Chapter IV

THOUGH Joyce Mirlees' twenty-first birthday brought some clouds and storms, it was not wholly without peace and brightness. More than a dozen letters reached her from various quarters. Her uncle did not forget Joyce, but wrote warmly and lovingly, and promised to be at The Chase before she left it.

Other letters were from old friends at Welton, who did not fail to send birthday greetings and simple gifts to their former pastor's daughter. One packet, containing some beautiful fancy articles, came to her from her Sunday scholars, who had worked them for the dear teacher whose absence they regretted more and more, they said. Yet it was plain that one and all pictured Joyce amongst loving kinsfolk, and amid luxuries of every kind, for they seemed half afraid that their simple tokens of love would look very poor and mean amongst her birthday gifts in her new and splendid home.

If those who had bestowed such patient labour on the dainty articles could have seen how Joyce looked at them through gathering tears, but with a glad face, and heard her soft whisper, "Not alone in the world. Not forgotten, though absent, thank God!" they would have been more than repaid.

The very answering of these gave Joyce happy employment during the afternoon. Besides, she had not been without personal greetings. The very servants at The Chase had learned to love their master's orphan niece, who spoke gently, and thought of and for them, as they went about their daily duties. They ventured to offer good wishes, and one little country girl begged her to accept a pin-cushion which she had risen earlier to make for Miss Joyce.

There were loving words, too, from Sarah Keene, who alternately rejoiced and wept over her nursling, bewailing her coming departure with one breath, and expressing her firm conviction in the next, that it would be overruled for good, and that her darling would be above all of them yet.

There was one more letter not named hitherto, which, though full of kindness, brought some disappointment. The writer, Mrs. Caruth, said all that could be expected from an old and true friend. But there was no other message, though she mentioned casually that her son, being quite well, had rejoined his regiment instead of availing himself of the longer leave at his disposal.

It was still early evening, and Joyce was in her own room, when she heard a light tap at the door, and the words, "May I come in, Cousin Joyce?"

The voice was Adelaide's, but the tone of it was so different from her ordinary one that Joyce could hardly believe her ears. She, however, opened the door and convinced herself that her visitor was indeed Adelaide, the elder and much more beautiful of her two handsome cousins. She also somewhat resembled Mr. Evans in disposition; but, like him, had rarely courage to express her sentiments when they differed from those of her mother and sister.

"May I come in?" she repeated, as she hesitated on the threshold of Joyce's room.

"Certainly. I am glad, very glad, to have you."

"That is kind, Cousin Joyce; kinder than I deserve. I am come to make a confession, Joyce; I have been very unkind to you. Will you forgive me?"

"I do not understand. You have done nothing," said Joyce, amazed at the visit, words, and look of her cousin, who had taken her hand, and was holding it between both her own.

"Perhaps I have not done much, after all," she said; "but one has often as much cause to grieve for the not doing what is right and kind as for active unkindness. Cousin Joyce, I have had a revelation to-day. I have had a peep at my own heart and life, and I am dissatisfied with both, especially in connection with yourself. When you spoke to my mother this morning and told her what you were going to do, how you had made up your mind to leave the only relatives you have in the world, because under their roof you had a shelter, not a home, I felt so sorry for you, so ashamed for ourselves. It was your birthday morning. You are twenty-one to-day. I was the same four months ago, and then my mother did not know how to lavish enough of costly things upon me. I had cards—works of art that had cost pounds; flowers in profusion, letters, messages, callers, jewellery, finery of all kinds, and a grand evening party given in my honour. And you, Cousin Joyce, had nothing but the coldest greeting, and an offer of our secondhand and third-best clothes. Please let me finish—" for Joyce would have stopped the confession half-way. "I do not know how it was brought about, but I seemed to see everything you had endured under this roof from the day of your coming. No welcome, no sympathy, no home, no friends."

"Yes, my uncle has always been kind, and I have had Sarah Keene. Besides, I was but a stranger who had to win the affection of strangers, though they might be relatives; and I really believe you care for me after all!" cried Joyce, looking up into Adelaide's face, and smiling through the tears which her cousin's words had brought to her eyes. "Forgive me, Adelaide. I want forgiveness, too, for I have judged you rather hardly, I am afraid."

"No, you have not; I have never been kind, but I want to be now." And two pairs of arms went out, and two girls' lips met for the first time in mutual affection and forgiveness. Then they sat down side by side, each encircling the other with one embracing arm.

