After Peter had got his dinner and had gone out again to his work, a
silence fell upon the two who were left behind in the cottage. They had
breathed no word, nor even exchanged a glance that could have awakened
his suspicions--which was easy enough, for he had no suspicions. And
they had avoided each other’s eyes: they had talked of nothing that
contained any reference to the subject of which their hearts were full.
And when they were left alone, they still said nothing to each other.
Janet would have no help from Joyce in the ‘redding up.’ ‘Na, na,’ she
said; ‘go away to your reading, or sew at some of your bonnie dies. This
is nae wark for you.’
‘Granny, I am going to help you as I have always done.’
‘This is nae wark for you, and I’ll no’ let you touch it,’ said the old
woman, with a sudden stamp of her foot on the ground. ‘I’ll no’ let you
touch it! do ye hear me, Joyce? As long as you are here, you sall just
do what I say.’
The girl retreated, almost overawed by the passion in the old woman’s
eyes; and then there was silence in the cottage, broken only by the
sound of Janet’s movements, as she cleared away everything, and moved
about with her quick short step from one place to another. Joyce sat
down beside the writing-table, which was her own especial domain, and
the quietness of impassioned suspense fell upon the little house. The
scent of the mignonette still came in through the window from the little
garden behind; but the door was shut, that no cheerful interruption, no
passing neighbour with friendly salutations, pausing for a minute’s
gossip, might disturb the breathless silence. They both expected--but
knew not what: whether some fairy chariot to carry Joyce away, some
long-lost relatives hurrying to take her to their arms, or some one
merely coming to reveal to them who she was,--to tell her that she
belonged to some great house, and was the child of some injured
princess. Strangely enough, neither of them suspected the real state of
affairs. Janet divined that Mrs. Hayward had something to do with it,
but Joyce had not even seen Mrs. Hayward; and the Colonel was to her an
old friend who had known and probably loved her mother--but no more.
Thus they waited, not saying a word, devoured by a silent excitement,
listening for some one coming, imagining steps that stopped at the door,
and carriage-wheels that never came any nearer, but not communicating to
each other what they thought. When Janet’s clearing away was over, she
still found things to do to keep her in movement. On ordinary occasions,
when the work was done, she would sit down in the big chair by the
window with the door open (it was natural that the door should be open
at all seasons), and take up the big blue-worsted stocking which she was
always knitting for Peter. And if Joyce was busy, Janet would nod to her
friends as they passed, and point with her thumb over her shoulder to
show the need of quiet, which did not hinder a little subdued talk, all
the more pleasant for being thus kept in check. ‘She’s aye busy,’ the
passers-by would say, with looks of admiring wonder. ‘Oh ay, she’s aye
busy; there was never the like of her for learning. She’s just never
done,’ the proud old woman would say, with a pretence at impatience. How
proud she had been of all her nursling’s wonderful ways! But now Janet
could not sit down. She flung her stocking into a corner out of her way.
She could not bear to see or speak to any one: the vicinity of other
people was of itself an offence to her. If only she could quench with
the sound of her steps those of the messenger of fate who was coming; if
only she could keep him out for ever, and defend the treasure in her
house behind that closed door!
The same suppressed fever of suspense was in Joyce’s mind, but in a
different sense. With her all was impatience and longing. When would
they come? though she knew not whom or what she looked for. When would
this silence of fate be broken? The loud ticking of the clock filled the
little house with a sound quite out of proportion to its importance,
beating out the little lives of men with a methodical slow regularity,
every minute taking so long; and the quick short steps of her old
guardian never coming to an end, still bustling about when Joyce knew
there was no longer anything to do, provoked her almost beyond bearing.
So long as this went on, how could she hear _them_ coming to the door?
They both started violently when at last there fell a sharp stroke, as
of the end of a whip, on the closed door. It came as suddenly, and, to
their exaggerated fancy, as solemnly, as the very stroke of fate: but it
was only a footman from Bellendean, on horseback, with a note, which he
almost flung at Janet as she opened the door, stopping Joyce, who sprang
forward to do it. ‘Na, you’ll never open to a flunkey,’ cried the old
woman, with a sort of desperation in her tone, pushing back the girl,
whose cheeks she could see were flaming and her eyes blazing. Janet
would not give up the note till she had hunted for her spectacles and
put them on, and turned it over in her hand. ‘Oh ay, it’s to you after
a’,’ she said; ‘I might have kent that,--and no a very ceevil direction.
