‘That remains to be seen,’ said Andrew, buttoning his overcoat. ‘It’s a -very dark night, and without a light I could scarcely have kept the -road—though I should know it well enough,’ he added, with a little -bitterness. ‘I was not called upon to take all this trouble to come over -and see you. But I would not go without letting you know. I was not -asking your opinion. The thing is, if you have any message or parcel—I -could take a parcel.’</p> - -<p>‘I’m sure I canna tell what I could send her, unless it was some fresh -eggs, or a bunch of the monthly roses off the wa’. She’ll have -everything that heart can desire—and the eggs would be a trouble to ye. -And nae doot she has far better flowers than a wheen late roses off a -cottage wa’.’</p> - -<p>Peter had got up while Janet was speaking, and opened his large knife. -‘Len’ me your lantern, Andrew,’ he said, and went out with heavy slow -steps to the little garden, or ‘yaird’ as they called it. He came in, a -minute after, with a branch from the old China rose, which half covered -that side of the house. The old man, with his heavy figure and rugged -countenance, the lantern in one hand and the cluster of pale roses in -the other, might have made a symbolical picture. He set down the lantern -and began to trim off the thorns from the long bough with its nodding -flowers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> There could not have been a more wintry posy. The leaves were -curled up and brown with frost; the hips, only half coloured, pale as -the flowers, hung in clusters, glistening with cold November dews; and -the faint roses gave a sort of plaintive cheer and melancholy -prettiness, like the faces of children subdued into unnatural quiet. -‘Ye’ll take her this from her auld folk,’ Peter said.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, but it’ll be hard to carry a lang brainch like that: tak’ just the -flowers, Andrew; ye can pit them in your hat.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll take it as it is,’ said Andrew. He was not below the level of that -tender feeling; and though there was a great deal of angry -disappointment, there was love also in his heart. He took the branch of -roses and unripe hips, and frost-bitten leaves, and disappeared into the -darkness with it, with a curt ‘good-night.’ The old couple stood by the -fire, listening to his steps as he went quickly out of hearing; then -shut the door for the night, and opened the Book, and said their prayers -for Joyce,—‘her that Thou gavest us, and that Thou hast taken from us, -we darena doubt for her good; and oh, that a’ the blessings o’ the -covenant may rest upon her bonnie heid!’ It was the petition of every -night, and Janet gave the response of nature (though responses, it need -not be said, were profoundly contrary to all her principles) in a -whispered repetition of the words, and a faint little sob.</p> - -<p>Andrew walked the three miles with his lantern in one hand and his long -branch of roses in the other, a strange apparition to have met upon the -road in the darkness of the November night. And next evening he set out, -after having completed all his school work, by the night train, with a -great determination in his heart, and yet many softened and wistful -thoughts. He was going to ‘put it to the touch, to gain or lose it -all,’—repeating to himself over and over Montrose’s noble verse. He was -going to decide his fate: if there was no hope of that headmastership; -if, perhaps, competition and vile interest and patronage—always vile -when they are opposed to one’s self—had rendered all efforts -impossible: to bid them strive no more, since he was content to wait for -the reward of a conscious merit which did not, after all, want any -foreign aid to gain eventually all that was meet; and in the meantime to -secure his love, to insist upon it that no circumstances should separate -him from Joyce. He went over and over in his imagination the interview -he would have with her, fancying how she would excuse herself that she -had waited for good news, and answering, with a little burst of natural -eloquence, ‘Do you think I would not rather have a kind word from your -hand than all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> news in the world? Do you think a grand appointment -would make up to me for losing sight of <i>you</i>?’ A hundred speeches like -this floated through his mind, and were said over by his lips in the -little preliminary journey to Edinburgh in the chill afternoon. The -thought of going to London was in itself a great excitement too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Halliday</span> was both gloomy and angry when he left home, full of that sense -of unappreciated merit which cuts with peculiar keenness into the minds -of those who entertain no doubt as to their own superiority over the -ordinary level; but the influence of external things and the distraction -of travel soon succeeded in clearing to a great degree his mental -firmament. The bustle of the great station at Edinburgh, the care of -selecting a comfortable corner for his journey, the hurrying and rush of -less fortunate persons hampered by luggage and children, amused his mind -and distracted his thoughts. He travelled, as a matter of course, in the -third-class; and, equally as a matter of course, he regarded with a -dignified derision the stalwart young men in deer-stalking coats, and -with every superfluity imaginable in the way of wraps and sticks and -dressing-cases, who indulged themselves in the luxury of -sleeping-carriages. Sybarites he called them in his mind, with a -half-contemptuous, half-indulgent smile—frivolous creatures, altogether -unaware that in a corner of a third-class carriage a man so much their -superior in everything was calmly regarding them, making the inevitable -comparison between folly and its comfortable cushions, and wisdom, -which, if it did not trudge afoot, yet used only such conveniences as -dignified necessity required. The deer-stalking young men, who never -thought of the matter, would indeed have been highly surprised had they -known how they were set down at their proper value by their travelling -companion. The comparison did Andrew good: it made him feel his own -dignity, his superiority to the external, yet made his breast swell with -a pathetic wonder. Was it perhaps possible that Joyce, after three -months’ experience of luxury, should prefer these brainless ones, so -much lower in the intellectual scale? Surely, surely that could not be -possible. He saw with a smile that they took copies of the <i>Field</i> and -the <i>Sporting News</i> into their luxurious carriages with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> them. He -himself had the <i>Saturday Review</i>. There is nothing so sustaining as -this sense of being better than one’s neighbours. It comforted poor -Andrew, and kept him warm during his journey. The gentlemen in the -sleeping-carriages might rest better, but they did not, nay could not, -feel half the moral elevation of the schoolmaster in his corner of the -third-class.</p> - -<p>London, too, veiled in a grey-and-yellow fog, through which the lamps, -not yet extinguished, and a line of dusky sunrise among the clouds, -looked red, brought an excitement to his mind which few perhaps of the -companions of his journey shared. Andrew greeted the great city as -people greet it in books,—as adventurers in the days of Dr. Johnson -saluted that centre of the world. He thought with a tingle of strange -emotion in his breast that the great roar of humanity might become -familiar to his ears ere long. He rose to the sound and commotion with a -sense of predestined greatness. The people in the sleeping-carriages -tumbled out drowsily, rubbing their eyes in the midst of a dream. But -Andrew stepped forth inspired by the recollection of many a great man -who had arrived like himself, not knowing what might befall him. His -hopes, his courage rose more and more as he felt where he was—in a -great place where he was sure to be understood, and where the human mind -was in a perpetual progress, not stagnant as in the country. He felt, -indeed, not as he had done when he left home, as if his mission were a -forlorn hope, but rather as if he were coming like a conqueror to see -and to vanquish. It wanted only, he said to himself, that touch of -reality to chase all the chimeras away. He would, he must, find Joyce -faithful as ever, keeping silence only because her plans were not yet -ripened for his advancement. He would find her father full of that -respect which the man of action feels for the man of mind. He would be -received as an honoured guest; he would be admitted into their -confidence, and made acquainted with their hopes. Visions of a noble old -house in some sort of cloistered dignified centre of learning rose again -before his eyes—A. Halliday, Headmaster. He did not definitely fix upon -Eton or Harrow, having no actual knowledge of either of those places; -but something exhilarating, sweet, a strong yet soft delusion, stole -into his being. He was so entirely inexperienced and full of the -ignorance of his class (although a man so well instructed), that he was -not aware of any restriction upon such appointments that could not be -got over by sufficiently powerful influence. Influence could do -everything, Halliday thought.</p> - -<p>He got a bath and breakfast at the nearest hotel, undiscouraged even by -its grim and chill nakedness, and feeling a wonderful free<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>dom and -elation in the consciousness of thus doing what the best people did, and -being waited upon, served by a man-servant (if you liked to put it in -that way) like the best. It cost a good deal, but it was worth the -expenditure. The fog cleared off as the morning advanced, and it was in -the sunshine of a bright hazy morning that he set off on the final stage -of his journey. He had dressed himself with the utmost care and all the -resources of his wardrobe. His tie was blue, his coat a frock-coat of -extreme solemnity, which he usually wore at funerals. He thought, as he -was a traveller, that it was the right thing to wear with this a round -hat such as he wore in the country. He had a pair of lavender gloves, -his umbrella was very neatly rolled up—in short, at half a mile off you -recognised his unquestionable character and doubtful gentility with as -much ease as if he had written Andrew Halliday, schoolmaster at Comely -Green, upon his manly breast; but he had not the least idea of that. His -clear and ruddy complexion was a little paled by the night’s journey, -and by the mixture of agitation and excitement which he could not but -feel as the moment of meeting approached. He looked a most respectable -young man, very respectable, honest as the day. You would scarcely have -suspected, however, to see him, how superior he felt to the people in -the sleeping-carriages, and how, when they got the <i>Field</i> and the -<i>Sporting Times</i> at the bookstalls, he had bought the <i>Saturday Review</i>.</p> - -<p>He went by the railway from Waterloo, admiring the river which ran -glistening grey, like a great worm, under the shining of the wintry -sun—and got out with a great heartbeat at the station. How near he was -now! He felt inclined to take a walk, to see the place and look at the -view, pushing off the decision for a time, the certainty—for he had so -little doubt by this time that it was a certainty—of the happy meeting. -To see Joyce in perhaps a few minutes; to hear her cry of astonishment -and delight; to have her come up to him in her shy way, never -demonstrative, unless perhaps the long separation might have made her -more so. ‘Oh, Andrew! and I was just going to write to tell you——’ He -would not wait till she said ‘about the headmastership.’ He would take -her in his arms, whoever was there (for had he not the right?), and say, -‘About yourself, my dearest—that’s what I want to hear about.’ He -thought he would take a walk first to <i>savourer</i> a little this -delightful scene, and think how she would look and what he would say. It -was so near, so very near! He would keep it at arm’s-length a little in -order to enjoy it the more.</p> - -<p>It sobered him, however, to hear that Colonel Hayward’s house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> was some -distance off, and to receive confused instructions which he could not -follow. As a matter of fact, the instructions were not at all confused, -they were only too rapid and clear. ‘First turning to the right, second -turning to the left; then go straight on till you pass the church; then -first turning, second turning.’ How could he keep all that in his mind? -It was he that was confused, not the direction. If they had said, turn -to the west and then a little to the north—— He stumbled along, -forgetting whether it was the first, second, or third turning he ought -to take, till he came to a church, which was not the church to which he -had been directed; and from thence he stumbled on again by a great many -roads clothed with pretty houses, which bewildered him. He stopped -finally to ask his way of a brisk little lady, who cried, ‘Oh, Colonel -Hayward’s!’ her eyes dancing with instant interest, and a look full of -interrogations, as if she would have liked to ask him a hundred things. -Andrew could scarcely restrain himself from asking, ‘Do you know Joyce?’ -He felt at once that this eager little lady jumped at some conclusion -about himself, and was eager to ask who he was—perhaps whether he was -the lover of whom Joyce must have spoken to everybody with whom she was -intimate. And Andrew’s instinct was indeed not far wrong: for Mrs. -Sitwell immediately divined him to be somebody out of the mysterious -past life of which none of the Haywards spoke, and wondered whether, -perhaps, he was some one with whom Joyce had got ‘entangled’ in these -dark ages. She stood and looked after him when she had given him his -instructions, with curious eyes, noting his long frock-coat and his low -hat. How dreadful! she said to herself, and could scarcely contain the -curiosity that filled her. Should she make a hurried round through the -district, and then approach the Haywards’ on the other side, so as to -catch him there, and see with her own eyes the position of affairs? Mrs. -Sitwell knew that Joyce would be just going in with her father from -their morning walk, and would be caught by the visitor, and would be -unable to escape.</p> - -<p>Certainly she must know Joyce: she must divine who he was: Andrew said -this to himself, and was further exhilarated and strengthened by the -idea. Of course, Joyce must have told her friends. He went on with -better success this time, inspired by the little active lady with those -eager eyes, who must know—and at last got to the very door. His heart -was beating now very quickly indeed. Joyce’s door—so different from the -cottage where he used to find her. There she had always been shy, -keeping behind old Janet, never willing to permit any demonstration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> -Would things be different now? Would she rush to him after his long -separation, laying her head upon his shoulder? This image filled -Andrew’s face with light and colour as he knocked at her father’s door.</p> - -<p>‘Is Miss Hayward at home?’ The appearance of Baker gave him a distinct -sensation of pleasure. Colonel Hayward’s butler or upper servant, a -domestic of a high class. Andrew would have liked to see a footman or -two behind, but pleased himself with the thought that this must be -considered higher <i>ton</i>. ‘Is Miss Hayward at home?’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Hayward? well, I can’t say. She’s been out walking with the -Colonel, and whether they’ve come back or not, I can’t tell you. Mrs. -Hayward is in,’ Baker said. He was not impressed by the appearance of -the visitor. He thought it must be some man from a shop, or a person -about a subscription, at the best.</p> - -<p>‘It is not Mistress Hayward but Miss Hayward I want.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well,’ said Baker— ‘I hear you. If you’ll wait a bit, I’ll go and -see.’</p> - -<p>And Andrew had to wait, sadly against his will, outside the door. -‘You’ll excuse me, but Missis’s charges are as the door is always to be -shut,’ Baker said, with a restrained chuckle, instinctively delighted to -do his duty in a way that was offensive to the newcomer, whom he saw to -be of inferior condition, and likely to be an undesirable guest. -Andrew’s sensations when he was left outside his love’s door were not -pleasant. He ceased to think of the butler as a high-class domestic, and -called him in his mind a pampered menial, but consoled himself with the -thought of the downfall that would happen to Baker when he knew who it -was whom he had shut out. It was, however, a disagreeable moment of -suspense. He tried to distract his mind by an examination of the great -flower-vases at the door, the shrubs in their winter green, the -perfectly swept and close-cut turf, all the careful surroundings of the -place, not imposing or vast, but so exquisitely kept,—more perfect even -than Bellendean. To think that he should have time to investigate all -this, while she sat within with a beating heart, divining—would she -divine?—his approach. When the butler described him, she would know, -and come rushing out. She would rush to him, and the pampered menial -would see—— At this moment the door opened quickly, and Baker said, -‘Hi! Missis will be obliged if you’ll send in your name.’</p> - -<p>This unceremonious address startled Andrew. He said, ‘My name?’ arrested -in the middle of his thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘I suppose you’ve got one,’ Baker said.</p> - -<p>Though this was so far from the reception he expected, he was not -unprepared. He took his card-case out of his pocket, partially restored -to himself by the pleasure of using it, which was a thing that did not -occur often, and gave the pampered menial a card. He stepped briskly -inside as he did so, resolved to bear no more of this, and followed the -man as he returned to the drawing-room with the card in his hand. -Andrew’s heart beat very quickly now,—his tranquillity was considerably -disturbed. The moment had come: another instant and Joyce would be in -his arms, putting all pampered menials to scorn——</p> - -<p>The door opened. There was a faint rustle of ladies’ dresses, a glow of -softened light, the sound of his own name, ‘Mr. Andrew ‘Alliday,’ and -then a cry. She did not rush into his arms. He came to himself after -that interval of excitement, and saw Joyce standing, her hands clasped, -her eyes with a look of horror in them, drawing back as if she would -have fled, with her face turned towards the door. He put down his hat -upon the nearest chair, and crying ‘Joyce!’ went forward with -outstretched arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Joyce</span> had just come in from her morning walk. She was standing in the -middle of the room with her hat, which she had just taken off, in her -hand. And Mrs. Hayward had been making some remarks to her, such as -mothers often, and step-mothers in some cases, feel it their duty to -make. It was on the subject of the Sitwells, whom Mrs. Hayward regarded -in their poverty (notwithstanding that the parsonage-house had been -begun, and things were on the whole going well with them) with a certain -contempt.</p> - -<p>‘I think, indeed, you prefer such people to those of your own class.’</p> - -<p>This was what Mrs. Hayward was saying when Baker, still more -contemptuous of the inferior world than she, opened the door. ‘There is -a person,’ he said, ‘asking for Miss Hayward.’</p> - -<p>‘A person—one of your district people, no doubt. They come at all -hours. There really must be a stop put to this, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am, it’s a male person, with a haccent,’ said Baker—‘not one -from these parts.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Hayward can’t see every idler who chooses to ask for her: inquire -his name,’ said the mistress of the house.</p> - -<p>And no premonition crossed the mind of Joyce. She stood to receive the -interrupted lecture, with her head a little bent, and her hat in her -hand. She never made any stand for herself on such occasions, nor said a -word in self-defence—probably afraid to trust her voice, and too proud -to squabble. This made her, it need scarcely be said, very provoking to -her step-mother, and aggravated any original offence in the most -insufferable way. She stood quite silent now, waiting till she should be -dismissed. And to tell the truth, Joyce, in the multitude of her -thoughts, was very sick of everything about her, and of the friends for -whom she was incurring reproof, and of the petty fault-finding which -seemed to surround her steps wherever she went. Mrs. Hayward did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> -resume her lecture. She sat down, slightly flushed and angry, expectant -to see what new visitor might betray Joyce’s inclination towards shabby -persons. ‘Mr. Andrew ‘Alliday,’ said Baker, reading from the card. And -then Joyce uttered that cry—her hat fell out of her hand upon the -floor. She started violently, gave a hurried glance round as if looking -for some way of escape, then turned a pale and terrified countenance -towards the door.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!’</p> - -<p>The man was quite respectable; his frock-coat made him look like a -Dissenting minister, or perhaps a commercial traveller, or something of -that kind. This was Mrs. Hayward’s bewildered reflection. She sat and -looked on as if it had been a scene in a play.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ Joyce said, clasping her hands. Then with a great effort she held -out one hesitatingly to the new-comer, and said, ‘Andrew!’ her voice -dying away in her throat.</p> - -<p>He seized her hand in both his. Though he loved Joyce, and his heart -bounded at the sight of her, he was also anxious to impress the pampered -menial with a sense of the hideous mistake he had made. ‘My darling!’ he -cried.</p> - -<p>Baker did hear, and grew purple with horror, and lingered about the door -after he had reluctantly closed it, to hear more if possible. But Joyce -retreated before the ardent advance of her lover. The light began to -fail in her eyes. She put up her hands faintly to keep him back. ‘Oh, -Andrew! what has brought you here?’ she cried.</p> - -<p>‘Who is this—person?’ said Mrs. Hayward, rising from her chair.</p> - -<p>Andrew turned round upon her with a smile. ‘It is a long time since we -have met,’ he said. ‘She is a little agitated. She was always very shy. -Another man who did not understand might think this was a cold -reception. But I know her better. You will be Mrs. Hayward, ma’am, -without doubt?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am Mrs. Hayward; but what have you to do with Joyce? and how do -you dare to call Miss Hayward by her Christian name?’ cried the lady of -the house.</p> - -<p>Andrew smiled again—he was prepared even for this emergency. ‘My name,’ -he said, smiling with a complacency which diffused itself all over him, -and shone even in the glister of his well-blacked boots, ‘should be -sufficient passport for me in this house. But perhaps you did not -properly catch my name, for English servants clip the consonants in a -surprising manner. Allow me——’ He had taken out the card-case, that -infallible mark of gentility, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> here handed her a card with an ease -and grace to which he felt no objection could be made. Mrs. Hayward, -confounded, read out aloud, ‘Mr Andrew Halliday.’ Underneath, in very -small letters, was written, ‘<i>Schoolhouse, Comely Green</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘You will at once perceive, ma’am,’ said Andrew, ‘that if I ask to be -left for a little alone with Joyce, I am asking no more than my right.’</p> - -<p>‘Alone with Joyce! You want—what do you want? ME to take myself out of -your way! Oh, this is too much!’ Mrs. Hayward cried.</p> - -<p>‘It is not too much, madam,’ said Andrew, increasing in dignity, ‘if you -consider the circumstances. It is surely no more than any man in my -position has a right to ask.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, who is this man? Joyce, do you hear that he wants to turn me out -of my own drawing-room? For goodness’ sake——! Oh, I must call Colonel -Hayward.’</p> - -<p>‘That will be just in every sense the best way. The Cornel knows me, and -he will at once understand,’ said Andrew, with the blandest -self-possession. He opened the door for Mrs. Hayward, which he knew was -the right thing to do; and it was sweet to him to feel that he was -acting as a gentleman should from every point of view.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!’ he cried—‘my Joyce! now we are really alone, though perhaps -only for a moment—one sweet look, my own dear!’</p> - -<p>Joyce drew back from him, shrinking to the very wall. ‘Don’t,’ she said, -‘don’t!’ retreating from him. Then, with something of her old authority, -‘Sit down there; sit down and tell me, has anything happened? What has -brought you here?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, is that what is wrong?’ he said. ‘I’ve frightened you, my dear one. -No, no—no reason to be frightened. They are all well, and sent every -message. Joyce, can you ask why I came? Because I could do without you -no longer—because I was just longing for a look, for a kind word——’</p> - -<p>‘Sit down,’ she said in peremptory tones, ‘sit down!’ She herself kept -standing, leaning upon the glass door which led out to the verandah, her -slender figure standing dark against the light. Her heart beat so, that -there was a thrill and tremble all over her, visible against that -background to which she clung. But it gave her a little relief when he -obeyed her, and deposited himself upon a chair.</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry to have alarmed you, my dear. I thought that when you -heard my name, your first thought would be for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> me. It was not too much -to expect, was it, after being engaged—for more than a year?’</p> - -<p>‘Andrew,’ she said, with a shiver— ‘Andrew.’</p> - -<p>‘What, my dearest? I know you’re very shy—very, very diffident—far -more than you ought to be. If ever girl should have a little assurance, -a little confidence, surely it would be you with me.’</p> - -<p>He could not but be superior still—trying to reassure her, to give her -a little boldness, smiling upon her in his most protecting, encouraging -way.</p> - -<p>‘Andrew,’ she said again. And then Joyce’s courage failed her -altogether. She seized on any, the first expedient that occurred to her -to postpone all personal questions. ‘You are sure they are well,’ she -said tremulously. ‘Granny—and my grandfather—and all; and not missing -me—not too much—not breaking their hearts——’</p> - -<p>‘Breaking their hearts! But why should they, poor old bodies?—the -feelings get blunted at that time of life. So long as they have their -porridge and their broth, and plenty of good cakes—and a cup of tea. It -is me you should ask that question. Do you know you have used me ill, -Joyce? You have written oftener to them than to me—though it is me,’ -Halliday said, ‘with whom you have to spend your life—I am not saying -at Comely Green. No doubt you’ve got different notions in a house like -this. It’s always difficult to go back, and I would not wish it—I would -not ask it. But in some more refined, more cultivated place—in some -position like what we read of—like what able men are securing every -day——’ He rose as he spoke, inspired by this conviction, and -approached her once more with outstretched arms.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward could not find her husband upstairs or down. He went to his -library invariably after his walk, but he was not there to-day. He had -not gone to his room upstairs. He was not among his flower-seeds in the -closet, where he had at the present season a great deal to do, arranging -and naming these treasures. At last she met him coming in, in his -tranquil way, from the garden, a pot of flowers in his hands.</p> - -<p>‘Look at these begonias, my dear. Now isn’t it worth while to take a -little trouble when one gets a result like this? I am carrying it in for -your own little table.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a fine time to talk of begonias,’ she cried, pushing away the -plant which he held out to her. ‘Henry, for goodness’ sake hurry into -the drawing-room and put a stop to it at once! That man is there with -Joyce.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘That man!’ cried the Colonel, astounded. ‘What man? Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how can you talk! What objections could there be to—— Henry, wake -yourself up, for goodness’ sake! It is the man—the man you would never -tell me of—the schoolmaster—the Scotchman. Go, go! and put a stop to -it. I have been hunting for you high and low. Who can tell what they are -settling all by themselves? Henry, I tell you go and put a stop to it!’</p> - -<p>The Colonel put down the pot upon the hall table. He was quite -bewildered. ‘The Scotchman?’ he said; ‘the—the—schoolmaster?—with -Joyce? I suppose, my dear, it must be one of her old friends?’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose, my dear, it is the man you—never told me of,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward fiercely. ‘The man she was to marry. Go, I tell you, and put a -stop to it, Henry!’</p> - -<p>‘I put a stop to it!’ he said. The Colonel grew red like a girl—he grew -pale—he wrung his hands. ‘Elizabeth, my dear, you know all about that -better than I ever could do; you understand—such things? How could -I—put a stop to it?’ In his trouble he paced up and down the hall, and -knocked against Baker, who was hanging about in the hope of hearing -something, and ordered him off in a stentorian voice. ‘What are you -doing here, sir? Be off, sir, this moment!’ cried the Colonel. Then he -added, apologetic yet angry, ‘These servants take a great deal upon -them. You should teach them their proper place.’</p> - -<p>‘Henry,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, ‘it is not like you to save yourself behind -the servants. You must come with me, at least. I insist upon it. What -authority have I over her? If I must interfere, it can only be as -representing you. They may have settled everything by this time,’ she -cried, and seized her husband’s arm. It was not to support him, as he -very well knew, but to drag him to the sacrifice.</p> - -<p>Andrew had risen: he had gone towards his love, holding out his arms. -His figure, not graceful in itself, with the long frock-coat coming down -a little too low, and putting him out of drawing, showed against the -light; while Joyce, trembling, pressed against the window, shrinking -from his advance, seemed to stand on the defensive, with a pale and -panic-stricken face. When the Colonel saw this scene, he no longer -needed any stimulant. He dropped his wife’s arm, and, stepping forward -quickly, put his hand upon the intruder’s shoulder. ‘Hey, sir! don’t you -see the young lady is afraid of you?’ he cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span></p> - -<p>Andrew turned round at once with a quick recovery, and instantly -extended his hand. He required not a moment to recover himself, being -primed and ready for whatever might happen. ‘How do you do, Cornel?’ he -said; ‘I’m extremely glad to see you. I was telling Mrs. Hayward—as I -presume that lady is, though Joyce, being so shy, did not introduce -me—I was telling her that this happy meeting would be incomplete -without a sight of you.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you want here, sir?’ cried the Colonel. ‘What have you to do -with my daughter?’ Then Colonel Hayward’s natural courtesy checked him -in spite of himself. ‘I—I beg your pardon,’ he said, after a moment. -‘Perhaps I’m making a mistake—perhaps it’s me you want, and not my -daughter. Joyce, no need to be frightened, my love, when your father’s -here.’</p> - -<p>Andrew had not given way an inch. He had no want of courage. He -confronted the angry warrior without flinching. ‘What do I want here, -Cornel?’ he said. ‘I see you have forgotten me. I have just come to see -<i>her</i>. It is natural I should want to see the young lady I am engaged -to. You took her away in such a hurry, I had no time to make any -arrangement. But nobody will doubt my right to come and see her, I -suppose. Joyce, my dear one——’</p> - -<p>‘Be silent, sir!’ the angry Colonel cried.</p> - -<p>Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘Silent or not, it makes little -difference. Words between you and me, Cornel, will change nothing,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ cried the Colonel, with a gasp, ‘what does this fellow mean? -You are almost fainting with terror. Go away, and leave me to deal with -this man.’</p> - -<p>‘She’ll not do that,’ said Andrew calmly.</p> - -<p>‘She’ll not do that? She shall do what I wish, sir, I can tell you, and -nobody shall interfere with her actions in her father’s house.’</p> - -<p>‘She’ll not do that, Cornel, for this good reason, that Joyce will never -give up her word pledged and her promise given. If you think so, it is -clear you know very little of Joyce, Colonel Hayward, though you are her -father,’ Halliday said.</p> - -<p>He did not look at Joyce to intimidate her. He held up his commonplace -head; and though he was of unimposing stature, and his frock-coat was -too long, the schoolmaster looked every inch a man. His homely features -grew dignified, his attitude fine. The Colonel stared at him, silent, -not comprehending the transformation; while Joyce, roused too by this -subtle change in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> air, stood upright apart from the window on which -she had been leaning, and turned to her father with a steadiness which -was given at once by the sudden stimulus and by the rising despair.</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ she said, ‘it is quite true. I—did not expect him—and it -gave me a shock. I thought perhaps—he might be bringing ill news. It is -true,’ she said, after a pause; ‘I am engaged—to Andrew Halliday. He -has a right to come—for me——’ Her voice stopped again. She stood -quite still for a moment, then flinging herself suddenly on the -Colonel’s shoulder, ‘Oh, <i>father</i>! <small>FATHER</small>!’ she cried.</p> - -<p>‘What do you think of this, sir?’ cried the Colonel, clasping her fast -with one arm, holding out the other with an oratorical wave.</p> - -<p>‘I think just what she has said herself, that she is excited and -overdone. I am very sorry I did not write and tell her I was coming. It -would have saved her all this. But her nerves were not in this agitated -state in the old days. I would like to know what you have been doing to -my betrothed among you in England,’ the schoolmaster said, ‘to make her -like this.’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward was too angry, too much bewildered and agitated, to -reply. He took Joyce to the sofa, and made her sit down. ‘My dear -child,’ he said, ‘you must not let yourself be intimidated—you mustn’t -give way. You may be sure you are quite safe. Nobody shall bully you or -put forth a false claim upon you here.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward had not said a word all this time, her husband having -unexpectedly risen to the height of the occasion. Elizabeth knew how to -hold her tongue. But she intervened now with calm authority. ‘We’ve no -right to say it is a false claim,’ she said, ‘till we know more about -it; but you can see for yourself, Mr.—Mr. Halliday, that she is not in -a state now to have it proved. Come back later; nothing can be done now. -Come back in the evening, and my husband will see you finally.’</p> - -<p>‘Finally!’ said Andrew. ‘You will see me finally, ma’am, when I take -away my wife—but not till then. After that, you may be sure I will have -little temptation to show myself in this house.’</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster was roused. All that was best in him—his real love, -his true independence, his sense of manhood, all came to his aid. He -knew his rights and his power, and that no father could crush a lover so -determined. But though he said these words with genuine and indignant -feeling, the utterance of them brought another side of the question back -to his mind. If it came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> to that—yes; he was man enough to carry his -love away, herself alone, as he had wooed her for herself alone. But -nobody but he knew how many glorious visions, how many hopes, would be -cut off if he shook the dust from off his feet and resolved to cross -that threshold no more. He would not give up Joyce, but he as good as -gave up the headmastership—that dream of glory. He saw it melt away in -the air, the baseless fabric of a vision. He felt himself come down, -with a giddy sense of descent and failure, and become once more Andrew -Halliday, schoolmaster, Comely Green. He had even perhaps a little -neglected Comely Green for the sake of that too sweet, too tempting -illusion. And now he must resign all thought of it, all hope. The -renunciation thrilled through all his nerves, as he stood there facing -the prejudiced and foolish people who did not perceive what it was they -were throwing away. But even this did not shake his faith in himself and -his confidence in his rights. He cast a glance which was full of -compassion yet disapproval at the group on the sofa. ‘I can see,’ he -said, ‘that Joyce is too much agitated to be responsible, and that the -Cornel is excited and unable to see the rights of the situation. -Therefore, ma’am, I will take your advice. It is not the reception I had -a right to expect; but, nevertheless, I have full faith in Joyce when -she comes to herself. I will withdraw till this evening. No ceremony, I -beg,’ cried Andrew hurriedly. ‘I will find my way out—there’s no need -for any one to open the door.’ Even in the midst of questions so much -more serious, he remembered that it would be bitter indeed to show his -discomfiture to the pampered menial who had admitted him. That at least -he would not endure.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward followed him out of the room, sparing him this indignity. -Perhaps the sight of Joyce leaning upon her father, absorbing his every -thought, was as little agreeable to her as to Andrew. If Joyce was in -trouble, it was at least her own making, whereas the innocent people -whom she dragged into it had done nothing to deserve it. Mrs. Hayward -regarded Andrew with angry contempt, but she was not without a certain -fellow-feeling for him as a sufferer from the same cause. His air of -terrible respectability, his coat, his hat, his gloves, everything about -him, were so many additions to the sins of Joyce. And yet she felt -herself more or less, as against Joyce, on Andrew’s side. She stood -behind him while he opened the door, grimly watching all his -imperfections. The back-door, she said to herself, the servants’ hall, -would have been his right place. And yet, if the man spoke the truth, he -was quite a fit and proper match for Joyce!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">From</span> August to November the time had gone very slowly and very hardly -for Joyce.</p> - -<p>After that glowing afternoon, when she had heard from Norman Bellendean -words which she could never forget, not another sign or token from him -had reached her. It is not an unprecedented thing that a gap like this -should happen in the midst of a love-tale. A declaration interrupted, a -question unanswered, may expose any pair of lovers to such a blank. The -man may be kept back by many reasons; the woman on her side cannot -gather up the broken threads. Joyce, above all, had no initiative to -take. He had said he would come back, but he had not come back; and thus -the story of her awakened heart had seemed to close, as it began, in -agitation and shame. It had been wrong to listen to him, wrong to allow -the thought of him to enter into her heart. She had not intended it, she -said to herself, as is always said. The strong new tide which she did -not understand, the character of which she had begun to suspect too -late, had carried her away. What defence could she have put up against -it when she never suspected it,—when it was to her a surprise most -painful, though so intoxicating? Who is there guilty of such infidelity, -forsaking an old love for a new, who cannot excuse herself in such -words? And of many such it is true, as with Joyce, that the first love -had been a mere name, a something not understood, an acquiescence—no -more. If she had sinned against Andrew in accepting the love which was -true enough on his side, without any real response, it had been done -without guile, with no knowledge of any harm. Joyce had been conscious -that it was not the love of which her beloved poets had sung; but how -could she tell? As there was no second Shakespeare, so perhaps that love -of the poets had died away into something calm and poor, like the dull -prose of to-day; and when the dulness about her had burst asunder like a -husk,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> and flowers had come forth, and a blossoming and brightness -indescribable, the girl, bewildered, had tried to attribute that -illumination to other causes, to give it other names.</p> - -<p>The revelation, when it came, lasted but for a moment. Before she had -been able to realise the sunshine that suddenly blazed upon her life, -there had as suddenly followed a blank. The bewilderment and confusion -of all things, which had been great enough before, were by this brought -to a climax. Norman’s declaration or half-declaration completed the -cutting off of her heart and existence from every ancient tie. She dared -not seek light in the chaos of her mind from any one near her. She dared -not betray it to the tender ears of the old people who would not -understand, to whom she could not say all. To whom could she say -all?