JOYCE had kept her friends and kinsfolk at The Chase fully acquainted
with her improved position, and the consideration with which she was
treated at Springfield Park.
"You will hardly believe it," she wrote, "but I have the most perfect
home here. Mr. and Mrs. Ross treat me as a friend, and it is delightful
to feel that I have their confidence and the love of my darling pupils.
If I am absent from the children for awhile, they are no sooner within
reach of me, than little clinging arms are clasping my neck, kisses
rain on my face, each child contending which shall love me best; whilst
Mrs. Ross, instead of discouraging these marks of affection, smiles
with pleasure, and says, 'This is as it should be. No power can compare
with the influence of love in training children.' But in this house
love reigns supreme. I never thought I could be so happy again as I am
now. How sweet it is to be wanted, and to have a place to fill and work
to do for others."
Joyce had three correspondents at The Chase—Sarah Keene, Mr. Evans,
and Adelaide. It was the latter who persisted in making her mother
acquainted with Joyce's present happiness and the consideration with
which she was treated.
"And," continued the daring girl, "I think Joyce ought to spend the
Christmas holidays here, if she will. Shall I invite her, and say that
we will try to make her happier than she was before?"
"You will do nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Evans; "she has chosen
to leave us, and if she wants to come back she will have to ask—not me."
"We were not kind to her before, mamma. I think we all feel that now,"
said Adelaide, glancing at her sister, who assented. "If we might have
the time over again, I think we should act differently. However, if you
will not ask Joyce, I should think her friend Mrs. Caruth will invite
her to Fernsclough. You know how anxious she was about Cousin Joyce,
and how wishful for her to stay with her altogether. No fear but Joyce
will have friends to think of her at Christmas."
And with this parting remark the girl left Mrs. Evans to meditate on
her suggestion.
"Really, I think every one has gone mad about Joyce since she left,
though no one cared much for her when she was here. It was no fault of
ours that her father died and left her a mere beggar."
"But it was our fault that she was miserable here," said Augusta. "It
told against ourselves, I know, for she is our cousin, and her parents
were well-born and respected by people who care little enough about us."
This was Augusta's remark, and a certain amount of worldly wisdom which
pervaded it had more effect on Mrs. Evans than all Adelaide's regrets
for the past neglect and unkindness experienced by Joyce when at The
Chase. She began to think that, for her own sake, it might be politic
to extend the shelter of its roof to her husband's niece during the
holiday season.
A few days later Mrs. Evans told Adelaide that she might invite "that
girl" for Christmas, if she chose. "But send no message from me," she
added.
"Too late, mamma. Joyce has already declined an invitation from
Mrs. Caruth, and has decided to spend Christmas in what is a true
home—Springfield Park. There will be a large gathering of friends, and
I hope Joyce will have as happy a season as she deserves. I wish I
could look forward to one such as hers promises to be."
It was quite true that Mrs. Caruth had written to invite Joyce to
spend Christmas at Fernsclough. She did this unknown to her son, and
immediately after that first conversation with him on the night of his
return home. She was a generous-hearted woman, and his words about
Joyce had touched her deeply. She looked back over the years during
which the girl's parents had been her own most trusted friends. She
recalled the wise advice Mr. Mirlees had given her during her early
widowhood, and to the excellent influence he had exercised over her own
son.
"But for him, Alec would never have been the noble man he is to-day,"
she owned to herself; and she was anxious to make prompt amends for
anything that had been lacking in her own conduct to Joyce. "Mine has
been but a poor, half-hearted friendship," she said to herself. "I fear
I thought more of consequences than of doing what my better feelings
prompted for that dear orphan girl. I may be mistaken in fancying that
Alec cares more for her than for other girls, but if he does, what
then? He has enough, and can afford to be indifferent about fortune in
a wife."
"As his father was before him."
Mrs. Caruth almost thought she heard these last words spoken, but they
were only the final echo of her own thoughts. Yet they were true words,
for she had been a portionless bride five-and-thirty years before,
and had known the happiness of being loved only for what she was in
herself. So her heart went with the invitation to Joyce, and she told
the girl of her son's happy return to Fernsclough, and his wish to meet
again his old pet and playmate.
When Joyce received the letter she had already promised to remain at
the Park, for Mrs. Ross had told how glad they would all be to keep her
with them, and to make the season a real bright holiday to her. The
prospect of having their darling governess had made the children almost
wild with delight. So, when Mrs. Caruth's letter came, Joyce could only
send grateful thanks, and tell her what had been already decided upon.
