Great preparations were made in the Vicar's Close at Wells for Charlotte's visit to Barley Wood. Her aunt gave her orders as to what she was to wear every day; how she was to be sure to make a proper curtsey at the door of the drawing-room when she entered Mrs. More's presence; that she was to play on the piano, and exhibit the screens she had just painted; and if Mrs. More admired them, she was to beg her to do her the favour to accept them.
"Do not let Joyce commit herself by any rustic manners; you who have been carefully educated, my dear Charlotte, must try to do me credit, and give Joyce a hint—"
"Joyce is so lovely!" Charlotte exclaimed, "it scarcely matters what she says, or wears."
"My dear, Joyce has nostyle, and is given to express herself too freely; and, Ithink, her voice is sometimes pitched in too high a key. Yours is gentle and well modulated; now do me credit at Barley Wood,Charlotte; I have taken so much pains to form you on the model of a true gentlewoman; and you must remember how many girls would think it a great honour to pay a visit to Mrs. Hannah More."
Charlotte promised to do her best; and when her uncle called to take her to the "Swan," where the four-wheel was waiting, she was in a flutter of excitement.
Mr. Falconer greeted his sister in his usual frank kindly manner; and while Charlotte ran upstairs to get ready, Miss Falconer said:
"I am glad to hear Melville is gone."
The squire sighed.
"Yes, he is gone, and his mother finds it hard to part from him."
"Hard to part from him! Really, Arthur, when one considers how much anxiety he has caused, I wonder you should say that."
"Ah! Letitia, that is all very well; but mothers' hearts are the same, whether their sons are good or bad. It seems to me that mothers generally love the children best, that give them the most trouble. However, the poor fellow is gone, bag and baggage. I went to Bath with him, and delivered him over to Mr. Crawford, a steady-going man he seems, and Melville will not have a chance of getting into mischief under his care, I hope. But it is an expensive matter. I had to put a hundred pounds into Crawford's keeping as a start; besides twenty I gave Melville."
"You ought not to have given him more than five pounds," Miss Falconer said. "The whole management of Melville has been a mistake."
"So you have told me before," said the squire. "My dear Letitia, single women always think they know a great deal about the affairs of married people, and, as experience is wanting, they commonly know nothing."
"I have long since given up arguing the point with you, Arthur; however, let us say no more. I only hope that Melville may return a changed character, and then you will not regret this outlay for him. I only wish Joyce had some of the money spent onher."
"Joyce!" the squire exclaimed—a smile breaking over his fine face; "Joyce! all the money in the world could not improve her. She is my joy and comfort. I half grudge letting her go to Barley Wood, even for a short visit."
"You ought to be glad that she has had such an invitation; and, really, you have to thank me for it, Arthur. I take such a deep interest in Joyce. I haveoften tried to put before you what she needs, and now I have great hope that Mrs. More may suggest some plan for her."
The squire began to feel very impatient; his sister's interest in his children was undoubted, but he did not want to have it perpetually brought before him. Miss Falconer had an unfortunate habit of sounding her own excellencies, especially with regard to her nieces and nephews. Then there were often little side hits at his wife; and it is always hard for a man like the squire, to be reminded that his sisters do not consider his wife their equal in the social scale, and the nearer the truth the less palatable is the assertion of it.
"Is not Charlotte ready?" he exclaimed. "Joyce will be waiting at Draycot, where we are to pick her up. Thomas was to drive her there with her box, as he had an errand at Farmer Scott's."
"In what did Joyce drive?"
"In the gig; and Joyce likes to pay Mrs. Scott, who is a sad cripple, a visit sometimes, so it all fitted in very well. Come Charlotte, my dear," he said, turning to his niece. "We shall find the four-wheel at the 'Swan,' and I've the ostler at the Close gate waiting to take your luggage. Two boxes! Joyce only took one."
"Charlotte was obliged to have a bonnet-box," heraunt said. "Her Tuscan bonnet would have been ruined with the dust if she had worn it."
The squire was already in the little lobby, and, cutting short good-byes, he strode down the Close, while Charlotte ran back twice, to kiss her aunt and say in a tearful voice:
"I cannot endure to leave you, sweet auntie."
"Good-bye, my treasure, good-bye," Miss Falconer repeated again and again, and very genuine tears were on her own cheeks. They were a very demonstrative pair, and, as we should say in these days, "gushed" over each other, but real love did underlie the fanciful expression of it; and Miss Falconer looked on Charlotte with the pride that a modeller in plastic clay, looks upon the work of his hands, and remembers how carefully every detail has been wrought out, and how, in spite of a little flaw here and there, the result is satisfactory.
Joyce was watching for her father at the door of Mr. Scott's farm, and came running down the garden between the lavender bushes and high shrub-fuschias, which were glowing scarlet in the sunshine.
The squire waved his hand to the farmer's wife, who, crippled with rheumatism, could not leave her seat in the porch to come towards him. A farmboy lifted Joyce's box to the back seat, where shesoon mounted with a quick, alert spring, and then, with a shilling handed to the boy, the squire drove off.
Joyce's heart sank a little when they turned in at the gates of Barley Wood.
"Are you coming in with us, father?"
"No, no, my dear; I must get back as fast as I can. It is a good many miles for Mavis at a stretch."
They drew up at the door, and an old servant answered the ringing of the bell, which Joyce had jumped down to pull by a handle, made of a deer's foot. The servant's face was not very pleasant, and a forbidding looking woman called out:
"Company! yes, there's nothing but company. There's no rest from it."
The boxes were taken down, and the squire, unwilling to prolong the parting, which he felt more keenly than he cared to own, waved his whip, and saying "Good bye, my Sunshine, good-bye," drove off.
"This way," the woman said, passing across the hall and opening the door of a low, pretty room, sweet with that scent of rose leaves and lavender, which always belonged to the atmosphere of a country house long ago. It was an aroma in which many scents blended, with no very great strength—a fragrance which dwells in the memory amongst the pleasant things of early days.