—to no one, no one on earth. She had to fall back upon herself, a -creature straying about in worlds not realised. Andrew appeared to her -through the mists like the vision of a nightmare, whose approach would -be death. Never, even when no distraction was in her mind, when he was -the most near and the most natural of all companions, had she been able -to tolerate the idea of a closer union. She had vaguely looked for -something to happen, to prevent any further <i>rapprochement</i>. She had -surrounded herself with reasons why no further step should be taken. But -she had never felt as now the horror of the bond which held her like -iron—which she had escaped from, yet from which she never could escape. -And, on the other hand, scarcely less terrible was the brighter vision -which had burst upon her in one dazzling, bewildering blaze—the -revelation which at first seemed to be that of Norman Bellendean’s love -for her, but which soon settled into a shameful, terrible consciousness -of her love for him. He had lighted up that blaze, and then he had -disappeared out of her life, leaving her to contend alone with this -discovery and consciousness. He had not asked for an answer from her—he -had only asked to come back. And he had not come back; he had -disappeared as if he had never existed, only leaving this revelation, -this overturn of everything—the glory, the horror, the shame.</p> - -<p>Joyce, it is true, had been absent for a great part of this blank period -of darkness through which no word or sign of life had come. She had been -taken away into new scenes, into a new world, the novelty and delight of -which might have saved her had she ever remained long enough in one -place to realise and understand it. But it was only to her of all her -party that Switzerland was a novelty. Her father and his wife were -accustomed to travel. They moved from one tourist centre to another -carrying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> all their usual habits with them, possessing a terrible -monotony of acquaintance with everything there was to do and to see. -Mrs. Hayward took Mont Blanc as calmly as she did the river of which she -felt her own lawn and trees to be one of the great charms. The Colonel -thought more of the occasional old Indian comrade whom he would meet in -one of the big noisy hotels, than of all the mysteries of the Alps.</p> - -<p>Joyce had therefore little aid in healing her wounds herself, as she -might have done, by that strong fascination of nature to which her -spirit was so open. The mountains were not still to her, nor was there -solitude to be found in the wildest ravine. She was taken there in the -midst of a party which discussed their usual concerns, and were intent -upon luncheon at the usual hour. The snowy peaks only formed a new -background for the prattle of common life, for talk about St. Augustine -and the new parsonage. The new world was to her like the old, only more -bewildering—a phantasmagoria in which the great and the petty were -jumbled together,—the great too cold and unfamiliar to reach her soul, -the petty like a babbling torrent carrying her away. Oh for the crags of -Arthur’s Seat and the sea coming in ayont them! Oh for the quiet where -thought is possible! But then with a shiver poor Joyce felt that there -was nothing for her but flight from the dear familiar scenes, and from -the very stillness for which her heart craved. For the one was full of -conflicting passions and the other of conflicting thoughts. Of all -places in the world, that place which, with the obstinacy of the heart, -she still called home was the most impossible to her. She dared not even -turn her face in that direction, lest the subdued struggle within her -might become a real conflict. For there was all that she dreaded as well -as all that she loved.</p> - -<p>And even when the travelling was over things did not mend. Summer was -gone, and all its events. She came back to a blank, to the level of an -existence no longer new to her, but which she had never learned to love. -The sudden blaze of awakening, of enlightenment, of delight and misery, -had ceased as suddenly as it rose. She never now heard Norman -Bellendean’s name. He did not come, he gave no sign: he might be dead, -or gone back to India, or in the farthest part of the earth, for -anything she knew. He had disappeared as if he never had been, leaving -in her heart and mind only the miserable consciousness that she loved -him—oh, shame to think of! She so proud in her reserve and maidenly -withdrawal! she, affianced to another man! she, Joyce, who had been so -proud! She felt herself, she who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> been a kind of princess in her own -thoughts, reduced to the humble state of the Eastern handmaiden, waiting -till perhaps some token of favour might be shown to her,—some word upon -which she could build her hopes. It is rare that any shame, real and -deserved, is felt with the same sting of suffering and self-horror as -attends the altogether fantastic shame of a sensitive girl, when she -finds that she has given her love unsought. It was torture and misery to -Joyce. To allow to herself that she was disappointed—that her ear was -always intent on every coming step, her heart ready to beat loudly for -every sudden call, filled her with a bitterness of humiliation such as -crime itself would scarcely bring. But nobody had any clue to these -thoughts. Her father saw nothing but that his daughter became every day -more delightful to him, more indispensable. Mrs. Hayward, with a faint -disdain which it pleased her to be able to entertain for her husband’s -daughter, concluded that Joyce, whom everybody thought so clever, was in -reality dull. She had not shown any appreciation of Switzerland. She was -a girl who might know books, perhaps, but nothing else. She had not -cared for the mountains. It was impossible not to allow that Mrs. -Hayward was rather satisfied on the whole that this should be. Perhaps -only old Janet, with a sore and sad heart, felt that something was -amiss. She did not know what it was that was wanting, but something was -wanting. The letters which Peter found an inexhaustible source of -happiness were to her dark. She could not see her child through them. -‘There is something the maitter,’ Janet said to herself. But nobody else -divined, and to no one did Joyce breathe a word.</p> - -<p>It was in this condition that she had begun the sunshiny, hazy, November -day. It was Friday, the Friday of the winter Preachings, the Fast-day in -Bellendean. She had remembered this when she set out with Colonel -Hayward for their morning walk, with a tender thought of Janet in her -great shawl, and Peter in his Sunday clothes, sitting in the kirk in -rustic state and religious <i>recueillement</i>. And now the blank was -broken, the silence disturbed, but not as she thought.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, don’t you be afraid—I am here to protect you, Joyce; your -father is surely good for that. This man can do nothing, nothing. Thank -God that you don’t love him—that there is not <i>that</i> to struggle -against.’</p> - -<p>‘Father, it is quite true. Oh, I have behaved badly—I am not fit to be -among honourable folk. I have not respected my word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Stuff and nonsense, my dear. What did a girl like you know? He took -advantage of your ignorance. You could never have—cared for that -fellow, Joyce.’ The Colonel himself blushed at the thought.</p> - -<p>Joyce made no reply.</p> - -<p>‘He took advantage of your inexperience—he never could have been a -match for you. I remember—he was there that afternoon in the cottage. -He tried to thrust his claims upon me, but Norman Bellendean took him -off me. Ah, Norman Bellendean!’</p> - -<p>The Colonel broke off quickly. He was not clear about it at all, but he -remembered that Elizabeth—that there was something about Bellendean. He -stopped confused; and, with a sudden start, Joyce raised herself from -the sofa. He had brought her to life, though he did not know it, by that -violent stimulant. ‘I must not,’ she said, in a broken voice, ‘go back -from my word.’</p> - -<p>‘I set you free from it,’ said the Colonel. ‘You were under age. You had -no right to bind yourself. I set you free from it.’</p> - -<p>She shook her head at him with a wistful smile. ‘It was once thought a -priest could do that,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I am not a priest, but I am your father, Joyce. I set you free from it. -It is in the Bible—you know your Bible better than I do. I set you free -from it. You had no right to bind yourself.’</p> - -<p>She shook her head still. ‘I cannot get any comfort out of that. I was a -woman, well knowing what I was doing.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, you are not of age even now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, father,’ she cried, ‘don’t say anything to me. I cannot go back -from my word.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, I hear my wife coming back. I am not clever, I know. Elizabeth -is the one to tell us what to do. If she will only take it up—if you -will let her take it up.’</p> - -<p>Joyce rose quickly to her feet. ‘Not now—not now. I couldn’t speak to -any one. Father, you must let me settle it by myself.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce! Oh, have confidence in us both, Joyce!’</p> - -<p>Joyce escaped from his restraining hand and imploring look. She hastened -out of one door while Mrs. Hayward entered by the other, and, with her -limbs trembling under her, got to the refuge of her own room, where at -least there was no one to question her, and tell her what she ought to -do. She was not capable of any more. She threw herself down in a chair, -and did not move for hours, turning it over and over—helplessly over -and over in her mind. It was all she could do. The scene through which -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> had just passed repeated itself before her—every word that had -been said, every look. When she was called to go downstairs for lunch, -she made excuses for herself she knew not what, and sat there with a -sort of helpless craving only to be alone—to be left to -herself—through all the daylight hours. It seemed to Joyce that -everything else had disappeared for ever, that every vision of her soul -was gone,—that Andrew alone stood before her, the only stable and -steadfast thing. She saw him before her eyes all the time, with all his -imperfections. There had never been any glamour in her eyes to blind her -to these. His familiar aspect, with which she had grown unfamiliar, came -back to her with all the force at once of recollection and of new -discovery. He had come to claim her, and he had a right to claim her; -and how could she resist that claim? He had not hesitated, nor had he -been cowed even by her dread of him, by her father’s vehemence. He had -stood for his rights like a man. A respect for the man at whom she -shuddered, whose approach was dreadful to her, had come into Joyce’s -mind: even with strange inconsistency she was half proud of him in his -immovableness—in the resolution and force he had shown. She tried to -face it all calmly, to contemplate her fate,—to ask herself whether, -perhaps, her old life, the duties to which she had been born, were not -after all the best, the only existence for her? There would be plenty to -do, there would not be much time to think. The clamour of the school, -and all the old emulations, and the ambitions which at once seemed -enough to fill any mind, would shut out all echoes and banish all -ghosts. Only for a few months had she been absent—not enough to change -her habits, to change the fashion of her mind. Why should she resist and -strive against her fate?</p> - -<p>She tried to soothe and put away other visions by that—the school, the -children’s looks of interest, the clinging of the girls about her, the -books in which she could always escape from all that troubled her. With -her trembling hands clasped, with her eyes in an abstract gaze, she saw -all these things again, and for a moment her heart beat calm. But then -once more, with a sudden flash, with a start, with a cry of horror, she -recognised in front of all, him—Andrew—as he had stood before her -to-day, as she remembered him, as he was and had always been. Joyce -sprang to her feet to escape that steady, calm, immovable image. She put -her hands over her hot eyes, but could not shut it out. She paced about -her room, but could not get beyond the place in which he stood. He -filled all the sphere of her vision, as he would fill her whole life. -Oh, how to escape—how to escape! Oh for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> wings of a dove!—but -where to fly? She flung herself down on her knees by the side of her -bed. Sometimes in that attitude merely there is a relief. She was not -praying, but laying her heart with all its confusions, its whirl of -contradictory thoughts, its wild longings for escape, open where God -could see it, calling wistfully His attention to it as human creatures -will, in human forgetfulness that everywhere and in all attitudes He -sees, and does not neglect.</p> - -<p>Later in the afternoon Joyce stole out to seek counsel from the evening -breeze and the cold flow of the river. She was afraid to go beyond the -limits of the garden and grounds lest she should meet him alone, and -forestall the decision of her fate. The November evening was chill with -cold dews falling, the grass penetrated with wet, the half-naked trees -all heavy with moisture, sprinkling cold showers over her when the -breeze moved them. She went down to the river-edge, and looked out upon -it in the grey of the twilight, flowing, glistening, giving back the -little light there was. A boat was drawn up here and there on the bank, -but there was none on the stream, which, swollen with early rains, and -bearing on its dark clear surface specks of the leaves that every air -swept off the overhanging trees, flowed on through the darkness, a -ceaseless wayfarer. The willows, still in ragged robes of pale yellow, -gave a faint light to the darkling scene. Joyce leant over, almost -feeling the sweep of the stream, and there came upon her a strong -temptation to detach the boat that lay within her reach, and trust -herself to the flowing water and the night. The possibilities of that -flight came before her instantaneously like a picture. The stream itself -would carry her along; the movement itself would soothe her troubled -spirit. She seemed to feel the rush of the water under the bridge, to -see the lights of the town twinkling reflected on the water, the opening -of the dim evening skies beyond, the dark shadows of barges and ships as -the widening stream flowed on. She saw in a moment all the dark panorama -float past her, the increasing rush of the Thames, the sound of its -gurgle in her ears, the growing dangers of the darkness, and the crowded -ways. The little boat might go down under the bows of some monster in -the dark, and no one ever know what young despairing heart was in it. -She saw, too, the dark mass heaving up high above, the frail little -vessel turning over, the choking inky stream, and drew back with a low -cry of terror. It was indeed a kind of despair which was closing round -her, but she wanted to escape and not to die—not yet to die.</p> - -<p>The shuddering of that sensation brought her back slowly away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> from the -dark fascination of the flowing water. She came back picking her steps -across the wet grass, chilled by the damp and the dark, the cold -raindrops suspended on the branches coming down upon her in an icy -shower as she passed under the trees. The lights in the windows, the -warmth of the house, shone through the twilight, attracting her, putting -forth a strong appeal. But what was warmth and shelter to freedom, if -she could but get her freedom and escape from it all? Joyce had got -beyond all power of thinking. Her mind saw pictures, visions of what -might be, as more reasonable people see the motives and arguments which -tell for or against every course of action. As she turned her face from -the river and reached the gravel path, there suddenly came before her a -vision of a still and quiet country road, such as she had seen in her -walks, leading far away into far level distances, the long perspective -of the low-lying country. She bethought herself of a dozen turns and -byways, all leading into the unknown. She saw them stretching for miles -and miles, leading the wayfarer far out of sight of every one who knew -her, and the dark line of the hedgerows that would keep her from -straying, and the sleeping villages she would pass through. There would -be no dangers in a country road, and she was strong: she could go a long -way without requiring to pause. There would be ten hours of darkness in -which she could walk on. She was not afraid of her strength failing. And -at the end surely there would be some quiet place where nobody would -ever think of finding a strayed creature. It would be like falling and -disappearing through Mirza’s bridge. Joyce stood still for a moment, -moved by a wild prick of that unreasoning impulse which was in her -blood. By the side of the house was a dim opening which admitted to that -world, strange, dark, and cold, in which a poor girl could lose herself -who had no true place, no natural nest in the other. She paused for a -moment, clasping her hands, appealing to she knew not what—not God this -time: there are moments when the bewildered soul becomes pagan in its -broken faith—to something, she knew not what, above, around.</p> - -<p>The lamp had been lighted in the drawing-room, but no curtains drawn or -shutters closed. Another picture, a real one, caught her eyes there as -she hesitated, standing on the edge. She was close to the verandah upon -which the window opened, and she heard the sound of the voices within, -now raised, now sinking low. The sudden spell of a stronger interest -seized upon Joyce. She came forward a few steps at a time, unwilling and -yet eager, until she commanded a full view of the party within. Her -father stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> facing the window. He was talking with much vehemence, -referring occasionally to his wife, who sat in her usual place, a very -watchful spectator—now and then breaking off with a flourish of his -hand, as a man does when he has said something unanswerable. With his -back towards the window, Andrew sat squarely on a chair, his hat at his -feet. There came upon Joyce an impulse of painful laughter in the midst -of her misery. It was a look, an attitude she knew so well—ludicrously, -horribly familiar in this crisis of her fate,—for it was her fate, her -life or death, they were deciding, while he sat there like a rock, -unconvincible, immovable, as he had sat through many a discussion that -mattered nothing. For who could ever convince Andrew? She drew closer in -the sudden smart of the recollection, the keen sense of incongruity, the -reality of this scene dispersing every vision. The living drama, in -which she was herself the chief figure, had a stronger force than any -imagination. She went into the verandah, to the window against which, on -the other side, she had leant in the morning. It was not fastened, and -yielded to her touch. They all turned upon her at the sound of the faint -cry she gave.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> light dazzled her as she came into the warm room, in the midst of -this conference. Colonel Hayward started forward to meet her, and his -wife rose from her chair. But Andrew did not budge. In his world no such -respectful movement was thought of; and in times of excitement he had -not leisure to think, nor note what others did.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, why are you here?’ her father said hastily.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, you will come with me,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Let the gentlemen -settle this matter. Come with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘in justice to me you will remain here.’</p> - -<p>She stood looking from one to another with eyes still wild with her -secret dreams and projects, which no one suspected, and the drops of -cold dew glittering in her hair. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you know I must -stay. I cannot leave it to you, as if—as if—you had known it all the -time.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce sees what is just,’ said Andrew. ‘There was neither father nor -mother between us. She decided for herself, and she will have to decide -for herself again. Cornel, leave her alone.’ He spoke with great -composure in his ordinary tone. ‘I will take no answer from you, but -I’ll abide by what she says.’</p> - -<p>‘She is under age,’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘Sir, if you were a little -better acquainted with ordinary rules, you would know it is her father -only who has the right to reply to you.’</p> - -<p>‘And how do you know, Cornel, that she is under age? Were you there when -she was born? Were you near at hand to see your child? What do you know -about her more than any passer-by?’</p> - -<p>‘Sir!’ cried Colonel Hayward, stammering with indignation, ‘you presume -upon the shelter of my roof, and on being beneath—beneath my notice.’</p> - -<p>‘Not beneath being your son-in-law,’ Andrew said.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ said Mrs. Hayward angrily, ‘either put a stop to this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> at once, -or come with me and let your father settle it. You make everything worse -by being here.’</p> - -<p>Joyce stood between them trembling, unable to command, as she had once -so vainly thought she could, the situation in which she found herself. -Oh, how much easier to fly, either by the dark river or the darker -country! ‘I will respect my father,’ she said, ‘in everything—in -everything—but——’</p> - -<p>The last word did not reach the Colonel’s ear. He drew her hand within -his arm. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Then it is all right. Mr. -Halliday, or whatever your name is, there must be no more of this. I -might lose my temper. I might forget that you are under my roof. Don’t -you hear what my daughter has said? In such a matter a gentleman gives -way at once. It’s no question of love.’ He pressed Joyce’s trembling -hand in his arm. ‘If you’ve any regard for her, sir, or for your own -character, you’ll go away and disturb her no more.’</p> - -<p>Andrew had risen slowly to his feet. He came forward with his hand -raised, as if he were about to address a class. ‘You’ll observe,’ he -said, ‘that the circumstances only, and not the persons, are changed. It -was a question of love six months ago. I was a man in a good position, -my father very respectable, a little money in the family. And she was -Joyce, a female teacher, with nobody to stand for her but Peter -Matheson, a ploughman.’</p> - -<p>‘You insult me, sir,’ cried Colonel Hayward—‘you insult my daughter!’ -He held her hand close, pressing it in his to console her. ‘My poor -Joyce, my poor child!’ he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, with composure, ‘it is true. Joyce knows -that it is true. My mother, who expresses herself strongly, put it in -other words: It was said I was throwing myself away. I did not think so; -but that being the case, Cornel, you need not think I will be daunted -because she is your daughter, or any man’s daughter. She’s Joyce—and -engaged to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Leave my house, sir,’ cried the Colonel. ‘You have insulted my child. -For that there is no excuse and no pardon. Leave my house.’</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ said Joyce, ‘it’s no insult—it is all true. I am always -Joyce, whatever I am besides. And when I was poor, it was thought -a—credit to me. He should not have said it, but it’s true. I never -thought of that, and he should not have said it: but it’s true. He held -out his hand to me when I was—beneath him.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I see it all, though I did not think of it then. Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> excuse him! -He does not know a man should never say that! They do it and think no -harm where we come from. We were common folk. He did me honour, and am I -to do him discredit? I cannot, I cannot. I must keep to my word.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, for heaven’s sake, don’t act like a mad woman! Come away with me -and let them settle it,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, seizing her arm on the -other side.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce behaves just as I should have expected from her,’ said Andrew, -facing this agitated group with his own supreme self-possession and -calm. ‘I knew I could not be deceived. I am willing to make every -allowance for your feelings, Cornel. You naturally look for a richer man -than me to be your daughter’s husband. I respect even the prejudices of -a man like you. But there is no real reason to be disturbed about that. -I am a young man. I have always been successful, so far as has been in -my power. There is no need for me to remain in the humble place I now -fill. With your interest and my own merits——’</p> - -<p>‘Good Lord!’ the Colonel cried. He dropped his daughter’s arm in his -consternation, and stood with his lips apart, with a stare of horror.</p> - -<p>‘My own merits,’ repeated Andrew, ‘I think we might soon so modify the -circumstances that you need object no longer. I am not afraid of the -circumstances,’ he said, with a smile of complaisance. ‘You can tell -your father, Joyce, what testimonials——’</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ said Joyce eagerly, with a burning blush, ‘he is to be -excused. That is how they think where—where we came from. He is—not a -gentleman: we were—common folk. Father, he means it all right, though -he does not know. He’s good, though—though he speaks another language.’ -Her own horror and dismay took the form of apology. She was roused by -her consternation into full and eager life.</p> - -<p>‘And you hold by this man, Joyce, and you plead for him!’ Colonel -Hayward cried.</p> - -<p>‘You will understand, Cornel,’ said Andrew, who had drawn himself up -indignantly, and sacrificed all the advantage of his self-possession in -sudden discomposure and resentment, ‘that I ask nobody to plead for me. -Joyce has been carried away with trying to please both parties. She is -sacrificing me to soothe you down. Women will do such things; they will -not learn. But for my part, I reject her excuses. I’ll have no -forbearance on that score,’ cried Andrew, holding up his head and -throwing back his shoulders. ‘I stand upon my own merits as between man -and man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Then the Joyce of other days found words—not the tremulous girl, all -strange in strange places, who was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, but the -swift speaking, high-handed Joyce, the possible princess, the lady born -of Janet’s cottage. ‘Oh,’ she cried, her words pouring forth on a sudden -passionate breath, ‘how dare you bring up your merits here, and all your -worldly thoughts! My old grandfather was but a ploughman, but he was a -gentleman like my father. He would have put you to the door if you had -said all that to him. And you stand before a man that has fought, and -has the Queen’s medals on his breast—that has been wounded in battle, -and faced cannon and sword; and before a lady that has no knowledge of -the ways of common folk; and before me, that you said you loved; and you -stand up and tell them of the female teacher that you held out your hand -to, and of your merits, that make you good enough for the best—for -Colonel Hayward’s daughter, that is a great soldier, a great captain, -far too noble and great to put you to the door like Peter Matheson. Oh, -Andrew Halliday, for shame, for shame!—you, after all the books you -have read, and all the fine words you have said. I am ashamed myself,’ -said Joyce, turning from him with a proud despair, ‘for I thought that -Shakespeare and all the poets would make a gentleman even out of the -commonest clay.’</p> - -<p>Andrew bore this without quailing, with a smile on his face. When she -stopped, he drew a long breath, and turned with an explanatory air to -Colonel Hayward. ‘That is just one of her old tirades,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The Colonel paid him no attention: he put his arm round his daughter, as -tremulous as she was. ‘Joyce,’ he said faltering— ‘Joyce, my dear child, -you see it all. You see through him, and—and all of us. Thank God that -it’s all over now!’</p> - -<p>Joyce drew back from him, trembling with the reaction from her own -excitement. The flush that had given her a temporary brilliancy and -force faded away. ‘But yet that alters nothing,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward put her hand upon the girl’s arm with an impatient -pressure. ‘Do you mean that you are going to marry that man, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Halliday,’ said the Colonel, ‘I hope, after what my daughter has -said, that you will see the inexpediency of—of continuing this -discussion. She has her ideas of honour, which are a little -overstrained—overstrained, as is perhaps natural; but she sees all the -discrepancies—all the—— You know, you must see that it’s quite -impossible. My consent you will never get—never!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> and as for Joyce, she -will not—you can see by what she has said—go against me.’</p> - -<p>‘She will never go against her word.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, this is endless!’ the Colonel cried. ‘We may go on contradicting -each other till doomsday. You understand that I will hear no more, and -that Joyce, as she has told you, will hear no more.’</p> - -<p>‘She may object to my manners, Cornel, but she will keep her word to -me,’ said Andrew, regaining all the force of his conviction. ‘But, as -you say, it is little use bandying words. I will withdraw. I have made a -long journey for very little—not half-a-dozen words by ourselves with -the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married. But I will not keep -up a needless discussion. She understands me, and you understand. If you -meet me in a friendly spirit, everything may yet be arranged for the -best; if not, she will be of age at least in a year, and we will have no -need of your consent. Joyce,’ he said, suddenly, making a quick step -towards her, seizing her hand, ‘I’ll bid you good-bye, my dearest. -You’ll mind your honour and duty to me. Rich or poor, high or low, makes -no difference. You have my word, and I have yours. Have you any message -for the old folk.’</p> - -<p>‘Andrew!’ she said, trembling. She had shrunk back for the first moment, -but now held herself upright, very tremulous, leaving her hand in his, -with an evident great exertion of her will. Her lips quivered, too, and -she said no more.</p> - -<p>‘I understand,’ he said, in a soothing tone, putting his other hand for -a moment over hers. ‘Well, if that’s all, it will have to do. Good-bye, -Joyce—but not for long. I have learned the road to you, and it shall -not be untrodden. We’ll meet soon—without other eyes always on us. -Good-bye. I put my full trust in you. You will mind your word and your -duty, Joyce. Good evening, madam. Cornel, you will understand that we -are agreed, she and I.’</p> - -<p>‘I understand nothing of the sort, sir! On the contrary, I forbid you my -house, sir! I will give orders——’</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye, Cornel,’ said Andrew, with a smile. He gathered up his hat -from the floor, waved his hand with a general leave-taking, and walked -to the door. ‘You will hear from me very soon, Joyce, my dear,’ he said, -looking round before he finally disappeared. He went out, he felt, with -all the honours of war.</p> - -<p>It was very near the dinner hour, and Baker was busy in the dining-room. -Andrew had to let himself out. He did so with a reflection that to have -been asked to stay to dinner, as was his due,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> would have been much more -agreeable; yet with another reflection following, that probably in this -house they went through the somewhat mysterious ceremony called dressing -for dinner, and that he had no means of altering his costume. The odour -that filled the house was very agreeable; and however unhappy or even -tragical this interview had been to the others, it was not so to Andrew. -He had calculated upon opposition. He had calculated, too, with -certainty upon Joyce’s fidelity to her word. There had been, it was -true, that tirade—which did not in the least surprise him—which was -quite natural, much more like the Joyce he knew than was the dignified -silent young lady who had first appeared to him. He could forgive her -the tirade. Otherwise he felt that he had lost nothing. He knew exactly -the position the parents would take up, and he did not even despair that -when they fully saw the situation, they would be moved to make the best -of it, and that even the headmastership might still be within reach. He -went out, carefully closing the door behind him, a little disgusted -about the dinner, not discouraged about anything else, and met at the -gate, coming in, the lady who had directed him, so clearly that he could -not miss it, to Colonel Hayward’s door. There was a lamp not far from -the gate, and some light came from the gaslight in the hall, which -revealed him to her before he could close the door.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she cried, in a breathless, rapid way; ‘so you found the place.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, madam,’ said Andrew, mindful of his p’s and q’s. He felt that in -addressing a lady, especially one whom he did not know, it was the -safest course to err by a little more, not less, respect. ‘Yes, thanks -to you.’</p> - -<p>‘And you found them—you found her? It was Joyce you wanted, I feel -sure.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it was Joyce I wanted.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! this is so interesting,’ Mrs. Sitwell cried—‘so interesting! I -know her very well, and I take the greatest interest in her. You are—an -old friend, I am sure?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, an old friend—a very old friend,’ said Andrew,—‘a very warm -friend; something—something more than a friend, if the truth were -known.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried the little lady, clasping her hands together, ‘this is more -interesting than I can say. Let me go back with you a little, -Mr.—Mr.——’</p> - -<p>‘Halliday—my name is Halliday. She has spoken of me, no doubt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘I am so glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Halliday. I really must -walk with you a little way. I was going to see Joyce, but I am sure she -has something else to think of, and it is a little too late. By the way, -I suppose you are going back there to dinner?’</p> - -<p>‘It is natural to think so,’ said Andrew with a grim little laugh, ‘but -no.’</p> - -<p>‘No?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. Her curiosity, her interest in this drama, her -determination to know everything, rose to fever-heat. She had taken him -all in at the first glance, when she had met him in the morning: his -long—too long—coat, his round hat, the colour of his gloves. Her eyes -danced with eagerness and interest. She could scarcely contain herself.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ he said; ‘I am not good enough for Cornel Hayward’s daughter. You -may be surprised—but, so far as lies with the old people, I am sent -away.’</p> - -<p>‘Sent away!’ she repeated, with a little shriek. (‘And not much wonder!’ -she said to herself.) ‘You must not think it mere curiosity,’ she cried; -‘I am so interested in dear Joyce. Ah, please tell me. I shall see her -to-morrow, and if I can be of any use, or take her any message——’</p> - -<p>‘It is unnecessary,’ said Andrew, with a wave of his hand. ‘I know -Joyce, and she understands me.’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t tell you,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘how interesting all this is to -me. Though I have never seen you before, Mr. Halliday, I feel that I -know you through dear Joyce. I wonder, as you are not dining at the -Haywards’, if you would come and take your evening meal with my husband -and me—Rev. Austin Sitwell, St. Augustine’s. You must have heard of my -husband; he would be charmed to make your acquaintance. We don’t say we -dine, you know; we are quite poor people, and don’t make any fuss; but -we will give you something to eat—and true sympathy,’ cried the -parson’s wife, with a little friendly touch of her hand upon his arm.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you are exceedingly kind,’ said Andrew. He was a little -alarmed, if truth must be told. Had it happened in London, he would at -once have understood that a snare of some sort was being laid for him; -but as he was at some distance from London, he was only doubtful, -slightly alarmed, and uneasy. He reflected, however, that he had all his -wits about him, and was not a man to be led into a snare; and he did not -know (though he had heard of a place called the Star and Garter) where -to go for a dinner; and he had great need of some one to speak to—to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> -open his heart to. And certainly she had been going to Colonel Hayward’s -when he met her, and knew Joyce, and therefore was a person who could be -trusted. He thought, on the whole, he might venture to accept the -invitation, secure of being able to take care of himself, whatever -happened. ‘You are exceedingly kind,’ he said again; ‘I should be very -glad, ma’am, to make your husband’s acquaintance. He will be of the -Established Church, no doubt? It would be a pleasure to compare -experience, especially in the way of schools.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you to do with schools?’ she asked.</p> - -<p>Andrew turned in the lamplight to cast a glance of inquiry at the -ignorant little person beside him. ‘Surely,’ he said, in a tone of -suppressed surprise,—‘what else? as my poor Joyce was, too, before it -all came out. You speak of poverty, which I don’t doubt is a figure of -speech so far as you are concerned—but Joyce was in a very humble -position, though always above it in her mind, before the Cornel came.’</p> - -<p>‘This is more interesting than ever,’ cried the parson’s wife, clasping -her hands.</p> - -<p>‘My only trouble was that my family were not very well content, -constantly throwing it in my teeth that I might have done better,’ said -Andrew; ‘which makes it the more wonderful,’ he added, with a faint -laugh, ‘to be put to the door as it were, and told I am not good enough -for the Cornel’s daughter? It is a turning of the tables which I never -looked to see.’</p> - -<p>‘But nothing will shake Joyce—Joyce will always be faithful,’ Mrs. -Sitwell cried.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, Joyce—Joyce has a high sense of duty; and besides, she knows -my position, which an ignorant officer and his wife are not likely to -do. I am not afraid of Joyce,’ he added, with sedate self-confidence. -‘She is a good girl. She knows what she owes to me.’</p> - -<p>‘This way, Mr. Halliday,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. ‘Ours is only a little -place, but you will have a warm welcome. I must hear all about you and -Joyce.’</p> - -<p>He was a stranger, and she took him in—there could not have been a more -Christian act. And such acts often have their recompense here, without -waiting for that final reward which is promised. Andrew became very -watchful and suspicious when he found himself face to face with a -clerical person in a coat much longer than his own, and a costume which -recalled in a general way what he had heard of Jesuits—a name of -terror. He was much on his guard for the first hour. But after supper -Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> Sitwell’s magic began to tell. Notwithstanding his self-control, -he could not but be sore and injured, and to be able to speak and -unburden himself was a relief indescribable. He fell into the snare -delicately arranged around his feet. Mrs. Sitwell’s keen little eyes -danced with delight. She wiped off a tiny fictitious tear when she had -drawn it all out, one detail after another. ‘I shall go and see her -to-morrow,’ she cried. ‘I will give her a kiss and say, You dear girl, -now I know all.’</p> - -<p>‘It is all to her credit—nothing but to her credit,’ said Andrew.</p> - -<p>The Rev. Austin had a meeting on his hands, and had been obliged to go -out, leaving the new acquaintance to be dissected at his wife’s -pleasure. He was uneasy about the adventure altogether. ‘A fellow like -that,’ he cried,—‘would you let him marry one of your sisters, Dora?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, dear, if he were rich enough,’ cried his wife. ‘But to think what -a romance it has been all the time. How astonished everybody will be. I -am not going to publish it abroad——’</p> - -<p>‘I hope not, I hope not, Dora.’</p> - -<p>‘But naturally I will tell the people who are most interested in her,’ -Mrs. Sitwell said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sitwell took charge of Andrew as if he had been a respectable -tramp. She procured him a lodging for the night, having got every detail -out of him that it was possible to gather. He had to leave early the -next morning, which was a relief; and she could scarcely sleep all night -for excitement and satisfaction. She felt like the finder of a -treasure—like a great inventor or poet. To whom should she communicate -first this wonderful piece of news? It would act as a stimulant in the -dull season all over the place. ‘Don’t talk of it?’ she said to her -husband, who acted his usual part of wet blanket to subdue her ardour; -‘oh no, not in society generally—I hope you know me better than that, -Austin. I will only tell a few of her friends—her friends ought to -know. What a showing up it will be of those Haywards! I never liked that -woman. I see now why she has been so anxious to keep everything quiet. -No, I shall not talk of it—except to Joyce’s friends; for it is all to -Joyce’s credit,—all, all!’ Mrs. Sitwell said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">Canon</span>, what does this story mean which I meet wherever I go? I heard it -at the St. Clairs’ yesterday, but took no notice, and to-day there’s -poor Lady Thompson bursting and panting—what does it all mean?’</p> - -<p>‘I should be better able to answer if you told me what it was.’</p> - -<p>‘That is just like a man,’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson, ’as if you did not -know! When any gossip is going it always gets here first of all. I -believe you have a telephone, or whatever you call them. Is there -anything in it? What is the meaning of it? You have always had a fancy -for the girl, more than I saw any reason for—but that’s your way.’