The storm subsided which had raged around Joyce for that long and
miserable day. When a few others had passed in their usual calm, the
Colonel, who had elaborately refrained from all allusion to what had
occurred, saying even from time to time, ‘We must not speak of that,’
made up his mind with great satisfaction that Joyce had dismissed it
from her mind. ‘She is so full of sense,’ he said to his wife; ‘she
doesn’t go fretting and worrying about a thing as I do. When she knows
that there is nothing to be done, she just puts it aside. I wish we were
all as sensible as Joyce.’
‘Then take care you don’t remind her of it,’ said Mrs. Hayward.
‘I--remind her! Why, I have said from the first-- We’ll say nothing of
that. Time will settle it. I have said it every day. And you think I
would remind her!’
‘Well, Henry, I would not say even that if I were you. I have given
Baker his orders never to let that man in again. I hate to take servants
into my confidence, but still---- Fortunately nobody has seen him or
knows anything about him,’ said the deceived woman, with mistaken calm.
She was not so sure about Joyce’s good sense as her husband was; but
even in the midst of her annoyance a certain compassion for Joyce had
awakened in her mind. Poor thing! to feel herself bound to such a man.
‘And we are not done with him,’ Mrs. Hayward said to herself. She sighed
for the calm of those days when there were no complications--when it was
quite unnecessary to give Baker any instructions as to who should be
admitted--when a disturbance and angry controversy in her pretty
drawing-room would have been a thing inconceivable. She thought she
could decipher a trace of Andrew’s country boots on the Persian rug, a
delightful specimen upon which (she had remarked at the time) he had
placed his chair. The Colonel in his anger had crushed up between his
hands a piece of fine embroidery, and ravelled out some of the gold
thread which formed the exquisite pattern. In spite of these things
Mrs. Hayward, for the first time, was sorry for Joyce. She felt with an
impatient vexation that if Captain Bellendean had but ‘spoken’ when she
thought he did, all this might have been avoided. There would no doubt
still have been a struggle. The schoolmaster would not have given in
without a fight; but Mrs. Hayward knew human nature well enough to be
sure that with a man behind her whom she loved, Joyce would have felt
her bond to the man whom she did not love to be still more impossible.
In such a case fidelity was no longer a virtue but a crime.
But Bellendean had gone, and had not spoken. Mrs. Hayward had been both
angry and disappointed by this failure. She had blamed Joyce for it, and
she had blamed the Colonel for it. That a man should _afficher_ himself
and then go away was a thing not to be endured, according to her ideas.
And now she was really sorry for Joyce, in both these aspects of her
case. If Joyce had but known how much her stepmother divined, all her
troubles would have been increased tenfold. But fortunately she did not
know, although the additional kindness of Mrs. Hayward’s manner gave her
now and then a thrill of fear.
She was walking with her father in the park one morning, not long after
these events. Winter was coming on with great strides, and the leaves
fell in showers before every breath of wind. Some of the trees were
already bare. Some stood up all golden yellow against the background of
bare boughs, lighting up the landscape. The grass was all particoloured
with the sprinklings of the fallen leaves. Under the hill the river
flowed down the valley, coming out of distances unseen. The Colonel and
his daughter paused at a favourite point of theirs to look at the
prospect. The wide vault of firmament above and the great breadth of air
and space beyond were always a refreshment and consolation. ‘O Thames!
flow softly while I sing my song,’ Joyce said, under her breath.
‘Eh?--what were you saying, Joyce?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, with a smile; ‘only a line out of a poem.’
‘Ah! you know so much more about books, my dear, than I have ever done.
You must get that turn in your education early, or you never take it of
yourself. I have never asked you, Joyce, though it has often been on the
tip of my tongue. How do you like the place, now you know it? I hope you
like your home.’
‘It is very--bonnie. I use that word,’ said Joyce, ‘because it means the
most. Pretty would be impertinent to the Thames--and beautiful----’
‘Do you think beautiful’s too much? Well, my dear, tastes differ; but I
never saw anything that pleased me like the course of the river and the
splendid trees. You should have lived in a hot climate to appreciate
fully English trees.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ cried Joyce. ‘They are finer than we have--in Scotland,’
she said, after a pause. It had been on her lips to say ‘at home.’
