‘Joyce, why are you here?’ her father said hastily.
‘Joyce, you will come with me,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Let the gentlemen settle this matter. Come with me.’
‘Joyce,’ said Andrew, ‘in justice to me you will remain here.’
She stood looking from one to another with eyes still wild with her secret dreams and projects, which no one suspected, and the drops of cold dew glittering in her hair. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you know I must stay. I cannot leave it to you, as if—as if—you had known it all the time.’
‘Joyce sees what is just,’ said Andrew. ‘There was neither father nor mother between us. She decided2 for herself, and she will have to decide for herself again. Cornel, leave her alone.’ He spoke3 with great composure in his ordinary tone. ‘I will take no answer from you, but I’ll abide4 by what she says.’
‘She is under age,’ said Colonel Hayward. ‘Sir, if you were a little better acquainted with ordinary rules, you would know it is her father only who has the right to reply to you.’
‘And how do you know, Cornel, that she is under age? Were you there when she was born? Were you near at hand to see your child? What do you know about her more than any passer-by?’
‘Sir!’ cried Colonel Hayward, stammering5 with indignation, ‘you presume upon the shelter of my roof, and on being beneath—beneath my notice.’
‘Not beneath being your son-in-law,’ Andrew said.
‘Joyce,’ said Mrs. Hayward angrily, ‘either put a stop to this
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at once, or come with me and let your father settle it. You make everything worse by being here.’
Joyce stood between them trembling, unable to command, as she had once so vainly thought she could, the situation in which she found herself. Oh, how much easier to fly, either by the dark river or the darker country! ‘I will respect my father,’ she said, ‘in everything—in everything—but——’
The last word did not reach the Colonel’s ear. He drew her hand within his arm. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Then it is all right. Mr. Halliday, or whatever your name is, there must be no more of this. I might lose my temper. I might forget that you are under my roof. Don’t you hear what my daughter has said? In such a matter a gentleman gives way at once. It’s no question of love.’ He pressed Joyce’s trembling hand in his arm. ‘If you’ve any regard for her, sir, or for your own character, you’ll go away and disturb her no more.’
Andrew had risen slowly to his feet. He came forward with his hand raised, as if he were about to address a class. ‘You’ll observe,’ he said, ‘that the circumstances only, and not the persons, are changed. It was a question of love six months ago. I was a man in a good position, my father very respectable, a little money in the family. And she was Joyce, a female teacher, with nobody to stand for her but Peter Matheson, a ploughman.’
‘You insult me, sir,’ cried Colonel Hayward—‘you insult my daughter!’ He held her hand close, pressing it in his to console her. ‘My poor Joyce, my poor child!’ he exclaimed.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Andrew, with composure, ‘it is true. Joyce knows that it is true. My mother, who expresses herself strongly, put it in other words: It was said I was throwing myself away. I did not think so; but that being the case, Cornel, you need not think I will be daunted6 because she is your daughter, or any man’s daughter. She’s Joyce—and engaged to me.’
‘Leave my house, sir,’ cried the Colonel. ‘You have insulted my child. For that there is no excuse and no pardon. Leave my house.’
‘Father,’ said Joyce, ‘it’s no insult—it is all true. I am always Joyce, whatever I am besides. And when I was poor, it was thought a—credit to me. He should not have said it, but it’s true. I never thought of that, and he should not have said it: but it’s true. He held out his hand to me when I was—beneath him.’
‘Joyce!’
‘Yes, I see it all, though I did not think of it then. Oh,
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excuse him! He does not know a man should never say that! They do it and think no harm where we come from. We were common folk. He did me honour, and am I to do him discredit7? I cannot, I cannot. I must keep to my word.’
‘Joyce, for heaven’s sake, don’t act like a mad woman! Come away with me and let them settle it,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, seizing her arm on the other side.
‘Joyce behaves just as I should have expected from her,’ said Andrew, facing this agitated8 group with his own supreme9 self-possession and calm. ‘I knew I could not be deceived. I am willing to make every allowance for your feelings, Cornel. You naturally look for a richer man than me to be your daughter’s husband. I respect even the prejudices of a man like you. But there is no real reason to be disturbed about that. I am a young man. I have always been successful, so far as has been in my power. There is no need for me to remain in the humble10 place I now fill. With your interest and my own merits——’
‘Good Lord!’ the Colonel cried. He dropped his daughter’s arm in his consternation11, and stood with his lips apart, with a stare of horror.
