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J o Y
OR
THE LIGHT OF COLD-HOME FORD
MISS CROMMELIN'S ROYELS.
Uniform with, this volume.
QUEENIE.
A JEWEL OF A GIRL.
ORANGE LILY.
BLACK ABBEY.
MISS DAISY DIMITY.
IN THE WEST COUNTRIE.
J O Y
THE LIGHT OF COLD-HOME FORD
BY
AY CROMMELIN
author of ' queenie.'
' How far that little candle throws his beams !
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.'
Merchant of Venice.
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
Broadway, Ludgate Hill
NEW YORK: g LAFAYETTE PLACE
JOY:
or,
THE LIGHT OF COLD-HOME FORD.
CHAPTER I.
Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote
The drought of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertue engendered is the flour.
Chaucer.
A narrow glen ended in a little waterfall; above and
beyond it the moors stretched brown and unbroken by
fences for miles, under the broad and benignant light of a
spring sky.
It was a solitary spot. The nearest dwelling was a farm-
house, nearly two miles away. The only human beings
who passed there might be a stray shepherd coming down
from the moorland by the path to the ford; or, more
seldom still, a distant farmer riding up to see his herds of
roaming, half-wild red cattle and branded ponies. Never-
theless, there was a little human home here.
Close against a high rock at the glen's mouth was a small
cottage of grey moorstone, with a deep thatched roof and a
little rounded porch rudely made of rubble and plastered
with mud. The brown-roofed cottage was built against the
IO
JOY.
weather-worn cliff, much indeed as the house-martins' nests
of dried clay found shelter under its own eaves. It looked
so lonely, dropped down there in the wilderness, in spite of
its guardian rock ! No wonder that when the shepherd, for
whom it was first built, died, and the cottage was deserted, the
passing peasants, shunning after nightfall those empty walls,
perhaps infested by bogies, gave it the nickname of Cold-
home. Besides, there were ill tales told, on winter nights
in the more cheerful little homes round, of wayfarers who
had been drowned in the river close by where it stood.
The Chad had its tiny well-spring far away up on the hills
in the heather. Thence it flowed softly through the moor-
land, unconscious of growing strength, till all at once,
coming to a leap down a rock-ledge, it laughed out loud.
After which, down and down it plunged with gurgling music
in a strong rush of water foaming down into the heart of
the glen, beneath overshadowing birches and oaks steeply
rooted among the rocks, whose interlocked branches hid
out the sunshine. Once below, after whirling round and
round in a deep pool, the Chad rushed swiftly on. Its
rock-bound channel was often blocked amid stream by great
boulders, seeming flung there by giants at play, and once
used as altars by the Druids for human sacrifice, said some
wise folk. It flowed past all these, still carrying air-bells
and foam-sprays on its clear brown flood, darkening some-
times in shadowed deep pools; and again frolicking with
many smiles over gravelly shallows, as if uncertain how to
behave itself towards mother earth \ till at last, taking
existence easily, it wound in accommodating pleasantness
by primrose slopes, and through buttercup meadows, in the
low rich lands that stretched from the breezy, upland wolds
of its cradle to the far sea.
Some of those dark pools near the waterfall were dangerous
enough, their edges being often wet and slippery with spray.
JOY
But worse than these was a broad sun-kissed one, so deceit-
fully clear you should swear your three-feet ashen staff
could touch the shining, seemingly shifting bottom; and
yet tradition told that a strong pedlar, renowned at fairs for
his wrestling prowess, and a favourite with his women
customers, missing the ford one dark night, and stepping in
here close by, was drowned. And thence the spot was
called the Deadman's Pool. The ford was just opposite the
cottage, which stood but a little way off; and, this being
the only safe crossing-place for some distance up and down
the Chad, needs must that the few wayfarers should come
thereby, and, if wise, before nightfall.
Cold-home Cottage was no longer empty, however, at the
time this story begins. And this, the beginning, is on an
evening more than a quarter of this century back. It was
also the time of year of ' April that messager is to May.'
Very thin smoke rose faintly from the cottage chimney.
Not a cow, pig, cat, or other animal was to be seen near,
except a solitary she-goat tethered among the bushes; no
hens or ducks clucked and quacked on the threshold. In
the miners' huts away on the other side of the moors one
heard all day long the cries of romping, half-wild children,
the rough voices often raised in scolding of wives and
mothers. Ragged garments were always being dried on the
loose stone walls, and, if a stray mallow or larkspur bloomed
by the crazy door, it only looked down-trodden and miser-
able.
But this little brown house was as clean and sweet as a
nut. Grass grew thick up to the solitary path that led to
the porch which seemed crushed under its thatched roof,
yet a honeysuckle and a rose twined round its entrance.
The silence inside and around was so intense one could
hear the calls and cries of the wild creatures and birds on
the moor above ; these and the constant sound of falling
12
JOY.
water among the rocks and alders up the dark glen. It
seemed simply a moorman's hut. A rude herdsman might
come home here to sleep after spending his days out on the
heathery hillsides, watching his flocks of straying, active
sheep, with an occasional eye to the shaggy, half-wild ponies
or the more domesticated red cattle.
The door opened this evening, and two dark women-
figures came out into the porch. They paused a moment,
and, as if from habit, looked first across the stream at the
track leading from the moors to the ford near their door,
and then down the widened valley into the cultivated fields
and meadows. Nothing—no living human being to be
seen.
Then both stepped out and walked silently towards the
river's edge, as if also from unconscious habit. They wore
odd-looking capes, with hoods almost entirely concealing
their faces, and black gowns of coarse serge, just long
enough to escape touching the ground, and that fell in
severe folds around them. Yet any passer-by with a quick
eye for beauty might perhaps have detected that both
women had unusually well-shaped figures under those
homely, awkwardly made gowns. One, who was the smaller
of the two, seemed more soft and plump in her natural
curves than her companion; the other had a grand gait, a
tall, even commanding figure.
As they reached the brink of the Chad and sat down
absently under the fresh green alders, finding resting-places
among the mossy rocks lying scattered around, the hood of
the taller silent being fell a little back. She was a beautiful
woman. Her eyes were dark and rather long, with a deep,
inward look as of one absorbed in thought, while her strong
figure seemed meant for action.
Her forehead was ample and finely shaped, framed in
heavy bands of jet-black hair. Her nose was somewhat
JOY.
13
prominent, but with the great sweetness of her mouth only
added to her whole air of firmness wedded to gentleness;
and, as might have been expected from the rest of her
appearance, her throat was full and massive, a sign of mental
as of bodily strength. She might have been a Catholic
saint, living in austerity in a desert; she might have been a
Judith, her deed of patriotic deliverance done.
One might at least imagine that some great unspoken,
almost unutterable sorrow had taken up its home for life in
her heart, and could dimly be seen through her eyes—the
soul's windows. But it was no living sorrow, rather the ribs
of a wreck that now rested in a hushed sea of love—of
peace. Looking at her still smile, one could well believe
that no murmurs ever crossed those lips.
Who was this woman ? What was she doing in these
moors? How had she won that expression of great calm
which many a saint might hardly have reached after years
of struggle ? No one for miles around could have told.
She sat upright on a solitary stone, her hands clasped
round her knees, her head raised as if she liked to feel the
wide, moorland breeze blowing upon her temples. The other,
who was her sister, lay beside her resting against a tree-
trunk, as if seeking ease; and she shivered slightly at times
in the mild air, while her hood was drawn close over light,
curling, fair hair.
Her wide, turquoise eyes wandered earthward over the
mossy carpet at her feet, seeming to see curiously every
fresh green frondlet of the new spring, and each withered
leaf of last year's prime rolled up like a tiny brown parch-
ment fallen from Nature's great book.
It was a charming and secluded nook. The little river
brawled down among the rocks, and spread into a deep,
dark pool before them. The weather was a mingling of
warmth and moisture, sun and shower, as befitted the time
14
JOY.
of year. Thorns were all bursting into the fresh leaf-buds
called in olden days ' ladies' meat.' The birches were like
a green-dotted haze, suspended in the air, while below their
stems shone as silver pillars. Elms put out their belated,
rougher buds in a defiant manner; but the horse-chestnuts
were everywhere generously unfolding five little joined
leaflets like babe-fingers, that would be spread, when warm
June came, into a broad shelter from the heat.
Half an hour passed, and neither of the two quiet sitters
had stirred. Neither had spoken a word.
The sun had moved, however, and now sent golden beams
through the trees over the river. Up rose thereat a little
swarm of dancing flies, seen clearly in the bright, low light.
Down darted some hawking swallows in arrowy glancings.
A few house-martins followed in more fluttering flight, eager
to fill their beaks for the tender, gaping bills of the callow
nestlings under the eaves of the little brown house yonder.
They flitted to and fro between it and the hunting-ground
with ceaseless energy. Twitter ! twitter ! as they flew, still
they came and went.
Then the taller woman stirred a little, smiled, and said,
in a deep but sweet tone :
' Yea, the swallow hath found her a nest . . . well, even
our poor home may be a temple to the Lord of Hosts when
the incense of prayer and praise is offered up in it. Look
at the row of mud nests under the porch now, Magdalen.
Three more since yesterday.' (She was glancing at their
brown hut, which was only a little distance away, and she
had very long eyesight.) ' They remind me of the mud
hovels in Egypt that we used to see plastered against the
ruined temples.'
Strange words to be said in this remote English moor-
land, far from the likely haunts of travelled beings; and
spoken too by anyone inhabiting that rude cottage with its
JOY. 15
cob porch. What was more strange was, that this woman
had also the refined speech of a gentlewoman of education,
and—what many ladies have not—a voice so singularly
musical that it resembled often the sounds of an Eolian
harp.
CHAPTER II.
' Spring, like Love,
Doth stir a sad, sweet trouble in the heart.'
The woman called Magdalen started, with a quick, nervous
movement, as her sister spoke. She had not been thinking,
however; but in a sort of restless silence had been amusing
herself with trifles, like a child, or lying with eyes almost
closed in a half sleep. Ten minutes ago she had descried
two ants hurrying hivewards, and had amused herself ever
since laying twigs and leaves in their path. Poor, small
insects, so full, doubtless, of duties and anxieties. She
vexed them, she knew it! and smiled with a sort of almost
infantile malice in her pretty face ; for, though worn, her
features were very pretty. But, once startled from this
noiseless, secret sport, she looked up sharply and listened.
' Egypt! I was never there like you. But I have travelled,
too. I could tell you of mud huts in South America—and
in Mexico. Ah ! that was a life—always gaiety, excitement,
and change !—change !'
She stopped and laughed : just two happy notes ending
in one more so sharp and discordant that the darker sister
turned and looked at her with a comforting glance.
Magdalen's eyes, light blue as forget-me-nots, now wandered
i6
JOY.
wearily over the landscape around. There rose sweep after
sweep of brown moor, hill behind hill, each standing
shoulder to shoulder, none much higher than his brethren,
but many topped with tors, giant crowns of rock jutting out
in strange, different shapes.
' They never change,' she murmured pettishly, yet almost
as if she did not wish her complaint overheard. ' There
they are, that ugly mask-head, like a sphinx, and the castle
one and all the rest .... Oh, I am tired of them.' (Now,
to be reasonable, why should the hills change their faces ?)
' Magdalen, they do change,' said the other women ten-
derly. Both spoke in the peculiar conscious tone of persons
who seldom did talk; but this one especially as if words
were living symbols, each to be thoughtfully chosen, though
from her gentleness this seemed not pedantic, and she was
herself unaware of it. 'Yes, they change. Why, every
hollow on the moor is bright green now, though we are too
far off here to see. And already, every here and there, you
can see some gorse in flower, but presently up behind our
cottage to the hill-brow will be one yellow blaze of sweet
blossoms, and, as old Dunbar says, the skies will "ringwith
shouting of the larks. '
Magdalen could hardly be said to reply, but in an
inconsequent way she lilted to herself the old saying,
' When the gorse is out o' bloom,
Kissing's out o' favour.'
'Then, dear, think of the summer corning, and the warm
days you are so fond of, and the long twilight evenings on
the hills. The heather will come out in bloom, but first the
meadows down by Farmer Berrington's will be full of
mowers, and then comes harvest. But the hills are lovely
already. Look at that change '
A dark blue shadow passed rapidly over the fair hill
JOY.
17
range that was a steep barrier to the opposite valley. Ten
seconds !—it was gone like a past dream, and the whole hill-
side laughed in clear sunlight. Another dream is coming,
its dark point pushing forward—on, on, but this wave lower
than the last, the crest of the ridge and each jutting point
still bright above it against the soft blue sky. So, dreaming
and waking, now above, now below, chasing and still
returning, sunshine and shadow played upon the hilly
moorland.
As she had said, it was lovely !
Magdalen looked, and impatiently burst out, as if she
could not endure the view :
'Yes, Rachel, they do change, and we can't. And they
don't change, but stand always, always there, and I hate
them for it! . . . Summer coming, you say ! Why, that it
is the very time when we should be enjoying ourselves, be
gay, be happy.'
She made a little movement with her arms, as if indicating
the motion of a dance; the merest abortive sign instantly
subsiding. Then, with a plaintive passion, she went on :
' How many human beings have we seen this past week ?
One shepherd coming down that far path
' Do we want to see human creatures ?' said the other
sister, with an inexpressible tone, as if a depth of sadness
lay beneath, but was not stirred.
' No, no, no ! But still, what are our lives worth ? We
might as well be brutes.'
' You forget the two lives our lantern may have saved last
Saturday market-night.'
' The lantern, yes; is that all we are good for, to help
tipsy boors from a ducking ?'
'No; human souls from drowning. Come, Magdalen,
you know well enough that if the ford is low to-night, and
the stones plain to see, still how often, after a freshet, any-
2
i8
JOY.
one passing in the dark might easily lose their lives, like
those before them, in the Deadman's Pool.'
' I do know. I am glad to help. You know that. Still
. . still . . .' Magdalen's voice died away as she seated
herself low on the grass, with her arm under her head,
apparently forgetting what she had meant to say. Silence
again followed for some time.
At last, when many thoughts had come to the darker
woman's brain, and that a soothed and restful expression
was visible on her face, the voice from the prostrate form
asked, pathetically enough :
'Rachel, why does one feel each spring like a bird
longing to migrate to other lands ? Not to have the wings
of a dove, to flee away and be at rest . . that's you ! I feel
like a swallow, wanting to dart off in the air to see the sun
elsewhere, and again elsewhere, to fly and flit . . to have
no fixed home—and to forget!'
