As it turned out, they all went to the school feast.
Mrs. Hayward was not quite sure, as the Colonel had said, which side she
was on. The Canon had a great influence over her, as he had over most of
the ladies in the parish; but the Canon had a way of making jokes about
India and her husband’s youth, which were apt to turn Mrs. Hayward
sharply round to the other side. When the Colonel reported to her all
that happened, and the meeting in the road, and Canon Jenkinson’s
questions, Elizabeth’s suspicions were at once aroused. ‘What did you
tell him?’ she said.
‘I said exactly what you told me, my dear. I don’t quite approve of
it--but I wouldn’t run the risk of contradicting you----’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Well, my dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, a little flushed by this rapid
questioning, ‘he said something about “your first poor wife"--which was
quite natural--for he knows that we have no----’
‘Yes, yes,’ Mrs. Hayward cried indignantly. ‘I knew he was just the man
to make references of that sort.’ And after a few minutes she added, ‘I
think we’ll go to the school feast. It will please the Sitwells, who
have a great many difficulties, and who do the very best they can for
their people; and it will show the Canon----’
‘But I assure you, my dear----’
‘You have no occasion to assure me of anything, Henry--I hope I know him
well enough. He is just the sort of man,’ Mrs. Hayward said. And on the
next afternoon she dressed very well indeed, as for one of the best of
her afternoon parties, and went to the school feast. To see her going in
at the swinging-gate, with Joyce and the Colonel following in her train,
was a very fine sight. But the group was not so conspicuous as it might
have been, from the fact that a great many people equally fine had
already gathered in Wombwell’s field, where the Sitwells, though they
were poor, had gone to the expense of having a tent put up,--an
extravagance which the people who shared their humble hospitalities did
not forget for many a long day. It was not a school feast only, but a
demonstration of the faction of St. Augustine’s as against the parish.
Mrs. Sitwell had worked for this great end with an energy worthy of the
best of causes. She had not neglected any inducements. ‘The Haywards are
coming,’ she said, ‘with their daughter, you know,--the young lady whom
no one ever heard of before. I am sure there is some mystery about that
daughter.’ This was how it was that she had been so anxious and
importunate with Joyce.
It was the very first occasion on which Joyce had found herself among a
company of ladies and gentlemen as one of themselves, and she had not at
all expected it. She had gone expecting to find children, among whom she
was always at home,--poor children who, though they would be English,
and talk with that accent which, to Joyce’s unaccustomed ears, meant
refinement almost as extraordinary as the strange acquirement of
speaking French, which continues to astonish unaccustomed travellers on
the other side of the Channel--would still be not so much unlike Scotch
children that one used to them should not find means of making friends.
She had made sure that there would be some young woman in charge of them
with whom, perhaps, she might be allowed to make acquaintance, who would
tell her how she managed, and what were her difficulties, and which was
the way approved in England. In short, Joyce had looked forward
wistfully to a momentary half-clandestine return to what had heretofore
been her life. It was disappointing to go in company with her father and
his wife, who would be on the outlook to see that she did not commit
herself. But then, on the other hand, she was unexpectedly reinforced by
the arrival of Captain Bellendean, in whom she found a curious support
and consolation. He knew--that she was Joyce the schoolmistress, not a
fine young lady. That of itself felt like a backing up--just as it had
been a backing up in the old times that the lady at Bellendean knew that
perhaps she was not altogether Joyce the schoolmistress, but Joyce the
princess, Lady Joyce, if all were known.
But when Joyce found herself in the midst of this well-dressed company,
and understood that she was, so to speak, quite accidentally plunged
into the world, a great tremor came over her. The scene was very
animated and pretty, though not exactly what it professed to be.
Wombwell’s field was a large grassy space, very green and open,
surrounded on three sides by overhanging foliage, and with a few trees
at the upper end, where the ground sloped a little. In the flat ground
at the bottom the travelling menageries which visited Richmond were in
the habit of establishing themselves from time to time, whence its name.
The round spot created by innumerable circuses showed upon the grass;
but beyond the turf was of unbroken greenness, and there stood the
little tent within which tea was dispensed to the company. The children
were at the other end of the field occupied with divers games, with a
few of the faithful of the district superintending and inspiring. But
Joyce found herself not in that division of the entertainment, where she
might have been at her ease, but in the midst of all the well-dressed
people--the people who knew each other, and exchanged greetings and
smiles and polite conversation.
‘Dear Mrs. Hayward, how kind of you to come to our little treat! Dear
Miss Hayward, how sweet of you to remember! Colonel, you are always so
kind; I am sure you have been working for me,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell,
meeting them with extended hands. She was beaming with smiles and
delight. ‘I asked a few friends to look in, and people are so kind,
everybody has come. It is quite an ovation! Dear Austin is quite
overcome. It is such an encouragement in the face of opposition to find
his friends rallying round him like this.’