“Miss Joyce,” nothing but Miss Joyce: and its nae name when you come to
think on’t--no’ like Marg’et or Mary. It’s as if it was your last name.’
‘Granny,’ said Joyce, in great excitement, ‘we are to go to the House
immediately, to see Mrs. Bellendean.’
‘We--are to gang? Gang then,’ said Janet; ‘naebody keeps ye. So far as I
can judge, what with one call and another, you’re there ‘maist every
day.’
‘But never, never on such a day as this! And you are to come too.
Granny, I’ll get you your shawl and your bonnet.’
‘Bide a moment. What for are ye in such a hurry? I’m no at Mrs.
Bellendean’s beck and call, to go and come as she pleases. You can go
yoursel’, as you’ve done many a time before.’
‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, putting her arm, though the old woman resisted,
round Janet’s shoulders, ‘you’ll not refuse me? Think what it may
be,--to hear about my mother--and who I am--and whom I belong to.’
‘Ay,’ said Janet bitterly; ‘to hear when you’re to drive away in your
grand carridge, and leave the house that’s aye been your shelter
desolate; to fix the moment when them that have been father and mother
to ye are to be but twa puir servant-bodies, and belang to ye nae mair!’
‘Granny!’ cried Joyce, in consternation, drawing Janet’s face towards
her, stooping over the little resisting figure.
‘Dinna put your airms about me. Do you ken what I’ll be for you the
morn?--your auld nurse--a puir auld body that will be nothing to you.
Oh, and that’s maybe just what should be for a leddy like you. You were
aye a leddy from the beginning, and I might have kent if my een hadna
been blinded. I aye said to Peter, “Haud a loose grip,” but, eh! I never
took it to mysel’.’
‘Granny,’ cried Joyce, ‘do you think if the Queen herself were my
mother,--if I were the Princess Royal, and everything at my beck and
call,--do you think I could ever forsake _you_?’
‘Oh, how do I ken?’ cried Janet, still resisting the soft compulsion
which was in Joyce’s arms; ‘and how can I tell what ye will be let do?
You will no’ be your ain mistress as ye have been here. Ye will have to
conform to other folks’ ways. Ye will have to do what’s becoming to your
rank and your place in the world. If ye think that an auld wife in
Bellendean village and an auld ploughman on the laird’s farm will be let
come near ye----’
‘Granny, granny!’ cried Joyce, as Janet’s voice, overcome by her own
argument, sank into an inarticulate murmur broken by sobs,--‘granny,
granny! what have I done to make you think I have no heart?--and to give
me up, and refuse to stand by me even before there’s a thing proved.’
‘Me!--refuse to stand by ye?’
‘That is just what you are doing--or at least it is what you are saying
you will do; but as you never did an unkind thing in your life----’
‘Oh, many a one, many a one,’ cried the old woman. ‘I’ve just an
unregenerate heart--but no’ to my ain.’
‘As you never did an unkind thing in your life,’ cried Joyce, out of
breath, for she had hurried in the meantime to the aumry--the great oak
cupboard which filled one side of the room--and made a rapid raid
therein. ‘I have brought you your bonnet and your shawl.’
She proceeded to fold the big Paisley shawl as Janet wore it, with a
large point descending to the hem of the old woman’s gown, and to put it
round her shoulders. And then the large black satin bonnet, like the
hood of a small carriage, was tied over Janet’s cap. It is true she wore
only the cotton gown, her everyday garment, but the heavy folds of the
shawl almost covered it, and Janet was thus equipped for any grandeur
that might happen, and very well dressed in her own acceptation of the
word. When these solemn garments were produced she struggled no more.
