I tried to interrupt Norman, but he insisted that this act of his was the barest justice, and that he hoped Stephen would see his way to give up the Indian appointment after all, for, with our united means, we could make a fair start in England.
But Stephen had his share of pride, and insisted that he would not permit my little dowry to be the staff on which he would lean.
We had visited the quaint iron safe in the early morning, and I had duly taken therefrom the jewels which made up Uncle Bernard's wedding gift.
The memory of his goodness to Norman and me, and the sight of his empty chair, caused the only tears I shed on that happy day. I was admired in my finery, and Lucy was more admired with no adornment save her own grace and beauty.
Tenants were feasted, costly gifts examined, kindly wishes spoken, and prayers offered for a bright future, both for the pair who were to remain at the Court and those whose home was to be far-away from it.
There was one more ceremony to begone through.
Amidst all the stir we had nearly forgotten the sealed packet, which was found to be addressed in Uncle Bernard's handwriting, "To the husband of my niece, Bertha Savell, of King's Court."
Stephen somewhat nervously broke the seals and displayed the contents. They were a closely-written legal document, and a letter addressed to Stephen Hastings, which explained the whole, and ran as follows—
"MY DEAR STEPHEN,—Most likely, when you read this, the hand that penned it will have lost its cunning; but surely a man's last days will be rendered the happier for having done something to promote the prosperity of the young who are to follow him.""It has needed little penetration on my part to discover your love for my niece, and your worthiness of the regard which she gives you in return. Therefore, I only need to glance a little further into the future, and picture you united to her, for better, for worse.""I should like to help you; but I want you first to help yourself, and should prefer your marrying with the prospect of having your way to make, except as regards the share of my means which I am sure Norman will give to his sister.""I know you are hoping to obtain a better position to start with, by going to India, than you could look for here, and I trust you will succeed, because the effort and the success, if attained, will be good for you. But stay in England, that the two last of the Savells may not be parted.""I know, too, that you will have the choice; because, though I have left King's Court, clear of all incumbrance, to Norman, I have bought a little estate for you, dear Stephen—not for Berty. There is a pretty house upon it, and it is within a convenient distance of London,—where, I presume, you will choose to practise.""Secure of a modest income, you will be able to turn your talents to account in the best manner.""Messrs. Partington and Howe, my solicitors, will furnish all particulars, in addition to what this letter and accompanying document give you.""And now, with a prayer for your lasting happiness, I remain,""Sincerely and affectionately yours,""BERNARD SAVELL."
So Stephen and I stayed in England, and blessed the memory of him who had been my more than father during his life, and whose kindness had reached us even from beyond the grave. We two are very happy still, and so are Norman and Lucy. I think I may say with confidence that, though we wives are now "into the forties," and much less slender than we were on January 14, 1865, we and our husbands are, in each case, more truly one than we were on the day we became so.
Our double wedding led to two more; for Mr. Fisher met his fate in the person of Stephen's sister, Lilian, and the poetical schoolmaster long since gave up his post to become landlord of the Savell Arms, by marrying the landlady. And as Christmas comes round, the old story of Norman's raid on Her Majesty's mail-bag, and the trouble it caused, is still told, with the trite remark, as a closing sentence, "All's well that ends well."
As a very last word, I should like to add that, though names, place and circumstances are necessarily altered, the main facts of this little chronicle are absolutely true, and that some one, whose real name I could easily give, was placed in precisely the position above narrated through rashly meddling with the mails.
ONLY A SERVANT.
"DON'T fret so, Miss Joyce. It grieves me to see you, and crying never yet cured heart ache. When things are at the worst they mend; and if so, better days must be at hand for you."
The speaker, Sarah Keene, was a homely-looking, rather hard-featured woman of fifty, evidently a servant, for she was busily engaged in ironing some dainty laces and muslin. But while her features were rugged, they were expressive of good sense, and full of affectionate sympathy.
The Miss Joyce to whom she spoke had just entered the laundry and thrown herself on an old chair, where she was weeping bitterly. She was a girl nearly twenty-one years of age, above the middle height, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces which attract, even when seen amongst many with far greater pretensions to beauty.
Joyce's features were not faultless, or her complexion of alabaster fairness, which last would be very unpleasant, were it possible in a healthy girl. But her large, dark eyes were richly fringed with long lashes, whilst her broad, clear brow was framed by chestnut hair, which lay in soft, wavy masses on her shapely head. The expression of her face, though sad, was singularly sweet and winsome.
That Joyce Mirlees was a thorough lady could be told by a glance, though her gown was of coarse, common black stuff, and its scanty crape trimmings were of the poorest description. It was unrelieved even by a simple linen collar. Only a band of the crape edged the throat, and ornaments she had none.
