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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.
WHEN Mrs. Caruth invited Joyce Minces to stay at Fernsclough she was quite in earnest, and yet, whilst anxious to serve the daughter of her old friend, she was hardly sorry that the girl did not accept the invitation. Her only son was absent, but time would bring him back. Joyce had been his pet, and he had made himself her playfellow as a child. But she was a woman now, and the best of mothers are ambitious for their sons. It was, perhaps, as well that Alec should find a partner for life before he and Joyce met again.
She was a dear girl, undoubtedly. Good, true, and with a sturdy independence of character which Mrs. Caruth respected. But Alec was master of Fernsclough, and Joyce the penniless daughter of his old tutor. She had been a little afraid that something might come of that old companionship between the child and the youth; but Alec was every inch a soldier, and duty with him always came first. He had been less at home than he might well have been, but the mother was proud to see her son's name in the honour lists from time to time. He had rejoined his regiment after his recovery, but now it was ordered home, and she was looking forward to having him near or with her for, perhaps, years to come. They would spend next Christmas together, and the mother was planning what friends should be gathered at Fernsclough to make the happy season still brighter for her son.
It was November before he arrived, brown, bearded, more erect and strong-looking than before his illness.
Mrs. Caruth must have stood on tiptoe, if her son had not bent his tall head to receive her kiss of welcome, and return it with interest.
"It is delightful to have just you alone to receive me, mother," he said. "I was half afraid you might have visitors, seeing you could not know quite when to expect me. I might have brought one myself, Captain Tyson, whom I have named in my letters as such a fine fellow and reliable friend. But he would not come straight here with me—I think on your account, that we might be together for a few days first. He is leaving the army for good."
"He will be welcome, Alec, for your sake. But there will be plenty to talk over. Butler, too, is longing to go into business matters with you as soon as possible."
"Dear mother, do not compel me to assume the responsibilities of a landowner until twenty-four hours have been given to inquiries and reminiscences. I have shaken hands with Butler, and promised to talk to him the day after to-morrow. Till then, my time is my mother's."
Mrs. Caruth's face showed her pleasure; and after dinner her son said—
"Let us go into your boudoir, cosiest of rooms, and question each other about everything and everybody."
The mother agreed, and the mutual questioning went on for some time.
"Now," said Major Caruth, "I want to know all about my dear old tutor's death. You told me very little beyond the bare fact when you wrote to me."
Mrs. Caruth gave all the particulars, adding, "I believe the loss of everything broke Mr. Mirlees' heart. But I was not at home when he died. I preferred remaining abroad for some time after you left me to facing home without you."
"But there was his little girl—Joyce. What became of her?"
"You forget, Alec, Joyce is now twenty-one. Her uncle, Mr. Walter Evans, took her to his home."
"Evans! Surely you mean a subdued-looking man with a rich, vulgar wife, and two very handsome daughters, whom we first saw when we were staying with the Clives at The Warren. Mr. Evans had a beautiful place near theirs. We afterwards met the family at Mentone."
"The same people. Mr. Evans was poor before his marriage, but a man of good birth, refined manners, and excellent education. Every one liked him, but the wife was tolerated for his sake, or by some, perhaps, on account of a full purse."
"So my little Joyce went to live with that vulgar, purse-proud woman; my playmate, whom I petted and protected when she was a child and I a man. Have you heard from her lately; I should like to know how she gets on with Mrs. Evans, seeing that she had a wonderfully tender nature, combined with a fine spirit of her own, which would ill brook a position of dependence on such a woman."
Mrs. Caruth could only answer truly, and she said—"I fear Joyce was unhappy at The Chase. Mr. Evans was fond of his niece, but he yielded to his wife, and was hardly master in his own house. Joyce grew tired of her position, and wrote to me for a character to enable her to obtain a situation."
"A what? Joyce Mirlees used that word in connection with herself? What could she mean?"
"I use her own word, Alec."
"Then I presume she was falling back on the only resource of a friendless young gentlewoman, a governess's post."
"No, dear; Joyce did not consider herself sufficiently accomplished to take a situation as governess. People want so much nowadays, and Joyce, though to my mind unusually well-educated in all that is most valuable, had none of the more showy qualifications."
"She had those which, showy or not, are most valuable in every-day life, and really show the most too, because they are in hourly exercise for the good of others. Tell me, now, what were the duties she undertook?"
