JOYCE reached the station nearest to Springfield Park at three o'clock,
having had a change of trains, and a stoppage of an hour and a half on
the road. Mrs. Caruth's maid, returning direct to Fernsclough, would
rejoin her mistress before six.
Her train would not, however, start for twenty minutes, so she was able
to tell her mistress that she had seen Miss Mirlees in charge of a
grey-haired coachman, who, with two little girls, awaited her arrival.
"Are you the young person for Springfield Park?" asked the man.
Joyce replied in the affirmative.
"I am the coachman. The groom would have brought only a trap, but the
little ladies were wild to see their new maid, and Mrs. Ross would only
trust the children with me."
The man intended Joyce to understand that to drive any but members of
the family and their friends would be beneath the dignity of so old a
servant, and that the presence of the little girls explained his own.
"No doubt Mrs. Ross feels that the children are safest with you," said
Joyce.
"Just so. She has had time to know what I am, for I drove her when
she was no bigger than the least of them, and I was in her father's
service. Now you step in next the eldest one—Miss Mary. She should have
been a boy by rights, but nobody would like to change her for one now.
Your things will be brought by that lad, who has a trap close at hand.
They are all together, I suppose?"
Joyce pointed to her belongings on the platform, said farewell to her
escort, and sent messages of thanks and love to Mrs. Caruth. Then she
followed the coachman to a little carriage, in which were seated two
lovely children in the present charge of the station-master's daughter.
"Come in," cried the elder child. "We wanted to see you, so mamma let
Price bring us. I am Mary, 'papa's Molly,' they call me, and that is
Alice. She turns her face away because she is shy, but she will be
friends soon. Mamma said we must be very good and not make you sorry,
because you have no father and mother."
Tears sprang into Joyce's eyes, which the child noted instantly, and
her own face grew sorrowful.
"Why do you cry?" she said. "Let me kiss the tears away, as mamma does
mine, if I am only sorry, not naughty."
The winsome creature pulled Joyce's head down to her own and smiled,
until her new attendant was fain to smile in response.
"There, that is right. Now look how pretty the park is, and see the
deer under the trees. They feed out of our hands, and they will know
you very soon, because you will be with us."
Joyce saw that her new surroundings would be even more beautiful than
her uncle's home, and she drank in with delight the loveliness which
met her eyes on every side, whilst Mary prattled unceasingly till they
reached the house. There she was met by a pleasant, motherly person,
who introduced herself as Mrs. Powell, the housekeeper, and led her
upstairs to a good-sized cheerful room, very comfortably furnished,
and opening into a still larger one, in which were two little beds.
Both rooms again opened into the day nursery, a delightful apartment,
in which everything suggested the personal superintendence of a
thoughtful, loving mother.
The little girls had been taken charge of by Mrs. Ross's maid,
Paterson, and the housekeeper told Joyce that when she was ready she
was to come to her own room for refreshment.
"Here are your boxes in good time," said Mrs. Powell; and thus Joyce
was able to make the needed change in her dress. She was about to go
down, when, recollecting her new position, she turned back for one of
the aprons, ironed so carefully by Sarah Keene's hands, and over which,
as badges of coming servitude for her darling, she had shed many a tear.
"Never mind," thought Joyce; "they are honourable badges, so long as
they accompany faithful performance of duty, work done as in God's
sight, and depending for its success on His blessing."
So, with a bright face, the reflection of a brave heart, she went down,
after having occupied a few moments in thanking God for a safe journey
and a kind reception.
"I always have an early cup of tea," said Mrs. Powell, "and I thought
it would be the best for you, along with something more substantial,
after a journey. Your future meals will be taken upstairs with the
children. Mrs. Ross will see you in the morning; but she and the master
are away—only for the day; they will be back to-night. My mistress
trusted you to me, and I promised to make you comfortable," said Mrs.
Powell, with a look of great kindness in her motherly face.
"It was very good of her to leave me in such hands," said Joyce, with
an answering smile. Then Mrs. Powell dropped her voice to a whisper—
"Let me say a word about yourself, my dear. My mistress trusts me, and
she said—only to me, mind—that the friend who wrote in answer to her
inquiries had told her a little of your history. How that you were a
lady, used to be served instead of serving others, and that if you
chose to accept a home with her, there was one open to you; but that
you preferred service to a life of dependence."
"What did Mrs. Ross say? I hope she did not think I wished to deceive
her in any way," said Joyce.
"No, indeed. She honours you for preferring work to dependence, and
says that if she finds you what she has been led to expect, you, in
turn, shall find a real home and true friends at Springfield Park.
There, my dear, I hope you will sleep the sounder for knowing this; and
if it will comfort you to hear it, my heart warms to you, and you have
one friend already."
To Joyce this was like having her old friend Sarah Keene by her side,
and she thanked the kindly housekeeper most heartily and gratefully for
her encouraging words.