There was nothing very striking about Barley Wood; it was simply a pretty country residence—a place to live and die in. There was an air of tranquility about it, and an absence of anything like fashion or show, which was very refreshing.
Miss Frowde rose to greet the two girls, and, saying that Mrs. More would see them after dinner, she led them to two rooms at the back of the house, near the servants' quarters.
"The house will be full next week for the Bible meeting at Wrington, so we thought you would not object to these rooms. I hope you will be comfortable."
The rooms opened out of each other, and were very plain in their furniture. Joyce, accustomed to her mother's scrupulous care about every little detail, noticed that the counterpane on her bed was a good deal rumpled, and there were rims of dust on the bosses of the old-fashioned round mirror. Evidently the servants at Barley Wood had not taken much trouble about the guests.
Indeed, the shameful neglect of Mrs. More's servants, and their bad conduct, had even then been canvassed by outsiders, though the old lady herself was perfectly unconscious of it.
The ingratitude of her servants, whom she hadspoiled with such excessive indulgence, was a dark cloud over Hannah More's last days, and sent her forth at last, with all the weight of her years upon her, to seek a new home, and turn her back on Barley Wood for ever.
The girls made a quick toilette and then went down, linked arm in arm, to the dining room, where Miss Frowde awaited them.
The beautiful valley in which Wrington lies, stretched out before the windows, and the range of hills which enclosed it were shining in the full light of the July afternoon.
Miss Frowde was not very conversational; she asked a few common-place questions, to which Joyce exerted herself to reply, but Charlotte took refuge in silence; she was far too much occupied with considering what impression she was making, to talk easily and naturally, as her cousin did.
"I dare say you would like a turn in the grounds, after dinner," Miss Frowde said, "and I will inquire when dear Mrs. More would like to see you. It will only be one at a time; she is husbanding her strength for the Bible meeting, when seventeen or eighteen friends will dine here."
Presently one of the maid servants came into the room.
"Mrs. More wishes to see MissForkner, and I was to say that the other might go into the village with you, Miss Frowde, if she pleased."
"You had better go immediately," Miss Frowde said to Joyce. "Dear Mrs. More does not like to be kept waiting."
Joyce rose at once and followed the maid to a small sitting room, where Mrs. More was seated in a deep armchair.
A large table was near her, covered with books and papers, and a small fire burned upon the hearth.
Joyce felt as if she were going into the presence of royalty, and far more in awe of Mrs. More, than she had done when offering her the milk at the carriage door, before Fair Acres.
Indeed Hannah More had a certain queenly dignity about her, and the reflection of those palmy days when she was the admired of all admirers in the gay London world, the friend of Garrick and the great Dr. Johnson, did, in some degree, remain with her always.
The spiritual life in which she had lived and moved for so many years, had lifted her far above the interests and pursuits which once she held to be the end and aim of life. Her religion was eminently practical, and to do good and to communicate was never forgotten.Nevertheless, the literary efforts which had made her famous, her brilliant conversation, her intellectual powers, had given her a certain tone and dignity, which while attractive, might yet be called the air of superiority, which in those days was conceded, to be as quite the proper attitude for any woman who had made herself a name. Now, in the great crowd of authors and craftswomen of the pen, it is hard for anyone to lift her head above her neighbours.
A thing of the past indeed it is to remember how famous "the little Burney," as Dr. Johnson called her, became; how flattery was poured upon her, how no one dared to be jealous, because no one would dare to emulate her performances. To be great in London Society in Hannah More's early days, was to be great indeed. The author of "Percy" was presented with a laurel crown, the stems confined within an elegant ring, and Garrick himself read aloud the play to a select circle of admiring listeners!
But though history repeats itself, and fashion ruled then as now, in literature as in other things, I think there was more honest and kindly appreciation of the work of others than we have now-a-days.
The literary field was narrower, it is true, and therefore was not broken up into plots, each plot hedged in by various conceits—a barrier the uninitiated cannot pass. All flowers growing outside the barrier are called weeds; and if they are fragrant, they are pronounced sickly; if bright and vivid in colour, common. I may be wrong, but I think this self-sufficient, dogmatic criticism is very much on the increase, and that the little jealousies and rivalries amongst men and women who follow the same profession in art or literature grow more frequent. Tongue and pen are often both too sharp; and the superficial chatter about books and authors, pictures and music—both English and foreign—is too often passed as the real coin of the great realm of literature, when it is but a base imitation, stamped, it may be, on a showy surface with the same token, but utterly worthless when the first brilliancy is worn off.
"Come, my dear Miss Falconer," was Mrs. More's greeting to Joyce; "come and sit near me, that we may have a pleasant chat. Tell me how you have sped since I saw you, and whether you have studied the Book I gave you."
"Yes, madam," Joyce said, as she seated herself on a high Chippendale chair, the seat covered with fine cross-stitch, close to Mrs. More; "yes, madam, I have read all the passages you marked; and I had no notion before that the Bible was so beautiful."
"Ah, my child, it is a deep mine; its treasures donot lie on the surface; and let me tell you that I, who have drunk of the waters at many springs, find in the Bible alone, the living fountain of water. Your aunt told me she was anxious as to your education; she thought you needed more than your good father found it convenient to give you."
"Father has so many boys," Joyce said, "and, of course, boarding schools are very expensive. I have had to help mother a great deal at home, and I never wished to go to school. I think Aunt Letitia means by education accomplishments like Charlotte's, and I have none of them. But," Joyce went on, "I have a very clever brother, Ralph, and, when he is at home for the holidays, I write his Latin exercises, and he corrects them, and I can read French with him; and then I know a good deal of natural history—because my brother Piers is lame, and nothing amuses him like collections of birds, and moths, and insects."
"Well," Hannah More said, smiling, "I think you have laid a very good foundation; upon this, as you grow older, you can build up many fair temples of knowledge, and I hope they will be ornamented by wisdom. You know my story, I dare say."