Yet the house in which the girl lived was the dwelling of wealthy people. The great rooms teemed with costly furniture and all the exquisite accessories which money could supply. The grounds were extensive and tastefully laid out, the stables were well-filled, and luxurious vehicles of many kinds were at the command of the master and mistress of The Chase, as the place was named.
In the drawing-room, three ladies were seated. They wore mourning dresses, but these differed widely from the poor garment which was thought good enough for Joyce Mirlees. Everything that could make mourning rich, tasteful, and handsome had been done to set off the portly person of Mrs. Walter Evans and the slender figures of her two handsome daughters. A few moments would, however, have shown to any stranger that only the semblance of refinement existed in Mrs. Evans. Wealth she had in abundance. She was the daughter of a successful speculator and for her wealth alone had Walter Evans sought her as his wife. He gained this, but paid dearly for it.
Though he was a man of birth and education, he had bound himself to a woman who possessed neither, and who was equally deficient in the amiability and goodness of disposition which might have done much to make amends for a lack of the rest.
Mrs. Evans was equally vulgar and purse-proud. She did not hesitate to put her husband in mind of his indebtedness to her wealth, or even to hint that she might have bestowed it and herself better than upon him.
Brought up under such a mother, it was scarcely likely that the girls, Adelaide and Augusta, would be noted for refinement or delicacy of feeling. Taught to pride themselves on wealth, they owned no excellence if unaccompanied by it. Consequently, they only bestowed a contemptuous pity on their cousin, Joyce Mirlees, who, through adverse circumstances, had been driven to accept the temporary shelter of The Chase.
It had been grudgingly granted by Mrs. Evans, "until something could be done with the girl," because there was absolutely nowhere else for her to go.
Joyce, though the only daughter of Mr. Evans' only sister, was not likely to be welcomed by a lady who owned that there was "nothing she detested like poor relations."
True, the girl came from a comparatively poor home, a little country vicarage, of which and of her father she had been the light and joy, until death called him and left her alone.
Mrs. Evans said bitter things on the occasion.
"It is monstrous for people of small means to marry when there is no prospect of their providing for a family. I call it wicked, and one sees the most of this improvidence where we ought to look for a better example, amongst the poor clergy. But I suppose your brother-in-law reckoned on his daughter being provided for here."
Mrs. Evans said this to her husband, and his reply did not improve her temper.
"You are mistaken, my dear. Poor Mirlees had saved a few hundreds, and having noted how rapidly some people managed to turn hundreds into thousands, he unfortunately invested them in a bubble company, and lost every penny. Some of the shareholders were more fortunate. You Will remember the company," and Mr. Evans named one of which his wife's father had been a director, and by which he had netted a large sum.
Mrs. Evans' face flushed, but she answered—
"It requires business men to deal with business matters, and clergymen ought to content themselves with what they understand."
"True; poor Mirlees paid with his life for his meddling. But after all, it is by these poor, foolish, unbusiness-like men that the clever ones make their money."
"At any rate, we shall be expected to do something for this girl, though why prudent people should pay for the folly and rashness of others is more than I can understand. My children shall not be impoverished for such a purpose. It would not be scriptural to encourage improvidence, and in a clergyman, too. I thought that sermon last Sunday on the text, 'If any provide not for his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel,' was thoroughly to the purpose. I never heard one that touched me more. It was so appropriate to present circumstances."
Mrs. Evans was like many others who, when wishing to justify what conscience tells them is wrong, fly to the Bible to see if they can find a text to justify the course they are taking.
She wanted to cheat conscience into expressing approval, and thought she had succeeded when she shook her head in pious horror over Mr. Mirlees' misdoings. She would not see, or at any rate own, that in the man's very anxiety to do what she blamed him for not having done, he had lost the poor pittance hoarded by years of close economy, and his life as well.
When Mr. Evans named these facts, his wife interrupted him by asking—
"Where was the use of saving and pinching if the man must throw it all away at last?"
"His was an error of judgment," replied Mr. Evans.
"An error of judgment! If my poor papa had committed such errors, I wonder where I should be now."
Mrs. Evans said "I," but the look at her husband meant "you," and was intended to remind him of his indebtedness.
Mr. Evans' face flushed. Often as he had heard similar words, he could never become indifferent to such, and winced at each repetition. Sometimes there would be a scene, or he occasionally retorted sharply, but Mrs. Evans conquered by her persistent ill temper, and after days of discomfort, sullenness, and either taunts or silence, peace would be made, and last for a little while.
