JOYCE 
 
JOYCE 
 
 BY 
 
 MES. OLIPHANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'THE SECOND SON,' C A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN,' 
 'THE wizard's SON,' *EFFIE OOILVIE,' ETC. 
 
 3lontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1891 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
First Edition (3 Vols. Crown Zvo) 1888 
 
 Second Edition (1 Vol. Crown Zvo), 1889 
 
 Reprinted 1891 
 
&4 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 apprehen- 
 sion. Perhaps it would be wiser to say that he thought he was 
 acquainted with the world. He had been i 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 
 & B 
 
 477 
 
2 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 Scot- 
 land 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 button- 
 hole, or gamin who held his horse. He had the defects as well 
 as the virtues common to a dominant race, and probably was im- 
 perious 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 some- 
 how 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 Bel- 
 lendean 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 
 
I JOYCE 3 
 
 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 every- 
 thing that was not he, these gentlemen were thrown into the back- 
 ground, where they grinned and looked on. Colonel Hay ward, 
 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 j ' 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 pre- 
 tensions, 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 j 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 moun- 
 tains, 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 
 
4 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. , 
 
 1 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 con- 
 fusion and excitement of seeing you again, I believe I have not 
 asked for Mrs. Bellendean I ' 
 
 The reader is too experienced not to perceive that this question, 
 which bewildered Colonel Hayward, conveyed the not very extra- 
 ordinary 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. 
 
I JOYCE 5 
 
 ' 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 Hay ward 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 satis- 
 faction,' 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 eye- 
 lashes 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 
 
6 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. i Ay, sir, she's a very bonnie lass,' 
 said one old man. ' A bonnie lass ! a bonnie lass ! ' the Colonel 
 repeated j 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 1 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 ex- 
 plained 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 him- 
 self, 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 plough- 
 men'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 lingerin 
 
 ng 
 
i JOYCE 7 
 
 northern daylight, partly the moon, and he shut his eyes while he 
 smoked his cigar and pondered. He could see her fi 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 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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. 
 
8 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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, some- 
 thing 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 1 The clergyman's daughter per- 
 haps ; 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 back- . 
 ground 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 
 princa Then he saw a quite different sort of man from Norman 
 one of the schoolmasters, go to her in his turn and say something 
 
I JOYCE 9 
 
 in her ear, with an evident claim upon her attention and a linger- 
 ing 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 move- 
 ment 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 1 ' 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. 
 
 4 Joyce! Good God!' 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 Colonel Haywakd 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. 
 1 Joyce ! Good Lord ! ' But presently the urgency of the circum- 
 stances 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. 
 
 1 This is the very best girl in the world, Colonel Hay ward/ 
 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 plea- 
 sure. ■ 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 j 
 her hands were not delicate like theirs : and she said * mem ' to 
 
chap, ii JOYCE 11 
 
 her patroness with an accent which Ah ! but what did 
 
 that accent remind him of? and the face ? and, good heavens ! 
 the name 1 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 after- 
 wards. 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 V 
 
 The young woman stood for a moment without replying. 
 ' How can I help wondering V she said, with a long-drawn breath. 
 ' How can I think of common things 1 Nobody has ever asked 
 me that question before.' Then, with a sudden effort, she re- 
 covered 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 V 
 
 ' 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 V 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 
 
12 JOYCE chap, 
 
 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, sur- 
 veying 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. ' 
 
 1 Hoping to find out — what V 
 
 1 Oh, my dear Colonel, it is a long story. I will tell you after- 
 wards — 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 1 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 V ' Shall I stand V l What am I to do V 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
ii JOYCE 13 
 
 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 be- 
 yond 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 V 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 Shake- 
 speare 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 
 
14 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 two of them ! and one this won- 
 derful girl 1 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 V 
 
 ' 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 / 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 
 
ii JOYCE 15 
 
 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 j 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 1 ' 
 
 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 1 ' he said. 
 
 The old woman was a little startled and fluttered by this un- 
 expected 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 1 ' 
 
 The old woman's mouth and her eyes opened in astonishment. 
 ' Joyce,' she said feebly, ' a family name V 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
16 JOYCE chap. 
 
 'In the little girls and their " pieces V" said Mr. Bellendean. 
 
 ■ In the young lady there who has taken so much trouble. ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 1 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. 
 
 1 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 dan- 
 gerous 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 
 
n JOYCE 17 
 
 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 won- 
 dering 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. 
 1 What does it mean ? ' he said ; ' I feel as if I could not tear my- 
 self away. Who is she ? There must be something in a resem- 
 blance like that.' 
 
 1 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 1 
 It is really something — something ! Oh, forgive me. I cannot 
 have her disturbed. She is all quivering with imagination and 
 wonder.' 
 
 1 Mrs. Bellendean, there is some mystery about this girl. Why 
 should she wonder, why should she be disturbed I 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 begin- 
 ning 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.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 para- 
 phernalia of a country lady who ' takes an interest ' in her poorer 
 neighbours. It was the room in which Mrs. Bellendean inter- 
 viewed 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 excite- 
 ment which he had tried to put off, which he had tried to repre- 
 sent 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 1 Tell me her other name.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
chap. in. JOYCE 19 
 
 ' 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 ol place where people coming out from Edin- 
 burgh on Sundays ' 
 
 He made her a little silent yet impatient sign of assent. 
 
 ' You understand 1 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 per- 
 haps 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 narra- 
 tive, startled by the sudden movement, and sat silent watching 
 him. He said, in a sort of hoarse whisper, ' She died \ ' 
 
 1 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 inter- 
 ested 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.' 
 
20 JOYCE chap. 
 
 Colonel Hay ward said with his lips, ' The letters V scarcely 
 making any sound. 
 
 1 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 1 What do you say 1 Name 1 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 w r hat she was saying. Then he himself with an effort 
 broke the silence. She leaned forward with the greatest excite- 
 ment 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 1 ' 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 
 
in JOYCE 21 
 
 boorish fellow you must think me, not to perceive that you were 
 standing. How can I beg your pardon 1 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. 
 1 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 1 Only your son's old colonel ; and he is not even 
 your son.' 
 
 4 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 ! ' 
 
 1 1 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, 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 1 ' 
 
 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.' 
 
22 JOYCE chap. 
 
 '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 I ' 
 
 ' She will come by the first train, whenever that may be.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 My wife,' he said gravely ; ' my wife. Yes, she is very im- 
 portant. 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. Bellen- 
 dean, but faltered again at this as if she had struck him a blow. 
 
 1 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 ele- 
 ment 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 
 
in JOYCE 23 
 
 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 1 That was the most probable ex- 
 planation. 
 
 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 her- 
 self 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 under- 
 stood 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 de- 
 precating 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. 
 
24 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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 gentle- 
 men.' 
 
 4 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 f Oh no, no ! ' 
 
 Greta stood looking round upon her somewhat rebellious 
 following. ' 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, we must have Joyce ! ' cried the chorus. ' Joyce is 
 indispensable. None of us know much about Queen Margaret. 
 Please let us have Joyce.' 
 
 1 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 com- 
 plimented 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 1 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 V 
 
 ' 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 
 
in JOYCE 25 
 
 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. Bellen- 
 dean 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 prin- 
 cess, or, in any case, something altogether out of the common way ! 
 
 4 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 V said the matter-of-fact, common-sense voice of Mr. 
 Bellendean. 
 
 He was a man said to be full of common-sense. His wife con- 
 sidered 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 Hay ward?' she 
 asked. 
 
26 JOYCE chap, in 
 
 ' Acquainted 1 with old Hay ward? Oh yes, I think so/ he 
 said, with a little surprise. 
 
 'Then who is Elizabeth V 
 
 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, 
 1 have you found her out S 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.' 
 
 1 She is coming here to-morrow/ said Mrs. Bellendean. 
 
 1 Coming here ! none of us have ever seen her/ he replied. 
 1 She was always at the hills, or home for her health, or some- 
 thing ; 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 1 Don't 
 say that, please.' 
 
 I One of your usual hasty proceedings, my dear ; but it would 
 be some fun to have a Begum in the house.' 
 
 I 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 hus- 
 bands would always treat them so.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
CHAPTEK 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 patri- 
 archal 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 
 
28 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 nae thing 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.' 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 1 What did you think of it all, granny ? Who did you like 
 best ? Did you like the tableau, with the Queen and the ladies 1 
 Wasn't it like a picture ? I wonder if the real Queen Margaret 
 was as handsome as ours, and all her maidens as sweet.' 
 
 1 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 
 
iv JOYCE 29 
 
 fancies ; and they just do what ye tell them, it seems to me, young 
 and auld, and the leddy herseF. 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.' 
 
 ' 1 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 1 ' 
 said her guardian quickly. 'Na, na; there's to be nae talk 
 about gentlemen between you and me.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 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.' 
 
 I 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 1 " ' 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 I 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 
 
30 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 
 — 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, 
 
iv JOYCE 31 
 
 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 1 The Lady Joyce, with which old Janet taunted 
 her, had not been altogether a fiction. Who could say 1 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 1 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 1 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 de- 
 termined 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 Halli- 
 day, 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 commend- 
 ation, 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 
 
32 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 invin- 
 cible 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 under- 
 stood, could do that 1 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 l 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- 
 
iv JOYCE 33 
 
 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 im- 
 patiently 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 Mar- 
 garet 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 excite- 
 ment. 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. 
 
 1 We want to have tableaux,' cried the girl j ■ it was you your- 
 self 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 
 
34 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 fihe 
 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 con- 
 scious effort, making the most of her hindrances — ' I am expecting 
 a friend to-night.' 
 
 | A friend 1— that will be Andrew Halliday,' said the old woman, 
 again interposing anxiously; 'you can see him ony day of the 
 week j 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.' 
 
 1 If Joyce is tired, Mrs. Matheson,' said Greta, <I will not have 
 
iv JOYCE 35 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Yes, yes, I am coming/ cried Joyce suddenly • ' I was only 
 what granny calls cankered and out of heart. ' 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 1 1 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 some- 
 thing. 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 !' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 in- 
 distinct 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 j 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 
 
chap, v JOYCE 37 
 
 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 some- 
 thing in that. It enabled her to feel a consolatory thrill of dis- 
 dainful 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 ' 
 
 4 There could not be a better time/ said Joyce, 'at the be- 
 ginning of the holidays.' 
 
 1 Has something gone wrong with you to-night 1 — 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 1 Who was it they referred to for everything to-night 1 
 — 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 
 
38 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 ' 
 
 1 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, 
 1 should I have been like them 1 They would have talked and 
 been kind ; they would have asked me questions. What would 
 you like, Joyce \ — a cup of tea I Have you seen these pictures, 
 Joyce 1 What can we show her to amuse her 1 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, kind- 
 ness, more than everybody else 1 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.' 
 
 1 If you think you are explaining, you are making a mistake/ 
 said Joyce, — ' you are only repeating what I said.' 
 
7 JOYCE 39 
 
 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 jirine, 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 involun- 
 tary 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 com- 
 panion, who was going on quite easily, she blushed to her hair, to 
 her heels, with a glow all over her. 
 
 1 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, 
 
40 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 1 Do you think he would care to hear his own poems 1 I think he 
 would rather go up to the house, where nobody would be afraid of 
 him.' 
 
 1 Afraid of him ! why should we be afraid ? I hope our manners 
 are good enough for — as good as ' 
 
 1 Oh, what do you mean about manners ? doesn't that just prove 
 what I say 1 — 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 / 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 
 
v JOYCE 41 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 What would that matter 1 ' cried this stern philosopher. ' 1 
 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, hold- 
 ing 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 ' 
 
 1 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 : ii 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.' 
 
42 JOYCE chap. 
 
 He tried again to take her hand. 'Not silly, perhaps,' he 
 said i ' 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 prin- 
 ciples as well as her own to maintain the loftiest decorum. They 
 walked down side by side, with quiet gravity and propriety, talk- 
 ing of what Mr. Halliday called 'the topics of the day': the suc- 
 cess 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 com- 
 motions 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. 
 
 \ You'll be them,' Janet had said, as the two slim figures sud- 
 denly rose out of the white distance. 
 
 • How can ye tell it's them ? It might be onybody,' said Peter, 
 in his deep voice. 
 
V . JOYCE 43 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
 1 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 wautin' my supper. I canna fill my wame 
 with the moonlicht, like you twa.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 lamp- 
 light 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 
 1 Good-night ' at them in passing, while the talk went on within. 
 
 1 Weel, and did a' yon nonsense come to pass, and were ye 
 satisfied V Janet asked. 
 
 1 Yes, granny ; pretty well. Everybody was pleased.' 
 
44 JOYCE chap, v 
 
 * Except yourseP, ye exacting thing ! They wouldna do just a' 
 ye told them, that would be the caused 
 
 ' 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. 
 4 Do you think there would be much difference at that early 
 period V 
 
 '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 youT 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 king- 
 dom,' 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 aneT said Peter, 
 in his innocence. 
 
 But Joyce made no reply. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 Colonel Haywakd 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, with- 
 out 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 V 
 
 * 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.' 
 
46 JOYCE chap. 
 
 < 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 full of ladies ? You forget ■ 
 
 * I — forget 1 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 1 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 acquaint- 
 ances.' 
 
 1 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 consterna- 
 tion. ■ 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. ' Eliza- 
 beth, 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.' 
 
vi JOYCE 47 
 
 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 1 
 Is there time to get it all out ? ' 
 
 * Plenty of time j 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 i 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 1 l 
 
 1 Yes, I know what a school-feast is.' 
 
 1 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 
 
48 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 1 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 1 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 con- 
 cealed 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. 
 
 1 Ah,' said the Colonel, shaking his head, l 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. 
 
 1 But in the morning I felt calm. I said to myself that it must 
 
vi JOYCE 49 
 
 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 1 ' He could not say angry, it seemed 
 
 ridiculous j but his attention was roused, and nothing but her 
 health could be the cause, he thought, of her change of tone. 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 ' 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Know me 1 She had never seen me, nor heard of me — how 
 should she know mel 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. 
 
 B 
 
50 JOYCE chap. 
 
 * 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, Eliza- 
 beth 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 
 w r ell — you know, my dear, you know ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know.' 
 
 * w e n t — 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 ' 
 
 1 My poor Henry ! God help you, my dear ! You have seen 
 them 1 it was — she 1 ' 
 
 '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. 
 
 1 Come, Henry, this will never do,' she said quickly. ' House 
 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 de- 
 tached herself. ■ We will say no more about that just now. If 
 
vi JOYCE 51 
 
 all this is as you think, Henry, there is something more important 
 even than you and me — the girl/ 
 
 1 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 under- 
 stand 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 ' 
 
 1 1 ! ' he cried with dismay, interrupting her. l Why the chief 
 person 1 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 1 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 1 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 1 ' 
 
 '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. Hay ward, 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.' 
 
 1 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 see3 me, for 
 
52 JOYCE chap. 
 
 I'm very untidy ; and I know how fresh they will all look in their 
 morning things/ cried Mrs. Hay ward, with a shade of disquietude 
 in her eyes. 
 
 1 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 new- 
 comer, 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 some- 
 how, before she had been half an hour in it. Wherever she was, 
 the place began fco 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 responsi- 
 bility, 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 im- 
 portant, 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- 
 
vi JOYCE 53 
 
 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 de- 
 pendence 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 disen- 
 tangle, 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 
 
chap, vii JOYCE 55 
 
 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. 
 
 1 1 wanted, if you will allow me, to make some inquiries about 
 your — but she is not your daughter ? ' 
 
 * About Joyce 1 ' said the old woman quickly. She put down 
 the bowl and came forward a few steps, from henceforward de- 
 parting from her role 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 V 
 she asked, planting her foot firmly on the floor of her little king- 
 dom. She was queen and mistress there, let the other be what 
 she might. 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Mem,' said Janet, ' we Scots folk, we're awfu' unregenerate in 
 the way of pride. We are little used to have leddies coming 
 
56 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 ' 1 quite agree with you,' said Mrs. Hay ward, rising up sud- 
 denly 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 1 ' 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.' 
 
 1 1 am afraid it would make a great change,' said Mrs. Hayward, 
 and she added with a sigh, 'both to you and to me.' 
 
 1 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 1 or the Cornel V 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 
 your 
 
 ' 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 
 
vii JOYCE 57 
 
 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 ' 
 
 1 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 
 
58 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 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 our- 
 selves 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 
 
vii JOYCE 59 
 
 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 1 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 im- 
 patience 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 
 
60 JOYCE chap, vii 
 
 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 forT 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 church- 
 yard, 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 
 
62 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 appoint- 
 ment 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 sweet- 
 ness 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 her- 
 self, 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 
 
vin JOYCE 63 
 
 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 reflec- 
 tion, 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 1 ' 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 1 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 disappoint- 
 ment 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 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 1 ' 
 
 '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.' 
 
64 JOYCE chap. 
 
 'Only at first V 
 
 \ 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 re- 
 garded 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 still- 
 ness, 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. 
 
 1 Do you remember your mother 1 ' he said. 
 
 1 My mother ! ' The sudden shock brought a wave of colour 
 over her. ' Oh, sir/ said Joyce, ' how could I remember her 1 for 
 she died when I was born.' 
 
 ' True, true — I had forgotten that/ he said, with an air of con- 
 fusion. 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 im- 
 possible 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 V she said. ' Oh, sir, will you tell 
 me 1 Do you know who she was 1 ' 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 Where % ' 
 
 He pointed vaguely in the direction of Joyce's home. ' She 
 has gone — to see everything/ he said. 
 
viii JOYCE 65 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 But it may turn out to be nothing — to have nothing to 
 do with you.' 
 