"She went as attendant to two little children."
"Do you mean as a nursemaid?"
"The children were too old to need nursing. Joyce wrote of them that they were the most winning little creatures imaginable, and quite a comfort to her."
"She needed some comfort, poor child!" said Major Caruth, with a sigh. "And you, mother; what did you do for the daughter of an old friend?"
He spoke quietly, but his face and words expressed deep feeling.
"I wrote to Joyce and offered her a home and a welcome here, Alec. I have a copy of my letter and of Joyce's answer. You will see from these that she had a choice in the matter. I can scarcely be blamed if, in spite of my offer, she yet preferred her own independent course, even to a home at Fernsclough. I was grieved to think of Joyce in the position of a mere serving-maid, but I own I did not respect her the less for declining to eat the bread of dependence."
Major Caruth took the letters, read them through, and then returned them without a word of comment to his mother. His face did not express entire satisfaction, and of this she was sensible.
"Do you not think I wrote kindly, and did what I could under the circumstances?" she asked, in a somewhat aggrieved tone, and after a rather prolonged silence.
"You did well, so far, mother. But do not be hurt at my saying, I think you should not have stopped where you did. Joyce was not the girl to accept home and maintenance from anyone on whom she had no claim but that of life-long acquaintance, without doing something in return. She had already tried that sort of existence with relatives, and knew what it meant."
"Joyce could never suppose that she would receive anything but the greatest kindness and consideration here, and as my friend. She would never make a mental comparison between me and Mrs. Walter Evans."
"Certainly not; but you must remember Joyce was bound to earn something. Where would her clothes and mere pocket and travelling expenses come from? She had no income from any source. What could the girl do? Come to Fernsclough as your guest and friend, without a pound in her pocket? I presume you made no allusion to money matters?"
"I assure you, Alec, I did not think of doing so. Had Joyce come here, she would have wanted for nothing."
"I believe you meant all that was kind. What you might have done is this: represented to Joyce that, being alone, you wished for a lady companion, and that your old friend's daughter would be so much more agreeable to you than anyone else could be; but that, for her sake and your own, the arrangement must be made on a business basis, the same as with a stranger, and so as to leave you both perfectly free to end it, should either wish to do so."
"I see, dear, and I wish I had done this; but it is too late now."
"Quite too late, mother," said Alec, thoughtfully.
"After all, Joyce has not done so badly. The lady she is with, who must be exceptionally nice, treated Joyce from the first with great consideration, and, finding out how well qualified she was to teach the children, made her their governess at three months' end. She now fills a position that would disgrace no lady."
"I am certain she never did fill one that the idea of disgrace could be associated with. Perhaps her employer thought it would be more economical to promote the capable maid than to engage a governess proper. One has heard of such things before."
"You do not know of whom you speak, my dear Alec, or you would not say so."
"Then tell me the lady's name. If she is on my visiting list, I shall be better able to judge."
"Joyce particularly requested that I would tell no one the name of her employer, or communicate her present address. I do not suppose she would mind now, because her position is so entirely satisfactory. Still, I am bound to respect her wishes until I have asked permission to do otherwise. If you like, I will write at once."
"You shall violate no confidence for me, mother; and to-night you must talk to me instead of wasting these precious first hours in writing to anyone."
Then, as if wishing to hear no more of Joyce, Major Caruth began to ask after old acquaintances, and the rest of the evening passed without further allusion to her.
When bed-time came, he remarked—
"According to Tyson's plans when we parted, he will probably be with us on Friday night. This is Tuesday, so before he comes I shall have time to satisfy old Butler, have a run round the place, make myself acquainted with all that has been done during my absence, and be ready for Tyson when he arrives. He will have to settle down now, though he is four years my junior, for he has just succeeded to a fine estate."
"I wish you would settle down, Alec."
"So I shall, mother—for a while at any rate."
"But I mean get married."
"That even is within the verge of possibility. I will look for some one who is worthy to be your daughter, and when I find her—"
He did not say what would follow, but kissed his mother, and disappeared into his own room.
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.
MAJOR CARUTH was mistaken in supposing that his friend Captain Tyson had no visit to pay before joining him at Fernsclough, and the latter did not arrive until a day later than the one originally fixed when they parted.