</p> - -<p>‘The girl,’ said the Canon. ‘I suppose you mean old Hayward’s girl. -Well, and what do they say?’</p> - -<p>‘I am very surprised that you should ask me; and now I feel sure there -must be something in it,’ Mrs. Jenkinson cried.</p> - -<p>‘That she was a schoolmistress, or something of that sort? I always -suspected as much. The mother was a governess—and if Hayward left her, -as he seems to have done, with poor relations—and what then, my dear?’ -said the Canon briskly. ‘Eh? that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s a -very nice girl.’</p> - -<p>‘It alters the situation,’ said the Canon’s wife. ‘Miss Beachey is a -very nice girl; but I should not ask her to meet the St. Clairs, for -example, in my drawing-room.’</p> - -<p>‘Empty-headed noodles,’ said the Canon. ‘Miss Beachey is worth the whole -bundle of them; but I hope you don’t compare Miss Beachey with Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘If that were all!’ said the lady, shaking her head. ‘I hear now that’s -not half. They say she’s nothing to the Haywards at all—only a girl -that took their fancy, and that they took out of her natural -position——’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll swear she never took Mrs. Hayward’s fancy, Charlotte!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Well, well. Mrs. Hayward is a woman of sense; she knows it is vain to -go against a man when he has taken a notion in his head. The Colonel saw -her, it appears, and thought her like his first wife. These romantic -plans never succeed. It appears she was engaged to a man in her own -class, and he has been here making a disturbance. I am very distressed -for these poor people. Well? You know all about it, of course, a great -deal better than I do.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I think that notion of yours about a telephone is quite just. -Of course I have heard it all—first, that she had been a schoolmarm, as -these troublesome Americans say (we’ll all find ourselves speaking -American one of these days), then a board schoolmistress, additional -horror! Yesterday, however, nobody had any doubt she was old Hayward’s -daughter. The other thing has come up to-day. I don’t believe a word of -it, if that’s any satisfaction to you.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very little satisfaction to me, Canon,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, -shaking her head, ‘for I know how you are swayed by your feelings. You -like her, therefore nothing that tells against her can be true. But -unfortunately I can’t give up my judgment in that way.’</p> - -<p>‘What has your judgment got to do with it? That’s a big thing to be put -in movement for such a small matter,’ said the Canon, pushing his chair -from the table. The rotundity of the vast black-silk waistcoat burst -forth from under that shadow with an imposing air. He crossed one leg -over the other, filling half the vacant space with a neat foot in a -black gaiter and well-brushed shoe.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t call it a small matter. I am very surprised that you should -think so. A Scotch country girl, with a pupil-teacher’s training, -brought among us—presented to us all as a young lady!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, wasn’t she a young lady? What fault have you to find with her? -She puts me to my p’s and q’s, I can tell you, with what you call her -pupil-teacher’s——’ The Canon changed his position impatiently, -bringing his other foot into that elevated position. ‘It’s all a horrid -nuisance!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know when I’ve been more vexed. Hayward’s -an old fool—I always knew it. I wish they had never settled here.’</p> - -<p>‘I knew you’d think so, Canon,’ Mrs. Jenkinson cried.</p> - -<p>‘What was the good, if you knew I’d think so, of aggravating everything? -I’ll tell you what it is,—it’s those pernicious people at St. -Augustine’s. That woman <i>must</i> be in mischief. I told you so. She can’t -keep out of it. And to fall foul of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> people who have been her best -friends! But for that poor girl, whom she’s fixing her fangs in, neither -old Sam nor I would have moved a step. I’ve a great mind to go and stop -the building. It would serve them right.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t defend Dora Sitwell, Canon; but if there had been nothing wrong -she could not have made a story. It is the people who shock all the -instincts of society and break its rules—as the Haywards have done——’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I said he was an old fool,’ said the Canon, getting up and -marching about the room, which shook and creaked under him—the windows -rattling, the boards bending. ‘I give him up to you—flay him alive, if -you like—— Still, at the same time,’ he added, stopping in front of -her, with his long coat swinging, and his thumbs in the armholes of his -waistcoat, ‘if a man should happen by any misfortune to find his own -child in an inferior position—suppose she had been a housemaid instead -of a board schoolmistress—should he have left her there? is that what -you ladies think the right thing to do? Respect the delicate breeding of -girls who have run about town for two or three seasons, and don’t bring -the rustic Una here.’</p> - -<p>‘The Una!’ said Mrs. Jenkinson. ‘Canon, when you are very excited, you -always become extravagant. Una was a princess, not a schoolmistress. Oh -yes, of course, it’s all one in a fairy tale; but a Una, with a lover -who comes and makes a disturbance——! And besides, everybody says she’s -not their daughter—only a country girl to whom they took a fancy.’</p> - -<p>‘A strange fancy on the wife’s part!’</p> - -<p>‘I do wish you would be reasonable. The wife, of course, saw the -difficulties, poor woman! Very likely she disapproved of all that -romantic nonsense, adopting a stranger—if it had been a child even! but -a grown-up girl with a lover. It has not been for her happiness either, -poor thing. To have been left in her own sphere, and married, as she -would naturally have done, would have been far better. I am sorry for -her, and I am sorry for Mrs. Hayward. As for him, it is all his fault, -and I have no patience with him,’ cried Mrs. Jenkinson. ‘You are quite -right, Canon; he is an old fool.’</p> - -<p>‘Still, I don’t see, if he had been Solomon, how he was to have left the -poor little girl behind him when he had once found her. Do you?’</p> - -<p>‘Canon,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, with a dignified look of reproach, ‘I -allow that you may be a partisan; but don’t keep up that transparent -fiction with me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>The Canon said, ‘By!’ in an access of feeling, and with a fling which -made the rectory ring. It is not permitted to a Churchman to swear: even -By Jove! comes amiss with a clerical coat and gaiters; but the use of -that innocent monosyllable can be forbidden to no one—the wealthy -English language would fall to pieces without it. He said ‘By!’ making a -fling round the room which caused every window in the old house to -tremble, and then he came to a sudden stop in front of his wife, like a -ship arrested in full sail. ‘Fiction!’ he said; ‘the girl’s the image of -her mother. My brother Jim was in Hayward’s regiment. I remember the -poor thing, and the marriage, and all about it. Hayward behaved like a -fool in that business too—he’ll probably wreck his daughter’s happiness -now,—but mind you, Charlotte, there’s no fiction about it. You can say -I said so. I mean to say so myself till I make the welkin ring—whatever -that may be,’ he added, with a short laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you’ll make the welkin ring, I don’t doubt, anyhow: but, of course, -that’s strong evidence, Canon—if you stick to it.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll stick to it,’ Dr. Jenkinson said. ‘Poor little girl! I knew she’d -get into trouble; but, my dear, if I were you, I’d go forth to all the -tea-parties and sweep these cobwebs away.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, if I were you, I’d do it myself,’ said the lady. ‘You had -better go now, while you are so hot, to Lady St. Clair’s.’</p> - -<p>The Canon flung himself down in his study chair, once more making the -rectory ring. He said something about tabbies and old cats, which a -clerical authority ought not to have said, and then he informed his wife -that he was writing his sermon—the sermon which she knew he had to -preach before a Diocesan Conference. ‘I felt very much in the vein -before you came in. I must try to gather together my scattered ideas.’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t seem to have made much progress,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, -looking severely at a blank sheet of paper on the writing-table. The -Canon uttered a low chuckle of conscious guilt, and drew it towards him.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll tell you what—I’ll give them a good rousing sermon on scandal and -tea-parties.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, tea-parties! your clubs and things are worse than all the -tea-parties in the world,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson, rising with dignity. The -rectory was an old house, and very ready to creak and rattle; but -scarcely a window moved in its frame, or a board vibrated under her -movements. The Canon’s lightest gesture, when he threw himself back in -his chair, or pulled it forward in the heat of composition, made every -timber thrill.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Jenkinson took her way with dainty steps along the road, where -there were puddles, for it had been raining, to Lady St. Clair’s. Now -that the days were closing in, and winter approaching, the season of -tea-parties had set in. The gardens were all bare and desolate, not so -much as a belated red geranium left in the beds. Everything naked and -sodden with autumn rains. But in Lady St. Clair’s, who followed the -fashion even in flowers, there was a sort of supernatural summer in the -conservatory, a many-coloured glow of chrysanthemums which lit up one -side of her drawing-room. The day was mild, the fire was hot, and so was -the tea; and the crowd of people in the warm room were hot too, in their -unnecessary furs and wrappings, and disposed to be sour and out of -temper. Lady Thompson had got a seat near the fire; she had a cup of tea -in her hand; she was being served with hot tea-cake and muffins, and she -wore a sealskin cloak trimmed with deep borders of another and still -more costly fur. Her good-humoured countenance was crimson, her breath -came in gasps. By her side sat Mrs. Sitwell, busy and eager. ‘Of course -I was interested,’ said the parson’s wife. ‘A tale of true love. We -ought all to do what we can for them. You, dear Lady Thompson, that have -so much influence——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think,’ said Lady St. Clair, with emphasis, ‘that anything of -the kind should be asked from us. We have been made to receive a girl on -false pretences, who should never have been admitted among us. I always -had a feeling about that girl. She was so <i>gauche</i>. One could see she -had been accustomed to <i>no</i> society. And my girls had quite the same -feeling. It was instinctive; one has a sort of creepy sensation just as -when one rubs against some one in a crowd—some one who is not of one’s -own class.’</p> - -<p>‘I was always fond of ’er,’ said Lady Thompson, in the middle of her -muffin. ‘I never ’ad no creepy feeling. If you ask my opinion, she’s a -pretty dear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, clasping her hands with enthusiasm, -‘everything, everything that has come out has been favourable to Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘Not to thrust herself into society on false pretences,’ said the eldest -Miss St. Clair. ‘I really know nothing of her. I have been from home -most of the summer; but to push her way among gentlepeople—a little -schoolmistress! Why, Dolly and Daisy were very nearly making a <i>friend</i> -of her!—a girl with these antecedents!’</p> - -<p>‘It was dreadful cheek,’ said Dolly aforesaid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span></p> - -<p>Miss Marsham, who had been pulling the lace round her thin wrists into -tatters, here put forward a timid plea. ‘Oh, I am sure there was no -thrusting herself forward! If there was anything, she was too shy—dear -Joyce! She always said it was the schools she was interested in—from -the first. Mrs. Sitwell, you remember, in Wombwell’s field.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, ‘I never have said anything but praise of her. -I think it is noble to work like that,—to exert yourself for your -people. Her poor old parents were so poor, living in a wretched cottage -upon oatmeal and I don’t know what messes, as the Scotch do. And she -occupied herself to get them a little comfort in their old days. It was -noble of her; everything is to Joyce’s credit—everything! Wild horses -would not have drawn it out of me but for that.’</p> - -<p>‘I never ’ad no creepy feeling,’ said Lady Thompson, pulling at the -velvet strings of her bonnet (which had been carefully pinned, poor -woman, by a careful maid). ‘She’s always been as nice as nice to me.’</p> - -<p>‘What seems very strange,’ said another of the company, ‘is that the -Bellendeans, really nice people, who must have known all about it, -should have countenanced such an imposition; and your little cousin, -Lady St. Clair.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Greta’s a mere child,—and you know the silly ways some girls have. -They think it’s fine to take up people, and have a <i>protégée</i> out of -their own class—bringing the rich and poor together, don’t you -know—that’s what they say.’</p> - -<p>‘They are so silly, all those revolutionary ways!’</p> - -<p>‘And then Captain Bellendean, who should have known better, dangling -after her everywhere—compromising the girl, I always said.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we always knew,’ said Lady St. Clair, with a smile, ‘that nothing -would come of <i>that</i>. A young man, of course, will take his amusement -where he can find it—and if a girl allows herself to be compromised it -is her own fault.’</p> - -<p>‘The parents are most to blame, I think,’ another lady said.</p> - -<p>‘The parents!’ said Miss St. Clair, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Mrs. John—a mere matter of adoption, and not a successful one. -Mrs. Hayward, I believe, never approved of it. It was all the Colonel’s -doing—a foolish fancy about a resemblance.’</p> - -<p>‘And who was she, then, to begin with?’</p> - -<p>‘A foundling—picked up by the roadside—adopted by some cottagers—the -lowest of the low.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Miss Marsham, behind backs, with a cry of pain. ‘Poor child, -poor dear!—if it is so, it’s not her fault.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sitwell had grown pale. She was not done up in velvet strings like -Lady Thompson, who sat gasping, making vain efforts to release herself, -unable to speak. ‘I don’t think it is so bad as that. I never said—I -was never told—only poor people, that was all—poor village -people—very respectable. And everything to Joyce’s credit, or I never -should have said a word.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Sitwell and Mr. Bright had come in from one of their many services -in the pause of awe which followed the severe statement of Joyce’s -fabulous origin. ‘Who was that?’ said the curate, in Miss Dolly’s ear.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, the girl at the Haywards’—don’t you know? You ought to know, for -you saw a great deal of her in the summer. You ought to have found out -all her secrets.’</p> - -<p>‘I never pry into a lady’s secrets,’ said the curate.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t you just! But she turns out to be nothing and nobody, though -they took her everywhere. Did you ever hear such awful cheek?’</p> - -<p>‘I always tell you, Miss Dolly, human nature is so depraved—except in -some exceptional cases,’ Mr. Bright said, with an ingratiating smile, -bending over the young lady’s chair.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sitwell asked the same question of the elder circle, standing up in -the severity of his clerical coat amid the group of ladies. Two or three -answered him at once.</p> - -<p>‘It is Joyce, Austin,’ his wife said, in a faint voice.</p> - -<p>‘It is Miss Hayward.’</p> - -<p>‘It is,’ said Lady St. Clair, emphatically, ‘the young person—Colonel -Hayward’s <i>protégée</i>—whose appearance has always been such a wonder to -us.’</p> - -<p>‘Dora,’ the parson said, in consternation, ‘you never told me this.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no—oh no. I told Lady St. Clair so. It was not half so much, not -half so much! only that they were poor people, quite respectable; and -that Colonel Hayward recognised her directly. Didn’t I say so? I never, -never meant it to be understood——’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Sitwell evidently thinks—which is a pity—that all my information -on the subject is derived from her,’ Lady St. Clair said. ‘She forgets -that my husband is Scotch, and that we have many connections about the -country. The story is no novelty to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Lady Thompson could bear her dreadful position no longer. She stumbled -from her seat, a mass of hot furs, and thrust her teacup into Mr. -Sitwell’s hand. ‘Then how was it that Miss Dolly was nearly making a -friend of ’er?’ she cried. ‘Oh, let me get away from the fire—there’s a -dear!’</p> - -<p>This cry of anguish took something from the force of the strong point -which the homely lady had made. A little bustle ensued, and general -changing of places, in the midst of which Mrs. Jenkinson came in, full -of the important contribution which her husband had made to the evidence -on the subject. But she found the conclave breaking up, and had no -opportunity of putting forth her testimony. It was still discussed in -corners. Mrs. Sitwell, quite pale, and very eager and demonstrative, -stood under her husband’s shadow, who looked exceedingly severe and -grave, making explanations to two ladies aside; and Lady Thompson had -been led into the conservatory to recover, where she had been joined by -Miss Marsham. These two poor women were in a great state of emotion and -excitement. It was not tears, indeed, which the soap-boiler’s wife was -wiping from her crimson forehead. Yet she was all but crying, too.</p> - -<p>‘I took a fancy to ’er the first day. If she ain’t a lady, Miss Marsham, -dear, I don’t know when I ’ave seen one,’ Lady Thompson said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, poor dear! poor dear! If she has made a sacrifice for the sake of -her people, who could blame her?’ the other gentle creature cried, with -sniffs and sobs. They were the helpless ones who could not affect -society—even the suburban society which was led by Lady St. Clair.</p> - -<p>Lady Thompson had loosed her great cloak: the coolness of the -conservatory gave her courage. ‘How can we help ’er?’ she said. ‘Me and -Sir Sam would do anything. And I don’t believe—not one word. Not one -word!’ she repeated with emphasis—‘as them cats says.’ She was vulgar, -it could not be denied, but her heart was in the right place.</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham, poor lady, was not vulgar at all. She could not refuse to -believe what was told her, being incapable of understanding how anybody -could, as she said, ‘Look her in the face’ and tell a lie—a -characteristic which the school children and the people in her district -knew and worked pitilessly. ‘Oh, poor dear! poor dear!’ she said, ‘I for -one would never, never blame her. There is nothing in the world so -natural as to sacrifice yourself, if it’s to do anybody any good. I -understand her,’ said the good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span> woman. ‘I am sure there’s been nothing -wrong in it. But, oh, I don’t know in the least what to do.’</p> - -<p>Lady St. Clair, however, was talking of other things among her guests, -who had begun to disperse, and there was no opportunity for Mrs. -Jenkinson. This roused that lady to a wholesome sense of opposition, and -a growing determination to interfere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> storm subsided which had raged around Joyce for that long and -miserable day. When a few others had passed in their usual calm, the -Colonel, who had elaborately refrained from all allusion to what had -occurred, saying even from time to time, ‘We must not speak of that,’ -made up his mind with great satisfaction that Joyce had dismissed it -from her mind. ‘She is so full of sense,’ he said to his wife; ‘she -doesn’t go fretting and worrying about a thing as I do. When she knows -that there is nothing to be done, she just puts it aside. I wish we were -all as sensible as Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Then take care you don’t remind her of it,’ said Mrs. Hayward.</p> - -<p>‘I—remind her! Why, I have said from the first— We’ll say nothing of -that. Time will settle it. I have said it every day. And you think I -would remind her!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, Henry, I would not say even that if I were you. I have given -Baker his orders never to let that man in again. I hate to take servants -into my confidence, but still—— Fortunately nobody has seen him or -knows anything about him,’ said the deceived woman, with mistaken calm. -She was not so sure about Joyce’s good sense as her husband was; but -even in the midst of her annoyance a certain compassion for Joyce had -awakened in her mind. Poor thing! to feel herself bound to such a man. -‘And we are not done with him,’ Mrs. Hayward said to herself. She sighed -for the calm of those days when there were no complications—when it was -quite unnecessary to give Baker any instructions as to who should be -admitted—when a disturbance and angry controversy in her pretty -drawing-room would have been a thing inconceivable. She thought she -could decipher a trace of Andrew’s country boots on the Persian rug, a -delightful specimen upon which (she had remarked at the time) he had -placed his chair. The Colonel in his anger had crushed up between his -hands a piece of fine embroidery, and ravelled out some of the gold -thread which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span> formed the exquisite pattern. In spite of these things -Mrs. Hayward, for the first time, was sorry for Joyce. She felt with an -impatient vexation that if Captain Bellendean had but ‘spoken’ when she -thought he did, all this might have been avoided. There would no doubt -still have been a struggle. The schoolmaster would not have given in -without a fight; but Mrs. Hayward knew human nature well enough to be -sure that with a man behind her whom she loved, Joyce would have felt -her bond to the man whom she did not love to be still more impossible. -In such a case fidelity was no longer a virtue but a crime.</p> - -<p>But Bellendean had gone, and had not spoken. Mrs. Hayward had been both -angry and disappointed by this failure. She had blamed Joyce for it, and -she had blamed the Colonel for it. That a man should <i>afficher</i> himself -and then go away was a thing not to be endured, according to her ideas. -And now she was really sorry for Joyce, in both these aspects of her -case. If Joyce had but known how much her stepmother divined, all her -troubles would have been increased tenfold. But fortunately she did not -know, although the additional kindness of Mrs. Hayward’s manner gave her -now and then a thrill of fear.</p> - -<p>She was walking with her father in the park one morning, not long after -these events. Winter was coming on with great strides, and the leaves -fell in showers before every breath of wind. Some of the trees were -already bare. Some stood up all golden yellow against the background of -bare boughs, lighting up the landscape. The grass was all particoloured -with the sprinklings of the fallen leaves. Under the hill the river -flowed down the valley, coming out of distances unseen. The Colonel and -his daughter paused at a favourite point of theirs to look at the -prospect. The wide vault of firmament above and the great breadth of air -and space beyond were always a refreshment and consolation. ‘O Thames! -flow softly while I sing my song,’ Joyce said, under her breath.</p> - -<p>‘Eh?—what were you saying, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing,’ she said, with a smile; ‘only a line out of a poem.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! you know so much more about books, my dear, than I have ever done. -You must get that turn in your education early, or you never take it of -yourself. I have never asked you, Joyce, though it has often been on the -tip of my tongue. How do you like the place, now you know it? I hope you -like your home.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very—bonnie. I use that word,’ said Joyce, ‘because it means the -most. Pretty would be impertinent to the Thames—and beautiful——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think beautiful’s too much? Well, my dear, tastes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> differ; but I -never saw anything that pleased me like the course of the river and the -splendid trees. You should have lived in a hot climate to appreciate -fully English trees.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, but I do,’ cried Joyce. ‘They are finer than we have—in Scotland,’ -she said, after a pause. It had been on her lips to say ‘at home.’</p> - -<p>‘Much finer,’ said the Colonel, with conviction; ‘but that is not -exactly an answer to my question. I asked if you liked it—as your -home.’</p> - -<p>Joyce raised her eyes to him, moist and shining. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘it -is you who are my home.’</p> - -<p>‘My love!’ the Colonel stammered and faltered, in unexpected emotion. -The water came to his eyes and blotted out the landscape. ‘You make me -very happy and very proud, Joyce. This is more, much more than I had any -right to.’ He took her hand in his and drew it within his arm. ‘I have -wanted,’ he said, ‘to surround you with everything that your poor mother -did not have—to make you happy if I could, my dear: but I scarcely -expected such a return as this. God bless you, Joyce! Still,’ said the -pertinacious inquirer, caressing the hand upon his arm, ‘that’s not -quite what I asked, my dear.’</p> - -<p>Joyce had twice avoided the direct response he demanded. She paused -before she replied. ‘Some,’ she said, ‘father, are happy enough never to -need to think, or ask such a question. I wish I had been always where -you were, and never to have had any life but yours; or else——’ -Colonel Hayward fortunately did not remark these two syllables, which -were softly said, and breathed off into a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ he said, ‘under the best of circumstances that could never -have been, for you know the most of my life has been spent in India. The -worst of India is, that parents must part with their children. We should -not really have known very much more of each other if—if you had been -born, as you should have been, in your father’s house.’</p> - -<p>‘Then there is little harm done,’ said Joyce, this time with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘Not if you trust us fully, my dear, and love your home.’ He patted her -hand again, then moved on unsatisfied. ‘I think, however, you are -beginning to like the people, and feel at home among them. And they like -you. I am sure they like you—and admire you, Joyce, and feel that you -are—— There is Lady St. Clair, my dear, with all her bevy of girls. -You will want to stop and speak to them. My wife says they’re the best -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span>people, but I’m not myself very fond—— How do you do?’ cried the -Colonel cheerily, taking off his hat with a flourish. ‘Lovely morning! -How do you do?’</p> - -<p>The old soldier stood the image of good-humour and cheerful courtesy, -holding his hat in his hand. There were so many ladies to share his bow -that it was longer than usual, and gave the wind time to blow about a -little the close curly locks, touched with gray, which covered the -Colonel’s head with all the vigour of youth. His countenance beamed with -kindness and that civility of the heart which made the fact that he was -not himself very fond of this group inoperative. But when Lady St. -Clair, picking her steps to the other side of the road, delivered in -return the most chilling of faint bows, while her daughters hurried like -a flock of birds across the park to avoid the encounter, Colonel Hayward -stood dumb with consternation in the middle of the path. His under lip -dropped in his astonishment, he forgot to put on his hat. He turned to -Joyce, holding it in his hand, with dismay in his face. ‘What—what,’ he -cried, ‘is the meaning of that?’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed I don’t know,’ said Joyce. She was not aroused to the importance -of the action. Unfortunately she did not care, nor did it seem to her -that so slight a matter was worth noticing. ‘They were perhaps in a -hurry,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘In a hurry! They meant to avoid us. They would rather not have seen us. -What does it mean, Joyce? They consulted together, and the girls rushed -off, and their mother—I am utterly astounded, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘But,’ said Joyce, very calmly, ‘if they did not wish to speak to us, -why should they? I do not think I care.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel put on his hat. He had grown a little pale. ‘Elizabeth will -not like it,’ he said. ‘She will not like it at all. For a long time she -would not go into society, because of—— But now that she does she likes -to know all the best people. I am not myself fond of those St. Clairs. -But any unpleasantness, I am sure, would make her unhappy. Can I have -done anything, I wonder? I am a blundering old fellow,—I may have -neglected some etiquette——’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it would be better to say nothing about it,’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Much better!’ cried the Colonel. ‘That’s the right way—take no notice. -I am glad you are of that opinion. But I’m very bad at keeping a secret, -Joyce. Probably I’ll blurt it out.’</p> - -<p>‘No, father. I will look at you when I see you approaching the subject,’ -said Joyce. She was quite unconscious of any seriousness in the matter. -Lady St. Clair and her girls seemed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span>capable of any influence on her -fate. She even laughed, looking up at him with a lightness quite unusual -to her. ‘It will be a little secret between us,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘So it will,’ said the Colonel, brightening; ‘but you must keep your -eyes upon me, Joyce. I never could keep a thing to myself in my life, -particularly from Elizabeth. But this cannot be of any importance after -all, can it? No, I don’t think it can be of any importance. Lady St. -Clair may be vexed with me perhaps for the moment. I may have done some -silly thing or other. I would not for the world have a secret from -Elizabeth—but such a trifle as this.’</p> - -<p>‘It cannot be of the least importance,’ said Joyce. She was more -confident of being right than he had ever known her before.</p> - -<p>‘Well, my dear: but you must keep your eyes upon me,’ Colonel Hayward -said.</p> - -<p>He came back to the subject several times as they went on, and worked -out the shock, so that by the time they reached home, he himself had -come to regard Lady St. Clair’s incivility as a matter of little -importance. ‘Perhaps she had something on her mind, my dear; their -eldest boy, I believe, gives them a great deal of trouble. And I know -they are not rich—and with that large family. People are not always in -the mood for a conversation on the roadside. You are quite right, Joyce. -I daresay it meant just nothing at all but the humour of the moment. It -will be a little secret between you and me—but you must keep your eyes -upon me. Give a little cough, or put your hand up to your brooch, or -some sign I shall know—for I am an old goose, I know it: I can keep -nothing to myself.’</p> - -<p>When they reached home, however, the incident and the secret were both -forgotten in the surprise which awaited them. They found Mrs. Hayward in -the drawing-room entertaining Mrs. Bellendean. Joyce, though she had -always been more shy of her dear lady since she had discovered how much -Mrs. Bellendean’s behaviour to herself was influenced by her change of -circumstances, was startled out of all her preventions by this -unexpected visit. But the sight of the woman to whom she had looked up -with such sincere reverence, and admired before everybody in the world, -was not now to her so simple a matter as it had once been: after the -first burst of pleasure it was impossible to forget how closely -associated she was both with the old life and the new. And Mrs. -Bellendean herself was changed. There were lines of anxiety and care in -her face. She was no longer the calm queen in her own circle, the centre -of pleasure and promotion she had once appeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span> to Joyce. The peace of -the old life was gone from her, and something of its largeness and -dignity. She talked of her present plans and purposes in such a way that -Joyce, though little accustomed to the subtleties of conventional life, -slowly came to perceive that the object of Mrs. Bellendean’s visit was -not that which it professed to be. She explained to them that she was -about to leave England with her husband for Italy, and that she had come -to take leave of her friends—but this was not all. Joyce’s training in -the net-work of motives which lie under the surface was very imperfect. -She wondered, without at all divining, what the other object was.</p> - -<p>‘Things have changed very much since Bellendean ceased to be our -headquarters,’ she said with a smile which was not a very cheerful one. -‘You remember how much I threw myself into it, Joyce. After having -nothing particular to do, to come into that full life with so many -things to look after was delightful to me. But my husband never liked -it,’ she added quickly. ‘He dislikes the worry and the responsibility. -He thinks it worry: you know I never did.’</p> - -<p>‘My friend Norman,’ said the Colonel, ‘will be lost without you. It must -have been such a thing for him.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Norman has been very good.’ Lines came out on Mrs. Bellendean’s -brow which had not been there before. ‘You saw something of him during -the summer?’</p> - -<p>‘Something—oh, a great deal! We got quite used to see him appearing in -his flannels. Fine exercise for a young fellow: It helped him to support -London,’ said the guileless Colonel. ‘I think he found us very handy -here.’</p> - -<p>‘Old fellows, I suspect, think more of exercise than young fellows,’ -said Mrs. Hayward; ‘and London is very supportable in Captain -Bellendean’s circumstances—but we did see a little of him from time to -time.’</p> - -<p>Joyce said nothing at all. She kept a little behind, away from Mrs. -Bellendean’s anxious eyes. She could not prevent the colour from -deepening in her face, or her heart from beating high and loud in her -breast—so loud that she felt it must be heard by others as well as -herself, the most distinct sound in the room.</p> - -<p>‘He has not been here very lately, I suppose?’ Mrs. Bellendean said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, not since August—when he came to bid us good-bye.’</p> - -<p>‘As I am doing now,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. She could not see Joyce, who -was behind her, but she was noting, with the intensest observation, -every movement and word. She was on a voyage of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span> discovery, not quite -knowing what she expected, almost too eager to distinguish what she -imagined from what she saw.</p> - -<p>‘Shooting, I suppose,’ said the Colonel. ‘I hope he has had good sport. -There was some talk of his coming back, but I never expected him for my -part, until the moors began to pall; and that doesn’t happen soon, your -first year at home. You preserved, of course, at Bellendean.’</p> - -<p>‘There are always plenty of partridges—nothing more exciting. He has -been up in the Highlands, coming and going. I think he has thoroughly -enjoyed himself—as you say, the first year at home.’</p> - -<p>These words were all very simple and natural; but there was a little -emphasis here and there, which betrayed a meaning more than met the ear. -Joyce felt them fall upon her heart like so many stones, thrown singly, -resolutely, with intention. It had never occurred to her before that any -one could wish to give her pain: and that her own lady should do it—her -model of all that was greatest and sweetest! The cruel boys throw stones -at wounded, helpless things. She remembered suddenly, with that -quickness of imagination which enhances every impression, a scene which -detached itself from the past—a boy in the village aiming steadily at a -lame dog, and how she had flung herself upon him in a blaze of -indignation, to his supreme astonishment. Why this should come into her -head she could not tell. The dog could yelp at least, but Joyce could -not cry out. It seemed to her that it was Mrs. Bellendean, in her -mature, middle-aged beauty, tall, dignified, and serene, who stood and -took aim. It was all new to Joyce—the covert blow, the deliberate -intention, the strong necessity of keeping still, uttering no sound, -giving no look even of consciousness. Nothing in her past experience had -prepared her for this.</p> - -<p>‘I have more sympathy with your plans than with Captain Bellendean’s -amusements,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Sport’s monotonous, at least to women -who only look on. But to get away for the winter is always delightful. -Oh, not to you, Henry, I know! You like your walks. And he tells me it -is so English, so like home. Very English indeed, and pleasant, for -girls who skate, and all that; but when one begins to get old and go -about in a shawl!’</p> - -<p>‘I would willingly compound for the shawl,’ said the visitor. ‘It is -cold enough at Bellendean; but there one had both duties and pleasures. -I hate to be one of a useless crowd, drifting about pleasure-places. -When it’s health it is dismal enough; but at least there is some meaning -in that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, there is a great deal of meaning in being warm,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, with a little shiver, ‘in seeing sunshine and the blue sky -instead of universal greyness and fogs. The Colonel takes a pleasure in -it, even in east wind; but so do not I.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ cried Colonel Hayward anxiously, ‘if you really do feel so -strongly about it, you don’t think that I would ever object? I like my -own country, I confess; and to understand what everybody’s saying—but -if you feel the cold so much——’</p> - -<p>It was not much wonder that he should not understand; but Joyce, for -whom the thing was done, knew almost as little as he did that this -diversion was for her benefit. A half-forlorn wonder arose in her mind -that so much useless, aimless talk should mingle with the torture -through which she was going. Better that the stones should all be -thrown, and the victim left in peace. But this was not how it was to be. -The gong sounded, beaten by Baker’s powerful hand, and the little -procession went in to luncheon. Joyce had to expose her face, with all -its clouds, the burning red which she felt on her cheek, the heavy -shadow about her eyes, to the full daylight and Mrs. Bellendean’s -searching gaze. Nobody could help her now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">At</span> last I can get a word with yourself, Joyce!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean led her out under the verandah to the garden path beyond -with an anxiety and eagerness which startled Joyce. She half enveloped -the girl in the warmth of her cloak and of the caressing arm which held -hers. It was a caressing hold, but very firm, not leaving any -possibility of escape. More than an hour had passed slowly in the usual -vague interchanges of drawing-room conversation, when there is nothing -particular to talk about on either side; but the visitor had said -nothing about going—had not even mentioned, as such visitors are bound -to do, the train by which she intended to leave. She had kept a furtive -watch upon Joyce, following all her movements, but she had not -transgressed against decorum and domestic rule by asking to speak with -her alone. Accident, however, had done what Mrs. Bellendean did not -venture to do. Mrs. Hayward had been called away for some domestic -consultation, the Colonel had gone out, and Joyce was left with her -visitor alone.</p> - -<p>‘Are you afraid of the cold?—but it isn’t cold—and I do want to say a -dozen words where no one can possibly hear. Joyce, my dear girl, do let -me speak to you while there is time. Joyce—I don’t know how to open the -subject—I would not venture if I were less anxious. Joyce, you heard -what I was saying about Norman, my stepson?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes.’ Joyce did not look up, nor did she feel herself able to say more.</p> - -<p>‘You used to be—devoted to me, Joyce; as I always was very fond of you. -A little cloud has come between us somehow—I can’t tell how—but it has -made no difference to my feelings.’ Mrs. Bellendean was a little short -of breath. She paused, pressing Joyce’s arm with hers, leaning over her, -with anxious eyes upon her face. But something prevented Joyce from -making any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> response—that cloud was still between them, whatever it -was.</p> - -<p>‘You know very well the interest I have always taken in you from the -very beginning, before any one suspected—— And Greta—Greta was always -fond of you. You have not met much lately.’</p> - -<p>‘No.’ Nothing would come but monosyllables.</p> - -<p>‘I want to speak to you of Greta, Joyce. She is younger than you are, -though you are young enough. She has never been crossed or disappointed -in her life. I can’t think of <i>that</i> for her without a shudder. She -would die. It would break her heart.’