Joyce hesitated, "I know you write plays and books. We have 'Christian Morals,' and 'Village Politics.' But——"
"Oh," Hannah More said, "those are my published works. I was alluding to the story of my own life. I always like to bring it before the young, because I can say to them, I have tasted all the world can give, and found it vanity. My dear, if I were now depending on the favours of the great for happiness, or the showering upon me of the fame which my literary work brought me, where should I be? An old woman in her eightieth year, can no longer dine with bishops and princes of the land. She can take no part in routs, and theatres would be a weariness; but, thank God, and I beg you, my child, to mark this, I turned from those vanities to strive to serve the living God when I was in my heyday. And why? Because I felt them then to bebutvanity, often vexation of spirit, and the higher part of me loathed the false lustre of the gay world."
Joyce listened attentively to every word Mrs. More said, and her young heart gave in its allegiance to the beautiful old lady who, in her own brilliant style, told her of the days of her youth, and of many little incidents connected with the names of distinguished men and women who had passed away.
"I expected opposition," she said with a sigh, "but we were a fourfold band of sisters then, and we could meet a legion of objectors with a brightface. Now, I alone am left, and can no longer give personal care to the work. But I have kindled the spark, with God's help, and I do trust the light will shine over the hills of Somersetshire when I am laid in yonder churchyard. The Mendip miners give me the most uneasiness; they are so rough, and wild, and lawless."
"Yes," Joyce said. "We, that is, Mr. Arundel and I, met the man who had been brought before the magistrates at Wells, and he knocked down Mr. Arundel, and——"
"I heard of that. Poor Susan Priday, the man's daughter, has been a good girl, and has had a sad life indeed."
"I felt so sorry for her," Joyce said, "and I should like to help her. She must be so unhappy with a bad father. If mother would let me, I should like to have her in the kitchen; but I know she would not allow it."
Mrs. More smiled.
"I suppose your good mother thinks the education in our school has spoiled Susan for service.
"Mother is a good mistress," Joyce ventured to say, "and cares for the maids, as maids, but she has a notion that people who have to earn their bread, ought not to be able to read."
"Ah! that is a notion many have shared withyour mother. Why, when the great Edward Colston first proposed to begin the good work of education in Bristol, he was voted by the Mayor and Aldermen as a dangerous person, likely to turn the sons of the poor into vipers, who should sting the rich when once they were raised out of ignorance. All that feeling has passed away in Bristol, as it will pass away in time in the country districts. Edward Colston's name is held now in honour; his school sends out useful members of society year by year. Then there is Robert Raikes at Gloucester, how his work has taken root. So I comfort myself with thinking that before this century has counted out its last year, Hannah More's schools for the sons of the soil under Mendip, will have won their way humbly but steadily to swell the great tide of progress which is bearing us on its breast. It is a wonderful age!" she continued. "God has shown us marvellous things. Steam has become our servant, and its concentrated force seems likely to move kingdoms, and verify the prophecy that men shall go to and fro on the earth. Then in our cities coal-gas is captured, and turns night into day. Who shall say what hidden forces yet lie undiscovered, needing only the brain to conceive, and the hand of some Watt to demonstrate the power, lying concealed in the mysteries of God's natural kingdom. Who was withyou on Mendip when the rough fellow attacked you?"
"Mr. Arundel," Joyce said, in a low voice, the colour rising to her face.
Hannah More smiled, and said:
"Was he yourpreux chevalier?"
Joyce blushed a still rosier red.
"I don't understand," she said, simply.
"Your devoted knight!"
"Of course, how stupid; but I so seldom hear French spoken; and I expect Ralph and I have a strange pronunciation."
"French pronunciation can only be acquired by much speaking; and now finish the story of your knight."
"Oh, it was only that the man, Susan's father, was angry, and wanted to force me to give him money; and Mr. Arundel made him move out of the way, and then, of course, the man was furious, and hurled him down upon the heather and gorse. We had lost our way, and father had to come out with two men, and lanthorns to look for us."
All the time Joyce was speaking she felt those dark eyes were fixed on her, and she hurried on to the end of her story. Hannah More was too keen an observer of faces not to read what was written on Joyce's; but she only stroked the fair, rounded cheek gently, and said;"We shall be friends, I hope; there is only a short space in earth left for me, but, long or short, you may reckon on my sympathy. We will talk about education to-morrow. I have some letters demanding attention. That pile is yet unread; many are begging letters, some are even less pleasant than that;" and the old lady sighed. Even then the dishonesty and extravagance of her household were beginning to be noticed outside Barley Wood. Although her own eyes were blinded as to the cause, she felt the results keenly.
This first day at Barley Wood was the beginning of a new life to Joyce. While Charlotte in her secret heart found the country dull, and almost wished herself back in Wells, a new world opened for Joyce. Mrs. More would recite passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost," and fill Joyce's mind with the beauties of the Garden of Eden, till she had thoughts for nothing else. Mrs. More told her she reminded her of a great man who on reading Milton for the first time, said he forgot that there was anyone else in the world but himself and Adam and Eve!
Charlotte dawdled over a bit of fancy work, which her aunt had hoped would awake Mrs. More's admiration, but as it met with but faint praise, Charlotte felt herself aggrieved, and made various uncomplimentary remarks, in private, upon the coarse apronswhich Miss Frowde produced as needlework which wasreallywanted. But the stories of London life pleased Charlotte, and she would wake up to interest when Mrs. More described the grand routs where the élite of London were gathered; of Johnson and his witty speeches; of Garrick, and of the continual round of gaiety which she had led, till she awoke from a dream to realities, and from those vanities to serve the living God.
The Bible meeting at Wrington was the great event of the year, and the village was in holiday trim. The bells rang from the noble church tower; the school children, in clean white tippets and blue cotton frocks, walked in procession to Barley Wood, where tea was provided for parents and teachers, and several of those who had come to the meeting addressed them in simple words. Sir Thomas Acland had brought with him the Bishop of Ohio, and the good old man looked upon the scene before him, with eyes dim with emotion. Here in this Somersetshire village, lying under the range of low hills, had the influence of a good woman been felt. She had borne bitter scoffs and rudeness from her enemies; she had been laughed at even by her friends, and yet she had carried the banner of the Lord onward, and now in her old age the victory was won. The peopleloved her, and though there were malcontents in Wrington, as in every other place, still the feeling for the good work the four sisters had done, was stronger than that which was against it, and the Bible had become a treasure in many humble homes. No longer like that of which Joyce had spoken at Fair Acres—rarely opened and seldom read—nor like the one described by Hannah More herself as the only one she found at Cheddar, used to prop up a flower-pot in the window!
