JOYCE had always plenty of time to herself, for when aunt and cousins
were out driving or visiting she had to choose between solitary walks
in the grounds or the society of Sarah Keene and a seat beside her
ironing table, her uncle being often from home.
"The carriage is not comfortable with more than three in it," Mrs.
Evans would say, when her daughters accompanied her. If only one of
these went, and Mr. Evans suggested that Joyce should make a third, he
was told, "Your niece has not been used to a carriage. Why spoil her by
accustoming her to luxuries she is not likely to possess in future?"
"How do you know? Joyce may marry well. She is sweet-looking and a good
girl, who would be a treasure worth the winning to a man who had sense
enough to prefer worth to money."
Mr. Evans made this remark without the slightest intention of paining
his wife, but it called forth derisive words from his younger daughter,
in reference to Joyce, and an angry response from Mrs. Evans.
"Of course your penniless niece is more charming than my daughters. But
Joyce Mirlees shall be taught to know her place, and find something
better to do than to idle her time in gossiping with a servant."
"Your niece—my house—my daughters!"
Mr. Evans did not say these words, but as he repeated them to himself,
a picture came to mind, and words from the most touching of all
parables spoke to his heart.
"The forgiving father spoke of the penitent prodigal on his home-coming
as, 'my son who was dead and is alive again,' and to the elder who
had never strayed as, 'thy brother.' But this last had no thought of
tenderness for him who lost all and had returned hungry, penniless,
destitute. It was not 'my brother' with him, but 'thy son.' Poor Joyce!
Homeless, orphaned, hungering just for love, is nothing to my wife but
'your niece,' when she speaks of her to me. Three days hence will be
her twenty-first birthday, too; she came here in March, and this is
nearly the end of June. I thought that a girl so sweet in herself must
win the good-will of my wife and girls, but all she has received is a
bare shelter, grudgingly permitted rather than given during three weary
months."
When Joyce's birthday morning came there were no costly gifts for her
such as her cousins were accustomed to receive. Mrs. Evans remarked
coldly—
"So it is your birthday, Joyce. Of course, we all wish you many happy
returns of it."
Her cousins echoed "Of course," as they seated themselves at the
breakfast table, and Joyce replied, "Thank you."
"And you are actually twenty-one," said Mrs. Evans. "I suppose
you would expect a present of an ornamental kind, but, under the
circumstances, something useful will be better. The girls are going to
leave off mourning entirely now. Three months is quite long enough for
a mere connection by marriage, and many people would not wear it more
than half the time."
"Many would not wear it at all, unless—"
Joyce began a sentence but could not finish it, for her heart was too
full to permit her to continue without breaking down utterly.
"Unless the connection had lived quite near them, and every one knew of
it. Was that what you were going to say?" asked Mrs. Evans.
"No; I meant something very different, but I will not trouble you with
it now. Only, please do not think I expected any present. I neither
looked nor wished for any."
"But you are going to have one," replied Mrs. Evans, in an unusually
gracious tone. "As I said, my girls are leaving off their mourning, and
I intend you to have their simpler dresses. Black silks and satins they
will not part with. Those are useful always, but their worst are of
beautiful material and—"
"Quite too good for me," said Joyce.
"No, no. They will look very nice, but not too handsome. Russell will
show you how to alter them and you can sit in her room so as to be near
whilst you are at work. Afterwards, I have no doubt you will be glad to
render a little assistance in remodelling some of your cousins' gowns
which had to be put aside, in a manner, on your account."
Mrs. Evans thought she had managed a somewhat delicate matter with
great tact and success. She had planned to turn Joyce's time and good
taste to account on behalf of herself and her daughters, from the first
day that the girl, pale and worn with watching and weeping, arrived at
The Chase.
There was a red spot on each of Joyce's cheeks which told of inward
excitement; but she was outwardly calm as she replied—
"Thank you for offering me these dresses, but I cannot take, and I
shall not need them. Besides, however willing my cousins might be to
spare them, Russell will expect to have them when done with. When my
one black gown is too bad to wear, I shall use those I had before my—I
mean what I brought with me from Welton."
"But those are coloured. Respect for your relatives and for society
demands that you wear black during at least a year, for your father. As
to your cousins' dresses, they would not go to Russell whilst nearly as
good as new; but I presume your pride will not let you be seen in them,
though you have never been used to anything so handsome before."
"The dresses are very good," said Joyce; "but you will not see, and
society does not know me. Has not my uncle told you that I am going to
leave The Chase?"
"Going to leave! And pray where are you going? It is just like your
uncle to know of your plans and say nothing, but I consider it
disgraceful of you to act in such an underhand way, especially after
having had such a home as this." And Mrs. Evans waved her hand, as if
to indicate that all around her had been as much for Joyce's use and
comfort as for her own.
"I do not want to seem ungrateful," replied the girl. "I have been
sheltered here, and I have had far more dainty food than I needed, and
been surrounded with many more beautiful things than my eye was ever
accustomed to before. Yet, forgive me for saying it, I have not been
happy. Nobody loves me, nobody wants me here, and I am very lonely.
Perhaps, if my cousins and I had seen a good deal of each other when we
were children, it would have been different; but I was really almost
a stranger when I came. I hoped they would have liked me, but being
relatives always at a distance from each other is not like growing up
as playfellows and friends. I suppose people cannot like each other
just because they wish to do, and Adelaide and Augusta have so many
friends of their own without me. So I thought it would be better for
me to try and obtain a situation—and work for my bread. I should like
to feel that I have a place to fill, and something to do; to know that
I am wanted, if only by little children. I have obtained a situation
to which I shall go in two days. My uncle knows about it, but he only
heard the particulars just before he was called from home so suddenly
yesterday, and I suppose he had not time to tell you. He does not blame
me for wishing to be independent of help and owe my livelihood to my
own exertion. He has always been very good to me."