She spoke disconnectedly, and with sudden pauses. Rachel
seemed used to this, and waited, though with slow trouble
just stirring her mind like a quiet ripple on the surface of
depth. More was coming.
' Can't you speak ? Do you never feel it ?' went on the
other, yet not waiting for an answer. 'Are you become a
stock or a stone, living in this wilderness, and yet you are
younger than I am ? . . . Why, no one would think it!'
Perhaps not, mused Rachel, her lips just curving with a
smile. Nothing cynical in it, no longer dreamy; but the smile
of a good woman, who bids a brave farewell to the beauty
she held dear with youth and other gladnesses of life, yet
who is capable of a sense of humour when told she does not
feel it—humour which some hold to have been an attribute
of the divine man, and that Nature shows in some of her
animal motions. It is rare in women.
Not know the nameless trouble and vague longing of
JOY.
19
spring ? Why, during this past hour of quiet, Rachel had
felt so much a part of the surrounding universal nature that
the quickening of renewed life pouring from the great heart
of the earth—rising in every grass-blade, stealing in sweet
sap up all the tree-trunks, and thrilling out till their utmost
twigs felt the influence, causing buds to swell and softly
burst from their cases into colours of rosy-white, yellow, and
lilac drawn mysteriously from the brown earth—all seemed
a secret into which she entered, of which she partook.
But only she herself knew how hard it was to answer.
Twice she tried to begin, for surely here was a good
opportunity of uttering a wish that had been growing in her
heart all spring. Twice her lips failed, but the third time,
with the sudden conviction that it was right, Rachel said
softly, putting all her powers of gentle persuasiveness, all her
love and sympathy forth in her voice and tones :
' Perhaps what we both want—indeed, I am almost sure—
is some gladness; all Nature is full of it, every spring.
Why, there are the very trees!—the wind used to sigh
through their branches in winter so mournfully, and now the
young leaves are full of rustlings like laughing, and some-
times, if you listen, a rushing music of leaves when the wind
sways all the trees, as if it was Ariel's spirit. And the birds,
too, they consider happiness as their birthright each spring.
Yes, and so it is; and ours too. They are happy in the
sunshine, and their nests and young ones, as the trees and
plants are in their leaves and blossoms, and all that God
gives them. We may be happy too—in their way.'
'Never! I happy?—never again. What do you mean,
Rachel ? Why, you are mad !' cried her sister, starting from
her recumbent posture with parted lips and a pale, strange
look on her face.
' If you only would, dear, but it must be in Nature's own
way,' Rachel forced herself to repeat, with gentle impressive-
2—2
20
JOY.
ness, though her heart felt sinking. ' If you and I have
lost the mere joy of being young, there are other ways of
being happy still left to us. We feel the want of some
change, some break, some brightness in our lives. Well,
then—let us have the child here '
' The—child ! Why ? . . . Rachel, you are evidently quite
crazy. What right have you to startle me by these wild
ideas, when we were living so peacefully and quietly here ?'
cried her sister with weak querulousness, her lips slightly
trembling, and her pretty blue eyes wandering round, as if
to find some good reasons to help herself out in the resist-
ance she offered instinctively and at once from a spirit of
opposition.
' Why not, dear—at last ? It is surely safe now, Mag-
dalen. Who has disturbed us these almost five years ? If
there is some danger (very little here), there is a great duty.
Believe me, it would just be the one ray of human sunlight
in our lives to have that little child, with its cheery laugh
and diamond eyes, playing about us.'
' Her eyes !' retorted the other, in an outburst of fury so
sudden it was like a storm out of a summer sky. ' She has
her father's eyes, and I hate to see them in her!'
(' And I love her when she looks at me out of them,')
thought Rachel deep in her heart, but did not say so.
Some deprecating answers, still a few gentle remonstrances
she attempted, although the blue eyes flashed at her, and
the passionate voice said one or two bitter, wild words hard
to be borne. Then she saw it was of no use! All the
yearnings of her woman's instincts of motherliness, the
secret hope through the long-growing spring days that thus
her loneliness of heart might be filled, these must be given
up. The moors and hills looked darker for it, even to her
patient eyes.
But her deep tones were now heard only in tender
JOY.
21
soothing. Gradually the replies changed from passion to
peevishness; then the subject was turned, and became
monosyllables of raillery. After that, both voices ceased ;
the silence that seemed usual was resumed.
Presently, as the shadows grew longer, the two women
rose, and went slowly back to the little brown cottage.
Neither had spoken so much together for a long time.
The hut only boasted of two earthen-floored rooms. The
inner one was the bedroom, and that into which the door
opened from the porch was kitchen and dwelling-room com-
bined. In the window-sill, cut in the whole thickness of
the wall, was set a tin lantern, holding a tallow candle.
The sun had not yet sunk, however, and the candle was
still unlit.
CHAPTER III.
' What time the sun reversed the mountain shadows,
And from the yoke released the wearied oxen ;
As his own chariot slowly passed away,
Leaving on earth the friendly hour of rest.'
Lord Lytton's Horace.
The sun was setting that same evening, as the owner of the
farm nearest to Cold-home Cottage took his way through
the fields. He was going by a path that, after once crossing
the high-road, led towards the glen, now a mile and a half
away, and he was carrying a large covered basket.
A call in a childish treble sounded behind him, and a boy
of about eight or nine came trotting along. The farmer
stopped.
' Father, are you going to the cottage ?'
22
JOY.
' I am, my son.'
' Take me with you,' and the little fellow nestled his hand
into the big, sunburnt paternal one that was unoccupied,
whispering his request in a rather awed voice. The father,
a broad, hearty-looking man, looked down at the sunshiny
head below him.
' You bean't afraid ?'
'No. What would make me?'
' Who was it would never come these last several weeks,
and asked me the other night if those two were not witches,
eh ?'
' Well, and you said they wererCt, and that it was wicked
of any folk to say so,' returned the little fellow stoutly, as if
that was sufficient reason to satisfy the world.
' Come along, Blyth,' was all the farmer replied, with a
smile that wrinkled up the crows' feet at the corners of his
twinkling eyes, and on they went.
Farmer Berrington had a face of hearty English ruddiness,
as round and inexpressive as a full moon, and a mouth as
cherubic as a child's—one quite comical, in fact, between
his mutton-chop whiskers. He likewise was a man of few
words, but his little son found his a most conversable
silence. He would walk on chewing a leaf-twig, gazing at
the new-ploughed fields with such intense attention that
Blyth would stare too. Thereupon his parent, turning to
him, might ejaculate solemnly, ' Good land !' with such a
full-satisfied nod and air of good fellowship as implied that
was his whole mind and now Blyth knew it. On which the
boy, feeling thoroughly taken into the confidence of the
big man beside him, would nod too, trying to imitate the
paternal air of Jove, and perhaps put likewise a leaf between
his own rosy lips. But such intense gravity could only last
a few minutes. Soon Blyth would be prattling again in the
highest spirits, telling how he had climbed a tree that after-
JOY.
2 3
noon after a bird's nest, and coming down had fallen, bump-
ing his head badly; but that did not matter, only the fall
had broken the eggs he had carried in his mouth for
safety.
At such a tale the child's upturned face would always
meet the father's downward glance ; and, though the farmer's
lips were mute, those wise, small, half-shut eyes would be
all suffused with gleaming laughter that twitched, sometimes,
when more excessive, the muscles of his face. Little Blyth
found his father a very merry man.
Just as both were about to cross a lane, before again taking
their path through the fields, came the sound of horses
approaching at a trot.
The farmer peered over the stile, whistling under his
breath. Then, seeing who the new-comers were, he dropped
his heavy basket and proceeded leisurely to get into the
lane empty-handed.
' Father—father, you've forgotten ' begun little Blyth.
' 'Sb, my boy; I know,' and a good-humoured tap of two
fingers on his straw hat admonished the small man that
bigger men have mysterious ways of behaving which must
be submitted to in them ; though the nine-year-old manner
of conduct seems much simpler, and more easy of under-
standing.
The riders approached, and proved to be another farmer
riding a better-bred mare than most of his neighbours there-
abouts cared to keep, with his little son on a moor-pony.
'Hey! what? Hi, Berrington ! the very man for me,'
cried the elder rider, stopping and slapping his knee. Then,
with an air of joviality plainly meant to disperse all thought
of patronage on his part (which it did not, but suggested
that same to the foolish resentment of his neighbours some-
times), he continued—' Well, and what takes you abroad
afoot, at this hour? Where be 'ee going to, eh ?'
24
JOY.
' 'Tis a cool evening and pleasant for a walk, Mr. Hawk-
shaw,' replied Berrington, slowly turning his eyes, with an
air of satisfaction, upon the evening expanse of sky. Then,
in as simple a manner as if his wits had not noticed his
neighbour's inquisitiveness, he added, ' Were you saying you
wanted to see me ?'
' Well, not exactly; I reckon I could get along without
un,' laughed his more vivacious acquaintance. ' But still,
you know these two women-folk, wisht* sisters, as the fools
of moor-people call them, who live in that crazy cottage of
yours up by the Chad yonder.'
1 They are my tenants, as you say, therefore I ought to and
do know something of them. But, with regard to the
cottage, I do not know it to be crazy—p'raps others are
worse, to my thinking.'
' No offence, no offence, neighbour,' cried Hawksbaw,
rather quickly, after that last sentence, in contrast to the
slow impressiveness of Berrington. ' Only, being so old and
lost in the hills, it might have mouldered away long ago, I
thought—ha, ha ! Well, well, build a new one—go forward,
that's my motto, and no good fellow ever finds Steenie
Hawkshaw go back from his word. But I came round by
here this evening to see these queer tenants of yours.'
' In—deed ?'
' I did. They served me a good turn last Saturday night,
as I was coming back from market with some others. We
had all finished the evening at the Lamb and Flag, and
were gay—very gay. So, when we came to the river, it was
fairish dark, and, if it hadn't been for a candle they say those
two always burn on purpose, I'll be d d if this mare and
I wouldn't have ridden into the Deadman's Pool; for we
were straight for it, only little Willy Tarr, the miller, gave a
shout that might have raised the dead, when he found where
* Mysterious.
JOY.
25
he was. Lord ! I can't help laughing ... the fright
nearly sobered us.'
' And may one inquire what you want, then, further with
the women, neighbour ?' asked Berrington, still stolidly.
'Want? Why, it's they that want, by all accounts, man
alive ! I'm bound to give them something for their pains,
and so I will, too. No one shall have it to say they saved
Stephen Hawkshaw's life, and that he was mean about it;
no, no.'
For all answer, Farmer . Berrington began to laugh,
apparently. Not a sound came, but his huge body heaved
and shook with a mountain mirth, silently further expressed
by his facial contortions and the way he twisted his hands in
his breeches pockets.
Hawkshaw grew half angry watching him.
' What is it, man ? Speak up,' he repeated several times.
' I was thinking,' replied Berrington, wiping his eyes with
a red and yellow cotton handkerchief, for he was afflicted
with a rheum in these that laughter caused to flow, 'that the
sisters could hardly have known they were helping you;
and maybe they might not have much cared. Why, man !
they always put the lantern in the window, to do a kind
turn to any tramp, and ask nought.'
'But they'll take quick enough,' returned Hawkshaw,
slightly offended, searching his pockets with a great air,
' and, when I told you I'd pay them, I'm not the man to
break my word. But as these two stiles are still betwixt me
and the cottage, and it's a goodish bit round to ride, maybe,
if you are bound that way, you'd oblige me, being on foot;'
and he produced some loose silver.
Berrington shook his head.
' They would not have it—that's my belief. Seems
strange, too; but women and weather is sometimes curious
—specially unmarried ones, and living alone.'
26
JOY.
1 Why, what are they, then, to refuse good money ? What
do they live by, and what's their name, eh ?' asked the dis-
tant farmer, with contemptuous surprise, and an insisting
suspicion in his manner at such cottagers having the
impudence, as it were, to refuse his offer by proxy.
' Oh, poor creatures—very,' answered Berrington, nodding
his head. ' Live like the rest, but keep to themselves . . .
It may be their religion; Methodys and Quakers have
queer ways, I have heard tell—but don't know much about
such folk . . . Anyway, these ones think this light of theirs
an act of mercy, and therefore won't touch money for it;
that I do know. No, not if you went to tempt them with gold.'
This was said so decisively that Hawkshaw, assuming
reluctance, restored his money to his pocket.
' But it's strange, too; they can't be from these parts.
What is their right name, anyway ?' he repeated, being well
known as a busybody. Then, lowering his voice with a
look towards the boys—' Some folks say it's queer they
don't work for their living, and yet they do live. And a
woman down by us says her cow has never given the same
amount of milk since she drove it by there a month ago—
and where is that gone to ? Not that I hold much by such
tales; but still—why, I'd have you keep an eye on them,
neighbour—I would indeed.'
' And so you think witches would try to save your life
and that of others, do you ?' said Berrington, with weighty
contempt. 4 Look ye here, Mr. Hawkshaw : when common
people don't understand anything, they always think the
worst they can of it! That I've remarked. But you might
be above giving such superstitious, lying tales credit. Why,
I've known those women nigh on four years, and if anyone
says they're not honest, poor souls, just tell that man or
woman to say so to George Berrington.' (He pronounced
his name Jarge.)
JOY.
27
'Oh, well, well!' ejaculated Hawkshaw, who loved a
gossip more than most of the men in those parts, and was
a foolish but good-natured soul; as indeed his once hand-
some face, now coarsened by drink, showed. ' But, d'ye
see, Parson Russell asked me last time we were out with
the hounds—for he had heard them called the ' grey sisters'
after the stones in the old circle on Whiddon Moor, and felt
called on to inquire—if they were sheep of his or not; and
you always know everything, Hawkshaw, says he. So I
must tell him next time we meet. How do they live—eh ?
What is their right name?'
' I rayther dis—remember. Oh—Stone, I think,' said
Berrington, who had relapsed into more than usual im-
passiveness after such an unusual amount of conversation.
' Why, as to work,' 'tis all honest; a little sewing, and
picking heather for brooms and—such-like. One is often
sick for days, and the other tends her, so they're not seen
much—that's all. Howsomever they're my tenants, so I'll
thank busy folk to mind their own business, as I never
meddle with what's no concern of mine. If Parson Russell
don't see them at church, why, it means they're going to
heaven by some other way, and maybe a straighter gate
than his own. Tell him that.'
Hereupon Berrington struck his stick on the ground
forcibly, and, pulling out his red handkerchief, again rubbed
his forehead heated with discussion; evidently taking um-
brage at any disposition to interfere with those under his
protection. ' Let every man mind his own business,' was
the favourite sentence for which the farmer was famous; and
it was a wonder that Hawkshaw had not already got more
of the rough side of his tongue.
