Colonel Hayward sank down upon a bench which stood close to the tent
door. The light swam in his eyes. He saw only as through a mist the
light figure advancing, standing docile and obedient by the side of the
great lady. The name completed the extraordinary impression which the
looks had made; he kept saying it over to himself under his breath in
his bewilderment. ‘Joyce! Good Lord!’ But presently the urgency of the
circumstances brought him to himself. He breathed in his soul a secret
desire for Elizabeth: then manned himself to act on his own behalf,
since no better could be.
‘This is the very best girl in the world, Colonel Hayward,’ said Mrs.
Bellendean, with a hand upon Joyce’s shoulder. ‘I don’t wonder she
interested you. She has taught herself every sort of thing--Latin and
mathematics, and I don’t know all what. Our school is always at the head
in all the examinations, and she really raises quite an enthusiasm among
the children. I don’t know what we should do without her. Whenever we
come here, Joyce is my right hand, and has been since she was quite a
child.’
If it was condescension, it was of the most gracious kind. Mrs.
Bellendean kept patting Joyce on the shoulder as she spoke, with a
caressing touch: and her eyes and her voice were both soft. The girl
responded with a look full of tenderness and pleasure. ‘Oh, mem, it is
you who are always so good to me,’ she said.
The schoolmistress then! That was how the ploughman’s daughter had got
her superior look. When he saw her closer, he thought he saw
(enlightened by this knowledge) that it was only a superior look, not
the aspect of a lady as he had supposed. Her dress had not the dainty
perfection of the young ladies’ dresses; her hands were not delicate
like theirs: and she said ‘mem’ to her patroness with an accent
which---- Ah! but what did that accent remind him of? and the face? and,
good heavens! the name? These criticisms passed like a cloud across his
mind; the bewilderment and anxiety remained. He rose up from the bench,
nobody having thought anything of his sudden subsidence, except that
perhaps the old Colonel was tired with standing about. Oh that Elizabeth
had been here! but in her absence he must do what he could for himself.
‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘would you tell me how you got your name? It is a
very uncommon name: and your face is not a common face,’ he added, with
nervous haste. ‘I knew some one once----’
His voice seemed to go away from him into his throat. It was curious to
see him, at his age, so unsteady and agitated, swaying from one foot to
another, stammering, flushing under the limpid modest eyes of this
country girl, who, on her part, coloured suddenly, looked at him, and
then at Mrs. Bellendean, with a faint cry, ‘Oh, sir!’
‘Where she got her name?’ said Mrs. Bellendean. ‘It is not so easily
answered as perhaps you think. I will tell you afterwards. It is a very
uncommon name. Joyce, my dear, what is the little secret you have been
plotting, and when is it to be made known?’
The young woman stood for a moment without replying. ‘How can I help
wondering?’ she said, with a long-drawn breath. ‘How can I think of
common things? Nobody has ever asked me that question before.’ Then,
with a sudden effort, she recovered her self-control. ‘It will be
nothing,’ she said quickly, as if to herself; ‘it will be some fancy:
I’ll go back to my work. It was no secret worth calling a secret, Mrs.
Bellendean--only some poems they learned to please me--to say to you and
the other ladies, if you will take your seats.’
‘Where would you like us to take our seats, Joyce?’
‘Yonder, under the big ash-tree. It’s very bonnie there. You can see the
Firth, and the ships sailing, and St. Margaret’s Hope; and you will look
like the Queen herself, with her ladies, under the green canopy. Will I
put the chair for you?’ cried the girl, in a Scotch confusion of verbs.
She gave the Colonel one glance, and then hurried off, as if determined
to distract her own attention. There were a few garden-chairs already
scattered about under a clump of trees, which crowned a little platform
of green--a very slight eminence, just enough to serve as a dais. She
drew them into place with a rapid and cunning hand, and caught quickly
at a Turkish rug of brilliant colour, which lay beside the tea-table,
placing it in front of the presiding chair. Her movements were very
swift and certain, and full of the grace of activity and capacity.
Meantime the Colonel stood by the side of Mrs. Bellendean, surveying
all.