</p> - -<p>‘What?’ said Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce, I am going to take you into our confidence—to tell you our -secret; you will never betray us. If things should happen so that what -we wish never came to pass, you would not betray us?’</p> - -<p>For the first time Joyce raised her eyes to Mrs. Bellendean’s face.</p> - -<p>‘I know—I know—I never doubted for a moment. It will rest with you to -decide. Joyce, you have got Greta’s life in your hands.’</p> - -<p>‘I! in my hands.’ She looked up again into the face which was bending so -closely with such an anxious look over hers. The lace of Mrs. -Bellendean’s veil swept her forehead. The breath, which came so quick, -breathed upon her cheek.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ said the lady again, ‘I know that it was not a little that you -saw Norman. I know that he was here day after day. I know that he -was—in love with you.’</p> - -<p>Joyce detached herself suddenly from that close enlacement. She drew her -arm away, shook off the draperies which half enveloped her. ‘I do not -think you have any right—to say that to me,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘If I did not know it to be true—and you know it’s true. He came here -day after day till he imagined—he was in love with you. And then he -came to Bellendean. All this time he has been seeing Greta every day. He -has made her believe that it is she whom he loves.’</p> - -<p>The heart of Joyce gave one bound as if it would have burst out of her -breast.</p> - -<p>‘And she believes it,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘She is a tender little -flower; she has never been crossed in her life. She believes that it is -she whom he loves—and she loves him.’</p> - -<p>There was a momentary silence, complete and terrible. A little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> gust of -wind burst forth suddenly, and sent a small shower of leaves at their -feet. They both started, as if these had been the footsteps of some -intruder.</p> - -<p>‘It has always been our desire:’—the visitor began again in a low -voice, as if she were afraid of being overheard—‘everybody has wished -and expected it. They suit each other in every way. She has been brought -up for him. She has always thought of Norman all her life. Poor little -Greta! she is so young—not strong either; her mother died quite young. -And she doesn’t know what disappointment is. We are all to blame; we -have petted her and made her think there was nothing but happiness -before her. And she was always fond of you, Joyce. You, too’—Mrs. -Bellendean added, after a pause—‘you were devoted to her.’</p> - -<p>Joyce’s voice sounded harsh and hoarse. After the silence it came out -quite suddenly, all the music and softness gone out of it: ‘What have I -to do with all this? What has it to say to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce! do you think I would come to you without strong -reason—betraying Greta?’</p> - -<p>‘This has nothing to do with me,’ said Joyce again.</p> - -<p>‘It has everything to do with you. So long as he has been at home all -has been well. He has seen her every day. He has got to appreciate her, -and to see that she is the right wife for him, his own class, his own -kind, fit to take her place in the county, and help him to his right -position. But he is coming up to town. He will be coming here,’ said -Mrs. Bellendean, putting her hand again upon the girl’s arm. ‘Oh, Joyce, -Joyce——’</p> - -<p>‘I have nothing to do with it,’ said Joyce. ‘What—what do you think I -can do?’</p> - -<p>‘He—can be nothing to you,’ said the visitor tremulously. ‘You—you’re -engaged already. You’ve given your word to a—good respectable man. -Norman is only a stranger to you.’</p> - -<p>Joyce did not reply. She drew herself away a little, but could not -escape the pressure of that eager, persuasive hand.</p> - -<p>‘I understand it all,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘He is not clever, but he -has the manners of a man that knows the world, and he has been very much -struck with you. And you have been—flattered. You have liked to have -him come, even though he could never be anything to you.’</p> - -<p>She had got Joyce’s arm again in her close clasp, and she felt the -strong pulsations, the resistance, the movements of agitation, which, -with all her power of self-control, the girl could not restrain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, think, Joyce, before it goes any further! Will you for simple -vanity—or like one of the flirts that would have every one at their -feet—will you break Greta’s heart, and make a desert of both their -lives? All for what?—for a brag,—for a little pleasure to your -pride,—for it can be nothing else, seeing you’re engaged to another -man!’</p> - -<p>The woman was cruel, remorseless,—for she felt Joyce’s arm vibrate in -her clasp, which she could not loosen,—and thus commanded her secrets, -and forced her to betray herself. The girl felt herself driven to bay.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand—the things you say,’ she answered slowly at last. -‘You speak as if I had a power—a power—that I know nothing about. And -oh, you’re cruel, cruel! to put all that in my mind. What—do you think -I can do?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Joyce, I knew you would never fail me. You have such a generous -heart. Let him see, only let him see, that between him and you there can -be nothing. He will accept it quickly enough. A man’s pride is soon up -in arms. It has only been a passing fancy, and he will soon see that -everything is against it; while everything is in favour of the other. If -you will only be firm, and let him see—oh, Joyce, you who are so -clever! dear Joyce!’</p> - -<p>Joyce’s heart swelled almost to bursting. ‘You call me clever, and -dear,’ she cried; ‘and you tell me I must save Greta’s heart from -breaking; but what if I were to break mine,—and what if I were to hurt -his,—and what if I were to make three miserable instead of one? You -never think of that.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, with a tone of indignation; ‘because I -would never do you that wrong, Joyce,—you that are honour itself and -the soul of truth,—to believe that you had even a thought of Norman, -being engaged to another man.’</p> - -<p>Joyce shrank as if she had received a blow. ‘Oh,’ she cried, in a broken -voice, ‘you never ceased to say that I had done wrong—that it was not a -fit thing for me—that I would change, that I would find it not possible -to keep my word. You said so—not I.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear! my dear!’ cried Mrs. Bellendean.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Joyce, ‘don’t call me so. I am not dear any more. You know -that there was a time when Joyce would do what you said, if it was small -or great, if it was to give you a flower or to give you her heart; and -then you changed, and that ceased to be; and we got all wrong because I -was Colonel Hayward’s daughter. And now you come and put me back again -in my old place, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span> far, far lower—the girl engaged to Andrew -Halliday, whom you never could bear to hear of—and bid me do what may -be, perhaps, for all you know, a heartbreak to me——’</p> - -<p>‘No, Joyce—no, dear Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘For what?’ she said sadly—‘that you may call me <i>that</i>—you that -raised me up to your arms, for being not myself but my father’s -daughter—and now drop me down, down again, for fear I should come in -your way. And why should I break my heart more than Greta? why should I -be disappointed and not she? why should I give up my hope to save -her—if it was so?’</p> - -<p>‘But, Joyce, Joyce!—it is not so!’</p> - -<p>Joyce made no reply.</p> - -<p>The two figures moved on together slowly in silence, with the autumn -leaves dropping over them, and the afternoon growing grey. Mrs. -Bellendean felt upon her arm the strong beating of the girl’s heart, and -the tremor that went through her; and her own heart smote her for what -she was doing: but not for so little as that did she give up the work -which was already more than half done. She followed all the movements of -the girl’s mind with an extraordinary sympathy, even while she set -herself to the task of overcoming them; for she was not the less fond of -Joyce, and scarcely felt with her less, for this determination to subdue -her. She was conscious of the commotion, the revolt, the sense of -personal wrong, yet underneath all the strong fidelity and loyalty of -the spirit over which she was exercising a tyrannical power. She let her -own influence work in the silence, without saying a word, with an -assurance of victory. The only thing that lessened the cruelty of the -undertaking was that she did not really know whether Joyce’s heart was -or was not engaged—even now she could not fathom that—but was able to -persuade herself that the girl’s protest was one of indignation only, -not of outraged love; and that the sacrifice, if she made it, would only -be a sacrifice of her pleasure in a conquest and of her vanity, not of -any real happiness or hope.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean’s confidence was justified. After a minute or two, which -had seemed hours, Joyce spoke again. ‘There is no need to tell you,’ she -said, very low, so that the lady had to stoop to hear her—for Joyce’s -head was bent, and her voice scarcely audible—‘there is no need to tell -you—that as far as in me lies I will do what you say.’</p> - -<p>‘My dearest, kind girl—my own Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she said, with a shudder, drawing away her arm, ‘not that—never -that. It is all changed and different, Mrs. Bellen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span>dean. I am not even -Joyce, your schoolmistress, that was so proud to please you; but in -another parish, with another name—as you think best for me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Joyce,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, with real pain, ‘don’t say that! I -only think so because you yourself thought so; and with your father’s -help and that of your friends, it need not be another parish, nor any -parish. He is a most respectable, clever man. We will find him something -far better, something more worthy of <i>you</i>.’</p> - -<p>Joyce said nothing more. She turned round and led the way back to the -house, keeping apart from her companion, walking with a new-born dignity -and pride. There was not another word said as they returned to the -verandah, from which Mrs. Hayward was looking out, looking for them. She -had a shawl wrapped close round her, yet shivered a little in the early -falling twilight. ‘You will both get your death of cold,’ she cried. -‘Come in, come in, and have some tea. Joyce, you really carry rashness -too far: you must be chilled to death.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid it is my fault,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘I forgot she had no -wrap. It was such a pleasure to have a little talk with her’—the lady -hesitated for a moment, then added with a tremble in her voice—‘as in -the old days.’</p> - -<p>As in the old days!—a pleasure to talk! ‘Yes, it is very cold,’ said -Joyce, holding her hands to the fire. She stood up there, a dark shadow -against the warm glow. A strange fascination kept her in the presence of -the woman whom she had so loved, who had turned her love to such -account. She stood there without moving, trembling with the cold, and -something more than the cold. So long as these entreaties were not -repeated here! so long as her step-mother was not taken into the lady’s -confidence too. Nothing was further from Mrs. Bellendean’s mind. She -took with pleasure the warm cup of tea, which, and the warm air of the -fire-lighted room, brought back a genial heat all over her. She was a -little tremulous, yet satisfied, feeling that she had done all for which -she had come. And no harm had been done to Joyce—no harm. She wished -the girl would not stand there, cold, reproaching her by the silent -shiver with which she held her hands to the fire. But that was all. What -is a little cold at her age?—no more than the little puncture of her -vanity, the little salutary wound which was all, Mrs. Bellendean -persuaded herself, that she had given.</p> - -<p>‘It was foolish of me to forget that Joyce had no shawl. She has always -been so hardy, I hope it will not matter. It is such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> long time since -I have seen her.’ It seemed impossible to change the subject, to get out -of these <i>banalités</i> which meant so much worse than nothing, which -conveyed so false a sense to Joyce’s keen ear. Mrs. Bellendean was -embarrassed, but she was not conscious of being false. She added, ‘And -it will be a long time before we meet again. I shall have to try and -dismiss all my anxieties about my friends from my mind. Joyce is one -whom I can always trust not to misunderstand me, not to forget -anything,’ Mrs. Bellendean said.</p> - -<p>Joyce heard everything, even the rustle of Mrs. Bellendean’s gown, the -movement of her arm as she lifted her teacup to her lips, but could not -move or say a word. She stood still, warming herself, while the two -ladies carried out the usual little interchange of nothings. All they -said entered into her brain, and remained in her memory like something -of importance. But it was of no importance. Presently Mrs. Bellendean -remembered that she must go by a certain train, and a cab had to be sent -for. There was a little bustle of leave-taking. Joyce felt herself -enclosed in a warm embrace, tenderly kissed, still more tenderly said -farewell to. ‘I don’t say, Remember, for I am sure you will not forget -me, Joyce,’ were Mrs. Bellendean’s last words, ‘nor what I have said.’ -But to this also Joyce replied nothing.</p> - -<p>‘I thought she was never going away,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘She must have -had something very particular to say to you, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>Joyce was walking across the hall towards the stair without any -response. Mrs. Hayward stood still under the light and cried -impatiently, ‘You don’t seem to have heard me. You look dazed. What had -she to say to you, Joyce?’</p> - -<p>Joyce turned half round, holding by the banister of the stair. She said, -‘Nothing—it was I myself——’ then paused. ‘She was telling me about -Greta. Greta—has never been disappointed—not like—like other folk.’</p> - -<p>‘Never disappointed!’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘Do they think she can get -through life like that? And was this all Mrs. Bellendean came to say? I -think she might have saved herself the trouble. I would let Miss Greta -look after her own affairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Never</span> had been disappointed—never crossed!</p> - -<p>Perhaps that is as real a claim upon human compassion as is the claim of -the long-suffering and much-tried. Perhaps it is even a stronger claim. -It is the claim of a child. Who would be the one to open the doors of -human trouble to a child?—to give the first blow?—to begin the -disenchantment which is the rule of life? People get used to -disappointments as to the other burdens of human existence; but to -snatch the first light away and replace it by darkness, who would do -that willingly? to change the firmament and eclipse the sunshine, where -all had been brightness and hope! There had been a sombre anger roused -in Joyce’s heart by that appeal. She had said, Why should one be spared -by the pain of another? Why should her heart break, that Greta’s should -be saved from aching? But she no longer asked herself that question. She -said to herself that it was just. There are some that must be saved -while the others go bleeding. It is the rule of life—not justice, -perhaps, but something that is above justice. Some must have flowers -strewn upon their path, while others walk across the burning -ploughshares. There was no reason in it, perhaps, no logic, but only -truth: for some object unknown, which God had made a law of life. Greta -had been the idol of her family all her life. Everybody had loved her, -and cared for her. She had been sheltered from every wind that blew. -Joyce was only a little older, but already had passed through so many -experiences. <i>She</i> knew what it was to be disappointed, to have all her -dreams cut short, and the current of her being changed. Another pang to -her, who was accustomed to it, would not be half so much as the first -pang of wounding misery to Greta. Poor little Greta! fed on the roses, -and laid in the lilies of life, to give her all at once the apples of -Gomorrah, to wrap her in the poisoned robe. Oh no! oh no! It was a just -plea. Let the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span> heart that is used to it go on breaking; let the child’s -heart go free.</p> - -<p>Joyce’s room was the one full of thoughts in the middle of that peaceful -house. In all the others was the regular breathing of quiet -sleepers—the rest of the undisturbed. She alone waked, with her little -light burning, throwing a faint gleam across the invisible river-banks, -on the dark stream floating unseen. Had there been any wayfarer belated, -any boat floating down-stream, the gleam from that window would have -given cheer in the middle of the darkness and night. But there was not -much cheer in it. The room it lighted was full of thoughts and cares, -and sheltered a human creature facing a sea of troubles, doing her best -to keep afloat—sometimes almost submerged by these rising waves: and -there is this additional pang in the troubles of a woman—of a girl like -Joyce—that there is no motive to strive against them. The Hamlets of -existence have a great life and great possibilities before them; but -what profit is there to the world in one poor girl the more or less? If -she is glad or sad—a victim or a conqueror—what matter? Her poor old -people were separated from her. They would never know. Her father would -not suffer, and no one else in the world would care. There was no -mother, no sister, to wish her woes their own—not even a friend—not a -friend! for Mrs. Bellendean and Greta were those who had been most dear. -There would be some use in her suffering, but none in her -happiness—none at all: rather evil to all concerned. A selfish good -purchased by others’ disadvantage. No good—no good to any one in the -world.</p> - -<p>Joyce said to herself, in her profound discouragement, that after all -Mrs. Bellendean’s prayer had made no change in anything. She had already -made up her mind. Happiness was a very doubtful thing in any case, -everybody said. It was not the end of existence, it was a chimera that -flew from you the more you sought it. But your honour was your life. To -be faithful and true, to be worthy of trust, to stand to your word -whatever happened, that was the best thing in the world, the only thing -worth living and dying for. Even if you could not keep your word to the -letter, she said to herself with a shudder, at least to do nothing -against it, not to contradict it before earth and heaven! No human -creature but can do that. She would never, never turn her back upon her -pledge. What was the need of invoking another motive, of adjuring her by -Greta’s happiness, by Norman’s advantage? This was only to irritate, to -import into the question a sense of injustice and wrong. It had been -decided before there was a word of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span> all that. Everything that Mrs. -Bellendean had said had been an irritation to Joyce. To take it for -granted that her happiness should yield to that of Greta,—that Norman’s -interests should be considered before hers,—that she would be a burden, -a disadvantage to Norman, while Greta would be nothing but good and -happiness:—and finally to thrust her back to what they considered her -own place, into the arms of the man whom they all had thought unworthy -of Joyce in Joyce’s humblest days,—to thrust her back into his arms, to -speak of promotion for him, of humble advancement, comfort which would -make him a match for her!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellendean’s appeal had only brought a succession of irritations, -one more keen than the other. Joyce felt herself angered, wounded, -driven to bay. She had not needed any inducement to do what she felt to -be right; but now it required an effort to return to the state in which -she had been when she had renewed her pledge and promised to keep to her -word. She would stand by that resolution whatever might be said; but she -was angry, offended, wounded, in her deepest heart. Her friends, her own -friends, those who were most dear, had torn away all veils from the -helpless and shrinking soul. She had been Joyce, their handmaiden—oh, -eager to do their will; ready to spend her life for them, in proud yet -perfect humility. And then they had lifted her up, called her their -equal, pretended to treat her as such, because of the change—though -there was no change in her. And yet again, last phase of all, they had -flung her down from that fictitious position, and shown her that to them -in truth she never had been more than a handmaiden, a being without -rights or feelings, born only to yield to them. And these were her -dearest friends, the friends of her whole life, whose affection had -elevated her above herself! Joyce hid her face, that she might not see -the thoughts that rent her heart. Her friends, her familiar friends, in -whom she had trusted; her dear lady, who had been to her like the saints -in heaven; her Greta, whom she had thought like an angel. They had -betrayed her, and after this, what did it matter what man or woman could -do?</p> - -<p>The night was half over before the little light in the window -disappeared from the darkling world through which the Thames flowed -unseen. It disappeared, and all was black and invisible, the dark sky -and the darker earth lost in the night and the blackness of the night -and its silence. No such watch had ever been kept in that peaceful house -before.</p> - -<p>Next morning, when Joyce came downstairs, looking very pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span> and -sleepless, with dark lines under her eyes, she found her stepmother -standing in the hall, turning over a letter, with great surprise in her -face. ‘It is inconceivable,’ she was saying.</p> - -<p>‘It must be a mistake,’ said the Colonel; ‘depend upon it, it must be a -mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘To ask you and me and not Joyce,—I cannot understand it. Can Joyce -have done anything to offend them? Why should I be asked to a ball but -for Joyce? We are not dancing people, you and I. I might have gone for -Joyce, and Joyce is left out. What can it mean? She must have done -something to offend them.’</p> - -<p>‘That reminds me, my dear.’ said the Colonel, ‘of something that -happened yesterday. We met the St. Clairs, that huge regiment. I took -off my hat—oh!’ said the Colonel suddenly, beholding Joyce with her -finger up, standing behind Mrs. Hayward.</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean by breaking off like this?’ What happened?’ cried his -wife.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear,’ said the veteran, with confusion and -dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing, Henry? you change your tone very quickly. You spoke as if it -had some bearing upon this strange invitation, which wants explanation -very much.’</p> - -<p>‘No, my dear, no. I was mistaken; it couldn’t have anything to do with -that. In short, it was nothing—nothing—only a piece of nonsense—one -of my mistakes.’ He looked piteously at Joyce, standing behind, who had -dropped her hand, as if abandoning the warning which she had given him. -Joyce, in the extremity of her trouble, had fallen into that quiescence -which comes with the failure of hope. She remembered the bargain that -had been made between them at the instant, but that and everything else -seemed of too little importance now to move her beyond a moment. Mrs. -Hayward, however, turned round, following her husband’s look.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is you, Joyce! You wish your father not to tell me.’</p> - -<p>‘The fact is,’ said the Colonel, eager to speak, ‘we thought it might -annoy you, Elizabeth.’</p> - -<p>‘You are taking the best way to annoy me,’ she cried. ‘What is this you -have been making up between you? Henry, I have a right at least to the -truth from you.’</p> - -<p>‘The truth!’ he said; ‘surely, my dear, the truth, if it was of any -consequence. Joyce will tell you what happened. It was of <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span>no -importance. Most likely Lady St. Clair is short-sighted. Many ladies -are, you know. Most likely she didn’t make out who we were. That was -your opinion, Joyce, wasn’t it?’ The Colonel felt that the best thing he -could do, as Joyce did not help him out in safety, was to drag her into -her share of the danger.</p> - -<p>‘There might be many reasons. I did not think it mattered at all,’ said -Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Reasons for what?’ said Mrs. Hayward, stamping her foot on the ground. -‘I think between you you will drive me mad.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear! for nothing at all, Elizabeth. She scarcely returned my -salutation. The girls all scuttled off across the park like so many -rabbits. They are not unlike rabbits,’ the Colonel said, with an -ingratiating smile. ‘But we agreed it was of no importance, and that it -was useless to speak to you of it, as it might annoy you: we agreed——’</p> - -<p>‘You agreed!’ Mrs. Hayward gave Joyce an angry look. ‘I wish in such -matters, Henry, you would act from your own impulse, and never mind any -one else.’ She swept in before the others into the dining-room, where it -was the wont of the household that the Colonel every morning should read -prayers. But it is to be feared that these prayers were not so composing -to the soul of the mistress of the house as might have been wished. ‘We -agreed’—these words kept ringing through the devotions of the family, -as if some sprite of mischief had thrown them, a sort of demoniac squib -or cracker through the quiet air. To have her husband consult with his -daughter as to what should or should not be told to her was more than -she could bear.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward went out in the afternoon alone to make a call at a much -frequented house, where she hoped to discover what was the cause of Lady -St. Clair’s rudeness and Mrs. Morton’s strange invitation. She met a -great many acquaintances, as was natural in a small place, where all -‘the best people’ knew each other. Among them was Lady St. Clair, who, -instead of avoiding her as she had done the Colonel, came forward with -<i>empressment</i>, showing the most sympathetic civility. ‘How are you, dear -Mrs. Hayward? I hope you are well. I do hope you are bearing—the -beginning of the severe weather,’ that lady said, shaking her hand -warmly, and looking with tender meaning in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t pay much attention to the weather, thank you,’ said Mrs. -Hayward, ‘and we can’t complain of it so far. I am glad to see <i>you</i> so -well. My husband thought he saw you yesterday, and that you were put out -about something.’</p> - -<p>‘Put out! I did see Colonel Hayward,’ said Lady St. Clair, with dignity; -‘but I am sure you will understand, dear Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span> Hayward, that charming as -he is, and much as we all like him, there are circumstances——’</p> - -<p>‘Circumstances!’ cried Mrs. Hayward. ‘I don’t know indeed any -circumstances which can possibly affect my husband. None, certainly, -that don’t affect me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we all feel for you,’ said the leader of society, pressing Mrs. -Hayward’s hand.</p> - -<p>She had to pass on, fuming with indignation and astonishment, and next -minute it was her fortune to meet the lady who had sent her the -invitation of the morning: for Mrs. Hayward had by chance stumbled into -a tea-party specially convoked for the purpose of talking over the last -great piece of news. Though she had as yet no clue to what it was, she -felt there was something in the air, and that both in the salutations -and the silence of those about her, and the evidently startling effect -of her unexpected appearance, there was a secret meaning which was at -once perplexing and exasperating. The mere fact of a tea-party of which -she knew nothing, in a house so familiar, was startling in the highest -degree. She went up eagerly to Mrs. Morton, with a belligerent gaiety. -‘How kind of you,’ she said, ‘to ask me to your ball, the Colonel and -<i>me</i>! It is very flattering that you should think me the young -person—unless it was all a mistake, as I am obliged to believe.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no mistake,’ said the lady, a little tremulous. ‘I hope you can -come.’</p> - -<p>‘I—come? But you must be laughing at me,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, with a -little burst of gaiety. ‘Of course I go everywhere as Joyce’s chaperon: -but to ask <i>me</i>, at my age, to <i>a dance</i>! My dear Mrs. Morton, you must -think me an old fool.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, indeed, I should have liked to ask—indeed, if it hadn’t been for -what was said,—but I hope, I do hope you will come. I am sure I did not -mean any—any disrespect——’</p> - -<p>‘Disrespect! oh, flattery I call it! to think a dance was just the thing -for me. My step-daughter will be asked to the dinner-parties, I suppose, -now that it is evident the balls are for a young creature like me.’</p> - -<p>This lady, who could not conduct matters with so high a hand as Lady St. -Clair, slid away behind backs, and concealed herself from those severe -yet laughing looks. She had thought it would please Mrs. Hayward to be -the one chosen, while the other was left out. Presently Mrs. Hayward -fell into the hands of the lady of the house, who led her aside a -little. ‘I am so glad,’ said this friendly person, ‘to see you here by -yourself. It is so lucky. Of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span> course I should have asked you to come if -it had not been—many of us, you know, don’t think we would be doing -right if we were to countenance——’</p> - -<p>‘To countenance—what?’ Mrs. Hayward grew pale with astonishment and -wrath.</p> - -<p>‘But I assure you,’ cried this lady, ‘no one blames <i>you</i>. We quite -understand how you have been led to do it to please him and for the sake -of peace. We don’t think one bit the less of you, dear.’</p> - -<p>‘The less—of me!’</p> - -<p>‘Rather the more,’ said the mistress of the house, giving her bewildered -guest a hasty kiss; and then she was hurried off to receive some -new-comers. Mrs. Hayward stood and stared round her for a minute or two, -neglecting several kind advances that were made to her, and then, -without any leave-taking, she walked out of the room and out of the -house. She was in a whirl of anger and astonishment. ‘Don’t blame—me! -don’t think the less—of me!’ This was the most astounding deliverance -that had ever come to Elizabeth’s ear. She was not in the habit of -supposing that any one could think less than the highest of her. The -assertion was the profoundest offence. And what could it mean? What was -the cause?</p> - -<p>Coming down the hill she was met by the Thompsons’ big resplendent -carriage, which stopped as she drew near, and Lady Thompson leant out, -holding forth both hands. ‘Oh, how is the poor dear?’ said Lady -Thompson, beginning to cry: ‘I am sure you ’ave too much heart to -forsake ’er whatever happens. Oh, how is the poor dear?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know whom you mean, Lady Thompson. I never forsake anybody I am -interested in—but I don’t know what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I’m sure you’re a good woman. I’m sure you’re a real lady,’ Lady -Thompson cried.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward walked away from the side of the carriage. Her head seemed -turning round. What did it mean? <i>She?</i> Who was <i>she</i>? Utter perplexity -took possession of her. She was so angry she could scarcely think: and -Lady Thompson, notwithstanding that warm unnecessary expression of -confidence, was, with her blurred eyes and eager tone, almost more -incomprehensible than the rest. She walked quickly home to avoid any -further insinuated confidence, to think it over, to make out what it -meant. Who could tell her what it meant? She saw Mrs. Sitwell at a -little distance, and concluded that she would be the most fit -interpreter;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span> but the parson’s wife saw her too, and quickened her -steps, hurrying away. ‘It is her doing,’ Mrs. Hayward said to herself. -At last she came to her own door. Some one was there before her, -standing in the porch waiting till the door should be opened. He turned -round at the sound of her step, and stood aside to let her pass, holding -out at the same time his hand.</p> - -<p>‘Captain Bellendean! it is a long time since we have seen you.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, a long time. I have been a fool. I mean I have been—busy. I hope -you are all well, Mrs. Hayward. My dear old Colonel, and——’</p> - -<p>‘He is quite well—but I fear you will not find him at home. This is not -his hour for being at home.’ She stood between him and the open door, -barring his passage, as it seemed. It was a way of working off the -disturbance and trouble in her mind.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will let me in,’ he said humbly. ‘It is not a mere call. I -could wait till he came back. I—I have something important to say to -him: and—and—I hope you will let me come in and wait.’</p> - -<p>‘That is a modest prayer. I cannot refuse it,’ she said, leading the -way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Joyce</span> had to come to a resolution at which she herself wondered, in -forlorn helplessness, as if some other being within her had decided upon -it and not she. That she, all shy, shrinking, reticent as she was, with -the limitations of her peasant pride and incapacity for self-revelation, -should attach a last desperate hope to the possibility of enlightenment -from some one else’s judgment, was wonderful to herself. For how could -she lay that tangled question before any one, or unfold her soul? how -could any stranger know what her perplexity was, between the claims of -the old tranquil yet enthusiastic affections of her youth, and the -strange unconfessed dream of absorbing feeling which had swept her soul -of late—between the pledges of her tender ignorance, and the -fulfilments of a life to which fuller knowledge had come? She did not -herself understand how she had come to stand at this terrible -turning-point, or why she should thus be summoned to decide not only her -own fate, but that of others; and how could she explain it to strangers -who knew nothing, neither how she was bound, nor wherein she was free? -And yet there came a longing over her which could not be silenced—to -ask some one—to make a tribunal for herself, and plead her cause before -it, and hear what the oracle would say. Perhaps it was because all her -lights had failed her, and all her faculties contradicted each other, -that this despairing thought suggested itself—to discover an oracle, -and to find out what it would say.</p> - -<p>Of whom could she ask, and who could fill this place to her? Not her -father. Joyce did not say to herself that the good Colonel was not a -wise man, though he was so kind. Had he been the wisest of men, she -would have shrunk from placing her heart unveiled in his hand. For to -the father everything must be said. He is no oracle; he is a sovereign -judge: that was not the help her case required. Her step-mother was more -impossible still. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span> not to him, still less to her, could the girl, so -cruelly wounded, so torn in divers directions, lay open her misery and -difficulty. Not to any one could she lay them open. It was an oracle she -wanted—something to which a half-revelation, an enigmatical confession -would suffice—who would understand before anything was spoken, and give -a deliverance which, perhaps, would be capable of various -interpretations, which should not approach too closely to the facts. -This was what she wanted without knowing what she wanted, with only a -strong longing to have light—light such as was not in her own troubled -self-questionings and thoughts.</p> - -<p>Joyce had not many friends among the people who surrounded Mrs. Hayward -with a flutter of society and social obligations. Indeed Mrs. Hayward -herself had not many friends, and it is doubtful whether she would have -found one to whose judgment she could resort for advice, as Joyce meant -to do. But, the girl was perhaps more discriminating by a natural -instinct as to who was to be trusted—perhaps in her far higher ideality -more trustful. At all events, there were two very different persons to -whom, after much tossing about on the dark sea of her distress, her -thoughts turned. A little light might come from them; she might unfold -herself to them partially, fancifully, leaving them to guess the word of -the enigma, finding some comfort in what they said, even if it should -fall wide of the mark. When Mrs. Hayward set out to pay her visits in -the afternoon, Joyce stole forth almost furtively, though all the world -might have seen her going upon her innocent search after wisdom; but the -world, even as represented in a comparatively innocent suburban place, -would have been at once startled and amused to note at what shrine it -was that Joyce sought wisdom and the teaching of the oracle. She went -not to any of the notable people, not to the clergy, or even to Mrs. -Sitwell, who was supposed to be her friend, and who was known to be so -clever. Joyce did not at all know that the parson’s wife had played her -false, and she had seen more of that lady than of any one else in the -place. But this was not because of any innate sympathy, but because of -the pertinacity with which Mrs. Sitwell had seized upon Joyce as a -useful auxiliary in the carrying out of her own ends—and the girl’s -instinct rejected that artificial bond, and put no faith in the -cleverness which she acknowledged, nor even in the goodness after its -kind, which Joyce’s mind was large enough to acknowledge too. She went -not to Mrs. Sitwell, nor to the parson, Mrs. Sitwell’s husband, but she -threaded through many lanes and devious ways until she came to a door in -a wall with a little bright brass knocker, and a grating, and great -thorny branches<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span> of a bare rose-tree straggling over. Within was a small -neat green garden, and a little house looking out upon it with shining -windows. And within that, coming hastily to the door to meet her, was -Miss Marsham, whom everybody knew to be as good as gold, but nobody -imagined to be wise or instructive in any way. Joyce had come to find -her oracle here.</p> - -<p>The room was small and low, full of old china, old pictures, a little -collection of relics, in the midst of which their gentle mistress, a -mild spirit clad with only as much body as was strictly essential, and -with an old gown constructed on the same principles, with just as much -old and somewhat faded silk as was strictly necessary, appeared in -perfect harmony, the soul of the little dainty place. She received Joyce -with the tenderest welcome, in which there was something more than her -usual kindness, and an anxiety which Joyce, full of her own thoughts, -never perceived. Miss Marsham was ready and prepared to be confided in. -She was prepared for the story of Joyce’s youth, for the revelation of -her peasant parents, and how for their good she had sacrificed herself -to Colonel Hayward’s fancy—ready to understand at half a word, to -condone and to condole, to give praise for the noble motive, the -self-sacrifice, and only gently—very gently—to touch upon the -deception, which the severest critic could not consider to be Joyce’s -fault. She kissed her and said, ‘My dear child, my poor Joyce,’ with a -tender pity which forestalled every explanation. Did she then already -know Joyce’s trouble and sore perplexity? but how was it possible that -she should know?</p> - -<p>‘You must not think I have come just to call,’ Joyce said.</p> - -<p>‘No, dear? but why shouldn’t you come just to call? There will never, -never be any circumstances in which I shall not be glad to have you -come. My dear, circumstances don’t matter at all to me when I know any -one as I know you!’</p> - -<p>Joyce was a little bewildered by this effusion. She said, with a faint -smile, ‘And yet you don’t know me well. I have been here just five -months, and part of that away——’</p> - -<p>‘My love, when you understand a person and love a person, as I do you, -the time does not count by months.’</p> - -<p>‘That is what I feel: and I have nobody—nobody to look to:—you will -say my father, Miss Marsham. He is kind, kind—but oh, I have not been -brought up with him nor used to open my heart,—and in some things he -knows only one language and me another—and besides, if I were to tell -him everything, he would say what I was to do, and I would have to obey. -And Mrs. Hayward with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span> him, they would settle it all,—and I am not used -to it, and I cannot——’</p> - -<p>‘No, Joyce, I understand—it is they who have led you into it—you can’t -ask advice from them.’</p> - -<p>‘They did not lead me into it,’ said Joyce. ‘It was just nature led me -into it, and the perversity of things. Will you ever have noticed in -your life how things go wrong? Nobody means any harm, and all you do is -innocent; and even if you were very prudent and weighed everything -beforehand, there would not be one step that you could say -afterwards—This was wrong. And yet things all turn wrong, and your -heart is broken, and nothing is to blame.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Joyce, words cannot say how sorry I am! There was one thing -perhaps, my dear, a little wrong—for to deceive in any way, even if it -seems to do no harm and is with the best motive—the highest motive, to -help those you love——’</p> - -<p>Joyce sighed softly to herself, no longer asking how Miss Marsham could -know, then shook her head. ‘I wish it had been for that motive; but -there was no love, no love,—I,’ with a sudden blush, ‘did not know what -love meant.’