‘Much finer,’ said the Colonel, with conviction; ‘but that is not
exactly an answer to my question. I asked if you liked it--as your
home.’
Joyce raised her eyes to him, moist and shining. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘it
is you who are my home.’
‘My love!’ the Colonel stammered and faltered, in unexpected emotion.
The water came to his eyes and blotted out the landscape. ‘You make me
very happy and very proud, Joyce. This is more, much more than I had any
right to.’ He took her hand in his and drew it within his arm. ‘I have
wanted,’ he said, ‘to surround you with everything that your poor mother
did not have--to make you happy if I could, my dear: but I scarcely
expected such a return as this. God bless you, Joyce! Still,’ said the
pertinacious inquirer, caressing the hand upon his arm, ‘that’s not
quite what I asked, my dear.’
Joyce had twice avoided the direct response he demanded. She paused
before she replied. ‘Some,’ she said, ‘father, are happy enough never to
need to think, or ask such a question. I wish I had been always where
you were, and never to have had any life but yours; or else----’
Colonel Hayward fortunately did not remark these two syllables, which
were softly said, and breathed off into a sigh.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘under the best of circumstances that could never
have been, for you know the most of my life has been spent in India. The
worst of India is, that parents must part with their children. We should
not really have known very much more of each other if--if you had been
born, as you should have been, in your father’s house.’
‘Then there is little harm done,’ said Joyce, this time with a smile.
‘Not if you trust us fully, my dear, and love your home.’ He patted her
hand again, then moved on unsatisfied. ‘I think, however, you are
beginning to like the people, and feel at home among them. And they like
you. I am sure they like you--and admire you, Joyce, and feel that you
are---- There is Lady St. Clair, my dear, with all her bevy of girls.
You will want to stop and speak to them. My wife says they’re the best
people, but I’m not myself very fond---- How do you do?’ cried the
Colonel cheerily, taking off his hat with a flourish. ‘Lovely morning!
How do you do?’
The old soldier stood the image of good-humour and cheerful courtesy,
holding his hat in his hand. There were so many ladies to share his bow
that it was longer than usual, and gave the wind time to blow about a
little the close curly locks, touched with gray, which covered the
Colonel’s head with all the vigour of youth. His countenance beamed with
kindness and that civility of the heart which made the fact that he was
not himself very fond of this group inoperative. But when Lady St.
Clair, picking her steps to the other side of the road, delivered in
return the most chilling of faint bows, while her daughters hurried like
a flock of birds across the park to avoid the encounter, Colonel Hayward
stood dumb with consternation in the middle of the path. His under lip
dropped in his astonishment, he forgot to put on his hat. He turned to
Joyce, holding it in his hand, with dismay in his face. ‘What--what,’ he
cried, ‘is the meaning of that?’
‘Indeed I don’t know,’ said Joyce. She was not aroused to the importance
of the action. Unfortunately she did not care, nor did it seem to her
that so slight a matter was worth noticing. ‘They were perhaps in a
hurry,’ she said.
‘In a hurry! They meant to avoid us. They would rather not have seen us.
What does it mean, Joyce? They consulted together, and the girls rushed
off, and their mother--I am utterly astounded, Joyce.’
‘But,’ said Joyce, very calmly, ‘if they did not wish to speak to us,
why should they? I do not think I care.’
The Colonel put on his hat. He had grown a little pale. ‘Elizabeth will
not like it,’ he said. ‘She will not like it at all. For a long time she
would not go into society, because of---- But now that she does she likes
to know all the best people. I am not myself fond of those St. Clairs.
But any unpleasantness, I am sure, would make her unhappy. Can I have
done anything, I wonder? I am a blundering old fellow,--I may have
neglected some etiquette----’
‘Perhaps it would be better to say nothing about it,’ said Joyce.