Berrington now added :
'Come on, Blyth ; we must be going.'
' Well, good-evening, good-evening. Come over and see
28
JOY.
me at Chadford Barton some evening, farmer. Always glad
to see my neighbours,' cried Hawkshaw, in a tone meant as
conciliation of his offence, with a benign wave of his arm.
'Thank ye, farmer; perhaps you'll come over first to the
Red House,' gruffly returned George Berrington.
He stood still as one of the granite posts of the gate
beside him, watching his neighbour ride off with much clatter
of importance. Hawkshaw cut his mare sharply with the
whip, exclaiming, ' Coom oop' and ' Coom aan' to her and
the boy, quite forgetting his usual gentility of speech.
In truth, this, when stirred to its early foundations of dialect,
was vulgar enough, far more common than that of Berring-
ton, who made no pretence at fine words, but was a man
of fair education and natural good breeding. Berrington
guessed now, with a slow smile, that Hawkshaw was nettled
by the word ' farmer ' so unhesitatingly returned to himself
by the man who was proud of being thus called.
CHAPTER IV.
'Like one of Shakespeare's women.'
Shelley.
When the two riders were fairly gone, George Berrington
stepped back for his big basket, then pursued his way,
thinking quietly to himself. At last his gaze turned on
little Blvth. The two boys, in their late meeting, had been
eyeing each other much as might a pair of puppies of rival
breeds; either mentally appraising the new acquaintance,
the one with growing contempt, the other in envious defiance.
' Well, what did that boy and you say to each other, my
son ?' said the father.
JOY.
29
4 He asked me why I had no pony to ride too ; and I
said I might have ten or twenty, if my father pleased. And
so I might, mightn't I, dad ?—for all yours on the moor are
as good as his,' answered Blyth, whose wrath had been
warming in his heart. Then the child's feelings burst out
unrestrained, and he half sobbed, rubbing his head against
his father's coat. ' But why may I not ride a pony of my
own—why not, father ?'
4 Because you are young and tender yet, and I promised
your mother when she died, to take good care of you, boy,'
was the slow answer, given in a troubled tone. 4 Next year,
lad . . . learn well now, and then you shall ride to Moor-
town School every day.'
4 Steenie Hawkshaw doesn't go to school.'
4 No ; but you are to grow up abetter man than he. See
here, Blyth ... his father wants to seem a gentleman, and
bring him up likewise.' (Set a beggar on horseback, thought
the farmer here in due pause for comfort in speaking.) But
you are to be one. Don't forget that . . . Your mother
was a lady by birth—a church clergyman's daughter, though
poor, and a governess. She was anxious, poor soul, for you
—she'd have brought you up right . . . Well, I'm a plain
man, but I'll do my best.'
'Do gentry always learn much ?' asked the child.
4 They ought to; and I hate a man to seem what he isn't;
remember that, my boy.'
' All right—I will,' said Blyth stoutly.
In silence both now went till they had approached the
entrance of the glen. The sound of the Chad pouring
between its scattered boulders and foaming over tiny
natural weirs, seen in ghostly white water through the
gathering darkness, pleased the boy.
The farmer was looking before him at a huge mass of
rock standing alone, a striking object, on the river bank.
3°
JOY.
Just here a fringe of alders and birches began, and increas-
ing in density, followed the stream up its course to the
waterfall in the glen. This rock was known in the country
as a Logan-stone, from its logging or rocking slightly on its
base when pushed. At rare times, some of the young country-
folk out sweethearting would stray from the beaten tracks thus
far to sit down for an hour and crack nuts even under that
stone monster. It was so strangely poised on three other
low stones that a child might shake it, but a giant force
would be needed to dislodge it.
No travellers ever found their way hither: else any such
who, clambering upon the great rock with difficulty, had
discerned a shallow pan cut on its top surface, as is usual
with supposed Druid altars, might have moralized over the
almost ignobly innocent use to which it was now put,
Farmer Berrington placed his basket under the Logan-
stone, then, bidding Blyth play by the river for a little while,
withdrew himself to a short distance, and there in the open
ground stood still.
It was strange in that solitary spot, with night falling and
only trees, bushes, and river, but no living creature, visible
(or likely to be seen around), for a sensible English farmer
to wait a quarter of an hour, doing nothing except resting
first on one leg, then on the other. As the minutes passed,
a certain tension became apparent on the good man's face.
He was thinking that supper-time at the farm was approach-
ing, and, if not hungry himself, little Blyth might be
so.
At last, a dark woman's figure glided out from behind the
Logan-stone. She must have come unperceived from the
alders that shadowed the river-side, and through which a
foot-track led towards the glen. At first she stooped to
pick up the basket; but seeing Berrington's big form,
motionless as a gnomon, in the middle of a circle of
JOY. 31
greensward, she hesitated. The farmer took off his hat,
but still waited.
Then, after a pause of a short time, apparently necessary
for her to make up her mind to something unusual, Rachel
—for it was the darker of the sisters at the cottage—went
straight towards Berrington with as grand a gait as if she
had been Night herself. Stopping in front of him, her face
quite hidden by her hood, as the man did not seem to know
exactly how to begin, she calmly asked :
'You want to speak to me ?'
' Well . . . yes. At least—hem! hem!' faltered the
worthy Berrington, who secretly wished he had. spent his
late rest in due preparation of speech, for no right opening
words would come without heed as by inspiration to him.
Another pause. Then the woman said, low but clear :
'What is it? When I saw you last, on New Year's Day,
you said we might pay all due at midsummer.'
"Tis not that. No, no.' Berrington shifted uneasily on
his feet. ' Only I'm afraid I said what I had no call to this
evening. A man asked me your names, and somehow,
what with hesitation like, I slipped out Stone?
' Ah !'—a quick observer might have heard fear in that
sharp inspiration rather than articulate sound; but the
question which followed was quietly put—' What was the
man like ?'
' Oh ! don't fear; only a fool of a gentleman farmer down
yonder.' Here the worthy owner of Red-house Farm
jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ' It was in gratitude
for your light. But I'm thinking now, maybe, 'twas as well.
For Estonia is such an outlandish name, it would only
excite talk among the people here, who, though no more
meddlesome than most, still cannot always be kept to their
own affairs; and, indeed, I myself don't easily get my
tongue round it.'
32
JOY.
A sigh, long-drawn, this time came in answer.
' I did not like living a fraud. I love the name to which
we have a right.'
'Well, well, believe me, ma'am, Stone would be best to
answer to, if you mean to live long here.'
' I trust to stay here in peace till I—till we die.'
' Then take my word for it,' said Berrington impressively.
« Mind you, none have asked me your name nigh these two
years; none may in those, please God, to come for us all.
I keep my household in good order, and my neighbours in
due civility on both sides. But still, it is as well for lone
women to be careful—though while George Berrington lives
you can count on a friend. As you may remember, so I
said, which was once and for always, on Midsummer Night
these three years past come June.'
' You are a good man, Mr. Berrington, and wise, which is
rarer. As to Stone—well,' . . . and under that hood her
face took a sad, almost cynical smile as she thought (' we
are both as dead to the world as a stone; Niobe was a
stone, too, though she was happy in her insensibility.')—
'Yes, it is a name that suits us. We will keep it. Good-
evening.'
' Good-evening, ma'am.' Still the farmer hesitated.
' And your sister, she keeps well, I hope ?'
' She is well at present, thank you.'
' Would, maybe . . . would not a little cheerful talk, some
diversion, now, of others' company . . .?' He stopped, as,
with a kindly but emphatic shake of the head and gesture
of hand, the strange woman turned away and left him
alone.
' Well, well, I do not know who would be company fit
for them now in my house; that's true,' reflected Berring-
ton, thinking of himself, taciturn by liking and conscious of
much wanting except goodwill; of little Blyth, of the two
JOY.
33
farm-maids, the shepherd and the cowkeeper. Yet adding
to himself, with a proud warmth about his heart, as he went
to seek his boy, who was throwing pebbles into the water,
' Still, if my wife had lived '
A few minutes later a bright speck of light appeared in
the darkness of the glen. It was as if a little shining door for
fairies was opened into the heart of the black, brooding hills,
where all inside might be glow and warmth.
The candle of Cold-home was lit.
CHAPTER V.
'A child with eyes divine, a little child,
A little child—no more.'
L. Morris.
A middle-aged woman and a little child. And this—
namely, all which follows in the next few chapters—is what
they seemed to remember afterwards as in a dream.
The vision of an old-fashioned town; almost stagnant,
but for some new industries sprung up of late years, and
chiefly manifest by smoky mill-chimneys and gangs of mill-
hands, pale-faced but loud-tongued, going by at certain
hours.
On the outskirts of this town, a gloomy, prim old house
built of red bricks, each of which seemed stuck by a soot
layer to its neighbour. There were rusty iron gates in front,
opening on a small sweep where weeds throve like the
children of the wicked, and bordering laurels stretched
ragged, lean overgrown branches. Behind was a garden
where little grew, fenced by a high brick wall on which no
3
34
JOY.
fruit now cared to ripen, over which no thief wanted to
clamber.
The house had been in the country once, as a genteel
abode, till the mills crept out to it. And now it stood sadly
in the smokiest atmosphere of the whole town, while around
stretched, instead of green fields, a wilderness of ugly coal-
stores, timber-yards, and so forth.
Hardly a soul passed by there but the early troops of
mill-workers, summoned at dawn, poor souls, by a dismal
horn, to issue hungry and with insulting looks, if not words,
at any passer-by whose appearance seemed genteel, or in
any way provoked remark. Back they came again at one
o'clock, and once more dispersed at night. It was not a
tempting neighbourhood for taking walks, certainly.
Perhaps it was for this reason that neither woman nor
child was almost ever seen out of doors. As for the latter,
who was a little girl about five years old, she remembered
no other home, and played daily within the small square of
sooty garden between those high walls without knowledge
of any free meadows, of brighter green and sweeter flowers
than the smoke-blackened ivy and hollies, and a few sad-
looking columbines and self-sown Canterbury-bells which
smirched her pretty button of a nose when she kissed them
with her rosy mouth.
The child herself was the only bright flower among them.
She had lustrous dark eyes, with a roguish look lurking like
a possible surprise in their depths; although otherwise she
was quiet enough, and somewhat too pale of face. But her
little head was covered with silky dark curls that threw back
soft reflections; her lips, where the colour stays longest, were
more sweetly red, surely, to her nurse's partial mind than those
of any other child. And to hear her laugh in the evenings,
in screeching trills of music, shaken by sudden alarms of
hide-and-seek, or jangled by tickling, when the same nurse
JOY.
35
would devotedly spend an hour in amusing her, you would
swear it could not be the same little mouse of a child who
played by herself so gravely all day.
The woman was a strange enough figure. Nature had
made her so big and strong, but so round-shouldered, thick-
waisted, and uncouth. Her complexion was of a muddy,
freckled brown; her dark hair was coarse, but wonderfully
thick and long, perhaps her only claim to beauty; and her
features might be easily copied by a few pinches and de-
pressions made with finger and thumb in a lump of putty.
The eyes were so small they were lost in the face. The
nose had no bridge, and then sprang up as broad and thick
as that of a negress. As to the mouth, it was a cavern
when it opened to laugh ; and, furthermore, the loss of one
front tooth became then darkly visible in a gap that was
quite an eyesore at first, making Hannah much uglier than
she need have been, even taking into consideration a scar
running up one cheek to the temple. When she took the
child in her lap little Joy would reach up her finger softly to
run it along this scar, laughing and saying, ' Ugly, ugly
and Hannah, curiously moved, would always reply :
'Yes, dearie, it is sore; then kiss the place to make it
well,' adding, in her heart, ' And it is sore when I call to
mind who gave it me. Well, well, the child's lips can cure
what the father's hands did. For her sake I got it, and for
her sake I forgive it.'
Poor ugly Hannah !
But in this little child's eyes she was beautiful.
Hannah might have been even hideous. Nevertheless,
her breast was the most maternal to which this infantile
being had ever been clasped, her arms were the strongest to
toss little Joy in merry play. And what mattered a mouth's
ugliness when it never opened but to say something
pleasant; or little eyes that were all alive, when resting
3—2
36 JOY
on the child, with the love that streamed from a big, warm
heart ?
The house was known in the neighbourhood as Mr.
Quigg's museum, or, to speak more familiarly, as most folk
did, 'Peter Quigg's' museum. 'Poor Peter!' the ragged
gutter-imps used to shout after him down the streets of
single-brick houses, new but already crazy and shabby, in
which the mill-workers slept—hardly lived, since they passed
little more than the hours of night there. Peter Quigg
went thither, carrying creature comforts and medicine with a
furtive, ashamed air. He never looked angry with these
impudent brats. Why should he ? They meant no harm,
and he was used to being called ' Poor Peter' all his days,
even by his mother who had loved him, then by his school-
mates ; and absolute strangers in later life had always, after
once meeting him, added that prefix of ' poor' to his name.
His name—that was a sore point—Quigg!
'What beautiful woman would ever have consented to
take such a name ?' he would sometimes despondently ask
himself on chill twilights, when the loneliness of his old
house made itself more heavily felt than usual. Now
Johnson, his mother's name, she might not have disliked
that. But to change his patronymic, announce the fact in
newspapers, bear the laughter and ridicule of his native
town ! He shivered at the thought, and had not courage.
Perhaps his gaze on this same evening would wander round
the old furniture of his dingy room.
'And poor, too,' he would add to himself. 'At least,
not with means to give such a jewel a proper setting.'
Then rising in the right but feeble hope of putting an end
to such vainly sorrowful reflections, an old mirror, topped
by a decrepit eagle of faded gilding, reflected his person.
He stopped short.
' Ah, and that worst of all!' That meant that he was
JOY.
37
only a small, pale man, hollow-chested and nerveless,
without good looks, without health. ' It is no wonder she
would not,' he said to himself, ' but still '
All this explains why Peter Quigg had never married.
Also he lived in nervous dread that little Joy, whom he had
received into his house out of pure goodness of heart,
might be supposed to be related to him. This he had
delicately explained to Hannah when child and nurse
arrived at the museum four years or more ago. She agreed
to his views of discreet guarding against gossip, with
wonderful zeal. Also she insisted on undertaking the whole
duties of general-servant in the old house thenceforth—
baking, cooking, scrubbing late and early, washing (what her
master never took account of) a marvellous number of little
white clothes to keep her nursling 'like a princess,' she
would say to herself, refusing peremptorily every offer of a
charwoman often offered by Peter's troublesome conscience.