‘Why are his friends rallying round him?’ said Captain Bellendean. ‘I
thought it was a school feast.’
‘And so did I,’ said Joyce, looking somewhat piteously round her, and
wistfully at the children in the distance. The Colonel and Mrs. Hayward
had both been swallowed up by the crowd. They were shaking hands with
all their acquaintances, exchanging smiles and remarks. Joyce said to
herself, with a thrill of mingled alarm and self-congratulation, What
should I have done had not the Captain been here?
Norman looked round upon the company, though with different feelings
from those of Joyce. ‘I don’t know a soul,’ he said, with a little
amusement--the consciousness, so soon acquired by a man who has been for
however short a time ‘in society’--not only that it is a very
extraordinary thing to know nobody, but also that the people among whom
he cannot find a single acquaintance cannot be of much account.
‘And neither do I,’ said Joyce, with a wistful look. Her feeling was
very different. She was a little fluttered by the sight of so many
people, and looked at them with a longing to see a face she knew, a
face which would smile upon her. She met many looks, and could even see
that there were little scraps of conversation about her, and that she
was pointed out to one and another; but there was no greeting or
recognition for her among the pleasant crowd. She turned round again,
very grateful, to the Captain, whose society sustained her--but, alas!
the Captain had been spied and seized upon by Lady St. Clair, and Joyce
felt herself left alone. She looked wistfully at the collection of
daughters who surrounded Lady St. Clair, ready to claim acquaintance
with a smile if the Miss St. Clair who had called should be among the
array. But either the Miss St. Clair who had called was not there, or
else she had forgotten Joyce. She stood for a moment shy yet desolate,
not knowing where to turn; then, with a little sense of taking flight,
moved quickly away to where the children were.
‘Miss Hayward, Miss Hayward!’ cried a voice behind. She paused, glad
that some one cared enough to stop her, and saw Mr. Sitwell hastening
after her, with a young man following closely,--a very young man in the
long coat and close waistcoat which were quite unusual things to Joyce.
‘You are so kind as _really_ to wish to help with the children? Let me
introduce my young friend and curate, Mr. Bright; he will take you to
them,’ the clergyman said.
The other little clergyman made his bow, and said how fortunate they
were in having such a fine day, and what a pretty party it was. ‘I
always think this is such a nice place for outdoor parties: not so nice
as one’s own lawn, of course--but if one has no lawn, what can one do?
In most places there is no alternative but a vulgar field. Now this is
quite pretty--don’t you think it is quite pretty, Miss Hayward?’
‘There is so much green, and such fine trees, that everything here is
pretty,’ said Joyce.
‘You put it much more nicely than I did; but I’m so glad you like the
place; and how very gratifying for the Sitwells! It really was time that
there should be a demonstration. After beguiling Sitwell here with such
large promises, to have the rectory set itself against him! But there is
a generosity about society, don’t you think, Miss Hayward, as soon as
people really see the state of affairs. It will be a dreadful slap in
the face for Jenkinson, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed----’ Joyce had begun, meaning to say she was too ignorant to
form an opinion, but her new companion did not wait for the expression
of her sentiments.
‘Yes, indeed--you are quite right; and for Mrs. Jenkinson, who, between
ourselves, is a great deal worse than the Canon. Every one who comes to
St. Augustine’s she seems to think is taking away something from her.
That is the greatest testimonial we can give to the ladies,’ said the
little gentleman, with a laugh; ‘when they are disagreeable, they are so
very disagreeable--beyond the power of any man. But, fortunately for us,
that happens very seldom.’ The curate glanced up for the smile of
approval with which his little sallies were generally received, but
getting none, went on again undismayed. ‘Which kind of children do you
like, Miss Hayward,--the quite little ones, the roly-polies, or the big
ones? I prefer the babies myself: they roll about on the grass like
puppies, and they are quite happy--whereas you have to keep the other
ones going. Miss Marsham takes the big girls in hand. You must let me
introduce her to you. She is our great stand-by in the district--a
little peculiar, but such a good creature. Well, Miss Marsham, how are
you getting on here?’
‘Very well, oh, very well. We always do nicely. We have been playing at
Tom Tidler’s ground. We just wanted some one to take the head of the
other side. Oh, Mr. Bright,’ cried this new personage, clasping her
hands together, ‘what a pleasure for everybody; what a good thing; what
a thorough success!’
‘Isn’t it?’ cried the curate; and they both turned round to look down
upon the many-coloured groups below with beaming faces.
‘Nobody can say now that St. Augustine’s was not wanted,’ said the lady.