‘Much better!’ cried the Colonel. ‘That’s the right way--take no notice.
I am glad you are of that opinion. But I’m very bad at keeping a secret,
Joyce. Probably I’ll blurt it out.’
‘No, father. I will look at you when I see you approaching the subject,’
said Joyce. She was quite unconscious of any seriousness in the matter.
Lady St. Clair and her girls seemed incapable of any influence on her
fate. She even laughed, looking up at him with a lightness quite unusual
to her. ‘It will be a little secret between us,’ she said.
‘So it will,’ said the Colonel, brightening; ‘but you must keep your
eyes upon me, Joyce. I never could keep a thing to myself in my life,
particularly from Elizabeth. But this cannot be of any importance after
all, can it? No, I don’t think it can be of any importance. Lady St.
Clair may be vexed with me perhaps for the moment. I may have done some
silly thing or other. I would not for the world have a secret from
Elizabeth--but such a trifle as this.’
‘It cannot be of the least importance,’ said Joyce. She was more
confident of being right than he had ever known her before.
‘Well, my dear: but you must keep your eyes upon me,’ Colonel Hayward
said.
He came back to the subject several times as they went on, and worked
out the shock, so that by the time they reached home, he himself had
come to regard Lady St. Clair’s incivility as a matter of little
importance. ‘Perhaps she had something on her mind, my dear; their
eldest boy, I believe, gives them a great deal of trouble. And I know
they are not rich--and with that large family. People are not always in
the mood for a conversation on the roadside. You are quite right, Joyce.
I daresay it meant just nothing at all but the humour of the moment. It
will be a little secret between you and me--but you must keep your eyes
upon me. Give a little cough, or put your hand up to your brooch, or
some sign I shall know--for I am an old goose, I know it: I can keep
nothing to myself.’
When they reached home, however, the incident and the secret were both
forgotten in the surprise which awaited them. They found Mrs. Hayward in
the drawing-room entertaining Mrs. Bellendean. Joyce, though she had
always been more shy of her dear lady since she had discovered how much
Mrs. Bellendean’s behaviour to herself was influenced by her change of
circumstances, was startled out of all her preventions by this
unexpected visit. But the sight of the woman to whom she had looked up
with such sincere reverence, and admired before everybody in the world,
was not now to her so simple a matter as it had once been: after the
first burst of pleasure it was impossible to forget how closely
associated she was both with the old life and the new. And Mrs.
Bellendean herself was changed. There were lines of anxiety and care in
her face. She was no longer the calm queen in her own circle, the centre
of pleasure and promotion she had once appeared to Joyce. The peace of
the old life was gone from her, and something of its largeness and
dignity. She talked of her present plans and purposes in such a way that
Joyce, though little accustomed to the subtleties of conventional life,
slowly came to perceive that the object of Mrs. Bellendean’s visit was
not that which it professed to be. She explained to them that she was
about to leave England with her husband for Italy, and that she had come
to take leave of her friends--but this was not all. Joyce’s training in
the net-work of motives which lie under the surface was very imperfect.
She wondered, without at all divining, what the other object was.
‘Things have changed very much since Bellendean ceased to be our
headquarters,’ she said with a smile which was not a very cheerful one.
‘You remember how much I threw myself into it, Joyce. After having
nothing particular to do, to come into that full life with so many
things to look after was delightful to me. But my husband never liked
it,’ she added quickly. ‘He dislikes the worry and the responsibility.
He thinks it worry: you know I never did.’
‘My friend Norman,’ said the Colonel, ‘will be lost without you. It must
have been such a thing for him.’
‘Oh, Norman has been very good.’ Lines came out on Mrs. Bellendean’s
brow which had not been there before. ‘You saw something of him during
the summer?’
‘Something--oh, a great deal! We got quite used to see him appearing in
his flannels. Fine exercise for a young fellow: It helped him to support
London,’ said the guileless Colonel. ‘I think he found us very handy
here.’