 1 Oh, tell me ; it will fill up the time ; it will ease the sus- 
 pense.' 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 1 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, with- 
 out thinking that anything could be wrong. They came home 
 soon after for her health, and I — I had to — I — I don't quite re- 
 member ' 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 
 
6Q JOYCE chap. 
 
 with her head drooping, keeping down the climbing sorrow in her 
 throat, hardly able to find her voice. 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 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 won- 
 derful discovery of her own. 
 
 But he started with a sudden cry — l Good God ! ' as if some- 
 thing 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 
 
viii JOYCE 67 
 
 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. 
 1 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 j 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 per- 
 ceived 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 
 
68 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 ex- 
 plained 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 re- 
 membered 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 ' 
 
 'Granny, I have had a long talk with that gentleman— the 
 gentleman that thought he knew my mother.' 
 
viii JOYCE 69 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 Granny, have I ever given you any reason to say that 1 ' 
 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 1 ' he added, beaming upon Joyce, awaiting some- 
 
70 JOYCE chap, viii 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 ! — de- 
 tached 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 1 
 
 1 My dear ! ' he cried, with a tone of compunction and horror, 
 1 1 — hurt you V 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 V 
 
 The Colonel was very apologetic. ' I am afraid I am dense,' 
 
72 JOYCE chap. 
 
 he said j * 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. i What is it 1 ' 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 itT 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 com- 
 passion overcame her. She took the papers over which he was 
 puzzling, looking at his own writing vaguely, with a quick impa- 
 tient 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 
 
ix JOYCE 73 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly 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 notwithstand- 
 ing her strong personal share in the matter, it was clear to Eliza- 
 beth that he ought to have thought of the other, the poor girl in 
 
74 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 recollec- 
 tion 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 
 shoidd have so thought. 
 
 In this keen complication of feeling, Mrs. Hay ward, 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 dark- 
 ened 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. Hay- 
 ward, 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 
 
rx JOYCE 75 
 
 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 re- 
 ceive, 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 unde- 
 veloped side of her, that capacity which she had been so often 
 tempted to think Providence had wronged her by leaving in abey- 
 ance, 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 
 
76 JOYCE chap. 
 
 her manners, to watch over all her proceedings, to take the re- 
 sponsibility 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 dis- 
 advantages 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 ' — c you must make her do so-and-so.' If his taste 
 was shocked, if the girl turned out to be very dreadful, he him- 
 self, who ought to know so much better, would throw all the 
 blame upon her. Or perhaps, which would be still more intoler- 
 able, 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 unbear- 
 able 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 
 
ix JOYCE 77 
 
 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 be- 
 yond 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 j and the 
 air was so clear, and the atmosphere so still, that while Mrs. Hay- 
 ward 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 sum- 
 mer 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 
 
78 JOYCE chap, ix 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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, ' ot 
 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 per- 
 suasive 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 V 
 
 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. Every- 
 thing will go right as long as I have you.' 
 
CHAPTEE X 
 
 In the perplexity of this extraordinary crisis they both went, 
 without another word, c 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 dis- 
 covers 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 con- 
 tributed, 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 1 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 depaysee, 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 
 
80 JOYCE CHAr. 
 
 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. 'WellT 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 
 to 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 pro- 
 test, 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. 
 
x JOYCE 81 
 
 I 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 V 
 
 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 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, in- 
 tending, 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 1 do you think so, Elizabeth 1 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 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. 
 
 G 
 
82 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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 Hay ward 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 per- 
 mitted, 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 Hay- 
 ward 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 hus- 
 band,' 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. 
 
x JOYCE 83 
 
 1 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 1 Mrs. Hayward, do you mean really that 
 
 Joyce ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 I should like to have been there ; and why, why 
 
84 JOYCE chap. 
 
 did you not bring her up to the house with you 1 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. Hay- 
 ward, there is no unmixed good in this world. It will kill old 
 Janet and her old husband. There's no unmixed good.' 
 
 1 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 back- 
 ground 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.' 
 
 1 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, 
 
x JOYCE 85 
 
 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, exas- 
 peration, 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 house- 
 hold, 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. Bellen- 
 dean 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 down- 
 stairs, and coming in from the grounds, with a murmur of voices, 
 and footsteps in the hall, became every moment more and more 
 
86 JOYCE chap, x 
 
 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. ! 
 
 1 1 — 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 Kaeburn, 
 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 retire- 
 ment for herself, and composed her mind. Her self-arguments 
 ended in the ordinary fatalism with which people accept the in- 
 evitable. * 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. 
 
88 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' Who was I, Uncle Bellendean 1 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 1 
 We had all been nearly drowned, driven up from the Firth by the 
 wind in the east.' 
 
 * And where were you exiled from 1 and what were you doing 
 in the Firth 1 ' 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. 
 
 1 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 1 ' 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 1 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.' 
 
xi JOYCE 89 
 
 ' You could not have used a better word,' said Norman Bellen- 
 dean. ' 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 com- 
 munication 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 \ 
 1 but that should make you more particular, not less, to keep her 
 name from being bandied about.' 
 
 ' What is that my wife is saying 1 ' 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 j and she leaned forward to reply to him, meeting the looks 
 of half the table, amused at this conjugal demand and response. 
 
90 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 dis- 
 advantage, whispering between themselves, 'Poor Colonel Hay- 
 ward ! ' and what a pity it was he had not a nicer wife ! 
 
 After this another wave of conversation passed over the com 
 pany. 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 discus- 
 sion 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. Hay- 
 ward 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 
 
xi JOYCE 91 
 
 politeness, concealing much annoyance and despite. l 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. Bellen- 
 dean, 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 I 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 frus- 
 trated 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. 
 
CHAPTEK 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 refer- 
 ence 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 As long as you are 
 here, you sail 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 
 
chap, xri JOYCE 93 
 
 injured princess. Strangely enough, neither of them suspected the 
 real state of affairs. Janet divined that Mrs. Hayward had some- 
 thing 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 excite- 
 ment, 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. 
 1 Oh ay, she's aye busy j there was never the like of her for learn- 
 ing. 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 1 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 1 
 
 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 
 
94 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Granny,' said Joyce, in great excitement, * we are to go to the 
 House immediately, to see Mrs. Bellendean.' 
 
 1 We — are to gang 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 yourseP, 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 1 Think 
 what it may be, — to hear about my mother — and who I am — and 
 whom I belong to.' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
 1 Granny ! ' cried Joyce, in consternation, drawing Janet's face 
 towards her, stooping over the little resisting figure. 
 
 1 Dinna put your airms about me. Do you ken what I'll be 
 for you the morn 1 — 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, " Hand 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 Eoyal, and everything at my 
 beck and call, — do you think I could ever forsake you ? ' 
 
xii JOYCE 95 
 
 * Oh, how do I ken 1 ' cried Janet, still resisting the soft com- 
 pulsion which was in Joyce's arms ; * and how can I tell what ye 
 will be let do 1 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.' 
 
 1 Me ! — refuse to stand by ye ? ' 
 
 1 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 un regenerate 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 
 
96 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 het 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 wonder- 
 ing, 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 I 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. 
 
xii JOYCE 97 
 
 ' You have got something to tell me 1 ' 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 j 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 1 * 
 
 ' Joyce/ Mrs. Bellendean said at last, with a trembling voice, 
 1 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 1 Oh, will naebody 
 tell us the truth V 
 
 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 1 There had been nothing 
 to lead up to it, as there was when he had met her in the morn- 
 ing, 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 1 ' Elizabeth ? ' he said tremulously, but he could say no 
 more. 
 
 1 Young lady,' said another voice behind, with a touch of im- 
 patience in it, — ' Joyce : it appears I must tell, though I have 
 never seen you before.' 
 
 Joyce had all but turned her back upon this Jady, who, she 
 thought, could have nothing to do with her. She turned round 
 
 H 
 
98 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 Hay ward 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 Hay ward. You are my hus- 
 band'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 won- 
 derful 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 meV 
 
 ' 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, fel] 
 to his sides. ' Much to complain of,' he said, with a tremuloua 
 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 
 
xii JOYCE 99 
 
 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 excite- 
 ment, ' all alone in a strange place. Why was she alone at such 
 a time, when she had a husband to care for her 1 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 1 ' 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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, humili- 
 ated, 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- 
 
chap, xin JOYCE 101 
 
 chantuient. 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 moment- 
 ary 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 judg- 
 ment 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, im- 
 passioned 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 ! ' J Oh, my bonnie woman ! ' in 
 various tones of remonstrance and deprecation. But Joyce's im- 
 pulse 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 cir- 
 cumstances, 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 
 
102 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 be- 
 hind 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 
 No, you havena shown your sense. You think the like of that can 
 be at your pleesure to tak' it or to leave it I 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 
 myseP 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 satis- 
 faction 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 
 
xiii JOYCE 103 
 
 the thing ye will get if ye stand to it j 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 whethei 
 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 breath- 
 lessness 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 un- 
 derstanding on many a previous occasion. The girl had not lent 
 a very steady ear to the grandmother's wisdom, nor had the grand- 
 mother 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 some- 
 thing 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 ex- 
 planation 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 
 
104 JOYCE cihak 
 
 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 speak- 
 ing, and she uttered a suppressed groan as she went into the cottage. 
 So long as all was uncertain, Janet had carefully kept every inti- 
 mation 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 1 ' he said, 'girnin ' and groanin' as if we 
 were a' under sentence. What ails your granny, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 mis- 
 fortin' 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.' 
 
 1 What is she meaning with the house left desolate 1 ' said Peter, 
 the smile slowly disappearing from his face. ' The woman's daft ! 
 Joyce what is she meanin' 1 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' 1 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 1 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.' 
 
xiii JOYCE 105 
 
 Peter's face, gazing at her while she went on, was like a land- 
 scape 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 move- 
 ments, 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, c 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 1 ' 
 
 1 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 
 
106 JOYCE chap, xm 
 
 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 1 I'll bide in my own place with them that have nourished 
 me and cherished me, and made me happy all my days.' 
 
 1 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 im- 
 passioned 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.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 per- 
 mitted 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 un- 
 certainty. Had not the schoolmaster possessed a great deal of self- 
 approval and conscious worth, he might have sometimes lost con- 
 fidence 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, 
 
108 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 regime 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 pro- 
 foundly 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 j 
 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. 
 
Xiv JOYCE 109 
 
 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 considera- 
 tion, 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 cheer- 
 ful 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, 
 
110 JOYCE cuap. 
 
 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 1 Has anything 
 happened 1 ' he said. 
 
 There was a pause. Peter drummed upon the table with his 
 ringers, 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 
 oursePs, 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.' 
 
 1 What is the matter I ' 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.' 
 
 1 What is it 1 ' 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 interroga- 
 tion and caress. 
 
 1 It is just what I aye kent would happen,' said Janet, uncon- 
 scious 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— 
 
xiv JOYCE 111 
 
 at ainy moment — • Here the old woman's voice failed her, and 
 
 broke off in a momentary, much-resisted sob. Halliday's astonish- 
 ment 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. l 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, — / 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 1 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 expecta- 
 tion — 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 
 
112 JOYCE chap. 
 
 them 1 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, 
 1 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, natur- 
 ally, as any one in my position would do.' 
 
 1 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 bitter- 
 ness. 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 1 ' 
 
 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, 
 
xiv JOYCE 113 
 
 the unmitigated and prompt destruction of all hopes that might 
 be entertained by that whippersnapper, who dared to demand ex- 
 planations 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 
 
 I 
 
114 JOYCE chap, xiv 
 
 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ! ' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 impos- 
 sible. 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 argu- 
 ment on the subject with Greta, her own special favourite and 
 protegee. 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 
 
116 JOYCE chap. 
 
 she had influenced all her life. She forgot Joyce in seeing the 
 animated discussion that rose between these two. It was dis- 
 appointing, however, that when in the very midst of this discussion 
 Captain Bellendean saw from the window at which he was stand- 
 ing 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 ii 
 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 — some- 
 times 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 conceal- 
 ing his feelings, and he was too anxious to get support and sym- 
 pathy 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 fur- 
 tively, as if afraid that Norman might think Elizabeth was to 
 blame. 
 
 * It was the best thing she could do/ said Captain Bellendean. 
 
 1 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- 
 
xv JOYCE 117 
 
 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 V 
 
 1 1 had heard about it before j and then what you said to-day — 
 it is very wonderful. ' 
 
 I Yes ; but it's quite true. And we told her — in Mrs. Bellen- 
 
 dean'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 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 1 When you have made such a 
 discovery, there it is j 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 embarrass- 
 ment ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
118 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 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 met 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 1 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 under- 
 stand each other better if you meet by yourselves, when she is not 
 there.' 
 
 1 Eh ? Do you think that's what she means, Bellendean 1 and 
 do you think so too 1 But even then I am no further advanced 
 than I was before ; for my daughter, you know, she's not here, 
 
xv JOYCE 119 
 
 and how do I know where to find her, even if I were prepared to 
 meet her 1 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.' 
 
 ' 1 can show you where to find her/ said Captain Bellendean. 
 1 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 1 It's quite true. Elizabeth 
 thinks I only fancy it, but the truth is that when my mind is dis- 
 turbed I cannot sleep. I am dreadfully down about it all, Bellen- 
 dean. 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 instru- 
 ment 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 
 
120 JOYCE chap. 
 
 themselves. It was not his fault, and yet how could he say so 1 
 How could he explain it to this second hot-headed Joyce with- 
 out 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 con- 
 templated, 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. Eesistance 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- 
 
xv JOYCE 121 
 
 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. 
 
 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 remorse- 
 less bonds of destiny. She did not even feel that forlorn satis- 
 faction 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 ' Cap- 
 tain'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.' 
 
 1 Her father ! ' Peter rose up with a lowering brow. f 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 1 ' 
 
 The old man took his blue bonnet, which hung on the back of 
 
122 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 
 before him. ' They expect you,' he said. And Colonel Hay ward 
 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. 
 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
xv JOYCE 123 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 1 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 instant- 
 aneous 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 natura] 
 
124 JOYCE chap. 
 
 to him, and he was restored to himself. He took Joyce's hands 
 in one of his, and drew her within his arm. 
 
 1 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 for- 
 give your father 1 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 un- 
 desirable in any circumstances to make friends with Captain Bel- 
 lendean ; 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 con- 
 tent, which is a thing that does not happen every year.' 
 
 1 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 j 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- 
 
xv JOYCE 125 
 
 master. Andrew, however, was not a person to be sup- 
 pressed 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.' 
 
 I 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 con- 
 tinue to be equally satisfactory.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' said Halliday. ■ It could scarcely, indeed, be 
 otherwise, seeing that Joyce was my choice in very humble cir- 
 cumstances, 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 I fear,' said Norman, smoothing his annoyance into a laugh, 
 * that Colonel Hay ward 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, giv- 
 ing 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 Hay ward 
 should wish her to settle near him, there are many fine appoint- 
 ments to be had in England. I would not say that I should in- 
 sist upon remaining here.' 
 
126 JOYCE chap. 
 
 1 That would be kind/ said Captain Bellendean, with a sarcasm 
 which was scarcely intentional. He was confounded by the com- 
 posure and by the assurance of this fellow, who was so calmly 
 persuaded of his own property in Joyce. 
 
 ' 1 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, 1 1 am glad to see this happy conclusion j 
 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 in- 
 gratiating 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 refine- 
 ment 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 
 
xv JOYCE 127 
 
 him, but she had never promised to present him to her unknown 
 dream-father as his future son. 
 
 'Who is iU' said Colonel Hay ward. He curved his eyebrows 
 over his eyes to assist his vision, which gave him a look of dis- 
 pleasure ; 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 acknow- 
 ledged 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 percep- 
 tion. 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 Hay ward 
 said. 
 
 Joyce felt herself quail as she looked into her father's face. 
 She read all that was in his at a glance. Colonel Hay ward 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 sympa- 
 thetic feeling ran through her. She felt herself unable to say 
 anything. She assented with a look in which, with horror at her- 
 self, 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 down- 
 cast 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 
 
128 JOYCE chap, xv 
 
 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 with- 
 drew 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, turn- 
 ing 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. 
 
CHAPTEK 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 them- 
 selves 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 prepara- 
 tions were being made. The anger of great wretchedness was 
 blazing in the old man's eyes. ' What are you doing with that 
 white dud 1 ?' 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 light- 
 headed 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.' 
 
 1 Haud your tongue,' said his wife ; ' what good will it do you 
 to fecht and warstle with Providence 1 The time's come when we 
 
130 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 enchant- 
 ment 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 
 
xvi JOYCE 131 
 
 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 under- 
 standing 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 gener- 
 ally was disappointed, and found that, seen close, the finest com- 
 pany 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 
 
132 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 j 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 Did I say that 1— 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 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, granny, I saw him going across the big cornfield. Tell 
 him I stood and watched him with his head down on his breast — 
 
xvi JOYCE 133 
 
 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 1 ' 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. Kun 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 hencefor- 
 ward 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 some- 
 times 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 to- 
 wards 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 j 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 j 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 
 
134 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 ' 
 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' 
 
 1 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, un- 
 easy 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 
 
xvi JOYCE 135 
 
 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 1 ! Mrs. Hay ward 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 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 every- 
 thing that was said or hinted against her foster-country. 
 
 ' 1 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. Hay* 
 
136 JOYCE chap, xvi 
 
 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. Hay ward 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. 
 
CHAPTEE XVII 
 
 Colonel Hay ward's house was at Kichmond, 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 some- 
 what narrow sweep of lawn descending to the very water's edge. 
 Nothing could be more warm and sheltered, more perfect in green- 
 ness 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 j 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 com- 
 bined 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 pleasant- 
 ness. 
 
 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 
 
138 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 — 
 1 our little place/ she called it, with proud humility ; but she knew 
 that it was more perfect than anything about, and in itself with- 
 out 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 re- 
 cognisable 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 
 
xvii JOYCE 139 
 
 Scotch stick to each other so She has a spirit — and a 
 
 temper too, I shouldn't wonder.' 
 