On this occasion, Mr. Evans felt the need for diplomacy. Joyce Mirlees must come to The Chase with the consent of its mistress; so he was fain to assent to his wife's praise of her father's business qualities, to pass over her taunts without notice; and thus he gained his end—after a fashion. Joyce was to come until work of some kind could be found for her under another roof.
The Misses Evans expressed their opinion that Joyce would be fit for nothing.
"She will not suit for a governess," said Augusta, who was a brilliant pianist. "Music is an essential, and Joyce can neither play nor sing fit to be heard."
Adelaide enumerated a number of other accomplishments which her cousin did not possess, and concluded with, "I suspect if she once gets a footing here, we shall have her on our hands altogether."
Mrs. Evans only looked a reply, but it expressed a very emphatic dissent to this last remark.
"Must we wear mourning? Mr. Mirlees, as papa's brother-in-law, could hardly be called a relative."
"I fear we must, Augusta. It is very provoking, but society will demand this of us," said the mother.
"And we have chosen all our spring things."
"This year's fashions are too lovely," sighed Adelaide.
These girls had shed no tears for Mr. Mirlees, none in sympathy with the young creature whom death had left desolate. But their tears flowed freely at the thought of the cruel exigencies of society, which demanded the sacrifice of becoming gowns and bonnets, since their shapes and styles would be too old-fashioned for such devotees of the latest modes to wear again when they would be able to put off "that odious mourning."
Such were the people to whom and the home to which Joyce Mirlees came after her father's death.
The girl knew enough of her aunt and cousins to prevent her from expecting much tenderness or sympathy; but she was pained, and her uncle annoyed, to find that they were all out when she arrived at The Chase, though Mrs. Evans knew well at what time to expect the travellers.
There was, however, one warm heart ready to welcome Joyce. This was Sarah Keene, once her nurse. This woman had gone, widowed and childless—having lost her own husband and babe within a few days of each other—to be foster-mother to the child of Mrs. Mirlees, she being delicate, and unable to rear her little one without such help.
All through Joyce's baby days Sarah used to say: "Nobody knows the blessing this child is to me. When I hold her in my arms, I almost forget that I have lost my own, or look on her as having been given me for a while instead of my own little Katie, who was only a month older."
Some years later, Mr. Mirlees insisted on obtaining a situation for Sarah at The Chase, Mrs. Evans being willing to give high wages to one so trustworthy.
Sarah always protested that she was turned out of her old home. "I'd rather have served Mr. Mirlees and my darling for nothing. But they turned me out, 'for my good,' they said."
When Joyce arrived at The Chase, Sarah rushed to meet her foster-child, and whispered, as well as her tears would allow her—
"I see now what I could never understand before. I could not believe I was sent here for my good; but I believe it now, darling. I was sent before, in a little way, like Joseph was, to do good to them that sold him for a slave. And I can be of use to you, though I'm only a servant."
To Joyce, the clasp of those loving arms was indescribably comforting, and she found that Sarah was the only person on whom she could rely for open, hearty sympathy.
Her uncle wished to show it, but a mark of affection on his part was sure to call for the opposite on the side of his wife who seemed resolved that a bare shelter should be all that Joyce should have under her roof.
The orphan girl was soon weary of her position, and, writhing under the slights she had received, would have been thankful to earn her bread by any honest means rather than continue to receive what was so grudgingly bestowed. She wished to please Mrs. Evans and to gain the affection of her cousins, but every effort seemed vain. Had there been young children in the house, her time would have been occupied, but there were none. Her cousins desired no such companion as herself; and, as Mr. Evans' niece, she could not very well be entirely ignored. But there was a tacit understanding between mother and daughters that Joyce should be "kept in her place," whilst Joyce herself, with a sore heart and memories of a happy, if comparatively humble, home, vainly wished that she had any definite place to fill and work to do.
"I HAVE not a friend here but you, Sarah. I must leave this miserable place," said Joyce, between her sobs.
"The master is your friend, darling. He loves you."
"What can he do? He is worse off than I am. How can he bear my aunt's taunts about money, and all she has brought him? If I were a man, I would—"
"If you were a married man with a wife and daughters, you would not find it easy to run away from your home ties, though they may feel a little tight sometimes. And what could you do, dearie, if you left The Chase?"
"That is my trouble, Sarah. I would go as a governess, but they all make game, and sneer at the idea of such a thing. I am not accomplished, and people seem to advertise only for ladies who know everything. Servants with clever fingers like yours are much better off than the half-taught children of gentlemen. They get good wages, and are so independent. They generally spend a great deal on clothes, but they are not obliged to do so. Do you think any one would take me as a nursemaid? Not to tiny babies; I could not attend to them, though I should dearly love it, for I have never been amongst them. But I could look after older children, and I can sew well."