There was a large dinner-party of seventeen at Barley Wood after the meeting, and this was a novelty to the two girls, who had never before sat down with so many at a table. Charlotte was in good spirits, having captured a pale-faced young clergyman, to whom she talked in her sentimental fashion, and who seemed almost as much fascinated by her, as she intended he should be.
Joyce, on the contrary, had no time to think of herself. She was intently listening to all that was said, and the conversation of those refined and educated gentlemen charmed her. It was impossible not to be struck with her beautiful face, glowing with interest and, though silent herself, showing that she was drinking in all that was said around her.
It was the same afterwards in Mrs. More's sitting-room, where all the guests gathered to sip fragrant tea and coffee, and talk over the burning questions of the day.
The good Bishop of Ohio, who had laboured long in the field abroad, as Hannah More had laboured at home, knew well how rough was the road, which those who desire the highest good of others, must ever tread.
Hannah More was speaking of the deep anxiety that the condition of the Mendip miners caused her, and how, of all her work, that seemed to be bringing forth the least fruit.
"An ear here and there is gathered," she said; "but the harvest is scant indeed."
Joyce, who had been listening earnestly, said:
"Susan Priday is an 'ear,' I am sure. She seemed to try to do all she could, and—"
The Bishop turned quickly. Joyce almost thought she ought not to have spoken, and that the Bishop and Mrs. More would think her forward, but the good old man said:
"That is right, my dear young lady. It is well to remind our dear friend that the grains she has scattered are not all in vain. Some will fall on the good ground, and by God's blessing spring up and bear fruit. Who is Susan Priday?"
"Come nearer the Bishop, Joyce," Mrs. More said, kindly, "and tell him your experience of Mendip miners, and of Susan also."
Joyce did as she was told, and soon forgot her nervousness at being called upon to talk to so great a person as a Bishop, as she narrated with sweet simplicity, and yet with dramatic power, the story which we already know.
By degrees the voices of people in other parts of the room ceased, and Joyce found herself the centre of interest as she told her story.
"Who is she?" Sir Thomas Acland asked, as Joyce finished her story, and answered a summons from Miss Frowde at the further end of the room.
Failing a little in the good manners, on which Miss Falconer put so high a value, Charlotte answered a questionnotaddressed to her.
"She is my cousin, sir—Joyce Falconer. She has led a very retired life at Fair Acres."
"There are many flowers that bloom unseen, and she is one of the fairest I ever saw. If a retired life produces such good effect, it strikes me, Mrs. More, we had all better go into retirement. But—"
He stopped, for Joyce, with a white face from which every vestige of colour had vanished, came back to her position by Mrs. More's chair. Her handswere clasped tightly together, her whole attitude one of repressed emotion.
"If you please, Mrs. More, I must beg you to excuse me. I am sent for to go home, for my father—Oh! my father!—is dying."
Miss Frowde was close behind Joyce.
"You must not agitate dear Mrs. More," she said. "I will take care of Miss Falconer," she added. "The gig is waiting."
"Do you know any particulars?"
Miss Frowde shook her head, and was leading Joyce away, when she suddenly turned back.
"Dear madam, dear Mrs. More, please pray for me;" and, unable to resist the impulse, she threw her arms round the old lady's neck.
"Miss Falconer, indeed you must restrain your emotion; you will agitate dear Mrs. More."
But Hannah More held the trembling form of the poor stricken child close.
"My dear," she whispered, "many are the sorrows through which I have passed, and He whom I trust has never forsaken me. Trust in Him, and to His loving kindness I commend you."
Joyce raised herself from the old lady's arms, and the Bishop, deeply moved, laid his hand upon her head.
"The Lord bless you and keep you, my child, now and evermore."
Joyce did not weep or make any outward sign of great distress. She left all tears and cries to Charlotte, who, sincerely grieved, took care that every one should know it.
"Shall I come? Shall I come with you? Oh, Joyce—my darling Joyce! Oh dear! Oh dear!"
"No, Charlotte; don't come; don't come. Help me to fasten my cloak. I—I can't find the clasp."
Miss Frowde thrust Charlotte aside, and fastening Joyce's cloak, seemed only anxious to get her off as speedily as possible. It was a very inconvenient episode; and if Mrs. More were the worse for the excitement it would be very disastrous. Secretly Miss Frowde wished she could get rid of Charlotte too, but as she only wept and moaned, and made no attempt to put her things together, Miss Frowde refrained from urging her to do so. Miss Frowde was not unkind or unfeeling, she was simply and absolutely devoted to Mrs. More; and, indeed, it was well that she was always at hand to perform the hundred and one kindly offices, which the spoiled and pampered domestics neglected.
Joyce was soon ready, Charlotte clinging to her tothe last, and following her to the hall, with sobs and tears.
Nevertheless, as the gig drove off, and the wheels crunched the gravel on the drive, Charlotte returned to her room to bathe her eyes and smooth her hair, and soon returned with a woe-begone face to the sitting-room, and received, with some complacency, the condolences of the pale-faced curate in the corner, sharing his hymn-book when the family service of praise and prayer began, with which all gatherings closed at Barley Wood.
"How did it happen, Thomas?Tellme, Thomas?"
"It's them Mendip fellows," he said. "The master rode to Chewton yesterday, and somewhere about nine o'clock Mavis come home with no one on his back. We knew summat was amiss, and we set out with lant'uns, the mistress and I——"
"Mother went!"
"Yes; we couldn't keep her back. We was wandering about most of the night. About eight o'clock this morning a cart comed along, and there was the master brought home more dead than alive by one of farmer Scott's carters."
"He is alive, then; oh! he is alive?"