 I No, my dear, it was only a flash, because she thought — 
 because she was taken by surprise.' 
 
 I I think none the worse of her for having a little temper ; I 
 have one myself,' said Mrs. Hay ward 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.' 
 
 1 Account for her ? ' 
 
 I 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 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 congratu- 
 lations. Now that her position was beyond question, she was un- 
 willing 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, " ! 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 ' 
 
 4 As if I did not know that ! ' cried the woman whom Provi- 
 
140 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 ' Then why say anything at all, my dear I ' the Colonel said. 
 
 ' Why know anybody at all, you mean 1 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. "Ill 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 amaze- 
 ment 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 dimen- 
 sions 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 
 
xvn JOYCE 141 
 
 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. 
 
142 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 I 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." 
 
 1 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 some- 
 body, 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 
 
xvii JOYCE 143 
 
 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 grand- 
 father 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 1 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, 1 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 
 
 1 Grounds of a country-house. 
 
144 JOYCE chap. 
 
 copy some of them : but what would be the use 1 for they have 
 them all from India itself, and what I did would be but an imi- 
 tation. 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 every- 
 thing. 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 1 
 1 Large oval dish. 
 
xvii JOYCE 145 
 
 * 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, linger- 
 ing 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 1 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. 
 
 1 1 wonder if you have ever seen Kichmond — 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, 
 
 L 
 
146 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 — every- 
 thing 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. Hay- 
 ward 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, 
 
 1 Joyce Haywakd.' 
 
 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. 
 
xvii JOYCE 147 
 
 Joyce Hay ward — 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 school- 
 mistress. 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 
 
chap, xvm JOYCE 149 
 
 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 1 ' 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 inappropriate- 
 ness. 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 be- 
 wilderment 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 j 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 
 
150 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 uneasi- 
 ness, 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. Hay- 
 ward, coming in from the other side, and leading the way to the 
 dining-roon. 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 ' 
 
xviii JOYCE 151 
 
 ' 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 exclama- 
 tion. '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. Hay- 
 ward, 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 indica- 
 tions 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.' 
 
152 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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, feel- 
 ing 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, 
 
xvm JOYCE 153 
 
 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. 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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. ' 
 
 1 No ; I did not know. I thought when you said I should 
 have a room — for myself ' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 You see that 1 ' cried Mrs. Hayward, though she did not 
 
154 JOYCE chap. 
 
 understand why these words were said. 'Then you have 
 some common-sense after all, and surely you will get to under- 
 stand.' 
 
 1 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 re- 
 peated, leaning his hand, which she could feel tremble, upon her 
 arm j ' 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 1 It is getting on my nerves ! ' 
 cried Mrs. Hay ward 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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, ' turn- 
 ing round to his wife, c 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 
 
xvin JOYCE 155 
 
 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 awk- 
 wardness, foolishness, vacancy, which had never come into her life 
 before. She had no needlework to give her a pretence of occupa- 
 tion : 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. 
 
CRAPTEB 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. 
 
 1 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 any- 
 where beyond the ordinary thoroughfare, from dining-room to 
 drawing-room. 1 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.' 
 
chap, xix JOYCE 157 
 
 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. 7 
 
 ' 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 1 Joyce ! why, this is worse and worse.' The 
 Colonel grew angry in his complete bewilderment, and the disagree- 
 able sensation of kindness refused. 'What can you mean?' he 
 cried ; 'am I to have nothing to do with you though you are 
 my daughter V 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. 
 1 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 inde- 
 pendent 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, un- 
 generous 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 
 
158 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 any- 
 thing 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 reason- 
 able. 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, 
 
xix JOYCE 159 
 
 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. Hay ward 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. Hay ward. Joyce did not apply the words 
 to herself, but she perceived a little stir of interest when she ap- 
 peared timidly at the glass door. The lady was a little woman, pre- 
 cise 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 1 ' 
 
160 JOYCE ' chap. 
 
 '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 — c 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 1 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. SitwelU 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 
 
xix JOYCE 161 
 
 Hayward was presented to them, and the elder lady permitted 
 
 herself an ■ Oh 1 ' She retired to the end of the verandah, 
 
 where Mrs. Hayward had installed herself. 1 1 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. Hay- 
 ward. 'She has never lived at home. In India, you know, 
 children can never be kept with their parents.' 
 
 1 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 con- 
 cern 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 1 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 1 I wonder if I have been in your part of the 
 country 1 Papa has a moor whenever he can afford it. And we 
 have quantities of Scotch cousins all over the place.' 
 
 1 It was near Edinburgh,' said Joyce, with a little hesitation. 
 
 4 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 1 ' Joyce's countenance shone. She forgot 
 
 all about those bewildering explanations which she had overheard : 
 
 M 
 
162 JOYCE chap, xix 
 
 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 neigh- 
 bours know all about them ! Joyce, will you ask if Baker is 
 bringing tea 1 * 
 
 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 step- 
 mother, who knew so little, talked, adopting an air of familiarity. 
 Why was she sent away 1 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 cot- 
 tage, 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 false- 
 hoods, and yet to be herself true 1 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
164 JOYCE chap 
 
 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 1 The best thing is to keep 
 quite quiet about it, if we only can. But now here is this new com- 
 plication. These Bellendean people will talk it all over with the 
 St. Clairs, and the St. Olairs 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 i' 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 1 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 difficul- 
 ties 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 1 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 pertur- 
 bation. 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 
 
xx JOYCE 165 
 
 certain satisfaction and almost diversion in the depth of his help- 
 less distress. They were, however, brought to a sudden stand- 
 still, 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. 
 Hay ward'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. Hay ward 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 cor- 
 diality. ' My dear fellow, how glad I am to see you ! You've got 
 away, then, from all your anxious friends. Elizabeth, you remem- 
 ber Captain Bellendean V 
 
 ' I am not likely to have forgotten him,' Mrs. Hayward said 
 graciously, yet with a meaning which perhaps was not so gracious 
 
166 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 1 or affectation I or what was it 1 ' 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 1 ' 
 
 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 V 
 
 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 
 
xx JOYCE 167 
 
 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. Hay ward 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. Hay ward 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 trans- 
 planted her from her home, were not of her creating any more 
 than they were ot 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 uninten- 
 tionally 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 sup- 
 planter, 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. 
 
168 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 Bellen- 
 dean 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 in- 
 capable of any such covert assault. 
 
 4 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 1 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, rub- 
 bing 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 1 Was it her he came 
 
xx JOYCE 169 
 
 to see? Do you suppose he means anything?' said Mrs. Hay- 
 ward, 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.' 
 
 1 Do you know, Henry,' said Mrs. Hayward, ' that some people 
 would say you were throwing your daughter at Captain Bellen- 
 dean's head V 
 
 ' Bless me !' said the Colonel, with a wondering look ; i throw- 
 ing 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 even- 
 ing 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 1 ' 
 
 '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.' 
 
170 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' One of the old classical fellows says that, doesn't heT 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.' 
 
 1 1 wonder if that is what Mrs. Bellendean will do V 
 
 ' Mrs. Bellendean?' 
 
 * Oh, I forgot j 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 V 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 V 
 
 ' 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 j 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 
 
xx JOYCE 171 
 
 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. 
 
 I 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 pro- 
 vocation, a sort of challenge. Captain Bellendean laughed. 
 
 I I see/ he said ; ' and you think that is a course open to me 1 
 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, c 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 circum- 
 stances which you have just been suggesting to me, no doubt you 
 will go to Italy ; that is the right time and the right circum- 
 stances ' 
 
 Before he had half said these words, a sudden vision of Andrew 
 Halliday flashed across his mind, and he stopped in sudden em- 
 barrassment. 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 
 
172 JOYCE chap, xx 
 
 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 1 
 Surely some one must step in to save her from that fate ! 
 
CHAPTEE 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 step- 
 mother 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 some- 
 how, 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 
 
174 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances. 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 V 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, i 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 endow- 
 ment 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 
 
xxi JOYCE 175 
 
 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. Sit well, the clergyman, and his school 
 feast, which was the original subject of the talk. 
 
 1 1 think they are playing at school work/ J oyce said. ' I 
 would like to see the mistress, and hear what she says.' 
 
 i I beg you will do nothing of the kind,' cried Mrs. Hay ward. 
 * 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 in- 
 structed to think that implication necessary; but there are pre- 
 judices of which even the best -informed persons cannot shake 
 themselves free. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 ' 1 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.' 
 
 I 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 I am glad I have pleased you, so far as that goes,' said Mrs. 
 
176 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 
 ' 1 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 Kemember, 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 enthu- 
 siasm 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 
 
xxi JOYCE 177 
 
 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 1 ?' 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 some- 
 thing 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 1 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 1 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 Bellen- 
 
 N 
 
178 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 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. 
 
 1 1 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 every- 
 thing 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 other- 
 wise, 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 excite- 
 ment 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 over- 
 whelmed 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 
 
xxi JOYCE 179 
 
 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.'" 
 
 1 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 
 Hay ward.' 
 
 ' My father,' said Joyce, with a little flush and stir of feeling 
 which was always called forth by his name, ' is better — than any- 
 thing I ever could have dreamed.' 
 
 ' Then why are you not happy V 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.' 
 
180 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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 1 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 — look- 
 ing 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 com- 
 pelled 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 em- 
 bittered, 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 you, and me me.' 
 
 1 Oh, Joyce ! ' faltered Greta, clinging more and more. ' I have 
 
xxi JOYCE 181 
 
 been so glad that you and I could be like sisters — as I have always 
 felt.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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.' 
 
 1 All what story V 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 V she cried ; 
 1 that I am a waif, and a foundling, and an abandoned creature 
 that belongs to nobody 1 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 mel 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 1 ?' 
 
182 JOYCE chap, xx j 
 
 ' 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 restrain- 
 able, 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 
 
184 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 j 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. i 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 grate- 
 ful 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 1 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 
 
xxii JOYCE 185 
 
 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 num- 
 ber 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 The vision of what, my dear 1 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 Hay- 
 ward 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, c 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 Kaw 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 ol 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 
 
186 JOYCE cWp. 
 
 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 j 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 sym- 
 pathetic disapproval at the rotundity which was approaching. 
 Canon Jenkinson was more than a fat man — he was a fat clergy- 
 man. 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. 
 
 1 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 1 Is this the 
 young lady? As a very old friend of your father's, Miss Hay- 
 ward, 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 
 
xxii JOYCE 187 
 
 learned his lesson, but he said it with a little hesitation and 
 faltering. 
 
 1 Oh ! ' said the clergyman, and then he added in an undertone, 
 1 Your first poor wife, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 The Colonel replied only by a nod, while Joyce stood em- 
 barrassed 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. 
 
 I Ah ! ' said Canon Jenkinson : and then he turned suddenly 
 upon Joyce. * Are you a good Churchwoman, or are you a little 
 Presbyterian I ' 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 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, 
 Men 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. 
 
 1 1 don't think she can go now, Jenkinson. Elizabeth will be 
 wondering already what has become of us.' 
 
 ' Is that so 1 ' 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 
 
188 JOYCE chap. 
 
 your promise not to let yourself be prejudiced; and, above all, 
 don't go over to Sit well'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, ex- 
 changing 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 Eoad. 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 reluc- 
 tant 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.' 
 
 1 Oh, that's nothing. There's no harm done,' said Mrs. Sitwell. 
 ' 1 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, dcm'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 
 
xxii JOYCE 189 
 
 must, indeed/ she said. ' Ah, Colonel Hay ward, I saw what you 
 did. You brought down the Great Gun upon her. Was that 
 fair 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Oh, charity ! ' cried the clergyman's wife ; 1 1 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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, threaten- 
 ing 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. 
 Womb well's field at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. You won't 
 fail me ! Colonel Hayward, you'll bring her, now won't you 1 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, tf we 
 have got away without any pledge. If Elizabeth had only been 
 
190 JOYCE chap, xxn 
 
 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.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 1 ' she said. 
 
 1 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 ' 
 
 1 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- 
 
 1 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. Hay- 
 ward 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 
 
192 JOYCE chap. 
 
 the fact that a great many people equally fine had already gathered 
 in WombwelPs field, where the Sitwells, though they were poor, 
 had gone to the expense of having a tent put up, — an extrava- 
 gance 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 Hay wards 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 her- 
 self among a company of ladies and gentlemen as one of them- 
 selves, 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 wist- 
 fully to a momentary half-clandestine return to what had hereto- 
 fore 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 Bellen- 
 dean, 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 accident- 
 ally plunged into the world, a great tremor came over her. The 
 scene was very animated and pretty, though not exactly what it 
 
xxiii JOYCE 193 
 
 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 Kichmond 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 ex- 
 changed greetings and smiles and polite conversation. 
 
 1 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 work- 
 ing 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.' 
 
 1 Why are his friends rallying round him 1 ' said Captain Bellen- 
 dean. '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 1 
 
 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. 
 
 4 And neither do I,' said Joyce, with a wistful look. Her feel- 
 ing 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 
 
 o 
 
194 JOYCE chap. 
 
 she knew, a face which would smile upon her. She met many 
 looks, and could even see that there were little scraps of conversa- 
 tion 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 1 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 V 
 
 ' 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, 
 
xxni JOYCE 195 
 
 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 ; 
 6 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 ! ' 
 
 1 Isn't it 1 ' cried the curate ; and they both turned round to 
 look down upon the many-coloured groups below with beaming 
 faces. 
 
 1 Nobody can say now that St. Augustine's was not wanted,' 
 said the lady. 
 
 ' No, indeed j 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. 
 
196 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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 moment- 
 ary 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. 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 
 
xxin JOYCE 197 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 Hay- 
 ward, in parish work 1 ' 
 
 1 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 ! AH 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 
 
198 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 enter- 
 taining 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 
 Sit wells' 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. 
 1 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 
 
xxni JOYCE 199 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Do you call them rabble 1 ' 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 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. 
 
 1 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 1 
 
CHAPTEE XXIV 
 
 Noeman Bellendean appeared very often at Kichmond. He 
 made what Mrs. Hayward considered quite an exhibition of him- 
 self at that school feast — in a way which no man had any right to 
 do, unless People asked who he was — a distinguished-look- 
 ing 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 V 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 achieve- 
 ment 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 in- 
 formed 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 
 
chap, xxiv JOYCE 201 
 
 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 Bellen- 
 dean 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 Hay- 
 ward 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 Bellen- 
 
202 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 dis- 
 cussion 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 arrange- 
 ment - ?' 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 
 
xxiv JOYCE 203 
 
 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 1 her step-mother asked herself j did she know I Mrs. Hay- 
 ward 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, 
 1 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 V 
 
 ' My dear ! ' the Colonel cried, taken by surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, but tell me. Did I dream it, or did you say something 1 ' 
 
 1 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 1 ' Mrs. Hayward said. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 why, what should he think 1 What is there 
 about Bellendean to be thought of 1 Yes, yes, himself of course, 
 and he's a very fine fellow ; but that is not what you mean.' 
 
 1 Do you mean to say, Henry, that you did not remark how 
 
204 JOYCE chap. 
 
 the Captain, as she calls him, affiches himself everywhere— far 
 more than I consider becoming — with Joyce 1 ' 
 
 < 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 1 9 
 
 1 My dear, I was in that boat. It was natural Joyce should be 
 with me.' 
 
 * Oh yes,' said Mrs. Hayward ; * and accordingly Captain Bel- 
 lendean, 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 1 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 1 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 denouement 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 
 
xxiv JOYCE 205 
 
 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. 7 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 sym- 
 pathy with persons who are capable of saying that they are very 
 pleased. \ 
 
 'I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,' said Mrs. 
 Jenkinson \ l how do you do 1 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. 
 ' 1 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 
 
206 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 pre- 
 cisely 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 hus- 
 band'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 Sit wells 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 1 you 
 wouldn't answer me the other day.' 
 
xxiv JOYCE 207 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 ' 1 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 1 ' 
 
 * 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 ' 
 
 1 Do you hear that, Hay ward ! 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, Hay ward, you were there too.' 
 
 1 Elizabeth,' said the Colonel abashed, ' as they made so great a 
 point of it, thought we might as well go.' 
 
 I 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 1 — 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 I did not know — one side from another,' said Joyce ; c 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 I 
 
208 JOYCE chap, xxiv 
 
 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. 
 
 1 What V 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 Church- 
 woman 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. 
 
CHAPTEK XXV 
 
 Theee 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 where you doing that you let it be 1 Why didn't 
 you stop it 1 Why didn't you interfere 1 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 ; 
 
 p 
 
210 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 Austin dear had laughed until he had cried over these sketches 
 of his ecclesiastical superiors, and so had the Kev. 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
xxv JOYCE 211 
 
 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 fort- 
 night'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. 
 i 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 1 ' cried the parson j 
 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 clergy woman 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 dis- 
 posed to think it was lier doing, was not unhopeful of being able 
 to do. 
 
 1 1 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 1 Nothing at 
 all — except twenty pounds for the schools, counting that ten of 
 Cissy Marsham's, which we should have had anyhow.' 
 
212 JOYCE chap. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 4 You are really incorrigible, Dora,' he said, turning back to his 
 
xxv JOYCE 213 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 dis- 
 junction 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 1 Not 
 
214 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 door- 
 ways 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 pro- 
 testations 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 be- 
 tween 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 pre- 
 sence, 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 
 
xxv JOYCE 215 
 
 bound to arise and go with him — to leave everything that she 
 was beginning to love 1 Joyce knew nothing else that could be 
 done. She had pledged him her word. To withdraw from it be- 
 cause — because, as she had said, she was Colonel Hayward's 
 daughter — how should she do that 1 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 rinding 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. Sit well'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 unlike- 
 ness 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 con- 
 fidence, 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 be- 
 hind 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 
 
216 JOYCE chap, xxv 
 
 you have him alone. But I don't doubt you would have done 
 that, you kind thing, without being asked ' 
 
 ' Oh no/ said Joyce j ' I would not have betrayed your con- 
 fidence, nor said a word ' 
 
 1 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. Sit- 
 well thought it the most natural thing in the world. 
 