"What! Go as a servant. Only a servant! Oh, Miss Joyce, if the master could know!"
Sarah lifted her hands in horror; but Joyce said—
"If he could tell me what course to take, knowing all, he would say I was doing right; right to take any honest work whereby I might earn my bread. Right to undertake only what I am qualified to do."
"Well, then, darling, say nursery governess."
"Sarah, I have looked the papers through for weeks, and I have read plenty of advertisements of ladies offering to take such places for nothing but a home. They do not always get them, for the advertisements are repeated again and again. Now, I cannot go for nothing, for I need clothes, and I have not much money. But plenty of people offer good wages for nurses, so I will go as a nurse, if any one will have me. My clothes will do for a servant, though they are not nearly so good as yours, Sarah."
The girl glanced down at her poor, coarse black gown and burst into tears. It had been bought only as a makeshift, in the small country town near her old home, and her uncle had said, "Your aunt will see that you are properly provided as soon as we reach The Chase. She would not care for Welton dressmaking or materials."
But this first purchase proved the only one. When Mr. Evans said that Joyce would need other and better dresses, he was answered promptly enough.
"Joyce will not be expected to dress like my daughters. Remember, I have already had double expenses, owing to Mr. Minces' death having taken place just after I had bought everything in coloured dresses for the season. So if your niece wants finery, it will not come out of my pocket."
As to Adelaide and Augusta, they were far too eager for admiration to be sorry that their young cousin should appear at a disadvantage, even in the matter of dress material. In appearance, accomplishments—in fact, in all that could attract attention—they considered her immeasurably below them.
Thus Joyce was shut out of society, by lack of suitable clothing, when she had little inclination for it, and when, during her first days of sorrow, she cared only for quiet and sympathy. Of the former, she had enough as the months went by, and for the latter she had to go to Sarah Keene, as on the present occasion.
"Your uncle would never agree to your taking such a place, Miss Joyce."
"I shall be twenty-one in a month, Sarah, and my own mistress. I have money enough to take me to a good distance from The Chase, for I have not spent a penny that I could help. My uncle would have given me more, but I could not take it, since it would have really been out of Mrs. Evans' pocket. I have already advertised, and I have four answers. One seems likely to suit, but I shall need a character."
The girl uttered the last word somewhat scornfully, but Sarah, with her usual good sense, replied—
"Of course you will. What mother would trust her most precious jewels to a stranger without knowing anything about her? The nurse comes next to the mother herself with young children, and she cannot be too particular about the character of one."
"My pride spoke, Sarah. We were so respected, at Welton, though we were really poor people," replied Joyce, softly.
"Aye, darling. As Mrs. Evans will not be if she live to a hundred. I can just think I see you, as you went through the snow to church only last Christmas morning. You were looking as glad and happy as possible, for you knew that many a home would be bright that day, and many a table spread with plenty through what you had done."
"I had given very little, Sarah. I had not much to give."
"Not in money, dearie. But gold and silver are not everything. You had put in your little in that way, and a great deal that was more precious still—time and work. You had walked many a mile and pleaded for the poor with the rich, and induced them to give what you could not. And who could withstand you? Not those you had spent your life amongst."
"Sarah, they were all as willing to give as possible."
"Aye. Their giving was pretty easy work in most cases; they went without nothing, and would never miss their guineas, because they cost them no self-denial. There are lots of people who put their hands into their pockets and think they do a great deal when they give a gold piece out of a full purse; but if they had to go without something in order to spare the guinea, it would not be given. Catch your aunt or the young ladies going with a pair of gloves the less, to save a poor creature from starvation. Well, the mistress did me a kindness in letting me have my holidays at Welton last Christmas, but then it was because there was no work for me at The Chase, seeing they were wintering abroad."
"She gave you a whole month, Sarah, and it was delightful to have you at our house."
"Yes, and it saved the mistress four weeks' board wages she must have paid me if I had been at The Chase. I can see round a corner, dearie, though you cannot always. Never mind, it was a happy, blessed Christmas, and worth more than a year's wages to be with my own precious nursling."
The tears were streaming down Joyce's cheeks as she thought of that last Christmas in the one true home of her life.
"I little thought—" she said; then stopped, unable to continue.
