In the perplexity of this extraordinary crisis they both went, without
another word, ‘home’: though it was no more home than these wonderful
new circumstances were the course of everyday. If we were to prophesy
the conduct of human creatures in moments of great emotion by what would
seem probable, or even natural, how far from the fact we should be!
Colonel Hayward, a man of the tenderest heart and warmest affections,
suddenly discovers that he has a child--a child by whose appearance, and
everything about her, he has been pleased and attracted, the child of
his first love, his young wife to whose cruel death he has contributed,
though unwittingly, unintentionally, meaning no evil. Would not all
ordinary means of conveyance be too slow, all obstacles as nothing in
his way, the very movement of the world arrested till he had taken this
abandoned child into his arms, and assured her of his penitence, his
joy, his love! But nothing could be further from his actual action. He
went back to Bellendean with a feeling that he would perhaps know better
what to do were he within the four walls of a room where he could shut
himself and be alone. It would be easier to think there than in the
park, where everything was in perpetual motion, leaves rustling,
branches waving, birds singing,--the whole world astir. ‘If we were only
in our own room,’ he said to his wife, ‘we could think--what it was best
to do.’
She said nothing, but she longed also for the quiet and shelter of that
room. She recognised, as indeed she might have done from the first, that
whatever had to be done, it was she that must do it. And Mrs. Hayward
was entirely _dépaysée_, and did not know how to manage this business.
Janet Matheson was a new species to a woman who had done a great deal of
parish work, and was not unacquainted with the ordinary ways of managing
‘the poor.’ She did not understand how to deal with that proud old
woman, to whom she could not offer any recompense, whom she would
scarcely dare even to thank for her ‘kindness.’ Janet had repudiated
that injurious word, and Mrs. Hayward felt that it would be easier to
offer money to Mrs. Bellendean than to this extraordinary cottager. To
be sure, that was nothing--a trifle not worth consideration in face of
the other question, of Joyce herself, who would have to be adopted,
removed from the cottage, taken home as Miss Hayward, a new, and perhaps
soon the most important, member of the family. Elizabeth’s heart beat as
it had never done before, scarcely even when she married Captain
Hayward, accepting all the risks, taking him and his incoherent story at
a terrible venture. That was an undertaking grave enough, but this was
more terrible still. She felt, too, that she would be thankful to get
into the quiet of her own room to think it over, to decide what she
should best do.
This, however, was more easily said than done. The anxious pair were met
in the hall by Mrs. Bellendean with looks as anxious as their own. She
was breathless with interest, expectation, and excitement: and came up
to them in a fever of eagerness, which, to Mrs. Hayward at least, seemed
quite unnecessary, holding out a hand to each. ‘Well?’ she cried, as if
their secrets were hers, and her interest as legitimate as their own. In
short, the pair, who were very grave and preoccupied, having exhausted
the first passion of the discovery, had much less appearance of
excitement and expectation than this lady, who had nothing whatever to
do with it. A shade of disappointment crossed her face when she saw
their grave looks; but Mrs. Bellendean’s perceptions were lively, and
she perceived at the same moment tokens of agitation in the old
colonel’s face which reassured her. It would have been too much if,
after all her highly-raised expectations, nothing had happened at all.
‘Come into my room,’ she said quickly; ‘we have half an hour before
luncheon, and there we shall be quite undisturbed.’ She led the way with
a rapidity that made it impossible even to protest, and opening the
door, swept them in before her, and drew an easy-chair forward for Mrs.
Hayward. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘tell me! You have found out something, I can
see.’
They looked at each other,--Mrs. Hayward with the liveliest inclination
to tell the lady, whom she scarcely knew, that their affairs were their
own. It would have been a little relief to her feelings could she have
done so; but this was just the moment, as she knew very well, in which
the Colonel was sure to come to the front.