‘My own merits,’ repeated Andrew, ‘I think we might soon so modify the circumstances that you need object no longer. I am not afraid of the circumstances,’ he said, with a smile of complaisance12. ‘You can tell your father, Joyce, what testimonials——’
‘Father,’ said Joyce eagerly, with a burning blush, ‘he is to be excused. That is how they think where—where we came from. He is—not a gentleman: we were—common folk. Father, he means it all right, though he does not know. He’s good, though—though he speaks another language.’ Her own horror and dismay took the form of apology. She was roused by her consternation into full and eager life.
‘And you hold by this man, Joyce, and you plead for him!’ Colonel Hayward cried.
‘You will understand, Cornel,’ said Andrew, who had drawn13 himself up indignantly, and sacrificed all the advantage of his self-possession in sudden discomposure and resentment14, ‘that I ask nobody to plead for me. Joyce has been carried away with trying to please both parties. She is sacrificing me to soothe15 you down. Women will do such things; they will not learn. But for my part, I reject her excuses. I’ll have no forbearance on that score,’ cried Andrew, holding up his head and throwing back his shoulders. ‘I stand upon my own merits as between man and man.
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’
Then the Joyce of other days found words—not the tremulous girl, all strange in strange places, who was Colonel Hayward’s daughter, but the swift speaking, high-handed Joyce, the possible princess, the lady born of Janet’s cottage. ‘Oh,’ she cried, her words pouring forth16 on a sudden passionate17 breath, ‘how dare you bring up your merits here, and all your worldly thoughts! My old grandfather was but a ploughman, but he was a gentleman like my father. He would have put you to the door if you had said all that to him. And you stand before a man that has fought, and has the Queen’s medals on his breast—that has been wounded in battle, and faced cannon18 and sword; and before a lady that has no knowledge of the ways of common folk; and before me, that you said you loved; and you stand up and tell them of the female teacher that you held out your hand to, and of your merits, that make you good enough for the best—for Colonel Hayward’s daughter, that is a great soldier, a great captain, far too noble and great to put you to the door like Peter Matheson. Oh, Andrew Halliday, for shame, for shame!—you, after all the books you have read, and all the fine words you have said. I am ashamed myself,’ said Joyce, turning from him with a proud despair, ‘for I thought that Shakespeare and all the poets would make a gentleman even out of the commonest clay.’
Andrew bore this without quailing19, with a smile on his face. When she stopped, he drew a long breath, and turned with an explanatory air to Colonel Hayward. ‘That is just one of her old tirades,’ he said.
The Colonel paid him no attention: he put his arm round his daughter, as tremulous as she was. ‘Joyce,’ he said faltering— ‘Joyce, my dear child, you see it all. You see through him, and—and all of us. Thank God that it’s all over now!’
Joyce drew back from him, trembling with the reaction from her own excitement. The flush that had given her a temporary brilliancy and force faded away. ‘But yet that alters nothing,’ she said.
Mrs. Hayward put her hand upon the girl’s arm with an impatient pressure. ‘Do you mean that you are going to marry that man, Joyce?’
‘Mr. Halliday,’ said the Colonel, ‘I hope, after what my daughter has said, that you will see the inexpediency of—of continuing this discussion. She has her ideas of honour, which are a little overstrained—overstrained, as is perhaps natural; but she sees all the discrepancies—all the—— You know, you must see that it’s quite impossible. My consent you will never get—never!
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and as for Joyce, she will not—you can see by what she has said—go against me.’
‘She will never go against her word.’
‘Oh, this is endless!’ the Colonel cried. ‘We may go on contradicting each other till doomsday. You understand that I will hear no more, and that Joyce, as she has told you, will hear no more.’
‘She may object to my manners, Cornel, but she will keep her word to me,’ said Andrew, regaining21 all the force of his conviction. ‘But, as you say, it is little use bandying words. I will withdraw. I have made a long journey for very little—not half-a-dozen words by ourselves with the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married. But I will not keep up a needless discussion. She understands me, and you understand. If you meet me in a friendly spirit, everything may yet be arranged for the best; if not, she will be of age at least in a year, and we will have no need of your consent. Joyce,’ he said, suddenly, making a quick step towards her, seizing her hand, ‘I’ll bid you good-bye, my dearest. You’ll mind your honour and duty to me. Rich or poor, high or low, makes no difference. You have my word, and I have yours. Have you any message for the old folk.’
‘Andrew!’ she said, trembling. She had shrunk back for the first moment, but now held herself upright, very tremulous, leaving her hand in his, with an evident great exertion22 of her will. Her lips quivered, too, and she said no more.
‘I understand,’ he said, in a soothing23 tone, putting his other hand for a moment over hers. ‘Well, if that’s all, it will have to do. Good-bye, Joyce—but not for long. I have learned the road to you, and it shall not be untrodden. We’ll meet soon—without other eyes always on us. Good-bye. I put my full trust in you. You will mind your word and your duty, Joyce. Good evening, madam. Cornel, you will understand that we are agreed, she and I.’