The girl's voice trembled a little at this allusion to her uncle,
but Mrs. Evans showed no sign of sympathy. She sat and listened with
the frigid manner which she deemed dignified and becoming, and Joyce
continued—
"I once thought of leaving The Chase unknown even to him, but
afterwards I felt sorry and ashamed that I could have entertained such
an idea for a moment. I am sure I should never have carried it out,
though I was going to ask a friend to tell him at once."
"And pray may I ask how you obtained this situation?"
"By advertising. I had several answers. I needed a recommendation,
and the old true friend of my father and mother, Mrs. Caruth, of
Fernsclough, gave me one, after having urged me to accept a home with
her for an indefinite period. No one else has had a finger in my
arrangements."
For the first time Mrs. Evans manifested something like interest
in Joyce's explanation, and at the mention of Mrs. Caruth's name
significant glances were exchanged between her and her second
daughter—the one who most resembled her in appearance and disposition.
"I should have thought the fact of your being Mr. Evans' niece would
have been recommendation enough. Pray what kind of situation have you
engaged to fill? I must say, however, that had you wished to be useful
to those who have the first claim upon you, I have just indicated a way
in which you could be so, and without leaving The Chase."
"I am afraid I shall make a poor assistant to your maid, as I have not
learned dressmaking," replied Joyce, with quivering lips. "I did not
mention my uncle's name or yours in applying for the situation I am
engaged to fill. I am going to attend on two little children."
"Teach them, I presume you mean?"
"Not exactly. I shall try to teach them, but I shall really be their
maid. You always told me that I was not fit for a governess, because I
was so different from my cousins. A nursery governess's duties would
take in too much, so I resolved to be 'only a servant.'"
Mrs. Evans' voice rose to a positive shriek as she replied—
"I am thankful, very thankful, you are no relative of mine, and that
though you are my husband's niece you do not bear the same surname. I
wash my hands of you!"
And with a look of combined anger and contempt, Mrs. Evans swept from
the room.
She was not wholly sorry in thinking of the decisive step Joyce had
taken. It would give her a good excuse for severing all connection
with so undesirable a relative. But there was one drawback to her
self-gratulation. If any of her fashionable neighbours were to hear
that Mr. Evans' niece had taken such a situation, it would be too
dreadful. They would not, perhaps, draw so nice a distinction as
she had done, and despite the fact that the connection was only by
marriage, Joyce might be regarded as her relative also. There was no
getting over the fact that she was first cousin to Adelaide and Augusta.
"If that girl's surname had been the same as ours, I would have taken
steps to assume a different one, at whatever cost."
"Would you have had us called by your maiden name of Smittles?" asked
Augusta, who had followed her mother from the morning room. "I like
Evans much better."
Mrs. Evans blushed, for that name was doubly objectionable, and she
was most anxious that the fact of her having been Miss Smittles, the
daughter of a notoriously unscrupulous speculator, should be forgotten.
She said no more about giving up her present surname.
"Do you think," asked Augusta, "that the Mrs. Caruth my cousin spoke
of could be the lady, whom we met with her son at Mentone last winter!
They were delightful people—so refined, and knew everybody that was
worth knowing there, and numbers of people we should like to meet here.
You remember he had come back invalided from the Soudan, and though
he was quite young, about thirty, he had gained great distinction. He
was Major Caruth, I think, and his name must have been Alexander, for
his mother called him 'Alec.' Everyone liked them both, but we used to
think him just a little reserved."
"I thought him extremely polite—quite a model of courtesy, in fact."
"Well, yes, he was, and especially to the elder ladies; but he never
showed any marked attention to any of the younger ones. He was the most
devoted son possible, and it was quite beautiful to see the manner in
which he looked up in his mother's face when she came to his side with
that inquiring glance on hers."
"He had nearly died, and he was all she had," replied Mrs. Evans. "Heir
to a fine property, I believe. I scarcely think that Mrs. Caruth could
be the one Joyce mentioned. Was it likely there would be any intimacy
between the daughter of a poor country clergyman and people of position
like those Caruths?"
"I do not know. You see, clergymen go everywhere."
"But not always their wives and daughters," said Mrs. Evans.
"Did you notice the name of the place Joyce's friend lived at? I have
the address of those we met at Mentone; it was Ferns—something—crag,
probably."
"Was it Fernsclough?" said Augusta, eagerly.
"I really believe it was."
"Then the lady is the same. Her place is Fernsclough, Salop."
"Well, what of that? Her giving Joyce a character to go out as
children's maid puts away the suggestion of intimacy at once. She might
do that, and never speak to or communicate again with one who was
disgracing herself by taking a sort of servant's place."
"Joyce said that Mrs. Caruth wanted her to go to Fernsclough for an
indefinite time."
"Perhaps that was an invention, in order to raise herself in our eyes,
my dear child. I have seen more of life and character than you have,
Augusta."
"I can hardly think that," replied the girl; "I could not imagine Joyce
saying an untrue word. She is not that sort of girl. And, mamma, she
is my cousin and a lady, though she is not rich. I cannot help feeling
sorry for her. If these friends of hers should turn out to be the
Caruths we met, and at some future time we should see them again, what
will they think of us for letting Joyce go?"
"Think, you foolish girl! What can they think? Just that as she was too
proud to go to Fernsclough, she was too headstrong to be guided by us,
and went her own wilful way. You need not trouble your head about that."
But Augusta was not quite happy, in spite of her mother's assurances;
and Adelaide was still less so.