‘Yes,’ he said, with a sigh, in which there was distinct relief. (He
found it so easy to relieve himself in that way!) ‘We have found
out--all we wanted, more than we expected. Apart from all other
circumstances, this is a memorable visit to me, Mrs. Bellendean. We have
found--or rather Elizabeth has found---- She is always my resource in
everything----’
‘What?’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, clasping her hands. ‘Please excuse me--I
am so anxious. Something about Joyce?’
‘You must understand that I had no notion of it, no idea of it all the
time. I was as ignorant---- There may have been things in which I was to
blame--though never with any meaning: but of this I had no idea--none:
she never gave me the slightest hint--never the least,’ said the Colonel
earnestly. ‘How could I imagine for a moment--when she never said a
word?’
Mrs. Bellendean looked at Mrs. Hayward with an appeal for help, but she
gave a smile and glance of sympathy to the Colonel, who seemed to want
them most. His wife sat very straight, with her shoulders square, and
her feet just visible beneath her gown--very firm little feet, set down
steadily, one of them beating a faint tattoo of impatience on the
carpet. She was all resistance, intending, it was apparent, to reveal as
little as possible; but the Colonel, though his style was involved, was
most willing to explain.
‘It is,’ he said, ‘my dear lady, I assure you, as much a wonder and
revelation to me as to any one. I never thought of such a
possibility--never. Elizabeth knows that nothing was further from my
mind.’
‘Henry,’ said his wife suddenly, ‘you have been very much agitated this
morning. All these old stories coming up again have given you a shake.
Go up, my dear, to your room, and I will tell Mrs. Bellendean all that
she cares to hear.’
‘Eh? do you think so, Elizabeth? I _have_ got a shake. It agitates a man
very much to be carried back twenty years. Perhaps you are right: you
can explain everything--much better than I can--much better always; and
if Mrs. Bellendean thinks I am to blame, she need not be embarrassed
about it, as she might be before me. I think you are right, as you
always are. And perhaps she will give you some good advice, my love, as
to what we ought to do.’
‘I am sure I shall not think you to blame, Colonel Hayward,’ cried Mrs.
Bellendean, with that impulse of general amiability which completed the
exasperation with which Elizabeth sat looking on.
‘Yes, no doubt, she will give me good advice,’ she said, with
irrepressible irritation; ‘oh, no doubt, no doubt!--most people do.
Henry, take mine for the moment, and go upstairs and rest a little.
Remember you have to meet all the gentlemen at luncheon: and after that
there will be a great deal to do.’
‘I think I will, my dear,’ Colonel Hayward said: but he paused again at
the door with renewed apologies and doubts--‘if Mrs. Bellendean will not
think it rude, and even cowardly, of me, Elizabeth, to leave all the
explanations to you.’
Finally, when Mrs. Bellendean had assured him that she would not do so,
he withdrew slowly, not half sure that, after all, he ought not to
return and take the task of the explanation into his own hands. There
was not a word said between the ladies until the sound of his steps, a
little hesitating at first, as if he had half a mind to come back, had
grown firmer, and at last died away. Then Mrs. Hayward for the first
time looked at the mistress of the house, who, half amused, half
annoyed, and full of anxiety and expectation, had been looking at her,
as keenly as politeness permitted, from every point of view.
‘My husband has been very much agitated--you will not wonder when I tell
you all; and he is never very good at telling his own story. A man who
can do--what he can do--may be excused if he is a little deficient in
words.’
She spoke quickly, almost sharply, with a little air of defiance, yet
with moisture in her eyes.
‘Surely,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, ‘we know what Colonel Hayward is; but
pardon me, it was a much less matter--it was about Joyce I wanted to
know.’
‘The one story cannot be told without the other. My husband,’ said Mrs.
Hayward, with a long breath, ‘had been married before--before he married
me. He had married very hurriedly a young lady who came out to some
distant relations in India. They were at a small station out of the way.
She was not happy, and he married her in a great hurry. Afterwards, when
she was in England by herself, having come home for her health, some
wicked person put it into the poor thing’s head that her marriage was
not a good one. She was fool enough to believe it, though she knew
Henry. Forgive me if I speak a little hastily. She ought to have known
better, knowing him; but some people never know you, though you live by
their side a hundred years.’