</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham looked up with an exclamation of astonishment on her lips, -but stopped with her mouth open, wondering. Joyce, whose eyes were cast -down, did not see the impulse at all.</p> - -<p>‘He had read a great deal—a great deal,’ said the girl. ‘I have never -met any one—oh, not here nor anywhere—so well instructed. I thought -then that there was nothing so grand as that. He had read a great deal -more than I!—he was my—superior in that. It is true, I always knew all -the time that I was not—what seemed—— But that might never have come -to anything, and besides, I would have thought shame. For I thought that -to know the poets, and all that has been written—that was what made a -gentleman. Oh, I think shame to say such a thing,—it doesn’t—— how -can I say it? It seems there must be something more.’</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham remained silent in simple bewilderment. Joyce was now -talking her own language, which nobody understood.</p> - -<p>‘You may say it was deceiving to let him think I cared for him, but that -was never what I intended. He said at first, it was enough for him to -care for me. Oh, but that is nothing, nothing!’ cried Joyce suddenly, -‘that is only the beginning. Though I cannot keep my word to him, I need -not break it,—that would have been easy. It is far, far worse what is -to come.’</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham took Joyce’s hands into hers. She was lost in amazement, -and felt herself swimming, floating wildly, at sea,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span> among things -altogether strange and incomprehensible. She could not reply, but there -is always sympathy in a pressure of the hands.</p> - -<p>‘There was nothing wrong in meeting another man that was my father’s -friend, that was my dear lady’s son,’ said Joyce, very low; ‘how was I -to know that he and me would see each other different from—common folk? -How was I to know that they had made it up for him to be the love of—of -another girl? And now here I stand,’ she cried, rising up holding out -her hands in piteous explanation, ‘pledged to one, and caring nothing -for him, harming another that but for me would do what was meant for -him, would do—would do well—with a lady bred like himself, born like -himself, not one that had been abandoned like me. Tell me what you would -do if you were me! The lady comes and asks me—she has no right. She -says that I know trouble and sorrow, but Greta never a disappointment, -never a thing that was not happy—and that she’ll break her heart; and -nobody cares for mine. And she says I should keep my word, though she -was the first to say he was not the one for me. And oh, what am I to -do—what am I to do?’</p> - -<p>Joyce sank down again upon the seat, and covered her face with her -hands.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my poor Joyce—my dear Joyce!’ Miss Marsham cried.</p> - -<p>Her head was not very clear at any time—it was apt to get confused with -a very small matter. And Joyce’s story was confusion worse confounded to -the anxious hearer. Even what she thought to be her knowledge of the -circumstances deepened Miss Marsham’s bewilderment. She knew of the man -to whom Joyce was engaged, from whom all the information came; but the -after episode—half told, hurried over, which Joyce had no mind to -explain fully, which she addressed to the oracle—was as a veil thrown -over poor Miss Marsham’s understanding. She knew none of these people; -the name of Greta brought no enlightenment to her, nor did she know who -the lady was, nor who the man was who was mixed up inextricably in this -strange imbroglio. She drew Joyce’s hands from her face, and laid that -hidden face upon her own kind breast, kneeling down to caress and to -soothe the poor girl in her trouble. But what to say or what to do Miss -Marsham knew not. She did not understand the delicate case upon which -her advice was required. And the oracle was mute. There was no response -to give. ‘Oh, my poor child, my dear child, my poor dear love!’ Miss -Marsham cried.</p> - -<p>After a minute Joyce raised her head and looked at her friend in whom -she trusted. She was very pale, her eyes were wet with tears, and looked -large and liquid in caves of trouble,—her mouth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span> quivered a little, -like the mouth of a child when its passion-fit is over, and there was a -pathetic little break in her voice. ‘Tell me,’ she said, with a look -that searched the very soul, ‘tell me what you would do—if you were -me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my pretty Joyce—my poor dear!’</p> - -<p>‘Tell me,’ the girl said, ‘would you break <i>her</i> heart and wound <i>him</i>, -all for yourself? Would you break your word and your pledge that you -gave when you were poor, all for yourself? as if you had to be happy -whatever happened—you! And what right had you to be happy, any more -than Greta—or Greta more than you?’</p> - -<p>The question, heaven knows, was vague enough—but the oracle was no -longer mute. The pilgrim at the shrine had touched the true chord, and -at last the priestess spoke. She had a moment of that ecstasy, of that -semi-trance of mingled reluctance and eagerness, which makes those pause -who have the response of the unseen to give forth to feeble men. Her -gentle eyes lit up, then dimmed again; a brightness came over her faded -face, giving it a momentary gleam of eternal youth, then disappeared. -She trembled a little as she held the votary to her breast.</p> - -<p>‘Oh Joyce! my darling Joyce! I don’t know that I quite understand you, -dear. It is all so mixed up. Things that I have heard and that you tell -me are so different. I don’t know what to think—but if it’s a question -between you and another, which is to take the happiness and let the -other suffer—oh, my child, my dear! do I need to say it to you—do I -need to tell you? Joyce, your heart tells you—it’s like a, b, c, to a -woman. You know——’</p> - -<p>‘I thought,’ said Joyce, with that sob in her throat, following with -intent eyes every little movement of her agitated instructor— ‘I thought -that was what you would say.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said the vestal, the priestess of this new Dodona, ‘it is not in -our will to choose or to change. You can’t leave the heartbreak to -another. You have to take it, though your spirit may cry out and refuse. -I am not wise to give you advice, oh my darling! but I know this, and -every woman knows it. Oh, it isn’t all that do it, I know, for it’s not -an easy thing. But when you have strength from above, you can do it. And -what is more, it is not in your nature to do anything else. So don’t ask -me what I would do. You could not—do—any other thing: being you and -nobody else: Joyce <i>that</i> I know.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Joyce, stumbling, rising to her feet, meeting with a solemn -look the wet and weeping eyes of her oracle, ‘no, not any other thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Not any other thing.’ Miss Marsham would have kept her in her arms, -would have wooed her to further speech, would have wept over her and -caressed her, and expended all the treasures of her heart in soothing -the martyr whom she had thus consecrated. But of this Joyce was not -capable. She had got her oracle, and it was clear. It was what she had -wanted, not advice, but that divine and vague enigma which corresponded -with the enigma of her confession. She resisted gently the softness of -her friend’s clinging embrace. Her eyes were full of the awe of the -victim who consents and accepts, and is restrained by every solemnity of -her religion from any struggle—but who already feels herself to be -outside this world of secondary consolations, face to face with the -awful realities of the sacrifice. ‘Don’t keep me,’ she said faintly, -putting away the thin kind hands that would have held her, ‘I must go—I -must go.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh Joyce,’ cried Miss Marsham, stricken with a secret terror, ‘I hope I -have said right!’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you have said right; it is what I knew. I could not—do—any -other thing. Let me go, Miss Marsham, let me go, for more I cannot -bear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dearest, I hope I have done right! Oh, stay a little and tell me -more! Oh Joyce, God bless you, God bless you, my dear, if you must go!’</p> - -<p>She followed the girl to the little door, so flowery and embowered in -summer, now overshadowed by those straggling bare branches of the -rose-tree, which were good for nothing but to make, had that been -wanted, a sharp garland of thorns. Joyce scarcely turned to answer her -blessings and good-byes, but went on straight from the door as if -hurrying to the place of sacrifice. The thought was folly, Miss Marsham -said to herself, and yet it went with a chill to her heart and would not -be chased away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">You</span> could not do—any other thing. If there could be a proof of the -divinity of the oracle it was this. It addressed that something within -which is more than any external hearing. ‘When thou wast under the -fig-tree.’ Who could tell what was in the spirit in secret but the -perfect Teacher, who saw all? Joyce received in something of the same -way the utterance which had been given in such darkness on the part of -its exponent, as is the way of oracles. She felt that it was the true -and only revelation. She hurried along in the wintry twilight, her head -bent down, avoiding the cold night wind; her heart beating loudly; her -eyes hot and suffused with scalding tears, which did not fall; her feet -cold, stumbling over every little stone. The certainty which had -replaced her doubts and conflicts of mind was scarcely less confusing -than they: it did not inspire her as in the procession to the place of -sacrifice. Ah! had she to do that boldly in the face of man for a great -cause, Joyce knew how high she could have carried her head, and marched -with what steady force and triumph. But the way was dark and tortuous, -and full of fears,—the wind in her face so cold, the sensation in her -heart so full of misery. The oracle had spoken right. It had been what -she wanted. It had made her see clearly, driving from her eyes those -films of weakness that come up upon the wind and obscure the vision, -even when it is most clear. She remembered now that there never could -have been any doubt, that she was even pledged to that sole course. Had -she not said, ‘I will do as you wish?’ and had not she been blessed and -thanked for her resolution? and yet it had failed, and she had sought -the oracle—to have it confirmed, as it was right it should be.</p> - -<p>Ah! but the oracle is pitiless too. It has no regard for the weakness -of—common folk. Joyce was one who had held her head very high, who -never in her consciousness had been one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span> common folk. But now, in -her despair, consenting to the sacrifice demanded of her, yet with -partial revulsions of her mind against it, she took refuge in that -common strain of humanity. Those oracles which spoke out of the veiled -heights, from which the votaries with bleeding hearts, all torn with -special wounds, received such stern and abstract answers—they were -right, but they were remorseless. They took nothing into consideration, -not the weakness of the victim, nor that bewildering way in which, -though cleared off for a moment, doubts and mists would rise again, -obscuring, confusing the most certain truth. They had no pity. The -devotee, indeed, went to them only for that—to have the support of a -certain reply, to hear what, beyond all control of circumstances, was -just and right. And for a moment there would be a great calm after the -reply had come. But then there would start into the aching heart this -complaint: It was remorseless that reply, there was no pity in it. You -could not—do any other thing. It was true, true! and yet there were so -many other things that could be done; and it was hard, hard for flesh -and blood to conform to that pitiless abstract law: it had no regard for -the weakness of—common folk. And what was Joyce, after all, but a girl -like another?—very little different from Greta, who had to be shielded -from trouble: just like the rest—young, fragile, like the girls whom -everybody took care of. Oh, the oracle was hard! it had no pity. It -never took into account how much or how little a girl could bear!</p> - -<p>This murmur in the heart growing louder as she went on, with strange -additions and exasperations from the cold, and the dark, and the -physical discomfort around, at last roused Joyce to a kind of despairing -rebellion. After you have made your <i>sortes</i> and read your fate, does it -ever happen that you do not try, or wish to try, another time? Open the -book again—be it Virgil, be it the Bible, be it anything, at haphazard, -from which superstition or fancy can take a fancied guidance. Try the -oracle again. It was the suggestion of despair. But Joyce had always -thought of two from whom she might seek the direction she could no -longer give herself. She reminded herself now, stopping in her hurried -walk towards home, saying with natural sophistry that her consultation -of fate was incomplete, that she had always meant the trial to be -double. She had always intended it. She had meant to lay her case before -him too. He was very unlike the other—the priestess, the vestal, whose -decisions Joyce felt in her despair no one could have doubted for a -moment. He was very, very different. It was only just that he too should -give his verdict. They were the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span> sides which ought to stand in every -question, which see the matter from different points, which balance and -temper each other. Joyce’s heart beat very high; the blood again began -to run warm in her veins, reaching her feet, her hands, which were so -cold. She turned and hastened back to the rectory, which she had passed.</p> - -<p>It was dark by this time, and the lamps were being lighted, coming into -life one by one along the darkling way. And the house was half dark, the -lights dazzling her in the hall, while there was nothing but soft -firelight in the drawing-room, which she passed hastily, telling the -servant that it was the Canon she came to see. The Canon was seated at -his table writing, or pretending to himself to write, his sermon. He -bounded up from his seat with a violent convulsion through all the -house, making the windows ring and the boards creak, and the very walls -shake, when with some difficulty he realised who his visitor was. -‘Joyce!’ he cried, with a roll of mild thunder in his voice, and took -her by the hand and placed her in a chair. He was much astonished by her -visit, yet felt that he knew what had brought her here. The poor girl -had heard what was being said about her, and she had come perhaps to -confess, if there was anything in that story, that she was a mere -foundling, and not Hayward’s daughter (but the Canon knew there was -nothing in that)—perhaps to ask him for his help, for his advice. And -he was pleased beforehand, before she opened her mouth, that she should -come to him—not to that man at St. Augustine’s, though she had been so -much with those Sitwells, but to himself, a much better guide, whom she -had said she liked best. Jealousies do not exist between man and man, we -know, as they do between woman and woman—and especially not between -clergyman and clergyman—but yet the Canon was pleased that it was to -him Joyce had come.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, ‘here you are, and I’m delighted to see you. It is not -often you go about paying visits, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘never.’ The shock of finding herself here, opposite -to him, in the place of a penitent, come to tell her tale, brought the -colour to Joyce’s face. She gave him one look, and then turned her eyes -away. He was very, very different from Miss Marsham. To sit there and -tell him everything struck Joyce as impossible. She had never intended -to tell everything. She had meant that the oracle should half divine, -should understand before she spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Come,’ he said, ‘don’t lose courage now you are here. You’ve come to -tell me all about it, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>Joyce only looked at him again, her eyes enlarged with alarm and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span> -terror, wondering after all, she who desired to be understood without -speaking, what and how he knew. She said under her breath, her eyes -being the chief speakers, the words seeming nothing, ‘I want you to tell -me what to do.’</p> - -<p>‘You want me——? What are you saying, Joyce? Come, you are not afraid -of me. I’m your father’s old friend, you know. I don’t believe any of -that nonsense, and I’m your friend against the world, my dear. Come, -speak out, don’t be afraid of me.’</p> - -<p>He drew his chair nearer hers, once more making the house quiver, and -laying his hand upon her shoulder, patted it encouragingly. ‘Come, -Joyce, be a man,’ the Canon said, with the little tremble of a laugh in -his big voice.</p> - -<p>Joyce answered him only with her eyes. They seemed to grow bigger and -bigger in her pale face, telling him a hundred things; but she could not -find her voice. She had meant to tell him as much at least as she had -told Miss Marsham; but when she found herself before him, a man, with -that confused story of hers which was not for a man’s ears, Joyce was -struck dumb. She made an effort to say something, but failed again. He -kept his hand on her shoulder patting it, encouraging her as if she had -been a child, ‘Come, Joyce, tell me all about it. You are not afraid of -me.’</p> - -<p>Her voice burst forth suddenly, as if she had forced it, or rather as if -it had forced an outlet for itself from some place where it had been -pent up. ‘Oh, sir!’ Joyce cried, ‘I cannot speak; but tell me one -thing,—if there are two and one must suffer, and you are one of -them—must you never make a question, but consent and accept that it -shall be you?’</p> - -<p>The Canon was altogether taken by surprise. The burst of the voice, -hoarse at first, afterwards clearing and quickening in its passionate -strain, the question that had nothing to do with what he had expected to -hear, but was an abstract question, startled him beyond expression. -‘Why, Joyce, Joyce—what is this?’ he said.</p> - -<p>She turned to him, growing bolder. ‘If you are one of two, and one of -them must break her heart—and you are the one that is used to that, and -the other has known no trouble. Do not ask me what I mean,’ said Joyce, -‘but oh, you that are a minister, you that have to guide those that are -wandering and lost, tell me! They say that it is like a, b, c, and every -woman knows; but you are not a woman, you are a man. You will not be -carried away by feeling as they are. You will be more just. You will -know.’</p> - -<p>‘My poor child,’ said the Canon. He too, like Miss Marsham, took her -hand, in utter failure of any other way to help her, and held it, -patting it softly between his. ‘Joyce,’ he said, ‘my dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span> you’re right. -I am only a man, I can’t divine what you mean unless you tell me. As far -as I can make out, somebody has been talking nonsense to you. What is -this a, b, c, that every woman knows? If you’ll believe me, Joyce, a -woman is just like a man so far as duty goes. There’s no law for one -more than the other. Tell me what it is, seriously, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>She looked up at him once more and opened her lips to speak; but again -the impossibility of telling that tale to him closed her lips. Joyce was -nearly in despair, and she had a clinging to him as to her friend, one -who would help her if he could, one who knew many things and might -understand. But when she looked up at the Canon’s middle-aged -countenance and at his large prosperous person, and the capacious round -of his black silk waistcoat, and the air about him of a man who had -everything and abounded, her courage and confidence failed her. She was -dumb. To tell her youthful trouble to him, all mixed up as it was with -love and lovers and trifling things, though so great to her, a matter of -life and death—to him, who would be moved by none of these matters—how -could she do it? She drew a long breath, which ended in something like a -sob— ‘It is—it is a case of conscience,’ she said, with her wistful -eyes fixed upon him, making revelations which he could not understand.</p> - -<p>‘A case of conscience!’ he said; ‘this is one of your evasions not to -speak out. You’re like other women, Joyce, which is no shame to you; you -would like me to be at all the expense of the talk, my dear, and give -you my advice without any knowledge of the circumstances. Let us see -what premisses we’ve got. If I were one of two and knew that one must -suffer, would I take it upon me without question that the sufferer must -be I—is that what you call the a, b, c, that every woman knows? A great -many women are fools, my dear, but not such fools as that. No, Joyce! I -should take up no such idea. I should say, let him suffer who deserved -it, who had brought it on himself.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Joyce very low. ‘She has not done that: we are not -ill-deserving—it’s no—no wrong—oh, neither her nor me!’</p> - -<p>‘It is something between two women,’ said the clear-sighted Canon. ‘It -is love then, and there is a man in the question too.’</p> - -<p>She made him no reply; but she turned away her face from him, and the -Canon saw the colour rise like a fire over her cheek from throat to -brow.</p> - -<p>‘And somebody has put it into your head that the easy way out of it—the -fairest way—is to sacrifice yourself? It was a woman that said that, -and told you it was the a, b, c. I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span>n’t wonder if it was that old -fool Cissy Marsham, it would be just like her. Now, Joyce listen to -me——’</p> - -<p>‘She is not a fool,’ said Joyce, turning her face to him again.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t tell me! She’s worth a dozen of any of us, but she may be a fool -for all that. Now listen to me, Joyce. I say no: do you hear? There’s no -a, b, c, but plain right and wrong. As for self-sacrifice, in the -majority of cases it’s a mere silly, idiotic, if not horrible, mistake. -Generally it does good to nobody. You fling your own happiness away, and -you don’t secure any one else’s. My dear girl, to consider other people -first is in some cases not only uncalled for but wrong.’</p> - -<p>Joyce had kept her eyes fixed upon his face. At this there came over -hers a faint smile, and she softly shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘She doesn’t believe me,’ said the Canon,—‘none of them do; on this -point good women are all fools, and the better they are the greater -fools they are. God bless my soul!—who made you your brother’s keeper? -How do you know what’s best for him? Who gave you the right to humiliate -him by sacrificing yourself to him—or her? what does it matter? it’s -all the same, him or her. I tell you,’ cried the Canon, jumping up -suddenly, walking round to the fireplace, and standing up against the -glow of the fire, his large person rising like a mountain, flinging over -Joyce a great shadow, ‘women like Cissy Marsham are a pest, they’re a -plague in the place, with their a, b, c, and their creed for a woman. -Nonsense, my dear! that’s all nonsense, my dear! What’s law for a man is -law for a woman. There’s no other. Don’t break anybody’s heart if you -can help it; but in the name of common-sense, go your own way and take -what God gives you, and have the courage to be happy if He puts -happiness into your hands!’ The Canon puffed out a hot breath of -impatience, and shook himself in his easy large garments as if to settle -them all into their places, shaking the house at the same time and -making everything ring—‘whatever Cissy Marsham may say, the old fool, -God bless her!’ he cried, with a laugh, throwing himself down again into -a big easy-chair.</p> - -<p>But Joyce made no reply. It is in the nature of an oracle to divine what -is congenial to the nature of the devotee—to give a deliverance which, -however confusing, will have something in it which will carry out its -natural tendencies, and agree with his inner sense. But to Joyce this -voice brought no such message. To be bidden to be happy was no part of -her requirements. She did not understand what happiness in the abstract -was. According to her austere peasant training, it was so far from being -the object<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span> of life, that to seek it was an unworthy and undignified, -even wrong thing. She had been happy all her life without knowing; but -to look for happiness, to seek it, to make it the object of every -exertion, was incompatible with all the rules of life which she knew. -‘Happy! you will just do your work and your duty, and be thankful for -what the Lord sends ye,’ Janet Matheson would have said. What the Canon -said was not very different: ‘Go your own way and take what God gives.’ -But the meaning was different; oh, the meaning was different! Don’t -break anybody’s heart if you can help it; but if you do, never -mind—have the courage to be happy all the same. This oracle spoke too -loudly, too plainly, with too distinct a note. It found no echo in her -heart. It was not the guidance for which she craved.</p> - -<p>The Canon saw perhaps that he had not been successful. He tried to draw -her into conversation of a less momentous kind. ‘I hear you’ve had some -visitors from your old home, Joyce. I fear they’ve been injudicious -visitors, talking a great deal of nonsense; but I hope they brought you -good news at least of your people—old people, weren’t they, that -brought you up? I’m ready to give them a certificate of success in that -line,’ the Canon added in his fine bass, which lent itself very tenderly -to these paternal words, and with a pleasant laugh.</p> - -<p>Joyce looked up at him with a startled glance. She had, indeed, put no -question to Andrew as to the beloved old people. There had not been a -word about them, or any other question of life—nothing but his claim, -and her resistance yet acknowledgment, and all the confused miserable -discussions. She seemed to fall into a slough of despond, the miry pit -and the horrible clay of the Scriptures, when her heart went back, sick, -to that visit. Ah! she thought, had that been all—had there been -nothing but Andrew! But with the instinct of her natural reticence she -only replied, ‘They are well—they always write that they are well.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s good.’ Dr. Jenkinson meant to take advantage of the opportunity -to ask further questions, to elicit, if he could, something of the true -story upon which Mrs. Sitwell had built her romance; but when he looked -at Joyce’s pale and musing face, and saw that the girl could scarcely -withdraw herself from the consideration of her perplexity, whatever it -was, to answer him, and that she had no attention to give to other -matters, his heart smote him. He could not question her, force her out -of herself, to satisfy his curiosity. He said nothing more for a whole -minute; but the silence did not frighten Joyce, nor force her to speak. -She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span> sat lost in her own problem, to which he felt his energetic counsel -had brought no light. The Canon had been impatient; he had thought it -best to crush these foolish womanish thoughts on the threshold of her -mind; but he had not succeeded. What he had said had been a -disappointment and confusion only—no enlightenment to Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Come,’ he said, ‘we can’t sit silent like this and look at the fire. -When you and me get together we want to talk, Joyce. Give me some of -your opinions. You’re not satisfied with mine, I can see.’</p> - -<p>She looked up at him without any smile and shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Out with it!’ cried the Canon. ‘We always do have a little fight. Let -me hear where I am wrong. That’s the worst of your Saint Cissy, and -other such. They don’t say a word for themselves, they’re only meekly -obstinate after the manner of saints. Come! out with it, Joyce!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said Joyce, ‘I cannot speak! My heart says no to you, but I cannot -give a reason—it’s because it’s far too serious. I thought of her and -of you, that are so different, that might give me a light where all is -dark—but I can give no reason. I must just go on till the moment, and -then do—what is put into my heart.’</p> - -<p>‘My poor child!’ cried the Canon, alarmed, ‘can’t you tell me what is -wrong? Do nothing rash, whatever it is—do nothing that can’t be undone. -Joyce, I am afraid of you. You are not like the rest of them: never mind -any nonsense I have said, but tell me, tell me sincerely, what is wrong. -Don’t shake your head. You have come to consult me of your own free -will—tell me what it is——’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot,’ she said piteously; ‘I cannot!—oh, I would if I could: it’s -maybe nothing at all—I cannot speak. It’s—it’s love that is stronger -than death,’ cried the girl, ‘and love that is nothing, that is but -fancy, and a dream—— I’ll think nothing more of it. I’ll think -nothing! The moment may never come, and if it comes, no one can help me. -I must do—what is in my heart——’</p> - -<p>The Canon drew his chair in front of her with a look that was more -searching than his questions, and which she could not support save for a -second. ‘Mind what I say, Joyce. Nobody made you your brother’s keeper. -If it’s beautiful to make a sacrifice, as you women think, it’s shameful -to accept one. Remember that. You’ve no right to put a shame and -humiliation upon another. It’s a humiliation—you would yourself refuse -it and scorn it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span> Joyce, whatever you may be tempted to do, remember -what I say——’</p> - -<p>She tried to speak, struggling with tears. ‘The greatest of all—was a -sacrifice, a sacrifice——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush!’ he said imperatively. ‘When there is One to be found in His -conditions there need be no discussion. And that one man should die for -the people, I allow—and that you should die physically rather than let -another die, if it is in your heart to do it, that I allow. But that you -should make yourself the judge in other circumstances, and shame another -by suffering for him when you know neither his heart, nor what is best -for him, nor anything but your own wild enthusiasm—that I forbid, -Joyce. I forbid it, being your priest, to whom you have come for light.’</p> - -<p>Joyce raised her wistful eyes, which were wet with tears hanging on the -lashes. But she shook her head. She was a little Presbyterian, as he had -said. Perhaps the name of the priest lessened instead of strengthening -his power.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Captain Bellendean</span> followed Mrs. Hayward into the house. It was -unusually silent, no one stirring, not even a dog. The air was very warm -and soft inside, the fire having the room to itself, and burning in a -quiet genial way to keep itself company, with a clear red glow that -lighted up everything. The tea-table stood untouched—the curtains drawn -a little more than usual over the sides of the windows to keep out the -cold, and making a still earlier twilight than that outside. The -emptiness and silence and vacancy of that warm and luxurious room, so -softly carpeted, curtained, cushioned, so evidently expectant of -inhabitation, with all its certain signs and marks of habitual tenancy, -yet all empty and silent, were more impressive almost than the emptiness -of real abandonment. Mrs. Hayward opened the door of the room for her -visitor, and bade him go in while she herself looked for the others. -‘I’ll see if they are in,’ she said; and her heart gave a little jump of -expectation as she said it. If she had found Joyce, she would have sent -the girl into the drawing-room, while she herself took off her ‘things’ -in the most leisurely way upstairs; and she would not have pursued her -researches with any idea of finding the Colonel. It annoyed her very -much to find Joyce’s room empty, and no trace of her visible. She went -over every room where her step-daughter could be before she gave up the -search, asking the maids, and finally Baker, though she had no desire to -take that personage into her confidence. Colonel Hayward’s lamp was -already burning in the library. It was his hour for reading the rest of -the paper left unfinished in the morning, and sometimes for a doze; but -Joyce was not there.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Hayward have gone out, ma’am,’ Baker said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, has she? I had something to say to her. (She would not have Baker -think that it was because of Captain Bellendea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span>n’s visit that she wanted -Joyce.) Ask her to come to me in the drawing-room the moment she comes -in.’</p> - -<p>‘I will, ma’am,’ said Baker, with stolid gravity; but he chuckled when -his mistress, much put out, turned towards the drawing-room door. <i>He</i> -knew very well why Joyce was so urgently wanted. ‘He ’ave come up to the -scratch at last,’ Baker said to himself.</p> - -<p>Captain Bellendean stood by himself upon the Persian rug before the -fire. He was in a very restless mood. There was something in this warm, -soft afternoon atmosphere, the sense of domestic calm, the composure of -settled life, which was like an insufficient opiate, exciting instead of -calming. He was not in a comfortable or happy state of mind. The last -time he had been here he was at the height of warm and spontaneous love, -bewitched by the presence of the girl who had transported him out of all -his bachelor reluctances and defences. This is perhaps a strange way in -which to speak of the lover. It is the woman who is supposed to defend -herself, to hold back with reluctance, either real or assumed. However, -it is one of the enlightenments of our age to recognise that there are -two sides to that question. Norman Bellendean had not made up his mind -to marry when he took possession of his estate. He did not want even to -take possession of his estate; he would have preferred that his father -should have held it in his place a few years longer, until he felt more -disposed to settle down. But that had not suited Mr. Bellendean’s ideas -or plans: and Norman, fresh from India, and with a natural desire after -the pleasant experiences of a rich young man’s untrammelled career at -home, found himself at once introduced into the responsibilities of an -estate and the bondage of a conspicuous position much against his will. -But he had set his face against the natural results. He knew that it was -expected of him that he should marry and ‘settle down.’ He had an idea -even that his neighbours had kindly selected for him a certain number of -eligible young ladies among whom he would be expected to make his -choice. To be sure nobody could force him to make any such choice. He -was free as the air to choose elsewhere, or not to choose at all. But -the consciousness that this was what was expected of him chafed the -young man. He was coy at first like a girl, on his defence, yet -sometimes, with laughter and shame, became conscious of his own little -coquetries, and felt how ludicrous was the situation altogether. And -then he fled to town, to the excitements of the season, to take his -share, for the first time, in that whirl and hurry of entertainment and -assembling together which we call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span> society. And then—but this was the -thing unaccountable in the midst of so many things which he saw through -and understood—he fell in love; and before he knew, was on the eve of -asking to share his fortunes, and to ‘settle down’ with him at -Bellendean, the girl who had been, a few months before, the village -schoolmistress there.</p> - -<p>Norman had fallen in love honestly, spontaneously, without any -preparation or <i>arrière-pensée</i>. He had neither said to himself that -this was the one woman for him, or that she was altogether out of the -question for him being what she was. Before he had begun to suspect it, -the thing was done. He had thought it was the river, the rowing, the -greater simplicity and freedom of the merry party, something in the -summer air that was itself delicious as an escape out of London, before -he found out that it was Joyce. He had indeed just found out that it was -Joyce on the last occasion, when he walked with her home from the -garden-party at Sir Sam’s. He had found it out, and in the rush and -flood of feeling had told her—he scarcely knew what. He tried to -recollect after what he had said, and he could not. He knew that she had -not responded; that she had kept him at arm’s-length; and that when he -had rushed away, unable to bear the constraint of other people’s society -while it was she—she only—whom he wanted, he had said he would come -back. The recollection was all confused, disturbed, made uncertain even -by excessive thinking over and attempts to remember every detail. And -then he had been called away, and it was not possible for him to go -back; and then cold afterthought had seized upon him in his heat of -love. She had made no reply—what she had said had been ‘No,’ though he -did not believe that she had meant the final ‘No’ which would annihilate -all his pretensions. He had known that she did not mean that: he had -seen in her something of the flood of feeling which had overwhelmed -himself. He had gone up to town with his heart throbbing and his head -swimming, in anticipation of what would happen when he went back. That -was not how a man felt when he expected the ‘No’ which would make an end -of all.</p> - -<p>But he did not come back—for the moment could not, being called back to -Bellendean; and then—did not. Why? Because of the chill of the -afterthought which took possession of him; because he remembered, not -immediately but after a time, who Joyce was. She was his old Colonel’s -daughter, it was true, who was a match for any gentleman. Yes, a match -for any gentleman. Colonel Hayward’s daughter, a distinguished soldier, -a man who was as good as the best. Under royalty, Colonel Haywar<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span>d’s -daughter might have married any one—no man daring to have said that it -was a <i>mésalliance</i>. But then at Bellendean she was the village -schoolmistress. Nobody knew much about Colonel Hayward, though they had -all heard the story; but everybody knew Joyce. He was aware, for he had -heard it talked of, that for Joyce herself it was hard to throw off the -habits of her previous existence; and that she was wounded even when -told that she must no longer say Miss Greta, and must submit to be -treated on a footing of equality by the lady to whom she had looked up. -He remembered all this with an acute sense of pain, when he had time to -think. That his wife should still have these instincts of inferiority; -that she should wish to say Miss Greta; that she should look up to his -step-mother as to a being of a superior kind—he grew hot and red at the -thought. His wife! It was impossible—it could not be.</p> - -<p>These thoughts chilled him to his very heart, and stopped the flood of -love which was carrying him away. And many other thoughts came in to add -to them. Norman himself was not well known in his county. There was a -slight feeling against him as a man who had (though quite innocently on -his part) supplanted his own father. He wanted a wife who should be -unquestionable, who should be popular—able to help him to the full -acquisition of his proper standing in the place. And if he were to bring -home to be the mistress of Bellendean a girl whom everybody knew indeed, -but knew as Joyce the schoolmistress!—his heart sank within him at that -thought, which was suggested by several concurring things; by his -step-mother, who, without mentioning Joyce, had laid the state of -affairs very clearly before him, and by other incidental remarks and -occurrences which supported her view. All these things disturbed his -mind greatly. And he had occupations, perhaps arranged for the purpose, -to keep him at home. And Greta’s home was at hand, where there was -always a sympathetic listener for everything he wanted to say. He did -not speak to Greta of Joyce, but Greta spoke of her freely, always with -love and admiration, which soothed him, yet at the same time diverted -his thoughts a little in affectionate gratitude and approval of this -generous little creature, who combined everything that was most -desirable in a wife, just as Joyce combined everything that was least -desirable. And then there were the poor couple in the village, whom -Norman went religiously to see at first, to tell them about their lost -child; then with a hunger of the heart that could not be satisfied, to -talk about her. He never asked himself how he would like to have this -old couple, so excellent, so blameless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span>—worthy of all respect, and more -than respect—at Bellendean, calling its mistress J’yce, and weeping -over her; but the thought, of which he was ashamed, shot across his mind -like lightning every time he heard their name.</p> - -<p>These things worked in his mind and made him miserable. His step-mother -talked to him of marrying, and of the necessity of making a wise choice -to establish his position; and Greta met him at every corner—either he -was invited to her father’s house, or she came to see her dear aunt -Margaret. The girl was entirely innocent of any conspiracy in the -matter; but Norman was her hero, and it was scarcely possible for her to -conceal her interest in him—her joy when he came, her regret when he -went away. It was not difficult for him to discover that in everybody’s -opinion Greta was the fittest of wives for him. He could not shut his -eyes to the fact that it was so. If he had never seen Joyce, if he had -never entered that enchanted country in which she dwelt, never floated -on that magic river, never strayed in that garden of dreams—never met -and parted—then Greta would have been his bride. She would have come to -Bellendean so naturally and simply, with such a carrying out of all good -wishes for its new lord, that the marriage would have been pronounced by -all to be one of those made in heaven.