‘She is excited,’ said the lady. ‘She is a strange girl: your
question--which I have no doubt is a very simple question--has set her
imagination going. See what a picture she has made! and she could sketch
it too, if there was time. She is a sort of universal genius. And now
she is all on fire, hoping to find out something.’
‘Hoping to find out--what?’
‘Oh, my dear Colonel, it is a long story. I will tell you
afterwards--not a word more now, please. I don’t want her to form
expectations, poor girl---- Well Joyce--is that where I am to sit? I
shall feel quite like the Queen----’
‘With the young ladies behind,’ said Joyce, breathless. Her eyes were
full of impatient light, her sensitive lips quivering even while they
smiled--a rapid coming and going of expression, of movement and colour,
in her usually pale face. The Colonel stood gazing at her, his mouth
slightly open, his eyes fixed. Oh, if Elizabeth were but here, who would
know what to do!
The scene that followed was very pretty, if his mind had been
sufficiently free to take it in. The little girls, in their bright
summer frocks, subdued by the darker costumes of the boys, poured forth
from their eclipse under the tent, and gathered in perpetually moving
groups round the little slope. The ladies took their places, smiling and
benignant--Mrs. Bellendean in the centre, two of the prettiest girls
behind her chair, the others seated about. They all submitted to Joyce,
asking, ‘Shall I sit here?’ ‘Shall I stand?’ ‘What am I to do?’ with gay
docility. When it was all arranged to her liking, Joyce turned towards
the children. She stood at one side, pointing towards the pretty group
under the trees, holding her own fine head high, with a habit of public
speaking, which the Colonel thought--and perhaps also Norman Bellendean,
who was looking on--one of the prettiest sights he ever saw.
‘Children,’ said the young schoolmistress, lifting her arm, with simple
natural eloquence, ‘this is a tableau--a beautiful tableau for you to
see. If you ever read the word in a book, or in the papers, you will
know what it means. It is a French word. It means a living group--that
is like a picture. This is our Scots Queen Margaret--a far grander Queen
than her they call the Queen of Scots in your history-books--Margaret
that was the Atheling, that married Malcolm Canmore, that was the son of
King Duncan, who was murdered by--who was murdered by---- Speak quick!
What do you mean, you big girls? Why, it’s in Shakespeare!’ cried Joyce,
with a ring of indignant wonder in her voice, as if the possibility of a
mistake in such a case was beyond belief.
There was a movement among a group of girls, and some whispering and
hasty consultation: then one put forth a nervous hand, and cried, but
faltering, ‘Macbeth.’
‘I thought you would not put me to shame before all the ladies!’ cried
Joyce, with a suffusion of sudden colour: for she had been pale with
suspense. Then she added, in a business-like tone: ‘It is you, Jean,
that are to say Portia. The Queen will hear you. Come well forward, and
speak out.’
It was not a masterpiece of elocution. The speaker blushed and fumbled,
and clasped and unclasped her fingers in agonies of shyness--while Joyce
stood by with her head on one side, prompting, encouraging, her lips
forming the words, but only twenty times more quickly, as her pupil
spoke them. The Colonel was so absorbed in this sight that he started
when a voice spoke suddenly at his elbow, and recoiling a step or two
instinctively, saw that it was the young man, evidently a schoolmaster,
who had been with Joyce in the tent. He was looking at her with a
mixture of tenderness and pride.
‘It is quite wonderful how she does it,’ he said. ‘I’ve no reason to
think I’m unsuccessful myself with my big boys; but I have not got them
under command like that. They will make very acute remarks, sir, that
would surprise you, in the Shakespeare class--but answer like that, no.
It is personal influence that does it--and I never saw anybody in that
respect to equal Joyce.’
It gave the Colonel a sensation of anger to hear this fellow call her
Joyce. He turned and looked at him again. But there was nothing to
object to in him. He was not a gentleman; but he was what is called in
his own class quite a gentleman--a young fellow of very tolerable
appearance, whose clothes were of the most respectable description, and
who wore them as if he were used to them. He had as good a necktie as
Norman’s, and a flower in his coat. But when he stood by Norman it was
apparent that there was a good deal wanting. He was in all probability
much cleverer than Norman. He spoke of Shakespeare with an awe-striking
familiarity as if he knew all about him--which was more than the
Colonel did. All the same he felt a sensation of offence at the use by
this man of the girl’s Christian name.
