The discussions held upon this question in the Colonel’s room were many.
Mrs. Hayward had kept herself for many years out of society, rejecting
it all the more sternly because she loved it and held all its little
punctilios dear. And now that all necessity for such self-denial was
over, to have everything risked again was terrible to her. She who had
so carefully kept her husband from annoyance, in this matter departed
from all her traditions. The good Colonel himself was fond of society
too. He liked to know people, to gather kindly faces about him, and to
be surrounded by a cheerful stir of human interests; but to tell the
truth, he did not care very much about Lady St. Clair and the best
people in the neighbourhood. It was seldom--very seldom--that it
occurred to him to criticise his Elizabeth; but on this point he thought
her a little mistaken, and not so infallible as she usually was.
‘Have patience a little, my dear,’ he said, falling upon a simple
philosophy, which, indeed, he was not at all disposed himself to put in
practice, ‘and you’ll see all will come right.’
‘Nothing will come right,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘unless we can get your
daughter properly introduced. It alters everything in our position,
Henry. We were settling down to society such as suits you and me; but
that will not do now. The moment there is a young lady in the house all
is changed. She must be thought of. A different kind of entertainment is
wanted for a girl. I ought to take her to balls, and to water-parties,
and to all sorts of gaieties. You would not like her to be left out.’
‘Well, my dear,’ said the Colonel, more cheerfully, ‘I like young faces,
and I don’t object to a little dance now and then. I always, indeed,
encouraged the young fellows in the regiment----’
‘If it were giving a dance that was all!--you may be sure I shouldn’t
come to you about that. There is a great deal involved that is of much
more importance. If it all gets abroad about your daughter, everything
will suffer--she in the first place. It will be like a governess--every
one respects a governess----’
‘Surely, my dear. A good girl who perhaps does it to help her family, or
support her old mother, or----’
‘Henry, my dear, you are very old-fashioned. But however good she may
be, she is always at a disadvantage. It would be bad for us too. Colonel
Hayward’s daughter a governess! They would say you were either less well
off than you appeared, or that you had used her badly, or that I had
used her badly--still more likely.’
‘But when we did not know of her very existence, Elizabeth!’
‘How are you to tell people that? The best thing is to keep quite quiet
about it, if we only can. But now here is this new complication. These
Bellendean people will talk it all over with the St. Clairs, and the St.
Clairs will publish it everywhere. And people will be sorry for her, and
pick her to pieces, and say it is easy to see she is unused to our
world; they will be sorry for her for being with me, or else be sorry
for me for being burdened with her.’
‘Elizabeth----’
‘And the worst is,’ she said vehemently, ‘that it will be quite true on
both sides. She will be to be pitied, and I shall be to be pitied. If
only these friends of hers could be kept quiet! If only she could be
dressed properly, and taught to hold her tongue and say nothing about
her past!’
The Colonel got up and began to walk about the room in great
perturbation of spirit. He could not say, as he had been in the habit of
saying, ‘If Elizabeth were but here!’ for it was Elizabeth
herself--extraordinary fact!--who was the cause of the trouble. Social
difficulties had not affected them till now; and what could he do or
suggest in face of an emergency which was too much for Elizabeth? The
poor gentleman was without resource, and he had a faint sense of injury,
a feeling that he had never expected to be consulted or to have to
advise in such a matter. All the difficulties in their way of a personal
character had been Elizabeth’s business, not his. He walked about with a
troubled brow, a face full of distress,--what could he do or say? It was
almost cruel of her to consult him, to put matters which he had never
pretended to be able to manage into his hands.
Mrs. Hayward, on her side, felt a faint gleam of alleviation in the
midst of the gloom from the spectacle of the Colonel’s perturbation. It
was his affair after all, and he had the best right to suffer; and
though she expected no help from him, there was a certain satisfaction
and almost diversion in the depth of his helpless distress. They were,
however, brought to a sudden standstill, which was a relief to both, by
a ring at the door-bell, a very unusual thing in the morning. The clouds
dispersed from Mrs. Hayward’s brow. She put up her hand instinctively to
her cap. Agitation of any kind, though it may seem a remarkable effect,
does derange one’s cap, as everybody who wears such a head-dress knows.