' What's not known, can't be much spoken of; and, as the
proverb says, a lie has no legs, but scandal has wings,'
Hannah would reply, with a guttural laugh. She wanted no
one spying and poking inside the house—not she. For
which Hannah had perhaps her reasons, into which the
timid little man who had given her the protection of his
roof did not like to inquire closely, whatever he vaguely
might guess. So the house being roomy enough, and
Hannah resolved that no dust should cry shame on her
resolution, it was well she was so strong, and no wonder she
had not much time to play with baby Joy.
As to the house being called a museum, here is the ex-
planation.
Peter Quigg's father, a doctor, had been a great collector
of curiosities of an unusual kind. Among other things,
being given to ethnology, he had a room full of fine skulls
and some skeletons; another, still lined with cases of
38
JOY.
what Hannah, being a northern woman, called ' wee
beasties in spirits, which was far too good a death for
them!'
The son had grown up entirely given to the same taste,
having one only early ambition, shadowed by timidity, to be
curator to a large museum. The chance never came.
Meanwhile the paternal house, and enough means for his
modest wants, did become his property. He travelled
yearly, adding to his collections with patience and self-
denial of other luxuries; sometimes he sold duplicates to
other curio-hunters with careful honesty, thereby adding a
little to his income. That was all.
No, not quite all. Once, in his travels, he had made the
acquaintance of a being who was thenceforth his ideal—
a woman ! This was his one romance. Peter was not in-
sensible to the charm of the young life so sweetly unfolding
itself between the dark walls of the museum—the little feet
that made music on the stairs. He was drawn to the child,
but, when it came shyly to his knee, he did not know what
on earth to say to it! He loved infants in the abstract, but
stood in terrible awe of them in flesh and blood. They
exacted such a drain of the animal spirits!—and he had
little or none to meet the demand.
Still he brought the child home dolls at times—foolish
playthings, truly, but then his heart was not mangled by
seeing them destroyed; whilst the picture-books he brought
far more often (long before she could read) were torn by
those terrible dimpled fists with glee, and flaunted before his
sorrowing eyes. Plainly, in never knowing paternity, Peter
Quigg had escaped much sorrow.
Still many a time, looking at him as he sat alone among
his cases and books, Hannah would think to herself piti-
fully, as she delighted her energies in strong work, ' He
has a good heart, poor soul! It's just like a well-laid
JOY.
39
grate—all the sticks and coal there, and nothing wanting
but a spunk o' fire. And that he'll never get.'
So the weeks and months, and now years, wore on.
Hannah scrubbed, her master dreamed ; and few, very few,
beyond Hiram, the trusty custodian of the museum treasures
in his master's absence, who had grown into serving-man
from serving-boy there, knew of the existence of sunny
little Joy, or had even many times seen Hannah's face.
CHAPTER VI.
1 Waly, waly! bairns are bonny ; ane's eneugh and twa's owermony.'
Old Proverb.
The fourth spring came that child and nurse lived at the
museum. Spring, a season when most tender young things,
or frail persons, show signs of weakness as the weather
warms. Hannah noticed with growing fear that her nurs-
ling lost heart daily to laugh at play, would mope on her
little stool, and looked thin and white.
'Small wonder,' said the nurse aloud to herself. 'Never
to see a bit of blue in God's sky, but only them nasty reek
fogs, and breathe only smoke, smoke ! And a garden like a
prison-yard, with black, bare earth and gritty cinder-walks.
Poor little heart !'
So she went straight to her master, and said all her mind,
thus ending :
' The child will die, sir. I must take her away for a
change, and I only pray in merciful goodness she may pick
up her flesh again.'
Hannah had a vigorous way of expressing herself that
4°
JOY.
was in strong contrast to poor Peter Quigg's limp gentleness
He passed his thin fingers through the lank brown hair that
fell straight on either side of his forehead.
' Whatever you think best, nurse . . . dear me, what a
frightful responsibility children are ! But, you know, I
never wished to keep you both here against your will.'
' That's true, sir,' and Hannah thought, with some grim
humour in her heart, ' 'Deed it's more likely you took us in
against your will !'—adding aloud, 'Then we may go as
soon as I can get things fixed to rights ?'
' Stay, stay. You won't think of doing anything without
writing to her P exclaimed Mr. Quigg, with a sudden thought
that lent almost firmness to his tone. And he thought to
himself, ' Then I shall see her letter.'
' She has nothing to say to the child. It's not hers ; and,
anyway, they trust everything to me,' majestically replied
Hannah, with crushing decision. ' Oh ! I'll write. I'll go
first and write after. There's not too much time to lose,
maybe ; for besides '
She stopped herself sharply. What was the use of alarm-
ing the kindly being before her, who now waved his hand in
yielding assent, and for whom she felt quite a protecting
fondness, believing him the most chicken-hearted, gentle
creature ever made in the likeness of man ? And then—
she might be wrong.
The truth was that, besides the child's pining looks, some-
thing else had occurred to give Hannah troubled thought,
if not actual distress of mind, during the last fortnight.
' Misfortunes never come single—that's a true word,' she
sighed forebodingly to herself. For with the last April
days, it being the time when gipsies take the road, and
tramps and hawkers of all kinds are stirred to try new ways,
leaving the winter beats in the town, an organ-grinder had
passed three times by their gate.
JOY.
41
Now this was an unusual thing in itself, because piles of
timber and coal heaps are not a rich neighbourhood for
itinerant musicians. The first time, therefore, that little
Joy's ears were ravished by the sweet sounds, she trotted
into the front parlour, which was forbidden ground, sacred
to company that never came, with its furniture shrouded in
holland-sarks, like ghosts waiting resurrection; and there,
climbing on the window-sill, she glued her pretty face to the
panes—whence Hannah had not the heart to dislodge her.
As to the man, he was an ill-looking fellow enough, small
and sallow, with a bush of unkempt hair. But there ! what
harm could a stranger do for once, and outside the iron gates
too ?
' I'd rather not meet him on a dark night alone,' thought
Hannah to herself; and there seemed an end of it.
The next Sunday night (and a dark night too) as Hannah
had nearly reached home after chapel, this very Italian came
close up to her under a lamp and tried to catch a glimpse of
her features under the thick veil she wore hanging loose and
straight from her roundabout straw bonnet. Somehow his
act gave the woman a cold shiver down the back as she
hurried in to the shelter of her kitchen. ' What with my
figure and clothes, he couldn't have took me to be pretty;
and what was he doing down this road, without ever any
people to rob nor publics to drink at ?'
The next Sunday Hannah did not go to chapel; though
this service was the only outing the good soul permitted
herself; while also she had hitherto thought herself safe
from notice of her surpassing ugliness behind her veil.
Twice the organ-grinder came again, and played outside
the gates for nearly half-an-hour. But he saw no child's face.
Hannah had grimly said to herself, ' I thought as much ;'
and yet why ? She could not have told. But she had
invented a strange new game for her nursling called ' Lie
42
JOY.
still.' On the appearance of any passer-by, notably of the
organ-grinder, little Joy flew to hide behind the nearest cur-
tain; and there, only one bright eye occasionally peering
out, would remain like a mouse till the bad man, who might
steal little girls, was gone. Then, on Hannah's signal, forth
she would come, and they had high romps together over'the
enemy's discomfiture. This was all treated as a joke, how-
ever, and Joy thought her nurse a person of vast invention.
' Where to go, Hiram ; ay, that's the rub,' repeated Han-
nah the same night on which she had spoken to Mr. Quigg,
having returned to the kitchen. ' Him upstairs,' and she
jerked her head towards the ceiling significantly, 'will be off,
too, for a fortnight, he says, so you can keep house till we
come back.'
' Sure-ly, sure-ly,' said Hiram, with a joyful sound piercing
through the decent regret he strove to infuse into his thick
tones. Visions rose before him of a cosy bar-parlour, and
of a welcoming widow with whom he had been keeping mild
company these twenty years back. Hannah looked at him
sharply, but thought in exoneration,' Well, well, it is dull here;
and he's a man. Why, I'd as lief be in a gaol myself barring
the confinement. Hiram's a decent body, but a gowk.'
' Fresh air, and a pure breeze to blow some red into that
babe's blessed face is the necessary,' she mused aloud.
' I'd take her up to Ayrshire, but that all my own folk there
are dead or scattered. If my sister was alive '
' I've a sister,' announced Hiram, his thick wits stirring
at the prospect of perfect freedom for a while. ' She might
give you lodging. She lives'close to the sea at Sandybeach'
(the nearest small sea-port), ' some five hours' distance by
coach.' Then he stopped. ' But I forgot; you mightn't
care to go to the like of her, if you knew; and yet, she is
an honest woman now this many a year.'
' Why, Hiram, what is it ?'
JOY.
43
' She got into trouble in her youth, you see,' said Hiram,
apologetically. ' It was all along of vanity; but she bor-
rowed her mistress's clothes to wear, and then was caught
and tried for stealing. Prison ain't a good school for a
young girl, and maybe, after she came out, she was little
the better in her conduct for it. I don't know—I don't
want to know—but she was nearly heart-broke, and no one
would employ her. She wouldn't come near us for years.
At last she writes and says she is married to an old sailor
on a pension—very comfortable. I went to see her after
that. She has a nice cottage and children now—all clean
and tidy. No one knows down there ; but I think it only
honest to tell you.'
' I don't know but what she would do; them that has
known trouble is sometimes easier to live with,' said Hannah,
half to herself. Then they discussed the matter further.
Lastly the woman said, artlessly, to the man, ' Have you
noticed that organ-grinder who comes past here of late ? Is
he respectable ?'
' He ! Lord ha' mercy! he's the greatest thief and rascal
in the town; been had up times without end,' answered
Hiram simply. ' Josey is the name he goes by. I sent him
off to-day, not liking that sort to be loafing about our
house.' (Here Hiram plumed himself, having a great idea
of the value of the museum's contents.) ' "You've a sweet
little mees there; she loves to hear me, says he. "Yes,
and she's got a bitter, big nurse that will send you off with a
flea in your ear, says I— ha, ha! and away he went,
taking a squint back at the house.'
'Hiram,' impressively uttered Hannah, 'your tongue is
better oiled nor your wits, and it's a pity they both don't
keep pace together; for, as it is, you're a fool.'
44
JOY.
CHAPTER VII.
' And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep ;
A voice out of the silence of the deep.'
Longfellow.
Brisk, short waves were breaking on a sandy shore. A
salt breeze was blowing the sunny sky free of clouds, and
making the blood tingle cheerily in the veins of those who
inhaled its strong, life-giving breath.
Some fisher-children were at play in a little cottage-
garden fronting the beach, and among these was Baby Joy,
her head bare and her small person covered by a coarse
blouse, so that she was fit to enjoy the new-learnt delights
of mud-pies and sand-castles, which these wonderful children
taught her, to her heart's content.
The small creature was at first utterly amazed with delight
at meeting children, real children, for the first time in her
life. She had only seen them at rare moments before from
her prison-windows. And then the sea, the great shining sea,
sometimes laughing at her, sometimes scolding, and the
waves that chased her when she ventured down to them
bare-legged, holding the fisher-boys' hands timidly, till she
fled back shrieking with frightened glee as the foam washed
round her rosy, bare feet. Then again the hard, white
strand, with its strange sea-creatures, its shining pebbles;
and the wonders, too, of this tiny garden where she and her
companions at present were busy building a noble shell-
house supplied amply from the shingle, with an elegant path
to this mansion marked by bits of broken glass.
The rush of new sights, sounds, and ideas almost over-
filled the small soul; her little heart and brain seemed
bursting with such new-found gladness and wonder.
JOY.
45
Standing on a slab of natural rock which she called her
throne, that formed a rude seat among the flowers of the
cottage plot, little Joy sent out a strange, wild cry. It was
a jubilee inspired by nature's self.
Inside the cottage kitchen, two women, who were seated
by the fireside at their evening tea, looked at each other
and smiled.
' It does my heart good to hear her. Just hark ! The
way that child has brightened up in these ten days, no one
could have believed that hadn't seen it. Yes; bless you?
my pretty dear,' said Hannah, applying herself to biting a
large piece of smoking-hot buttered scone, her face shining
with satisfaction both over her charge and the meal.
'It has done yourself good, too,' said Hiram's sister
kindly, who was a Mrs. Harper, the hostess. ' To be shut
up alone for years in that old coal-hole of a house, with not
ever a soul to speak to—for Hiram's wits would lie in a
salt-spoon—I wonder you didn't die of it.'
'Well, it was lonely never to have a woman to say a
word with, that I will own,' averred Hannah, with a sigh
like a small breeze; the pleasure of enjoying what all
women call ' a good talk' with one of her own sex causing
her to open her heart more freely than a fortnight ago she
would have believed credible. Then, her soul being stirred,
she thus began,' One never got even as much as a breath of
fresh air; whilst as to black-beetles and rats in the kitchen,
they'd have been tumbling over each other if I hadn't
taught them to make room civilly by help of poison. But
the want of company was worst, for I always was a great
one for being sociable. Some finds a pleasure in being
stuck up and keeping themselves to themselves, as they
call it. Now, in my mind, that's often enough because no
one but theirselves will put up with them. The Lord
made me ugly, so, thinks I, that's a hint it's my duty to
46
JOY.
make myself more pleasant; but whenever Providence lays
a duty on folks, Mrs. Harper, the devil's sure to come and
try them sorely. And so how could I pass a joke, or be as
agreeable as a Christian woman would wish amongst mur-
dering foreigners and black Injins, with whom my lot was
cast for years ? Ah ! well, even the old museum is better
nor that; but this is the first time, I may say, I've felt
happy and comfortable for years. And you're the first
woman as I've met, this many a day, I could put trust or
confidence in.'
After what Hiram said this may seem remarkable. But,
in truth, his sister was a little woman who could be very
pleasant to people she liked, and as sharp-tongued and
distant to others. She had been pretty once, and had
quick eyes with a furtive glance in them. Her manner to
strangers at first was glib, with a forced gaiety, but with
husband and children it was tender and thoughtful; and so
it was now to Hannah. Such a tea as she knew how to
set on that well-scoured round table, too; such a pile of
smoking cakes crowned with butter. True, she drank out
of her saucer—a familiarity of ease Hannah had rigidly
forbidden herself, for the child's sake, hitherto; but one
must do at Rome as the Romans. So, with quite a joyous
remembrance of early years, the nurse likewise balanced her
saucer on her open hand, and drank noisily, and was happy,
as she said, and very comfortable.
' Have another cup, and finish that plateful of cake, do.