‘I understand nothing of the sort, sir! On the contrary, I forbid you my house, sir! I will give orders——’
‘Good-bye, Cornel,’ said Andrew, with a smile. He gathered up his hat from the floor, waved his hand with a general leave-taking, and walked to the door. ‘You will hear from me very soon, Joyce, my dear,’ he said, looking round before he finally disappeared. He went out, he felt, with all the honours of war.
It was very near the dinner hour, and Baker24 was busy in the dining-room. Andrew had to let himself out. He did so with a reflection that to have been asked to stay to dinner, as was his due,
{302}
would have been much more agreeable; yet with another reflection following, that probably in this house they went through the somewhat mysterious ceremony called dressing25 for dinner, and that he had no means of altering his costume. The odour that filled the house was very agreeable; and however unhappy or even tragical26 this interview had been to the others, it was not so to Andrew. He had calculated upon opposition27. He had calculated, too, with certainty upon Joyce’s fidelity28 to her word. There had been, it was true, that tirade20—which did not in the least surprise him—which was quite natural, much more like the Joyce he knew than was the dignified29 silent young lady who had first appeared to him. He could forgive her the tirade. Otherwise he felt that he had lost nothing. He knew exactly the position the parents would take up, and he did not even despair that when they fully30 saw the situation, they would be moved to make the best of it, and that even the headmastership might still be within reach. He went out, carefully closing the door behind him, a little disgusted about the dinner, not discouraged about anything else, and met at the gate, coming in, the lady who had directed him, so clearly that he could not miss it, to Colonel Hayward’s door. There was a lamp not far from the gate, and some light came from the gaslight in the hall, which revealed him to her before he could close the door.
‘Oh!’ she cried, in a breathless, rapid way; ‘so you found the place.’
‘Yes, madam,’ said Andrew, mindful of his p’s and q’s. He felt that in addressing a lady, especially one whom he did not know, it was the safest course to err32 by a little more, not less, respect. ‘Yes, thanks to you.’
‘And you found them—you found her? It was Joyce you wanted, I feel sure.’
‘Yes, it was Joyce I wanted.’
‘Oh! this is so interesting,’ Mrs. Sitwell cried—‘so interesting! I know her very well, and I take the greatest interest in her. You are—an old friend, I am sure?’
‘Yes, an old friend—a very old friend,’ said Andrew,—‘a very warm friend; something—something more than a friend, if the truth were known.’
‘Oh!’ cried the little lady, clasping her hands together, ‘this is more interesting than I can say. Let me go back with you a little, Mr.—Mr.——’
‘Halliday—my name is Halliday. She has spoken of me, no doubt.
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’
‘I am so glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Halliday. I really must walk with you a little way. I was going to see Joyce, but I am sure she has something else to think of, and it is a little too late. By the way, I suppose you are going back there to dinner?’
‘It is natural to think so,’ said Andrew with a grim little laugh, ‘but no.’
‘No?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. Her curiosity, her interest in this drama, her determination to know everything, rose to fever-heat. She had taken him all in at the first glance, when she had met him in the morning: his long—too long—coat, his round hat, the colour of his gloves. Her eyes danced with eagerness and interest. She could scarcely contain herself.
‘No,’ he said; ‘I am not good enough for Cornel Hayward’s daughter. You may be surprised—but, so far as lies with the old people, I am sent away.’
‘Sent away!’ she repeated, with a little shriek33. (‘And not much wonder!’ she said to herself.) ‘You must not think it mere34 curiosity,’ she cried; ‘I am so interested in dear Joyce. Ah, please tell me. I shall see her to-morrow, and if I can be of any use, or take her any message——’
‘It is unnecessary,’ said Andrew, with a wave of his hand. ‘I know Joyce, and she understands me.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, ‘how interesting all this is to me. Though I have never seen you before, Mr. Halliday, I feel that I know you through dear Joyce. I wonder, as you are not dining at the Haywards’, if you would come and take your evening meal with my husband and me—Rev31. Austin Sitwell, St. Augustine’s. You must have heard of my husband; he would be charmed to make your acquaintance. We don’t say we dine, you know; we are quite poor people, and don’t make any fuss; but we will give you something to eat—and true sympathy,’ cried the parson’s wife, with a little friendly touch of her hand upon his arm.
