"It is the mynd that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore."
As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire,
listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancing
up the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself is
allowed to wait upon "the young lady."
"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir,"
with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis only
one poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are the
divil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still,
Miss," with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham.
'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey;
ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born."
"I could hardly have had a tooth before that," says Joyce, laughing.
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very good
of you to take all this trouble."
"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs.
Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door.
A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made an
impulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stop
short, holds out to her one hand.
"But, Mrs. Connolly," says she, trying to speak naturally, and
succeeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the
"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea for
us; you will?"
There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has to
be suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and the
door with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, not
only into her eyes, but her mind.
"Why, if you wish it, Miss," says she directly. She lays down the tray,
standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts the
teapot and begins to fill the cups.
"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled,
but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all,
as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She is
determined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyond
question she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve him
of many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found every
day.
He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly; praises her ham,
extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken.
When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire to
smoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather.
"You will be able to put us up?" says he.
"Oh yes, sir, sure."
He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to take
care of herself in his absence, leaves the room.
"He's a dale o' talk," says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back is
turned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him,
or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him."
"Yes," says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still."
"Yes, it does," says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all put
out by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" for
many years, and being well up to their "quare ways." A thought, however,
that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past--ever since,
indeed, she found her young lady could not return home until
morning--now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn.
"I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night wid
me, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin'
out o' me own."
"Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that for
your sake."
"Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon one
just whin laste wanted."
"Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room at
all," says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to
you."
"Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice to
ye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undher
my protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye."
The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head,
or rather under her feet.
"I'm delighted to be with you," says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile.
"But as for protection--well, the Land Leaguers round here are not so
bad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village like
this."
"There's worse than Land Leaguers," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thim
who talk."
"Talk--of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely.
"Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there's
cruel people in the world," says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the fact
o' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the night
wid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angry
wid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye."
Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sick
feeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that--of--of
the idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unlucky
escapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as though
she ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet she
had done all for the best.
"Miss Joyce, don't think about it," says she, hurriedly. "I'm sorry I
said a word, but--An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther for
ye when evil tongues are waggin' to have a raal friend like me to yer
back to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll take
ye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see ye
in safe hands once more. If ye liked him," pointing to the door through
which Beauclerk had gone, "I'd say nothing, for thin all would come
right enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to ye
now that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor."
Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressing
her. Lady Baltimore, what will she think? And Freddy and Barbara! They
will all be angry with her! Oh! more than angry--they will think she has
done something that other girls would not have done. How is she to face
them again? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself before
her. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it; and
the others will laugh and whisper, and----
Felix--Felix Dysart. What will he think? What is he thinking now? To
follow out this thought is intolerable to her; she rises abruptly.
"What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly?" says she in a hard, strained voice.
"I am tired, I should like to go to bed now."
"Just eight, Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Ye
will like to say good-night to Mr. Beauclerk?"
"Oh, no, no!" with frowning sharpness. Then recovering herself. "I need
not disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled--tired."
"I'll tell him all that he ought to know," says Mrs. Connolly. "Come,
Miss Joyce, everything, is ready for ye. An' a lie down and a good sleep
will be the makin' of ye before morning."
Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well-appointed chamber,
evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arranged
apartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, that
she turns involuntarily to her companion.
"Is this your room, Mrs. Connolly?"
"For the night, me dear," says that excellent woman mysteriously.
"You have changed your room to suit me. You mean something," says the
girl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst.
"What is it?"
"No, no, Miss! No, indeed!" confusedly. "But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this,
that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's the
good turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that's
nothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father,
the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes I
wouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs,
I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a word
agin you."
"Against me?"
"You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an'
charity as haven't it. I can see ye couldn't get home to-night through
that rain, though I'm not sayin'"--a little spitefully--"but that he
might have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man or
baste," with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk's
behavior. How can she condemn him safely? Is he not my lady's own
brother? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn is
built, of the farm a mile away, where her cows are chewing the cud by
this time in peace and safety?
"You have changed your room to oblige me," says Joyce, still with that
strange, miserable look in her eyes.
"Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself about
anything else, ayther; sure ye can remimber that I'm to yer back
always."