The thought that Major Caruth might probably leave England again
without her seeing him was the one cloud in what was otherwise all
bright and hopeful. He had been so much to her in those old days, when
she owed her chief childish pleasures to his kind thought, and was
accustomed to appeal to him in every difficulty and trouble.
Yet Joyce had other memories of nearer date. She recalled that time
when Alec Caruth came to Fernsclough after a long absence, during which
she had changed from the merry, romping schoolgirl into the tall,
slender maiden of seventeen, and she could picture his look of surprise
and admiration, mingled with regret, as he said in his frank fashion—
"I was coming to meet my child-friend, and, alas! I have lost her, and
find that I have to make acquaintance with a new Joyce Mirlees, who has
grown-up to young ladyhood in a most objectionable manner during my
absence."
She had laughed at his rueful face, and taken his arm to be led in to
dinner, instead of dancing into the room holding by his hand, as in
former days. She had noticed a little change in Mrs. Caruth's manner
from that day—a sort of reserve towards herself and watchfulness over
her son, as if she were a little jealous of his attentions to her. And
her father had seemed to want her more, and kept her by his side at
times, when formerly she had been accustomed to run over to Fernsclough
and spend hours together with Mrs. Caruth, always receiving from her a
motherly welcome.
"She has her son now, Joyce," he would say. "She will not want my
little girl from me so much, and I shall be so glad to have more of
your company."
Joyce could recall how, at length, the conviction dawned upon her that
the old, free intercourse between her and Alec Caruth must be deemed a
thing of the past—dead and buried with her childhood. Also that Mrs.
Caruth, whilst still as kind and motherly as ever, did not express
regret at her absence when she had stayed away longer than usual, or
urge her to come more frequently, until she was once more left alone by
the departure of her son.
Then Joyce's pride took alarm, and she did not respond quite readily to
the renewed invitations of Mrs. Caruth, though she was most careful not
to allow her feelings to be suspected. On the contrary, her manner was
perfectly frank and natural as she replied—
"Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Caruth, but my father really requires my
help more than he did. He finds that I can now be of some use to him,
and I am quite proud to feel that he misses me when I leave him. I fear
I used to leave him too much alone, for Fernsclough had so many charms
for me, thanks to your great kindness. But there is something else. I
am supposed to have finished my education and to be a grown-up girl,
but really I am only just finding out how ignorant I am, so my father
is going to let me read with him, that I may gain more information,
instead of losing the little already acquired."
Joyce remembered that conversation with Mrs. Caruth, and how, after it,
she had gone less to Fernsclough, until the time of her great trouble
came. Then her old friend had been constant in her attentions to the
dear father, and full of sympathy with herself. Her uncle's arrival had
taken her out of Mrs. Caruth's hands, and they had drifted widely apart
from each other during the last nine months.
This unexpected invitation to spend Christmas at Fernsclough, and with
it the direct news of Major Caruth's presence there, seemed to say,
"Forget that I raised a barrier between you and ourselves. Come back to
Fernsclough, and take again your old place. Rejoice with me in having
my son here once more, and be to us both, what you were during those
happy years long ago."
Joyce had answered the letter with a somewhat heavy heart, whilst
feeling angry with herself that she could be anything but glad at the
prospect of staying at Springfield Park for Christmas.
"Before your kind letter came, I had promised to remain here," she
wrote. "Indeed, I felt only too happy at the thought of being allowed
to stay, and did not dream of receiving any other invitation. You
will know, dear Mrs. Caruth, that I would rather spend Christmas at
Fernsclough than in any other place in the world, for, though Welton
and its neighbourhood are associated with the greatest sorrows of my
life, all its joyful memories are bound up with them also. Thank God
these are so many!"
"I should dearly love to go in and out of the cottages, and see my
old friends there, but it cannot be. I have promised Mrs. Ross; the
children count on my staying; I am pledged to help here in everything
that I used to have a finger in at Welton. I can only thank you again
and again, and wish you every joy that the word Christmas can suggest.
The presence of Major Caruth will make amends for the absence of all
others. I do rejoice that he will be at Fernsclough for Christmas,
especially as he has so often been away at that season. Nevertheless, I
hope you will both miss me a little, as I have never before been absent
from Welton at Christmas. Please give him my kind remembrances and all
imaginable good wishes."
"I think you will be pleased to know that my cousin, Adelaide Evans,
has also written to ask me to The Chase, and this, too, with her
mother's knowledge and, to some extent, approbation. I am glad of this,
and the letter has set me thinking and wondering whether I was as kind
and as considerate as I might have been when under my uncle's roof.