"No more did any of us. Well, your father acted for the best, and you have happy years to look back on—years when you made poor homes brighter, and cheered downcast souls with words of love and hope. Now you must think of this. You are not forgotten at Welton. Every one loves you there; but they don't know how you are fixed. Depend on it they say, 'What a good thing it was that Miss Joyce had a grand rich uncle to take care of her when her father died!' They pray for you, and look to see you again some day. Better still, God never forgets. Think of this, my darling, you who cared for God's poor to the very outside of your power. He will care for you and repay you. As surely as the harvest follows seed-time, so surely will you, in His good time, receive full measure back for what you have meted out to others."
"I know, Sarah, I know; I am wrong to doubt, but everything is so different here. There is no love for me."
"Yes, darling, there is God's love, and there is your uncle's, I know, to say nothing of mine. I am only your old nurse, but you have all the best love of my heart, for who have I beside?"
"I am wickedly, horribly unthankful, both to God and the one friend to whom I can open my heart. I might speak to my uncle, but I do not care to make him feel more troubled on my account. About my character there will be no difficulty: Mrs. Caruth, of Fernsclough, will answer all inquiries."
"Is she home, dearie? She was abroad somewhere when your father was taken."
"Yes; but she returned. I heard from her ten days ago. I have told her just enough to show her that The Chase will never be a home for me. She urges me to go to her for a long visit, and says, that being alone, my presence would cheer her greatly."
"Then why not go, darling?"
"Because this invitation is really an offer of a home, very delicately made; but I could not again eat the bread of dependence, Sarah. Besides, fancy my meeting the guests at Fernsclough in such attire as this."
"But you can have anything, if you will let me get you thirty or fifty pounds of my savings. You may take all I have, for that matter, only you would not need that, I know."
Joyce threw her arms round Sarah's neck and kissed her passionately.
"Bless you, and thank you a thousand times!" she cried. "But I would not rob you of your hard earnings for the world. Do you think when the relatives on whom I have a claim care nothing about my clothes, I could bear to spend on myself what you have earned by years of toil?"
Sarah warmly returned the embrace, saying as she did so—
"You can have no such claim on any one as on the woman who nourished you as a baby. I would give my life for you, and what are a few pounds compared to that?"
"I need no money, Sarah, or I would owe the help to you sooner than to any one in the world. I have plenty of clothes, neat and simple, and such as I wore at Welton. They will last for a couple of years."
"They are not black, dearie."
"No matter. The one mourning suit will do for Sundays, and light printed gowns will befit a nurse-girl. I have turned one white muslin into aprons, which will do beautifully over my two plain cashmere frocks. As to the outside mourning, what does it mean in many cases? My aunt and cousins are wearing what they call mourning for my father, gowns of costly material laden with crape and jet. Did they put it on because they cared for my father? No, Sarah; and they long to throw it off as soon as they think society would see them do it without remark. One day, when my aunt was specially kind, she said: 'These gowns will come in for you, Joyce, when my girls are done with them.' I should not have minded wearing them, if only my aunt had offered them in real kindliness. But my mourning is no matter of outside show. Why should I care about externals? My Father in heaven knows."
"But stay a while at Fernsclough, darling; Mrs. Caruth was always fond of you."
"Always most kind. But I cannot go there, of all places in the world."
These last words were uttered with an emphasis which Sarah could not help noticing. She looked up from her ironing with an inquiring expression, but Joyce had turned away her head. She noted, however, that a crimson flush had spread even over the fair neck of her nursling, and she wondered, but said nothing. Joyce, too, remained silently gazing out of the window; but when she at length turned, Sarah noted traces of tears on her cheeks, though she began to speak cheerfully enough and to unfold her plans more fully.
"I have settled about clothes. I have enough money for my journey, and a little to spare. On the strength of Mrs. Caruth's recommendation, Mrs. Ross, of Springfield Park, is willing to engage me as the personal attendant of her two little girls, aged four and six years. I shall have no menial work, and the mother regards her children's nurse as of a rank above her kitchen-maid, and does not insist on caps."
"Oh, Miss Joyce. That I should live to hear you speak like that!" said Sarah, in a tone of deep distress.
"Be comforted, dear old nurse and kindest of friends. Honest labour has with it far more of dignity than dependence with idleness. Earned bread will taste sweet. The dainties here are always bitter, no matter how delicately flavoured. And now I shall tell you no more, and when the time comes for questioning, you can answer truly that you do not know where I am. This much you shall know. Mrs. Caruth's own maid, whom you have seen many a time, will meet me when I leave this house, and accompany me to the station nearest to my place of service. I will not tell you the name of it, or of the town next to Springfield Park, but it will comfort you to feel that the old friend of my parents insists on sending this good woman to travel with me. When I am at my journey's end, she will return. Now you know all that I can tell you, and you may trust me that my uncle shall not be long kept in suspense as to my safety and whereabouts; Mrs. Caruth has undertaken to enlighten him. She does blame me for my pride in refusing to go to her, not for finding dependence unbearable, or for wishing to earn my own bread. But she cares for me because I am my father's daughter, and is resolved to shield me from the possibility of harsh judgments, by providing me with a temporary attendant."