‘Old fellows, I suspect, think more of exercise than young fellows,’
said Mrs. Hayward; ‘and London is very supportable in Captain
Bellendean’s circumstances--but we did see a little of him from time to
time.’
Joyce said nothing at all. She kept a little behind, away from Mrs.
Bellendean’s anxious eyes. She could not prevent the colour from
deepening in her face, or her heart from beating high and loud in her
breast--so loud that she felt it must be heard by others as well as
herself, the most distinct sound in the room.
‘He has not been here very lately, I suppose?’ Mrs. Bellendean said.
‘Oh no, not since August--when he came to bid us good-bye.’
‘As I am doing now,’ said Mrs. Bellendean. She could not see Joyce, who
was behind her, but she was noting, with the intensest observation,
every movement and word. She was on a voyage of discovery, not quite
knowing what she expected, almost too eager to distinguish what she
imagined from what she saw.
‘Shooting, I suppose,’ said the Colonel. ‘I hope he has had good sport.
There was some talk of his coming back, but I never expected him for my
part, until the moors began to pall; and that doesn’t happen soon, your
first year at home. You preserved, of course, at Bellendean.’
‘There are always plenty of partridges--nothing more exciting. He has
been up in the Highlands, coming and going. I think he has thoroughly
enjoyed himself--as you say, the first year at home.’
These words were all very simple and natural; but there was a little
emphasis here and there, which betrayed a meaning more than met the ear.
Joyce felt them fall upon her heart like so many stones, thrown singly,
resolutely, with intention. It had never occurred to her before that any
one could wish to give her pain: and that her own lady should do it--her
model of all that was greatest and sweetest! The cruel boys throw stones
at wounded, helpless things. She remembered suddenly, with that
quickness of imagination which enhances every impression, a scene which
detached itself from the past--a boy in the village aiming steadily at a
lame dog, and how she had flung herself upon him in a blaze of
indignation, to his supreme astonishment. Why this should come into her
head she could not tell. The dog could yelp at least, but Joyce could
not cry out. It seemed to her that it was Mrs. Bellendean, in her
mature, middle-aged beauty, tall, dignified, and serene, who stood and
took aim. It was all new to Joyce--the covert blow, the deliberate
intention, the strong necessity of keeping still, uttering no sound,
giving no look even of consciousness. Nothing in her past experience had
prepared her for this.
‘I have more sympathy with your plans than with Captain Bellendean’s
amusements,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Sport’s monotonous, at least to women
who only look on. But to get away for the winter is always delightful.
Oh, not to you, Henry, I know! You like your walks. And he tells me it
is so English, so like home. Very English indeed, and pleasant, for
girls who skate, and all that; but when one begins to get old and go
about in a shawl!’
‘I would willingly compound for the shawl,’ said the visitor. ‘It is
cold enough at Bellendean; but there one had both duties and pleasures.
I hate to be one of a useless crowd, drifting about pleasure-places.
When it’s health it is dismal enough; but at least there is some meaning
in that.’
‘Oh, there is a great deal of meaning in being warm,’ cried Mrs.
Hayward, with a little shiver, ‘in seeing sunshine and the blue sky
instead of universal greyness and fogs. The Colonel takes a pleasure in
it, even in east wind; but so do not I.’
‘My dear,’ cried Colonel Hayward anxiously, ‘if you really do feel so
strongly about it, you don’t think that I would ever object? I like my
own country, I confess; and to understand what everybody’s saying--but
if you feel the cold so much----’
It was not much wonder that he should not understand; but Joyce, for
whom the thing was done, knew almost as little as he did that this
diversion was for her benefit. A half-forlorn wonder arose in her mind
that so much useless, aimless talk should mingle with the torture
through which she was going. Better that the stones should all be
thrown, and the victim left in peace. But this was not how it was to be.
The gong sounded, beaten by Baker’s powerful hand, and the little
procession went in to luncheon. Joyce had to expose her face, with all
its clouds, the burning red which she felt on her cheek, the heavy
shadow about her eyes, to the full daylight and Mrs. Bellendean’s
searching gaze. Nobody could help her now.