‘It can’t be any one coming to call at this hour,’ she said. ‘It must be
some of your men intending to stay for lunch.’
A weight was lifted off the Colonel’s mind by this resumption of
ordinary tones and subjects. He was always glad to see one of ‘his men,’
as Mrs. Hayward called them, to lunch, being of the most hospitable
disposition; and it was his experience that the presence of a stranger
was always perfectly efficacious in blowing away clouds that might arise
on the family firmament. Besides, in the strained condition of family
affairs, a third, or rather fourth party, who knew nothing about the
circumstances, could not but make that meal more cheerful. They stood
and listened for a moment while some one was evidently admitted, with
some surprise that Baker did not appear to announce the visitor.
Presently, however, the door was opened with that mixture of swiftness
and hesitation which was characteristic of Joyce, and she herself looked
in, more awakened and with a brighter countenance than either of the
pair had yet seen in her. Her shyness had disappeared in the excitement
of a pleasant surprise; her cheeks had got a little colour; the eager
air which had struck Colonel Hayward when he first saw her, but which of
late had been so much subdued, had returned to her eyes and sensitive
mouth. ‘Oh, it’s the Captain!’ she said, with a sense of the importance
of the announcement, as if she had been presenting the Prince of Wales
at least, which changed the entire sentiment of her face. Mrs. Hayward
had never before seen the natural Joyce as she was in the humility of
her early undisturbed state. She acknowledged the charm of the girl with
a keen little sudden pang of that appreciation and comprehension of
jealousy, which is more clear-sighted and certain than love.
‘The Captain!’ she said, not quite aware who was meant, yet putting on
an air of more ignorance than was genuine.
‘Oh, Bellendean!’ cried the Colonel, going forward with cordiality. ‘My
dear fellow, how glad I am to see you! You’ve got away, then, from all
your anxious friends. Elizabeth, you remember Captain Bellendean?’
‘I am not likely to have forgotten him,’ Mrs. Hayward said graciously,
yet with a meaning which perhaps was not so gracious as her speech. And
there darted through her mind, as is so usual with women, a question, a
calculation. Was it for Joyce? Men are so silly; who can tell how they
may be influenced? There flashed through her a gleam of delight at the
thought of thus getting rid of the interloper, and at the same time an
angry grudge that this girl, who seemed to have all the luck, should
come to such honour, and be thus set on high above so many who were her
betters. All this in the twinkling of an eye. She stood for a minute or
two and talked, asking the proper questions about his family, and when
he came to town, and how long he meant to stay; then left the visitor
with her husband, and hastened to say something about the luncheon to
Baker, who on his part was lingering outside with a message from the
cook. To those who feel an interest in such matters, we may say that
Mrs. Hayward, when one of the Colonel’s men made his appearance
unexpectedly for luncheon, generally added a dish of curry, for which
her cook was noted (the men being almost all old Indians), to that meal.
When she returned to the drawing-room, Joyce was there, still with the
same look of exhilaration and liveliness. She was even the first to
speak--a singular circumstance. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘I was not wrong in
taking the Captain to the library. I thought, as you were not here, he
would like that better than just talking to me.’
Was this false humility? or affectation? or what was it? ‘You were quite
right, no doubt; for it must have been your father he came to see,’ said
Mrs. Hayward, with a quick glance. She was prepared to see a conscious
smile upon Joyce’s mouth, the little air of demure triumph with which a
girl who knows herself the object of such a visit acquiesces in the fact
that it is for her father. But no such consciousness was upon Joyce’s
countenance. ‘You seem to be very much pleased to see him,’ she
continued. ‘And why do you call him the Captain, as if there were not
another in the world?’
Joyce paused a little before she answered. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that
the people at Bellendean did think there was not another such Captain in
the world.’