She stopped to exhale another long breath of excitement and agitation.
It was cruel to impute blame to the poor dead girl, and she felt this,
but could not refrain.
‘And suddenly, after one letter full of complaint and reproach, she
wrote no more. He was in active service, and could not get home. It was
not so easy then to come home on leave. He wrote again and again, and
when he got no answer, employed people to find her out. I can’t tell you
all the things that were done--everything, so far as he knew how to do
it. I didn’t know him then. I daresay he wasted a great deal of money
without getting hold of the right people. He never heard anything more
of her, never a word, till the other day.’
‘Then that poor young creature was---- And Joyce--Joyce!--who is Joyce?
Mrs. Hayward, do you mean really that Joyce----’
‘Joyce--was his first wife: and this girl--who has the same name,--I
have not seen her, I don’t know her, I can express no feeling about
her,--this young lady is my husband’s daughter, Mrs. Bellendean.’
‘Colonel Hayward’s daughter!’ Mrs. Bellendean sprang to her feet in her
surprise and excitement. She threw up her hands in wonder and delight
and sympathy, her eyes glittered and shone, a flush of feeling came over
her. Any spectator who had seen the two ladies at this moment would have
concluded naturally that it was Mrs. Bellendean who was the person
chiefly concerned, while the little woman seated opposite to her was a
somewhat cynical looker-on, to whom it was apparent that the warmth of
feeling thus displayed was not quite genuine. The Colonel’s wife was
moved by no enthusiasm. She sat rigid, motionless, except for that one
foot, which continued to beat upon the carpet a little impatient measure
of its own.
‘Oh,’ cried Mrs. Bellendean, ‘I always knew it! One may deceive one’s
self about many people, but there was no possibility with Joyce. She
was--she is--I never saw any one like her--quite, quite unprecedented in
such a place as this: like nobody about her--a girl whom any one might
be proud of--a girl who--oh yes, yes! you are right in calling her a
young lady. She could be nothing less. I always knew it was so.’
‘She is my husband’s daughter,’ said Mrs. Hayward, without moving a
muscle. She remained unaffected by her companion’s enthusiasm. She
recognised it as part of the burden laid upon her that she should have
to receive the outflowings of a rapture in which she had no share.
‘And what did Joyce say?’ asked the lady of Bellendean. ‘And poor old
Janet! oh, it will not be good news to her. But what did Joyce say? I
should like to have been there; and why, why did you not bring her up
to the house with you? But I see,--oh yes, it was better, it was kinder
to leave her a little with the old people. The poor old people, God help
them! Oh, Mrs. Hayward, there is no unmixed good in this world. It will
kill old Janet and her old husband. There’s no unmixed good.’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Hayward quietly. She sat like a little figure of stone,
nothing moving in her, not a finger, not an eyelash,--nothing but the
foot, still beating now and then a sort of broken measure upon the
floor.
Mrs. Bellendean sat down again when she had exhausted her first
excitement. There is nothing that chills one’s warmest feelings like the
presence of a spectator who does not share one’s satisfaction. Mrs.
Hayward would have been that proverbial wet blanket, if there had not
been in the very stiffness of her spectator-ship signs of another and
still more potent excitement of her own. Strong self-repression at the
end comes to affect us more than any demonstration. Mrs. Bellendean was
very quick, and perhaps felt it sooner than a less vivid intelligence
might have done. She sat down, almost apologetically, and looked at her
guest.
‘I am afraid,’ she said, faltering, ‘you are not so glad as I am. I hope
it is not anything in Joyce. I hope--she has not displeased you. If she
has, I am sure, oh, I am very sure she did not mean it. It must have
been--some mistake.’