"I can only say, may God bless and guard you, my darling! And mind, if you want me, I will come to you at any time, night or day, for only a word."
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.
THOUGH Joyce Mirlees' twenty-first birthday brought some clouds and storms, it was not wholly without peace and brightness. More than a dozen letters reached her from various quarters. Her uncle did not forget Joyce, but wrote warmly and lovingly, and promised to be at The Chase before she left it.
Other letters were from old friends at Welton, who did not fail to send birthday greetings and simple gifts to their former pastor's daughter. One packet, containing some beautiful fancy articles, came to her from her Sunday scholars, who had worked them for the dear teacher whose absence they regretted more and more, they said. Yet it was plain that one and all pictured Joyce amongst loving kinsfolk, and amid luxuries of every kind, for they seemed half afraid that their simple tokens of love would look very poor and mean amongst her birthday gifts in her new and splendid home.
If those who had bestowed such patient labour on the dainty articles could have seen how Joyce looked at them through gathering tears, but with a glad face, and heard her soft whisper, "Not alone in the world. Not forgotten, though absent, thank God!" they would have been more than repaid.
The very answering of these gave Joyce happy employment during the afternoon. Besides, she had not been without personal greetings. The very servants at The Chase had learned to love their master's orphan niece, who spoke gently, and thought of and for them, as they went about their daily duties. They ventured to offer good wishes, and one little country girl begged her to accept a pin-cushion which she had risen earlier to make for Miss Joyce.
There were loving words, too, from Sarah Keene, who alternately rejoiced and wept over her nursling, bewailing her coming departure with one breath, and expressing her firm conviction in the next, that it would be overruled for good, and that her darling would be above all of them yet.
There was one more letter not named hitherto, which, though full of kindness, brought some disappointment. The writer, Mrs. Caruth, said all that could be expected from an old and true friend. But there was no other message, though she mentioned casually that her son, being quite well, had rejoined his regiment instead of availing himself of the longer leave at his disposal.
It was still early evening, and Joyce was in her own room, when she heard a light tap at the door, and the words, "May I come in, Cousin Joyce?"
The voice was Adelaide's, but the tone of it was so different from her ordinary one that Joyce could hardly believe her ears. She, however, opened the door and convinced herself that her visitor was indeed Adelaide, the elder and much more beautiful of her two handsome cousins. She also somewhat resembled Mr. Evans in disposition; but, like him, had rarely courage to express her sentiments when they differed from those of her mother and sister.
"May I come in?" she repeated, as she hesitated on the threshold of Joyce's room.
"Certainly. I am glad, very glad, to have you."
"That is kind, Cousin Joyce; kinder than I deserve. I am come to make a confession, Joyce; I have been very unkind to you. Will you forgive me?"
"I do not understand. You have done nothing," said Joyce, amazed at the visit, words, and look of her cousin, who had taken her hand, and was holding it between both her own.
"Perhaps I have not done much, after all," she said; "but one has often as much cause to grieve for the not doing what is right and kind as for active unkindness. Cousin Joyce, I have had a revelation to-day. I have had a peep at my own heart and life, and I am dissatisfied with both, especially in connection with yourself. When you spoke to my mother this morning and told her what you were going to do, how you had made up your mind to leave the only relatives you have in the world, because under their roof you had a shelter, not a home, I felt so sorry for you, so ashamed for ourselves. It was your birthday morning. You are twenty-one to-day. I was the same four months ago, and then my mother did not know how to lavish enough of costly things upon me. I had cards—works of art that had cost pounds; flowers in profusion, letters, messages, callers, jewellery, finery of all kinds, and a grand evening party given in my honour. And you, Cousin Joyce, had nothing but the coldest greeting, and an offer of our secondhand and third-best clothes. Please let me finish—" for Joyce would have stopped the confession half-way. "I do not know how it was brought about, but I seemed to see everything you had endured under this roof from the day of your coming. No welcome, no sympathy, no home, no friends."
"Yes, my uncle has always been kind, and I have had Sarah Keene. Besides, I was but a stranger who had to win the affection of strangers, though they might be relatives; and I really believe you care for me after all!" cried Joyce, looking up into Adelaide's face, and smiling through the tears which her cousin's words had brought to her eyes. "Forgive me, Adelaide. I want forgiveness, too, for I have judged you rather hardly, I am afraid."