‘No, indeed; I have just been saying to Miss Hayward what a slap in the
face for the Canon,’ the gentleman added, again giving vent to his
feelings in a triumphant laugh.
‘Oh, is this Miss Hayward?’ said Miss Marsham, offering her hand to
Joyce. She was a thin woman, with long meagre arms, and hands thrust
into gloves too big for her. Without being badly dressed, she had the
general air of having been taken out of a wardrobe of old clothes:
everything she wore being a little old-fashioned, a little odd, badly
matched, and hanging unharmoniously together. Even those gloves, which
were too big, had the air of having had two hands thrust into them at
random, without any thought whether or not they were a pair. But the old
clothes were all of good quality; the little frills of lace were what
ladies call ‘real,’ not the cottony imitations which are current in the
present day. She had a worn face, lit up by a pair of soft brown eyes,
in which there was still a great deal of sparkle left, when their owner
pleased.
‘I have heard so much of you,’ she said. ‘Dear Mrs. Sitwell takes such
an interest! it is so very kind to come and see how the children are
getting on: and here they are all waiting for their game. Mr. Bright,
you must take the other side. Now then, children, I hope that is high
enough for you. Come on.’
Joyce stood by with great gravity while the game proceeded--Mr. Bright
and Miss Marsham making an arch with their joined hands, through which
the children streamed. The curate, no doubt, would have taken this part
of his duties quite simply if it had not been for the presence of this
spectator, whose momentary smile died off into a look of very serious
contemplation as she stood by, taking no part in the fun, which, with
the stimulus of Mr. Bright’s presence, grew fast and furious. Joyce
could not have told why she felt so serious. She stood looking on at
Miss Marsham’s old clothes on the one side--the thin wrist, with its
little edge of yellow lace, the big glove, made doubly visible by the
elevation of the hand--and Mr. Bright in his neat coat, falling to his
knee, extremely spruce in his professional blackness, against the vivid
green of the sloping field. Joyce thought him very good to do it, nor
was she conscious of any ridicule. She compared Mr. Bright with the
minister at home, who would have looked on as she herself was doing, but
certainly would not have joined in the play: and she thought that the
children were very much made of in England, and should be very happy.
Presently, however, Mr. Bright detached himself from the game, and came
and joined her.
‘I am afraid you thought me a great gaby,’ he said; ‘but at a school
feast, you know, one can’t stand on one’s dignity.’
‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘it was I that was the great---- for not joining
in. I should like to do something; but I don’t know what would please
them.’
‘Something new to play at,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I always ask strangers
if they can’t recommend something new. Look, look!’ she cried, suddenly
clutching the curate’s arm; ‘do you see? the Thompsons’ carriage, his
very greatest supporters! Dear me, dear me! who could have thought of
that!’
‘And Sir Sam himself,’ said the curate exultantly. ‘Well, this is
triumph indeed. I must go and see what they say.’
‘Sir Sam himself,’ said Miss Marsham musingly. ‘Do you know, Miss
Hayward, if you will not think it strange of me to say it, I am
beginning to get a little sorry for the Canon. It is not that Sir Sam is
such a great person. He is only a soap-boiler, or something of that
sort; but he is enormously rich, and the Canon has always been by way
of having him in his pocket. Whatever was wanted, there was always a big
subscription from Sir Sam. Yes, dear, by all means. Hunt the Slipper is
a very nice, noisy---- You will think it very queer, Miss Hayward, but I
_am_ beginning to get sorry for the Canon. I can’t help recollecting,
you know, the time before St. Augustine’s was thought of. Yes, yes, my
dear; but let me talk for a moment to the young lady.’
‘I know so little,’ said Joyce,--‘scarcely either the one or the other.’
‘And you must think us so frivolous,’ said the kind woman, with a sigh.
‘The fact is, I was very anxious it should be a success. St. Augustine’s
was very much wanted--it really was. There are such a number of those
people that live by the river, you know--boatmen, and those sort of
people--and so neglected. I tried a few things--a night-school, and so
forth; but by one’s self one can do so little. Have you much experience,
Miss Hayward, in parish work?’
‘Oh, none--none at all.’
‘Ah!’ said Miss Marsham, with a sigh, ‘that’s how one’s illusions go. I
thought you would be such a help. But never mind, my dear, you’re very
young. Oh, you’ve begun, children, without me! All right, all right; I
am not disappointed at all. I want to talk to this young lady. They
think we care for it just as much as they do,’ she went on turning to
Joyce; ‘but if truth be told, I am a little stiff for Hunt the Slipper.
And you can’t think how good the Sitwells are. He is in the parish--I
ought to say the district--morning, noon, and night. And she--well, if I
did not know she had three children, and did everything for them
herself, and really only one servant, for the other is quite a girl, and
always taken up with the baby--besides her work about the photographs,
you know--I should say she was in the parish too, morning, noon, and
night.’