There's as much more hot in the oven,' said Mrs. Harper.
' It's a wonder to me, Mrs. Hannah, if I may take the liberty
to say so, that you did stay so long in foreign parts, seeing
you disliked them that much. Not that I mean to ask
questions; it's not what I care for much myself,' and she
gave a little sigh.
'I know, I know. Best friends don't go raking in our
JOY.
47
ashpits to spy at what's thrown out,' returned Hannah
impressively. 'But, my dear, 'twas not along o' myself I
did it, but because of one I loved better nor self, and would
ha' died for, since ever she first came to my arms, not much
bigger than little Joy there ; and I a lump of a girl and a
nursery-maid. I'd had a rough life at home, and most that
I gave my love to only paid me back with laughter for my
ugliness. But with these 'twas all soft words and pretty
ways that eased my sore heart. And she, bless her ! was
the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, and was fond of me, for all
my ugly looks. So I just gave myself up to serve her and
hers, for better or worse, through life, please God. And
just as much as I loved her I hated another person. That
was a man—her husband, when my dear had grown up.
Sometimes men seem to think all women to be either fools
or angels, or both together, like mixed stuff that's woven.
But I know most men are whole fools or just devils, and he
was a devil.'
' No, there's good men too,' said Harper's wife quickly,
with a flush on her cheek. ' I grant you they're rare, but—
well, Hiram has told you about me. Then I met my old
man, and he believed i?i me, in spite of knowing everything.
When men thinks us good, it goes half-way to making us
good.'
'One went half-way towards making me wicked. He
gave me that] returned Hannah, raising her hand to the
great scar on her face, and flushing, too, but from a different
emotion, while a little shiver of hatred and fear passed over
her body, coarse and unemotional though she seemed.
' Yes, as if I weren't ugly enough. He'd have killed me if
he could, for I used to fight him for my young mistress's
sake, tooth and nail, as you may say. She had been a
spoilt darling, and he had the pride of Lucifer, so it was
like thunder raging against lightning, or, as my old mother
48
JOY.
used to say,  When the man's fire and the wife's tow, in
comes the de'il, and blaws it in a low."'
' A little drop more tea ?' consolingly urged Mrs. Harper.
' Oh, dear me, what a world of trouble and sorrow it is !
And, even when things do better a bit, like with me, one
can never be sure of keeping them. They are the best
husbands that gets drowned always, or else, like mine,
they're not in the best of health. Well, well, there's rest at
the end, we'll hope.'
' And I'll live to plague him yet, if it was only for her
child's sake,' ended Hannah, with a half-sob of which she
seemed ashamed, drying her eyes quickly afterwards with
her knuckle, and ending in a hoarse, short laugh.
Mrs. Harper had likewise dropped a tear more softly into
her tea, whereupon she used her apron. Both felt in rare
sympathy. The world had been so cruel to each of
them.
' And so the chil'd doesn't belong to Mr. Quigg ?' said the
little woman, with a little laugh. ' It was a wonder to me,
at first, how he ever came to have such a sweet infant among
all his old bones and stones, an' nasty, grinning idols. It
wasn't likely, somehow. She reminds me of my own little
girl that died, and I've nought but boys left. Well, I don't
understand it yet, nor ask to; but, if her mother was like
your own child, it follows this one ought to be as dear to
you as she is—which anyone can see.'
' Like my grandchild—and old fools is the worst fools,'
laughed Hannah, with a grim humour against herself; then,
in sudden change to almost solemnity, the subject being
sacred—' That babe just lives in the very core of my heart,
like a pippin in an apple. What does St. Paul say ?— Like
as a nurse cherisheth her children. Well, he knew what
he was talking about, I know—just by that.'
There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Harper was not
JOY.
49
strong in Scriptural quotations. Then, as usual, she had
recourse to the resources of the teapot.
' Here are the hot cakes, too, just beautiful,' she added,
bustling back from the oven with a delicious dish, at sight
of which Hannah's eyes greedily glistened. But, just after
the latter had taken a large bite out of her fresh scone, she
happened to glance towards the cottage window. She
sprang up; her brown face turned of a tallow colour, and
she held by the back of the chair, her knees quaking.
' Oh Lord, ha' mercy ! It's—it's him F
CHAPTER VIII.
' O, littel child, alias ! what is thy gilt,
That never wroughtest sin as yet, parde
Why wilt thyn harde farder han thee spilt ?'
Chaucer.
Hannah stifled a cry, and pointed outside with a shaking
forefinger.
' Who ?' cried Mrs. Harper, jumping up to her help.
Looking out too, she saw a man leaning over the low wall
and talking to little Joy. At this distance he looked a
handsome, dissolute scoundrel, fit for a billiard-marker or
the betting-ring ; for he wore his grey felt hat with a far
too arrogant air, considering his coat was out at elbows.
But on nearer view he had finer points, his head being
nobly-shaped, and if too heavy about the lower jaw, yet
with a broad, low forehead and deep-set, gleaming eyes.
His figure too, though disguised under his shabby clothes,
was none the less of splendid build, broad-shouldered and
tall, yet spare and supple; a body of iron and muscles of
4
5°
JOY.
sleel. He was more a Fra Diavolo, deserted of followers
and reduced to misery, than a mere vulgar villain.
' It is ! and he's after the child. Oh, let me out to him !
What's this ? Help me !'
In reality, Hannah was almost fainting, but did not know
the feeling.
' Sit down; you'll drop. Let me go; I'll save her,'
uttered Mrs. Harper in rapid tones.
'See! he doesn't even know her for certain in my Jim's
old pinafore. He's speaking too easy and looks puzzled,
that I can tell from here. When did he see her last ?'
' Not since she was in arms.'
' Pshaw ! But what right has he to her? Say, quick !'
' He's her father !' gasped Hannah. ' He nearly killed,
and then deserted the mother before the child was born.
And now she's hiding from him; and he's after little Joy
out of devilry, may be just to vex her, or to get hold of the
poor babe's little money, all that's left from the big fortune
he spent. He might kill my lamb—who knows ?'
' He shan't get her, the villain ! Stay quiet; don't show
yourself—he'd know you. I'll be even with him.'
And understanding the situation, with a rapidity taught
by terrible experience in the evil ways and slippery places
of life, her heart hot with the maternal instinct of defending
the young, Mrs. Harper opened the door softly with
assumed carelessness. Both women now could hear, as well
as see, a strange scene.
' What is your name, little girl ?' urged the man, in a
sonorous, foreign voice to which he lent k most persuasively
musical intonation.
' What is yours ? What is yours ?' answered Joy from her
perch on the rock, looking up from under her brows with an
innocence of fun, like impudence.
' But where do you live ? Tell me.'
JOY.
1 At home, of course.'
And the child laughed contemptuously—laughed in his
face.
' And where is home ? What do you call home ? Is it
that house ?'
' Can you dance ?' asked the sprite; dancing up and down
on her stone and waving first one brown dimpled arm, then
the other, invitingly towards him in baby imitation of a
little girl in spangles she had seen performing on a booth to
her delight. She was tired of questions. Just as she
ducked in final curtsey, Joy was snapped up from behind.
' Well, I never !—just in time to catch you from toppling
backwards, and you might have broken your neck. Oh,
what children is !' cried Mrs. Harper, in such a scolding
voice as only mothers have the right to use, while holding
the child tenderly on her arm.
' Is that your little girl, madam ?' asked the man by the
wall, lifting his hat.
Mrs. Harper turned her eyes on him, as if his presence
had not been worth noticing till he spoke.
' Well! you don't suppose she belongs to the parish, do
you ? Or am I too old or too ugly to have such a one ?'
She stood her ground boldly like a woman whose cottage
is her castle, and who is apt to take offence at anyone likely
to infringe her rights or privacy by looking over her garden
wall; though it be only two and a half feet high. At the
same time she tenderly pressed Joy's head against her neck,
who had begun to whimper. And as Mrs. Harper herself
had black hair, though sleek, and a face once pretty, the
man outside thought the maternity of the child possible
enough—and was puzzled.
' I was told that the good people of these houses do
sometimes take in lodgers. Do you do so too, perhaps, my
good lady ?'
4—2
52
JOY.
' Lodgers ? not I! You needn't apply here for accom-
modation for man or beast.' Mrs. Harper qualified this
bold assertion in her own mind, by the fact that Hannah and
the child were Hiram's and her own friends ; and that it was
a white lie, if any.
'There are a woman and a child—a little girl—lodging
somewhere near here. They are of my acquaintance, and
I am searching for them. Can you perhaps help me ?'
' A woman and a child . . . well, you see . . . there are
so many come and go,'
'She is big, immense! and uglyP—the man made a
significant gesture of disgust, checking himself as Mrs.
Harper glibly interposed.
' Ugly, is she, your friend ? well, I don't know. There's
two not unlike that description staying in the house of a
sailor; there, that white one, d'ye see . . . Hush, my little
bird, no, you must come indoors now; your Minnie wants
you . . . But they went out early this morning in his boat,
I believe across the bay, and may not be back till nightfall.
That's them, most likely. But you'll excuse me, my old
man won't like my staying out talking to a stranger,'—she
glanced apprehensively back at the cottage door, and with a
sharp little nod retreated, calling, ' Jim ! Willy ! here, leave
that play at once ; I want you.'
And, to the boys' surprise, their mother sent them off on
long errands with the loud voice and despatch of a terma-
gant.
' There ! he's off down the road ; and they're gone in the
opposite direction, so can answer no questions,' she an-
nounced triumphantly, but under her breath, once more
entering the cottage. Hannah was hidden by the door, as
if ready for a spring. At several moments, during the late
interview, short as it had been, it was all she could do
to prevent herself rushing out.
JOY,
53
' Come into the back room; no one can see in there,'
went on Mrs. Harper, locking the cottage door as she
spoke. ' My dear, you heard—it's true enough ; he's after
you. But I've set him to watch Joe Beasley's house, who
has taken his own sister and her girl back to their home,
and may stay all night with them himself.'
' Still, she's not safe here, my own lamb, my curly-locks,'
cried Hannah, who had snatched up the child, and was
covering her with kisses, against which her darling saucily
rebelled. ' Oh ! you did wonders, and may the Lord reward
you an' bless you ! But we must fly—we must hide.'
Her stalwart form was strangely agitated, and then Mrs.
Harper perceived that she grasped still unawares a terrible
weapon, an iron bar, used to secure the door at night, which
in Hannah's brawny arms would have been a terrible
weapon descending on any enemy. She looked truly
dangerous, with her eyes glowing, for all her strength of
body and immovability of purpose, as of a rock, had re-
turned to her.
' I was took aback, I own, and foolish; and my head
is never quick at thinking. But now I know what to expect
at least, and there's no time to lose,' Hannah ejaculated.
There was no time to lose, indeed. The two women
consulted together in haste, and then, thanks to Mrs.
Harper's quickness of invention, a plan was fixed on.
' If you could have stayed, my old man would keep his
own house and those in it against five such men as that,' Mrs.
Harper suggested, with pardonable bombast, and a regretful
look at the child, who was contentedly seated on the floor
hugging a kitten almost to suffocation, with little chirrups of
laughter. ' It seems such a pity !'
' Must is my master,' returned Hannah shortly. ' Once
inside Mr. Quigg's house, we're safer. For, if he out there
tries police, who would take the child from safe hands and
54
JOY.
give it to such a ruffian ? Don't tell me !—respectability,
that's what helps folks more nor anything else ! Prove your
case, says we, or Peter Quigg, when I put him up to it.
And who would believe a Spaniard like that, in our
Christian country ?'
Even while delivering what she no doubt thought these
upright and commendable remarks, Hannah had been
undressing herself. In a few minutes, she was once more
clothed; but this time needing the aid of Mrs. Harper's
fingers and conjugal experience.
'Tuck in that comforter tight and tidy—that's sailor
fashion. And don't fear pulling down your sou'-wester over
your face, dear; my man wears it so. Now '
There was a complete metamorphosis ! Hannah wore a
sailor's rough pea-coat and canvas trousers, a big comforter
pulled up round the lower part of her face, and a flapping
sou'-wester almost concealing her features. She was so
nearly unrecognisable that even Joy, who now stared wide-
eyed, with one finger in her mouth, would hardly go near
her.
' Is she frightened, and no wonder, at her old nurse
making such a guy of herself? But it's only a game, my
precious. We're going to play "Lie Still."'
Mrs. Harper was, meanwhile, flinging Hannah's own
clothes into a big washing-basket, covering them with half of
a clean sheet.
' There's a nice little nest for her. I'll put you in, missy,
and we'll cover you and take you for a ride.'
Fortified by Hannah's assurances of the delights of this
game, with promises exacted and given to lie as still!—as
still!—and never wriggle or stir, for an organ-grinder was on
the road, the child allowed herself to be snugly bestowed
and covered up.
'Mercy on us! He is out there, walking up and down,
JO Y.
55
and looking doubtful. He's keeping guard betwixt Joe
Beasley's and this,' murmured Hannah. ' Could he know
me?'
' No living soul would .... still, if you're feared '
'No, no. It's best—here goes, life or death! For, if
he wants the child, he'll have to do for me,' said Hannah,
bravely.
'Wait—can you smoke a pipe? Just take a draw
or two at least, as you pass by, and he couldn't tell you
then.'
Mrs. Harper was right. Two minutes later they went
down the road, carrying the washing-basket between them,
and passing the stranger under his very nose. He only saw
the little woman of the cottage talking sharply to her burly
sailor husband.
' Hurry, John. Do. You are so slow, and you know
they're always angry if the washing's late.'
The round-shouldered seaman with the rolling gait only
answered in a monosyllable, and smoked placidly, as the
Spaniard's gaze rested on him an instant. Placidly! and
how her heart quaked ! Once round a corner out of his
sight, both hurried along by the shore, avoiding curious
neighbours. There were some bathing-boxes at a little
distance, still laid up for winter, but of which Harper had
the care. His wife pulled out the key of one of these,
and her false spouse and the basket disappeared inside. In
a wonderfully short time, whilst Mrs. Harper kept anxious
watch, Hannah, in her own attire, came out again, lead
ing Joy, vastly pleased at her release, but prattling of the
funny game.
Then both women looked fearfully round, and running
whenever not likely to be noticed, they gained the market-
place of the little town.
A coach ran daily between Sandybeach and the smoky,
56
JOY.
bigger town inland they were bound for as a goal of safety.
It was just starting on its return journey.
' Any seats, ladies, do you say ?' cried the guard. ' Just
one left inside, and . . . yes, the little girl can sit on your
knee. Hurry up, hurry up—we're late.'