‘And you are glad to see him--because you know him so well? because he
reminds you of your old life?’
Joyce grew red all at once with a blush, which surely meant something.
Again she paused a little, with that sense of walking among snares and
man-traps, which confuses the mind. ‘Oh no; I did not know him well. I
have only spoken to him two or three times. It is so difficult to
explain. You will perhaps not be pleased if I say it. To me that am not
accustomed--the Captain’s coming seemed like a great honour.’ She
stopped short, and the colour went out of her face as suddenly as it
came.
‘A great honour!’ cried Mrs. Hayward with indignation,--‘to his
commanding officer!’ It was all she could do to keep her temper. Her
foot patted the carpet angrily, and she tore a band of calico off a
piece upon her lap with vehemence, as if she were inflicting pain and
liked to do so. ‘What an extraordinary notion!’ she cried. ‘Norman
Bellendean, a little Scotch squire--that anybody should think his visit
an honour to my husband!’ There was a sort of subdued fury in her laugh
of scorn.
‘I can see,’ said Joyce, ‘it was very silly to say that; and it was only
a sort of instinct. I forgot when I saw him--all that has happened--and
that I was a--different creature.’
‘Joyce,’ cried Mrs. Hayward quickly, ‘I warn you that unless you can get
over this constant going back upon your old life, and try and adapt
yourself to your present circumstances, it will be impossible for
us--impossible for me--almost beyond any one’s powers----’
Joyce had become very pale. She did not make any reply, but waited with
her lips moving in an eagerness so different from that joyous eagerness
of her former aspect, for the next word that should be said. What was it
that would be impossible? There is something in a threat which rouses
the most placid blood. If it was impossible, what would happen? Joyce
was in no way in fault; the circumstances which had changed her life,
and transplanted her from her home, were not of her creating any more
than they were of Mrs. Hayward’s. But Mrs. Hayward said nothing more.
She went on tearing, wounding, cutting her calico with stabs and thrusts
of the scissors that seemed as if they must draw blood. But she had gone
as far as could be done unintentionally by sudden impulse--which, and no
set purpose, was what had moved her. And she had come to herself by dint
of that half-spoken threat. She had no desire to be cruel or even
unkind; her desire, indeed, was quite different, if one could have come
to the bottom of her heart. She would have given a great deal to have
been upon comfortable terms with her step-daughter, and to have been
able to quench the jealousy and the grudge with which, deeply ashamed of
them all the time, she had taken in this third between the two who were
so happy--this interloper, this supplanter, whom she had seen her
husband embrace so tenderly, and heard saying with a voice full of
emotion ‘father’--a word never to be addressed to him by child of her
own.
Once more, however, this uncomfortable state of affairs was brought to a
pause by the recurrence of the ordinary course of domestic events. The
voices of the Colonel and Captain Bellendean became audible crossing the
hall towards the drawing-room door. At the first sound of these voices,
Mrs. Hayward threw her calico into the work-basket, and tore and stabbed
at it no more. She relapsed suddenly into tranquil hemming, like a good
child at school. Joyce had not the same cover for her agitation, but yet
she collected herself as quickly as was possible, and made believe to be
as quietly occupied and at her ease as her step-mother was.
‘I should have thought,’ said the Colonel, opening the door as he spoke,
and bringing in this new subject with him, ‘that a pokey house in
London, now that the season is more than half over, would be a bad
change after your beautiful place; but that’s our mistake thinking of
other people, as if they were just the same as we are--which nobody is,
as a matter of fact.’
Mrs. Hayward thought her husband meant this for her, as a reproach in
respect to Joyce--which he did not, being totally incapable of any such
covert assault.
‘My father has always been fond of society,’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I
suspect my beautiful place, as you are kind enough to call it, was
always a great bondage to him.’
‘Joyce, I want you to show Bellendean the garden and the river,’ said
the Colonel; ‘I have a---- letter to finish. Take him down to the water,
and show him the willows, and the poet’s villa, and all that. Have you
got a hat handy, my dear, or a parasol, or something? for it’s very hot.