 1 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 differ- 
 ence ! I shouldn't be a bit afraid even of the Great Gun himself.' 
 
 1 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. Sit well, 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 civilisa- 
 tion, much beyond anything which her untrained companion 
 knew. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 l foreigners ' in general, both 
 being disposed to believe that to show so much was rather an in- 
 dication 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 calcu- 
 late 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 re- 
 turned to the corner from which she had sprung up on Joyce's 
 
218 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 amaze- 
 ment 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 char- 
 acter 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 V 
 
 ' 1 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 Well, dear, do not stare at me so ; don't you think, now you 
 look at him again, that it's all true 1 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. Sit- 
 well, 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 disposi- 
 tion, feeling too strongly for her own peace. There are also signs of 
 much musical power, and of great constancy in love.'" 
 
 1 Joyce put down these two extraordinary literary compositions 
 with something like consternation. ' It is perhaps stupid of me,' 
 she said, 'not to understand.' 
 
xxvi JOYCE 219 
 
 4 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?' 
 
 1 Indeed,' said Joyce, ' I was not thinking of objecting. I was 
 only taken by surprise.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 1 People think a clergyman ought to have 
 private means — but where are we to get the private means 1 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 
 
220 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 pos- 
 sible 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 them- 
 selves. 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.' 
 
xxvi JOYCE 221 
 
 1 But ' Joyce said, with timidity. 
 
 ' I don't want any buts. You would never let any one do any- 
 thing 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 whyl 
 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 1 If I were of his way of think- 
 ing, I would admire it too ; and don't you see, when you sympa- 
 thise 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 ad- 
 mirers 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 
 
222 JOYCE chap. 
 
 quite sure." There ! what do you think of that as a foil 1 It will 
 make the others more delighted than ever with their own good 
 qualities.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 
 
xxvi JOYCE 223 
 
 it was clever of me?' she said, with a laugh, as they went down- 
 stairs — '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. 
 1 1 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 V 
 
 1 Well, ma'am, I could try,' the poor woman would say, with a 
 curtsey. 
 
 1 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, 1 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. 
 
 ' 1 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, 
 
224 JOYCE chap. 
 
 Id 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 1 ' 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 1 Poor thing ! is that so ! I thought you couldn't be well, 
 you're so helpless. I'll send the mission woman to-morrow morn- 
 ing to put all straight for you, and you'd better go to the doctor 
 to-morrow 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 
 
xxvi JOYCE 225 
 
 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.' 
 
CHAPTEK 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 
 neglige which Englishmen alone know how to make agreeable and 
 pleasant to behold. The sight of all that pleasure had a pleasur- 
 able 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 expe- 
 ditions 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 sud- 
 denly 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 
 
chap, xxvii JOYCE 227 
 
 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 1 Who were the people who were with him 1 
 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 uncon- 
 cerned by, hers. The shock, the recognition, the instant identifica- 
 tion 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. 
 
 1 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 — 1 1 forgot you were one of the butter- 
 flies 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- 
 
228 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 astonish- 
 ing distinctness when this sudden glimpse, which felt like a revela- 
 tion, 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 con- 
 fusion through the lovely unreal world that had been there. It 
 was unreal altogether, everything, both that which had been be- 
 fore 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 
 
xxvii JOYCE 229 
 
 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 1 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 Cap- 
 tain 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 re- 
 garded him with an interest half feudal, half friendly — did not 
 surprise her, though a cooler head might have found it a very sur- 
 prising 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 
 
230 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 un- 
 known. 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 separa- 
 tion. 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 know- 
 ledge, 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 awak- 
 ened 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 any- 
 thing, 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 her- 
 self, and instead she was compelled to share in an evening of 
 lively wit and laughter, solidified by much parish talk. A church- 
 warden, 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 
 Hay ward has never heard you, don't you know.' 
 
 ' 1 am not very much to hear. Miss Hay ward would not lose 
 much if she remained in that state of deprivation. ' 
 
 1 Oh, we don't think so,— do we, Mr. Cosham 1 What would 
 the choir do without him 1 By the way, that dear boy of yours is 
 
xxvii JOYCE 231 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 'Keally, 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 
 
232 JOYCE chap, 
 
 suppressed laughter on the curate's face, nor the smile that curled 
 about the corners of Mr. Sitwell's mouth. These signs of merri- 
 ment 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.' 
 
 1 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 hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 ' 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 youT 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, — f you never give us your opinion on anything. Do give 
 us your opinion ; we have all said our say.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 And yet,' said Mr. Sitwell, { the Scottish Church has a fine 
 ceremonial of her own, where she has not been deadened by con- 
 tact 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 
 
xxvii JOYCE 233 
 
 a completely different meaning, and she was not sufficiently in- 
 structed 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. Sitweli 
 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. 
 
 1 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 incorrig- 
 ible, 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. Sitweli 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 alto- 
 gether 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- 
 
234 JOYCE chap, xxvii 
 
 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 Pictorial to the rich soap-boiler who 
 was to be wheedled by praise of his house, and the humble church- 
 warden 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 l 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 
 
236 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 comfort- 
 able 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 1 hope I see you well. Hope 
 youVe brought a large party-r-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 1 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 
 
xxvin JOYCE 237 
 
 of Mrs. Hay ward'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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 c 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 ex- 
 pensive.' 
 
 ' 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 
 
238 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 be- 
 cause of her vague understanding of all that lay underneath, and 
 made it funny. He took her hand and drew it within his arm. 
 1 Here you are, you little rebel/ he said. i 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. 
 1 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 1 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 under- 
 stand ; for look how it comes to me just as the natural thing to 
 say. Sir Walter knew— he and some others, they know almost 
 
xxviii JOYCE 239 
 
 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 1 
 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 1 
 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 every- 
 thing — 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 1 9 
 
 Joyce hesitated a little, and then she said, 'They wish very 
 much to do everything that is best.' 
 
 ' Eh V 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 
 
240 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 every- 
 thing, 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 1 ' said Joyce. 
 
 * Eh 1 ' The Canon turned round upon her with a snort of im- 
 patience. Then he elevated his large hands, and gave forth a still 
 larger sigh. i 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. 
 
 1 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 — l you are far more fortunate 
 than they are. You are like a prince to them. You have every- 
 thing 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 
 Sit well the empty one, you think, Miss Joyce.' 
 
xx\m JOYCE 241 
 
 I 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 ; l 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 subter- 
 raneously 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. Jenkin- 
 son, tall and energetic, wrapped in a white ckudder, 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 shut- 
 ting it out with his bulky person. But the view was no novelty 
 to any there. 
 
 * Yes,' said the Canon, l 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 Sit wells,' he added, in a 
 sort of aside to his wife. 
 
 I I must say,' said that lady indignantly, i 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Well, she says she likes us best,' said the Canon, quite irrele- 
 vantly ; * 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 
 
242 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 I don't say neither but 
 what it's true.' 
 
 1 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 per- 
 haps 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. l There is no room for the 
 little children.' 
 
 1 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, 
 
xxvin JOYCE 243 
 
 Joyce was as innocent and ignorant as a gir] 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 dtd 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 accom- 
 pany 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! 1 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 1 — 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. After- 
 wards 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. 
 
chap, xxix JOYCE 245 
 
 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. Hay ward 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. 
 
 1 Was there ever such a sunset V said Norman Bellendean. 'And 
 yet, Miss Joyce, you and I remember something better still, — the 
 long, long lingering of the warm days ' 
 
 1 In summer/ she said, with a little catching of her breath, 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Yes/ he said, ' it was like that the other night — but there 
 was a charm wanting.' 
 
 4 Oh/ Joyce said, still breathless ; and she added, with an im- 
 pulse 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 2\ 
 herself, yet with a rising colour, and eyes that did not turn to him, 
 
246 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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, 1 1 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 inde- 
 scribable 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 1 9 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 f 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 
 
xxix JOYCE 247 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
248 JOYCE chap. 
 
 so 1 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. 
 
 ' 1 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 1 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. 
 1 No, it is not the place,' she murmured, scarcely knowing what 
 she said. 
 
 * What could I do 1 there was no other : say I may— — ' 
 
 < Bellendean ! ' cried Colonel Hay ward'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 ' 
 
 1 Joyce should have observed,' said Mrs. Hayward quietly. l It 
 is nearly half-past seven. You cannot do less than stay to dinner 
 — especially as I hear you are going away.' 
 
 1 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 awakered. 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 notwith- 
 standing was half an offence. And when she came downstairs the 
 haze had filled the dining-room, so that she could not see clearly 
 
xxix JOYCE 249 
 
 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, Bellen- 
 dean. 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. 
 
 1 What did Bellendean forget 1 his gloves, or a book, or what was 
 it?' the Colonel said, with some curiosity, when the door was 
 closed and the visitor departed. 
 
 1 I don't know, — I was in the verandah,' said Mrs. Hayward. 
 * What did he forget, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 Joyce looked at them with a startled, guilty countenance, know« 
 
250 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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, 
 aud 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. 
 1 Have you anything to tell me, or would you like to speak to 
 your father 1 f 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 con- 
 fusion, and wrong somehow ; but what could she do 1 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 
 
xxix JOYCE 251 
 
 of his life — the being, qui me ressemblait comme un frere ; 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 1 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 con- 
 stant, 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 mean- 
 ing 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 1 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 Bellen- 
 dean ! 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. 
 
CHAPTEK 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 1 ' 
 
 1 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. Bellen- 
 dean has always been very friendly. He came to see me, <md 
 sought me out as his old colonel, before there was any Joyce/ 
 
 1 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 in- 
 tentions 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/ 
 
 1 / — don't know what I say 1 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 
 
chap, xxx JOYCE 253 
 
 our good, Elizabeth ; but I can't, indeed I can't — it's not possible. 
 
 / 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. 
 
 /—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 1 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 ' 
 
 1 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 
 
254 JOYCE chap. 
 
 unhappy. How could she be with the thrill of Norman Bellen- 
 dean'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, j-esterday,' 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 
 
xxx JOYCE 255 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 What did she say 1 She gave her father a wondering look. 
 Who was the Canon, it seemed to ask, and when was yesterday 1 
 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.' 
 
 1 Was it so V 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.' 
 
 1 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 sud- 
 denly 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. 
 
 1 Perhaps you knew before that he was going, my dear 1 9 
 
 * No,' she replied, feeling all the significance of these mono- 
 syllables, yet incapable of more. 
 
 'I thought he had perhaps told you — at least Elizabeth — 
 Elizabeth thought he might have told you.' 
 
 1 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 j 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, 
 
256 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 — what- 
 ever 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 under- 
 stand 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. 7 
 
 1 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 1 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 
 
xxx JOYCE 257 
 
 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 conscious- 
 ness 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 Bellen- 
 dean 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 1 The answer came in the same breath with that ques- 
 tion. She knew it was the Vita Nuova — the same which had 
 made the streets of Florence an enchanted land such as never was 
 
258 JOYCE chap, xxx 
 
 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 refer- 
 ences 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 JSTuova. 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. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXI 
 
 1 Well ? ' said Mrs. Hay ward, 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 de- 
 lighted that you are so much pleased. But what about Captain 
 Bellendeanr 
 
 * Oh ! — about Captain Bellendean,' said the Colonel, rubbing 
 his hands with an attempt to look quite at his ease and comfort- 
 able. Then he added still cheerfully, but with a sinking of his 
 heart, * Do you know, I don't think there was anything quite de- 
 finitely said between us about Norman Bellendean.' 
 
 * Oh, there was nothing definitely said ! ' 
 
 * Not by name, you know/ said Colonel Hayward, with a pro- 
 pitiatory smile, still softly rubbing his hands. 
 
 ' And what did you talk of definitely, may I ask 1 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, Eliza- 
 beth. 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 plaus- 
 ible certainty. ' What did she tell you then — about last night S ' 
 she said. 
 
 ' About last night 1 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. 
 
260 J° YCE CHAR 
 
 '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. 
 < 1 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 clear- 
 ness 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 
 
xxxi JOYCE 261 
 
 wretched little photograph as if it had been a serpent, and could 
 sting her. She had never liked it. It had always seemed an un- 
 comfortable 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, dis- 
 honourable, 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 1 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 advant- 
 age that, before she knew it, had snatched Joyce's heart away I 
 
 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. 
 
262 JOYCE chap. 
 
 She even did not say that it was a mistake, for which in her youth- 
 fulness 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 dis- 
 covered 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 1 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 ' 
 
 1 We will not be left behind,' said Mrs. Hayward, with that 
 
xxxi JOYCE 263 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 1 They don't go away on a round of visits in 
 autumn, I presume.' 
 
 1 My dear ! ' said the Colonel, in a shocked admonitory voice. 
 
 1 Well, Henry ! I mean no harm j 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 1 ' 
 
 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 It would be harvest,' said Joyce, thankful for the suggestion ; 
 1 they would be busy, busy : another time it would be better. 
 Oh,' she cried suddenly, in an outburst of despair, l how can I go 
 home 1 ' 
 
 1 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,' 
 
264 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 her- 
 self 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 Hay ward, * 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 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 
 
xxxi JOYCE 265 
 
 who shut out Janet's face from her ? Andrew in the attitude of 
 the photograph, complacent, self-assertive, and Norman Bellen- 
 dean, stooping, looking down upon her. Oh no, no, no ! not home 
 where these two were — not home, not home ! 
 
 ' 1 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. Hay ward, 
 with meaning, l 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 Bellen- 
 dean, 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. 
 
 1 There is no engagement,' said Mrs. Hayward to her husband 
 when Joyce had escaped to her room. 
 
 1 No engagement 1 ' he repeated, with a surprised question. 
 
 1 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 inten- 
 tions 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 intel- 
 lectual 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 Hay ward'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 
 
chap, xxxn JOYCE 267 
 
 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 com- 
 parison 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 con- 
 tained 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 expec- 
 tation 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. 
 
268 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 un- 
 willing to inflict that little humiliation j 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 per- 
 mitted — 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 
 
xxxii JOYCE 269 
 
 in the meantime never failed to get her letter. Joyce wrote long 
 tender letters to her beloved granny, telling her everything — and 
 nothing j a fact which the keen-witted old woman had long ago 
 discovered, but which naturally she kept to herself, not even con- 
 fiding 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, l She can tell me about glaciers and snawy 
 hills, but no' a word about herselV It is doubtful, however, 
 whether Andrew would have perceived this want anymore 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 mean- 
 time 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 
 
270 JOYCE chap. 
 
 moisture in his eyes. The laugh with which he sometimes inter- 
 rupted 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 1 ' Of this admiration and emotion and tender love 
 the air of the little room was full. 
 
 'Is that you, Andrew 1 ? 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 ' 
 
 1 Ou ay, we're always in correspondence,' said Janet. 
 
 1 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 1 Do nothing rash, Andrew — that would be the warst of a'.' 
 
 ' I hope I'm not an unknown person,' said the schoolmaster ; 
 1 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 V Janet cried. 
 
 1 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 : 
 
xxxii JOYCE 271 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Oh ! ' cried Janet, unable to refrain from that little triumph. 
 
 * Did I no' tell ye that 1 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. 
 
272 JOYCE chap, 
 
 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. ' Yell 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 5 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 0' 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 imagina- 
 tion 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 
 
xxxii JOYCE 273 
 
 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 excite- 
 ment too. 
 
OHAPTEE XXXIII 
 
 Halliday was both gloomy and angry when he left home, full of 
 that sense of unappreciated merit which cuts with peculiar keen- 
 ness into the minds of those who entertain no doubt as to their 
 own superiority over the ordinary level ; but the influence of ex- 
 ternal things and the distraction of travel soon succeeded in clear- 
 ing 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 in- 
 deed 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 1 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 
 
chap, xxxiii JOYCE 275 
 
 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 school- 
 master 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 de- 
 lusion, 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. In- 
 fluence 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 free- 
 
276 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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, school- 
 master 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 re- 
 spectable, 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 j to hear her cry of astonishment and delight ; to have her 
 come up to him in her shy way, never demonstrative, unless per- 
 haps 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 
 
xxxiii JOYCE 277 
 
 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 j 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, 
 1 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 1 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, 
 
278 JOYCE chap. 
 
 Would things be different now 1 Would she rush to him after his 
 long separation, laying her head upon his shoulder 1 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 1 9 
 
 ' Miss Hayward 1 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, instinct- 
 ively 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. 
 
xxxiii JOYCE 279 
 
 * 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, par- 
 tially 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 (notwith- 
 standing that the parsonage-house had been begun, and things were 
 on the whole going well with them) with a certain contempt. 
 
 1 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. 
 1 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 
 
CHAr. xxxiv JOYCE 281 
 
 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 V said Mrs. Hay ward, 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 1 and how do you dare to call Miss Hayward by her 
 Christian name 1 ' 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 
 
282 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 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 1 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 any- 
 thing happened 1 What has brought you here 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, is that what is wrong 1 ' 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 w T hy I came 1 
 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 
 
xxxiv JOYCE 283 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 What, my dearest 1 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 1 — 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 1 You have written 
 oftener to them than to me — though it is me,' Halliday said, 
 1 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. Hay ward 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. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
284 JOYCE chap. 
 
 I That man ! ' cried the Colonel, astounded. ' What man 1 
 Bellendean 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 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 V he said; 'the — the — 
 schoolmaster? — with Joyce? I suppose, my dear, it must be 
 one of her old friends 1 ' 
 
 I 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 under- 
 stand — such things 1 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 1 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. ' 
 
 1 Henry,' cried Mrs. Hayward, ' it is not like you to save your- 
 self behind the servants. You must come with me, at least. I 
 insist upon it. What authority have I over her 1 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 1 ' he cried. 
 
xxxiv JOYCE 285 
 
 Andrew turned round at once with a quick recovery, and 
 instantly extended his hand. He required not a moment to re- 
 cover himself, being primed and ready for whatever might happen. 
 * How do you do, Cornel 1 ' 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 yon.' 
 