"We shall be friends as well as cousins for the future. Until now, we have been neither," said Adelaide. "I wish you were not going away, Joyce. If you will stay, I will try to make The Chase more of a home to you than it has been. But how can you, after what mamma said this morning? I think that proposal about the dresses and your helping to alter ours was too dreadful."

And the girl blushed with shame at the recollection.

"I should not have minded about working early and late if you had wanted help and we had worked together," said Joyce. "If any one here had been ill, I should have thought nothing too much to do for them, night or day. Supposing that my uncle had been poor, and had given me a home with his children, I would have slaved for him and them most cheerfully, and taken care that his kindness should have cost him nothing in the end. But you are all rich, and every wish can be gratified; and the thought of being sent to sew under the orders of Russell was—"

"Hush, dear Joyce! I cannot bear it," interposed Adelaide, as she laid her white hand on her cousin's lips. "That alone would have driven you from us, and after what mamma said, you cannot stay. Now you must show you have forgiven me by taking this little birthday gift," and drawing a ring-case from her pocket, Adelaide tried to place a beautiful ring on Joyce's finger.

"Do not ask me, dear; I cannot take it," said Joyce.

"I bought it myself, and I have so large an allowance that it cost me nothing; I wish it had. The having too much money takes from us the joy of self-sacrifice."

"I cannot take it," repeated Joyce. "How would that diamond look on the hand of a maid to little children? Besides, I have rings that belonged to my mother, if I wished to wear any."

"You have not forgiven me," sighed Adelaide.

"Yes, and I will take a gift, too, and prize it. Spend ten shillings on a little brooch in cut steel, and I will wear it, and never part with it while I live. And give me your likeness; I should like to have it, though I shall always picture your face as it looks to-night."

"You shall have these trifles, Joyce, and I will keep this, no matter how long, until you are willing to wear it." And restoring the ring to its case she put it into her pocket. "Now what else can I do for you?" she asked.

"My uncle breakfasts earlier than you and the rest do. I have been used to pour out his coffee and join him at table. I think he will miss me at first. Will you sometimes breakfast with him?"

"How selfish I have been not to notice this, or care for his loneliness! Rely on me, I will breakfast with him always, unless by some special chance I have been up very late the night before."

"I shall neither be missed nor wanted," said Joyce. "Indeed, I begin to fear I shall soon be forgotten."

But she smiled as she said it, for she was glad to think that the father and daughter would be brought together by her own departure.

Then these two girls became more confidential, and Joyce gave her cousin every particular respecting the work she had undertaken, the manner in which she had obtained the situation, and of the fact that Mrs. Caruth was sending her own maid to accompany her on her journey to Springfield Park.

"It seems quite amusing to think that one who is travelling with such an object should be so attended, does it not?" asked Joyce.

Adelaide looked thoughtful, then replied, "Mrs. Caruth must think a great deal about you. Does she understand what you are going to do?"

"I am not sure, but I do know she is my friend. She was almost like a mother to me until I was about seventeen, and when I had none of my own. Then—"

"Then what?"

"Her son came home for a time, and she had him, and I became more of a companion to my father."

"I believe I have seen both Mrs. Caruth and her son. Does she call him Alec?"

"Always. He is about thirty-two now. You see I was only nine when he was twenty, and as the child of his old tutor, he made a pet and playfellow of me. It seems strange that we should both be grown-up people after a few years."

"He is very fond of his mother, and she of him," said Adelaide. "Indeed, he seems a good, noble-minded man altogether. Augusta thought there was no one like him during the eight weeks we spent at Mentone."

A statement which did not appear to give unqualified satisfaction to Joyce, for she paused a moment, then, in a constrained voice, though with an attempt at archness, she asked—

"Did Major Caruth think there was no one like Augusta?"

"He neither troubled himself about her nor any other girl. I mean so far as paying special attention went. He was everything that was kind and courteous, but the elder ladies and the children absorbed the larger share of his time—somewhat, I think, to the disgust of the grown-up girls. If hazarded a guess, it would be that he had no heart left to give, and that he was far too noble and true a man to pay unmeaning attentions, which could lead to nothing but regrets and pain for another. I suppose he has no sister, or he would be a model 'brother of girls.'"

"No, but he is a brother of girls for all that. He would be to all such, if circumstances called for his help, what the son of a pure-minded, virtuous, Christian mother should be. I know him so well."

Joyce's face was lighted up by a bright, glad look, born of precious memories, but it faded as she said, "I am not likely to meet Major Caruth again. I was Miss Mirlees, and a power at Welton, as the parson's daughter in a country parish always is, you know. Three days hence I shall be 'only a servant.'"