Next minute, Hannah and the child were inside. The
horn sounded. Putting her head out as they started, to
nod farewell to Mrs. Harper, with relief at last and joyful
elation, Hannah recognised a pair of black, beady eyes,
and quickly drew herself in again, feeling as if she had just
seen a venomous insect.
There was dirty Josey, the organ-grinder, standing among
the little crowd that always gathered to see the coach start.
And he had seen her, too—and he smiled.
CHAPTER IX.
' Loud-voiced night, with the wild wind blowing
Many a tune;
Stormy night, with white rain-clouds going
Over the moon;
Mystic night, that each minute changes—
Now as blue as the mountain-ranges
Far, far away;
Now as black as a heart where strange is
Joy, night or day.'
In spite of the second shock on seeing Josey, Hannah soon
began to recover her spirits in the coach.
After all, when four fine horses were whirling one out of
the little town, and past milestones at a spanking pace,
needs must she should feel exhilarated. She had escaped
with such superior cunning, too! Her large brown face
JOY.
57
wreathed into a grotesque smile of humour, as she chuckled
over the remembrance of what a queer figure she had cut in
man's clothes.
And now they were off and away, and who could over-
take them ?
So Hannah laughed in her heart, and sang a paean of
exultant victory over the enemy, though in silence. Yet, as
little things will strangely mix with great in our queer brains,
even in supreme moments, a shade did occasionally fall over
the brightness of her exalted mood. She regretted that
second pl'ate of buttered Scotch cakes. They would all
have been cold and sodden, too, by the time that Mrs.
Harper returned. What a pity he had not appeared five
minutes later !
Ah ! Hannah, Hannah, greedy woman, as if there were
not greater troubles to think about. Are there no dangers
yet to be carefully considered—avoided, if possible; lastly, at
worst, fought against, even to death ?
With a slowly awakening sense of dull horror at her own
levity in thus amusing herself, as if a hunted hare, having
doubled and gained respite, should play, while yet knowing
the hounds are in full cry on her track, Hannah shook
herself together, and thought—what next ?
To her vast surprise, nearly an hour had gone by. Baby
Joy, who had shared her nurse's jubilee at first, in delight
herself at their rapid journey, was now leaning a heavy,
sleepy head on Hannah's breast. The light was fading.
Cold was creeping over their half of the round, darkening
world as it rolled nightwards. The stars began to pierce
the far, twilight distance overhead with silver specks—each
point like a thought of another world ; of, maybe, another life
there; of eternity.
Hannah did not think out such thoughts perhaps, but yet
inchoate germs of them troubled her brain. She shivered;
5S JOY.
and the influences of darkness and the night began to steal
over her. The body is tired then, and its powers cannot
shield the spirit when the latter is stirring and restless.
She must think what she should try next; but she never
had been good at thinking. Even in old days, her dear
mistress had been head, she the willing hands.
With that, she withdrew the shawl a moment under which
the child slept on her knee. Its cheeks were red as a
poppy with heat. Long, curling lashes fringed the closed
eyes, that were such wells of liquid, dark light. What a
pretty, soft creature it was; so helpless, so innocent! All
the womanly fibres of the nurse's heart stirred as she gazed
at It; the maternal instinct that is so beautifully strong in
the very animals to defend their tender young, even to
death, rose more powerfully within her than ever in her
life before, dearly as she had loved her charge.
The more dangers she ran for its sake, the more
passionately she was resolved to risk all.
' Sleep soft, my pet . . . Your mother shall never need
to ask poor Hannah why she didn't take good care of her
child,' she silently murmured, feeling quite weak with the
flood of tenderness, of old recollections, and present
gratitude to God for their escape, that overcame her.
A burly, dissatisfied-looking man on the opposite side
just then pulled out his watch and grumbled.
' Call that good going ! Humph ! If I had taken the
new railway that runs within two miles of Sandybeach, I'd
have been in the town by now, and in my own house,' and
he looked round and nodded; as if all the passengers ought
to take an equal interest in his loss of time.
Hannah turned cold. A new apprehension seized her.
'Did you—did you say, sir, that the new steam-coach,'
she stammered, forgetting the right term to use, ' that it gets
in before us, please f
JOY.
59
' I did, ma'am; I said the railway. Half an hour before
us.' And the big man tapped his stick ponderously on the
floor, as if that settled the question.
Hannah felt as if the ground was cut from under her
feet; she that had believed themselves so cleverly escaped
for this night.
Why, they two would be waiting for her at the other end!
Some minutes passed in silent consternation. Then she
thought to herself:
' I'll get out when we get into the town, and make my
way through the back streets. They'll be waiting for me at
the Dragon.'
As the coach entered the sleeping town, she had it
stopped, therefore, and slipped down trembling, half
expecting to feel her arm clutched in the darkness. It was
raining, and the streets were sloppy and slippery as Hannah
hurried along through the night. The lamps were few, and
she avoided their light, for fear of betrayal, as much as
possible : but the darkness was even more gruesome and
terrible. At every corner, at every blacker shadow from a
boarding, by the pit-mouths of deep doorways, her knees
knocked together and her heart beat rapidly. For now here
. . and the next instant, though she had momentarily
escaped, there .... might be hidden the lurking forms
ready to spring out upon her. And the child was so heavy;
with it in her arms she was helpless to defend themselves
both. Women often suffer worse agonies from their
imaginations than in real dangers.
So, like a shadow through the shadows, a black figure in
the blackness, wet, weary, with strained arms and frightened
heart, poor Hannah hurried and stumbled on. She never
thought of turning aside to some inn or lodging for shelter.
As a hunted animal to its lair, so she ran on, not able to
think, but with a dim belief that at home she must be safe.
6o
JOY.
There were bolts and bars at the 'museum,' and Hiram's
strong arm; and behind Peter Quigg's feeble person the
vague, immense mightiness of the law, as Hannah's mind
regarded it with awe. She was only a slow-witted creature,
but a faithful servant—that was all.
' The LAW would never take an innocent child from under
a good man's roof, where it will get a decent Christian up-
bringing, to give it to that blackhearted, foreign scoundrel—
no, not if he was a thousand times its father ! Or else the
law is neither common-sense nor justice in England,' she
thought, with a profound belief and triumph in the righteous-
ness and excellence of our island's institutions and in-
habitants, as compared with all the rest of the foreign world.
Poor Hannah ! one might hope that her beautiful faith in
the law's protection might never be shaken !
And now she was among the silent timber-yards ... A
few more minutes and the dark old brick house, with its
enclosing walls, loomed through the gloom. How she
blessed its sight!
She hurried up to the door, which was evidently locked
and barred for the night, as no light was visible in the hall
nor in Mr. Quigg's study.
' The master has not come home,' she pronounced to her-
self, with a sigh. ' He would be sitting up far later nor this,
if he was.'
She rang timidly several times, then loudly, growing bolder
with a sense of increasing danger.
Still in vain.
Becoming terrified, she ran round to that side of the
house where Hiram slept, and flung gravel against the panes
of his window. Never a sound ! True, he slept as heavily
as a log, but still that pebble-shower of her last handful was
violent enough to rouse the Seven Sleepers.
Ah! . . . she struck her forehead with her palm. What
JOY.
an idiot she was ! Of course, Hiram was at his public-
house ; the master was away, so he was having a spree, and
might not be back for hours yet—and he had taken the key !
The child, which she had put down on the ground during
her efforts, clung to her skirts cold and frightened, begging
to go indoors.
4 Me want in !—me want in !'
The cry cut Hannah to the heart.
' Hiram's locked the door, my pretty. Hush, hush, don't
cry—Oh, God, help us !' This she murmured in her heart.
' Put-ty me through the window !' exclaimed little Joy, in
childish jubilee, trotting towards the back of the house. It
was an old game to let her creep through the kitchen-
window bars, when tired of play in the garden, and she was
delighted at the revived recollection. To Hannah it was like
an inspiration from on high sent through the child's life.
The kitchen window was shuttered and barred, of
course; besides it looked into the garden, the door
of which was locked. But here, at the side of the house,
a small square window stared them in the face. It was
near the ground, but not barred, being a mere loophole
made to light the entry to a side-door. Hannah snatched up
a stone. With a few blows of her vigorous fist, she dashed in
the glass, which was soldered into the wall, then cleared the
opening of jagged bits carefully, feeling it with her hands.
' Now, there is a nice little door to get in by,' she
whispered, and then with exultation put the child through
■—oh, so tenderly !
Joy dropped inside with a cry more startled than
frightened, changing to a laugh of satisfaction on finding
herself safe on her feet. Was there ever a braver little
maid ? thought her old nurse. She was inside, safe now
within four strong walls, if even Hannah had to spend the
night outside, crouched in the wet bushes. But another idea
62
JOY.
struck the latter; she felt herself quite fertile in expe-
dients.
' Could you reach me up the door-key, my sweet ?—a big
key, and it's hanging at the back of the door,' she called
through the broken window passionately.
' 'Es,' said Joy promptly ; and thereupon slow baby-steps
went pattering in the darkness away towards the kitchen.
1 f Not there—here, here at the back of this door,' entreated
Hannah, in a loud whisper. ' Wherever are you going,
child?'
Joy came back with a very lingering footfall, rubbing one
hand along the wall, as if trying to stay herself against the
influence of the voice outside representing controlling power.
With all her sweet obedience in words, she did love her
own way as to deeds.
' Me wanted my old dolly, first. She's in the kitchen.'
' Oh, child, child, would you leave your poor nurse out
here in the cold and wet ?'
There came a gurgle of half disbelieving laughter at the
possibility of possessing such power.
' In a minute. I'll let you in one minute; but my
dolly's crying for me—I can hear her.'
The dolly in question was a charred torso, rejected and
in disfavour when they two had left the museum, probably
now in the cinder-heap, or burnt. It was hard to lose the
possibility of shelter and warmth for a toy like that.
1 Joy ! give me the key, or I'll beat you ! (Oh ! how
children drive one crazy sometimes. Lord, forgive me !)
My darling, let me in, quick, quick ! The organ-grinder is
coming, and he'll kill poor Hannah.'
At that cry, unmistakably genuine, there was a hurried
fumbling, the clank of a key dropped with an alarmed 1 O
my !' Then it was found ; and two small hands put it into
Hannah's fingers eagerly stretched down.
JOY.
63
A few minutes later, and the good woman stood inside
the old house and soon bolted and barred herself against
the possible chance of any veritable organ-grinder. Next
she stirred the banked-up kitchen fire, struck a light and
found some milk and bread that made a hasty supper for
the child, who was rubbing her dark eyes, divided betwixt
sleep and a longing to find her horrible old doll. ' And
now Joy will go to her nice bed,' said Hannah enticingly,
taking up her nursling on one arm and holding the light.
'Yes,' said the little one drowsily, 'me tired of trabbling.'
Half-an-hour later, Joy was breathing gently in her cot,
shielded from the light. As none of her clothes, except
what she wore, had been carried away in their sudden flight,
only the child's outer garments were taken off. Then poor
Hannah, who had never yet untied her own bonnet, her whole
mind had been so occupied with fears lest her pet should be
over-tired, stole softly out in the dark. She had no second
candle, and Joy was not used to being left without one.
Still, by the kitchen fire-glow Hannah managed to make a
fair meal of what remains the child had left. Then the
tired woman rested herself in her own straw chair, thinking
to wait up for Hiram and tell him all that had happened.
Hiram was foolish, but still a man's a man ; and confidence
is a comfort when a woman has come through such a
succession of adventures as had Hannah that day. How
glad she was to rest! Oh, how sweet it was to grow warm and
dry, and not feel pursued and hunted any more.
Half-an-hour passed. Hannah found herself wondering
whether Peter Quigg would return to-morrow. He was
expected on that date; and truly she trusted he would, for
however poor a masculine creature he might be, the house
was his; and by further reasoning so, in a manner, were
those therein, whom he and the law would keep safe. He
was always stirred, too, at mention of the woman he loved,
64
JOY.
and would surely say, his little person swelling with dignity,
that the child and nurse he had taken under his roof at her
dear request should never ....
Hannah had a touch of poetry in her nature as of humour;
but still, poetry and all, she nearly nodded into the fire-
place that glowed dully at her feet in the kitchen's gloom.
What was that ? Surely some faint noise at the window-
fastenings had wakened her. The frightened woman sat
upright with a start, and wondered if she had dreamed that
persons outside seemed trying the bars; while she had
dropped off asleep, imagining a situation in which her little
master's tender heart and the law's majesty had overcome
all enemies in a manner touching and sublime.
She listened now : nothing, no one to be heard. Still, it
was very ghostly and uncanny sitting here alone. And
Hiram would probably come back slightly tipsy. She would
go to bed, and tell him all when his head was clear by
morning.
As she went upstairs, accordingly, Hannah noticed that
the rain was over and the moon out again, for its beams
shone through the skylight. On the landing—opening a
door softly, so as not to wake the child—she entered into a
small passage-room, between the nursery and the other
museum chambers. The moonlight shone full and bright
on the window, outside which she saw that a small, oddly-
shaped object was moving ! Hannah stood still, her heart
thumping violently, and she asked herself again, what was
that ? She was on the second story, yet outside she could
now distinguish that a human hand was rubbing softly along
the panes. It was a large, strong hand, with no visible
person attached to it but a portion of coat-sleeve. And it
was feeling, feeling back and forward over the narrow sill,
and the iron bars, and the glass which the latter pro-
tected.
JOY.
65
CHAPTER X.
' A wee bush is better than nae bield.'
Proverb.
Whilst she stood still, during a few moments of freezing
horror, Hannah understood it all. A few feet beneath the
second-story window at which she gazed there was a heavy
cornice above the ground-floor window, which might afford
foothold to a man. This projection could just be reached,
though with difficulty, from the brick wall enclosing the
gravel sweep and the laurel-trees. And these same trees
would help an active man to mount the wall, although the
latter was so narrow and crumbling that only a cat or a
monkey could have crept along it, she would have sworn,
till now.
Hannah could see there was no ladder visible outside.
The hand seemed touching the bars with difficulty. Yes:
he was trying to hoist himself on the sill; but, unless he
could get a better hand-grip, could it be done ? She did
not pause to consider this ; but, in her wild terror, only
knew at once that, if these two men were so desperate as to
try to force their way in at such hazard to life and limb,
they must be resolved to steal the child at any risk, and
murder might come of it. For Hannah felt, stoically, that
she must defend the little one with her life—aye, with every
finger and nail of her hand.
A moment she thought of dashing into the next room,
Joy's room, and locking herself in, then screaming for help,
through the open window, into the night.