 'What do you want here, sir?' cried the Colonel. 'What 
 have you to do with my daughter V Then Colonel Hay ward's 
 natural courtesy checked him in spite of himself. ' I — I beg your 
 pardon,' he said, after a moment. ' Perhaps I'm making a mis- 
 take — 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 1 ' he said. ' I see you have for- 
 gotten 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.' 
 
 1 She'll not do that,' said Andrew calmly. 
 
 4 She'll not do that 1 She shall do what I wish, sir, I can tell 
 you, and nobody shall interfere with her actions in her father's 
 house.' 
 
 4 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 trans- 
 formation ; while Joyce, roused too by this subtle change in the 
 
286 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 bring- 
 ing 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 1 ' 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 j 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 
 
xxxiv JOYCE 287 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 cere- 
 mony, 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 1 
 
CHAPTEE XXXV 
 
 Feom 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 ex- 
 pose 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 1 Who is there guilty of such infidelity, forsaking 
 an old love for a new, who cannot excuse herself in such words 1 
 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, 
 
chap, xxxv JOYCE 289 
 
 and flowers had come forth, and a blossoming and brightness in- 
 describable, 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 1 — 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 her- 
 self 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 under- 
 stand 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 
 
 u 
 
290 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 parson- 
 age. The new world was to her like the old, only more bewilder- 
 ing — 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 
 
xxxv JOYCE 291 
 
 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 in- 
 exhaustible 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 Preach- 
 ings, 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 dis- 
 turbed, 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.' 
 
292 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' Stuff and nonsense, my dear. What did a girl like you know 1 
 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.' 
 
 1 1 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 
 
xxxv JOYCE 293 
 
 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 
 fime, 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 1 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 1 There would be plenty to do, there would not be much 
 time to think. The clamour of the school, and all the old emula- 
 tions, 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 1 
 
 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 
 
294 JOYCE chap. 
 
 wings of a dove ! — but where to fly 1 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 instantane- 
 ously 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 
 
xxxv JOYCE 295 
 
 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 twi- 
 light, 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 1 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 
 
296 JOYCE chap, xxxv 
 
 facing the window. He was talking with much vehemence, refer- 
 ring occasionally to his wife, who sat in her usual place, a very 
 watchful spectator — now and then breaking off with a nourish 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 1 ? 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 V her father said hastily. 
 
 1 Joyce, you will come with me/ said Mrs. Hayward. ' Let the 
 gentlemen settle this matter. Come with me.' 
 
 1 Joyce,' said Andrew, l 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.' 
 
 1 And how do you know, Cornel, that she is under age 1 Were 
 you there when she was born \ Were you near at hand to see your 
 child 1 What do you know about her more than any passer-by V 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 Joyce,' said Mrs. Hayward angrily, ' either put a stop to this 
 
298 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. Dont you hear what my daughter has 
 said I 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 Hay ward — '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, 
 
xxxvi JOYCE 299 
 
 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 1 
 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-pos- 
 session 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. 
 
 4 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 testi- 
 monials ' 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
300 JOYCE chap. 
 
 Then the Joyce of other days found words — not the tremulous 
 girl, all strange in strange places, who was Colonel Hay ward'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 im- 
 patient pressure. ' Do you mean that you are going to marry that 
 man, Joyce V 
 
 'Mr. Halliday,' said the Colonel, 'I hope, after what my 
 daughter has said, that you will see the inexpediency of— of con- 
 tinuing 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 ! 
 
xxxvi JOYCE 301 
 
 and as for Joyce, she will not — you can see by what she has said 
 — go against me.' 
 
 1 She will never go against her word.' 
 
 I 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/ 
 
 r ' 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. Kich 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 L' 
 
 I I understand nothing of the sort, sir ! On the contrary, I 
 forbid you my house, sir ! I will give orders ' 
 
 1 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, 
 
302 JOYCE chap. 
 
 would have been much more agreeable ; yet with another reflection 
 following, that probably in this house they went through the some- 
 what 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 Hay ward's door. There was 
 a lamp not far from the gate, and some light came from the gas- 
 light in the hall, which revealed him to her before he could close 
 the door. 
 
 1 Oh ! ' she cried, in a breathless, rapid way ; ' so you found the 
 place.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 ' 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. ' 
 
 1 Halliday— my name is Halliday. She has spoken of me, no 
 doubt' F 
 
xxxvi JOYCE 303 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 1 No V cried Mrs. Sitwell. Her curiosity, her interest in this 
 f 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. 
 
 1 No,' he said ; 'I am not good enough for Cornel Hay ward's 
 daughter. You may be surprised — but, so far as lies with the 
 old people, I am sent away.' 
 
 I 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. 
 1 1 know Joyce, and she understands me.' 
 
 I 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 
 
304 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 j ' I should be very glad, ma'am, to make 
 your husband's acquaintance. He will be of the Established 
 Church, no doubt 1 It would be a pleasure to compare experience, 
 especially in the way of schools.' 
 
 * Have you to do with schools 1 ' 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 1 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 con- 
 tent, 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 1 ? It is a 
 turning of the tables which I never looked to see.' 
 
 1 But nothing will shake Joyce — Joyce will always be faithful,' 
 Mrs. Sitwell cried. 
 
 1 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. 
 
xxxvi JOYCE 305 
 
 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 1 ' 
 
 '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 1 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 snowing 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. 
 
CHAPTEE XXXVII 
 
 ■ Canon, what does this story mean which I meet wherever I go I 
 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 1 ' 
 
 ' I should be better able to answer if you told me what it was.' 
 1 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 1 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 1 ' 
 
 * 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 I'll swear she never took Mrs. Hayward's fancy, Charlotte ! ' 
 
chap, xxxvn JOYCE 307 
 
 1 Well, well. Mrs. Hay ward 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.* 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 What fault have you to find 
 with her 1 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.' 
 
 c I knew you'd think so, Canon,' Mrs. Jenkinson cried. 
 
 4 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 
 
308 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 Eespect 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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, 
 1 1 allow that you may be a partisan ; but don't keep up that 
 transparent fiction with me.' 
 
xxxvi i JOYCE 309 
 
 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 j ' 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. 
 
310 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 approach- 
 ing, 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 any- 
 thing 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.' 
 
 1 1 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. 
 
xxxvn JOYCE 311 
 
 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 WombwelFs 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 protegee out of their own class — bringing the rich and poor 
 together, don't you know — that's what they say.' 
 
 4 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 resem- 
 blance.' 
 
 ' And who was she, then, to begin with V 
 
 1 A foundling — picked up by the roadside — adopted by some 
 cottagers — the lowest of the low.' 
 
312 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Miss Marsham, behind backs, with a cry of pain. 
 1 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 1 ' said the curate, in 
 Miss Dolly's ear. 
 
 * Oh, the girl at the Haywards' — don't you know 1 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 1 ' 
 
 'I always tell you, Miss Dolly, human nature is so de- 
 praved — 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 Hay ward.' 
 
 1 It is,' said Lady St. Olair, emphatically, ' the young person — 
 Colonel Hayward's protegee — whose appearance has always been 
 such a wonder to us.' 
 
 1 Dora,' the parson said, in consternation, * you never told me 
 this.' 
 
 1 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 under- 
 stood ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Sitwell evidently thinks — which is a pity — that all my 
 information on the subject is derived from her,' Lady St. Clair 
 said. t She forgets that my husband is Scotch, and that we have 
 many connections about the country. The story is no novelty to 
 me.' 
 
xxxvn JOYCE 313 
 
 Lady Thompson could bear her dreadful position no longer. 
 She stumbled from her seat, a mass of hot furs, and thrust hei 
 teacup into Mr. Sitwell's hand. ' Then how was it that Miss Dolly 
 was nearly making a friend of 'er 1 ' 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 wip- 
 ing from her crimson forehead. Yet she was all but crying, 
 too. 
 
 1 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 Thomp- 
 son said. 
 
 * Oh, poor dear ! poor dear ! If she has made a sacrifice for the 
 sake of her people, who could blame her 1 ' 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 1 ' 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 under- 
 standing 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 
 
314 JOYCE chap, xxxvn 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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. Hay ward. 
 
 1 1 — 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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 Fortun- 
 ately 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. Hay ward 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 con- 
 troversy 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 
 
316 JOYCE chap. 
 
 formed the exquisite pattern. In spite of these things Mrs. Hay- 
 ward, 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. ' Thames ! flow 
 softly while I sing my song/ Joyce said, under her breath. 
 
 ' Eh 1 — what were you saying, Joyce 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 1 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 1 Well, my dear, tastes 
 
xxxvin JOYCE 317 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 land- 
 scape. * 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.' 
 
 1 Then there is little harm done,' said Joyce, this time with a 
 smile. 
 
 1 Not if you trust us fully, my dear, and love your home.' He 
 patted her hand again, then moved on unsatisfied. ' I think, how- 
 ever, 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 Ttere 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 
 
318 JOYCE chap. 
 
 myself very fond How do you do?' cried the Colonel cheerily, 
 
 taking off his hat with a flourish. ' Lovely morning ! How do 
 you do 1 ' 
 
 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, i is the meaning of that 1 ' 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 No, father. I will look at you when I see you approaching 
 the subject,' said Joyce. She was quite unconscious of any seri- 
 ousness in the matter. Lady St. Clair and her girls seemed in- 
 
xxxviii JOYCE 319 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. Bellen- 
 dean. Joyce, though she had always been more shy of her dear 
 lady since she had discovered how much Mrs. Bellendean's be- 
 haviour 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 asso- 
 ciated 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 
 
320 JOYCE chap. 
 
 to Joyce. The peace of the old life was gone from her, and some- 
 thing 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 pro- 
 fessed 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 1 ' 
 
 * 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. Hay ward ; l 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 1 ' Mrs. Bellen- 
 dean said. 
 
 1 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 
 
xxxviii JOYCE 321 
 
 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. Hay ward. 'Sport's mono- 
 tonous, 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. 
 1 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.' 
 
 y 
 
322 JOYCE chap, xxxvm 
 
 * 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 every- 
 body'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 
 
 1 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. 
 
 6 Are you afraid of the cold 1 — 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 ? ' 
 
 1 Yes.' Joyce did not look up, nor did she feel herself able to 
 say more. 
 
 1 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 
 
324 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 
 
 Gj. re ta — Greta was always fond of you. You have not met much 
 lately/ 
 
 ' No.' Nothing would come but monosyllables. 
 
 < 1 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 1 ' 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 
 mV 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 1 ! 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. 
 
 1 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 en- 
 veloped 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 
 
xxxix JOYCE 325 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 1 What has it to say to me 1 ' 
 
 * Joyce ! do you think I would come to you without strong 
 reason — betraying Greta 1 ' 
 
 * 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 ' 
 
 ' 1 have nothing to do with it,' said Joyce. ' What — what do 
 you think I can do ? ' 
 
 I He — can be nothing to you,' said the visitor tremulously. 
 1 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 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. 
 
326 JOYCE chap. 
 
 c 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 1 All for what I — 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 no loosen, — and thus com- 
 manded 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. i 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 
 
xxxix JOYCE 827 
 
 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 ' 
 
 1 No, Joyce — no, dear Joyce ! ' 
 
 1 For what 1 ' 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 1 why should I be disappointed and not she 1 
 why should I give up my hope to save her — if it was so 1 ' 
 
 1 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/ 
 
 1 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. Bellen- 
 
328 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 ' 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. 
 1 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 fascina- 
 tion 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 1 — 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 
 
xxxix JOYCE 829 
 
 long time since I have seen her.' It seemed impossible to change 
 the subject, to get out of these banalites 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 inter- 
 change 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 en- 
 closed 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 1 ' 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 Never disappointed ! ' cried Mrs. Hayward. ' Do they think 
 she can get through life like that 1 And was this all Mrs. Bellen- 
 dean came to say? I think she might have saved herself the 
 trouble. I would let Miss Greta look after her own affairs.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 1 — to 
 give the first blow 1 — to begin the disenchantment which is the 
 rule of life 1 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 1 to change 
 the firmament and eclipse the sunshine, where all had been bright- 
 ness 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 
 
chap, xl JOYCE 331 
 
 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 happi- 
 ness — 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 hap- 
 pened, 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 
 
332 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 disadvan- 
 tage to Norman, while Greta would be nothing but good and 
 happiness : — and finally to thrust her back to what they -con- 
 sidered 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 irrita- 
 tions, 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 feel- 
 ings, 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 black- 
 ness 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 
 
XL JOYCE 333 
 
 and sleepless, with dark lines under her eyes, she found her step- 
 mother standing in the hall, turning over a letter, with great sur- 
 prise 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. ' 
 
 1 To ask you and me and not Joyce, — I cannot understand it. 
 Can Joyce have done anything to offend them 1 Why should I 
 be asked to a ball but for Joyce 1 We are not dancing people, 
 you and I. I might have gone for Joyce, and Joyce is left out. 
 What can it mean 1 ? 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. Hay- 
 ward. 
 
 * What do you mean by breaking off like this 1 What hap- 
 pened ? ' cried his wife. 
 
 1 Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear/ said the veteran, with con- 
 fusion and dismay. 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 No, my dear, no. I was mistaken ; it couldn't have any- 
 thing 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 abandon- 
 ing the warning which she had given him. Joyce, in the ex- 
 tremity 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.' 
 
 1 The fact is,' said the Colonel, eager to speak, * we thought it 
 might annoy you, Elizabeth.' 
 
 1 You are taking the best way to annoy me,' she cried. ' What 
 is this you have been making up between you 1 Henry, I have a 
 right at least to the truth from you.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
334 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Keasons for what 1 ' said Mrs. Hayward, stamping her foot on 
 the ground. 'I think between you you will drive me mad.' 
 
 1 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 import- 
 ance, and that it was useless to speak to you of it, as it might- 
 annoy you : we agreed ' 
 
 1 You agreed ! ' Mrs. Hayward gave Joyce an angry look. ' I 
 wish in such matters, Henry, you would act from your own im- 
 pulse, and never mind any one else.' She swept in before the 
 others into the dining-room, where it was the wont of the house- 
 hold 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. 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
XL JOYCE 335 
 
 Hay ward, 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 appear- 
 ance, 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 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.' 
 
 1 Oh, no mistake,' said the lady, a little tremulous. * I hope 
 you can come.' 
 
 ' 1 — come? But you must be laughing at me,' cried Mrs. 
 Hayward, with a little burst of gaiety. * Of course I go every- 
 where 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 ' 
 
 1 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, f I am so glad,' said this 
 friendly person, ' to see you here by yourself. It is so lucky. Of 
 
336 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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!' 
 
 1 Kather 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 1 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 V 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?' 
 
 1 I don't know whom you mean, Lady Thompson. I never for- 
 sake anybody I am interested in — but I don't know what you 
 mean.' 
 
 1 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, notwith- 
 standing 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 1 She saw Mrs. Sitwell at a little 
 distance, and concluded that she would be the most fit interpreter ; 
 
xl JOYCE 337 
 
 but the parson's wife saw her too, and quickened her steps, hurry- 
 ing away. * It is her doing,' Mrs. Hay ward 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. 
 
 1 Captain Bellendean ! it is a long time since we have seen 
 you/ 
 
 1 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 pos- 
 sibility of enlightenment from some one else's judgment, was won- 
 derful to herself. For how could she lay that tangled question 
 before any one, or unfold her soul 1 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 1 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 1 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 sug- 
 gested 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 
 
chap, xli JOYCE 339 
 
 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 fur- 
 tively, 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 
 
340 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 but how 
 was it possible that she should know 1 
 
 'You must not think I have come just to call,' Joyce 
 said. 
 
 1 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 
 
xli JOYCE 341 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 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. ' 
 
 1 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 Tierself, no longer asking how Miss Mar- 
 sham could know, then shook her head. ' I wish it had been for 
 that motive ; but there was no love, no love, — 1/ 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 gentle- 
 man. Oh, I think shame to say such a thing, — it doesn't 
 
 how can I say it 1 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, 
 
342 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 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 him- 
 self, 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 V 
 
 Joyce sank down again upon the seat, and covered her face with 
 her hands. 
 
 4 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 con- 
 fusion 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 
 
xli JOYCE 343 
 
 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 
 
 your 
 
 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 eager- 
 ness, 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 ' 
 
 1 1 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.' 
 
 1 Yes,' said the vestal, the priestess of this new Dodona, i it is 
 not in our will to choose or to change. You can't leave the heart- 
 break 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.' 
 
344 JOYCE chap, xli 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 1 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. 
 
CHAPTEE 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 1 ' 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 
 
346 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 weak- 
 ness 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 con- 
 form to that pitiless abstract law : it had no regard for the weak- 
 ness of — common folk. And what was Joyce, after all, but a 
 girl like another 1 — 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 her- 
 self. 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 
 
xlii JOYCE 347 
 
 Bides which ought to stand in every question, which see the matter 
 from different points, which balance and temper each other. Joyce's 
 t 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 win- 
 dows 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
348 JOYCE chap. 
 
 terror, wondering after all, she who desired to be understood with- 
 out 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 1 What are you saying, Joyce 1 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 encourag- 
 ingly. ' 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, 
 1 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 1 ' 
 
 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 1 ' 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. 
 
xlii JOYCE 349 
 
 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 1 
 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 j 
 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 1 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 1 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 ! ' 
 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 
 
350 JOYCE chap. 
 
 wonder if it was that old fool Cissy Marsham, it would be just like 
 her. Now, Joyce listen to me ' 
 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
 1 She doesn't believe me,' said the Canon, — ' none of them do j 
 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 1 How do you know what's best for him 1 Who 
 gave you the right to humiliate him by sacrificing yourself to him 
 — or her ? what does it matter 1 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, 
 1 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, shak- 
 ing 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 
 
xlii JOYCE 351 
 
 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 acknowledg- 
 ment, 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.' 
 