Joyce stood and looked down upon the people flitting in and out of the
tent, arranging and rearranging themselves in different groups, and on
the rush of the hosts to the swinging-gate, at which a fat man and a
large lady were getting down, and listened to the narrative going on in
her ear with the accompaniment of the cries and laughter of the
children, all in that tone which, to her northern ears, was high-pitched
and a little shrill. How strange it all was! She might have fallen into
a new world. It was curious to listen to this new opening of human life;
but she was young, and not enough of a spectator to be able to
disengage herself, and be amused with a free mind by the humours of a
scene with which she had nothing to do. She looked still a little
wistfully at the little crowd, where there was nobody who knew anything
of herself, or thought her worth the trouble of making acquaintance
with. Joyce had not heard any fine conversation as yet, nor had she
encountered any of the wit or wisdom which she had expected; but still
she could not free herself from the idea that to be among the ladies and
the gentlemen would be more entertaining than here, with Miss Marsham
giving her a sketch of the history of the Sitwells and the church
controversies of the place, and the school children quite beyond her
reach playing Hunt the Slipper in the background. She was much too young
to take any comfort in the thought that such is life, and that the gay
whirl of society very often resolves itself into standing in a corner
and hearing somebody else’s private history, not always so innocent or
from so benevolent a historian.
But presently, and all in a moment, the aspect of affairs changed for
Joyce. It changed in a completely unreasonable, and, indeed, altogether
inadequate way,--not by an introduction among the best people, the crowd
whose appearance filled the clergyman and his wife, and all their
retainers, with transports a trifle short of celestial; not in making
acquaintance with Sir Sam Thompson, the soap-boiler, whose appearance
was the climax of the triumph--a climax so complete that it turned the
scale, and made the Sitwells’ hard-hearted partisan sorry for the Canon.
None of these great things befell Joyce. All that happened was the
appearance of a tall individual, separating himself from the crowd, and
walking towards her from the lower level.
‘Here is a gentleman coming this way,’ said Miss Marsham. ‘I don’t think
he is one of the school committee, or any one I know. But I am rather
short-sighted, and I may be mistaking him for some one else, as I do so
often. Dear Miss Hayward, I am sure you must have good eyes: will you
look and tell me. Ah, I see you know him.’
‘It is Captain Bellendean,’ said Joyce. Her musing face had grown
bright.
‘Who is Captain Bellendean? Does he take an interest in Sunday schools?
Is he----’ Here Miss Marsham turned to look at her companion, and
though she was short-sighted, she was not without certain insights which
women seldom altogether lose. ‘Oh!’ she said, and, with a subdued smile
and a sparkle out of her brown eyes, which for a moment made her
middle-aged face both young and bright, returned to the children who
were playing Hunt the Slipper, and though she had said she was too
stiff for that game, was down among them in a moment as lively as any
there.
It is to be doubted whether Joyce was conscious that her friend of ten
minutes’ standing had left her, or how she left her. She stood looking
down upon the same scene, her face still full of musing, but touched
with light which changed and softened every line. ‘I have been looking
for you everywhere,’ said Captain Bellendean; ‘when I got free of that
rabble you were nowhere to be seen. I might have thought you would turn
to the children, who have some nature about them. And so I had the sense
to do at last.’
‘Do you call them rabble?’ said Joyce.
‘Not if it displeases you,’ he said. ‘But what are they after all?
Society is always more or less a rabble, and here you get it naked,
without the brilliancy and the glow which takes one in town.’
Perhaps Captain Bellendean had not found himself so much appreciated as
he thought himself entitled to be in town, and thus produced these
sentiments, which are so common, with a little air of conviction, as if
they had never been heard before. And indeed, save in books, where she
had often met them, Joyce had never heard them before.
‘And yet,’ said Joyce, ‘when educated people meet--people that have read
and have seen the world--it must be more interesting to hear them talk
than--than any other pleasure.’
‘May we sit down here? the grass is quite dry. Educated people? I am
sure I don’t know, for I seldom meet them, and I’m very uninstructed
myself. But I’ll tell you what, Miss Joyce, you are the only educated
person I know. Talk to me, and I will listen, and I have no doubt it
will be far more entertaining to me than any other diversion; but
whether it may have the same effect on you----’ he said, looking up to
her from the grass upon which he had thrown himself, with inquiring
eyes.
Oh, Andrew Halliday! whose boast was education, who would have tackled
her upon the most abstruse subjects, or talked Shakespeare and the
musical glasses as long as she pleased,--how was it that the soldier’s
brag of his ignorance seemed to Joyce far more delightful than any such
music of the spheres?