</p> - -<p>But now another image had come in. Sometimes he would wish in his -distress that it had never done so—that he had never seen her: but that -did not change the fact that she had come in and changed everything. The -conflict had grown harder every day. Then he had gone to the Highlands, -to the moors, and there the struggle took another form. His demon, his -other self, who maintained the controversy with him, began to put it -before Norman that he had ‘behaved badly’ to Joyce. Perhaps—we know so -little about these demons or dæmons, who are continually interfering in -our affairs, making and meddling, and have so little light as to their -motives—perhaps that most secret of companions meant to deter him by -the shame of that bad behaviour from going near Joyce again. But if so, -he calculated without his host. For Norman, in a blaze of shame and -self-indignation which drove him like a fiery wind, hurried straight off -to London, on the spot, to see Joyce instantly and put himself right.</p> - -<p>It was in this mood that he arrived, and found himself in the familiar -scene of his summer romance, under grey twilight skies, and in the cosy -empty room, lighted with the red firelight, silent, comfortable, full of -the poetry of domestic life, which is different from the poetry of the -river and the garden. He knew that Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span> Hayward had gone to look for -Joyce, and that she would not come back to disturb the <i>tête-à-tête</i>, -but would leave them together, as mothers seemed to do, with an instinct -of what is coming. He would rather have met Joyce unawares without any -warning, without any possibility of a concerted meeting of which the -parents should be in the secret. It annoyed him to think that she would -be warned, that along with the sudden intimation that he was there, -there would be a word of advice or at least a look, to show her what was -expected of her. This added to his restlessness as he stood before the -red glow of the fire changing from one foot to the other, anxious, -impatient, yet feeling that the chill fit, the mental ague which -alternated with the fever, might be on its way. He heard little -movements in the house—some one walking overhead—some one running -upstairs—a voice sounding faintly calling some one. Was Joyce reluctant -then to come? Was she angry with him for not returning sooner? Was she -displeased with the warning given her, and unwilling to come down to him -in the empty drawing-room while everybody knew what must take place -there? It would be like her to refuse. It would be what he should expect -of her; but in what a position would it place <i>him!</i>—a lover understood -yet undeclared, whose object was unmistakable, yet who was not to be -allowed to carry it out. His heart began to beat, partly with anger, -partly with suspense, partly with love. Would not she come? He was so -impatient that he could have seized her and shaken her in exasperation -and excitement; and yet he could not but grumble in his moustache, that -by Jove she was right, and that it was just what he would have expected -of Joyce.</p> - -<p>Presently, however, the sounds outside became more audible, and he made -out that it was the Colonel’s step which was coming towards the -drawing-room. ‘Captain Bellendean!’ Colonel Hayward was saying; ‘why -didn’t you bring him to the library? Why, Norman, my fine fellow! how do -you do?—I’m delighted to see you; but why that ass should have sent you -in here in the dark—I can’t see you a bit—is more than any mortal -could divine—when he knew the ladies were out, and I was sitting by -myself.’</p> - -<p>‘I came in with Mrs. Hayward. I assure you it wasn’t the man’s fault.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well, if Elizabeth knows. She’ll be down immediately, no doubt. -Bring us some light, Baker. Yes, yes, the firelight is very pretty, but -I always like to see to talk. Come up about business, Bellendean?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Norman, with a little hesitation. ‘I may say it is business, -though not quite what is usually called by that name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘I thought so. Nothing else would bring one of you young fellows to town -at this time of the year. Tell your mistress, Baker, we are waiting for -her to give us some tea. Mrs. Bellendean was here yesterday to bid us -good-bye; or perhaps I should say to bid good-bye to Joyce: for I think -we came a long way after Joyce in her estimation, my wife and I.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope,’ said Bellendean, with a catch in his breath, ‘that Miss -Hayward—is quite well.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, she is very well. I have thought sometimes that this air didn’t -suit her—it’s a great change from the North. It gave me great pleasure, -however, to find, when we were talking the other day, that she likes it -on the whole. She has a wonderfully pretty way of expressing herself. I -should like to tell you a thing she said to me. I was questioning her on -this subject, anxious to get her true sentiments. And she said, “You are -my home, father."—Eh, don’t you think it was pretty? Well, I’m an old -fool—it brought the water to my eyes. Hush, here’s Elizabeth; she says -I am like a child with a new toy. I bore everybody with my stories of -Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘It would not be easy to bore me—on that subject.’</p> - -<p>These last words were drowned by the entrance of Mrs. Hayward. She had -taken off her things, leaving it to her husband to entertain the -visitor. Joyce’s absence annoyed her exceedingly. It was quite unusual, -and seemed a sort of climax of misfortune—or perversity: perversity was -the view to which Mrs. Hayward inclined.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what can have become of Joyce,’ she said, after she had -poured out tea for the gentlemen. ‘She is never out at this hour. It is -getting dark, too late for her to be out.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you anxious, my dear?’ cried the Colonel, rising. ‘Bless me! it is -always you who think of everything. I’ll go at once and bring her home.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense, Henry!—there is nothing to be anxious about. She has stayed -somewhere for tea. Last time we saw you, Captain Bellendean, you -expected to return to town—earlier than this. I suppose you had still a -good deal to arrange before your father and Mrs. Bellendean left you to -your own devices?’</p> - -<p>‘I have been very busy,’ said Bellendean in a subdued tone, which the -Colonel did not understand.</p> - -<p>‘He has come up about business now,’ said Colonel Hayward; ‘and very -dull you will find it, Bellendean, I don’t doubt, though I am told that -more people come to London at this time of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span> year than used to do so. -You must run down as often as you can and look us up—as you did in -summer, you know——’</p> - -<p>‘Summer and winter are two very different things,’ said Mrs. Hayward; -‘and Captain Bellendean feels that, Henry. In summer there’s the river, -you know, and—other things.’</p> - -<p>‘The other things,’ said Norman with an effort, ‘last all the year -through; and they are more important even than the river.’</p> - -<p>Captain Bellendean was very ill at ease. He had not thought of these -surroundings at all, nor of any questions that might be put to him on -the subject of his long delay, nor of anything indeed but Joyce. It had -been comparatively easy in the outdoor summer life to secure an -interview with her. Now as he looked round him, and saw Mrs. Hayward -seat herself in her habitual chair by her habitual table, with that air -of settled and permanent possession which the mistress of a house has in -her own corner, and the Colonel thrown back in a larger chair on the -other side, a sense of being surrounded and shut in came upon him. Joyce -was not here, which took all the meaning out of his coming; but if she -had been here between this pair to whom she belonged, what could he have -said to her? Colonel Hayward’s daughter surrounded by all the -fortifications of life was a different thing from Joyce,—the girl whom -to love and seek was a sort of social crime. There was no question here -of a tremendous social downfall, of the <i>mésalliance</i> and mistake -against which he had been warned. He had fully understood that side of -the question, and it had chilled him even in his heat of love. Now the -tables were turned; it was he who was suspected and disapproved of, and -from whom the parents were defending their daughter. This unexpected -drawback chilled him still more.</p> - -<p>Norman sat for a long time in that exceedingly comfortable, warm, -beautifully furnished room, with his old Colonel, for whom he had the -greatest respect, and the Colonel’s commander, the much-famed Elizabeth, -over whose name he had jested, but of whose personality he had always -been a little afraid. He sat and made conversation, or rather listened -to that which went on across him, growing more and more embarrassed and -uncomfortable. He seemed to hear doors opening and closing all over the -house, but Joyce never appeared; and footsteps in the hall and on the -stairs, but no sign of her coming. His head began to get confused with -the contrariety and annoyance. Fate and Mrs. Hayward seemed to have -joined the conspiracy against him, in which everybody was at -Bellendean—and, as he now blushed to think, he had not expected any -contrariety here. He had thought—coxcomb that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span> was!—that here he -would be master of the situation. He had thought he knew that Joyce -would not say him nay. The shy glance, the rising colour, even the -startled opposition to his half-spoken love-making on their last -interview, had given him an assurance that Joyce was not indifferent. -But even this assurance came back upon him with a keen sense of shame -and wounded vanity. He had been a fool. How could he tell what she would -say to him, while here were the father and mother talking, perhaps -keeping her out of sight, at least securing that even if she came -nothing could be said? And she did not come—though it seemed to Captain -Bellendean that hours had elapsed since he entered the drawing-room in -the firelight, and imagined to himself the little comedy, the mother -seeking the daughter, hurrying her downstairs and into the arms of the -waiting lover. He realised with the most stinging shame that he had -imagined that—though the reality was so different, so ludicrously -different, he tried to say with a laugh at himself—so painfully -different, as he felt in his heart.</p> - -<p>After a long time he rose. ‘I am afraid it is getting late. I must not -lose—the next train. I have—something to do in town,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Go! without your dinner!’ said the Colonel, in his cheerful ignorance. -‘No, no, you must not think of that. And Joyce would be disappointed not -to see you. Tell him, my dear, he must stay to dinner at least. We don’t -let old friends go like this.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I must go,’ said Norman, with the stony air of a departing -Englishman, always uneasy lest he should be made to change his -resolution. He was offended, wounded, shamed by the difference between -the reality and his imagination. ‘I—have a great deal to do in -town—and the little time——’</p> - -<p>‘Then you are leaving again soon?’ Mrs. Hayward said. She had risen from -her chair at once as if to give him no excuse for changing his mind; -though that was not what she meant.</p> - -<p>‘But we must see him again, Elizabeth. No, no, I’ll take no denial. Why, -Joyce will be distressed not to see you. You must come another day and -stay to dinner. It is a long time since we have had a good talk,’ cried -the Colonel. ‘I want to hear all your plans. Come, come, Bellendean, -there’s no getting off it. You must come another day.’</p> - -<p>He was turned all the wrong way. He had come with great strain of -purpose, feeling all the magnitude of the step before him, knowing the -sacrifice that was involved as well as the gain. And nothing at all had -come of it, not even a recognition on the part of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span> the spectators of the -immense importance of what he had been about to do. ‘I am afraid it’s -impossible,’ he said, with stony looks; and then there came over him a -sudden vision of Joyce in all her sweetness. Joyce, the only poetry he -had ever felt, the only romance that had ever revealed itself to him. -Was he to give her up for this? ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘if you are -disengaged on Thursday.’ His tone was ungracious, but his heart gave a -leap, belying the outward stolidity of disappointment and half offence.</p> - -<p>‘Thursday, or any day,’ cried the Colonel, in his hospitality. ‘You -don’t think we should count any trumpery little engagement against a -visit from you! Well, that’s better—that’s better, Bellendean; and -good-bye, my dear fellow; you’ll have a run for the train, if you must -go.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel came out bareheaded to the door to hasten the departure of -the guest to whom it was so indispensable not to lose the train. He -stood there for a moment looking at his watch in the light of the lamp -in the hall. ‘It is all he will do to catch it,’ he said; ‘but he has -good long legs of his own, which is better than a cab when you’re in a -hurry. Shut the door, Baker, there’s a dreadful draught. Why, Jenkinson, -is that you? You’ve brought my girl home, like a good fellow. And, -Joyce, my dear, you’ve come five minutes too late. Norman Bellendean has -just darted off to catch his train.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Canon had brought Joyce home. He had tucked her hand under his arm, -and led her through the dark as carefully as her father would have done, -talking much, but getting very little response. He looked like a -mountain moving along in the gloom, or like a big ship with a slim -little yacht in tow; and other wayfarers could hear his voice coming out -in the mist, with sometimes a faint note of reply. The Canon was not -talking to her of moral difficulties or cases of conscience, but of a -party which was to take place at the rectory, and at which he wished her -to look her best. ‘If you will do me a favour,’ he said, ‘you will put -those questions all away, and put on the pretty looks with which you -captivated me, Joyce. Eh? don’t you remember? it’s not so long ago; how -you went and put yourself on the other side, and waved your flag in my -face, you little—— But it was all in vain, my dear, for we fell in -love with each other just the same.’</p> - -<p>A smile came upon her face as she looked up at him through the fog and -the faint lamplight that streamed in distinct rays across that solid -atmosphere. ‘Yes,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘You can’t deny it,’ said the Canon; ‘for my part, it was at first -sight. Well, Joyce, to please me, and your father—though I don’t know -that he has the same right—you will go back to that moment, and look -your best. I want you to look very nice indeed—so does my wife. We -mustn’t give the adversary occasion to blaspheme.’</p> - -<p>‘But I have no adversary,’ said Joyce, ‘unless it were——’</p> - -<p>‘Eh? I don’t doubt you have somewhere, as all of us have, somebody -you’ve been too good to. And keep away from that little parson woman, -Joyce. I’m a parson myself, you will say; but there are parsons and -parsons. Is that some one leaving your house? and there is your father -standing out in the night air without a hat; the most foolish thing he -could do. You catch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span> cold without any warning, and then there’s no -getting rid of it. Hey, Hayward! don’t shut the door upon us, please; -I’ve brought you home your little girl.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel shouted, ‘Why, Jenkinson, is it you?’—as we have seen—and -stood in the doorway to greet his visitor. ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘come in -out of the fog. If you had been coming in the opposite direction you’d -have run into Bellendean. He has not been five minutes gone.’</p> - -<p>‘I only wish we had run into him,’ said the Canon in his rolling bass; -‘it might have cleared up some things.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean, Canon? He’s a nice fellow, but not particularly -clever. Come in, and don’t stand out in the fog.’</p> - -<p>‘Go in yourself, and don’t catch cold. I’ve done my duty now; I’ve -brought you home, Joyce. Take care of her, Hayward,’ said the Canon, as -he strode away, marching like a regiment, with his long coat swinging, -and the black silk waistcoat charging the heavy air. Colonel Hayward -withdrew within the shelter of the door, putting up his hand to his -head, which was his vulnerable point.</p> - -<p>‘Take care of her!’ he said; ‘my own girl! I should think I would take -care of her. These parsons take a great deal upon them. They think they -always know better than other people though they have neither chick nor -child.’ The Colonel repeated these words to himself with a little -chuckle, as he went back to his library to finish something he had been -reading in the paper before dinner. The Canon looked very big and -imposing, and took a great deal of authority upon himself, but he was -wholly without experience in the point upon which he presumed to lecture -his old friend. Take care of her—his own little girl! a pretty thing -for a man to say who had never succeeded in securing anything of the -kind for himself.</p> - -<p>Joyce went into the drawing-room with her heart beating, sick and faint. -She seemed to feel in the air that he had been there. There was -something of him still about the room—the mark of his elbow on a -cushion, the sensation of his breath. He had come after all. She wanted -to stand where he had stood, to breathe the same air, and then—and -then—to fly where she could never see him—where it should be -impossible to be tempted to his destruction. No, no; and to break -Greta’s heart. Her own throbbed quick but low. There had been a -momentary spring, but only for a moment. No, no, not for his harm, and -the breaking of Greta’s heart. His coming seemed to have precipitated -and brought near what was so far off a little while ago. She was on the -edge of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span> precipice now—and there was something in the sense of the -giddy vacancy before her that seemed to sweep and suck her towards the -edge. She went in—and found Mrs. Hayward standing waiting for her in -the middle of the room.</p> - -<p>‘Where have you been, Joyce? where have you been?—to-day of all days! -Captain Bellendean has been here——’</p> - -<p>She said, ‘Yes, I heard,’ almost under her breath.</p> - -<p>‘And why were you not here to meet him? I don’t suppose it was your -fault. It could not be your fault. But why, why were you not here? It is -like a bad fate.’</p> - -<p>‘It would be rather a providence,’ said Joyce, in her subdued -voice—‘for it’s better; oh, it’s better not. I am—glad—I wasn’t -here.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward grasped her hand with an impatient exasperation. ‘Glad—you -weren’t here—glad to have driven him almost frantic—and me too!’</p> - -<p>Joyce looked at her step-mother, wondering. She was so forlorn that any -sympathetic tone, even though it was angry, caught her ear. And she felt -the circumstances to be so desperate that she was no longer afraid. -‘You?—are you caring—anyway?’</p> - -<p>‘Am I caring! You mean, do I care? Yes, I care. Joyce!’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, gripping her hands tightly, then losing them with a little -impatient gesture, as if she had flung them away, ‘you are a strange -girl—you have never tried to make me love you. And I don’t know that I -do. It was a great change to me, that had been everything to my husband, -to have you a stranger brought in: and you never tried to make me -care——’</p> - -<p>‘I was bewildered,’ the girl said. ‘I was—like a creature astray——’</p> - -<p>‘Very likely. I am not asking the cause; I am only telling you. But now -there’s something got up that we must stand against. They’ve got to know -about that man—and that you were only—a poor girl before. They are -making a stand against you.’</p> - -<p>Joyce stood up against the glow of the fire listening, yet only half -roused. She was taller than Mrs. Hayward, and the energetic, almost -impassioned little woman looked up at her pale face, and thought it like -a face in a dream. It was abstracted, the eyes veiled, as if they were -looking inward. And neither to have thus lost her lover’s visit, nor to -be threatened with a conspiracy against her, awakened her out of the -mist of her own thoughts. Mrs. Hayward put her hand on Joyce’s arm with -the quick impatience of her nature— ‘Wake up,’ she said. ‘I don’t know -what you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span> have in your mind: but give your attention to what I am -saying. Wake up! it is of the greatest importance, if not to yourself, -to your father and to me——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Joyce, with a little start; ‘I am hearing every word you -say, and minding. Oh, don’t think I’ve a cold heart. I am only just all -astray—since ever I came. I was a stranger, as you say. And I might -learn better—if there was time.’</p> - -<p>‘There is plenty of time,’ said Mrs. Hayward, with a little moisture in -her eyes. ‘Men never see it—but it was a great trial for you and me. -Yes, yes, for both of us. I always saw that. But we must make a stand -now, and do it together. They say you’re not your father’s daughter, but -a foundling—and they say you’ve got a man coming after you that made a -disturbance—a low man. Don’t contradict me or put my temper up! He was -not a low man, but quite respectable, I know that—but all the same a -man to be put a stop to. Joyce! don’t you understand what a vexation it -is that you were not here! He came with his heart in his mouth to lay -everything at your feet. And the triumph it would have been for us all -to have faced them, with you engaged to Norman Bellendean!’</p> - -<p>A colour like the flash of a light passed over Joyce’s face. Her eyes -filled suddenly with large hot tears. She shook her head, with a -trembling going over her like the sudden shiver of ague. ‘No,’ she said, -‘no—never that; oh, never that!’</p> - -<p>‘Why never that? Don’t be a fool, Joyce, don’t be a fool. Though he’s an -excellent match, there’s nobody near, nobody anywhere that would suit -you so well. You understand each other. For goodness’ sake,’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, exasperated and anxious, ‘don’t spoil your life with any -romantic nonsense! Why, even his people like you and seek you. Mrs. -Bellendean——’</p> - -<p>‘I must tell you the truth,’ said Joyce, ‘for oh, I am in a great -strait, and I know not what to do. Mrs. Bellendean would rather I were -dead than that. There is one he should marry that would break her -heart—and there is one I should marry: <i>that</i> I will not do; but I will -marry nobody nor think of anything that could hurt her—or him. No, not -for all the world.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward clapped her hands together in the wild impatience and rage -which could not find utterance in mere words. ‘Oh, that was it!’ she -cried. ‘I thought there was something treacherous in it. I thought she -did not come for nothing, that woman! I never liked her, for all her -show of kindness. I never put any faith in her. And she came to take -advantage of your simplicity, you poor thing—you poor innocent thing!’ -Elizabeth’s temper was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span> warm, but her heart no less. She caught Joyce -suddenly in her arms, and gave her a quick kiss, which was like a soft -little blow—and the girl felt that the cheek which touched hers was -wet. But it was only a momentary touch, and Mrs. Hayward was half -ashamed of her emotion. She gave an imperative grasp to Joyce’s arms as -she let her go, and added with a little laugh, ‘But let us stand -together, Joyce—you and me! and we’ll be too many for them. I don’t -mind how strong they are—we’ll be too many for them yet—you and me!’</p> - -<p>Colonel Hayward coming in at this moment, with his newspaper in his hand -to read something aloud to his wife (who had seen it before breakfast), -found them standing very close together, and heard the sound of his -wife’s laugh, which sounded to him more like crying than laughing. And -he knew that the sound meant a good deal of commotion in Elizabeth’s -mind. He did not know what might have been going on; and while he was -eager to interfere, his better angel kept him back by means of that -prejudice against prying, which is a happy part of English training. -Accordingly he did not come near, but pretended it was necessary to hold -up his paper to the lamp. ‘My dear, I just wished to read you this -little bit,’ he said, turning his shoulder to the pair. Mrs. Hayward -could scarcely restrain the exclamation of impatience on her lips; but -perhaps it was well that so exciting an interview should thus be brought -to a simple and unconcerted end.</p> - -<p>After this there followed two uneventful days—uneventful to the rest of -the world; not quite so to Mrs. Hayward, who was employed in searching -out all the ramifications of the social conspiracy against her husband -and Joyce, with a warmth of defensive feeling and determination to -support and vindicate what was her own side and her own belongings, -which roused every amiable sentiment—and there were many—in her heart. -She was kept in a subdued fever of expectation at the same time, looking -almost every hour for the arrival of Norman Bellendean, who would not, -she believed, keep to the invitation given him for Thursday, but might -at any moment burst in upon them and set everything right. She did not -believe that he would have the coolness to wait till that appointed -time, and her devices for retaining Joyce within reach were manifold and -sometimes very amusing, had there been any one with a mind free to -observe the situation. Colonel Hayward, without having any reason given, -was charged to be punctual in bringing her back from the morning walk at -a certain hour—and Elizabeth herself took the direction of affairs in -the afternoon, taking Joyce with her when she herself went out, and -regulating a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span> succession of returns which made it impossible that any -visitor could have very long to wait. It must be allowed that this -extreme care was harassing to Joyce, unaccustomed to so numerous a round -of little engagements, and who hitherto had been free to follow her own -devices and think her own thoughts. These thoughts, it was true, could -be carried on anywhere, and were as possible in the drawing-room under -her step-mother’s eyes as when alone; but they were confused and -weakened by the sense of some one near—by the interruption of questions -which she had to answer, and remarks to which she was supposed to pay -attention.</p> - -<p>The gathering web of purpose and meaning was thus confused into a sort -of cobweb maze, like the threads of a spider twisted with everything -they encountered; and Joyce felt herself thus held in suspense, still -with that sweep and suction in the air which betrayed the precipice -close by—but rather with the sensation of one who lay upon the edge -bound and helpless, perhaps to be swept over by the first gale, but in -herself quiescent, capable of no movement—than of the despairing agent -of her own fate, by whose action alone the end could be accomplished. -She lay there still, listening for the hurricane that must sweep her -away—not taking, as she must do, that tremendous step for herself. But -the closeness of it half stupefied, half paralysed her. The moment would -come when she must wake, when the step would have to be taken; but what -if in the meantime some celestial storm, some great heavenly chance -impulse might burst in and carry her away? This happens sometimes—so -that a man who intended to kill himself dies innocently in the meantime, -and is saved all that trouble and pain. No one can tell what a day or an -hour may bring forth. ‘Perhaps the world may end to-night,’ as the poet -has said. But Joyce was not in hourly expectation like Mrs. Hayward. She -accepted Thursday as the limit of her suspense. Before Thursday it must -be done: but in the meantime, and for these two days, -quiescence—something that, in the pause of despair, looked almost like -peace.</p> - -<p>This was not, however, undisturbed. There came a little note from Mrs. -Bellendean with a final good-bye:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Just my love to my dear Joyce before I go away. Wishing her every -good, and very confident that she will never forget me, nor all -that has passed between us for long years; and that I am always her -affectionate friend</p> - -<p class="r"> -M. B.’<br /> -</p></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span></p> - -<p>All that had passed between them—for long years! No, Joyce would not -forget.</p> - -<p>There was also a letter from Andrew, announcing, as if nothing -particular had happened, his return home.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>‘And though my visit was not all that could be desired, yet I am glad -that I made it, for it lets us both see, my dear Joyce, what is before -us, and forewarned is forearmed. Also, I am anxious to let you know that -I made acquaintance with a very respectable lady, the wife of a -minister, who was most kind, so kind, indeed, that it was a difficulty -to accept her attentions without the power of making any return. But I -thought it my duty, as she seemed to be a friend of yours, to speak -freely to her, so that you might find a support in her, as one lady can -with another, and a person to whom, being unfortunately not at ease at -home in that respect, you could talk freely of me.’</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It was a pity that nobody save Joyce saw this effusion of the -schoolmaster’s genius. She was not capable of seeing the humour in it. -It was so wonderful that her dreamy eyes opened wide with mingled -consternation and astonishment. That he should speak so calmly of the -tragic episode which had first opened to her the mystery of dreadful -life which lay before her! That he should be so little capable of -understanding what were the contradictions and the miserable limits of -humanity! But she was too deep in that mystery to think of it. The two -letters were found folded together afterwards.</p> - -<p>And the evening and the morning made another day. It was Wednesday, the -day of the party at the rectory, which had been turned into an -opportunity for magnifying and exhibiting Joyce. The Jenkinsons and Mrs. -Hayward had put their heads together for this object. That they thus -acted together was due to Mrs. Hayward, who in the heat of her -indignation and agitation had hurried to the rectory, on the morning -after her enlightenment, to demand, not apologetically but -passionately— ‘Have you heard what they are saying about <i>our</i> Joyce? Do -you believe it?’ Do you dare to believe it? was what Elizabeth’s tone -said. ‘She is a little hoity-toity,’ said Mrs. Jenkinson afterwards; -‘but you know, Canon, I have always said she was a good woman.’ The -Canon, who did nothing but walk about the house overseeing (as he -pretended) the preparations and making all the glass and the silver ring -again, agreed in the judgment. ‘But I think it was I that always upheld -Elizabeth,’ he said. Anyhow, whoever was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span> the right or wrong, these -three people were agreed. If the rectory was of any weight in society, -and Mrs. Jenkinson’s accent in pronouncing that <i>If</i> was a model of -polished sarcasm, then there could be no further doubt as to the opinion -of the place. Everybody was coming—indeed one person was coming of whom -no one knew, no, not even the Canon, excepting Mrs. Jenkinson and Mrs. -Hayward alone. ‘You could not ask him, I allow—but there can be no -possible reason why I should not ask him. I will say I heard he was in -town. I might have heard that from any one, from the St. Clairs -themselves. No doubt they must know.’ The knowledge of this secret -invitation made Mrs. Hayward feel guilty when she confronted her husband -and Joyce, of whom she now spoke as ‘my daughter’ to all her friends. -But neither of these innocent persons observed her look of guilt: the -Colonel, because he knew nothing at all about it, neither the conspiracy -to shame Joyce, nor that which had been formed for her vindication; and -Joyce, partly for this same reason, partly because she was paralysed, -lying on the edge of that precipice, waiting for the cyclone, and that -everything outside passed over her like a dream.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward herself superintended Joyce’s dressing for this party. She -came into the girl’s room carrying a small miniature in an old-fashioned -gold mount, to which was attached a knot of ribbon. ‘I wish you to wear -this,’ she said—‘your father sends it to you, Joyce. Look at the name -upon the back, and you will see why I am going to pin it where it may be -well seen. And if any one asks you who it is, say it is your mother.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it my mother—was she like that?’ said Joyce, taking the miniature -in her hand with a great tremor. It seemed to send some strange -magnetism into her, tingling from the finger-points over her whole -frame.</p> - -<p>‘She must have been like that, for it is the image of you,’ said Mrs. -Hayward; ‘people will think it is your own picture you are wearing—but -if you like, Joyce, you can let them see the inscription on the back. It -is exactly you—but I think there is something more deep and steadfast -in your eyes,’ she said, looking at her earnestly. Mrs. Hayward was -greatly stirred and excited. Perhaps it was this more than any warm -impulse of feeling which made her give Joyce a sudden kiss after she had -inspected her. She was pleased with her ‘daughter’s’ appearance. Joyce -wore a dress of soft white Indian silk, made very simply, with little -ornament. It suited her slim youthful figure, which wanted no elaborate -drapings or loopings. The miniature with its bow of dark-blue<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span> ribbon -was pinned on her breast. It was a curious ornament. The Joyce in the -picture had her hair arranged in curls which fell upon her shoulders, -and her dress was of the fashion of twenty-five years before—otherwise -it was precisely like the Joyce who wore it now, only—and this thought -pleased Mrs. Hayward, and gave a little outlet to feelings less -admirable—there was something ‘more deep and steadfast’ in the eyes. -Mrs. Hayward herself pinned the ribbon upon the girl’s breast. ‘I was -always very sorry for her,’ she said in a low tone; ‘but she made great -misery by disappearing like that. I hope, I believe, you have more stuff -in you. Now, are you ready?’</p> - -<p>The Colonel was standing in the hall waiting for his ladies, pleased and -proud, and somehow more happy than usual in the conviction that at last -Elizabeth had thoroughly ‘taken to’ Joyce. The thorn among his roses had -been the absence of sympathy between those two. He said to himself, -twinkling his eyes to get rid of a little moisture, that no mother could -be more anxious about a girl’s appearance than was his wife about Joyce. -She gave those little pats and pinches to her dress as they came -downstairs which happy girls sometimes resent, but which come only from -the mother’s hand. Now the crown of his happiness had come, for -Elizabeth certainly at last had taken to Joyce. How could she have stood -out against her, the Colonel thought, looking with pride at his child; -and yet even as this proud thought passed through his mind, a little -accompanying chill came with it. For she was pale, she was very quiet. -There was little expectation of pleasure, of conquest, of admiration in -her. Perhaps she had always been too grave and a little frightened in -society, though with gleams of brightness. She was very quiet to-night.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward did not remark this. She was herself much excited, -tremulous with feeling both belligerent and tender. Joyce had become the -heroine of the most agitating romance—a romance in which she herself -was too much involved to be calm. That guilty secret made her heart -flutter. What if it might be thought to be her fault? What if Joyce -should think her dignity compromised? She was so strange a girl, so -little moved by ordinary motives. Mrs. Hayward took a little comfort -from the fact that Joyce was not at all suspicious, and would never -think of the possibility of a plot to bring her lover to her side—which -partially reassured her; but still there was a flutter at her heart.</p> - -<p>They were late of entering the rectory, and the rooms were full. -Everybody was there. Mrs. Jenkinson received her friends rarely, but -when she did so, invited all ‘the best people.’ It was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span> little -difficult to make the entrance which Mrs. Hayward had intended, so as to -strike all objectors dumb. Mrs. Jenkinson, however, at the door of the -room took Joyce in her arms in the sight of everybody with an unusual -demonstration of delight. She held her at arm’s-length for a moment and -looked at her with admiring criticism. ‘You are looking very nice—very -nice indeed, my dear!’ she said very audibly, as if she had been a niece -at least. There is nothing like being a partisan. She had never -perceived Joyce’s beauty before, and that curious dignity—which came of -the girl’s shyness, and ignorance of social rules, and anxiety not to -put her father to shame. ‘I don’t think there is any one here to compare -with her,’ she said to the Colonel, with a conviction which was -dogmatic, and at once made a different opinion heresy.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Sitwell, very ill at ease, had been hanging about the door until -the Haywards appeared. She made an instant effort to secure Joyce’s -attention. ‘Oh Joyce, let me speak to you—I have a great deal to say to -you! she cried, in a shrill whisper through the curious crowd. Mrs. -Hayward confronted the parson’s wife with an impulse of war which -tingled through and through her, and raised her stature and brightened -into fierce splendour her always bright eyes. ‘Perhaps I will do as well -as Joyce,’ she said grimly, facing the traitor. What happened in that -corner afterwards, we dare not pause to tell.</p> - -<p>In the meantime the Canon appeared, with his big round black silk -waistcoat, like a battering-ram cleaving the press before him, and held -out his arm, bent to receive hers, almost over the heads of the -wondering ladies. ‘Come and take a turn with me, Joyce,’ he cried, his -large mellow voice rolling like the pervasive and melodious bass it was, -making a sort of background to all the soprano chatter. He, too, paused -to look at her when he had led her through the line of the new arrivals. -‘Yes,’ he said approvingly, ‘you are looking very well and handsome; but -not as you used to do—I miss my little enemy. There’s neither war in -your eye nor fun to-night. Come, Joyce, not so serious! We’ve met to -enjoy ourselves. What’s that you are wearing on your breast? Bless my -soul!’ The Canon paused, drawing a quick breath. ‘Who put this upon you? -It’s your mother’s picture?’ He had turned so quickly to look at it, -that her hand was disengaged from his arm. He took it in his own and -held it while he gazed, and it became very evident to the circle about -that the Canon was winking his eyes suspiciously as if to get rid of a -little moisture there. ‘Poor little Joyce!’ he said. ‘Where did you find -it? I remember her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span> exactly like that; and you are exactly like it. You -can never deny your parentage, my dear, as long as you wear that.’</p> - -<p>It was not intended, nor in the programme; but the little surprise was -very effectual. It collected a little crowd round the pair. The people -who had been so deeply impressed by the imposture practised upon them in -respect to Joyce, and even Lady St. Clair herself, were drawn into that -circle by the strong inducement of something to see which is so potent -in an evening party. It had not been in the programme, it had all the -force of an accident. It brought spectators from all the corners of the -room to see what it was. ‘The most extraordinary resemblance,’ people -said. ‘A very pretty portrait; no one could have thought it was meant -for anybody but Joyce Hayward; but it appears it is her mother.’ ‘With -curls and an old-fashioned dress.’ ‘The dress we all wore in those -days.’ ‘Then that story about her that she was a foundling, etc., etc.’ -‘It was a cruel bad story,’ cried Lady Thompson, crying with pleasure -and kindness, and the heat of the room which upset her nerves. ‘I always -knew it wasn’t true.’ Lady St. Clair and her little coterie retired into -a corner, and there seemed to laugh and nod their heads among -themselves, commenting on the scene; but their discomfiture was clear.</p> - -<p>All this that was passing round her was uncomprehended by Joyce. She was -aware neither of the gossip nor of her own triumph. She stood by the -Canon’s side, confused with the flutter about her, the exclamations, the -many looks that passed from her to the portrait, from the portrait to -herself back again. The Canon had again drawn her hand within his arm, -and she stood silent, patient, with a faint smile, pleased enough to -find nothing more was required of her, leaning a little weight upon his -fatherly arm, a slim white figure against his substantial bulk of black. -Her other hand hung by her side amid the white folds of her dress. As -she stood thus quietly, subdued, her attention not lively for anything, -Joyce felt her hand suddenly taken and warmly, passionately pressed, -with a touch which was most unlike the usual shaking of hands. There -must have been something magnetic in it, for she started, and a sudden -flood of hot colour poured over her from head to foot. She turned her -head almost reluctantly yet quickly, and met, burning upon her in the -heat of feeling long restrained, the eyes of Norman Bellendean.