 1 That's good.' Dr. Jenkinson meant to take advantage of the 
 opportunity to ask further questions, to elicit, if he could, some- 
 thing 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 
 
352 JOYCE chap, 
 
 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 enlighten- 
 ment 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 ! ' 
 
 I 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 1 ? 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 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. Kemember 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. 
 
xlii JOYCE 353 
 
 Joyce, whatever you may be tempted to do, remember what I 
 say f 
 
 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. 
 
 2 A 
 
CHAPTEE 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, cur- 
 tained, 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 Hay- 
 ward'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. 
 
 1 Oh, has she 1 I had something to say to her. (She would 
 not have Baker think that it was because of Captain Bellendean's 
 
chap, xliii JOYCE 355 
 
 visit that she wanted Joyce.) Ask her to come to me in the 
 drawing-room the moment she comes in.' 
 
 1 1 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 respon- 
 sibilities 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 
 
356 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 school- 
 mistress there. 
 
 Norman had fallen in love honestly, spontaneously, without any 
 preparation or arriere-pensee. 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 1 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 
 
xliii JOYCE 357 
 
 daughter might have married any one — no man daring to have 
 said that it was a mesalliance. 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 in- 
 feriority ; 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 con- 
 curring 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 — 
 
358 JOYCE chap. 
 
 worthy of all respect, and more than respect — at Bellendean, call- 
 ing 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 daemons, 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, 
 
xliii JOYCE 359 
 
 Hayward had gone to look for Joyce, and that she would not come 
 back to disturb the tete-ct-tete, 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 1 Was she displeased with the warn- 
 ing given her, and unwilling to come down to him in the empty 
 drawing-room while everybody knew what must take place there 1 
 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 1 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 Hay- 
 ward was saying; 'why didn't you bring him to the library'? 
 Why, Norman, my fine fellow ! how do you do 1 — 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
360 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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. Bellen- 
 dean 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 Hay ward — 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 1 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. Hay- 
 ward. 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 1 ' cried the Colonel, rising. l Bless 
 me ! it is always you who think of everything. I'll go at once 
 and bring her home.' 
 
 1 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 
 
xliii JOYCE 361 
 
 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. 
 Hay ward ; * 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 1 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 mesalliance 
 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 ex- 
 pected any contrariety here. He had thought — coxcomb that he 
 
362 JOYCE chap. 
 
 was i — 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 1 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. 
 
 I 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 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 ' 
 
 1 Then you are leaving again soon 1 ' Mrs. Hay ward 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. 1 1 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 
 
xliii JOYCE 363 
 
 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 1 l 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. 
 
 4 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, Bel- 
 lendean ; 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.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 way- 
 farers 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 1 don't you remember 1 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 ; c 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 ' 
 
 1 Eh 1 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 1 and there is your father standing out in the night air 
 without a hat ; the most foolish thing he could do. You catch 
 
chap, xliv JOYCE 365 
 
 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 V — 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.' 
 
 4 1 only wish we had run into him,' said the Canon in his 
 rolling bass ; * it might have cleared up some things.' 
 
 1 What do you mean, Canon 1 He's a nice fellow, but not par- 
 ticularly 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 destruc- 
 tion. 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 
 
366 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 Where have you been, Joyce 1 where have you been 1— to-day 
 of all days ! Captain Bellendean has been here ' 
 
 She said, ' Yes, I heard,' almost under her breath. 
 
 1 And why were you not here to meet him 1 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 exaspera- 
 tion. ' 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 1 — are you caring — anyway V 
 
 1 Am I caring ! You mean, do I care 1 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, 
 1 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 ' 
 
 ' 1 was bewildered,' the girl said. 'I was — like a creature 
 astray ' 
 
 1 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 
 
xliv JOYCE 367 
 
 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 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 There is plenty of time,' said Mrs. Hay ward, 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 any- 
 where that would suit you so well. You understand each other. 
 For goodness' sake,' cried Mrs. Hay ward, exasperated and anxious, 
 ' don't spoil your life with any romantic nonsense ! Why, even his 
 people like you and seek you. Mrs. Bellendean ' 
 
 ' 1 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 tlte 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 
 
368 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. Hay ward 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 inter- 
 fere, his better angel kept him back by means of that prejudice 
 against prying, which is a happy part of English training. Accord- 
 ingly 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 con- 
 spiracy 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 Hay- 
 ward, 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 
 
xliv JOYCE 369 
 
 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 sensa- 
 tion 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 actftn 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 mean- 
 time, 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. Hay ward. She accepted Thurs- 
 day 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 : — 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 2b 
 
370 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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 with- 
 out 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 1 ' 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 iD 
 
xliv JOYCE 371 
 
 the right or wrong, these three people were agreed. If the rectory- 
 was of any weight in society, and Mrs. Jenkinson's accent in pro- 
 nouncing that If was a model of polished sarcasm, then there 
 could be no further doubt as to the opinion of the place. Every- 
 body 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 posssible 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 vindica- 
 tion ; 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 I ' 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 orna- 
 ment. It suited her slim youthful figure, which wanted no elabo- 
 rate drapings or loopings. The miniature with its bow of dark-blue 
 
372 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ribbon was pmned 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 1 ' 
 
 The Colonel was standing in the hall waiting for his ladies, 
 pleased and proud, and somehow more happy than usual in the con- 
 viction 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 down- 
 stairs 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 compro- 
 mised ? 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 
 
xliv JOYCE 373 
 
 little difficult to make the entrance which Mrs. Hayward had in- 
 tended, so as to strike all objectors dumb. Mrs. Jenkinson, how- 
 ever, 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 con- 
 viction 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, 
 1 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 1 Bless 
 my soul ! ' The Canon paused, drawing a quick breath. ' Who 
 put this upon you 1 It's your mother's picture 1 ' 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 1 I remember her 
 
374 JOYCE chap, xliv 
 
 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. 
 
CHAPTEK 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 hun- 
 dred tones — in warning, in reproof, in astonishment, in low mur- 
 muring passion. They seemed to be all speaking to her, calling 
 to her, together : Mrs. Bellendean and Mrs. Hay ward 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. Hay ward, ' it is such a 
 lovely night, and only a little way.' 
 
 1 And I'm going with you/ said Captain Bellendean. ' Yes, 
 Colonel, I have plenty of time for the train.' 
 
 1 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 con- 
 
376 JOYCE chap. 
 
 sciousness of all around her : the hard dry road which rang under- 
 foot, 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 un- 
 derstand what is happening,' she said. 
 
 c I thought it was so : the noise and the chatter of these people, 
 and the agitation — for you were agitated, Joyce.' 
 
 1 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 1 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. 
 
 1 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 1 ' 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 1 and what did you hear 1 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 Joyce,' he cried, ' it is not natural to speak to me like that. 
 Have you no feeling for me I 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 
 
xlv JOYCE 377 
 
 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. 
 
 1 You must have felt something for me then 1 ' 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 j 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 — c 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 mans worn.' 
 
 ' Are you thinking of that man 1 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 think- 
 ing 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 for- 
 got 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 
 
378 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 fathers house. Joyce was altogether inarticulate, in- 
 capable 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 gene- 
 rally 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, how- 
 ever, 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 
 
xlv JOYCE 379 
 
 cried, 'you're in trouble about my train. I know I must fly. 
 Mrs. Hay ward, 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.' 
 
 1 It's not so very late,' said the Colonel. ' I thought you would 
 like a chat by the fireside. ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 What could be wrong 1 ' said the innocent old soldier ; ■ and 
 why should she be so tired 1 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 
 
380 JOYCE , chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 ex- 
 citement 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 lati- 
 tudes, 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 1 Mrs. Hayward 
 was almost angry in the height of her excitement, though some- 
 thing 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 ' 
 
xlv JOYCE 381 
 
 ■ What should we call you by, you silly girl 1 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.' 
 
 1 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. ' YouVe 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, un- 
 expected,' — 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. 
 
382 JOYCE chap, xlv 
 
 Hayward's sensation was that she had been made Joyce's confi- 
 dante, 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 compunc- 
 tion for injustice done to Joyce — a generous wish to get every- 
 thing 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. 
 
CHAPTEE XLYI 
 
 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 every- 
 thing. That was the only way it could have been. She had for 
 a time held him apart from her with good reasons, telling him 
 
384 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 
 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 1 what in the few hours that remained to 
 her she must do 1 
 
 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 
 
xlvi JOYCE 385 
 
 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 think- 
 ing. 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 creep- 
 ing 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. 
 
 2 c 
 
386 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 exaggerat- 
 ing 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 her- 
 self 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 
 
xlvi JOYCE 387 
 
 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 sleep- 
 less night ; her eyes were quite clear, her colour varying, but some- 
 times 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 circum- 
 stances. 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 1 But 
 he was always a capital fellow. I liked him from the very first — 
 
388 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 I 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 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 1 ?' 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 
 
xlvi JOYCE 389 
 
 had bred up from a baby, and that was going away. I have been 
 a great trouble to everybody that has cared for me.' 
 
 1 1 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 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 4 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 ' 
 
 1 Don't you think, father,' said Joyce, c 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.' 
 
 I 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.' 
 
 ' 1 would rather ask you. It was kind, kind to bring it to 
 me : nobody else would have had that thought.' 
 
 I 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 
 
390 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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.' 
 
 1 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 dis- 
 turb 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 Hay- 
 ward, 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 aston- 
 ished 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. 
 
 1 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 up- 
 
xlvi JOYCE 391 
 
 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 j she had not been seen by any 
 one. What did it mean 1 They met in the drawing-room — Mrs. 
 Hayward more scared and pale, Captain Bellendean more dark and 
 angry, than before. 
 
 1 Where is Joyce 1 ' said the Colonel. ' You don't mean to say 
 she has never come back ! Then there must be something wrong.' 
 
 1 If she is staying away on account of me ' said Bellendean, 
 
 looking almost black, with his eyebrows curved over his eyes, and 
 and his moustache closing sternly over his mouth. 
 
 1 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 some- 
 thing might come into it. It could not be more blank than the 
 vacant room, w T hich threw no light whatever on the mystery. 
 Where had she gone ? There could not be anything in those sug- 
 gestions which she had made, not without a chill of doubt, in the 
 afternoon. Joyce could not be detained anywhere all this time, 
 
392 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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. Hay ward 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 trouble- 
 some 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 1 is it all right 1 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 ? ' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 I What 1 ' 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 sacri- 
 fice 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 I told her that it came easiest to women — that to sacrifice 
 one's self ' 
 
xlvi JOYCE 393 
 
 I To whom did you say that 1 ' 
 
 ' 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 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. Hay- 
 ward's maid came in. * If you please, ma'am,' she said. 
 
 ' What is it 1 Miss Hay ward 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.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 1 Did you see the address 1 ' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 You are sure it was London 1 ' 
 
 1 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 
 
394 . JOYCE chap, xlvi 
 
 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.' 
 
CHAPTEE 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 l 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. 
 
396 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' There'll be anither the mom,' 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 pair ties 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.' 
 
 1 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 im- 
 patient sigh from Janet, who had just cast off her stocking, round- 
 ing the ample toe. 
 
 * Eh,' she said, ' just to hae ae glimpse of her ! I would ken in 
 a moment.' 
 
 1 What are ye wan tin' to ken 1 ' 
 
 1 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 oracu- 
 larly. 
 
 1 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 ' 
 
 I 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 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 — 
 
xlvii JOYCE 397 
 
 ' U 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, l 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 expres- 
 sion. 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.' 
 
398 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 Oornal 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 ' 
 
 1 Ony fule,' said Peter, ' would see that.' 
 
 1 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.' 
 
 1 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 1 
 I think I would like a cup of tea.' 
 
 ' That will 1 1 ' 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 de- 
 light, and her questions ran on as she moved to and fro, making 
 the kettle boil (which was always just on the eve of boiling), get- 
 ting 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. 
 
 1 Whatfor should she be changed 1 ' said Peter, with his tremulous 
 growl of happiness. The old man sat, with an occasional earth- 
 quake 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 pro- 
 found faith. Whatfor should she be changed ? Whatfor should 
 she be otherwise than happy I 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 
 
xlvii JOYCE 399 
 
 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. 
 
 1 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. 6 As wha could 1 ' 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 
 
400 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 1 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, crving 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 
 
xlvii JOYCE 401 
 
 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 1 ' 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 1 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 
 
 2d 
 
402 JOYCE chap, xlvii 
 
 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, 
 1 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 l 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 facul- 
 ties. 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 pre- 
 paring 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 V 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.' 
 
 1 Oh, man, I'm thankful to you ! ' said Janet. * Are they a' for 
 the same airt.' 
 
 1 They're a' for the far north,' said the watchman, continuing 
 his heavy march. 
 
CHAPTEE 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, accom- 
 panied 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 hereT 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!' 
 
404 JOYCE chap. 
 
 ' 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 V 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, ' 1 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 Hay ward 
 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 1 but I thought naething but 
 that the Cornel and his lady were waiting upon her — for ane o' 
 
xlviii JOYCE 405 
 
 your toors, or whatever you ca' them/ she added, with a certain 
 tone of disdain. 
 
 'And she said she was going — where V 
 
 ' 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 1 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, 
 1 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. 
 
 1 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 1 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 1 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, 
 
406 JOYCE chap. 
 
 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 pene- 
 trated with its faint-coloured gleam of living 1 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 every- 
 body 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 
 
xlviii JOYCE 407 
 
 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 Bellen- 
 dean 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, per- 
 fectly 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 com- 
 municate with him. He thought the step she had taken ill- 
 judged and excessive, even though it was in consequence of theii 
 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 dis- 
 approval 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 dis- 
 appeared, and was seen and heard no more. 
 
 It was curious, however, that within a year Janet and Peter Mathe- 
 son 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 
 
408 JOYCE chap, xlviii 
 
 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 informa- 
 tion. But the legend ran that suddenly, upon a wild wintry after- 
 noon, 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 English- 
 man, nor any wandering visitor, has ever found out more than this 
 respecting the Lady of the Isle. 
 
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 INDEX. 
 
 Abbey (E. A 
 Abbot (F.E., . 
 ABBOTT(Rev. E.) 3,1 
 Acland (Sir H. W.) 
 Adams (Sir F. O.) 
 Addison . 
 Agassiz (L.) 
 AiNGER(Rev. A.) 4, 
 Ainslie (A. D.). 
 Airy (Sir G. B.) 
 Aitken (Mary C.) 
 Aitken (Sir W.) 
 Albemarle (Earl of) 
 Aldrich (T. B.) 
 Alexander (C. F.) . 
 Alexander (T.) 
 Alexander (Bishop) 
 Allbutt (T. C.) 
 Allen (G.) 
 Allingham (W.) 
 Amiel(H. F.) . 
 Anderson (A.). 
 Anderson (Dr. McCall) 
 Andrews (Dr. Thomas) 
 Appleton (T. G.) . 
 Archer-Hind (R. D.) 
 
 page 
 
 • 37 
 
 * 33 
 3,30,3*, 33 
 
 22 
 
 • 3 
 6, 20, 33 
 
 . 14 
 2, 27 
 . 20 
 
 • 23 
 
 • 3 
 
 • 14 
 
 Arnold, M. 8, 14, 19, 20, 21, 30 
 
 ~~.u, m. o, 1, 
 Arnold (Dr. T.) 
 Arnold (W. T.) 
 Ashley (W. J.). 
 Atkinson (J. B.) 
 Atkinson (Rev. J. C.) 
 Attwell(H.). 
 Austin (Alfred) 
 Autenrieth (Georg) 
 
 AWDRY (F.) 
 
 Bacon (Francis) 
 
 9 
 
 • 9 
 
 • 3 
 2 
 
 i,38 
 . 20 
 . 14 
 
 • 7 
 
 • 38 
 19, 20 
 
 Baines (Rev. E.) . 
 Baker (Sir S.W.) 28,30 
 Balch (Elizabeth) . 
 Baldwin (Prof. J. M.) 
 Balfour (F. M.) 
 Balfour (J. B.) 
 Ball (V.) . 
 Ball (W. Piatt) 
 Ball (W. W. R.) 
 Ballance (C. A.) 
 Barker (Lady) 
 Barnard (C.) . 
 Barnes (W.) . 
 Bartholomew (J. G.) 
 Bartlett (J.) . 
 Barwell (R.) . 
 Bastable (Prof. C. F.) 
 Bastian (H. C.) 
 Bateson (W.) . 
 Bath (Marquis of) 
 Bather (Archdeacoi 
 Baxter (L.) 
 Beesly (Mrs.) . 
 Bp^nham (Rev. W.) . 
 Benson (Archbishop) 
 Berlioz (H. 
 Bernard (J. H.) 
 Bernard (H. M.) 
 Bernard (M.) . 
 Bernard (T. D.) 
 Berners (J.) . 
 Besant (W.) . 
 Bethune-Baker (J, 
 Bettany (G. T.) 
 
 BlCKERTON (T. H.) 
 
 Bigelow(M. M.) 
 
 BlKELAS (D.) . 
 
 
 
 F.) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 33 
 
 37,38 
 
 12 
 
 26 
 
 5,6 
 6 
 
 38 
 
 1 37 
 
 27 
 
 3 
 
 3 
 
 7 
 
 22 
 
 28 
 
 6, 22 
 
 6 
 28 
 33 
 
 3 
 
 9 
 
 20, 32 
 32, 33 
 
 3 
 25 
 
 6 
 
 12 
 33 
 11 
 
 4 
 33 
 
 6 
 
 Binnie (Rev. W.) . 
 Birks (T. R.) . 6, 25, 
 
 BjORNSON (B.) . 
 