"Well, yes; he was when I comed off," Thomas said, doubtfully.
"And why did not you come for me before? Oh! you should have sent before. Oh, Thomas! Thomas!"
"Well," said Thomas, "we've had so muchrunning about for doctors; and Mavis ain't much good. We was short of hands and horses."
"Had he had a fall?" Joyce asked, "a fall from Mavis?"
"Aye, I dare say; but he was knocked off by a blow of a stone or summat. There's a hole in his temple, just cut clean by a stone so they say."
"Oh, father! oh, father!" Joyce murmured.
"There's a lot of folks come to see after him. Mr. Paget and Squire Bennett, and the Bishop's son from Wells; and there's no want of help; and they'll try and hunt him out."
"Hunt who out?"
"Why, the brute that caused the master to fall off Mavis's back, of course. I never did hold with master being so free riding over the Mendips at late hours. I've said so scores of times—scores. But there, he had the heart of a lion, he had."
Had! had!How the word smote on Joyce's ear.
"Hasfather—has—" she murmured, "he cannot, cannot be—dead!"
After this Joyce said no more. They went at a fair pace along the lonely lanes; they passed through villages where the men were smoking pipes at the cottage doors, the women standing by with babies intheir arms, while dusty, dirty little urchins played at "cross sticks" under the very nose of the old horse. Once they passed a small farm where a mother, neatly dressed, was standing at the gate, and a girl of fourteen ran out to meet a man with her baby brother in her arms, who stretched out his hands as the girl said:
"Yes, there's daddy! Go to daddy; welcome, daddy!"
Ah! how often had Joyce watched for her father at the gate! How her heart had thrilled with joy as she ran to meet him; and now!
A low cry escaped her, which made Thomas turn his head, which he had hitherto kept steadily to the front, as if everything depended on his staring straight between the ears of the horse, and never looking to the right hand, or the left.
Thomas was a hard featured man, who had served the old squire, and to whom Mr. Falconer was still "Master Arthur." "Doan't ee fret, my dear Miss Joyce. It's the hand of the Almighty."
Ah,wasit the hand of Almighty Love, the God that had so lately revealed Himself to her in Christ, the All-loving as well as the All-mighty—was it possible He could take away 'the master from her head that day'?
The old servant's voice quavering with sympathy made Joyce feel that she was also trembling on the brink of tears.
"Thomas, I want to be brave, for I shall have to comfort him and mother."
Then there was silence again. The even jog trot of the horse's heavy hoofs kept up a continuous rhythm:
"Home, home again; home, home again—this seemed the burden of the strain—home, home again, but the same home never, never again."
The evening shadows were lying across the turf where the daisies had closed their golden eyes for the night, when the gig turned into the familiar road and drew up at the door.
The door was open, but there was no one there. Joyce sprang down and passed in, throwing off her large bonnet, and unfastening the clasp of her cloak, which seemed like to choke her.
In the supreme moments of life the most trivial things always seem to fasten upon the outward senses, as if to show, by force of contrast, the enormous proportions of the great trouble—or the great joy, it may be—which is at the time overshadowing us.
So Joyce, as she stood in the hall, noticed that oneof the stag's glass eyes had dropped out and lay upon the bench upon which Gilbert Arundel had sat on the night of their adventure on the moor. She saw, too, lying there, a large pair of scissors, and a roll of lint lay on the window-seat, with a basin in which the water was coloured a pale crimson. "They bandaged his head here," she thought,—and she was going upstairs, when slow, heavy, jerky footsteps were heard, and Duke came down, and, putting his nose into her hand, whined a low, piteous whine.
"Oh! Duke, Duke, where is he?"
As if he understood her human speech—as, indeed, he did, Duke turned to precede her upstairs.
On a bench in the long corridor two maid servants were seated, crying bitterly. But Joyce did not speak to them, she dared not; even the question she had asked Duke died on her lips.
The door of her father's room was ajar; and as Duke pushed it open with his nose, Joyce could see the great four-post bed, her mother sitting by it, and curled up in the window-seat was Piers.
The friends who had been there in the early part of the day were gone; they could do no more at Fair Acres. And Mr. Paget's aim was to set the constables to work to find the man who must have hurled a sharp stone at Mr. Falconer's head. The Wells doctor, too,was gone. He had a pressing case near Wells upon his hands, but he was to return at eight o'clock, when, it was hoped the doctor greater than himself, who had been summoned from Bristol, would have arrived.
In those days help in emergency was slow to obtain. Telegrams were not dreamed of, and horsepower performed the part which steam was soon to take up; to be followed by the marvellous electric force, which now sends on the wings of the wind messages all over the world, multiplied, on the very day on which I write, to an enormous extent, by the introduction of sixpenny telegrams, which will send a call for help, or strike a note of joy, and win an immediate response from thousands.
But there were no electric messages possible to get medical help for the squire, nor, indeed, would any help avail.
With a great sigh, Duke resumed his watch at the foot of the high bed; and Joyce, crossing over, kissed her mother and Piers, and then gazed down upon her father.
"Dear dad!" she said, inadvertently using the familiar name.
"He has not spoken nor opened his eyes since we laid him here," Mrs. Falconer said. "He knows no one—no one——"
"Did he tell how it happened?"
"No."
"It might have been that he was thrown from—from—Mavis."
"No," Mrs. Falconer said again, "that could not be, they think; besides, they found a heavy stick and a tinder box close by."
Presently Piers came down from his place, and Joyce put her arms round him. The boy was very calm, but great tears fell upon Joyce's hand as she pressed him close.
The silent watch went on. Duke lay motionless, but his eyes were on the alert. The servants looked in sometimes, and brought Joyce and her mother some tea and cake. Joyce swallowed a cup of tea, but ate nothing.
Could this be the evening of the day which dawned so brightly?—the Wrington bells chiming, the village children singing hymns, joyousness and gladness everywhere. The guests gathered round Mrs. More; the bright, intelligent conversation to which she was listening; then her own narrative of the Mendip adventure;—and this brought her to the present from the past!