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">Joyce</span>! Joyce!’</p> - -<p>That seemed all she understood of what he said. The Canon had -disappeared, leaving them together—and other faces appeared and -disappeared as through a hot mist, which opened to show them for a -moment, then closed up again—everything seemed to say, Joyce, Joyce! -Her name seemed to breathe about her in a hundred tones—in warning, in -reproof, in astonishment, in low murmuring passion. They seemed to be -all speaking to her, calling to her, together: Mrs. Bellendean and Mrs. -Hayward and Andrew and her father, and a soft half-audible murmur from -Greta. And then this voice close by in her ear—Joyce, Joyce! Would they -but be silent! Could she but hear!</p> - -<p>Presently there seemed a movement in the scene, the figures around her -streaming away, but always his voice in her ears saying she knew not -what except her name. And after a while she found herself standing -outside the rectory under a great blue vault of sky all tingling with -stars. To her excited fancy they seemed to project out of the dark -blueness above, as if to take part in this scene.</p> - -<p>‘We are going to walk home,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘it is such a lovely -night, and only a little way.’</p> - -<p>‘And I’m going with you,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘Yes, Colonel, I have -plenty of time for the train.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, perhaps yes,—enough, but not too much,—but we all go the same -way.’</p> - -<p>Something like this came to Joyce through the keen night air: and while -the voices were still ringing, her arm was within his, and they were -walking together as if it had been a dream.</p> - -<p>‘Joyce: I don’t know if you hear me or not, but you make me no reply.’</p> - -<p>Then all at once she seemed to come to herself and to con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span>sciousness of -all around her: the hard dry road which rang underfoot, the great -vibrating stars above, intense with frost, with human interest (was it -possible?), with something which had never been in them before. She was -warmly cloaked and wrapped up, a fleecy scarf over her head, her arm -held closely in his, his face bending towards her. It seemed to be her -first moment of full consciousness since that time when all the ladies -were gathering round her looking at the miniature on her breast.</p> - -<p>‘Captain Bellendean, it is all very strange to me. I don’t understand -what is happening,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I thought it was so: the noise and the chatter of these people, and the -agitation—for you <i>were</i> agitated, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not expect to see you. I was surprised to see you.’</p> - -<p>‘I startled you—I know I did. Didn’t you hear that I had come and -waited on Monday—waited and waited in vain? I do not know what you can -have thought of me, Joyce. I should have come back months ago.’</p> - -<p>She said nothing, and he thought he understood why, and it made him feel -more deeply guilty than ever.</p> - -<p>‘Some time when we are at our ease I will tell you everything and why I -did not come; but now I am here, and I want your answer, Joyce, the -answer you would not give me that summer evening. Don’t turn your head -away. You have scarcely spoken to me to-night. Don’t punish me so for my -delay. If I have been long of coming, it was not altogether my fault. -And now that I am here, and we are together——’</p> - -<p>‘I know,’ she said, ‘why you have not come back, Captain Bellendean; and -your staying away was right, quite right, but not your coming. I heard -of it, and I approved’—she made a little pause, and added fervently, -using all her breath to say it—‘with all my heart!’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Joyce, you are vexed and angry: perhaps -you have reason; but not, not as you seem to think. How did you hear of -it? and what did you hear?’</p> - -<p>‘Captain Bellendean,’ she said again, ‘we have two different ways in -this world. If I were to say what would please you, I would be mansworn. -And even with that it might not please you long. And for you to speak as -you are doing may be true; but it’s not well for either you or me.’</p> - -<p>‘Joyce,’ he cried, ‘it is not natural to speak to me like that. Have you -no feeling for me? Is it all a dream that has been passing in the -summer, on the river, in the garden, the hours we have been -together,—all that time was it nothing, did it mean<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span> nothing? It did to -me. I ceased to think of anything but you—you swept away everything -else, every other thought. If we had not been interrupted that -day—would you have answered me as you are answering me now?’</p> - -<p>She said nothing to this; and it was hard upon Joyce that while this -momentous conversation was going on her arm was linked in his, she was -close to him, her figure lost in his shadow, and all her resolution -unable to keep from him the sensation of the heavy beating of her heart.</p> - -<p>‘You must have felt something for me then?’ he said. ‘It is dark now and -I cannot see you; but I saw your face then: Joyce, don’t be hard upon -me. I have taken a long time to think, for there were many things -involved, but here I am; and if I’ve been long of coming, it shows the -more the force that’s brought me. Joyce, if you had not been the only -woman for me I should not have been here.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a mistake,’ she said—‘it is a mistake,’ scarcely able to command -her voice; ‘there is another woman. And there is—another man! Oh, hold -your peace, Captain Bellendean! you and me, we have nothing to do with -each other. You would repent it all your life long. And I would be -mansworn.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you thinking of that man? Joyce, you never loved that man—loved -him!—he is not fit to tie your shoes: he is not worthy to be named or -thought of, or—— Joyce, throw me off if you like—break my heart—but -don’t tell me you are going to make yourself miserable for the sake of a -childish promise. No, no! You shall not do it. I’ll go if I must, but -not to leave you to that fellow—— Joyce!’</p> - -<p>His tone of alarm and indignation went through and through her; her -heart seemed to melt, and sink down in softness and weakness and -ineffable yielding. He was ready to put himself aside and think only of -her; anxious only to save her, not thinking of himself. He held her arm -close to his side, and his heart throbbed against it, not in heavy -beatings like hers, but leaping, bounding, in all the force of passion. -The woman in her was roused to wonder and awe of the superior excitement -of the man—and that it should be for her, to save her. But then, with -the wildest inconsistency, he began to pour out his love, forgetting -that he had said she was to throw him off if she liked, as she too -forgot and never saw the inconsistency, nor was aware that he had -changed from that tone of generous determination to save her into the -broken rapid flow of his own confessions and pleading. Joyce was -altogether carried away by this warm and impassioned tide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span> She said not -a word, but listened, drawn along upon his arm, close to him, swallowed -up in his shadow, to the mingled sounds of his voice and his heart -beating against her—a second voice, almost more potent than the first. -She listened and felt the mingled sounds with a growing -self-abandonment, a loss of all her powers of resistance, beginning at -last to draw her own breath hard, to sob, with her heart in her throat, -in sympathy rather than response. He was still pouring these words into -her ear, still affecting all her pulses by that throbbing, when suddenly -they arrived at the door of her father’s house. Joyce was altogether -inarticulate, incapable of disengaging herself or raising her face to -the light, and he made no attempt to let her go. She could hear him say, -‘Let me come in for a second,’ in a strange interruption to the other -words, and felt herself hurried in swiftly upon his arm, through the -hall where the others were standing, to the softly-lighted room. There -they stood together one long quiet moment, their hearts beating -together; and Joyce heard herself sob; and he took her into his arms and -kissed her, with a little cry of triumph. ‘This time,’ he said, ‘there -is no mistake! And there shall be none—never more.’</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>‘Why shouldn’t I go in, Elizabeth? My dear, I must tell Bellendean he -must not think he has too much time—and this is the last train. Of -course I know you could put him up if he would stay all night. But he -has no clothes. A man may dine in his morning coat, but he cannot put on -his dress clothes in the morning—eh? He will think it very queer to be -left only with Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry, hold your tongue, and let them alone!’</p> - -<p>‘Why, I should have thought you would be the first person to object to -that,’ the Colonel said, bewildered. He gave himself up to Baker to be -helped with his coat, while his wife hung about restlessly in a state of -excitement, for which the Colonel saw no reason. The door of the -drawing-room had been left slightly open, and no sound came from it as -if the young people were talking. Young people, who have been together -to an evening party generally talk and laugh over its humours. Colonel -Hayward felt that Joyce was not entertaining the guest, and that it was -his own duty to remind Bellendean of that imminent train. And why his -wife should hold him back he could not divine. Presently, however, -Captain Bellendean appeared radiant, looking exceedingly nervous and -excited, with moisture in his eyes, and even on one cheek, to Colonel -Hayward’s great astonishment. ‘I know,’ he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span> cried, ‘you’re in trouble -about my train. I know I must fly. Mrs. Hayward, give me joy: <i>you</i> -divine it all. And, Colonel, I must speak to you to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, delighted! as long as you please; but if you are to catch -that train,’ the Colonel cried, having already flung open the door. -‘To-morrow, my dear fellow! all right—as long as you please; but we -must speed the parting guest! Good night, good night! God bless you!’ he -shouted with his cheerful voice out into the night.</p> - -<p>Such a night! every star throbbing, vibrating, as if it knew—the dry -frost-bound road giving forth a triumphant ring of sound wherever his -foot fell. He seemed to himself to fly against the keen exhilarating -air, which filled his breast like a spiritual wine. Perhaps there might -come a cold fit after; but at present he was warm with love and -enthusiasm and excitement and triumph. As he hurried along to the train, -about which the Colonel was so concerned, Norman Bellendean sent out -into the air a laugh of pleasure and delight. Whenever he should be -hurried for a train, that vulgarest matter of every day, he thought to -himself, in the triumphant satisfaction of his heart, that it would -recall to him this night—the brightest moment, the sweetest -recollection of his life.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward still stood in the hall—stood as nearly still as a woman -in the highest excitement, scarcely able to speak for the whirl of -suspense and expectation in her mind, could stand. She had taken off the -white Shetland shawl which she had worn upon her head, but was still in -her warm cloak, pulling her gloves in her hands, scarcely able to -contain herself. She wanted to dispose of her husband before she herself -flew to share, as she hoped, the happiness, the agitation of Joyce. -‘Where are you going, Henry? not into the drawing-room at this hour? -It’s quite late; go and have your cigar, and I’ll send Joyce off to -bed.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s not so very late,’ said the Colonel. ‘I thought you would like a -chat by the fireside.’</p> - -<p>‘A chat! Go, my dear, and have your cigar. I know Joyce is very tired; -it’s been an exciting evening for her. I’ll go and look after her, and -get her off to bed. You must not disturb her, Henry. I’ll come in and -let you know that all’s right.’</p> - -<p>‘What could be wrong?’ said the innocent old soldier; ‘and why should -she be so tired? Well, Elizabeth, of course I will go away if you tell -me; but I don’t see——’ He made a few steps towards his library, which -Baker, much more in the secret of the evening than he, had thrown -invitingly open, showing the cheerful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span> glow of the fire; and then -another thought seized him. ‘My love,’ he said, coming back, putting his -arm round her, ‘it gives me more pleasure than I can say, to see that -you are really and truly taking to Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry, go and have your cigar!’ was his -Elizabeth’s unsympathetic reply, shaking herself free from him. She -added, with a nervous laugh, ‘Yes, yes; it’s all right; but there’s a -dear, leave us alone now.’</p> - -<p>Even when, with wondering looks, he had obeyed her, Mrs. Hayward -lingered a moment longer. She was tingling with excitement and -satisfaction and triumph. She had defeated the miserable conspiracy -against Joyce, routing all her enemies, rank and file. She had secured -such a triumph over Lady St. Clair and her ‘set’ as goes to any woman’s -heart, carrying off, under her very eyes, a prize such as rarely -appeared in such suburban latitudes, not only the most excellent match -that had been heard of there for many a day, but the fit hero of a -romantic story, and a real lover—connected with the St. Clairs too, to -make the triumph sweeter, and carried over under their very nose. This -was the vulgarer part of Mrs. Hayward’s elation: but underneath was -something truer, that genuine sympathy for a motherless girl, which is -never far from a good woman’s heart. She must miss her mother to-night, -if never before. She must want some woman to take her into her arms, to -hear her story. Elizabeth’s heart had been touched the moment she had -become Joyce’s partisan and taken up the office of her defender and -protector against all the world. It was touched still more tenderly now, -as she thought to herself what a moment it was, the turning-point of the -girl’s life. The moisture came to her eyes only with thinking of it. She -was ready to take Joyce in her arms, and cry over her, as if she had -been her very own.</p> - -<p>When she went into the room she found Joyce sunk down upon her knees by -the side of the fire, her face covered in her hands. She lay there like -one overwhelmed under a burden she could not bear—no light, no -happiness, no elation in her. ‘Joyce!’ she cried, ‘Joyce!’ half alarmed, -half irritated—for what did the girl mean, what did she want more than -she had got? Mrs. Hayward was almost angry in the height of her -excitement, though something in the utter despondency of the white -figure sunk down upon itself restrained her. ‘Joyce!’ she repeated, -laying a hand upon her shoulder——</p> - -<p>‘They all call me by my name,’ said Joyce, ‘you, and he—and <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span>the lady, -and all——’</p> - -<p>‘What should we call you by, you silly girl? Joyce, you’ve made me quite -happy to-night. Get up and let me give you a kiss, and tell you how -pleased I am. There’s nothing to cry about now—though I can -understand,’ she added quickly, ‘that it’s all gone to your heart.’</p> - -<p>Joyce rose up slowly to her feet. She did not resist the quick embrace -into which her step-mother took her. ‘I know, my dear!’ cried Mrs. -Hayward, in the transport of her quick feelings, ‘what you’ve had to -bear. I know you’ve had a great deal to bear—all this waiting and -uncertainty, and the cold chill—oh, my dear, I know!’ She pressed her -cheek against Joyce’s, and it was wet with lively generous emotion. ‘But -all is well that ends well, and now I am sure you will be as happy as -any woman in the world.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Joyce, ‘no;’ but her step-mother, in her elation and -excitement, did not hear that low-toned negative. Mrs. Hayward held the -girl against her breast, patting her shoulder with one hand.</p> - -<p>‘This has been a trying night,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a great deal to go -through: but I understand it all. And you’ve done exactly as I should -have wished you, Joyce. Everything went as I could have wished. Captain -Bellendean’s arrival like that, unexpected,’—Mrs. Hayward drew a long -breath, in which there was an internal prayer that she might be forgiven -for so very white, so very innocent a lie: not a lie, only a fib, the -very worst that could be said of it—‘his arrival unexpected, gave a -sort of tone to the whole—a tone. And I suppose, in the thought of that -you forgot everything else. But apart from him altogether—if you can -think of anything apart from him—all went just as I should have wished. -You conducted yourself just as I could have wished. And everything is as -it should be, Joyce.’</p> - -<p>Joyce said, ‘No, no,’ again, with a shiver. She stood scarcely -responsive in Mrs. Hayward’s embrace—making an effort to yield to it, -to return the warm pressure a little, to lean upon the new prop so -suddenly put up for her. But, happily, Mrs. Hayward felt too strongly -herself, and was too much absorbed in her own quite unusual emotions to -be sensible of the absence of response. She was occupied in feeling and -expressing her feeling, not in studying that of another. She wanted to -say a great many things; she wanted to prove to Joyce her motherly -sympathy. That Joyce should only listen and say nothing did not occur to -her as strange. Even when she left the girl in her own room, going in to -poke the fire and make everything comfortable, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span> Hayward’s sensation -was that she had been made Joyce’s confidante, and that all the -love-tale had been poured into her warmly sympathetic ear. She kissed -Joyce and bade her good-night with all the fervour of a trusted friend. -‘To-morrow we must return to prose a little,’ she said—‘to-morrow will -be a good settling day. He is coming to talk to your father, and -everything will be arranged. But for the present, good-night, my dear, -and I hope you will sleep. Anyhow, whether you do or not, you’ll be -happy, Joyce. Good-night, my dear, good-night.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward herself was so happy that she could not contain herself. It -was nearly midnight, but she did not want to sleep. She had routed the -enemy all round, and triumphed and brought home her spoil. To think that -Joyce, who had at one time vexed her so much, should have been the -occasion of this triumph! Poor Joyce, poor little Joyce! with this -working in her mind all the time, poor dear, and making her abstracted -and silent! And that man on the other side, and Mrs. Bellendean, who no -doubt was trying all the time to put things wrong between them! A -generous partisanship was in Mrs. Hayward’s mind—a generous compunction -for injustice done to Joyce—a generous wish to get everything for her -that heart could desire—all enhanced by a far-off anticipation perhaps -not so generous, a glimmer far distant in the recesses of her soul, that -by and by Joyce, in the manner happiest for herself, would be taken -away! But Mrs. Hayward felt that she loved Joyce, and would do anything -for her in the strong and delightful exhilaration of the triumph of -to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Joyce was left quite alone, and felt the shelter of the silence and -solitude, she dropped again, as she had done in the room downstairs, -upon the rug before the fire. Great distress and trouble are chilling -things; they make the sick heart creep to the fire—the warmth gives a -little forlorn comfort when all is low and ice-bound in the soul. She -dropped there like a child—half seated, half on her knees. There was a -kind of luxury in the feeling that no one could see or interrupt or -sympathise with her—that she was safe for the long hours of the winter -night, safe and alone.</p> - -<p>What had she done? She had listened when she could not silence him. She -had lost herself in listening, feeling his heart beat against her and -his voice in her ears. She seemed to hear them now as soon as other -people had left her—as soon as she was free from interrupting, -unintelligible voices of others. He had told her, over and over again, -what she knew—nothing but what she knew; and he must have felt her -heart beating too, though not like his—beating heavily, -loudly,—beating like a thing half stifled in bonds and ligatures—for -he had not waited for any answer. He had taken her to himself when the -climax came, and between them there could be no more said. Joyce -recognised that there could have been no more said. She remembered that -she was sobbing, unable to draw her breath, and that his breath too was -exhausted, and all the words that could be used. She was not angry with -him for taking her consent for granted—it was all that remained to be -done. Their marriage and their long life together, and the height and -crown of mortal existence, were all summed up in that moment. It had -been, it was, and now it was past. She sat sunk upon herself by the fire -and went over everything. That was the only way it could have been. She -had for a time held him apart from her with good reasons, telling him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span> -how it could not be. And then she had been silenced; the words might -have been withstood, but the throbbing of the heart (she could feel it -still against her arm)—how could that be withstood? That was something -more than words; and her own, so heavily throbbing, had sprung for a -moment into the same measure, like something Joyce had never heard of -nor read of—something that made an end of time and space and all -limits. It had been too bewildering, too transporting, to think of. It -was for a moment only; and whether it ought to have been or not was a -different question. It had been, and nothing could undo it. And it was -past. That was the one thing of which she was sure.</p> - -<p>She had never consented, she had said nothing, she had not deceived him. -Though she might have deceived others, him she had not deceived. So long -as she could speak to him, she had said No. Afterwards, when her voice -failed her, when she could only sob, that moment had been—not by her -will, but by his will—by something which was inevitable and could not -be resisted. But now it was all over and past. Now she was separated -from him as far as if worlds lay between them. There was no longer any -time to hesitate. It was all fixed and settled, like the laws of the -Medes and Persians. She had seen him for the last time. It was not on -that subject that she had any further conflict with herself. The -question was not that—not that any longer. The question was, What must -be done? what in the few hours that remained to her she must do?</p> - -<p>She lay there for a long time where she had sunk down, quite still and -motionless, notwithstanding that she had so little time, not even -thinking at all. Things flitted across her brain, but scarcely moved -her—broken scenes, broken words, a look there, an exclamation here. -Oftenest in her confusion it was her own name she seemed to hear—Joyce! -Joyce!—called out by everybody in turn, as everybody had appealed to -her. Andrew whom she had deceived—he had the most right to blame her. -She had never said that she loved him, but he had believed it. Poor -Andrew! It would not be any gain to him though she lost. And her lady, -who had been so dear, and then had changed—to whom she had said that -Joyce would do what was wished of her. And then the oracle—the oracle -that had said, ‘You could do—no other thing.’ No, she could do no other -thing. That was settled. It was not to be discussed; there was no change -possible in that. The only thing was what to do—oh, what to do!</p> - -<p>Joyce never thought of taking away her own life. She would have given it -joyfully for any of them to save them a pang; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span> take it away at her -own caprice, no. She did not consciously reject this way, for she never -took it into consideration. It was not among the things that were -possible. And though she roused herself now and then at the end of a -long discursive round of imaginations, some of them having no connection -at all with what had happened, or was about to happen, to ask herself -what she was to do, for a long time she did not think at all. Her -candles burned, showing a light at her window long after every other -light was out. In the barges lying about the bridge some way down the -river, there were people who saw it shining, as was reported afterwards, -through all the night. But Joyce was not even thinking. What roused her -at last was the chill creeping over her—the cold of the deep night: her -fire had fallen low, almost to nothing, a faint little red glow all -blackening into darkness, and she shivered, and felt in her uncovered -arms and shoulders the creeping dead cold, as if the frost had got in. -This physical sensation, the shivering dullness, and ague of the cold, -roused her when her trouble did not rouse her. She rose benumbed, her -limbs stiff, and her heart sore, and wrapped a shawl round her, drawing -it close for warmth. How grateful warmth is, when everything else has -gone! It is the one thing in which there seems a little comfort. It -brought her to life again, and the necessary movement helped that good -effect. But bringing her back to life was to bring her back to thought; -and she became conscious that time was running on, and that she had not -yet decided what to do.</p> - -<p>Time was running on. It was long past midnight, it was morning—the -black morning of winter when everything is at its coldest, and all the -world is desolate. Folding her arms in her shawl over her bosom to keep -warm, her hand encountered the little frame of the miniature pinned on -her breast. The touch woke her up with a keen prick of reality—as if it -had been a sharp cold steel that had touched her. She unpinned it from -her breast, and held it in her hand, and looked at it. There must have -been magnetism in it. It seemed to bring a new flood of feeling, and -will, and impulse over her. She had felt that strange inspiration in her -veins before, that desire to arise and flee, she knew not whither. Her -mother’s inheritance left behind her when she had fled—where no one -could follow. It was a sad inheritance to come into the world with, but -it was the only one that Joyce had. She looked at the pictured face so -like her own, and that brief long-ended tragedy became clear to Joyce. -The other Joyce had endured as long as she could, and then there had -come upon her that irrestrainable despairing desire to fly and be seen -no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span> Oh that I had wings like a dove! It had not perhaps in some -ways been so difficult for her as for the second Joyce it would be. -There was nobody to go after her, to move heaven and earth to find -her—there were perhaps, Joyce thought, confusedly exaggerating the -time, and its changes, as youth is so apt to do—no telegraphs, no -railways then—at least there was no father, no lover, no friends ready -to put all modes of discovery in motion. For a moment she envied her -mother; but then said to herself, with a sudden warm flush all over her. -No, no! Thank God, in her case there was no second life involved; nobody -to come into the world as she herself had done, in confusion and -trouble, with all the lines of her life wrong from her birth, and this -tragic conclusion always coming! The touch of the cold little miniature -seemed to send thrills and icy touches through her veins. The eyes had a -strange look in them, like the eyes of a hunted creature. Mrs. Hayward -had said that her own eyes were more deep and true. She rose up to look -at herself, to see if perhaps that look had come to her too. A girl does -not think what is the expression in her eyes; but they had always been -quiet eyes, she thought—not with that look. She went to the glass, with -the miniature in her hand, to see. But when she stood before the glass, -it was not her own expression, but the strange world of darkness and -vacancy beyond, which caught Joyce’s confused and troubled intelligence. -She remembered all the fanciful superstitions, half poetry, half mirth, -of the countryside. How some one would come behind you and look over -your shoulder, and you would see in the mirror the man you were to -marry,—your fate; or how perhaps it might be a white-robed ghost, or a -death’s-head that would advance out of the unseen and look over your -shoulder; or how in that strange fathomless darkness of the mirror there -might rise before you scenes—of what was going on among those you -loved, or what was to happen in the future, shadows of the real. She -could not see her own eyes for the wonder which carried her beyond them, -which made her look into the reflected air as if it were another world.</p> - -<p>What a waste of time it was, and how the time was running on! Only a few -hours now before the step must be taken, and as yet no decision come to -as to what it was to be! She went and sat down at the table where were -her writing things, and in her writing-case the letters—Mrs. -Bellendean’s note of farewell, and Andrew’s—poor Andrew’s! Even now she -could not think, but only look at these two momentous bits of paper, and -wonder what <i>they</i> would think, how they would feel, whether they would -blame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span> themselves. She even smiled to herself at the astonishment, the -incredulity that would come over Andrew’s face, and his conviction that -whoever she had fled from it could not be from him. The lady would know -better—it would give her a pang—but so long as everything came as she -wished, the pang would not hurt her, it would go away. And then the -wonder, and the questions, and the strong feelings would widen out and -die away like circles in the water, and Joyce would go down and -disappear like a stone.</p> - -<p>Again this vague round of thought and nothing decided on, nothing -done—and the time was running on. Twelve hours hence it would be the -afternoon of the November day, and <i>he</i> would be here. And before then -all must be settled and done. And in the meantime the glow of the fire -had gone out in the blackness of the night, and it was cold—cold—a -cold that went to the heart.</p> - -<p>At breakfast next morning Joyce showed little trace of a sleepless -night; her eyes were quite clear, her colour varying, but sometimes -bright, her aspect not radiant as might become a girl in her position, -yet very clear, like a sky that has cleared after rain. Thinking it all -over in the light of after events no one could recollect anything about -her that had called for special notice. She was grave, yet not without a -smile: and a girl on the eve of the greatest change in her life, though -she may be very gay if she is happy, has reason to be grave as well. -Joyce was always thoughtful, and there was nothing wonderful in the fact -that underneath the soft smile with which she responded to what was said -to her there should be a gravity quite natural in the circumstances. No -doubt there was a great deal to think about—the opposition that might -be raised, the difficulties she would have to encounter. It would not be -all plain sailing. Mrs. Hayward, a little anxious in the strength of her -newly awakened sympathies, thought that she quite understood. Joyce went -out for her usual morning walk with her father, just as usual so far as -the Colonel could see. She talked a little more than usual, perhaps to -prevent him talking of the great subject of the moment. He for his part -was much excited with the information his wife had given. He was full of -enthusiasm for Norman. ‘If I had chosen the whole world through I could -not have found a man whom I should have liked better,’ he said. ‘I -always liked Norman Bellendean. I never could have imagined when we -first came in contact in India, he a young sub and I his commanding -officer, that he would ever be my son-in-law. How could I, not even -knowing that I had—what good fortune was in store for me in finding -you, my dear? But he was always a capital fellow. I liked him from the -very first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span>—fond of his profession and always ready for whatever was -wanted—as good a fellow as ever lived,’ cried the Colonel, as he had -done on his first introduction into these pages, taking upon him to -answer to all the neighbours and tenants for the excellences of Captain -Bellendean. Joyce listened very gravely, very sweetly, with a little -inclination of her head in assent to all these praises. It pleased her -to hear them, even though it was no business of hers.</p> - -<p>‘But you must remember,’ she said, ‘always—that if there’s a pain in -it, it’s leaving you. You’ve been good, good to me. I never knew what it -was——’</p> - -<p>‘Good!’ cried the Colonel, ‘there’s no credit in being good to you—and -as for pain, my dear, no doubt we’ll miss you dreadfully, but it’s not -as if he had to go away with the regiment to the end of the world. We’ll -come and see you at Bellendean, and you’ll come to see us. I scarcely -consider, with a man I like so thoroughly as Bellendean, that it will be -leaving me.’</p> - -<p>‘I was very ignorant when I came here,’ said Joyce; ‘I did not know what -a father was. I was shy—shy to call you so. My old grandfather was so -different. But, father, you have always understood, never discouraged me -when I was most cast down, never lost patience. And I wish I could make -you always mind that, when perhaps you may think of me—differently from -what you do now.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should I think of you differently? I may grudge a little to see my -pretty Joyce marrying so soon, when I would have liked to keep her to -myself: but it is the course of nature, my dear, and what parents must -expect.’</p> - -<p>‘I will always think upon you like this,’ she said: ‘the river flowing, -and the banks green even though it’s winter, and the red oak-leaves -stiff on the branches, and all the other big trees bare. And the sky -blue, with white clouds flitting, and with a little cheerful wind, and -the shining sun.’</p> - -<p>‘Why in winter, Joyce?’ he said, smiling. ‘You might as well put me in a -summer landscape if you are so fanciful! but you need not speak as if we -were to be parted for ages, or as if you might not see me again. I’m not -so dreadfully old, if that is what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘You will not be angry, father, if I speak to you of my old grandfather -at home. When I saw him last he did not see me. He was walking through -the corn, with his head bent and his heart sore. It was a bonnie summer -day, and the corn all rustling in the wind, and high, almost up to his -old bent shoulders. But he saw nothing, for he was thinking of poor -little Joyce that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389">{389}</a></span> had bred up from a baby, and that was going away. -I have been a great trouble to everybody that has cared for me.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I did not think enough of what it was to these old people, -Joyce. To be sure, it was a loss never to be made up; but then when they -knew it was for your good——’</p> - -<p>‘It is for our good,’ said Joyce, ‘when we die: but it’s hard, hard to -take comfort in that. I have never had that to bear, but I’ve seen it; -and though a poor woman will believe that her little child has become -one of the angels and will never have any trouble more, yet her heart -will break just the same.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s true, that’s true,’ he said: ‘but it’s not a cheerful subject, -my dear, and just when your life is at its happiest——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you think, father,’ said Joyce, ‘that when you are at your -happiest it is like coming to an end?—for it seems as if heaven itself -couldn’t do any more for you, and the next step must just be coming down -among common folk.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say that to Bellendean,’ cried the Colonel, ‘for you may be sure -he thinks that heaven can do a good deal more for him, and you too.’</p> - -<p>But it was always an effort on the Colonel’s part to bring her back to -the contemplation of more cheerful prospects. She came in, however, -freshened by the lively wind, her colour raised, her hair playing about -her forehead in little rings, disentangled by the breeze, and was -cheerful at luncheon, responding to all that was said. When they had -left the table, she drew Mrs. Hayward aside for a moment, and asked if -she might keep the miniature which had been given her to wear the -previous night.</p> - -<p>‘I think so, Joyce: you have the best right to it. Ask your father, if -you have any doubt on the subject.’</p> - -<p>‘I would rather ask you. It was kind, kind to bring it to me: nobody -else would have had that thought.’</p> - -<p>‘I have always wanted to be kind,’ Mrs. Hayward said, moved by an -emotion which surprised her. ‘We may not always have understood each -other, Joyce. I may have been sometimes not quite just, and you were not -responsive. It was neither your fault nor mine. The circumstances were -hard upon us: but in the future——’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot call you mother,’ said Joyce. ‘You would maybe not like it, -and I’m slow, slow to move, and I could not. But I would like to call -you a true friend. I am sure you are a true friend. And we will never -misunderstand each other again.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, there’s a kiss to that bargain,’ said Elizabeth, with her eyes -full of tears. She said after a moment, with a tremulous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390">{390}</a></span> laugh, ‘But -we’ll misunderstand each other a hundred times, only after this it will -always come right.’</p> - -<p>There were no tears in Joyce’s eyes, but there was something in them -which was not usually there. Mrs. Hayward, after she had kissed her, -looked at her again with mingled anxiety and curiosity. ‘Joyce,’ she -said, ‘you are tired out. I don’t think you can have slept last night. -Go and lie down and rest a little. You have got that look that is in -your mother’s eyes.’</p> - -<p>When Joyce had gone upstairs, Mrs. Hayward went to the library, where -the Colonel was seated with his paper. She said to him that she was not -half so sure as she had been that Joyce was happy. ‘I thought there -could be no doubt about it. If ever two people were in love with each -other, I thought these two were: but I don’t feel so comfortable about -it now.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense, my dear!’ said the Colonel, who was a little drowsy. The room -was warm, and the paper not interesting, and he had been proposing to -himself to have a doze before Bellendean came to talk business and -settlements. Mrs. Hayward did not disturb him further, but she was -uneasy and restless. Some time after, she heard the outer door close, -and came out into the hall with a little unexplainable anxiety to know -who it was. ‘It was Miss Hayward, ma’am, a-going out for a walk,’ Baker -said. Mrs. Hayward thought it was strange that Joyce should choose that -time for going out, when Captain Bellendean might arrive at any moment. -And then she suggested to herself that perhaps Joyce had gone to meet -her lover——’ Anyhow, a little walk in the fresh air will do her good,’ -she said to herself.</p> - -<p>Norman arrived about half an hour afterwards, and was astonished and -evidently annoyed that Joyce was not there to receive him. He went into -the library, and had a long talk with the Colonel, and he came out again -to the drawing-room where the tea-table was set out; but no Joyce.</p> - -<p>‘Send up one of the maids to see if Miss Hayward is in her room,’ Mrs. -Hayward said.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Hayward have never come in, ma’am,’ said Baker; ‘for she never -takes no latch-key, and nobody but me has answered the door.’</p> - -<p>‘It is quite extraordinary. I cannot understand it,’ cried the mistress -of the house. And then the usual excuses were suggested. She must have -walked too far; she must have been detained. She had not taken her -watch, and did not know how late it was. Norman said nothing, but his -looks were dark; and thus the early evening past. The dinner-hour -approached, and they all went up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391">{391}</a></span>stairs somewhat silently to dress. Mrs. -Hayward was pale with fright, though she did not know of what she was -afraid. She had already sent off her own maid to go to Miss Marsham’s, -to Mrs. Sitwell’s, to the rectory, to inquire if Joyce was at either of -these places. But the answer was No; she had not been seen by any one. -What did it mean? They met in the drawing-room—Mrs. Hayward more scared -and pale, Captain Bellendean more dark and angry, than before.</p> - -<p>‘Where is Joyce?’ said the Colonel. ‘You don’t mean to say she has never -come back! Then there must be something wrong.’</p> - -<p>‘If she is staying away on account of me——’ said Bellendean, looking -almost black, with his eyebrows curved over his eyes, and his moustache -closing sternly over his mouth.</p> - -<p>‘On account of you! My dear fellow, what a strange idea! It’s only -because of you that I’m surprised at all,’ said the Colonel, as if it -had been the most ordinary thing in the world that Joyce should not come -home to dinner. Mrs. Hayward said nothing, but she was very pale; though -why Joyce should absent herself, or what was the meaning of it, she -could not guess. ‘Let us go in to dinner,’ said the Colonel. ‘If -anything had happened to her we must have heard at once. Probably she is -dressing in a hurry now, knowing that we will all fall upon her as soon -as she shows. Give my wife your arm, Bellendean.’ He was quite cheerful -and at ease now that there was really, as Mrs. Hayward reflected, -something to be anxious about; and he continued to talk and keep up the -spirits of the party throughout dinner; but it was a lugubrious meal.