Chapter I

"DON'T fret so, Miss Joyce. It grieves me to see you, and crying never yet cured heart ache. When things are at the worst they mend; and if so, better days must be at hand for you."

The speaker, Sarah Keene, was a homely-looking, rather hard-featured woman of fifty, evidently a servant, for she was busily engaged in ironing some dainty laces and muslin. But while her features were rugged, they were expressive of good sense, and full of affectionate sympathy.

The Miss Joyce to whom she spoke had just entered the laundry and thrown herself on an old chair, where she was weeping bitterly. She was a girl nearly twenty-one years of age, above the middle height, slender and graceful, and with one of those faces which attract, even when seen amongst many with far greater pretensions to beauty.

Joyce's features were not faultless, or her complexion of alabaster fairness, which last would be very unpleasant, were it possible in a healthy girl. But her large, dark eyes were richly fringed with long lashes, whilst her broad, clear brow was framed by chestnut hair, which lay in soft, wavy masses on her shapely head. The expression of her face, though sad, was singularly sweet and winsome.

That Joyce Mirlees was a thorough lady could be told by a glance, though her gown was of coarse, common black stuff, and its scanty crape trimmings were of the poorest description. It was unrelieved even by a simple linen collar. Only a band of the crape edged the throat, and ornaments she had none.

Yet the house in which the girl lived was the dwelling of wealthy people. The great rooms teemed with costly furniture and all the exquisite accessories which money could supply. The grounds were extensive and tastefully laid out, the stables were well-filled, and luxurious vehicles of many kinds were at the command of the master and mistress of The Chase, as the place was named.

In the drawing-room, three ladies were seated. They wore mourning dresses, but these differed widely from the poor garment which was thought good enough for Joyce Mirlees. Everything that could make mourning rich, tasteful, and handsome had been done to set off the portly person of Mrs. Walter Evans and the slender figures of her two handsome daughters. A few moments would, however, have shown to any stranger that only the semblance of refinement existed in Mrs. Evans. Wealth she had in abundance. She was the daughter of a successful speculator and for her wealth alone had Walter Evans sought her as his wife. He gained this, but paid dearly for it.

Though he was a man of birth and education, he had bound himself to a woman who possessed neither, and who was equally deficient in the amiability and goodness of disposition which might have done much to make amends for a lack of the rest.

Mrs. Evans was equally vulgar and purse-proud. She did not hesitate to put her husband in mind of his indebtedness to her wealth, or even to hint that she might have bestowed it and herself better than upon him.

Brought up under such a mother, it was scarcely likely that the girls, Adelaide and Augusta, would be noted for refinement or delicacy of feeling. Taught to pride themselves on wealth, they owned no excellence if unaccompanied by it. Consequently, they only bestowed a contemptuous pity on their cousin, Joyce Mirlees, who, through adverse circumstances, had been driven to accept the temporary shelter of The Chase.

It had been grudgingly granted by Mrs. Evans, "until something could be done with the girl," because there was absolutely nowhere else for her to go.

Joyce, though the only daughter of Mr. Evans' only sister, was not likely to be welcomed by a lady who owned that there was "nothing she detested like poor relations."

True, the girl came from a comparatively poor home, a little country vicarage, of which and of her father she had been the light and joy, until death called him and left her alone.

Mrs. Evans said bitter things on the occasion.

"It is monstrous for people of small means to marry when there is no prospect of their providing for a family. I call it wicked, and one sees the most of this improvidence where we ought to look for a better example, amongst the poor clergy. But I suppose your brother-in-law reckoned on his daughter being provided for here."

Mrs. Evans said this to her husband, and his reply did not improve her temper.

"You are mistaken, my dear. Poor Mirlees had saved a few hundreds, and having noted how rapidly some people managed to turn hundreds into thousands, he unfortunately invested them in a bubble company, and lost every penny. Some of the shareholders were more fortunate. You Will remember the company," and Mr. Evans named one of which his wife's father had been a director, and by which he had netted a large sum.

Mrs. Evans' face flushed, but she answered—

"It requires business men to deal with business matters, and clergymen ought to content themselves with what they understand."

"True; poor Mirlees paid with his life for his meddling. But after all, it is by these poor, foolish, unbusiness-like men that the clever ones make their money."

"At any rate, we shall be expected to do something for this girl, though why prudent people should pay for the folly and rashness of others is more than I can understand. My children shall not be impoverished for such a purpose. It would not be scriptural to encourage improvidence, and in a clergyman, too. I thought that sermon last Sunday on the text, 'If any provide not for his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel,' was thoroughly to the purpose. I never heard one that touched me more. It was so appropriate to present circumstances."

Mrs. Evans was like many others who, when wishing to justify what conscience tells them is wrong, fly to the Bible to see if they can find a text to justify the course they are taking.