‘I am sure you are exceedingly kind,’ said Andrew. He was a little alarmed, if truth must be told. Had it happened in London, he would at once have understood that a snare35 of some sort was being laid for him; but as he was at some distance from London, he was only doubtful, slightly alarmed, and uneasy. He reflected, however, that he had all his wits about him, and was not a man to be led into a snare; and he did not know (though he had heard of a place called the Star and Garter) where to go for a dinner; and he had great need of some one to speak to—to
{304}
open his heart to. And certainly she had been going to Colonel Hayward’s when he met her, and knew Joyce, and therefore was a person who could be trusted. He thought, on the whole, he might venture to accept the invitation, secure of being able to take care of himself, whatever happened. ‘You are exceedingly kind,’ he said again; ‘I should be very glad, ma’am, to make your husband’s acquaintance. He will be of the Established Church, no doubt? It would be a pleasure to compare experience, especially in the way of schools.’
‘Have you to do with schools?’ she asked.
Andrew turned in the lamplight to cast a glance of inquiry36 at the ignorant little person beside him. ‘Surely,’ he said, in a tone of suppressed surprise,—‘what else? as my poor Joyce was, too, before it all came out. You speak of poverty, which I don’t doubt is a figure of speech so far as you are concerned—but Joyce was in a very humble position, though always above it in her mind, before the Cornel came.’
‘This is more interesting than ever,’ cried the parson’s wife, clasping her hands.
‘My only trouble was that my family were not very well content, constantly throwing it in my teeth that I might have done better,’ said Andrew; ‘which makes it the more wonderful,’ he added, with a faint laugh, ‘to be put to the door as it were, and told I am not good enough for the Cornel’s daughter? It is a turning of the tables which I never looked to see.’
‘But nothing will shake Joyce—Joyce will always be faithful,’ Mrs. Sitwell cried.
‘Oh yes, Joyce—Joyce has a high sense of duty; and besides, she knows my position, which an ignorant officer and his wife are not likely to do. I am not afraid of Joyce,’ he added, with sedate37 self-confidence. ‘She is a good girl. She knows what she owes to me.’
‘This way, Mr. Halliday,’ cried Mrs. Sitwell. ‘Ours is only a little place, but you will have a warm welcome. I must hear all about you and Joyce.’
He was a stranger, and she took him in—there could not have been a more Christian38 act. And such acts often have their recompense here, without waiting for that final reward which is promised. Andrew became very watchful39 and suspicious when he found himself face to face with a clerical person in a coat much longer than his own, and a costume which recalled in a general way what he had heard of Jesuits—a name of terror. He was much on his guard for the first hour. But after supper Mrs.
{305}
Sitwell’s magic began to tell. Notwithstanding his self-control, he could not but be sore and injured, and to be able to speak and unburden himself was a relief indescribable. He fell into the snare delicately arranged around his feet. Mrs. Sitwell’s keen little eyes danced with delight. She wiped off a tiny fictitious40 tear when she had drawn it all out, one detail after another. ‘I shall go and see her to-morrow,’ she cried. ‘I will give her a kiss and say, You dear girl, now I know all.’
‘It is all to her credit—nothing but to her credit,’ said Andrew.
The Rev. Austin had a meeting on his hands, and had been obliged to go out, leaving the new acquaintance to be dissected41 at his wife’s pleasure. He was uneasy about the adventure altogether. ‘A fellow like that,’ he cried,—‘would you let him marry one of your sisters, Dora?’
‘Yes, dear, if he were rich enough,’ cried his wife. ‘But to think what a romance it has been all the time. How astonished everybody will be. I am not going to publish it abroad——’
‘I hope not, I hope not, Dora.’
‘But naturally I will tell the people who are most interested in her,’ Mrs. Sitwell said.
Mrs. Sitwell took charge of Andrew as if he had been a respectable tramp. She procured42 him a lodging43 for the night, having got every detail out of him that it was possible to gather. He had to leave early the next morning, which was a relief; and she could scarcely sleep all night for excitement and satisfaction. She felt like the finder of a treasure—like a great inventor or poet. To whom should she communicate first this wonderful piece of news? It would act as a stimulant44 in the dull season all over the place. ‘Don’t talk of it?’ she said to her husband, who acted his usual part of wet blanket to subdue45 her ardour; ‘oh no, not in society generally—I hope you know me better than that, Austin. I will only tell a few of her friends—her friends ought to know. What a showing up it will be of those Haywards! I never liked that woman. I see now why she has been so anxious to keep everything quiet. No, I shall not talk of it—except to Joyce’s friends; for it is all to Joyce’s credit,—all, all!’ Mrs. Sitwell said.
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1
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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3
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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4
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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5
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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6
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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8
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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10
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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11
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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20
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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baker
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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30
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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38
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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dissected
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| adj.切开的，分割的，（叶子）多裂的v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的过去式和过去分词 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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42
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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43
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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