If her father had been assailed by a malicious miner on Mendip, that assailant was Bob Priday; of this she felt no doubt.
The Bristol doctor came, and the Wells doctor and they held a consultation. But there was nothing to be done; the injury Mr. Falconer had received was mortal.
"Will he give no sign, no word that he knows us?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "Oh, for one word!"
"We do not think there will be any return of consciousness," the doctors said, "but we cannot tell."
No; no one could tell. And so the sad hours of the night passed, and the dawn broke over the familiar fields, and Fair Acres smiled in the first bright rays of the morning.
Piers had slept curled up in his window-seat, worn out with grief. Mrs. Falconer, too, had slept in an upright position, her head resting against the back of the chair, sleeping for sorrow.
But Joyce did not sleep; she kept watch, hoping, praying for one word of farewell.
As the first sunbeam slanted through the casement, her father opened his eyes, and fastened them on Joyce. "Sunshine," he said, with a faint smile. "Dear child."
"Dearest father, dear father!"
"I hope my little girl will be named after my mother,Joyce. Yes, it is an old-world name, but I fancy it; name her Joyce."
The sound of his master's voice roused Duke, who pricked his ears and came to the bedside. Mrs. Falconer also started and awoke.
"There is a word I cannot catch, about theLife. Try to think of it. I can't."
Joyce glanced at her mother.
"What does he mean?" she said, helplessly. "Oh! what does he want?"
"The Life; I am the Life." The words came with difficulty now.
Then Piers, starting up, said:
"I know. I think I know. 'Jesus said, I am the resurrection and theLife.'"
A smile of infinite content came over the father's face.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, the Life."
Presently he murmured Melville's name, and those of the children who had gone before.
"The little girls all died butone," he said. "One is left—Sunshine."
They knelt down as in the presence of something unseen but near; for the shadows gathered on the fine face of the husband and father; and Piers repeated for the second time:
"Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the Life!"
As if with a great effort to repeat the words, the squire said, faintly, "Jesus said,"—then silence fell;and the next thing Joyce knew was that she was lying in her own little bed, and that she was fatherless.
The news of the squire's death spread quickly through the whole district. As is often the case, no one knew how much he had been respected till he was gone. Then there were terrible circumstances connected with his death, which, apart from his loss, troubled the magistrates who had sat with him on the bench, and had probably made enemies, as he had done, in the performance of their duty.
The roads across the Mendip were avoided more than ever, and as time went on and nothing was heard of or discovered about the man who had thrown the missile which had caused Mr. Falconer's death; if the wonder faded out, the fear remained; the county constabulary were, truth to tell, afraid of their own lives, and there was no machinery of detectives at work then, as now. However, whatever search was made it was fruitless, and the offender had escaped beyond the reach of punishment.
As with a sudden transition into a new state of existence, Joyce found herself the central figure to whom everyone looked for help and advice. Her mother collapsed utterly. She would sit for hours in that inaction, which it is so painful to notice inthose who have been once so full of life and movement. The boys who had been sent for from school did not return to it. Ralph surprised everyone by saying that he should give up study, and come and live at home and help his mother—at any rate, till Melville came back, if ever he did come back, to take his place at Fair Acres. By interest exerted by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Harry and Bunny both got into the navy, and went forth, poor little boys, full of hope and delight, to encounter the hardships which then were the universal fate of little middys, in their first acquaintance with the salt sea waves they loved so well.
It was touching to see the young brother and sister, who were left at the head of affairs, resolutely doing their utmost to spare their mother, and to keep things, as Mr. Watson called it, "square."
If he were old he was intensely useful and honourable; and Ralph's power to adapt himself to his new manner of life was really wonderful. He set himself to study the few and scanty agricultural books which were on his father's shelves, and mastered the accounts in a way which Mr. Gell, the lawyer, and Mr. Paget, the executor under the will, found to be surprising.
Miss Falconer had sent many kind little notes on very deep black-edged paper, and sealed with a largeblack seal, to "her dear afflicted sister;" and Charlotte, who had returned from Barley Wood on the day after Joyce left it, composed verses of doubtful rhythm, and still more doubtful sense, which she sent, done up in brown paper parcels by the carrier, as they were too voluminous to be conveyed in any other way. Verses in which "bleeding hearts" and "rivers of tears," sought vainly for appropriate rhymes; where "fears" refused to follow "bears," and "eyes" was made to do duty again and again with "prize" and "sighs." Mrs. More wrote a tender letter of sympathy to Joyce, and would have driven over to see her, had not the shortening days and threatened cold kept her a close prisoner. Indeed, she was laid low with one of her most dangerous illnesses before September was over; and Miss Frowde and her doctor thought it more than doubtful if, at her advanced age, she would recover.
It was on a still October afternoon, when autumnal stillness reigned in the woods and fields, that Joyce went to the seat under the fir trees to be alone with her sorrow. The grassy slope was slippery now with recent rain, and though the clouds had rolled off eastward, the sunshine was pale and watery, coming in fitful gleams through the veil of thin misty vapour which hung over the sky.
Joyce often came to this seat; it was associatedwith her father, and she loved to be there and give full vent to the sorrow which, for the sake of others, she had learned to hide. Miss Falconer and Charlotte had paid one visit of condolence after the funeral. They were surprised, and I may even say disappointed, to see Joyce so calm, and Miss Falconer thought how different it would be with Charlotte when she was taken from her; she would be entirely prostrate and unfit for exertion.
It is well for the world that some people are fit for exertion, even in the midst of crushing sorrow. It would be a melancholy thing if all grief-stricken ones fed on their grief in solitude, and shut themselves up from doing their best, to lighten the burden of others.
Miss Falconer would not have had cause to lament Joyce's unnatural calm, if she had seen her as she sat upon the old bench, in the dim, pale light of the October day, when, amidst the hush of all around, her sobs and low cry of "Oh! father—father," throbbed in the quiet air.
They had been so much to each other; they had understood each other so perfectly. The beautiful tie between father and daughter, which when it exists is one of the most beautiful in the world, seemed severed, cruelly severed, and Joyce was desolate. She was scarcely eighteen, and the freshness and gladnessof her life hitherto had been remarkable. Now, all unawares, the storm had swept over her sky, and, when it passed, left her lonely indeed.
