The light dazzled her as she came into the warm room, in the midst of
this conference. Colonel Hayward started forward to meet her, and his
wife rose from her chair. But Andrew did not budge. In his world no such
respectful movement was thought of; and in times of excitement he had
not leisure to think, nor note what others did.
‘Joyce, why are you here?’ her father said hastily.
‘Joyce, you will come with me,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Let the gentlemen
settle this matter. Come with me.’
‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘in justice to me you will remain here.’
She stood looking from one to another with eyes still wild with her
secret dreams and projects, which no one suspected, and the drops of
cold dew glittering in her hair. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you know I must
stay. I cannot leave it to you, as if--as if--you had known it all the
time.’
‘Joyce sees what is just,’ said Andrew. ‘There was neither father nor
mother between us. She decided for herself, and she will have to decide
for herself again. Cornel, leave her alone.’ He spoke with great
composure in his ordinary tone. ‘I will take no answer from you, but
I’ll abide by what she says.’
‘She is under age,’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘Sir, if you were a little
better acquainted with ordinary rules, you would know it is her father
only who has the right to reply to you.’
‘And how do you know, Cornel, that she is under age? Were you there when
she was born? Were you near at hand to see your child? What do you know
about her more than any passer-by?’
‘Sir!’ cried Colonel Hayward, stammering with indignation, ‘you presume
upon the shelter of my roof, and on being beneath--beneath my notice.’
‘Not beneath being your son-in-law,’ Andrew said.
‘Joyce,’ said Mrs. Hayward angrily, ‘either put a stop to this at once,
or come with me and let your father settle it. You make everything worse
by being here.’
Joyce stood between them trembling, unable to command, as she had once
so vainly thought she could, the situation in which she found herself.
Oh, how much easier to fly, either by the dark river or the darker
country! ‘I will respect my father,’ she said, ‘in everything--in
everything--but----’
The last word did not reach the Colonel’s ear. He drew her hand within
his arm. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Then it is all right. Mr.
Halliday, or whatever your name is, there must be no more of this. I
might lose my temper. I might forget that you are under my roof. Don’t
you hear what my daughter has said? In such a matter a gentleman gives
way at once. It’s no question of love.’ He pressed Joyce’s trembling
hand in his arm. ‘If you’ve any regard for her, sir, or for your own
character, you’ll go away and disturb her no more.’
Andrew had risen slowly to his feet. He came forward with his hand
raised, as if he were about to address a class. ‘You’ll observe,’ he
said, ‘that the circumstances only, and not the persons, are changed. It
was a question of love six months ago. I was a man in a good position,
my father very respectable, a little money in the family. And she was
Joyce, a female teacher, with nobody to stand for her but Peter
Matheson, a ploughman.’
‘You insult me, sir,’ cried Colonel Hayward--‘you insult my daughter!’
He held her hand close, pressing it in his to console her. ‘My poor
Joyce, my poor child!’ he exclaimed.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, with composure, ‘it is true. Joyce knows
that it is true. My mother, who expresses herself strongly, put it in
other words: It was said I was throwing myself away. I did not think so;
but that being the case, Cornel, you need not think I will be daunted
because she is your daughter, or any man’s daughter. She’s Joyce--and
engaged to me.’
‘Leave my house, sir,’ cried the Colonel. ‘You have insulted my child.
For that there is no excuse and no pardon. Leave my house.’
‘Father,’ said Joyce, ‘it’s no insult--it is all true. I am always
Joyce, whatever I am besides. And when I was poor, it was thought
a--credit to me. He should not have said it, but it’s true. I never
thought of that, and he should not have said it: but it’s true. He held
out his hand to me when I was--beneath him.’
‘Joyce!’
‘Yes, I see it all, though I did not think of it then. Oh, excuse him!
He does not know a man should never say that! They do it and think no
harm where we come from. We were common folk. He did me honour, and am I
to do him discredit? I cannot, I cannot. I must keep to my word.’
‘Joyce, for heaven’s sake, don’t act like a mad woman! Come away with me
and let them settle it,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, seizing her arm on the
other side.
‘Joyce behaves just as I should have expected from her,’ said Andrew,
facing this agitated group with his own supreme self-possession and
calm. ‘I knew I could not be deceived. I am willing to make every
allowance for your feelings, Cornel. You naturally look for a richer man
than me to be your daughter’s husband. I respect even the prejudices of
a man like you. But there is no real reason to be disturbed about that.
I am a young man. I have always been successful, so far as has been in
my power. There is no need for me to remain in the humble place I now
fill. With your interest and my own merits----’
‘Good Lord!’ the Colonel cried. He dropped his daughter’s arm in his
consternation, and stood with his lips apart, with a stare of horror.