You must take care not to get a sunstroke, or anything of that sort.
This is the way, Bellendean. It’s only a little bit of a place, not like
your castle; but we’re very much pleased with it for all that. The
verandah is our own idea. It is the nicest possible place in the
afternoon, when the sun is off this side of the house. My wife planned
it all herself. Walk down under the shrubbery: you will have shade the
whole way. The river’s sparkling like diamonds,’ he said, as he stood
bareheaded in the moderate English sun, which he kept up a pretence of
dreading as an old Indian ought, and watched the pair as they obeyed his
directions somewhat shyly, not quite understanding why they were sent
off together. Colonel Hayward came back to the drawing-room where his
wife sat, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. ‘I have sent them off
that they may have a quiet word, with nobody to interfere.’
‘Why should they want a quiet word? Was it _her_ he came to see? Do you
suppose he means anything?’ said Mrs. Hayward, in that unsympathetic
tone.
‘They may not perhaps have anything particular to say; but they come
from the same place, and they know the same people, and probably they
would not like to talk their little talks about old friends with us
listening to every word; so I said I had a letter to finish,’ said the
Colonel, with a mild chuckle. ‘I must go and do it though, that they may
not think it was a pretence.’
‘Do you know, Henry,’ said Mrs. Hayward, ‘that some people would say you
were throwing your daughter at Captain Bellendean’s head.’
‘Bless me!’ said the Colonel, with a wondering look; ‘throwing my
daughter at---- Elizabeth, these would surely be very unpleasant people,
not the kind that ever had anything to do with you and me.’ He paused a
moment, looking at her with an appeal which she did not lift her eyes to
see. Then he repeated, ‘I must go, though, and finish my letter, or they
will think it was only a pretence.’
Perhaps Captain Bellendean had some faint notion that it was, as he
walked along under the shade of the shrubbery skirting the long but
narrow lawn towards the river, which flowed shining and sparkling in the
full sun--half amused to find himself walking by the side of the heroine
of the curious story which had been worked out under his roof--the
little schoolmistress turned into a young lady of leisure, transplanted
out of her natural place. He was not without a little natural curiosity
as to how such a strange travesty would succeed. There was nothing in
her appearance to emphasise the change. She walked slowly, almost
reluctantly, with that shyness which is not unbecoming to youth, as if
she would have liked to fly and leave him unguided to his own devices.
He gave her a good many glances under his eyebrows as they walked along
very gravely together, scarcely speaking. Certainly if Colonel Hayward
meant to throw his daughter at the Captain’s head, she had no intention
that way.
‘The last time I saw you, Miss Joyce,’ he said, ‘was the evening before
you left home. And you thought England and London would be a new world.
What do you think of the new world, now that you have seen them near?’
‘Did I say they would be a new world?’ Joyce sighed a little, looking up
to the Captain with a faint smile, which made, he thought, a charming
combination. She added, ‘I have only seen London in passing; but I’m
beginning to think there is no new world, but just what we make it--and
the same in every place.’
‘One of the old classical fellows says that, doesn’t he?’ said the
Captain. ‘I’ve forgotten all my Latin; but you’re up to everything of
that sort----’
‘Oh no; I am not a scholar. I just know a little at the very beginning.
But I understand what you mean. It is something about changing the skies
but not the mind.’
‘I wonder if that is what Mrs. Bellendean will do?’
‘Mrs. Bellendean?’
‘Oh, I forgot; it was your father to whom I was speaking; but you will
know better all that this means. My father and his wife have left
Bellendean--for good, do you understand, not to come back.’
‘For good! but I should think that would rather be for ill,’ Joyce said.
‘Yes, I knew you would understand. I didn’t myself, however, till very
lately. I had no conception what she had done for the place, nor how
much it was to her. And now they have shaken the dust from off their
feet, and left it--as if I could have wished that.’