"No, you have not; I have never been kind, but I want to be now." And two pairs of arms went out, and two girls' lips met for the first time in mutual affection and forgiveness. Then they sat down side by side, each encircling the other with one embracing arm.
"We shall be friends as well as cousins for the future. Until now, we have been neither," said Adelaide. "I wish you were not going away, Joyce. If you will stay, I will try to make The Chase more of a home to you than it has been. But how can you, after what mamma said this morning? I think that proposal about the dresses and your helping to alter ours was too dreadful."
And the girl blushed with shame at the recollection.
"I should not have minded about working early and late if you had wanted help and we had worked together," said Joyce. "If any one here had been ill, I should have thought nothing too much to do for them, night or day. Supposing that my uncle had been poor, and had given me a home with his children, I would have slaved for him and them most cheerfully, and taken care that his kindness should have cost him nothing in the end. But you are all rich, and every wish can be gratified; and the thought of being sent to sew under the orders of Russell was—"
"Hush, dear Joyce! I cannot bear it," interposed Adelaide, as she laid her white hand on her cousin's lips. "That alone would have driven you from us, and after what mamma said, you cannot stay. Now you must show you have forgiven me by taking this little birthday gift," and drawing a ring-case from her pocket, Adelaide tried to place a beautiful ring on Joyce's finger.
"Do not ask me, dear; I cannot take it," said Joyce.
"I bought it myself, and I have so large an allowance that it cost me nothing; I wish it had. The having too much money takes from us the joy of self-sacrifice."
"I cannot take it," repeated Joyce. "How would that diamond look on the hand of a maid to little children? Besides, I have rings that belonged to my mother, if I wished to wear any."
"You have not forgiven me," sighed Adelaide.
"Yes, and I will take a gift, too, and prize it. Spend ten shillings on a little brooch in cut steel, and I will wear it, and never part with it while I live. And give me your likeness; I should like to have it, though I shall always picture your face as it looks to-night."
"You shall have these trifles, Joyce, and I will keep this, no matter how long, until you are willing to wear it." And restoring the ring to its case she put it into her pocket. "Now what else can I do for you?" she asked.
"My uncle breakfasts earlier than you and the rest do. I have been used to pour out his coffee and join him at table. I think he will miss me at first. Will you sometimes breakfast with him?"
"How selfish I have been not to notice this, or care for his loneliness! Rely on me, I will breakfast with him always, unless by some special chance I have been up very late the night before."
"I shall neither be missed nor wanted," said Joyce. "Indeed, I begin to fear I shall soon be forgotten."
But she smiled as she said it, for she was glad to think that the father and daughter would be brought together by her own departure.
Then these two girls became more confidential, and Joyce gave her cousin every particular respecting the work she had undertaken, the manner in which she had obtained the situation, and of the fact that Mrs. Caruth was sending her own maid to accompany her on her journey to Springfield Park.
"It seems quite amusing to think that one who is travelling with such an object should be so attended, does it not?" asked Joyce.
Adelaide looked thoughtful, then replied, "Mrs. Caruth must think a great deal about you. Does she understand what you are going to do?"
"I am not sure, but I do know she is my friend. She was almost like a mother to me until I was about seventeen, and when I had none of my own. Then—"
"Then what?"
"Her son came home for a time, and she had him, and I became more of a companion to my father."
"I believe I have seen both Mrs. Caruth and her son. Does she call him Alec?"
"Always. He is about thirty-two now. You see I was only nine when he was twenty, and as the child of his old tutor, he made a pet and playfellow of me. It seems strange that we should both be grown-up people after a few years."
"He is very fond of his mother, and she of him," said Adelaide. "Indeed, he seems a good, noble-minded man altogether. Augusta thought there was no one like him during the eight weeks we spent at Mentone."
A statement which did not appear to give unqualified satisfaction to Joyce, for she paused a moment, then, in a constrained voice, though with an attempt at archness, she asked—
"Did Major Caruth think there was no one like Augusta?"
"He neither troubled himself about her nor any other girl. I mean so far as paying special attention went. He was everything that was kind and courteous, but the elder ladies and the children absorbed the larger share of his time—somewhat, I think, to the disgust of the grown-up girls. If hazarded a guess, it would be that he had no heart left to give, and that he was far too noble and true a man to pay unmeaning attentions, which could lead to nothing but regrets and pain for another. I suppose he has no sister, or he would be a model 'brother of girls.'"
"No, but he is a brother of girls for all that. He would be to all such, if circumstances called for his help, what the son of a pure-minded, virtuous, Christian mother should be. I know him so well."