‘Miss Joyce--is evidently a young lady of unusual gifts,’ he said.
The face of the young man flushed with pleasure. ‘Sir,’ he cried, ‘you
never said a truer word. She is just running over with capability. She
can do anything she sets her hand to. I sometimes feel as if I grudged
her to be in the line of public tuition all her life. But when there are
two of us,’ he added proudly, ‘we will see what we can do.’
What did the fellow mean? two of them! and one this wonderful girl? the
Colonel turned his back upon him in indignation, then turned again in
curiosity. ‘Is it common,’ he said, ‘in Scotch parish schools to have a
Shakespeare class?’
‘Our common people, sir,’ said the young man quietly, with a look of
self-complacence which made the Colonel long to knock him down--‘our
common people are far more educated as a rule than you find them in
England. But no--I would not say it was common. There are many of my
friends that have poetry classes, which are optional, you know, on a
Saturday afternoon or other free moment. I’m not ashamed to say that it
was from her _I_ took the hint--though you will think it is seldom a
woman takes the lead in such a matter. She started it, and several of us
have followed her example. She is, as you say, a creature of most
uncommon gifts.’
‘And yet a ploughman’s daughter in a Scotch village: with that face--and
that name!’
The young schoolmaster gave a sort of doubtful cough, the meaning of
which the Colonel could not divine. ‘That is how she has been brought
up,’ he said; ‘but you are perhaps not aware, sir, that many a wonderful
character has come from a Scotch ploughman’s house. Not to speak of
Burns, there was----’
‘Oh, I am aware the Scotch are a most superior nation,’ cried the
Colonel, with a laugh.
‘That is just the simple truth,’ the young man said.
Meanwhile the recitations were going on, which perhaps were not equal in
quality to the rest of Joyce’s arrangements. She was in extreme earnest
about it all, it was evident to see, and eager that everything should
produce the best effect. A few mothers, who had known what was going to
happen, had gathered about, listening with proud delight yet anxiety
lest they should break down, each to her own child. Among them was a
little old woman, sunburnt and rosy as a winter apple, with an
old-fashioned black bonnet tied down over her ears, and a huge Paisley
shawl almost covering her dark cotton gown. ‘You think but of your own
bairns,’ she was saying, ‘but I think of them a’; for it’s a’ my J’yce’s
doing, and she will just break her heart if there’s any failure.’
‘There will be nae failure; they’re owre weel trained for that.’
‘I’ve no a word to say against J’yce; but she’s awfu’ fond of making a
show,’ another woman said.
‘If she’s fond of making a show, it’s never of hersel’,--it’s always
your bairns she puts to the front; and if you dinna like it,’ cried the
old woman, ‘what brings ye here?’
The Colonel, who had the best of manners, stepped forward and took off
his hat. ‘I guess by what you say, ma’am, that you are Miss Joyce’s
mother?’ he said.
The old woman was a little startled and fluttered by this unexpected
address. She, too, hesitated, as they all seemed to do. ‘Weel,’ she
said, ‘sir, I’m all the poor thing has had for one; but no so good as
she deserved.’
‘Ma’am,’ said the Colonel, ‘the result of your training speaks for
itself, and that is the best practical test. Will you let me ask you a
question--and that is, whether the name Joyce is a family name?’
The old woman’s mouth and her eyes opened in astonishment. ‘Joyce,’ she
said feebly, ‘a family name?’
‘I mean--does she take it from a relation, as I have always heard was
the admirable Scotch way?’
‘Weel, sir,’ said the old lady, ‘if that is all, I have little doubt ye
are quite right. She would get it, it’s mair than probable, from her
mither.’
The Colonel gazed upon her with surprise. More than probable! what did
she mean? ‘Then it is your name too,’ he said, with a little
disappointment. There arose from the group a sudden burst of laughter
and explanation and denials, of which he could not make out a word. ‘Na,
na,’--that was all that reached him clearly. But what was meant by
it--whether that it was not the old mother’s name, or what other
negative--he could not make out: and just at this moment Mr. Bellendean
and Norman came up to him and drew him away.