But the tea was being neglected, and Mrs. Powell turned Joyce's
attention in that direction; so, impelled by a healthy girlish
appetite, she made a hearty meal, much to her new friend's satisfaction.
One hour after she spent with the children, of whom, however, she was
not to take formal charge until the morning. Then the housekeeper,
being at leisure, showed her through the house and a portion of
the gardens, and finally left her to indulge in happier thoughts
than she could have imagined would be possible to her under her new
circumstances.
Joyce rose early and dressed the children, the little one having
overcome her shyness, and being now willing to make friends. She was
sitting, telling them a baby-story, when Mrs. Ross entered the nursery
after breakfast, and greeted her with the utmost kindness.
At the sight of their mother, the children rushed to her side, and,
clasped in her arms, forgot for the time their anxiety to know the end
of Joyce's fairy story.
How the girl sped at Springfield Park may be gathered from a letter,
written after three months' experience, to Sarah Keene. Many shorter
letters had been exchanged between Mr. Evans, Adelaide, the old nurse,
and Joyce; but she purposely refrained from saying much about her
position, until a sufficient time had elapsed to allow her to form a
fair judgment as to the wisdom of the step she had taken.
[Illustration: MRS. ROSS SENT A NOTE A LITTLE LATER.]
"Springfield Park, Sept. 6th."
"After three months, dear old nurse and friend, I can say that I am
glad I came here. Every one is good to me; the children are so sweet
that it is delightful to work for them; and I do work, Sarah."
"I try to earn every penny, and I have proof that Mrs. Ross is
satisfied. Yesterday she told me how glad she was that the children
had learned to love me, and that she was much pleased with my mode
of managing them. Then she gave me my quarter's wages, and I found
considerable sweetness in receiving my first earnings. I was to
have seventeen pounds a year and all found; but Mrs. Ross placed a
five-pound note in my hand, and would not receive any change."
"You must know I cannot occupy my time in only dressing and attending
to the children and their clothes; the former are so docile, the latter
so handsome and abundant that they receive little damage, and when
at all shabby they are given away; so I began to teach, and turned
everything I knew to account in order to benefit my darling charges."
"Mrs. Ross found out what we were doing, and said, 'You are teaching
my children to love information by leading them gently, and making it
attractive. How have you acquired such an excellent method?'"
"'I taught in our Welton Sunday Schools,' I said. 'My little scholars
were the children of the very poor; but I took more pains with them
because their learning time is short and their opportunities are few.
If my method has any merit, it is owing to my dear father's example,
which I tried to copy.' My eyes filled. I could not keep back my tears
when I thought of him, and of all I owed to his loving training."
"Mrs. Ross laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, and said, 'Do not cry,
Joyce. I feel deeply for you. It must be hard to look back and think
how things were whilst he lived. I have heard so much of your father's
excellences, and how you were both loved by rich and poor.'"
"'I am not unhappy,' I replied. 'Service here is not servitude, and I
am much better satisfied to earn my bread than to owe it to the charity
of another.'"
"'You are right; but I should be wrong to accept the faithful labours
of a governess in return for a nursemaid's salary. Henceforth you will
receive forty pounds a year, and, Miss Mirlees, I shall look for you,
with the children, in the drawing-room daily, when we have no formal
company and are alone, or have only a few friends.'"
"I began to wonder if my old Welton frocks would be good enough, but
that evening a parcel came to me, containing a dress-length of good
mourning silk, with all requisites for making it up. Mrs. Ross sent a
note a little later, to say that it was a mark of the satisfaction felt
by her husband and herself at the improvement in their children."
"I can now wear my dear mother's watch and ornaments without their
seeming unsuitable, and I shall once again find myself amongst people
of the class I used to mix with as the parson's daughter at Welton. How
can I thank God enough for all His goodness?"
"I have so long been used to my Christian name only, that it seemed
quite strange when Mrs. Ross with marked emphasis, called me 'Miss
Mirlees,' and I subsequently found that the servants were instructed to
address me in the same way. They obeyed quite willingly, and the little
maid who waits at nursery meals seemed so charmed to apply it, that she
repeated the 'miss' as often as possible."
"I wonder the servants are not jealous, but I presume they catch the
spirit of their employers. As to dear old Mrs. Powell, she is almost as
pleased as you will be, dear Sarah, when you read my good news."
"I know that my uncle, cousins, and Mrs. Evans are away. When they
return, give Adelaide this letter to read, and she will show it to her
father, at any rate."
"In a day or two, this house will be full of visitors for the
shooting. I have been beset by a cowardly dread that anyone who knew
me at Welton should be amongst them. You see I have the old pride
to conquer yet; but, as the governess, Mrs. Ross will treat me with
consideration, I know, and I did not really feel ashamed of being
only a servant."
"With more love than I can express,"
"Your ever affectionate foster-child,"
"JOYCE MIRLEES."
How often Sarah had to wipe her eyes whilst reading the letter, and
how she exulted that her darling was working her way upward again,
and would yet lift her head amongst the best, may be left to the
imagination.