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 impossible. 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 argument on the subject with Greta, her own special
favourite and _protégée_. 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 she had influenced all her
life. She forgot Joyce in seeing the animated discussion that rose
between these two. It was disappointing, however, that when in the very
midst of this discussion Captain Bellendean saw from the window at which
he was standing 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 if 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--sometimes 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
concealing his feelings, and he was too anxious to get support and
sympathy 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 furtively, as if afraid that Norman might
think Elizabeth was to blame.
‘It was the best thing she could do,’ said Captain Bellendean.
‘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, 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?’
‘I had heard about it before; and then what you said to-day--it is very
wonderful.’
‘Yes; but it’s quite true. And we told her--in Mrs. Bellendean’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 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? When you have made such a discovery, there it is; 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 embarrassment----’
‘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, 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? 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 me? 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? 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 understand each other
better if you meet by yourselves, when she is not there.’
‘Eh? Do you think that’s what she means, Bellendean? and do you think so
too? But even then I am no further advanced than I was before; for my
daughter, you know, she’s not here, and how do I know where to find
her, even if I were prepared to meet her? 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.’
‘I can show you where to find her,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘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? It’s quite true. Elizabeth thinks I
only fancy it, but the truth is that when my mind is disturbed I cannot
sleep. I am dreadfully down about it all, Bellendean. 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.’
‘I 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 instrument 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 themselves. It was not his
fault, and yet how could he say so? How could he explain it to this
second hot-headed Joyce without 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 contemplated, 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. Resistance
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 consciousness 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 remorseless bonds of destiny.
She did not even feel that forlorn satisfaction 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 ‘Captain’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.’
‘Her father!’ Peter rose up with a lowering brow. ‘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?’
The old man took his blue bonnet, which hung on the back of 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 him. ‘They
expect you,’ he said. And Colonel Hayward 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.
‘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? 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.
‘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 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 before 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? 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 instantaneous 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 natural to him, and he
was restored to himself. He took Joyce’s hands in one of his, and drew
her within his arm.
‘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 forgive your father? 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 undesirable in any circumstances to make friends
with Captain Bellendean; 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 content, which is a thing that
does not happen every year.’
‘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; 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 schoolmaster. Andrew, however, was not a
person to be suppressed 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.’
‘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 continue to be equally
satisfactory.’
‘I hope so,’ said Halliday. ‘It could scarcely, indeed, be otherwise,
seeing that Joyce was my choice in very humble circumstances, 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 fear,’ said Norman, smoothing his annoyance into a laugh, ‘that
Colonel Hayward 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, giving 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 Hayward should wish her to settle near him, there are
many fine appointments to be had in England. I would not say that I
should insist upon remaining here.’
‘That would be kind,’ said Captain Bellendean, with a sarcasm which was
scarcely intentional. He was confounded by the composure and by the
assurance of this fellow, who was so calmly persuaded of his own
property in Joyce.
‘I 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, ‘I am glad to see this happy conclusion; 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 ingratiating
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 refinement 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 him, but she had never promised to present him to
her unknown dream-father as his future son.
‘Who is it?’ said Colonel Hayward. He curved his eyebrows over his eyes
to assist his vision, which gave him a look of displeasure; 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 acknowledged 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 perception. 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 Hayward said.
Joyce felt herself quail as she looked into her father’s face. She read
all that was in his at a glance. Colonel Hayward 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 sympathetic feeling ran through her. She felt
herself unable to say anything. She assented with a look in which, with
horror at herself, 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
downcast 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 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 withdrew 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, turning 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.