Mrs. Falconer was one of those people who bury their dead out of sight, and cannot bear the mention of their names. Ralph, setting his face bravely to meet his duty, did not speak of his father as Joyce would have loved to speak of him, and it was only to Piers, that Joyce could sometimes ease her burdened heart, by talking of her father. Just as on the summer morning, now looking so far off, left in the golden haze of joy and glad young life, Joyce had seen her lame brother at the gate of the plantation, so she saw him now.
She made a great effort to control her weeping, and said:
"It is very slippery on the turf to-day; wait, dear, and I will come down to help you." But Piers said:
"I wantyouto come down; I don't want to come up."
"Is anything the matter?"
Piers did not answer, and in another minute Joyce was at his side.
"Joyce, there is a woman hiding under the maples and brambles."
"A woman? Perhaps she is one of the women employed on the farm."
"I don't know," said Piers, "I wish you would come and see who it is."
"Very well, dear," Joyce said; "you are sure it is awoman?"
"Yes, and she is crying and sobbing."
Joyce followed Piers along the shrubbery path, now covered with a new layer of fallen leaves, and, at the turn of a still narrower side path, she saw, half hidden by the brambles and undergrowth, a woman; her head, bowed upon her hands, and her attitude one of despair.
Joyce went near and said: "What is the matter? Are you in pain? Can I help you?"
The woman raised her head, and Joyce recognised at once that she was Susan Priday.
Thoughts of the night on Mendip; of the fierce onslaught made on Gilbert Arundel by the big giant, and the almost certainty she felt, that the cruel blow aimed at her father was by the same hand, made Joyce start back and say, coldly:
"You had better not stay here, these are private grounds."
Piers, who was leaning against the bole of a beech tree, said:
"Yes; get up and go away. I will show you the gate into the road."
"Lady," said the girl, passionately, "I came to seeyou. I saw you sobbing and crying on the bench yonder, for I got into the plantation that way. I heard you sob, and call 'Father,' and then my heart nearly broke, and I came round at the back and got over the hedge. I felt as if I dare not speak to you. Do you know me, lady?"
"Yes," Joyce said; "of course I see who you are, but I—I cannot do anything for you, and we are all in great grief, very, very great grief," Joyce said, with a sudden spasm of agony in her voice.
"I know it, I know it, that's why I came; and I'm in grief, too. Father is gone away, no one knows where; the boys have run off, and, oh! the baby is dead. I did think I'd keep him, for mother's sake; but, in a drunken fit, father threw a pot of boiling water at me. It missed me, and the baby caught it on his neck and face, and it scalded him dreadful. The school mistress was kind, and so was Mrs. Amos, she that owns the farm; but he died—he died—and I am all alone. Oh! Miss, oh! dear young lady, pity me."
"I do pity you," Joyce said. "But where is your father? For you must be aware that suspicion points to him as the cause of my—of my dear father's death."
"Yes, I do know it. Oh! miss, forgive me, and letme come and serve you. I want no wage; but I'd die for you, if that would do you good. I have never forgot your face that night, nor how you spoke soft then instead of angry. Oh, miss, let me come and live with you. I will sleep on the ground. I'll do the work of two in the dairy, or in the house, and I want no wage. Poor mother always said God would take care of me, but He has taken away the baby, He has, that is the cruellest part. And father; oh! miss, you can't tell what it is to be filled with shame about a father."
"No, indeed," Joyce said. "No; I know what it is to be proud of one, and to——" Her voice broke down, and Piers said:
"She ought to go away, Joyce; she can't be left here."
But Joyce seemed to be thinking for a few minutes. Here was a girl whose father had, as everyone thought, been the cause of her father's death; here was the daughter of this man, coming to her and begging to be taken into the house, to be her servant? Was it possible?
With a discretion far beyond her years, Joyce said, "I will make inquiries about you from the school mistress, and if I find you really bear a good character, I will get you a place, and——"
"I want no place apart fromyou" the girl said, passionately. "If I could die to undo my father's wicked deed, I would die, and," she added, sadly, "it ain't much I have to live for now the baby's gone. But if you won't take me, well, I'll tramp to Bristol; and if I can't get bread in an honest way, I must get it somehow else."
"No, no; don't say that. I must consider and think, and if I can take you I will. Mrs. More is so ill, so ill that it is feared she will not live, so I can't write to her. But I willthink, and," she added, in a low voice, "I will pray about it. I am in great trouble myself; we are all in great trouble."
"I know it, I know it. Oh! dear lady, ever since night and day, night and day, I have prayed for you, and that God would keep you."
There was something in the girl's despairing voice which touched Joyce to the heart.
"Come round to the kitchen door with me," she said, "and I will see that you have rest and food. I am sure you want both."
"I don't want rest; there is no rest in me, and food chokes me."
But Joyce took no notice of this, and saying, decidedly, "follow me," she put her hand on Piers' shoulder, and they went through the plantation tothe house, skirting it to the left instead of crossing it, and so round to the stable-yard and the back premises.
Mrs. Falconer never had old maid servants; she trained girls to fill the places in her household, and of these, there was an endless stream passing through. The two in the kitchen now were both kindly, good-tempered girls, utterly ignorant, but simple-hearted and honest.
"I want this poor young woman," Joyce said, "to rest by the fire; and give her her supper before she leaves. Sarah, do you hear me?" Joyce said.
"Yes, miss, I hear," Sarah said, surveying the poor, forlorn girl with scorn. "Yes, miss. I don't know whether missis would hold with taking in a tramp like her."
"I am going to ask mother now," Joyce said; "and I know you are kind-hearted, Sarah, and that you will attend to this poor girl, because I wish it."
Sarah gave a low sound, which was taken for consent; and Joyce, judging rightly that Susan Priday would be better left to the servants, went to find her mother.
As she crossed the hall she met Ralph.
"There are letters from Italy," he said. "Melville had not heard when he wrote."