Joyce's face was lighted up by a bright, glad look, born of precious memories, but it faded as she said, "I am not likely to meet Major Caruth again. I was Miss Mirlees, and a power at Welton, as the parson's daughter in a country parish always is, you know. Three days hence I shall be 'only a servant.'"
"Joyce, you must give up this plan of yours; I cannot bear to think of it. My father cares for you; I want you at The Chase. Augusta will come over to my side, for she is not nearly so hard as she seems. We have both been carefully educated in selfishness, and even a first step in the right direction costs a great effort. But I can stir her to it, and we will make a combined attack on my mother, who must give in. Say you will stay."
"Not now, dear. But if ever the time should come when I can be sure you all wish for me, or if I am needed by any, I will return."
Adelaide was obliged to be satisfied with this. The girls parted with expressions of affection and pledges of future friendship; and Joyce laid her head on her pillow with a lighter heart than she had done for months past.
Mr. Evans was expected home the evening before his niece was to leave The Chase, but in place of him came a telegram—
"Accident on line. Train delayed, but none injured. Expect me at noon to-morrow."
Joyce was to leave the station at nine, so her uncle would not arrive till after she was gone. Mrs. Evans declined to see her, but sent word that when Joyce came to her senses, and was prepared to submit and acknowledge she had done wrong, she might write and say so.
Augusta, doubtless urged thereto by her sister, rose early enough to say farewell to her cousin. Sarah Keene watched her out of sight as well as she could through falling tears, and prayed for a blessing on her head, and Adelaide, bravely mounted beside Joyce in the shabby conveyance which took her and her luggage to the station, whispered cheery words to the very last moment, when, in company with Dobson, Mrs. Caruth's staid waiting-woman, she started on her journey.
Moved still further by the new and better feelings just born in her heart, Adelaide declined to drive with Mrs. Evans and Augusta, and went instead to meet her father on his return at noon.
It was a great surprise to Mr. Evans when he saw Adelaide's beautiful face glowing with eager expectation, in search of some traveller whose arrival she anticipated. He did not for a moment associate her presence with his own home-coming, until her eyes met his as the train stopped, and stepping forward, she exclaimed—
"Papa, I am so glad you are here safe and sound!" And lifting her face to his she kissed him lovingly again and again, then slipping her arm through his, went with him to the carriage which awaited them.
"That first kiss was poor Cousin Joyce's," she said. "She left it for you, and I promised to deliver it."
"Joyce's! She is surely not gone? I thought you would all have joined to keep her until my return. My only sister's only child to leave The Chase in such haste!"
"She could not stay. I tried hard to persuade her, for, papa, I am sorry I have not been kinder to Joyce. We are friends now, dear friends, and I hope we shall always be so. I cannot blame Joyce for going. How could she stay? But you do not know all yet. I trust things will turn out better than they seem to promise. I think I ought to tell you all about Joyce's birthday and what was said, only you must promise to say nothing to mamma. I cannot help thinking she is a little sorry now, and she is more likely to feel regret about Joyce's going if no one speaks of it."
Then Adelaide told her father all that had passed, and Mr. Evans listened, not altogether sadly, for his daughter made the most of all that had been bright for Joyce on her birthday—the loving letters and souvenirs from Welton, Mrs. Caruth's consideration for her cousin's safe convoy, the opening of hearts between themselves, and the new-born friendship, which was to bind them more closely than the ties of relationship had done.
"And," continued Adelaide, "Joyce will never disgrace the name she bears. I only wish I were more like her."
There was much to cheer Mr. Evans in what he heard from his daughter, and acting upon her suggestion, he made no allusion to Joyce's departure. His silence was both a relief and a reproach to his wife, who expected a scene, and was conscious that, in spite of her desire to free herself from a sense of responsibility, she could not even excuse herself for her treatment of Joyce.
On the following morning, when Mr. Evans went down, expecting to take his breakfast in solitude, and feeling how much he should miss Joyce's gentle ministry, he found Adelaide already seated at the table. She rose as he entered and lifted her face for a kiss.
"Now another, papa," she said. "That is for Joyce. You must give me one every morning for her, as I am her deputy."
It was such a new thing for Mr. Evans to be greeted thus by his own children, that he could hardly realize that he was awake, but he showered many kisses on the fair, bright face that waited for them.
"I did not expect to see you, my dear," he said.
"No, dear papa, but I must try to be a better daughter. I told you yesterday that I was beginning to learn new lessons. If I become what I wish to be, remember, Joyce was my first teacher. When I asked what I could do for her, she told me what I might do in a little way for you. But for her, I should not be here; however, I will not leave you to a lonely meal again."
And Adelaide kept her promise.
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.