But though the ice was partially broken, there was very little said
between them as they went up the avenue. Joyce’s heart went bounding
before her, forestalling the disclosure, making a hundred mad
suggestions. She forgot all the circumstances,--where she was going, and
even the unwilling companion by her side, who plodded along, scarcely
able to keep up with her, her face altogether invisible within the
shadow of the big bonnet, which stooped forward like the head of some
curious uncouth flower. Poor old Janet! the girl’s head was full of a
romance more thrilling than any romance she had ever read; but Janet’s
was tragedy, far deeper, sounding every depth of despair, rising to
every height of self-abnegation. And Peter! poor old Peter, who had no
suspicion of anything, whom she had always adjured to keep a loose grip,
and to whom ‘the bit lassie’ was as the light of his eyes. Not only her
own desolation, but his also, Janet would have to bear. She had no heart
to speak, but plodded along, scarcely even seeing Joyce by her side,
ruminating heavily, turning over everything in her mind, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground under the shadow of the black bonnet. ‘Oh, haud a
loose grip!’ she had said it to Peter, but she had not laid her own
advice to heart.
There were two or three servants in the hall when Joyce went up the
steps, leading, against her will, the old woman with her, who would fain
have stolen round to the servants’ entrance as ‘mair becoming.’ And the
butler and the footman looked very important, and were strangely
respectful, having heard Colonel Hayward’s oration, or such echo of it
as had been wafted to the servants’ hall. ‘This way, this way, Miss
Joyce,’ the butler said, with a little emphasis, though he had known her
all his life, and seldom used such extreme civility of address. ‘This
way, Janet.’ They were taken across the hall, where Janet, roused and
wondering, saw visions of other people glancing eagerly at Joyce, and at
her own little figure, stiff as if under mail in the panoply of that
great shawl--to Mrs. Bellendean’s room. There a little party of agitated
people were gathered together. Mrs. Hayward seated very square, with her
feet firm on the carpet: Mrs. Bellendean leaning over her writing-table,
with a very nervous look: the Colonel standing against the big window,
which exaggerated his outline, but made his features undiscernible.
Janet made them a sort of curtsey as she went in, but held her head
high, rather defiant than humble. For why should she be humble, she who
had all the right on her side, and who owed nobody anything? It was they
who should be humble to her if they were going to take away her child.
But she could not but say the gentleman was very civil. He put out a
chair for her. As she said afterwards, not the little cane one that Mr.
Brown, the butler, thought good enough, but a muckle soft easy-chair, a’
springs and cushions, like the one his wife was sitting in. He didna
seem to think that was ower good for the like of her. Joyce did not sit
down at all. She stood with her hand upon Mrs. Bellendean’s table,
looking into the agitated face of the lady to whom she had always looked
up as her best friend.
‘You have got something to tell me?’ said Joyce, her voice trembling a
little. ‘About my mother--about my--people?’
‘Yes, Joyce.’
The girl said nothing more. She did not so much as look at Mrs. Hayward,
who sat nervously still, not making a movement. Joyce supported herself
upon the back of the writing-table, which had a range of little drawers
and pigeon-holes. She stood up, straight and tall, the flexible lines of
her slim figure swaying a little, her hands clasped upon the upper
ledge. Her hands were not, perhaps, very white in comparison with the
hands of the young ladies who did nothing; but, coming out of her dark
dress, which had no ornament of any kind, these hands clasped together
looked like ivory or mother-of-pearl, and seemed to give out light. And
then there was an interval of tremulous silence. Old Janet, watching
them all with the keenest scrutiny, said to herself, ‘Will nobody
speak?’
‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Bellendean said at last, with a trembling voice, ‘it will
be a great, great change for you. You are a wise, good girl; you will
not let it alter you to those who--deserve all your gratitude. My dear,
it is a wonderful thing to think of. I can but think the hand of Heaven
is in it.’ Here the poor lady, who had been speaking in slow and
laboured tones, struggling against her emotion, became almost inaudible,
and stopped, while old Janet, wringing her hands, cried out without
knowing she did so, ‘Oh, will naebody put us out o’ our agony? Oh, will
naebody tell us the truth?’
The Colonel made a step forward, then went back again. His child, his
dead wife’s child, filled him with awe. The thought of going up to her,
taking her into his arms, which would have been the natural thing which
he had meant to do, appalled him as he stood and looked at her, a young
lady whom he did not know. What would she say or think? There had been
nothing to lead up to it, as there was when he had met her in the
morning, and when his heart had gone forth to her. Now anxiety and a
sort of alarm mingled with his emotion. What would she think? his
daughter--and yet a young lady whom he did not know? ‘Elizabeth?’ he
said tremulously, but he could say no more.
‘Young lady,’ said another voice behind, with a touch of impatience in
it,-- ‘Joyce: it appears I must tell, though I have never seen you
before.’