 Black (W.) . 
 Blackburne (E.) 
 Blackie (J. S.) 
 Blake (J. F.) . 
 Blake (W.) . 
 Blakiston (J. R.) 
 Blanford(H. F.) 
 Blanford (W. T.) 
 Blomfield (R.) 
 Blyth (A. W.) . 
 Bohm-Bawerk (Prof.) 
 Boissevain (G. M.) , 
 
 BOLDREWOOD (Rolf ). 
 BONAR (J.) 
 
 Bond (Rev. J.). 
 Boole (G.) 
 Booth (C.) 
 Bose (W. P. du) 
 
 BOUGHTON (G. H.) 
 
 Boutmy (E.) . 
 Bowbn(H.C). 
 Bower (F. O.) . 
 Bridges (J. A.). 
 Bright flEL A.). 
 Bright (John) . 
 Br™ ley (G.) . 
 Brodie (Sir B. C.) 
 Brodribb (W. J.) 
 Brooke (Sir J.) 
 Brooke (S. A.) 13, 
 Brooks (Bishop) 
 Brown (A. C.) . 
 Brown (J. A.) . 
 Brown (Dr. James) 
 
 14, 
 
 PAGE - 
 
 • 33- 
 30, 33 
 
 • 17 
 
 • 4 
 
 • 3- 
 14, 19 
 
 9, 27 
 9, 24 
 5 
 11 
 28 
 28 
 17 
 28 
 3i 
 26 
 29 
 34 
 37 
 
 6 
 19 
 9 
 28, 29 
 
 ? 
 
 21, 33 
 
INDEX. 
 
 4i 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Brown (T. E.) ... 14 
 
 Browne (J. H. B.) . . n 
 Browne (Sir T.) . . 20 
 Brunton(Di\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.). . . . i 
 
 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.) . 
 Cameron (V. L.) 
 Campbell (J. F.) 
 Campbell (Dr. J. M.) 
 Campbell (Prof. Lewis) 
 Capes (W.W.). 
 Carles (W. R.) 
 Carlylk(T.) . 
 Carmarthen (Lady) 
 Carnarvon (Earl of) 
 Carnot (N. L. G.) . 
 Carpenter (Bishop) 
 Carr (J. C.) . 
 Carroll (Lewis) 
 Carter (R. Brudenell) 
 Cassel (Dr. D.) 
 Cautley(G. S.) 
 Cazenove (J. G.) 
 Chalmers (J. B.) . 
 Chalmers (M. D.) . 
 Chapman (Elizabeth R.) 
 Chasseresse (Diana) 
 Cherry (R. R.) 
 Cheyne (C. H. H.) . 
 Cheyne (T. K.) 
 Christie (J.) . 
 Christie (W. D.) . 
 Church (Prof. A. H.) . 6 
 Church (Rev. A. J.) 4,30,37 
 Church (F. J.). . 20,37 
 Church (Dean) 3»4»i3»i9.3 I »33 
 
 31 
 
 37 
 37 
 
 33 
 5. 13 
 13 
 37 
 3, 14 
 17 
 36 
 27 
 33 
 2 
 
 26, 38 
 
 23 
 
 9 
 
 M 
 
 33 
 
 8 
 29 
 
 30 
 
 Clark (J. W.) . 
 Clark (L.) 
 Clark (S.) 
 Clarke (C. B.). 
 Clifford (Ed.) 
 
 " K.) 
 
 9, 28 
 
 • 3 
 19, 26 
 
 • 38 
 14, 19 
 . 29 
 
 • 7 
 
 • 32 
 . 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.) . . II 
 
 Corry (T. H.) . . .6 
 
 CotterillQ.H.) . . 8 
 
 Cotton (Bishop) . . 34 
 Cotton (C) ... 12 
 
 Cotton (J. S.) . . 29 
 
 Coues (E.) . . .40 
 
 COURI .iOPE (W. J.) . .4 
 
 Cowell (G.) . . .23 
 
 COWPER . . . .20 
 
 Cox(G.V.) ... 9 
 CRAiK(Mrs.)i4, 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(SirJ.) 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)3i, 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. LI.). 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, 20 
 
 DlLLWYN (E. A.) . . 17 
 
 Dobson (A.) . . 4 
 
 Donaldson (J.) . . 33 
 
 Donisthokpe (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 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dunsmuir (A.). . . 17 
 Duntzer (H.) . . . 4, 5 
 Dupre (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 
 
 F A RRER(SirT. H.) 
 Faulkner (F.). 
 Fawcett (Prof. H.). 
 Fawcett (M. G.) . 
 Fay (Amy) 
 Fearnley (W.) 
 Fearon (D. R.) 
 Ferrel (W.) . 
 Fessenden (C) 
 Finck(H.T.) . 
 Fisher (Rev. O.) 
 
 29 
 
 7 
 
 , 29 
 
 , 28 
 
 24 
 
 27 
 
 8 
 
 27 
 
 26 
 
 1 
 
 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.) 
 Fleischer (E.). 
 Fleming (G.) . 
 Flower (Prof. W. H.) 
 FlOckiger(F.A.) . 
 Forbes (A.) 
 Forbes (Prof. G.) . 
 Forbes (Rev. G. H.) 
 Foster (Prof. M.) 
 
 5 
 7 
 
 • 17 
 
 • 39- 
 
 • 23 
 4> 37 
 
 • 3 
 
 • 3+ 
 6, 27 
 
 29, 34 
 
 4, 25 
 
 24 
 
 23 
 28 
 
 34 
 14 
 
 Fothergill (Dr. T. M.) 8,23 
 FowLE(Rev. T.W.). 
 Fowler (Rev. T.) . 
 Fowler (W.W.) . 
 Fox (Dr. Wilson) . 
 Foxwell (Prof. H. S) 
 Framji (D.) . 
 Frankland (P. F.) . 
 Fraser (Bishop) 
 Fraser-Tytler (C. C.) 
 Frazer (J. G.) . 
 Frederick (Mrs.) . 
 Freeman (Prof. E. A.) 
 
 2, 4, 10, 29, 32 
 French (G. R.) . . 13 
 Friedmann (P.) . .3 
 Frost (A. B.) ... 38 
 Froude (J. A.). . . 4 
 Fui.lerton (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) 
 
 Garnett (R.) . . . i T 
 
 Garnett (W.) . . . 4 
 
4 2 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Gaskell (Mrs.) 
 Gaskoin (Mrs. H.) 
 Geddes (W. D.) 
 Gee (W. H.) . 
 Geikie (Sir A.). 
 Gennadius (J.) 
 Gibbins (H. de B.) . 
 Gibbon (Charles) 
 Gilchrist (A.). 
 Giles (P.). 
 •Gilman (N. P.) 
 -Gilmore (Rev. J.) . 
 Gladstone (Dr. J. H.) 
 ■Gladstone (W. E.) . 
 Glaister (E.) . 
 Godfray (H.) . 
 Godkin(G. S.). 
 Goethe 
 
 page 
 . 12 
 • 30 
 13, 37 
 
 26, 27 
 
 4, 9, 27 
 17 
 
 10 
 
 3 
 3 
 
 25 
 28 
 
 13 
 
 3 
 
 5 
 
 4, H 
 
 Goldsmith 4, 12, 14, 20, 21 
 Good ale (Prof. G. L.) . 6 
 Goodfellow (J.) . .11 
 Gordon (General C. G.) . 4 
 Gordon (Lady Duff) . 37 
 Goschen (Rt. Hon. G. J.). 28 
 Gosse (Edmund) . 4, 13 
 
 Gow(J.) .... 1 
 Graham (D.) . . . 14 
 Graham (J. W.) . . 17 
 Grand'homme (E.) . . 8 
 Gray (Prof. Andrew) . 26 
 Gray (Asa) ... 6 
 Gray ... 4, 14, 21 
 Green (J. R.) . 9, 10, 12, 20 
 Green (Mrs. J. R.) 
 
 Green (W. S.) . 
 
 Greenhill (W. A.) . 
 
 Greenwood (J. E.) . 
 
 Grenfell (Mrs.) . 
 
 Griffiths (W. H.) . 
 
 Grimm 
 
 Grove (Sir G.). 
 
 Guest (E.) 
 
 Guest (M.J.) . IO 
 
 GUILLEMIN (A.) . 26, 27 
 
 Guizot (F. P. G.) . . 5 
 
 GUNTON (G.) ... 28 
 
 Hales (J. W.) . . 16, 20 
 Hallward (R. F.) . . 12 
 Hamerton (P. G.) . 2, 21 
 Hamilton (Prof. D. J.) . 23 
 Hamilton (J.). . . 34 
 Hanbury(D.). . 6,23 
 Hannay (David) . . 4 
 Hardwick (Archd. C.) 31, 34 
 Hardy (A. S.) . . , S 
 Hardy (T.) ... 17 
 Hare (A. W.) ... 20 
 Hare (J. C.) . . 2 o, 34 
 Harper (Father Thos.) 25,34 
 Harris (Rev. G. C.). . 34 
 Harrison (F.). . 4) 5j 21 
 Harrison (Miss J.) . . 1 
 Harte (Bret) . . . 17 
 Hartig (Dr. R.) ...'.'. 6 
 Hartley (Prof. W. N.) . 7 
 Harwood (G.) . .21, 29, 32 
 Hayes (A.) . . i 4 
 
 Headlam (W.). . . 36 
 Heaviside (O.) . . 26 
 Helps (Sir A.) . . . 21 
 Hempel (Dr. W.) . . 7 
 Herkomer (H.) . . 2 
 Herodotus . . .36 
 Herrick . . . .20 
 
 Hertel (Dr.) . 
 Hill (F. Davenport). 
 Hill (O.) . 
 Hiorns (A. H.) 
 Hobart (Lord) 
 Hobday (E.) . 
 Hodgson (Rev. J. T.) 
 Hoffding (Prof. H.) 
 Hofmann (A. W.) . 
 Hole (Rev. C.). 
 Holiday (Henry) . 
 Holland (T. E.) . 
 Hollway-Calthrop (H.) 
 Holmes- (O. W., junr.) 
 Homer 
 
 Hooker (Sir J. D.) . 
 Hoole (C. H.) . 
 Hooper (G.) . 
 Hooper (W. H.) 
 Hope (F. J.) . 
 Hopkins (E.) . ' . 
 Hoppus (M. A. M.) . 
 Horace . 
 HoRT(Prof.F.J.A.). 
 Horton (Hon. S. D.) 
 Hosken (J. D.) 
 
 HOVENDEN (R. M.) . 
 
 Howell (George) . 
 Howes (G. B.) . 
 Howitt (A. W.) 
 Howson (Very Rev. J. S.) 
 Hozier (Col. H. M.). 
 Hubner (Baron) 
 Hughes (T.) 4, 15, 18, 20, 37 
 Hull(E.). . . .2,9 
 
 HULLAH (J.) . . 2, 20, 24 
 
 Hume (D.) ... 4 
 HuMPHRY(Prof.SirG.M.) 28,39 
 Hunt(W.) ... 10 
 Hunt(W.M.). . . 2 
 Hutton (R. H.) . 4, 21 
 Huxley (T.) 4, 21, 27,28, 29,40 
 Iddings (J. P.) ... 9 
 Illingworth (Rev. J. R.) 34 
 Ingram (T. D.) 
 Irving (J.) 
 Irving (Washington) 
 Jackson (Helen) 
 Jacob (Rev. J. A.) . 
 James (Henry). 
 James (Rev. H. A.) . 
 James (Prof. W.) . 
 Jardine (Rev. R.) . 
 Jeans (Rev. G. E.) . 
 Jebb (Prof. R. C.) . 
 Jellett (Rev. J. H.) 
 
 . 29 
 
 . 29 
 
 • 23 
 
 . 21 
 
 • ' 9 
 
 4 
 . 26 
 
 7 
 
 7, 10 
 
 • 38 
 
 12, 29 
 .) 38 
 
 12 
 
 13, 36 
 6, 37 
 
 • 3° 
 
 • 4 
 
 s 
 
 • 9 
 
 • 14 
 
 . 18 
 
 13, 20 
 
 30, 32 
 
 . 28 
 
 . 14 
 
 • 37 
 . 28 
 
 . 40 
 
 1 
 
 ) 32 
 
 . 24 
 
 • 37 
 
 34 
 
 Jenks (Prof. Ed.) 
 
 Jennings (A. C.) 
 
 Jephson(H.) . 
 
 Jevons (W. S.). 4, 26, 28, 
 
 Jex-Blake (Sophia). 
 
 Johnson (Amy) 
 
 Johnson (Samuel) . 
 
 Jones (H. Arthur) . 
 
 Jones (Prof. D. E.) . 
 
 Jones (F.). 
 
 Kai m 
 
 Kant .... 
 
 Kari .... 
 
 KAVANAGH(Rt.Hn.A.M.) 
 
 Kay (Rev. W.) . 
 
 Keary (Annie) . 10,18, 
 
 Keary (Eliza) . 
 
 Keats . . 4, 20, 
 
 34 
 26 
 26 
 34, 37 
 IO > *3 
 • 34 
 
 • 29 
 
 10, 30 
 
 29 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Kellner (Dr. L.) . . 25 
 Kellogg (Rct. S. H.) . 34 
 Kelvin (Lord). .24, 26, 27 
 Kempe (A. B.) . . .26 
 Kennedy (Prof. A. B. W. ) 8 
 Kennedy (B. H.) . . 36 
 Kennedy (P) ... 18 
 Keynes (J. N.). . 26,28 
 
 KlEPERT (H.) ... 9 
 
 Killbn (W. D.) . . 32 
 
 Kingslky (Charles) . 4, 8, 10, 
 
 11,12,13,15,18,21,24, 32, 38, 39 
 
 Kingslky (Henry) 
 
 38 
 18 
 34 
 . 24 
 14 
 30 
 37 
 3 
 
 5 
 37 
 
 6 
 36 
 30 
 18 
 37 
 37 
 34 
 
 Kipling (J. L.). 
 Kipling (Rudyard) . 
 
 KlRKPATRICK (Prof.) 
 
 Klein (Dr. E.). . 1 
 Knight (W.) . 
 Kuenen (Prof. A.) . 
 Kyn aston (Rev. H.) 
 Labberton (R. H.) . 
 Lafargue (P.). 
 Lamb. . . . 4, 20 
 Lanciani (Prof. R.). 
 Landauer (J.). 
 Landor . 
 Lane-Poole (S.) 
 Lanfrey (P.) . 
 Lang (Andrew). 2, 12, 2 
 Lang (Prof. Arnold). 
 Langley (J. N.) 
 Lank ester (Prof. Ray) 
 Laslett (T.) . 
 Leaf(W.). . . : 
 Leahy (Sergeant) . 
 Lea(M.) . 
 
 Lee (S.) : 
 
 Leeper (A.) 
 Legge (A. O.) . 
 Lemon (Mark) . 
 Lethbridge (Sir Roper) 
 Levy (Amy) 
 Lewis (R.) 
 
 LlGHTFOOT(Bp.) 21,30,31,, 
 LlGHTWOOD (J. M.) . 
 
 Lindsay (Dr. J. A.) . . 23 
 
 LOCKYER (J. N.) . 3, 7, 27 
 
 Lodge (Prof. O.J.) . 21,27 
 Loewy(B.) 
 Loftie (Mrs. W. J.). 
 Longfellow (H. W.) 
 Lonsdale (J.) . 
 Lowe (W. H.) . 
 Lowell (J. R.). 
 Lubbock (Sir J.) 6, 8, 21, 
 Lucas (F.) 
 Lucas (Joseph). 
 Lupton (S.) 
 Lyall (Sir Alfred) . 
 Lyte(H.CM.) 
 Lytton (Earl of) 
 MacAlister (D.) . 
 Macarthur (M.) . 
 Macaulay (G. C.) . 
 Maccoll (Norman) . 
 M'Cosh (Dr. J.) 
 Macdonald (G.) 
 Macdonell (J.) 
 Mack ail (J. W.) . 
 Maclagan (Dr. T.). 
 Maclaren (Rev. Alex.) . 2 
 Maclaren (Archibald) . 3 
 Maclean (W. C) . . 2 
 MACLEAR(Rev.Dr.G.F.) 30,3 
 
INDEX. 
 
 4S 
 
 • 23 
 
 . 18 
 
 . 18 
 
 • 3 9 
 
 35,38 
 12, 29 
 
 PAGE 
 
 M'Lennan (J. F.) . .1 
 
 M'Lennan (Malcolm) 18 
 MACMiLLAN(Rev. H.) 22,35,38 
 
 Macmillan (Michael) 5, 15 
 Macnamara (C.) . 
 Macquoid (K. S.) . 
 Madoc (F.) 
 MaguireU. F.) 
 Mahaffy (Prof. J. P.) 
 
 2, 11, 13, 22, 25, 
 Maitland(F.W.) . 
 
 Malet(L.) . . . 18 
 
 Malory (Sir T.) . . 20 
 
 Mansfield (C. B.) . .7 
 
 Markham (C. R.) . . 4 
 
 Marriott (T. A. R.). . 5 
 
 Marshall (Prof. A.) . . 28 
 
 Martel (C.) . . .24 
 
 Martin (Frances) . 3, 39 
 
 Martin (Frederick). . 28 
 
 Martin (H. N.) . . 40 
 
 Martineau (H.) . . 5 
 
 Martineau (J.) . . 5 
 Masson(D.) 4,5,15,16,20,22,26 
 
 Masson (G.) . . 7, 20 
 
 Masson(R. O.) . . 16 
 
 MaY.V r 1 n (Rev. W.) . . 35 
 
 Mai Isley (Dr. H.) . . 26 
 Mai uce(F.) 8,22,25,30-32,35 
 Maurice (Col. FO . 5,24,29 
 
 Max Muller(F.) 
 Mayer (A.M.). 
 Mayor (J. B.) . 
 Mayor (Prof. J. E. B.) 
 Mazini (L.) 
 MCormick(W.S.). 
 