"Joyce, you must give up this plan of yours; I cannot bear to think of it. My father cares for you; I want you at The Chase. Augusta will come over to my side, for she is not nearly so hard as she seems. We have both been carefully educated in selfishness, and even a first step in the right direction costs a great effort. But I can stir her to it, and we will make a combined attack on my mother, who must give in. Say you will stay."

"Not now, dear. But if ever the time should come when I can be sure you all wish for me, or if I am needed by any, I will return."

Adelaide was obliged to be satisfied with this. The girls parted with expressions of affection and pledges of future friendship; and Joyce laid her head on her pillow with a lighter heart than she had done for months past.

Mr. Evans was expected home the evening before his niece was to leave The Chase, but in place of him came a telegram—

"Accident on line. Train delayed, but none injured. Expect me at noon to-morrow."

Joyce was to leave the station at nine, so her uncle would not arrive till after she was gone. Mrs. Evans declined to see her, but sent word that when Joyce came to her senses, and was prepared to submit and acknowledge she had done wrong, she might write and say so.

Augusta, doubtless urged thereto by her sister, rose early enough to say farewell to her cousin. Sarah Keene watched her out of sight as well as she could through falling tears, and prayed for a blessing on her head, and Adelaide, bravely mounted beside Joyce in the shabby conveyance which took her and her luggage to the station, whispered cheery words to the very last moment, when, in company with Dobson, Mrs. Caruth's staid waiting-woman, she started on her journey.

Moved still further by the new and better feelings just born in her heart, Adelaide declined to drive with Mrs. Evans and Augusta, and went instead to meet her father on his return at noon.

It was a great surprise to Mr. Evans when he saw Adelaide's beautiful face glowing with eager expectation, in search of some traveller whose arrival she anticipated. He did not for a moment associate her presence with his own home-coming, until her eyes met his as the train stopped, and stepping forward, she exclaimed—

"Papa, I am so glad you are here safe and sound!" And lifting her face to his she kissed him lovingly again and again, then slipping her arm through his, went with him to the carriage which awaited them.

"That first kiss was poor Cousin Joyce's," she said. "She left it for you, and I promised to deliver it."

"Joyce's! She is surely not gone? I thought you would all have joined to keep her until my return. My only sister's only child to leave The Chase in such haste!"

"She could not stay. I tried hard to persuade her, for, papa, I am sorry I have not been kinder to Joyce. We are friends now, dear friends, and I hope we shall always be so. I cannot blame Joyce for going. How could she stay? But you do not know all yet. I trust things will turn out better than they seem to promise. I think I ought to tell you all about Joyce's birthday and what was said, only you must promise to say nothing to mamma. I cannot help thinking she is a little sorry now, and she is more likely to feel regret about Joyce's going if no one speaks of it."

Then Adelaide told her father all that had passed, and Mr. Evans listened, not altogether sadly, for his daughter made the most of all that had been bright for Joyce on her birthday—the loving letters and souvenirs from Welton, Mrs. Caruth's consideration for her cousin's safe convoy, the opening of hearts between themselves, and the new-born friendship, which was to bind them more closely than the ties of relationship had done.

"And," continued Adelaide, "Joyce will never disgrace the name she bears. I only wish I were more like her."

There was much to cheer Mr. Evans in what he heard from his daughter, and acting upon her suggestion, he made no allusion to Joyce's departure. His silence was both a relief and a reproach to his wife, who expected a scene, and was conscious that, in spite of her desire to free herself from a sense of responsibility, she could not even excuse herself for her treatment of Joyce.

On the following morning, when Mr. Evans went down, expecting to take his breakfast in solitude, and feeling how much he should miss Joyce's gentle ministry, he found Adelaide already seated at the table. She rose as he entered and lifted her face for a kiss.

"Now another, papa," she said. "That is for Joyce. You must give me one every morning for her, as I am her deputy."

It was such a new thing for Mr. Evans to be greeted thus by his own children, that he could hardly realize that he was awake, but he showered many kisses on the fair, bright face that waited for them.

"I did not expect to see you, my dear," he said.

"No, dear papa, but I must try to be a better daughter. I told you yesterday that I was beginning to learn new lessons. If I become what I wish to be, remember, Joyce was my first teacher. When I asked what I could do for her, she told me what I might do in a little way for you. But for her, I should not be here; however, I will not leave you to a lonely meal again."

And Adelaide kept her promise.