‘My own merits,’ repeated Andrew, ‘I think we might soon so modify the
circumstances that you need object no longer. I am not afraid of the
circumstances,’ he said, with a smile of complaisance. ‘You can tell
your father, Joyce, what testimonials----’
‘Father,’ said Joyce eagerly, with a burning blush, ‘he is to be
excused. That is how they think where--where we came from. He is--not a
gentleman: we were--common folk. Father, he means it all right, though
he does not know. He’s good, though--though he speaks another language.’
Her own horror and dismay took the form of apology. She was roused by
her consternation into full and eager life.
‘And you hold by this man, Joyce, and you plead for him!’ Colonel
Hayward cried.
‘You will understand, Cornel,’ said Andrew, who had drawn himself up
indignantly, and sacrificed all the advantage of his self-possession in
sudden discomposure and resentment, ‘that I ask nobody to plead for me.
Joyce has been carried away with trying to please both parties. She is
sacrificing me to soothe you down. Women will do such things; they will
not learn. But for my part, I reject her excuses. I’ll have no
forbearance on that score,’ cried Andrew, holding up his head and
throwing back his shoulders. ‘I stand upon my own merits as between man
and man.’
Then the Joyce of other days found words--not the tremulous girl, all
strange in strange places, who was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, but the
swift speaking, high-handed Joyce, the possible princess, the lady born
of Janet’s cottage. ‘Oh,’ she cried, her words pouring forth on a sudden
passionate breath, ‘how dare you bring up your merits here, and all your
worldly thoughts! My old grandfather was but a ploughman, but he was a
gentleman like my father. He would have put you to the door if you had
said all that to him. And you stand before a man that has fought, and
has the Queen’s medals on his breast--that has been wounded in battle,
and faced cannon and sword; and before a lady that has no knowledge of
the ways of common folk; and before me, that you said you loved; and you
stand up and tell them of the female teacher that you held out your hand
to, and of your merits, that make you good enough for the best--for
Colonel Hayward’s daughter, that is a great soldier, a great captain,
far too noble and great to put you to the door like Peter Matheson. Oh,
Andrew Halliday, for shame, for shame!--you, after all the books you
have read, and all the fine words you have said. I am ashamed myself,’
said Joyce, turning from him with a proud despair, ‘for I thought that
Shakespeare and all the poets would make a gentleman even out of the
commonest clay.’
Andrew bore this without quailing, with a smile on his face. When she
stopped, he drew a long breath, and turned with an explanatory air to
Colonel Hayward. ‘That is just one of her old tirades,’ he said.
The Colonel paid him no attention: he put his arm round his daughter, as
tremulous as she was. ‘Joyce,’ he said faltering-- ‘Joyce, my dear child,
you see it all. You see through him, and--and all of us. Thank God that
it’s all over now!’
Joyce drew back from him, trembling with the reaction from her own
excitement. The flush that had given her a temporary brilliancy and
force faded away. ‘But yet that alters nothing,’ she said.
Mrs. Hayward put her hand upon the girl’s arm with an impatient
pressure. ‘Do you mean that you are going to marry that man, Joyce?’
‘Mr. Halliday,’ said the Colonel, ‘I hope, after what my daughter has
said, that you will see the inexpediency of--of continuing this
discussion. She has her ideas of honour, which are a little
overstrained--overstrained, as is perhaps natural; but she sees all the
discrepancies--all the---- You know, you must see that it’s quite
impossible. My consent you will never get--never! and as for Joyce, she
will not--you can see by what she has said--go against me.’
‘She will never go against her word.’
‘Oh, this is endless!’ the Colonel cried. ‘We may go on contradicting
each other till doomsday. You understand that I will hear no more, and
that Joyce, as she has told you, will hear no more.’
‘She may object to my manners, Cornel, but she will keep her word to
me,’ said Andrew, regaining all the force of his conviction. ‘But, as
you say, it is little use bandying words. I will withdraw. I have made a
long journey for very little--not half-a-dozen words by ourselves with
the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married. But I will not keep
up a needless discussion. She understands me, and you understand. If you
meet me in a friendly spirit, everything may yet be arranged for the
best; if not, she will be of age at least in a year, and we will have no
need of your consent. Joyce,’ he said, suddenly, making a quick step
towards her, seizing her hand, ‘I’ll bid you good-bye, my dearest.
You’ll mind your honour and duty to me. Rich or poor, high or low, makes
no difference. You have my word, and I have yours. Have you any message
for the old folk.’
‘Andrew!’ she said, trembling. She had shrunk back for the first moment,
but now held herself upright, very tremulous, leaving her hand in his,
with an evident great exertion of her will. Her lips quivered, too, and
she said no more.