Joyce had all but turned her back upon this lady, who, she thought,
could have nothing to do with her. She turned round with a little
start, and fixed her eyes upon the new speaker. It was curious that a
stranger should tell her--one who had nothing to do with it. The little
woman rose up, not a distinguished figure, looking commonplace to the
girl’s excited eyes, who felt almost impatient, annoyed by this
interference. ‘Joyce,’ Mrs. Hayward repeated again, ‘we don’t even know
each other, but we shall have a great deal to do with each other, and I
hope--I hope we shall get on. Your poor mother--was Colonel Hayward’s
first wife before he married me. He is not to blame, for he never knew.
Joyce: your name is Joyce Hayward. You are my husband’s daughter. Your
father stands there. I don’t know why he doesn’t come forward. He is the
best man that ever was born. You will love him when you know him---- I
don’t know why he doesn’t come forward,’ cried his wife, in great
agitation. She made herself a sudden stop, caught Joyce by the arm, and
raising herself on tiptoe gave the girl a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘I am
your step-mother, and I hope--I hope that we will get on.’
Joyce stood like a figure turned to stone. She felt the world whirling
round her as if she were coming down, down some wonderful fall, too
giddy and sickening to estimate. The colour and the eagerness went out
of her face. She took no notice of Mrs. Hayward, whose interference at
this strange moment she did not seem to understand, although she
understood clearly all that she said. Her eyes were fixed, staring at
the man there against the window, who was her father. Her father! Her
heart had been very soft to him this morning, when she believed he was
her mother’s friend: but her father!--this was not how she had figured
her father. He stood against the light, his outline all wavering and
trembling, making a hesitating step towards her, then stopping again.
Colonel Hayward was more agitated than words could say. Oh, if he had
but taken her in his arms in the morning when his heart was full! He
came forward slowly, faltering, not knowing what to say. When he had
come close to her, he put out his hands. ‘Joyce!’ he said, ‘you are your
mother’s living image: I saw it from the first; have you--have you
nothing--to say to me?’
‘Sir,’ said Joyce, making no advance, ‘my mother--must have had much to
complain of--from you.’
His hands, which he had held out, with a quiver in them, fell to his
sides. ‘Much to complain of,’ he said, with a tremulous astonishment;
‘much--to complain of!’
A murmur of voices sounded in Joyce’s ears; they sounded like the hum of
the bees, or anything else inarticulate, with mingled tones of
remonstrance, anger, entreaty: even old Janet’s quavering voice joined
in. To hear the girl defying a gentleman, the Captain’s colonel, a grand
soldier officer, took away the old woman’s breath.
‘You left her to die,’ cried Joyce, her soft voice fierce in excitement,
‘all alone in a strange place. Why was she alone at such a time, when
she had a husband to care for her? You left her to die--and never asked
after her for twenty years: never asked--till her child was a grown-up
woman with other--other parents, and another home--of her own.’
‘Oh, dinna speak to the gentleman like that!’ cried old Janet, getting
up with difficulty from her easy-chair. ‘Oh, Joyce, Joyce!’ cried Mrs.
Bellendean. Mrs. Hayward said nothing, but she came up to the indignant
young figure in the centre of this group, and laid an imperative hand
upon her arm. Joyce shook it off. She did not know what she was doing.
An immense disappointment, horror, anger with fate and all about her,
surged up in her heart, and gave force to the passion of indignant
feeling of which, amid all her thinkings on the subject, she had never
been conscious before. She turned away from the three women who
surrounded her, each remonstrating in her way, and confronted once more
the man--the father--whose great fault perhaps was that he was not the
father whom the excited girl looked for, and that the disillusion was
more than she could bear.
Colonel Hayward came to himself a little as he looked at her, and
recovered some spirit. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he said, ‘for thinking so.
No, Elizabeth, don’t blame her. I was in India. Short of deserting, I
couldn’t get home.’
‘Why didn’t you desert, then,’ cried the girl in a flush of nervous
passion, ‘rather than let her die?’ Then she turned round upon Janet,
who stood behind, burdened with her great shawl, and threw herself upon
the old woman’s shoulder. ‘Oh granny, granny, take me home, take me home
again! for I have nothing to do here, nor among these strange folk,’ she
cried.