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward ran upstairs to Joyce’s room as soon as she was free. She -made a hurried survey of her tables and drawers, where nothing seemed to -be wanting. She stood bewildered in the orderly silent room, where -nothing had been disturbed since the morning—no signs of usage about, -no ribbon or brooch on the table, or disarray of any kind. How cold it -looked, how dead!—like a place out of which the inhabitant had gone. It -exercised a kind of weird influence upon her mind. She stood back in -alarm from the glass before which Joyce had stood last night, gazing -into the unknown. Mrs. Hayward was not at all superstitious, but it -frightened her to see the blank of the reflected vacancy, as if -something might come into it. It could not be more blank than the vacant -room, which threw no light whatever on the mystery. Where had she gone? -There could not be anything in those suggestions which she had made, not -without a chill of doubt, in the afternoon. Joyce could not be detained -anywhere all this time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392">{392}</a></span> could not have taken too long a walk, or -mistaken the time. It was impossible to believe in any such simple -solution now: nearly nine o’clock—and she knew that her lover was to be -here; and all the decorums of the dinner-hour and the regulations of the -house. No, no, that was impossible. Could she be ill?—could she——</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hayward started violently, though it was only a soft knock at the -door. ‘If you please, Miss Marsham is downstairs wishing to see you.’ -Ah, it was that then! she cried to herself, her heart giving a bound of -relief. She was ill. Something had happened—a sprained ankle, or some -easy matter of that kind. She ran downstairs relieved, almost gay. It -might be a troublesome business, but so long as that was all——</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham was standing in front of the fire with a large black veil -tied over her hat. She was one of the feeble sisters who are always -taking cold. She came forward quickly, holding out cold hands without -gloves. ‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘has Joyce come back? is it all right? is there -anything wrong?’</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean,’ cried Mrs. Hayward harshly, ‘that you’ve only come to ask -me questions—not to tell me anything?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Miss Marsham, clasping her thin hands, ‘then she must have -done it, though I did not advise her to do it: I did not understand——’</p> - -<p>‘What?’ cried Mrs. Hayward, darting upon her, seizing her arm.</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham told her story incoherently, as well as in her agitation -she could tell it. ‘She asked my advice. There was some lady whose heart -would be broken—who had never suffered, never been disappointed, and -who had to be saved. And there were two gentlemen—— I cannot tell you -any more—indeed, I cannot; I only half understood her. I told her—that -to sacrifice one’s self was always the easiest.’</p> - -<p>The gentlemen came in while Miss Marsham was speaking. The Colonel, -still quite cheerful, saying, ‘Depend upon it, we shall find her in the -drawing-room.’ Captain Bellendean was as dark as night. ‘I told -her—that to sacrifice one’s self was always the easiest,’ were the -words they heard as they came into the room; the sound of voices had -made their hearts jump. Norman had taken a quick step forward when he -saw that Mrs. Hayward was not alone. This strange figure was not like -Joyce, but who could tell?——</p> - -<p>‘I told her that it came easiest to women—that to sacrifice <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393">{393}</a></span>one’s -self——’</p> - -<p>‘To whom did you say that?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Captain Bellendean! if I said what was wrong. I did not understand -her. There was some one whose heart would be broken, a girl who had -never been disappointed. I said to sacrifice one’s self——’</p> - -<p>‘To sacrifice one’s self!’ cried Captain Bellendean, with a roll of low -sound like the roar of an animal in pain.</p> - -<p>‘I said it was the easiest—rather than to let some one else suffer, -whoever it might be. Oh, God forgive me—God forgive me—if I said -wrong!’</p> - -<p>At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hayward’s maid -came in. ‘If you please, ma’am,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘What is it? Miss Hayward has come back?’</p> - -<p>‘If you please, ma’am,’ said the maid, ‘some of her clothes are—not -there. And Mr. Baker says she sent away a box this morning.’</p> - -<p>‘Where is Baker?’ said the Colonel.</p> - -<p>He was not far off, but at the door, fully prepared for the emergency. -He did not wait to be questioned. ‘It was a box,’ he said, ‘like as Miss -Hayward have sent off before,—I didn’t take particular notice. The -baker took it to the station. He had his cart at the door.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean by a box!’ said the Colonel, to whom they all left -this examination, and who asked the question without excitement, as only -partially understanding the importance of it.</p> - -<p>‘A box, Colonel!—well, just a common sort of a box—like the ladies -sent to the ’Ospital Christmas-time—like Miss Hayward have sent off -before——’</p> - -<p>‘Did you see the address?’</p> - -<p>‘You see, ma’am, the baker, his cart was at the door,—and he ups and -says, if the young lady had no objection, he’d take it and welcome. So I -gives him a hand up with it, and never see the address—except just -London.’</p> - -<p>‘You are sure it was London?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, Colonel—at least, I wouldn’t like to take nothing in the -nature of an oath: but so far as being sure——’</p> - -<p>‘That will do,’ said Mrs. Hayward quickly. ‘Now, you may go.’ She burst -forth as soon as the door was closed, ‘She has done what her mother did; -but why—but why?’</p> - -<p>A little later, before this mournful company separated, Joyce’s little -writing-case was brought downstairs, and in it was found Andrew’s letter -and Mrs. Bellendean’s folded together. On a piece of paper -separate—which, however, had no appearance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394">{394}</a></span> being intended for a -letter—Joyce had written something in a large straggling hand, very -different from her usual neat writing. It was this——</p> - -<p>‘I can do no other thing. To him I would be mansworn—and to her no true -friend. And what I said was, Joyce will do—what is wanted of her. I can -do no other thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395">{395}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nearly</span> twenty-four hours later the chill of the wintry night had closed -over the village of Bellendean. The frosty weather had gone, and was -replaced by the clammy dampness and heavily charged atmosphere of a -thaw. There had been showers during the day, and a Scotch mist had set -in with the falling of the night. Janet Matheson and her old husband -were sitting on either side of the fire. Peter had got to feel the -severity of the winter weather, and though he still did his day’s work, -he was heavy and tired, and sat stretching his long limbs across the -hearth with that desire for more rest which shows the flagging of the -strength and spirit. Janet on the other side of the fire was knitting -the usual dark-grey stocking with yards of leg, which it was astonishing -to think could be always wanted by one man. They were talking little. An -observation once in half an hour or so, a little stir of response, and -then the silence would fall over them again, unbroken by anything but -the fall of the ashes from the grate, or the ticking of the clock. -Sometimes Janet would carry on a little monologue for a few minutes, to -which Peter gave here and there a deep growl of reply; but there was -little that could be called conversation between the old pair, who knew -all each other’s thoughts, and were ‘company’ to each other without a -word said. There were few sounds even outside: now and then a heavy foot -going by: now and then a boy running in his heavy shoes on some cold -errand. The cold and the rain had sent indoors all the usual stragglers -of the night.</p> - -<p>‘Yon letter’s near a week auld,’ said Peter. They had not been talking -of Joyce; but a quarter of an hour before had briefly, with a few -straggling remarks at long intervals, discussed the crop which ‘the -maister’ had settled upon for the Long Park, a selection of which Peter -did not approve; but no explanation was needed for this introduction of -a new subject. There could be no doubt between them as to what ‘yon -letter’ meant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396">{396}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘There’ll be anither the morn,’ said Janet, ‘when she has passed the -Thursday, it aye comes on the Saturday. She will have been thrang with -something or other. It’s the time coming on for a’ thae pairties and -balls.’</p> - -<p>Peter gave a long low subterraneous laugh. ‘It would be a queer thing,’ -he said, ‘for you and me to see oor Joyce at ane o’ thae grand balls.’</p> - -<p>‘And wherefore no?’ said Janet. ‘Take you my word for’t, she’ll aye be -ane o’ the bonniest there.’</p> - -<p>‘I’m no doubtin’ that,’ he said; and silence fell again over the cottage -kitchen—silence broken only after a long time by an impatient sigh from -Janet, who had just cast off her stocking, rounding the ample toe.</p> - -<p>‘Eh,’ she said, ‘just to hae ae glimpse of her! I would ken in a -moment.’</p> - -<p>‘What are ye wantin’ to ken?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, naething,’ said Janet, putting down the finished stocking after -pulling it into shape and smoothing it with her hand. She took up her -needles again and pulled out a long piece of worsted to set on the -other, with again a suppressed sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Siching and sabbing never mean naething,’ said Peter oracularly.</p> - -<p>‘Weel, weel! I would like to see in her bonnie face that she’s happy -amang thae strange folk. If ye maun ken every thocht that comes into a -body’s heart——’</p> - -<p>‘Hae ye ony reason——’ said Peter, and then paused with a ghost of his -usual laugh. ‘Ye’re just that conceited, ye think she canna be happy but -with you and me.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s maybe just that,’ said Janet.</p> - -<p>‘It’s just that. She has mair to mak’ her happy than the like of us ever -heard tell of. I wouldna wonder if ye were just jealous—o’ a’ thae -enterteenments.’</p> - -<p>‘I wouldna wonder,’ Janet said. And then there was a long silence again.</p> - -<p>Presently a faint sound of footsteps approaching from a distance came -muffled from the silence outside. The old people, with their rural habit -of attention to all such passing sounds, listened unawares each on their -side. Light steps in light shoes, not any of the heavy walkers of -Bellendean. Would it be somebody from the Manse coming from the station? -or maybe one of the maids from the House? They both listened without any -conscious reason, as village people do. At last Peter spoke—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397">{397}</a></span>—</p> - -<p>‘If she wasna hunders o’ miles away, I would say that was her step.’</p> - -<p>‘Dinna speak such nonsense,’ said Janet. Then suddenly throwing down her -needles with a cry, ‘It’s somebody coming here!—whisht, whisht,’ she -added to herself, ‘that auld man’s blethers puts nonsense in a body’s -heid.’ Janet rose up to her feet with an agitated cry. Some one had -touched the latch. She rushed to the door and turned the key— ‘We were -just gaun to oor beds,’ she cried, in a tone of apology.</p> - -<p>And then the door was pushed open from without. The old woman uttered a -shriek of wonder and joy, yet alarm, and with a great noise old Peter -stumbled to his feet.</p> - -<p>It was <i>her</i> or her ghost. The rain glistening upon her hat and her -shoulders—her eyes shining like brighter drops of dew—a colour on her -cheeks from the outdoor air, a gust of the fragrance of that outdoor -atmosphere—the ‘caller air’ that had always breathed about -Joyce—coming in with her. She stood and smiled and said, ‘It’s me,’ as -if she had come home after a day’s absence, as if no chasm of time and -distance had ever opened between.</p> - -<p>No words can ever describe the agitated moment of such a return, -especially when so unexpected and strange, exciting feelings of fear as -well as delight. They took her in, they brought her to the fire, they -took off her cloak which was wet, and the hat that was ornamented like -jewels with glistening drops of the Scotch mist. They made her sit down, -touching her shoulders, her hair, her arms, the very folds of her dress, -with fond caressing touches, laughing and crying over her. Poor old -Peter was inarticulate in his joy and emotion. Nothing but a succession -of those low rolling laughs would come from him, and great lakes of -moisture were standing under the furrows of his old eyebrows. He sat -down opposite to her, and did nothing but gaze at her with a tenderness -unspeakable, the ecstasy which was beyond all expression. Janet retained -her power of movement and of speech.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, my bonnie lamb! eh, my ain bairn! you’ve come back to see your auld -folk. And the Lord bless you, my darlin’! it’s an ill nicht for the like -of you—but we’ll warm you and dry you if we can do naething mair; and -there’s your ain wee room aye ready, and oh, a joyfu’ welcome, a joyfu’ -welcome!’</p> - -<p>‘No, granny, I cannot go back to my own room. I’ve come but for a -moment. I’m going away on a journey, and there’s little time, little -time. But I couldn’t pass by——’</p> - -<p>‘Pass by—— No, that would ha’ been a bonny business,’ said Peter, with -his laugh—‘to have passed by.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398">{398}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Joyce told them an incoherent story about a ship that was to sail -to-night. ‘I am going from Leith—and there was just an hour or two—and -I must be back by the nine o’clock train. It’s not very long, but I must -not lose my ship.’</p> - -<p>‘And are they with you, Joyce, waitin’ for you? and whatfor did ye no -bring the Cornel? The Cornal wasna proud—he didna disdain the wee bit -place. And no even a maid with ye to take care of ye! Oh ay, my bonnie -woman, weel I understand that—you would have naebody with ye to disturb -us, but just a’ to oorsels——’</p> - -<p>‘Ony fule,’ said Peter, ‘would see that.’</p> - -<p>‘We’re a’ just fules,’ said Janet, ‘for weel I see that, and yet I’m no -sure I’m pleased that she’s let to come her lane—for I would have her -guarded that nae strange wind, no, nor the rain, should touch her. I’m -wantin’ twa impossible things—that she should be attendit like a -princess, and yet that we should have her her lane, a’ to you and me.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s very cold outside,’ said Joyce, ‘and oh, so warm and cosy here! I -have never seen a place so warm nor so like home since I went away. -Granny, will you mask some tea though it’s so late? I think I would like -a cup of tea.’</p> - -<p>‘That will I!’ cried Janet, with a sense of pleasure such as a queen -might feel when her most beloved child asked her for a duchy or a -diamond. Her face shone with pure satisfaction and delight, and her -questions ran on as she moved to and fro, making the kettle boil (which -was always just on the eve of boiling), getting out her china teapot, -her best things, ‘for we maun do her a’ honour, like a grand visitor, -though she’s our ain bairn and no the least changed——’ These -observations Janet addressed to Peter, though they were mingled with a -hundred tender things to Joyce, and so mixed that the change of the -person was hard to follow.</p> - -<p>‘Whatfor should she be changed?’ said Peter, with his tremulous growl of -happiness. The old man sat, with an occasional earthquake of inward -laughter passing over him, never taking his eyes from her. He was less -critical than Janet; no suspicions or fears were in his mind. He took -her own account of herself with profound faith. Whatfor should she be -changed? Whatfor should she be otherwise than happy? She had come to see -them in the moment she had in the middle of her journey, alone, as was -natural—for anybody with her would have made a different thing of it -altogether, and weel did Joyce ken that. He was thoroughly satisfied, -and more blessed than words could say. He sat well<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399">{399}</a></span> pleased and -listened, while Janet told her everything that had passed. Although it -had been told in letters, word of mouth was another thing, and Joyce had -a hundred questions to put. She was far more concerned to hear -everything that could be told her than to tell about herself; but if -Peter remarked this at all, it was only as a perfection the more in his -‘bonnie woman’—his good lassie that never thought of herself.</p> - -<p>‘And oh, but the Captain was kind, kind!’ said Janet. ‘He came and sat -where ye are sitten’, my bonnie doo, and just tauld me everything I -wanted to ken—how ye were looking, and the way ye were speaking, and -that you and the Cornel were great friends, and the very things ye were -dressed in, Joyce. He must have taken an awfu’ deal of notice to mind -everything. He would just come and sit for hoors——’</p> - -<p>Joyce moved her seat a little farther from the fire. The heat was great, -and had caught her cheek and made it flush. It grew white again when she -withdrew from the glow, but she smiled and said in a low tone, ‘He is -very kind: and you would see the lady, granny, and Miss Greta.’</p> - -<p>‘No for a long time. You had always a great troke with them, Joyce, and -they with you, but when once my bonnie bird was flown, it’s little they -thought of your old granny. There was a great steer about the Captain -and her, but I kenna if it was true. There’s aye a talk aboot something, -but the half o’t is lees. He’s owre good for her, it’s my opinion. I’ve -a real soft corner for the Captain.’</p> - -<p>‘He kent the way to get roond ye,’ said Peter, ‘aye flatterin’ aboot -that bit lassie there.’</p> - -<p>‘He was real kind. He would just sit for hours, and mind everything.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, interrupting hastily, ‘you have told me nothing -about the new mistress, and how she took up my place.’</p> - -<p>‘But I wrote it a’ down in my letters,’ said Janet. ‘That’s no like word -of mouth, you’re thinking? Well, you see, Joyce’—and Janet went over -the whole career of the new schoolmistress, who had not given entire -satisfaction. ‘As wha could?’ said the old woman. ‘Ye just spoiled them, -they could get nobody that would have pleased them after you.’</p> - -<p>‘You’re no asking aboot Andrew,’ said Peter.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, poor lad!’ cried Janet, ‘I wouldna have wondered if he had come -ower the nicht: but now it’s too late.’</p> - -<p>‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, with a little cry of alarm, ‘you’ll say nothing -to Andrew? Oh, not a word! Never let him know I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400">{400}</a></span> was here. I would fain, -fain not be unkind—but there are some things that cannot be. Oh, I was -very silly, I should have known. You’ll tell him to think of me no -more—that I’m not worthy of it; but, oh, never tell I’ve been here.’</p> - -<p>‘No, my bonnie lamb, no, my ain dear. He never was worthy o’ you. He -shall hear not a word—nor nae ither person, if that’s your pleasure, -Joyce.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, granny dear! but it’s time now, and I must go.’</p> - -<p>Janet’s heart was very heavy; but there was no time for questions, and -she saw that Joyce was little disposed to explain. ‘We’ll go with her to -the station, and see her off,’ she said, taking her big shawl out of the -aumrie. ‘I’m laith, laith to part with you, Joyce: but it would be nae -kindness to make ye late, and they’ll be meeting you at the train.’</p> - -<p>‘I must not be late,’ Joyce replied. She looked round with a faint -smile, and tears were in her eyes, and her lips moved as if she was -saying something. Janet’s heart was sore for her child. Why was she left -to travel all alone in a wild and dark night like this? Why should she -say nothing of her father, or of any one that was with her? Janet’s mind -misgave her—she was full of fears: Joyce was ‘no hersel’. She was very -loving, very tender, and smiled, and tried to look at ease; but she -could not deceive the old woman whom love enlightened, who knew all her -ways and her looks. There was something in her eyes which Janet did not -know. She did not understand what it meant, but it meant trouble. There -was trouble written all over Joyce. Her fond old guardian knew not what -it was, only knew it was there.</p> - -<p>The two old people went to the station with her through the windy, -weeping night, saying little on either side. Joyce clasped her old -grandmother’s arm tightly in hers, but scarcely spoke, and Peter stalked -beside them, half exhilarated, half heart-broken—he did not know which. -To have had her for a little was sweet, but then to see her go away. She -clung to them, crying quietly under her veil, as they put her into a -corner of a vacant carriage—not without a forlorn pride that it was -first class—and wrapped her cloak round her. They had no fine phrases, -but to smooth the folds of her dress, to tuck the cloak round her, was -always some faint satisfaction. ‘I’ll write,’ she said, ’as soon as I -can, but it may be long. You’ll not lose heart, only wait, wait, and -I’ll write——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my darlin’, we’ll wait—but, Joyce, where are you goin’, where are -you goin’, that you speak like that?’</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye, grandfather,—good-bye, granny, dear granny!’</p> - -<p>Janet clutched Peter with a grasp that hurt even that old arm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401">{401}</a></span> of his, -all muscle and sinew. ‘Noo,’ she said, in an imperative whisper, ‘gang -hame to your bed: I’m goin’ after her. Dinna say a word to me, but gang -hame to you bed. I’ll come back the morn’s morning, or as soon as I -can.’</p> - -<p>‘Gaun after her! and what good will that do her?’ cried Peter in -consternation.</p> - -<p>‘At least, I’ll see her safe,’ said Janet, clambering into a third-class -carriage. The train was almost in motion, and carried her off before her -astonished husband could say another word. The old man stood bewildered, -and looked after the train which carried them both from him. But he had -that inexhaustible rural patience which makes so many things -supportable. After a few minutes he went away, slowly shaking his head. -‘She has nae ticket,’ he said to himself, ‘and little money in her -pooch, and what guid can she do in ony case?’ But after a while he -obeyed Janet’s injunction and went slowly home.</p> - -<p>It was hard work for Janet to keep sight of Joyce when they came to the -great Edinburgh station: she was little accustomed to crowds—to be -hustled and pushed about as a poor old woman getting out of a -third-class carriage so often is: but fortunately her eyes had kept the -long sight of youth, and she managed to trace the movements of her -child. One thing was sure, that nobody was there to meet Joyce, not even -a maid. The girl made her way by dark passages and corners to the place -where another little train was starting for Leith, where Janet followed -her breathless. It was very raw and cold, windy and gusty, the wind -blowing about the light of the lamps, driving wild clouds across the -sky, dashing rain from time to time against the carriage windows, and -the atmosphere was dreary with a sense of the wilder darkness of the -approaching sea. Presently they came to the port and to the quay, where -a confused mass of vessels, made half visible by the flaring melancholy -lights, lay together, with lamps swinging at their masts. The pavement -was wet and slippery, the wind was keen and cold, and blew blasts of -stinging rain like tears over her face as she toiled along. But she -never lost sight of Joyce. The Firth was tumbling in dark waves, faintly -visible in a liquid line, apparent at least so far that it was not solid -earth, but something wilder, more dreadful, insecure—and it raved and -dashed against the pier and the sides of the ships, sometimes sending up -a leaping white vision of spray like something flying at your throat, -and always a sound as of contending voices, the shout of oncoming, the -long grinding drag of the withdrawal as wave followed wave. The boats -moved and creaked at anchor, the lamps and dim masts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402">{402}</a></span> and funnels rising -and falling. There were gangways each with its little coloured smoky -lamp, from one steamboat to another, lying ready to start, three or four -deep against the pier. Janet saw the solitary figure which she had -tracked so long pause, as if with a moment’s hesitation, at the first of -these gangways, and she made a rush forward at the last after this long -course, to grip her child by the dress, by whatever thing she could -clutch and hold, and cry, ‘No, no; you’ll gang no further! oh, Joyce, my -bairn, you’ll gang no further!’ But she slipped and fell, being -exhausted with the long and weary walk, and, breathless with labour and -fatigue, could get nothing out but a panting No, no, which had no -meaning. When she got to her feet again the slim figure was gone. She -thought she could trace it on the farthest point, standing upon the -paddle-box of the steamer, and ever after believed that the speck of -whiteness in the dark was Joyce’s face turned back towards home. That -was the last she saw.</p> - -<p>The old woman stood upon the pier for long after. She stood and watched -while a few other passengers arrived, talking dolefully about the stormy -night, and tried to take a little comfort thinking that perhaps ‘the -Cornel’ might be among them, and Joyce after all have a protector and -companions. There was one tall man, indeed, speaking ‘high English,’ -whom Janet almost made up her mind, with an unspeakable lightening of -her heart, must be ‘the Cornel.’ Her old eyes could not trace him -through the maze of the steamboats to the one upon which she had kept a -despairing watch: but fatigue and misery had by this time dimmed her -faculties. Then that farthest boat, the one that held her child, with -shouts and shrieks of steam, and lights wavering through the gloom, and -every dreadful noise, got into motion, and went out upon the tumbling, -stormy sea. Janet watched the light rising and sinking, the only thing -visible, till that too disappeared in the darkness. And then all was -quiet but the booming of the Firth against the piers, and the creek and -jar of the other steamboats preparing to follow. She withdrew a little -and leant against a post, and dried her eyes with a trembling hand. ‘Oh, -my bairn! my bairn!’ she said to herself.</p> - -<p>‘What ails the woman?’ said the watchman on the pier. ‘There’s naething -to make a wark about; they’ll get a bit heezy, but nae danger. It’ll be -a son or a daughter ye’ve been seeing off.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, man, I’m thankful to you!’ said Janet. ‘Are they a’ for the same -airt.’</p> - -<p>‘They’re a’ for the far north,’ said the watchman, continuing his heavy -march.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403">{403}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Janet</span> had scarcely recovered the use of her tired limbs next morning and -begun languidly to ‘redd up’ the cottage, with many anxious thoughts in -her breast, when an unusual sound of masculine footsteps attracted her -attention. She was in a very nervous, vigilant state, expecting she knew -not what, although it had seemed as if everything had happened that -could happen, now that Joyce had come—and gone so mysteriously: that -she should come had always been a possibility before, but now was so no -longer. The tramp of these imperative feet, not the slow tread of -labouring men, attracted her anxious ear some distance off. She put away -her brush and listened. The door stood open though the morning was cold, -and a ray of pale and watery sunshine came in. Janet was afraid to look -out, with an instant swift intuition and alarm lest somehow her child’s -interest might be involved, and she could scarcely be said to be -surprised when she saw the Captain, accompanied by an older grey-haired -man whom she at once recognised as ‘the Cornel.’ ‘Eh, but I must be -careful. She wasna with him after a’,’ said Janet to herself. She had -been very tremulous and shaken with fatigue and anxiety, but she braced -herself up in a moment and stood firmly on the defensive, whatever might -be about to happen. The two gentlemen looked harassed and anxious. They -came straight to the cottage door without any pause or hesitation. ‘Is -Miss Joyce here?’ the Captain asked breathless, without even mainners to -say good morning, as Janet remarked.</p> - -<p>‘Na, Captain, she’s no here.’</p> - -<p>‘My good woman,’ said the Colonel, breathless, too, ‘don’t be unkind, -but tell us where my daughter is. We’ve come from London. I never denied -your interest in her—never opposed her love for you. Bellendean will -tell you. Let me see Joyce, for God’s sake!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404">{404}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Colonel,’ said Janet, with a little tremble, ‘you should see her if she -was in my keeping without such a grand plea. But she’s no here. I -thought till this moment she was with—her ain folk.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t try to deceive us,’ cried Captain Bellendean, ‘we have traced her -here.’ He was very much agitated to have forgotten his ‘mainners’ in -this wonderful way.</p> - -<p>‘Track or no track,’ said Janet, ‘you’ll get no lies frae me. Yes, she’s -been here. There’s the chair she sat upon only yestreen and late at -nicht wi’ Peter and me.’</p> - -<p>The Colonel came in and looked at the chair with the instinct of a -simple mind. It seemed to throw a certain light upon Joyce’s -disappearance. ‘Then where is she now?’ he said, with a sigh of -impatience and disappointment. ‘Let me sit down, if you please, for all -my strength seems to have gone out of me. Where is she now?’</p> - -<p>‘That’s mair than I can tell,’ said Janet with the fervour of undeniable -truth.</p> - -<p>‘We are in great trouble,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘She has gone -away—in a mistake. Janet, you’re very fond of her, I know. She has been -troubled about Halliday the schoolmaster, and—some one else. She has -thought the best thing was to go away—and it’s the worst thing. It’s -misery to everybody. I know you’re fond of her.’</p> - -<p>‘Fond of her!’ said Janet. She said to herself that it was a bonnie -question to be asked of her that would give her last drop of blood for -Joyce. ‘Ay, ye may say I’m fond of her,’ she replied grimly.</p> - -<p>‘And it is all a mistake. She’s taken up a mistaken idea. Halliday had -no such claim upon her—nor had—any other. It was altogether a false -fear. I would never—for pity’s sake, if you can tell us anything. You -know me! She would never be forced to anything. She might have been sure -of that,’ the Captain added hurriedly, with a flush of forlorn pride.</p> - -<p>‘Eh, Captain,’ said Janet, ‘I would be far, far happier if I kent where -she was. She just said, “I’m goin’ on a voyage, and that she had come to -see us.” And it was my belief that the Cornel and his lady were just -waiting upon her at Leith.’</p> - -<p>‘At Leith!’ they both exclaimed. Then Colonel Hayward turned to the -Captain with an air of relief. ‘It’s but a little port, isn’t it? We’ll -soon be on the track now.’</p> - -<p>‘At least,’ said Janet, ‘I’m thinking it was Leith, for where else would -she gang to join a ship? but I thought naething but that the Cornel and -his lady were waiting upon her—for ane o<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405">{405}</a></span>’ your toors, or whatever you -ca’ them,’ she added, with a certain tone of disdain.</p> - -<p>‘And she said she was going—where?’</p> - -<p>‘She said it would be a long voyage. Ye needna think to trap me, -Captain—it’s no like you—as if I was speaking a falsehood with your -“Where?” Na; she said not a word to me, but just a long voyage. I would -gie my little finger to ken,’ cried Janet, with tears; ‘but she said not -a word to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Are there boats for America at Leith? God bless my soul! poor little -trading things—not even a mail-boat where she could have been -comfortable,’ cried the Colonel. And then he added, ‘You must think -we’ve been cruel to her to drive her away; but it’s not so—it’s not so. -Bellendean will tell you.’</p> - -<p>Janet remained grimly silent, offering no contradiction.</p> - -<p>As for the Captain, he turned his back upon them both before he gave the -called-for testimony. ‘She is flying from love,’ he said, in a choked -voice. ‘And to sacrifice herself for—us: and to make us all miserable!’ -If he was angry as well as unhappy, there was perhaps little wonder.</p> - -<p>‘That’s a’ I can tell ye,’ said Janet. ‘We saw her off from the station, -Peter and me. I had nae thought but that her father—her father that she -belonged to, that took her from me—would be waitin’ for her at the -other end. I never said a word to keep her from her duty to her ain -folk; but if I had kent she was her lane, going forth upon the wide -world and the sea, on a wild night—Lord! I would have followed her to -the ends o’ the earth,’ cried Janet, with hot fervour and tears.</p> - -<p>But she said nothing of how far she had followed. How did she know that -it might not be prejudicial to Joyce? If Joyce had left them it could -not be without reason. No doubt she had kept secret about her -destination lest it should be found out by her pursuers. ‘She might have -kent me better, that I would have stood for her against all the land and -never let on I kent,’ the old woman said to herself. But it was no doubt -better that within the strict boundaries of truth she could thus baffle -the pursuit and confuse all researches. But what had the Captain to do -with it? and what did they mean by flying from love? This gave Janet a -cold thrill for many a day.</p> - -<p>The search was long, and extended over many seas. Though there was no -mail-boat for America, there were, as the Colonel divined, ‘trading -things,’ but no trace in any of them of Joyce; and there were ships for -the Mediterranean and many other places. Half a dozen times at least -they thought they were on her track,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406">{406}</a></span> but failed and failed again. She -had but little money for a long voyage. All indeed was darkness from the -time when they traced her to the station at Bellendean. A young lady in -company with an old woman had been seen at Leith; but Janet, who alone -could have thrown any light on this, remained silent. Indeed, she had no -confession to make, for she had only been with Joyce as a watcher is -with the object of his stealthy pursuit. And Janet was all the more safe -a guardian that she knew absolutely nothing. There never departed from -her old eyes the vision of the lamp upon the mast, tossing with the -movement of the waves, disappearing into the blackness of the night, a -forlorn spark in the immeasurable vacancy of invisible sky and sea. -Where had that symbol of humanity gone? what fathomless gloom had it -penetrated with its faint-coloured gleam of living? All her superiority -over the others lay in the image of that tossing light, and the faint -spars it illuminated for a moment in the black gulf of the unknown.</p> - -<p>So Joyce disappeared and was seen no more.</p> - -<p>Miss Marsham never forgot nor could think, without a sinking of the -heart, of that unfortunate night when the oracle had spoken by her -mouth, all unaware of the nature of the being addressed, or the tragical -matters involved. For the consequences of that self-sacrifice were -disastrous all round. The Haywards’ pleasant house was shut up, while -they travelled the world, looking for the lost girl. Mrs. Hayward was -the most energetic in the pursuit—for the Colonel, though he missed her -more, and was more ‘fond’ of Joyce, had neither any sense of wrong to -move him, nor any prick of the intolerable such as wrings the heart of -an impatient woman, half thinking herself to blame. Canon Jenkinson, -though so much less concerned, would probably not have gone to America -at all on that famous expedition of his, about which his well-known book -was written, had it not been for a hope that in some American school or -lecture-hall he would find her, though everybody else failed. Norman -Bellendean was affected most of all. He had a dreadful scene with his -step-mother, from which that poor lady did not recover for a long time; -and instead of going home, and finally allowing himself to be drawn into -the natural circle of county politics and relationships, with Greta for -his pretty and happy wife, as had been desired and hoped—he went back, -sullen and wretched, a misanthrope and woman-hater, to his regiment in -India, leaving his estate in the hands of an agent, the house shut up -and uninhabited. Greta married after a while, and was just as -comfortable as if she had attained the man of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407">{407}</a></span> first choice, whose -loss it was believed would break her heart. She was the only one quite -unaffected by all that had taken place, although her comfort was the one -prevailing cause of all this trouble. Mrs. Bellendean was severed once -for all from Bellendean and everything near. And yet she could say to -herself truly that she meant no harm, that she had never expected -serious harm to follow. All she meant was to avert an unsuitable -marriage, which it is every woman’s duty to do, by encouraging a girl, -who was already engaged, and had no right to accept another man’s -attentions, to keep to her plighted word. Perhaps it was hard upon her -to suffer so much for so little—and almost harder, seeing that Greta, -in whose interests she acted, did not suffer at all.</p> - -<p>Andrew Halliday, who also was, so far as he was aware, perfectly -innocent, and who never knew what harm he had done by betraying Joyce’s -story to the very respectable lady, the minister’s wife, who had been so -kind to him—came through the trial as a man of native worth and -respectability was likely to do. He waited for some time hoping to hear -from Joyce, who, he felt sure, even if circumstances separated her from -her family, would communicate with him. He thought the step she had -taken ill-judged and excessive, even though it was in consequence of -their opposition to the wishes of her heart in respect to himself. -‘These hasty steps are always to be regretted,’ Andrew said, ‘especially -as no doubt the Cornel would have been brought to see what was best for -her interest if she had but given him a little time.’ But when months -came and brought no sign, Andrew’s dignified disapproval changed into a -judicial anger. ‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘she never had any real -perception of her own best interests.’ And in course of time he married -a very respectable lady with a little money, and was much happier than -he could have been with Joyce.</p> - -<p>And silence closed over Joyce and all her ways: she sank out of sight as -if she had never been. Her name and image lingered in some faithful -recollections, then in mystery and silence disappeared, and was seen and -heard no more.</p> - -<p>It was curious, however, that within a year Janet and Peter Matheson -disappeared also from their cottage. They sold their few goods, ‘no able -to bide the place after what had happened,’ Janet said. But Peter, -instead of echoing this judgment, shook with a long low subterranean -laugh, such as used to mark his enjoyment of Joyce’s remarks and -pleasant ways. They disappeared and nobody ever knew where they had -gone. ‘To their friends in the North,’ the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408">{408}</a></span> village people said, but -nobody before had ever heard of these friends.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It was not till years after that there came a curious rumour to the -mainland far away at the most distant point of Scotland, of a great -transformation that had been going on in one of the most remote and -inaccessible of the isles. Whether it was St. Kilda or the Fair Isle, or -some other scrap of rock and mountain in the middle of the wild northern -seas, this chronicler has no information. But the legend ran that -suddenly, upon a wild wintry afternoon, a lady had landed on that -island. Whether her wealth was boundless and her power miraculous, as -some said, could not be proved save by rare visitors to the islands. But -at all events, there seemed no reason to doubt that she had acquired a -wonderful ascendancy, and made many extraordinary changes among the -primitive people. She taught them many things, among others what -domestic comfort and cleanliness and beneficent learning meant, and knew -everything, according to the story. The few sportsmen who touched upon -these wild shores were not, however, ever gratified with a sight of this -Princess of the Isle. They heard of the lady, but never saw her, and -from their wondering accounts and conjectures, it appeared that she was -young, and considered by her subjects beautiful. But no stranger nor -Englishman, nor any wandering visitor, has ever found out more than this -respecting the Lady of the Isle.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END<br /><br /><br /> -<i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">R. & R. Clark</span>, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Grounds of a country-house.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Large oval dish.</p></div> - -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Joyce, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOYCE *** - -***** This file should be named 61378-h.htm or 61378-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/3/7/61378/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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