‘I understand,’ he said, in a soothing tone, putting his other hand for
a moment over hers. ‘Well, if that’s all, it will have to do. Good-bye,
Joyce--but not for long. I have learned the road to you, and it shall
not be untrodden. We’ll meet soon--without other eyes always on us.
Good-bye. I put my full trust in you. You will mind your word and your
duty, Joyce. Good evening, madam. Cornel, you will understand that we
are agreed, she and I.’
‘I understand nothing of the sort, sir! On the contrary, I forbid you my
house, sir! I will give orders----’
‘Good-bye, Cornel,’ said Andrew, with a smile. He gathered up his hat
from the floor, waved his hand with a general leave-taking, and walked
to the door. ‘You will hear from me very soon, Joyce, my dear,’ he said,
looking round before he finally disappeared. He went out, he felt, with
all the honours of war.
It was very near the dinner hour, and Baker was busy in the dining-room.
Andrew had to let himself out. He did so with a reflection that to have
been asked to stay to dinner, as was his due, would have been much more
agreeable; yet with another reflection following, that probably in this
house they went through the somewhat mysterious ceremony called dressing
for dinner, and that he had no means of altering his costume. The odour
that filled the house was very agreeable; and however unhappy or even
tragical this interview had been to the others, it was not so to Andrew.
He had calculated upon opposition. He had calculated, too, with
certainty upon Joyce’s fidelity to her word. There had been, it was
true, that tirade--which did not in the least surprise him--which was
quite natural, much more like the Joyce he knew than was the dignified
silent young lady who had first appeared to him. He could forgive her
the tirade. Otherwise he felt that he had lost nothing. He knew exactly
the position the parents would take up, and he did not even despair that
when they fully saw the situation, they would be moved to make the best
of it, and that even the headmastership might still be within reach. He
went out, carefully closing the door behind him, a little disgusted
about the dinner, not discouraged about anything else, and met at the
gate, coming in, the lady who had directed him, so clearly that he could
not miss it, to Colonel Hayward’s door. There was a lamp not far from
the gate, and some light came from the gaslight in the hall, which
revealed him to her before he could close the door.
‘Oh!’ she cried, in a breathless, rapid way; ‘so you found the place.’
‘Yes, madam,’ said Andrew, mindful of his p’s and q’s. He felt that in
addressing a lady, especially one whom he did not know, it was the
safest course to err by a little more, not less, respect. ‘Yes, thanks
to you.’
‘And you found them--you found her? It was Joyce you wanted, I feel
sure.’
‘Yes, it was Joyce I wanted.’
‘Oh! this is so interesting,’ Mrs. Sitwell cried--‘so interesting! I
know her very well, and I take the greatest interest in her. You are--an
old friend, I am sure?’
‘Yes, an old friend--a very old friend,’ said Andrew,--‘a very warm
friend; something--something more than a friend, if the truth were
known.’
‘Oh!’ cried the little lady, clasping her hands together, ‘this is more
interesting than I can say. Let me go back with you a little,
Mr.--Mr.----’
‘Halliday--my name is Halliday. She has spoken of me, no doubt.’
‘I am so glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Halliday. I really must
walk with you a little way. I was going to see Joyce, but I am sure she
has something else to think of, and it is a little too late. By the way,
I suppose you are going back there to dinner?’
‘It is natural to think so,’ said Andrew with a grim little laugh, ‘but
no.’
‘No?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. Her curiosity, her interest in this drama, her
determination to know everything, rose to fever-heat. She had taken him
all in at the first glance, when she had met him in the morning: his
long--too long--coat, his round hat, the colour of his gloves. Her eyes
danced with eagerness and interest. She could scarcely contain herself.
‘No,’ he said; ‘I am not good enough for Cornel Hayward’s daughter. You
may be surprised--but, so far as lies with the old people, I am sent
away.’
‘Sent away!’ she repeated, with a little shriek. (‘And not much wonder!’
she said to herself.) ‘You must not think it mere curiosity,’ she cried;
‘I am so interested in dear Joyce. Ah, please tell me. I shall see her
to-morrow, and if I can be of any use, or take her any message----’
‘It is unnecessary,’ said Andrew, with a wave of his hand. ‘I know
Joyce, and she understands me.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘how interesting all this is to
me. Though I have never seen you before, Mr. Halliday, I feel that I
know you through dear Joyce. I wonder, as you are not dining at the
Haywards’, if you would come and take your evening meal with my husband
and me--Rev. Austin Sitwell, St. Augustine’s. You must have heard of my
husband; he would be charmed to make your acquaintance. We don’t say we
dine, you know; we are quite poor people, and don’t make any fuss; but
we will give you something to eat--and true sympathy,’ cried the
parson’s wife, with a little friendly touch of her hand upon his arm.