She wanted to cheat conscience into expressing approval, and thought she had succeeded when she shook her head in pious horror over Mr. Mirlees' misdoings. She would not see, or at any rate own, that in the man's very anxiety to do what she blamed him for not having done, he had lost the poor pittance hoarded by years of close economy, and his life as well.

When Mr. Evans named these facts, his wife interrupted him by asking—

"Where was the use of saving and pinching if the man must throw it all away at last?"

"His was an error of judgment," replied Mr. Evans.

"An error of judgment! If my poor papa had committed such errors, I wonder where I should be now."

Mrs. Evans said "I," but the look at her husband meant "you," and was intended to remind him of his indebtedness.

Mr. Evans' face flushed. Often as he had heard similar words, he could never become indifferent to such, and winced at each repetition. Sometimes there would be a scene, or he occasionally retorted sharply, but Mrs. Evans conquered by her persistent ill temper, and after days of discomfort, sullenness, and either taunts or silence, peace would be made, and last for a little while.

On this occasion, Mr. Evans felt the need for diplomacy. Joyce Mirlees must come to The Chase with the consent of its mistress; so he was fain to assent to his wife's praise of her father's business qualities, to pass over her taunts without notice; and thus he gained his end—after a fashion. Joyce was to come until work of some kind could be found for her under another roof.

The Misses Evans expressed their opinion that Joyce would be fit for nothing.

"She will not suit for a governess," said Augusta, who was a brilliant pianist. "Music is an essential, and Joyce can neither play nor sing fit to be heard."

Adelaide enumerated a number of other accomplishments which her cousin did not possess, and concluded with, "I suspect if she once gets a footing here, we shall have her on our hands altogether."

Mrs. Evans only looked a reply, but it expressed a very emphatic dissent to this last remark.

"Must we wear mourning? Mr. Mirlees, as papa's brother-in-law, could hardly be called a relative."

"I fear we must, Augusta. It is very provoking, but society will demand this of us," said the mother.

"And we have chosen all our spring things."

"This year's fashions are too lovely," sighed Adelaide.

These girls had shed no tears for Mr. Mirlees, none in sympathy with the young creature whom death had left desolate. But their tears flowed freely at the thought of the cruel exigencies of society, which demanded the sacrifice of becoming gowns and bonnets, since their shapes and styles would be too old-fashioned for such devotees of the latest modes to wear again when they would be able to put off "that odious mourning."

Such were the people to whom and the home to which Joyce Mirlees came after her father's death.

The girl knew enough of her aunt and cousins to prevent her from expecting much tenderness or sympathy; but she was pained, and her uncle annoyed, to find that they were all out when she arrived at The Chase, though Mrs. Evans knew well at what time to expect the travellers.

There was, however, one warm heart ready to welcome Joyce. This was Sarah Keene, once her nurse. This woman had gone, widowed and childless—having lost her own husband and babe within a few days of each other—to be foster-mother to the child of Mrs. Mirlees, she being delicate, and unable to rear her little one without such help.

All through Joyce's baby days Sarah used to say: "Nobody knows the blessing this child is to me. When I hold her in my arms, I almost forget that I have lost my own, or look on her as having been given me for a while instead of my own little Katie, who was only a month older."

Some years later, Mr. Mirlees insisted on obtaining a situation for Sarah at The Chase, Mrs. Evans being willing to give high wages to one so trustworthy.

Sarah always protested that she was turned out of her old home. "I'd rather have served Mr. Mirlees and my darling for nothing. But they turned me out, 'for my good,' they said."

When Joyce arrived at The Chase, Sarah rushed to meet her foster-child, and whispered, as well as her tears would allow her—

"I see now what I could never understand before. I could not believe I was sent here for my good; but I believe it now, darling. I was sent before, in a little way, like Joseph was, to do good to them that sold him for a slave. And I can be of use to you, though I'm only a servant."

To Joyce, the clasp of those loving arms was indescribably comforting, and she found that Sarah was the only person on whom she could rely for open, hearty sympathy.

Her uncle wished to show it, but a mark of affection on his part was sure to call for the opposite on the side of his wife who seemed resolved that a bare shelter should be all that Joyce should have under her roof.

The orphan girl was soon weary of her position, and, writhing under the slights she had received, would have been thankful to earn her bread by any honest means rather than continue to receive what was so grudgingly bestowed. She wished to please Mrs. Evans and to gain the affection of her cousins, but every effort seemed vain. Had there been young children in the house, her time would have been occupied, but there were none. Her cousins desired no such companion as herself; and, as Mr. Evans' niece, she could not very well be entirely ignored. But there was a tacit understanding between mother and daughters that Joyce should be "kept in her place," whilst Joyce herself, with a sore heart and memories of a happy, if comparatively humble, home, vainly wished that she had any definite place to fill and work to do.