‘They would think,’ said Joyce, with an explanatory instinct that
belonged to her old position--‘the lady would think that perhaps you
were likely----’
Here she looked up at him, and suddenly realising that she was not Joyce
the schoolmistress, with a little privilege of place, making matters
clear, but a young woman discoursing about his own affairs to a young
man, stopped suddenly, blushed deeply, and murmured, ‘Oh, I beg your
pardon,’ with a horror of her own rashness which gave double meaning to
all she said.
‘That perhaps I was likely----?’ said Norman. He found her very pleasant
company, with her intelligent eager looks, her comprehension of what he
meant before it was uttered. ‘Tell me what she would think likely. I
know so little about--the lady, as you call her. She was only my
step-mother, whom I didn’t much care for when I went away. It is a
mistake to judge people before one knows them,’ he added reflectively;
but this sentiment, so cognate to her own case, did not in the immediate
urgency of the moment arrest Joyce’s attention, especially as he
repeated with a smile, ‘what would she think me likely to do?’
‘I was going to speak like an old wife in a cottage--like my dear old
granny.’
‘Do so, please,’ he said, with a laugh; and Joyce yielded to the unknown
temptation, which had never come in her way before. The gentle malice of
society, the undercurrent of meaning, the play with which youths and
maidens amuse themselves in the beginning of an intercourse which may
come to much more serious results, were quite out of her understanding
and experience; but there are some things which are very quickly learnt.
‘She would think--the old wives would say--that now the Captain was come
back, he would be bringing home a lady of his own.’
Joyce said this, not with the absolute calm of two minutes ago, but with
a smile and blush which altogether changed the significance of the
little speech. It had been an almost matter-of-fact explanation--it
became now a little winged arrow of provocation, a sort of challenge.
Captain Bellendean laughed.
‘I see,’ he said; ‘and you think that is a course open to me? But a lady
of my own might not be so good as _the_ lady--and then there are
difficulties about time, for instance. I might not be able to bring her
at once; and the one I wanted might not have me: and---- Miss Joyce,
your attention flags--you are not interested in me.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Joyce, ‘that though you laugh, it would be no
laughing for her to leave Bellendean.’
The Captain perceived that the joke was to go no further. ‘I do not
believe it is her doing at all--it is my father’s doing. He prefers
London--Half Moon Street, and rooms where you can scarcely turn round.’
‘Half Moon Street!’
‘Do you know it?’
‘No more than in books,’ said Joyce, with a smile; ‘there are so many
places that seem kent places because they are in books.’
‘Italy, etc.,’ the Captain said, looking at her with a sympathetic
glance.
‘Oh, but not etc.!’ cried Joyce. ‘Italy--is like nothing else in the
world.’
‘Well,’ said Captain Bellendean, ‘when you are in the circumstances
which you have just been suggesting to me, no doubt you will go to
Italy; that is the right time and the right circumstances----’
Before he had half said these words, a sudden vision of Andrew Halliday
flashed across his mind, and he stopped in sudden embarrassment. By this
time they had reached the river’s side, and Joyce turned dutifully to
point out to him the poet’s villa, as her father had bidden her; but
there was something in her tone which betrayed to the sympathetic
listener that the same image had suddenly overshadowed her imagination
too. Captain Bellendean was very sympathetic--more so, perhaps, than he
would have been had his companion been older or less pretty. He
pretended to look with great interest at the willows sweeping into the
water, and the lawn, with its little fringe of forget-me-nots reflected
in the softly flowing stream. Joyce had lost the colour which was half
excitement, and had kept coming and going like the shadows over the sky,
while they walked together down the shady walk. It is very interesting
to see a face change in this way, and to think that one’s own society,
the quickening of the blood produced by one’s sudden advent, may have
something to do with it. He had felt that it was very pleasant to watch
these changes, and was conscious of a little agreeable thrill of
responsive exhilaration in his own veins. But when this sudden shadow
fell upon Joyce, his sympathy sprang into a warmer, energetic sentiment.
Could that be the fate for which this girl was reserved? Surely some one
must step in to save her from that fate!