"Where are the letters?" Joyce asked.
"Mother has them. There is one for you—not from Italy though; it has the Bristol post-mark, and is franked. There was an immense deal to pay for Melville's."
Joyce waited to hear no more, but went to her mother. She was sitting with her son's letter open before her. It began, "Dear father and mother," and these words went like a knife through Joyce's heart.
Mrs. Falconer sat day after day in the same chair by the fire-place. Her large widow's cap—in those days an immense erection of many thick frillings, and with long "weepers" falling over her shoulders—altered her so entirely, scarcely any one would have recognised her.
Joyce glanced through the letter. It was as self-sufficient and trifling as ever. Melville found foreign travel less delightful than he had expected.
The diligence was then the universal mode of transit through France, and the two travellers had taken a whole month to reach Hyères, a journey which can now be got through in three days at the longest calculation. Melville complained of the food and the cramped diligence, and how the smell of garlic made him sick; and how old Crawfordwas as "stiff as starch," and that he did not think he should stay away long.
Of Genoa la Superba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres.
Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said:
"Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large work-box, which stood unused by her side.
Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said:
"Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?"
"You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter.
"You can do as you like—my day is over."
"Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is—it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you—and upon us all—that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort."
"Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father—and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!"
"You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm."
"As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it."
"Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does."
Mrs. Falconer sighed.
"Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings."
"Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins for you, mother."
Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered:
"You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for you, sitting here day after day."
"I can do nothing else," was the reply—"nothing else. What else should I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was always right."
There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor Mrs. Falconer's; or rather, I should say, there is nothing harder to meet than a grief which refuses to recognise love in the midst of anguish which hardens and, as it were, paralyzes the whole being; changes the fountain of sweetness into bitterness; making the accustomed routine of duty impossible and falling on the sufferer like a heavy pall.
"Missus is like somebody else; can't believe it is missus at all," the maids said, when Joyce returned with the orders for poor Susan to remain all night, and to be cared for till the morning.
The poor girl was so utterly exhausted that she had fallen asleep, her face hidden on her arm, her elbows on the kitchen table; and her attitude of utter helplessness touched Joyce.
"Be kind to her," she said; "she is very unhappy. Be kind to her, Sarah. I know youwillbe kind to her as I wish it."
Then Joyce ran to her room and took the letter from her pocket.
The evening was closing in fast, but kneeling on the window-seat, she opened the lattice, and all the daylight yet lingering in the west fell upon the clearly written page of Bath post paper.
The letter was dated: "Sion Hill, Clifton, near Bristol," and began:
"If I have delayed sending you an expression of my sympathy in your trouble, dear Miss Falconer, it has been that I feared to intrude upon you in your grief, and feared, too, that I should touch it with too rough a hand. But I remember your parting words, your kind promise not to forget me. Thus I venture to tell you that I bear you ever in my mind, and that the time may come,willcome, when I shall beg you to hear more from me than I can say now, and grant me a very earnest petition. But not now would I speak of myself or of my hopes and fears. Rather would I tell you how I pray God to comfort you for the loss of a father, whom I count it an honour to have known. I would ask you to believe that I, who have had the privilege of watching the happy home-life—now, alas! so sadly broken up—can, at least, understand what the wreck must be. Please presentmy regards and sympathy to Mrs. Falconer, and assure her of my remembrance of her kindness to me while her guest at Fair Acres, if indeed you think I may venture so far."I remain, dear Miss Falconer,"Your very faithful and true"Gilbert DeCourcy Arundel."
"If I have delayed sending you an expression of my sympathy in your trouble, dear Miss Falconer, it has been that I feared to intrude upon you in your grief, and feared, too, that I should touch it with too rough a hand. But I remember your parting words, your kind promise not to forget me. Thus I venture to tell you that I bear you ever in my mind, and that the time may come,willcome, when I shall beg you to hear more from me than I can say now, and grant me a very earnest petition. But not now would I speak of myself or of my hopes and fears. Rather would I tell you how I pray God to comfort you for the loss of a father, whom I count it an honour to have known. I would ask you to believe that I, who have had the privilege of watching the happy home-life—now, alas! so sadly broken up—can, at least, understand what the wreck must be. Please presentmy regards and sympathy to Mrs. Falconer, and assure her of my remembrance of her kindness to me while her guest at Fair Acres, if indeed you think I may venture so far.
"I remain, dear Miss Falconer,"Your very faithful and true
"Gilbert DeCourcy Arundel."
There was a postscript written on the blank part of the sheet of Bath post, which was folded over.
"My mother is likely to visit the Palace, at Wells, in November. I have charged her, if possible, to see you at Fair Acres. I have heard nothing from your brother, but I am well satisfied that he is out of England, for reasons which you know.—G. DeC. A."
"My mother is likely to visit the Palace, at Wells, in November. I have charged her, if possible, to see you at Fair Acres. I have heard nothing from your brother, but I am well satisfied that he is out of England, for reasons which you know.—G. DeC. A."
The reserved style of this letter, so different from the random shots of the present day, when young men and maidens seem to think the form of a telegram the most appropriate way of expressing their thoughts, may provoke a smile, and be pronounced priggish and formal. But in Joyce's eyes it was a perfect letter, and she felt it to be a support and comfort to her in her loneliness. Words which come from the heart seldom miss their aim; and Joyce felt that, underlying those carefully written lines, there was the certainty that if her promise tohim was fulfilled, and that she thought, even in her sorrow, of him continually,he, on his part, did not forget her.
In the simplicity of her young heart, she had never dreamed that Gilbert could really care for her, and his long silence had made her think of him only as of someone who had passed out of her life, and was to be in future but a memory. Now the fluttering hope became almost a certainty, and she repeated to herself many times that evening, as a bird repeats its song over and over with the same rapture of content—
"I bear you ever in my mind, and the time may come,willcome, when I will beg you to hear more from me than I dare to say now, and grant me a very earnest petition."
"The timewillcome—the timewillcome, and, meanwhile, I can wait," she thought. "Yes, the time will come, and I can wait."