‘You have had enough of this, I am sure, Colonel. Come along, we are
going down to the Ferry to see what Essex and the rest are after. It’s
very good of you to give us your countenance to the last.’
‘My countenance! nothing of the sort, Norman. I’m very much
interested.’
‘In the little girls and their “pieces?"’ said Mr. Bellendean.
‘In the young lady there who has taken so much trouble.’
‘What young lady?’ said the elder gentleman, looking about. Then he
added, in a careless tone, ‘Oh, Joyce! Yes, she’s an interesting
creature, isn’t she! It will please my wife if you admire Joyce.’
‘I think then, sir,’ said Norman, ‘I’ll please Mrs. Bellendean too.’
‘Oh, you! you’re a different matter. You had better keep to your own
set, my boy,’ said the father. ‘If you are so absorbed, Colonel, we’ll
leave you till you have had enough. You’ll find us at the Ferry. Come,
Norman, and look after your friends.’
The two gentlemen went away, the Colonel stayed. He was becoming
accustomed to the name and the face which had so much disturbed him. If
indeed it was a family name--and likenesses, we know, are very
fantastic--still for the sake of the name and face, he would like, he
thought, to see something more of her; he would like to give her some
token of his interest, if she would let him. He did not think that he
had ever been so much interested in any one before. He thought he could
never forget this little scene. Perhaps, on the whole, he was tired of
the recitations. He took a little stroll about, but came back always to
a point where he could see her. If Elizabeth were but here! She would
have known in a moment what to do. She would have found out all about
it; how the girl got that name at least, if not how she got that face.
By and by the little performance came to an end, and Mrs. Bellendean
made a gracious little speech praising every one, and got up from the
place under the trees where she had been posing as Queen Margaret; and
the children began to get into movement, to arrange themselves in their
respective bands, and to prepare for going away.
‘How good of you to stay all the time, Colonel Hayward! They did their
best, poor things; but even Joyce cannot create a soul in the Jeanies
and Jennys. Now I think we had better go in; it is almost time to
dress,’ Mrs. Bellendean said.
The Colonel could not but follow, but he cast wistful looks behind him.
‘I suppose it would only annoy her: but I should like to see more of
her,’ he said.
‘Of Joyce? Colonel Hayward, I am afraid you are a dangerous person. I
can’t have you turning the head of the best girl in the world.’
He looked round again, lingering, unable to quit the spot. The little
procession was marshalled and ready to set out. But on the spot where
she had stood prompting and directing her pupils the young
schoolmistress was still standing, lingering like himself. She was
looking after him with wistful eyes, with a look of wondering
disappointment, as if she had expected something more. That look
awakened all the old excitement, which had partially calmed down in the
Colonel’s heart. The attitude, the raised head, the wistful look in the
eyes, all moved him again as at the first, with an overpowering sense of
likeness, almost identity. ‘What does it mean?’ he said; ‘I feel as if I
could not tear myself away. Who is she? There must be something in a
resemblance like that.’
‘Whom does she resemble, Colonel Hayward?’
The Colonel turned round again and gave his questioner a look. He looked
at her as if he wanted to know how far he could trust her. And then his
eyebrows and his mouth worked. ‘Of some one--a lady--who has been long
dead,’ he replied, ‘and her name--her name!’
‘You are very serious, Colonel; it is not only a passing interest? It is
really something--something! Oh, forgive me. I cannot have her
disturbed. She is all quivering with imagination and wonder.’
‘Mrs. Bellendean, there is some mystery about this girl. Why should she
wonder, why should she be disturbed? Me, yes. I am much disturbed. It is
something--of which I have not spoken for years. Oh, if Elizabeth were
only here!’
‘Then come with me to my room,’ Mrs. Bellendean said; ‘if we stay here
we shall be interrupted every moment. I am beginning to get excited
myself. Come this way. The window is always open, and nobody will know
we are there.’
She turned for a moment and waved her hand to Joyce, who had just taken
her place at the head of the band; then, turning up a side path, led
Colonel Hayward round an angle of the house to the open window of a
little morning-room. ‘Here,’ she said,--‘we can talk in quiet here.’