‘I am sure you are exceedingly kind,’ said Andrew. He was a little
alarmed, if truth must be told. Had it happened in London, he would at
once have understood that a snare of some sort was being laid for him;
but as he was at some distance from London, he was only doubtful,
slightly alarmed, and uneasy. He reflected, however, that he had all his
wits about him, and was not a man to be led into a snare; and he did not
know (though he had heard of a place called the Star and Garter) where
to go for a dinner; and he had great need of some one to speak to--to
open his heart to. And certainly she had been going to Colonel Hayward’s
when he met her, and knew Joyce, and therefore was a person who could be
trusted. He thought, on the whole, he might venture to accept the
invitation, secure of being able to take care of himself, whatever
happened. ‘You are exceedingly kind,’ he said again; ‘I should be very
glad, ma’am, to make your husband’s acquaintance. He will be of the
Established Church, no doubt? It would be a pleasure to compare
experience, especially in the way of schools.’
‘Have you to do with schools?’ she asked.
Andrew turned in the lamplight to cast a glance of inquiry at the
ignorant little person beside him. ‘Surely,’ he said, in a tone of
suppressed surprise,--‘what else? as my poor Joyce was, too, before it
all came out. You speak of poverty, which I don’t doubt is a figure of
speech so far as you are concerned--but Joyce was in a very humble
position, though always above it in her mind, before the Cornel came.’
‘This is more interesting than ever,’ cried the parson’s wife, clasping
her hands.
‘My only trouble was that my family were not very well content,
constantly throwing it in my teeth that I might have done better,’ said
Andrew; ‘which makes it the more wonderful,’ he added, with a faint
laugh, ‘to be put to the door as it were, and told I am not good enough
for the Cornel’s daughter? It is a turning of the tables which I never
looked to see.’
‘But nothing will shake Joyce--Joyce will always be faithful,’ Mrs.
Sitwell cried.
‘Oh yes, Joyce--Joyce has a high sense of duty; and besides, she knows
my position, which an ignorant officer and his wife are not likely to
do. I am not afraid of Joyce,’ he added, with sedate self-confidence.
‘She is a good girl. She knows what she owes to me.’
‘This way, Mr. Halliday,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. ‘Ours is only a little
place, but you will have a warm welcome. I must hear all about you and
Joyce.’
He was a stranger, and she took him in--there could not have been a more
Christian act. And such acts often have their recompense here, without
waiting for that final reward which is promised. Andrew became very
watchful and suspicious when he found himself face to face with a
clerical person in a coat much longer than his own, and a costume which
recalled in a general way what he had heard of Jesuits--a name of
terror. He was much on his guard for the first hour. But after supper
Mrs. Sitwell’s magic began to tell. Notwithstanding his self-control,
he could not but be sore and injured, and to be able to speak and
unburden himself was a relief indescribable. He fell into the snare
delicately arranged around his feet. Mrs. Sitwell’s keen little eyes
danced with delight. She wiped off a tiny fictitious tear when she had
drawn it all out, one detail after another. ‘I shall go and see her
to-morrow,’ she cried. ‘I will give her a kiss and say, You dear girl,
now I know all.’
‘It is all to her credit--nothing but to her credit,’ said Andrew.
The Rev. Austin had a meeting on his hands, and had been obliged to go
out, leaving the new acquaintance to be dissected at his wife’s
pleasure. He was uneasy about the adventure altogether. ‘A fellow like
that,’ he cried,--‘would you let him marry one of your sisters, Dora?’
‘Yes, dear, if he were rich enough,’ cried his wife. ‘But to think what
a romance it has been all the time. How astonished everybody will be. I
am not going to publish it abroad----’
‘I hope not, I hope not, Dora.’
‘But naturally I will tell the people who are most interested in her,’
Mrs. Sitwell said.
Mrs. Sitwell took charge of Andrew as if he had been a respectable
tramp. She procured him a lodging for the night, having got every detail
out of him that it was possible to gather. He had to leave early the
next morning, which was a relief; and she could scarcely sleep all night
for excitement and satisfaction. She felt like the finder of a
treasure--like a great inventor or poet. To whom should she communicate
first this wonderful piece of news? It would act as a stimulant in the
dull season all over the place. ‘Don’t talk of it?’ she said to her
husband, who acted his usual part of wet blanket to subdue her ardour;
‘oh no, not in society generally--I hope you know me better than that,
Austin. I will only tell a few of her friends--her friends ought to
know. What a showing up it will be of those Haywards! I never liked that
woman. I see now why she has been so anxious to keep everything quiet.
No, I shall not talk of it--except to Joyce’s friends; for it is all to
Joyce’s credit,--all, all!’ Mrs. Sitwell said.