Chapter V

JOYCE reached the station nearest to Springfield Park at three o'clock, having had a change of trains, and a stoppage of an hour and a half on the road. Mrs. Caruth's maid, returning direct to Fernsclough, would rejoin her mistress before six.

Her train would not, however, start for twenty minutes, so she was able to tell her mistress that she had seen Miss Mirlees in charge of a grey-haired coachman, who, with two little girls, awaited her arrival.

"Are you the young person for Springfield Park?" asked the man.

Joyce replied in the affirmative.

"I am the coachman. The groom would have brought only a trap, but the little ladies were wild to see their new maid, and Mrs. Ross would only trust the children with me."

The man intended Joyce to understand that to drive any but members of the family and their friends would be beneath the dignity of so old a servant, and that the presence of the little girls explained his own.

"No doubt Mrs. Ross feels that the children are safest with you," said Joyce.

"Just so. She has had time to know what I am, for I drove her when she was no bigger than the least of them, and I was in her father's service. Now you step in next the eldest one—Miss Mary. She should have been a boy by rights, but nobody would like to change her for one now. Your things will be brought by that lad, who has a trap close at hand. They are all together, I suppose?"

Joyce pointed to her belongings on the platform, said farewell to her escort, and sent messages of thanks and love to Mrs. Caruth. Then she followed the coachman to a little carriage, in which were seated two lovely children in the present charge of the station-master's daughter.

"Come in," cried the elder child. "We wanted to see you, so mamma let Price bring us. I am Mary, 'papa's Molly,' they call me, and that is Alice. She turns her face away because she is shy, but she will be friends soon. Mamma said we must be very good and not make you sorry, because you have no father and mother."

Tears sprang into Joyce's eyes, which the child noted instantly, and her own face grew sorrowful.

"Why do you cry?" she said. "Let me kiss the tears away, as mamma does mine, if I am only sorry, not naughty."

The winsome creature pulled Joyce's head down to her own and smiled, until her new attendant was fain to smile in response.

"There, that is right. Now look how pretty the park is, and see the deer under the trees. They feed out of our hands, and they will know you very soon, because you will be with us."

Joyce saw that her new surroundings would be even more beautiful than her uncle's home, and she drank in with delight the loveliness which met her eyes on every side, whilst Mary prattled unceasingly till they reached the house. There she was met by a pleasant, motherly person, who introduced herself as Mrs. Powell, the housekeeper, and led her upstairs to a good-sized cheerful room, very comfortably furnished, and opening into a still larger one, in which were two little beds. Both rooms again opened into the day nursery, a delightful apartment, in which everything suggested the personal superintendence of a thoughtful, loving mother.

The little girls had been taken charge of by Mrs. Ross's maid, Paterson, and the housekeeper told Joyce that when she was ready she was to come to her own room for refreshment.

"Here are your boxes in good time," said Mrs. Powell; and thus Joyce was able to make the needed change in her dress. She was about to go down, when, recollecting her new position, she turned back for one of the aprons, ironed so carefully by Sarah Keene's hands, and over which, as badges of coming servitude for her darling, she had shed many a tear.

"Never mind," thought Joyce; "they are honourable badges, so long as they accompany faithful performance of duty, work done as in God's sight, and depending for its success on His blessing."

So, with a bright face, the reflection of a brave heart, she went down, after having occupied a few moments in thanking God for a safe journey and a kind reception.

"I always have an early cup of tea," said Mrs. Powell, "and I thought it would be the best for you, along with something more substantial, after a journey. Your future meals will be taken upstairs with the children. Mrs. Ross will see you in the morning; but she and the master are away—only for the day; they will be back to-night. My mistress trusted you to me, and I promised to make you comfortable," said Mrs. Powell, with a look of great kindness in her motherly face.

"It was very good of her to leave me in such hands," said Joyce, with an answering smile. Then Mrs. Powell dropped her voice to a whisper—

"Let me say a word about yourself, my dear. My mistress trusts me, and she said—only to me, mind—that the friend who wrote in answer to her inquiries had told her a little of your history. How that you were a lady, used to be served instead of serving others, and that if you chose to accept a home with her, there was one open to you; but that you preferred service to a life of dependence."

"What did Mrs. Ross say? I hope she did not think I wished to deceive her in any way," said Joyce.

"No, indeed. She honours you for preferring work to dependence, and says that if she finds you what she has been led to expect, you, in turn, shall find a real home and true friends at Springfield Park. There, my dear, I hope you will sleep the sounder for knowing this; and if it will comfort you to hear it, my heart warms to you, and you have one friend already."

To Joyce this was like having her old friend Sarah Keene by her side, and she thanked the kindly housekeeper most heartily and gratefully for her encouraging words.

But the tea was being neglected, and Mrs. Powell turned Joyce's attention in that direction; so, impelled by a healthy girlish appetite, she made a hearty meal, much to her new friend's satisfaction.

One hour after she spent with the children, of whom, however, she was not to take formal charge until the morning. Then the housekeeper, being at leisure, showed her through the house and a portion of the gardens, and finally left her to indulge in happier thoughts than she could have imagined would be possible to her under her new circumstances.

Joyce rose early and dressed the children, the little one having overcome her shyness, and being now willing to make friends. She was sitting, telling them a baby-story, when Mrs. Ross entered the nursery after breakfast, and greeted her with the utmost kindness.

At the sight of their mother, the children rushed to her side, and, clasped in her arms, forgot for the time their anxiety to know the end of Joyce's fairy story.

How the girl sped at Springfield Park may be gathered from a letter, written after three months' experience, to Sarah Keene. Many shorter letters had been exchanged between Mr. Evans, Adelaide, the old nurse, and Joyce; but she purposely refrained from saying much about her position, until a sufficient time had elapsed to allow her to form a fair judgment as to the wisdom of the step she had taken.

"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.