‘Mrs. Bellendean,’ cried Elizabeth suddenly, ‘I am sure you are very
kind. You would not have invited me here as you have done, without
knowing anything of me, if you had not been kind. But perhaps you don’t
quite put yourself in my place. I did not mean to say anything on that
subject, but my heart is full, and I can’t help it. I married Colonel
Hayward--he was only Captain Hayward then--knowing everything, and that
it was possible, though not likely, that this wife of his might still be
alive. It was a great venture to make. I have kept myself in the
background always, not knowing--whether I had any real right to call
myself Mrs. Hayward. Joyce has not been a name of good omen to me.’
‘Dear Mrs. Hayward!’ cried the impulsive woman before her, leaning over
the table, holding out both her hands.
‘No, don’t praise me. I believe I ought to have been blamed instead;
but, anyhow, I took the risk. And I have never repented it, though I did
not know all that would be involved. And now, when we are growing old,
and calm should succeed to all the storms, here is her daughter--with
her name--not a child whom I could influence, who might get to be fond
of me, but a woman, grown up, educated in her way, clever:--all that
makes it so much the worse. No! don’t be sorry for me; I am a wicked
woman, I ought not to feel so. Here I find her again, not a
recollection, not an idea, but a grown-up girl, the same age as her
mother. Joyce over again, always Joyce!’
Mrs. Bellendean did not know how to reply. She sat and gazed at the
woman whom she wanted to console, who touched her, revolted her,
horrified her all in one, and yet whose real emotion and pain she felt
to the bottom of her sympathetic heart. Too much sympathy is perhaps as
bad as too little. She was all excitement and delight for Joyce, and yet
this other woman’s trouble was too genuine not to move her. It was very
natural too, and yet dreadful,--a pain to think of. ‘I am sure,’ she
said, faltering, ‘that when you know her better--when you begin to see
what she is in herself: there is no one who does not like Joyce.’
Mrs. Hayward had got rid, in this interval, of a handful, so to speak,
of hot sudden tears. She was ashamed of them, angry with herself for
being thus overcome, and therefore could not be said to weep, or make
any other affecting demonstration, but simply hurried off, threw from
her angrily, these signs of a pang which she despised, which hurt her
pride and her sense of what was seemly as much as it wrung her heart.
She shook her head with a sudden angry laugh in the midst of her
emotion. ‘Don’t you see! that is the worst of all,’ she cried.
But at this moment, in the midst of this climax of pain, exasperation,
self-disapproval, there arose in soft billows of sound, rising one after
the other into all the corners of the great house, the sound of the
gong. It reached all the members of the household, along the long
corridors and round the gallery, roused Colonel Hayward from the
softened and satisfied pause of feeling which his withdrawal upstairs
had brought him, and called Mrs. Bellendean back from the wonderful
problem of mingled sentiments in which she was embroiling herself,
taking both sides at once, into the more natural feelings of the
mistress of the house, whose presence is indispensable elsewhere. But
she could not break off all at once this interview, which was so very
different from the ordinary talks between strangers. She hesitated even
to rise up, conscious of the ludicrous anti-climax of this call to food
addressed to people whose hearts were full of the most painful
complications of life. At the same time, the sound of her guests
trooping downstairs, and coming in from the grounds, with a murmur of
voices, and footsteps in the hall, became every moment more and more
clamant. She rose at last, and put her hand on Mrs. Hayward’s shoulder.
‘The gentlemen speak,’ she said, ‘of things that are solved walking. It
will be so with you, dear Mrs. Hayward. It will clear up as you go on.
Everything will become easier in the doing. Come now to luncheon.’
‘I--to luncheon!--it would choke me,’ cried Elizabeth, feeling in her
impatience, and the universal contrariety of everything, as if this had
been the last aggravation of all.
‘No,’ said Mrs. Bellendean, putting her arm through that of her guest;
‘it will do you good, on the contrary: and the Colonel will eat nothing
if you are not there. You shall come in your bonnet as you are; and
Colonel Hayward will make a good luncheon.’
‘I believe he is capable of it,’ Mrs. Hayward cried.