No use ! There was no living soul in all the waste of
timber-yards and coal-stores around. Hiram would come
none the sooner. They outside would only know for certain
which room to attack.
5
66
JOY.
Then a vengeful idea came so suddenly into Hannah's
heavy mind that the devil himself seemed to be whispering
it in her ear. What if she waited till both men were on
that narrow sill, then she might be able to push them down?
e Push them down ! push them down !' seemed ringing in
her ears. A red flash came before her eyes as she crept
nearer and nearer, holding her breath. What if both did
break their necks ?—for it was a long way to the ground.
It would be a good riddance ! The child would grow up
safe; her dear mistress have nothing to fear ! It meant
rest afterwards to Hannah herself, no more scars on her
face; no insults, or worse, to those she loved; no more of
this hiding for years, or being hunted down as now. She
felt the muscles of her throat swelling painfully, her brows
contracting, her eyeballs distending, as with clenched hands
she peered past the heavy curtain.
Without knowing it, Hannah was verily a murderess at
that moment.
Now two hands grasped the window-bars. A dark form,
impelled by some help from below, suddenly appeared and
crouched on the sill, while a head with matted hair tried to
look in and search the room, which latter was fortunately
almost in utter obscurity. The man was Josey, the organ-
grinder. Whispers between two voices could be faintly
heard. Then something of steel gleamed in the moonlight,
and a slight rasping noise began upon one of the bars.
They were filing it, to force their way in.
Hannah felt more bitter disappointment than fear. It
was only Josey on the sill, and precarious though his
position was, yet he had firm hold of one of the bars, even
whilst sawing another. She did not wish to kill Josey, but
Gaspard da Silva !
Then Hannah's knees quaked a little under her, as her
own thought became clear ; ' Lead us not into temptation,'
JOY.
67
and ' Thou shalt do no murder,' seemed written before her
in pale letters on the wall. Her imagination recalled how
the Lord's Prayer and the Ten Commandments were in-
scribed tablet-wise, thus, on either side of the end window
in her chapel. The scratching and biting of the file went
on low but steadily. Her own thoughts grew clearer and
more luminous meanwhile. It was not the devil now, but
her good angel that came and spoke to her mind. What
did it matter, after all, she thought in a dogged way, if these
two did kill her ? It would only be a few blows, perhaps, a
grasp on her throat, and her life would be out without much
pain. After all, death was nothing to make a great fuss
about (so think the poor, or sometimes the very miserable);
still, life was sweet, and who would rear the child like her-
self ? That was worth a struggle.
In this way, though her ideas in general flowed so
sluggishly, still, quickened by the sense of danger, perchance
inspired by some invisible presence—who can tell ?—with
each grind of the instrument outside, Hannah's thoughts of
how to find speedy safety within the house itself succeeded
each other, like light—flash after flash.
To lock herself in Joy's room, as she had before thought.
Alas! she now knew the nursery doors had no keys.
Hannah herself had been neglectful; had mislaid them, or
the child had taken them to play with. Oh, her own care-
lessness ! And there was no sufficiently heavy furniture in
there to barricade the doors for two minutes against strong
men.
If she caught up the sleeping child, and tried to hide
elsewhere in the house . . . ?
Yes ; but where ? And how could she trust so young a
child not to cry out, or by a murmur betray them both?
Joy was a sweet little creature, but petted. The rest of the
house, too,; was all locked up. Peter Quigg trusted his
5—2
68
JOY.
museum chambers to no care but his own; even his own
rooms were always closed in his absence, he was so sensitive
about his books and papers, and he could not bear the
thought of any meddling with them. There was not a spot
left but the stairs, kitchen, and Hiram's pantry, for the house
was not large.
And down there, Hannah could think of no place but the
water-butt or the flour-barrel to hide in. Oh ! what was to
be done?
At this juncture of agonised frenzy of mind, when
thought stopped short, Hannah mechanically put out one
hand to support herself against the side-wall, as she still
crouched in the corner by the window. Her fingers
touched something—she gave a great start of almost
disbelieving joy, then felt it softly.
A door was beside her into one of the museum chambers,
that one devoted by the deceased doctor to rare skulls and
skeletons, and the key was left in it! There were three
doors in this passage-room, one leading to the stairs, one to
the nursery, and this one.
If only the men outside could be tempted in here ! It
was a corner room, with no other exit; she would have them
in a trap !
Almost as soon as she had thought, Hannah turned the
key gingerly with trembling fingers, so as to give the men no
trouble. Then, with a catlike footfall for such a large
woman, she crept round by the walls, keeping in the dark.
Luckily the moonlight only fell a little way into the room,
and that in the middle. The passage - door had no
key either, but she drew its bolt, which, being rusty, made
a slight noise.
The rasping at the window instantly stopped. Hannah's
heart stopped, too; she neither stirred nor breathed for
some seconds. It was not that she believed the two men
JOY.
69
outside could be frightened away; she knew one of them,
her former master, too well. He was capable of firing
through the window if he saw any outline of a figure,
and then who could help the child ?
C-r-n-ch ! grr-ind ! The noise went on again. Hannah
saw the hand lift one bar away; the work began at a
second.
No time to be lost!
She crept on now towards the nursery door on the further
side of the window, thus having made the tour of the
room. There were a set of foreign, savage weapons hung
on the wall that she passed, long thin assegais, poison-
tipped darts. She took down several of these, and, with
the cunning of weak creatures when trying to evade the
strong, lightly leant a row of javelins against the nursery-
door. If one slipped on the floor, the game was over. Still
the light rasping outside went on. She had done, and
crept now behind the window-curtain, that was luckily both
long and heavy. On one side of her was the door, behind
which little Joy was sleeping peacefully; close on the other
was the window, with the two villains outside it. She was
between the child and danger.
The file stopped. There was a clinking sound of other
tools. Then Hannah felt a draught of cold night air as
the window was pushed up; there was a slight shuffling
noise, and both robbers got into the room.
The nurse could have touched them. They brushed the
curtain folds close to her body.
There was a murmured colloquy, and the light of a
small, dark lantern was flashed round the room. One of
the men stepped towards the passage door.
'Bolted inside; she may have come in by here, then,' he
murmured. ' You saw the light move through this room,
you say. Ah ! pig, beast, what are you doing over there ?'
7°
JOY.
The words were in Spanish, but Hannah understood
them, though muttered quite low.
Josey had come close to the nursery door, and was
touching Hannah's palisade of weapons with his finger-tips.
Her fingers felt itching to tear him away, and she felt
suffocated behind the curtain, half hearing, half divining
his movements, not daring to look.
' Let those sticks alone, you innocent. That door is not
used, as anyone with eyes might see. That rubbish
belongs to the little fool's museum.'
' Ah ! then let us go in at once. He keeps heaps of old
gold and silver, they say. Holy saints! it is a sin to be as
covetous as he is. It will be a good deed to lighten
his conscience for him. Quick—come !'
' Drop that spear; you shall not go in.'
' Shall not '
'No. I say so. The child is the first object, and I
employed you to get her. Don't look at me like that—I
have stabbed better men for less. Be quick, and obey.'
' You had best be quiet then, if I am to be quick,' mut-
tered Josey insultingly, as the other's foot touched by
chance an arrow and brought it sliding to the ground. Both
were silent for an instant; nothing stirred in the house.
They could not hear Hannah's heart-beats just beside them,
behind the curtain, though to herself these seemed so loud.
' Bah ! you see, I am not so used to being a thief as you
yet,' angrily uttered the leader, with scornful impatience.
' Well, senor, we never know what we may come to.
Pst! Am I a dog?'
'No, but I have hired you for to-night, at least. Look
here, little Jose, don't quarrel. Get me the child first, then
■—why, the house will be empty enough, if we have got rid of
the nurse, and you can stay and amuse yourself.'
Hannah heard stoically. Her whole soul had been
JOY.
7i
possessed with a longing to spring out, each moment they
approached the nursery door. But the knowledge that she
was to be put out of the way did not affect her sensibly at
the time.
The men moved cautiously across the floor to the other
door. One eye watched them now closely from past the
curtain's edge.
The handle was softly turned, and—not to wake the
supposed sleepers in the next room—the lantern was closed.
A few steps, and they had passed inside.
At the same moment, there was a sudden spring of a
heavy body across the floor. Hannah had darted out from
behind the curtain, and dashing herself against the door,
closed, locked, and bolted it above and below in scarcely a
few breathless seconds.
A smothered yell came from within the further room.
The two burglars were caught fast in a trap.
CHAPTER XI.
' Three merry boys, and three merry boys,
And three merry boys are we,
As ever did sing in a hempen string
Under the gallows-tree.'
J. Fletcher.
There was a minute's silence inside the skull-room. The
two midnight marauders had rushed to the window to see
what means of escape lay there. Then, seeing it was barred
and high, they flung themselves upon the door, and, with all
their strength, tried to force it.
At the same time, with all her strength—which was great
for a woman—Hannah dragged a heavy, iron-bound chest,
72 JOY.
that stood near, and barricaded the door. At any other
moment of less excitement, she could hardly have stirred the
great chest a few inches; but, though the lock was strong,
she dared not trust to that altogether; for already she heard
those inside picking it with some instrument. Then, with
still frenzied exertions, Hannah piled more furniture behind
her barrier, till it would have withstood the assault of half a
regiment.
Through the noise of these heavy weights being heaped
on each other, she heard little Joy screaming loudly for her
in childish terror, and a voice from inside the skull-room
beginning a parley.
' Hannah, is that you ? I know it is. Listen ; we will
not hurt you. I only came to see my child; that is my
right.'
'Yes, Meeses Nurse, we only came for to see the leetle
child. Let us out, now, and you shall have much money.'
' Hsh ! wretch. Hannah, hear me. I am sorry that I
did ever hurt you. You are alone in the house, we know.
You cannot keep us in here long. But, if you will open the
door peaceably, now, and let me see my child once, just
once ! I will promise to go away; and—and you shall never
see me more.'
'Hiram ! Hiram !' shrieked Hannah, for all answer, at the
top of her voice. ' Be quick, and bring the pistols.'
Then, hoping to stun her adversaries by this apparent
show of help, she hastened into the nursery, caught the
sobbing child to her breast, next snatching up her bonnet
and shawl, that lay beside the cot as she had left them an
hour ago, she prepared to rush out of this house of danger.
As she opened the door leading to the stairs, another
terror met her. A ghost-like, small figure barred the way,
presenting a pistol at her with one hand, and holding a
lighted candle in the other.
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' Stop—stop, thief. I'll fire, if you stir.'
' Oh, Mr. Quigg, sir; it's me, it's Hannah,' entreated the
poor woman, ready to drop on her knees from the double
shock. ' The Lord be thanked ! I never knew you were at
home. Save me, save the child from those murdering
villains !'
Peter Quigg, who was in his night-shirt, a red dressing-
gown, and slippers, still pointed the pistol, and gazed at her,
thunderstruck in his turn. He looked indeed a comic little
oddity. He had come home that evening, and, being tired,
had gone to rest early ; hence Hiram had treated himself to
leave of absence. But Peter did not understand Hannah's
appearance.
In a few words, the nurse explained all, adding, as she
pointed, terrified, to the door :
' Fly, make haste; 'tis himself—Gaspard da Silva ! He'll
kill us all!'
That instant, a smashing sound of breakage was heard
inside the room. Evidently, in their fury, the prisoners
were destroying all the skulls piled so carefully round the
walls, and the skeletons found in early strata, and bones of
cave-dwellers that were of the highest scientific value.
' Goths ! brutes !' shouted Peter Quigg, in a rage as the
sounds of destruction went on. ' What are they doing ?
The finest collection in England—in the world—will be
ruined! Save yourself, Hannah, and the child. Send the
police, send Hiram ; but I must go in there and stop them.
What they are doing can never be mended.'
In vain, Hannah almost went on her knees to persuade
him to seek safety.
' I have my pistols,' was all he said, the timid little man
sunk in the curator, and he implored her in turn to escape
quickly, that he might pull away all her defences. So she
fled out of the house in the darkness, with the child clinging
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round her neck, folded hastily in her shawl. They left the
valiant, small soul behind them, intent on defending his
treasures of science, the property of his father before him.
Just down the road, under a gleam of a lamp, an unsteady
figure was seen approaching by slight lurches. It was
Hiram. He stared in half tipsy surprise as Hannah caught
him by the arm. ' There are robbers in the house, and
they'll kill the master.'
' Kill my master ? I'd like to see them at it. Where are
they?—just show them to me? I'll break their heads, or
my name's not Hiram.'
So saying thickly, the really brave fellow looked about
him with a savage expression, but never stirred a step.
' Oh, Hiram ! Hiram ! You've been drinking. Make
haste home, or you'll be too late. Rouse up, man—Lord
help us !—what's that?'
For a dull report reached their ears, the sound coming
probably clearer through the passage window left open
by the thieves. Hiram started as if electrified into sobriety,
then tore off towards the museum, running at his utmost
speed; only shouting back to Hannah :
' Get the police, woman ! I'll see to the master.'
Hannah did her best, poor, weary soul. It was not long
before the tramp of constables was heard echoing down the
silent road, as the police hastened through alternate darkness
and moonlight towards the old brick house.
Hiram, too, doubtless did his best. But still !—but still!
he had neglected his duty that night and did not get back,
being tipsy, as quickly as he even otherwise might. How-
ever, this last consideration perhaps made little real
difference so far as his master's fate was concerned.
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CHAPTER XII.
' 111 blows the wind that profits nobody.'
Henry VI.
With the instinct of a hunted hare, doubling back on her
track, Hannah had fled once more to Sandybeach.
She had taken the earliest train thither, after sitting till
dawn in the waiting-room.
She did not know what had happened in the museum
after she had fled, but only felt in a stupid way that she
must get away, away ; for the police might ask her who the
child was, if she returned and found them on a hot scent
after the burglars; and she had been told by her mistress once
not to say this—and her head was so dull at understanding
intricacies of any kind; besides, Mrs. Harper was a friend,
and also she had still their trunks, and any other person
might have stared on seeing a woman claim shelter, almost
utterly exhausted, and carrying a half-dressed child in her
shawl. Furthermore, here Hannah would be in easy com-
munication with Hiram, who could write to her what had
happened.
But Hannah heard this last long before Hiram's slow
fingers put pen to paper, or that he had learnt her retreat.