She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height.
Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable being
that even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might well
defy the world.
But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her? Who
can console a torn heart? The day has been too eventful! It has overcome
her courage. Not only has she lost faith in her own power to face the
angry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom,
against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise.
The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render the
memory of the recovery less painful. The awakening from a troubled dream
is full of anguish.
Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down next morning to find Mrs.
Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her,
booted and spurred for the journey.
"I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd be
anxious," says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An' now," with an
anxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd like
it in yer room, so I sint it up to ye. Well--come on, dear. Mr.
Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it all to him. Said ye were
tired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horse
impatient."
In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake earth and heaven,
to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hill
and bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The world
seems wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All the
woodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their past
smiting from the cruel rain; the trees are swaying to and fro in the
fresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air,
as they swing themselves from side to side. All things speak of a new
birth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grass
looks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite low, the very lichens
on the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified.
The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light; there are "sweete smels
al arownd." The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway are
singing high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seems
joyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy.
The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind.
How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimore
would not be likely to encourage an attachment between her and
Beauclerk, and now, though the attachment is impossible, what will she
think of this unfortunate adventure? She is so depressed that speech
seems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcely
returns an answer.
His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The fact
that the girl beside him is in unmistakably low spirits has either
escaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night,
over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise to
say to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to the
fact that there was nothing between him and her of any serious
importance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between them
and the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing.
She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding over
something. If she thinks----Better crush all such hopes at once.
"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently,
with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement.
No answer.
"I daresay," with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wider
amusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him has
grown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinking
we had eloped." This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air in
the world.
"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly," says Miss Kavanagh
calmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and are
quite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it of
me is quite out of the question."
"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies in
the possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either," says
Beauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed as
to be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind."
"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romance
and history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who ever
indulge in that folly."
"I am not so learned as you are, but----Well, I'm an 'impecunious one,'
in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish," tenderly, "I
could."
"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately and
looks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him,
and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" is
likely to prove difficult.
"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachful
fondness that is rather overdone.
"I do, nevertheless."
"With you, then--if I must put it in words," says he, lowering his tone
to the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is a
distinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly,
sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending.
"It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch," says Joyce
quietly; "if you could, disappointment alone would await you."
"You mean----?" ask he, somewhat sharply.
"That were it possible for me to commit such a vulgarity as to run away
with any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the very
last man on earth I should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let me
also add," says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though still
her voice is determinately low and calm, "that you forget yourself
strangely when you talk in this fashion to me." The scorn and
indignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is now
impossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he grows
angry. Beauclerk angry is not nice.
"To do myself justice, I seldom do that!" says he, with a rather nasty
laugh. "To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generally
remember No. One."
"You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you,"
says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certain
determination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious of being
somewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust.
"After all, Dysart was right," says he. "He prophesied there would be
rain. He advised you not to undertake our ill-starred journey
of--yesterday." There is distinct and very malicious meaning in the
emphasis he throws into the last word.
"I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right," says Joyce, bravely,
though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of what
they will say to her when she gets back--of their anger--their courteous
anger--their condemnation--has been suddenly presented to her again and
her courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes even
herself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that most
disturbs her.
"Only, beginning to think it? Why, I always understood Dysart was
immaculate--the 'couldn't err' sort of person one reads of but never
sees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I have
been even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then--Dysart and I were
never much in sympathy with each other."
"No. One can understand that," says she.
"One can, naturally," with the utmost self-complaisance. "I confess,
indeed," with a sudden slight burst of vindictiveness, "that I never
liked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionated
like all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. I
believe," with a contemptuous laugh, "he has given it as his opinion
that there is very little to like in me either."
"Has he? We were saying just now he is always right," says Miss
Kavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low that Beauclerk may be excused
for scarcely believing his ears.
"Eh?" says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into a
silent mood--Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and he
because anger is consuming him.
He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part of their
drive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing upon
his companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of any
sort. Her discomfort, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him--he thought
only of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted,
for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abuse
them, are chivalrous and have kindly hearts; and indeed it is only a
melancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for a
woman in distress. Beauclerk is a "melancholy specimen."