I went to The Chase almost a stranger, and I fear I was more ready
to look for slights than to expect kindness. The very fact that my
cousin Adelaide sought me out as she did, met me more than half-way in
sympathy and friendship, and has continued ever since my affectionate
relative, correspondent, and friend, proves that I was harsh in my
judgment, and unnecessarily proud. My aunt was not kind, and I was very
desolate; nevertheless, if I had to live over again those months at The
Chase, I believe I should act very differently, and try more to merit
and to win the love of those around me."
"All recent circumstances have been made to work together for my good
in a manner that I neither hoped for nor deserved. I trust the memory
of mercies received will make me more thankful, trustful, and humble in
the future."
The letter contained allusions to old Welton friends, and other matters
which need not be repeated.
Mrs. Caruth closed it with mingled feelings of pleasure and
disappointment. She was glad of all the good that had come to Joyce,
and of the glimpse of the girl's heart which it gave her. But she was
honestly sorry that she could not come to Fernsclough, for, having made
up her mind to ask Joyce, she really wanted her.
Mrs. Caruth told her son what she had done, and had her reward in
seeing the lighting up of his face, and in feeling herself drawn to his
side by an embracing arm.
"Thanks, little mother," said he, then bent down and kissed her. "You
have carried out the thought that came into my own mind after we were
talking of Joyce the other evening. It would have brought back old
times most delightfully if she could have come to us, but seeing she
is obliged to refuse, we must make all the more of each other. One
thing, however, I should like to do. You know how Joyce thought of
all the poor folk at Christmas time, and stirred up the richer ones
to give of their abundance, so that there might be a cheery fireside
and a well-spread table in every cottage. You can tell me just how she
managed this, and whom she helped. We will do it this year, and tell
the people that we act for their old friend and pastor, Mr. Mirlees,
and for Joyce. They will miss her face as we shall, little mother, but
they shall miss nothing else, and still, as in old times, many a voice
will pray, 'May God bless Miss Joyce, and give her a happy Christmas,
and many more to follow it!'"
"It is a good thought, Alec, and we will carry it out together. I will
write and tell Joyce, and that it was your suggestion. Or would you
like to write yourself?"
"Thanks, no; you shall write, and put in all the kind wishes you can
think of on my behalf," which decision perplexed Mrs. Caruth not a
little. She had quite expected an eager affirmative response when she
proposed that Alec should write to Joyce, and was somewhat disappointed
at his matter-of-fact refusal.
Could it be that, after all, Joyce was only thought of as the
child-friend of her son's youthful days? Contradictory as this may
seem, Mrs. Caruth was quite prepared to be indignant, should this prove
to be the case, and to ask what he could want in a wife which he would
not find in Joyce? Also, where should she meet one whom she would so
gladly welcome as a daughter?
This second letter from Mrs. Caruth delighted Joyce, as may well be
imagined. One of her troubles in connection with the coming season
had been caused by the thought of her poor friends at Welton. The new
clergyman had a delicate wife and a family of young children. He could
not take up Joyce's old work, and there was no one else to step into
the gap and do it.
Joyce one day accompanied Mrs. Ross in a drive to town, and while she
was buying Christmas gifts for her friends and household, the girl
strolled through the market, crowded to overflowing with everything
suggestive of good cheer. She asked prices, and began to calculate how
many dinners the utmost amount she could spare would purchase for some
of her poorest friends at Welton. She had already occupied her spare
moments in making a number of pretty and useful articles for them.
Joyce sighed as she said to herself—
"The most I can do is so little when compared with their need and my
desire to help them; but I must do my best and leave the rest."
Now she knew that all would be remembered, and was thankful on their
behalf, whilst again and again the memory of one sentence in Mrs.
Caruth's letter brought a bright flush to her cheek.
"Alec bade me tell you that none for whom you cared shall be forgotten,
and all will know that they owe their Christmas dinners this year to
your loving thought and labour in former seasons. I am sure the good
cheer will taste twice as good when it is known that you, dear Joyce,
though absent, have your full share in its distribution."
"I should be wicked and ungrateful indeed, if I could cherish a single
discontented thought," she said to herself; and she worked cheerfully
on, completing her little presents. To each article she attached a
short note and a card painted by her own hand, for Joyce was no mean
artist, and could use pencil and brush with considerable skill.
There was something for each friend at Welton, Mrs. Caruth included;
something for all at Springfield Park, for though Joyce had not found
time to do so much during her residence there, she had brought with her
many pretty articles, on which she had occupied what would otherwise
have been weary days at The Chase.
There was only one friend to whom no Christmas gift was addressed, and
that was Major Caruth.