 25 
 2 7 
 3i 
 ■ 3, 5 
 39 
 *3 
 
 Meldola (Prof. R.). 7, 26, 27 
 Mendenhall (T. C.) . 27 
 Mercier (Dr. C.) . . 23 
 Mercur (Prof. J.) . .24 
 Meredith (G.). . . 15 
 Meredith (L. A.) . . 12 
 Meyer (E. von) . . 7 
 Michelet (M.) . . 11 
 Mill(H.R.) ... 9 
 Miller (R.K.). . . 3 
 Milligan (Rev. W.). 31,35 
 Milton . . 13, 15, 20 
 
 M into (Prof. W.) 
 
 MlTFORD (A. B.) 
 
 MivART(St. George). 
 Mixter(W. G.) 
 
 Mohammad 
 Molkswokth (Mrs.) 
 
 MOLLOY (G.) . 
 
 Monahan (J. H.) . 
 
 MONTELIUS (O.) 
 
 Moore (C. H.). 
 Moorhouse (Bishop) 
 Morison (J. C.) 
 Morlev (John). 3,4 
 Morris (Mowbray) . 
 Morris (R.) 
 Morshead (E. D. A.) 
 Moulton (L. C.) 
 Mudie (C. E.) . 
 Muir (M. M. P.) . 
 Muller (H.) . 
 
 MULLINGER (J. B.) . 
 
 Murphy (J. J.). _ 
 Murray (D. Christie) 
 Murray (E. C. G.) . 
 Myers (E.) 
 Myers (F. W. H.) 
 
 4, 18 
 18 
 
 28 
 7 
 
 35 
 
 3, 4 
 
 [6, 22 
 
 4 
 
 20, 25 
 36 
 
 15 
 
 7 
 6 
 
 PAGE 
 35 
 
 26 
 78 
 38 
 36 
 
 4, 15, 22 
 
 and 
 
 15, 
 
 Mylne (Bishop) 
 Nadal (E. S.) . ' . 
 Nettleship (H.). , 
 Newcastle (Duke 
 
 Duchess) 
 Newcomb (S.) . 
 Newton (SirC.T.). 
 Nichol(J.) 
 Noel (Lady A.) 
 
 NORDENSKIOLD (A. E.) 
 
 Norgate (Kate) 
 Norris (W. E.) 
 Norton (Charles Eliot) 3 
 Norton (Hon. Mrs.) i = 
 OLIPHANT(MrS. M. O. W.) 
 
 4, 11, 13, 19, 20, 39 
 Oliphant (T. L. K.) 22, 25 
 Oliver (Prof. D.) . . 6 
 Oliver (Capt. S. P.). 
 Oman(C.W.) . 
 
 OSTWALD (Prof.) 
 
 Otte (E. C.) . 
 Page (T. E.) . 
 Palgrave (Sir F.) . 
 PalGrave (F. T.) 
 
 2, 15, 16, 20, 21, 33, 39 
 Palgrave (R. F. D.) . 29 
 Palgrave (R. H. Inglis) . 28 
 Palgrave (W. G.) 15, 29, 38 
 Palmer ( Lady S.) . 
 Parker (T. J.). 
 Parker (W. N.) 
 Parkin (G. R. ) 
 Parkinson (S.) 
 Parkman (F.) . 
 Parry (G.) 
 Parsons (Alfred) 
 Pasteur (L.) . 
 Pater (W. H.) 
 Paterson (J.) . 
 Patmore (Coventry) 
 Patteson (J. C.) 
 Pattison (Mark) . 
 Payne (E.J.) . 
 Peabody (C. H.) . 
 Peel (E.) . 
 Peile(J.). 
 Pellissier (E.) 
 Pennell (J.) . 
 Pennington (R.) 
 Penrose (F.C.) 
 Perry (Prof. J.) 
 Pettigrew (J. B.) . 6, 28, 40 
 Phillimore (J. G.) 
 Phillips (J. A.) 
 Phillips (W. C.) 
 Picton (J. A.) . . .22 
 
 PlFFARD (H. G.) . • 23 
 
 Pike(W.). ... 38 
 Plato .... 20 
 Plumptre (Dean) . . 35 
 Pollard (A. W.) . . 37 
 PoLLOCK(SirFk., 2nd Bart.) 5 
 Pollock (Sir F., Bart.) 12,22,29 
 Pollock (Lady) . . 2 
 Pollock (W. H.) . .2 
 Poole (M. E.) . . . 22 
 Poole (R.L.) ... 11 
 Pope . 
 Poste (E.) 
 Potter (L.) 
 Potter (R.) 
 Preston (T.) . 
 Price (L. L. F. R.) 
 
 
 19 
 
 6, 
 
 39 
 
 
 40 
 
 
 29 
 
 
 27 
 
 
 Ti 
 
 
 19 
 
 
 12 
 
 
 7 
 
 , 19, 
 
 22 
 
 
 12 
 
 20 
 
 39 
 
 
 5 
 
 4, 5 
 
 35 
 
 10, 
 
 2Q 
 
 8 
 
 27 
 
 
 *5 
 
 
 25 
 
 
 25 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 9 
 
 
 I, 3 
 
 
 27 
 
 23 
 
 4 
 27 
 
 2C 
 
 36 
 
 
 22 
 
 
 35 
 
 
 27 
 
 28 
 
 PAGE 
 Prickard (A. O.) . . 22 
 
 Prince Albert Victor . 37 
 Prince George . . 37 
 Procter (F.) . . . 32 
 Propert (J. L.) .2 
 
 Radcliffe (C. B.) . .3 
 Ramsay (W.) ... 7 
 Ransome (C.) . . . 13 
 Rathbone (W.) . . 8 
 Rawlinson (W.G.). . 2 
 Rawnsley (H. D.) . . 15 
 Ray(P.K.) . . .26 
 Rayleigh (Lord) . . 27 
 Reichel (Bishop) . . 35. 
 ReidCJ-S.) ... 37 
 Remsen (I.) . .7 
 
 Rendall (Rev. F.) . 31, 35 
 Rendu (M. leC.) . . 9 
 Reynolds (H. R.) . . 35 
 Reynolds (J. R.) . . 23 
 Reynolds (O.). . . n 
 Richardson (B. W.) h, 23 
 Richey (A. G.). . . 12 
 Robinson (Preb. H. G.) . 35 
 Robinson (J. L.) . . 24 
 Robinson (Matthew) . 5 
 Rochester (Bishop of) . 5 
 Rockstro ( W. S.) . .4 
 Rogers (J. E. T.) .11, 28, 29 
 Romanes (G.J.) . . 6 
 RoscoE(Sir H.E.) . . 7 
 Roscoe(W. C.) . .15 
 Rosebery (Earl of) . .4 
 Rosenbusch(H.) . . 9, 
 Ross (P.) .... 19 
 Rossetti (C. G.) . 15, 39 
 routledge (j.) . . 29 
 Rowe(F.J.) ... 16 
 RoY(Tohn) . . . 19 
 Rucker (Prof. A. W.) 7 
 
 Rumford (Count) . . 22 
 
 RUSHBROOKE (W. G.) . 31 
 
 Russell (Dean) . . 35 
 Russell (Sir Charles) . 29 
 Russell (W. Clark) . 4, 19 
 Ryland (F.) . . . 13 
 Ryle (Prof. H. E.) . .30 
 St. Johnston (A.) .19, 38, 39 
 Sadler (H.) . . 2 
 
 Saintsbury (G.) . 4, 13 
 Salmon (Rev. G.) . . 35 
 Sandford (M. E.) . . 5 
 Sandys (J. E.) . . . 38 
 Sayce(A.H.) ... 11 
 
 SCHAFF (P.) . . -30 
 
 SCHLIEMANN (Dr.) . . 2 
 
 SCHORLEMMER (C.) . . 7 
 
 SCOTT (D. H.) . . .6 
 
 Scott (Sir W.). . 15,20 
 Scratchley (Sir Peter) . 24 
 Scudder (S. H.) . . 40 
 Seaton (Dr. E. C.) . . 23 
 Seeley (J. R.) . . . 11 
 Seiler (Dr. Carl) 
 Selborne (Earl of) 
 Sellers (E.) . 
 Service (J.) 
 Sewell (E. M.) 
 Shairp (J. C.) . 
 Shakespeare 
 Shann <G.) 
 Sharp (W.) . 
 Shelley . 
 Shirley (W. N. ) 
 
 13 
 
 23, 28 
 12,20,32,33 
 
 32, 35 
 
 11 
 
 4, 15 
 
 15, 20, 21 
 
 8, 27 
 
 • 5 
 
 15, 2T 
 
 • 35 • 
 
44 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 19 
 . 24 
 2 
 II, 36 
 . 40 
 23 
 
 Shorthouse (J. H.) 
 Shortland (Admiral) 
 Shuchhardt (Carl). 
 Shuckburgh (E. S. ) 
 Shufeldt (R. W.) . 
 Sibson (Dr. F.) . . - 
 Sidgwick (Prof. H.) 26, 28, 29 
 Sime (J.) . . . 9, 10 
 Simpson (Rev. W.) . . 32 
 Skeat (W.W.) . . 13 
 Skrine (J. H.). . . 5 
 Slade (J. H.) . . .8 
 Sloman (Rev. A.) . . 31 
 Smart ( W. ) . . .28 
 Smalley (G. W.) . . 22 
 Smetham (J. and S.) . 5 
 Smith (A.) . . .20 
 Smith (C. B.) . . . 16 
 Smith (Goldwin) . 4, 5, 29 
 Smith (H.) ... 16 
 Smith (J.) ... 6 
 Smith (Rev. T.) . . 35 
 Smith (W. G.) . . .6 
 Smith (W.S.) ... 35 
 
 SOMERVILLE (Prof. W.) . 6 
 
 Southev .... 5 
 Spender (J. K.) . . 23 
 Spenser . . . .20 
 Spottiswoode (W.). . 27 
 Stanley (Dean) . . 35 
 Stanley (Hon. Maude) . 29 
 Statham (R.) . .• .29 
 Stebbing (W.). . . 4 
 Stephen (C. E.) . . 8 
 Stephen (H.) . . .13 
 Stephen (Sir J. F.) 11, 13, 22 
 Stephen (J. K.) . . 13 
 Stephen (L.) ... 4 
 Stephens (J. B.) . . 16 
 Stevenson (J. J.) . . 2 
 Stewart (A.) . . -39 
 Stewart (Balfour) 26, 27, 35 
 Stewart (S. A.) . . 6 
 Stokes (Sir G. G.) . . 27 
 Story (R.H.) ... 3 
 Stone (W. H.) . . . 27 
 Strachey (Sir E.) . . 20 
 Strachey (Gen ; R.). . 9 
 STRANGFORD(Viscountess) 38 
 Strettell (A.) . . 16 
 Stubbs (Rev. C. W.). . 35 
 Stubbs (Bishop) . . 31 
 Sutherland (A.) . . 9 
 Symonds (J. A.) . . 4 
 Symonds (Mrs. J. A.) . 5 
 Symons (A.) ... 16 
 Tait (Archbishop) . . 35 
 Tait(C.W. A.) . .11 
 Tait (Prof. P. G.) 26, 27, 35 
 Tanner (H.) . . . 1 
 Tavernier (J. B.) . . 38 
 Taylor (Franklin) . . 24 
 Taylor (Isaac). . 25,35 
 Taylor (Sedley) . 24, 27 
 
 ■ Tegetmeier (W. B.) 
 
 Temple (Bishop) 
 j Temple (Sir R.) 
 
 TENNANT(Dorothy). 
 I Tenniel . 
 j Tennyson . 14, 
 ! Tennyson (Frederick) 
 i Tennyson (Hallam). 
 
 Thompson (D 'A. W.) 
 
 Thompson (E.). 
 
 Thompson (S. P.) . 
 
 Thomson (A. W.) . 
 
 Thomson (Sir C. W.) 
 
 Thomson (Hugh) 
 
 Thorne (Dr. Thome) 
 
 Thornton (J.). 
 
 Thornton (W. T.) 26, 
 
 Thorpe (T. E.). 
 
 Thring(E.) . 
 
 Thrupp(J. F.). 
 
 Thudichum (J. L. W.) 
 
 Thursfield (J. R.) . 
 
 TODHUNTER (I.) 
 
 Torrens (W. M.) . 
 
 TOURGENIEF (I. S.) . 
 
 Tout (T. F.) . 
 
 Tozer(H. F.) . 
 i Traill (H. D.). 
 j Trench (Capt. F.) . 
 
 Trench (Archbishop) 
 
 Trevelyan (Sir G. O.) 
 
 Tribe (A.). 
 
 Tristram (W. O.) . 
 
 Trollope (A.) . 
 
 Truman (J.) . 
 
 Tucker (T. G.) 
 
 Tulloch (Principal). 
 
 Turner (C. Tennyson) 
 
 Turner (G.) 
 
 Turner (H. H.) 
 
 Turner (J. M.W.) . 
 
 Tylor(E. B.) . 
 
 Tyrwhitt (R. St. J.) 
 
 Varigny (H. de) 
 
 Vaughan (C. J.) 31, 32, 
 
 Vaughan (Rev. D. J.) 
 
 Vaughan (Rev. E. T.) 
 
 Vaughan (Rev. R.). 
 
 Veley (M.) . 
 
 Venn (Rev. J.). 
 
 Vernon (Hon. W. W.) 
 
 Verrall (A. W.) 
 
 Verrall (Mrs.) 
 
 Victor (H.) . 
 
 Wain (Louis) . 
 
 Waldstein (C.) 
 
 Walker (Prof. F. A.) 
 
 Wallace (A. R.) . 6, 
 
 Wallace (Sir D. M.) 
 
 Walpole(S.) . 
 
 Walton (I.) 
 
 Ward (A. W.) . .4, 
 
 Ward (H. M.) . 
 
 Ward(S.). 
 
 35 
 4 
 38 
 38 
 6, 21 
 16 
 39 
 6 
 
 23 
 
 6 
 
 29, 37 
 
 7 
 
 8, 22 
 
 30 
 7 
 4 
 5 
 5 
 
 19 
 
 11 
 
 9 
 
 29 
 29 
 35 
 
 2 
 
 16 
 
 
 6 
 
 .35 
 
 20 
 
 ,36 
 
 36 
 36 
 
 25 
 
 19 
 36 
 
 13 
 
 13 
 ?,6 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 19 
 
 
 39 
 
 
 2 
 
 
 28 
 
 24 
 
 28 
 
 
 29 
 
 
 29 
 
 
 12 
 
 13, 
 
 20 
 6 
 
 
 16 
 
 PAGE 
 . 16 
 
 i9» 39 
 
 5, 32 
 
 36 
 
 28 
 
 24, 38 
 
 5 
 
 38 
 16 
 16 
 39 
 32 
 36 
 
 Ward(T. H.) . 
 Ward (Mrs. T. H.) . 
 Ward (W.) 
 Warington (G.) 
 Waters (C. A.) 
 Waterton (Charles) 
 Watson (E.) . 
 Watson (R. S.) 
 Watson (W.) . 
 Webb(W. T.) . 
 Webster (Mrs. A.) . 
 Welby-Gregory (Lady) 
 Welldon (Rev. J. E. C.) . 
 Westcott (Bp.) 30, 31, 32, 36 
 Westermarck (E.). 
 Wetherell (J.) 
 Wheeler (J. T.) 
 Whewell(W.). 
 White (Gilbert) 
 White (Dr. W. Hale) 
 White (W.) . 
 Whitham (J. M.) . 
 Whitney (W. D.) . 
 Whittier (J. G.) . 
 Wickham (Rev. E. C.) 
 
 WlCKSTEED (P. H.) . 
 
 Wiedersheim (R.) . 
 Wilbraham (F. M.). 
 Wilkins (Prof. A. S.) 2, 
 Wilkinson (S.) 
 Williams (G. H.) . 
 Williams (Montagu) 
 Williams (S. E.) . 
 Willoughby (F.) 
 Wills (W. G.) . 
 Wilson (A. J.) . 
 Wilson (Sir C.) 
 
 Wilson (Sir D.) . 1 
 Wilson (Dr. G.) . 4 
 Wilson (Archdeacon) 
 Wilson (Mary). 
 Wingate (Major F. R.) 
 
 WlNKWORTH (C.) 
 
 Wolseley (Gen. Viscount) 24 
 
 25 
 
 11 
 
 5 
 
 -'4 
 
 23 
 
 27 
 
 3 
 
 8 
 
 16, 22 
 
 36 
 
 28, 30 
 
 ;" 40 
 
 32 
 
 ■3,36 
 
 24 
 
 9 
 
 5 
 
 13 
 
 39 
 
 16 
 
 29 
 
 4 
 
 1 13 
 
 , 22 
 
 36 
 
 13 
 
 24 
 
 5 
 
 Wood (A. G.) . 
 Wood (Rev. E. G.) . 
 Woods (Rev. F. H.). 
 Woods (Miss M. A.). 
 Woodward (C. M.) . 
 Woolner (T.) . 
 Wordsworth . 5, 14, 
 Worthey (Mrs.) 
 Wright (Rev. A.) . 
 Wright (C. E. G.) . 
 Wright (J.) 
 Wright (L.) . 
 Wright (W.Aldis) 8,15 
 Wurtz (Ad.) . 
 Wyatt (SirM. D.) . 
 Yonge (C. M.) 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, 
 
 19, 21, 25, 30 
 Young (E.W.) 
 Ziegler (Dr. E.) 
 
 16 
 36 
 
 1 
 
 ^7, 33 
 8 
 16 
 
 :6, 21 
 19 
 3i 
 
 27 
 
 20, 31 
 
 7 
 
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