"I was obliged to run over to my sister's, and have a look at her and her belongings, though I did not stay longer than I could help. They will see enough of me when I settle down, as our homes will be near together," said the captain, in explanation of his tardy arrival.
Mrs. Caruth was charmed with her son's friend, and, as the days passed, felt how pleasant it would be if Alec could induce him to extend his visit until after the New Year.
"I wish I could stay; many thanks to you for asking me," he replied; "but Kate, my sister, made me promise to go back for the Christmas doings at her house. If only—"
Here Captain Tyson paused, and fell into a species of brown study, the purport of which he did not reveal. This was at breakfast, and an hour later he said to his friend—
"Caruth, I wish you would go with me to my sister's for a single night. I have a special reason for asking this, and I think Mrs. Caruth will spare you to me for so long."
"Do you mean to go to-day?" asked the major.
"Well, yes; it only wants a week to Christmas, and things must be arranged soon, you understand."
Major Caruth did not understand, but was quite willing to take everything for granted and Captain Tyson, having announced that no one ever came at a wrong time whom he invited to Kate's house, and that he would in any case "wire" from the station, so that she might not be taken by surprise, went off with his friend by the 2.30 train.
It was only after they were gone past recall that Mrs. Caruth remembered she was quite ignorant as to her son's destination. Captain Tyson had neither mentioned his sister's surname nor the place of her abode; but she said to herself, "It is only for a night; Alec will be home to-morrow." And made herself contented in the meanwhile.
It was growing dusk as Major Caruth and his friend alighted at the door of a beautiful country house. It stood hospitably open, having been flung wide at the sound of approaching wheels. There was a rosy glow from within, which came from a blazing fire in the wide hall, where space, warmth, and comfort were well combined. A tall, graceful woman stood near the doorway, extending welcoming hands to the newly arrived guests.
"Kate," said Captain Tyson, "this is my good friend and wise mentor, Major Caruth, of whom you have heard before. Caruth, this is my sister Kate, otherwise Mrs. Ross; and here come the children to welcome Uncle Jack."
Turning aside from the elders after this introduction, Captain Tyson seized the smaller girl of the two and lifted her for a kiss, then exchanged her for the other, whom he mounted on his shoulder amid a burst of merry laughter from the pair of little people. There was another female figure visible, but in shadow, and with her head turned from the door, as the gentlemen entered.
"I am sorry my husband will not be in yet," said Mrs. Ross. "He made an appointment before my brother's telegram came, and was obliged to keep it; but he will be here in good time for dinner. I have, however, a friend and guest, whom you, I think, will be glad to see."
Mrs. Ross advanced, the figure turned towards her and her companion, and Major Caruth clasped the extended hand of Joyce Mirlees.
"Joyce!" he exclaimed. "Can it be you? This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. Did Tyson know?"
Joyce's face was radiant, as she looked with frank gladness at her old friend, who still retained her hand in his.
"Yes, it is I, Alec," she said; "and Captain Tyson planned this surprise for you. When he was here lately, he talked of you and of his intended visit to Fernsclough. Then, naturally, it came out that his friend Major Caruth, and the friend of my whole life, were one and the same person. He had a great deal to say about you, and I—you may imagine how glad I was to tell him that for years you had been my dear father's pupil and my own true friend always."
Joyce looked bravely up as she spoke. Her manner was frank and unrestrained, like that of a sister meeting a dear brother after years of absence.
Perhaps Major Caruth would have liked to see more of self-consciousness about the girl, and signs of still deeper feeling.
Outwardly, the strong man and brave soldier showed more emotion than Joyce did, for he kept her hand in his, and his voice trembled as he said—
"I little guessed what was before me when I left home to-day, or how much I should owe to my friend Tyson before the close of it."
"I dragged him off here at a moment's notice, Miss Mirlees," said Captain Tyson, pausing from a frantic race round the hall, in which he was already indulging with his small nieces. "You and my sister must explain to him one special object I had in bringing him here."
Major Caruth heard the explanation in due time, but not at that moment, for Mrs. Ross, on hospitable thoughts intent, was offering tea; and afterwards the gentlemen went to their rooms to dress for dinner.
Major Caruth remembered Mrs. Ross's allusion to Joyce as her "friend and guest."
"The holidays have begun," he thought, "and the governess is gone for awhile. The friend remains. How few women would have drawn such a distinction as Mrs. Ross did by the use of those words!"
Before bedtime, Major Caruth understood his friend's object in bringing him to Springfield Park in such haste. Mrs. Ross explained it on his behalf.
"My brother has told me of your kind wish that he should spend Christmas at Fernsclough. Mrs. Caruth had previously invited Joyce, who was pledged to remain here. Yet I hope and believe we should all be happier if under one roof than we could be if divided. My brother thinks that he and you might persuade Mrs. Caruth to come to us; but if you think it necessary, I will go to Fernsclough and unite my solicitations to yours—that is always supposing you are willing to join our Christmas gathering here."
Major Caruth looked for one instant inquiringly at Joyce. Her answering glance was eloquent enough to satisfy him, and he at once said to Mrs. Ross, "It will give me the greatest possible pleasure, and I do not think you will need to travel to Fernsclough to persuade my mother also to accept your kind invitation."
So Major Caruth returned home on the following day, carrying a pleasant surprise to his mother. He also conveyed a considerable addition to his luggage in the shape of Joyce's Christmas gifts for Welton friends.
One packet she retained.
"This is for Mrs. Caruth; I shall put it on the Christmas-tree for her, instead of sending it now."
"And mine, Joyce. Where is it? I see nothing for me."
"People are not supposed to ask beforehand, or to be told what they may expect when the tree is lighted," she answered, with a laugh and a blush.
"I know what I expect, and I shall certainly ask for it," he said; "but I will not be more selfish than others. I will wait till Christmas Day for my present, Joyce. Good-bye for so long, dear Joyce."
"We shall lose Miss Mirlees," said Mr. Ross, oracularly. "Katie, Katie, who would have dreamed that you would develop a taste for match-making."
This to his wife.
"Nor have I, dear. If a match should come about, such as you suggest, it was virtually made before you and I ever heard the names of Alec Caruth and Joyce Mirlees."
Of course, Mrs. Caruth accepted the invitation to Springfield Park, and equally of course the gathering there was a most delightful one.
If Alec Caruth did not find a present from his former child-friend beneath the spreading boughs of the lighted Christmas-tree, he was not wholly discontented. Whilst others were admiring their gifts, he managed to whisper a demand for one which was more precious in his eyes than all beside.
"You know what I want, dear Joyce," he pleaded. "Not a gift, only a fair exchange. One true heart in return for another. You have mine. You have had it for years, and you—" He looked inquiringly.
"I am afraid I have none to give you in return," she whispered.
A great fear filled his heart for a moment, but once more Alec Caruth looked at Joyce's blushing face and read the true answer to his petition.
"I believe you say this because, dear Joyce, it was mine already. Tell me, darling, am I right?"
But Joyce did not speak. Nevertheless, Alec was content, and a little later, he told his mother that Joyce had given him the best of Christmas presents—her own sweet self.
So the little Rosses lost their former maid and present governess, but kept always their friend in her who soon became Joyce Caruth.
On the Christmas-tree at Springfield that year, Joyce found the ring that Adelaide had offered her on her twenty-first birthday. The girl sent it to be placed there, and Joyce gladly accepted what she felt to be a token of true cousinly love, and told her so.
In after days, when the once penniless niece was a happy wife, Mrs. Walter Evans was heard to declare that Joyce had improved wonderfully. But then, in her eyes, wealth and position were the greatest of all claims to respect. Without these all other excellences were as nothing. No need to tell the names of the many who rejoiced to see the happiness of her who, as Joyce Mirlees, had tried to make others happy, or to say that none of these were forgotten by Joyce Caruth.
Beneath her roof, Captain Tyson met his fate, in the person of Adelaide Evans, and there, too, Mr. Evans is a frequent guest.
"To think that you should choose one who for awhile was 'only a servant,'" said Joyce to her husband, some time after their marriage.
"Dearest," he answered, "that word servant always brings pleasant thoughts to my mind. As a soldier, I was ever proud to call myself the servant of Queen and country; but I rejoice more when I think of Him who took upon Himself the form of a servant, and came on earth, not to be ministered unto, but to minister. Faithful service to an earthly master is right honourable, but to be the faithful, humble servant of God is far better than to be a king amongst men. May it be your lot and mine, dear Joyce, thus to serve!"
And with Christmas bells bringing to mind thoughts of the first Christmas morning, Joyce whispered "Amen."
THE END.