Old Harper, the sailor, brought in a newspaper that same
evening of Hannah's return, containing a thrilling account
of a daring burglary in the adjacent town of . Slowly
the horrified nurse read out (helped by Mrs. Harper's quicker
eyes and tongue) how that Mr. Peter Quigg, living in his
own house, known popularly as ' the museum,' hearing
robbers, as was supposed, had apparently tried to defend his
valuable collection of objects of scientific and artistic value.
He had attacked the intruders, it seemed ; who thereupon
7 6 JOY.
had overpowered, disarmed, and mortally shot him with his
own revolver. His servant, coming home, heard the report,
and sent a woman he met to fetch the police, then he
himself captured one burglar, though the other one escaped
—the latter being an organ-grinder in the town, it was said :
a notoriously bad character. Mr. Quigg had only lived a
short time after he had been wounded, being understood to
murmur with generous feeling that his terrible hurt might
have been accidental. His last words were, 'Tell Rachel
' and he died. The supposed murderer maintained an
obstinate silence as to his own name or the cause of his
victim's death, and nothing was known of him—or should be
known, he had defiantly said.
So he was gone! poor little Peter Quigg. Hannah's
eyes twinkled with most unusual tears, as she pictured to
herself how he must have lain dying in a pool of blood on
the floor of the old dark house she knew so well. And, but
for having sheltered herself and the child, such a fate would
never have happened to him ! ... Yet human hearts are
very quick to be consoled of others' woes. Soon Hannah,
wiping her eyes, remembered, with a relief strangely like
gladness, that ' the devil was locked up ;' so she phrased it.
Henceforth she and the child might safely live with her dear
mistress. Out of the darkness and blood of that terrible
night, they had passed into new days bright with the golden
light of rest and peace.
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77
CHAPTER XIII.
' A brave old house ! a garden full of bees,
Large, dropping poppies and queen hollihocks,
With butterflies for crowns—tree-peonies,
And pinks and goldilocks.'
Jean Ingelow.
The Red House Farm, belonging to George Berrington
now, as it had been owned by his father and forefathers
before him since the days of good King Athelstan, was
a fair home for any English yeoman this spring evening.
All the broad-breasted hills lay as if sleeping around.
And still the sun had not yet gone to his rest, but was
lighting up the wide valley with its smiling landscape of
fresh green fields and scattered, snug, brown homesteads,
except where the shadow of the hills fell.
This was a rich, fertile land, through which the Chad
slipped smoothly, brown and clear, having left its home of
wild moors and heather stretches behind, away up on the
hills. It had dashed down in whiteness and roar into the
sudden stillness of the dark glen of the ford, and then
foamed and fretted among its rocks; and so, having shown
itself to be a little river of spirit, as if some demon of the
moor haunted its well-spring, it now only laughed in the
happy sun, and vexed itself no more. It wound, in many
an idle curve, through the Red Farm lands, of which its
water-spirit seemed here the guardian-angel. For the stream
nourished tribes of darting trout for the sport and subse-
quent supper-table of generations of Berringtons. And it
made fat their meadows, where their successive herds of
red kine had grazed peacefully for hundreds of years. Like-
wise, it shallowed here and there with rippling brightness
into wider places that formed tiny, sandy bays, where the
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soft-eyed, red cattle came conveniently to drink. And here
water-flags would flourish, bearing golden irises aloft. But
as to flowers, there was a very largesse and royal bounty of
them along the Chad. Mercy on us ! The glory of the
marsh marigolds in its boggy places, and the yellow brilliance
of its broad buttercup meadows this spring evening might
verily make one's eyes ache. The Field of the Cloth of
Gold! . . . Ay, that was most like it—but still, Art can
never come near Nature in her width and spread of
splendour. And so this evening, far and wide, the large,
low acres of the Red House pastures were blowing in
fragile, living, little gold stars.
They say the cattle like little the acrid taste of the crow-
foot; but still higher up the slopes was such abundance of
sweet grass for them, that every green blade, in a different
manner, became also changed into auriferous hue, that of
butter. While the colour of the brilliantly burnished galaxy
of glory of the golden flowers fringing the river's bed might
seem a happy omen to the Berrington house of men and
women, who, if they had never waxed rich, yet had their
seasons of prosperity, as the buttercups had theirs; and,
even on wintry days of apparent blight, still likewise kept
their roots safe underground.
On this special evening the Red House had caught in
passing, as it seemed, all the sinking sun's rays, which were
reflected back from its glittering, diamond-paned, leaded
casements.
It was a fine, substantial old farmhouse, backed by its
outhouses, like a group of stout and loyal servants; and it
faced to the front a pleasant strip of garden-ground, full of
pot-herbs and sweet flowers. An orchard lay to one side,
blossoming now in white and pink—clouds come down to
earth awhile. On the other was a smooth lawn, fit to play
bowls on, and bearing out Lord Bacon's saying, in his essay
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79
on a garden, that ' nothing is more pleasant to the eye than
green grass, kept finely shorn.'
The Red House itself was built firstly of moor-stone, in
the foundations and upwards, as high as a man's waist. But
then the walls, up to the roOf, were of brick, mellowed by
age, but still of an agreeable, warmly red hue. There was
much fine woodwork in it; of intersecting beams, and hang-
ing carved eaves, and thick oak window-mullions. Inside
were deep window-seats, made to be sat upon in seclusion
and comfort during several generations; also it had a wide,
if short and shallow, staircase, protected by a truly noble
balustrade of thick oak. The whole having been built in
the days when wood and work and time were not stinted.
The roof was of tiles just enough weather-stained not to
be glaring. It showed as a spot of pleasant colour for miles
around, backed by the fresh green of its embosoming oak-
trees, made picturesque by high chimneys ornamented with
twisted patterns and brightened by gilt giddy weather-vanes,
a cock on one gable, an arrow on the other, that turned
with the breeze in rivalry of each other and twinkled in the
sunlight.
The farm buildings were of far older date than the house,
which latter had been rebuilt when one former Blyth Ber-
rington had married an heiress of gentle blood and fair
fortune, who loved the handsome yeoman in spite of what
her friends might say. The barns, linnhays, and so forth
seemed indeed almost a part of the very earth around, as
a tree may be said to be that grows up therefrom, or as
rocks embedded in the soil. For their grey moorstone
walls had stood through so many ages of man that thick
fringes of green ferns, spleen-worts, hart's-tongue, and poly-
pody grew wherever they could find root-hold. And the
heavy thatched roofs were green with house-leek, and orange
or rusty-brown with lichen. But all along under their eaves
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was painted a broad red line to match the house; as also
the heavy old doors and shutters were fresh painted every
spring, as now, of the same blood-red colour. The Red
House was Farmer Berrington's pride, as well as his play-
thing and his home. He loved to keep it always bright
with paint, fresh scoured and smiling; and to dig the flower-
borders round its walls; to dress it, as he would his wife
had she lived, and also because she had loved the house.
So on this fair evening the old Red House looked its best.
And spring was in its glory.
Farmer Berrington leant on his gate, resting his arms on
the broad topmost bar; the day's labour being well done.
A long file of his red milch-cows came slowly up from the
meadow, and as they passed him their breath sweetened the
air. Little Blyth, who was continually climbing the gate, and
then slipping down again for the pleasure of exercising him-
self, huzzaed at them, flourishing a long willow switch with
which he had just helped to drive home the stately geese
and their gosling broods from their pasture on the waste
land where the roads crossed. But the mild-eyed cows
hardly quickened their heavy gait, and only flicked their
sleek sides with their tails as who should say, 'We know
you.'
' Boy !' said his father, while slowly chewing a straw, and
looking round with a smile, ' do you see our waggon coming
back from Moortown ? I wonder what Dick may be bring-
ing now for 'ee.'
The caressing familiarity of the latter words at once signi-
fled to Blyth that some pleasure was in the wind; some gift
on the road.
'What!' he exclaimed, his rosy cheeks flushing and his
blue eyes brightening, almost jumping in his joy off the gate
on which he sat astride. ' Is there something for me in
the waggon? Oh, what is it? Is it that new knife you
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81
promised me; or a kite? Oh, do tell me, father, what
it is?'
' Softly, boy. There is something for you in the waggon;
but I never promised to say what. Patience is a virtue. . .
Come—it might be a new lesson-book. . . Whatever it is,
I thought you would like it; so try to be pleased if even you
would have liked something else a bit better.'
' I will, dad, thank you,' said Blyth, trying to assume a
bold, manly air, though the poor little fellow's face had
fallen at the idea of the lesson-book, and child-like he
added audibly under his breath: 'but I do hope it's some-
thing to play with.'
The farmer's face softened curiously as he looked side-
ways at his small son. ' It must be dull to be a tender
young soul like that, and have no one to understand it
rightly,' was vaguely in his mind.
There were no neighbours' farms near. He did not like
Blyth to mix in play much with any of the few poor cot-
tagers' children round. He himself felt too unable to rouse
up under the heavy weight of his bodily nature (his inner-
most spirit being quiet and brooding also) so as to come
out of himself and meet the child on equal ground, as some
folk might. Of this incapacity he was sadly aware, feeling
lacking as a parent at times. If his young wife had lived,
indeed, he would have seemed no worse (no, truly !) than
many fathers ; but—she had not! And Dick, and the herd,
and the serving-maids were rough and uncouth; no better
comrades, but worse, than himself. So he was sorry for his
boy, and therefore had in truth told Dick to bring back a
kite.
Blyth was not sorry for himself.
The waggon was creaking nearer and nearer along the
road. He could see Bilberry and Whortleberry, two good
farm horses, brown and bay respectively, bearing proudly
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their heavy harness with its brass-mounted trappings shining
brightly in the evening sun. How they arched their necks,
jingled their bells, and stepped out faster stable-wards;
whilst the wheels rumbled nearer, and their big hoofs
sounded with more resonant clang ! And now they were
close at hand. There was Dick's weather-beaten visage,
looking out from under the waggon-cover with its expression
of aged simplicity just dashed with sly cunning. But what
—who was this ?
A little girl—the prettiest child ever seen—was standing
up in the waggon and peering out past Dick.
'Gee-up. Whoa !' With a final creak and strain, the big
waggon stopped before the house-gate, instead of turning
into the farmyard.
Dick got down. The little girl stretched out both arms
with a strange short cry of joy. She had dark rings of soft
hair, and great black eyes, and a small red mouth that
laughed ; and she seemed hailing Blyth on the gate, and
the Red House behind, and the flowers, and trees, cows,
pigs—all she saw. Blyth with his yellow head bare, and
his blue eyes wide, stared transfixed.
' Well, master, I've brought back more than I was sent
for,' began Dick, shuffling his foot apologetically, as the
farmer with some surprise came near. ' But there's a woman
inside there with the little maid. I found her at Moortown,
asking her way to Farmer Berrington of the Red House.
And her said, her was bound to come to you. So I gave
them a lift, for the poor creature was nigh worn out with
travelling.'
' But who is she ?' asked Berrington, in a low whisper, as
a very ugly brown woman, though a decently dressed one,
got slowly down from the waggon, being stiff and cramped
in her legs. But, as Dick could not answer, she coming up
said simply :
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' I'm Hannah, the child's nurse.'
' Hannah—the nurse,' repeated the farmer doubtfully, as
he looked her in the face, with no better knowledge of what
else she might be; then, with a ray of understanding light-
ing up the darkness of his mind, he said, ' O—h !' Next he
pursed up his mouth into a silent whistle, looked at the
child, and said, ' I see—but what brings you here ? They
don't expect you.'
(Dick, well trained to his master's dislike of listeners or
meddlers, had gone forward to the shafts; and with one
ear vainly cocked, stood bandying words in a teasing way
with the child, who was eagerly prattling and begging to be
lifted down.)
' I know; I know,' said Hannah, with anxious eagerness.
'Miss Rachel always wrote me, it wasn't safe. But now
things are changed' with God's blessing, who brought us on
our journey here.'
Then she gave a rapid account of her late adventures, and
the death of poor Peter, ending :
' So I thought mother and child ought not to be parted
any more, now there was no danger in bringing them to-
gether. And, knowing that you have been to them both
like a strong rock and a tower of defence, as we may say—
for which the Lord reward you—here I came straight. What
else could I do ?'
A parley ensued for some few minutes between the good
farmer and his uninvited guest.
' You must rest the night here, anyhow, for 'tis too late to
go up the glen,' said Berrington at last. ' Be heartily wel-
come.'
Then he went to the child. ' Now, my pretty dear, let
me lift you down. Do you think you would like this for a
home, eh ?' He spoke in his hospitality, without much
meaning, thinking just to please her fancy with his roof-tree
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for a night or two. But little Joy cried, 'Yes, yes,' and
running up to Blyth, off whom she had not taken her eyes,
as he had as eagerly watched her, she held up her rosy
lips to be kissed. Blyth bent down and his lips met hers;
the elders looking on with the admiring air age shows to-
wards innocence.
' Oh, father,' cried Blyth now, catching his parent by the
coat, with his face all alight. ' Is this the present you pro-
mised me. Say, is it ?'
' How would you like her, Blyth ?'
' A little sister. Oh, I should like her better than any-
thing—except, perhaps, my pony,' exclaimed Blyth, adding
the last words with native caution blending naturally with
his enthusiasm. ' She is so pretty.'
' Well ' said the farmer; then, after a long pause,
adding again, slowly, ' Well—who knows ? it may be the boy
speaks best. Yes, my lad; I hope she may be a little sister
to you. And, now, come indoors to supper.'
CHAPTER XIV.
1 The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door.'
Goldsmith.
' Yes ; I've been put about over-much this by-last week, it's
true, Mr. Berrington. But still I hardly feel able to rest
like, till I've seen my dear mistress,' said Hannah that night,
relapsing into her northern dialect, as was usual with her
when quite at ease.
She was sitting opposite Farmer Berrington now, after
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supper. The big fireplace of the room—which was partly
front kitchen, partly dwelling-room—had a pleasant, if
moderate glow. Now his young wife was dead, the farmer
mostly sat here; the two pleasant parlours too strongly
reminded him she was absent. All round, the great oaken
dressers, full of crockery or shining copper vessels, and
the heavy tables, were scoured as bright as a new pin. The
red-tiled floor shone from soap and water, as freshly clean as
the hard, red strand down at the Chad's mouth after an ebb-
tide.
Fine hams, beside big flitches of bacon, hung from the
raftered ceiling on one side, noble Cheddar cheeses on the
other.
The old place silently told of plenty, of peace and
comfort. Hannah heaved a satisfied sigh, as her gaze
travelled, with housekeeping cognizance, around. Yet she
repeated, forcing her mind from the temptation of dwelling
on these delectable sights to the subject that ought to be
uppermost :
' I have been thinking that long to see her ! Why,
it's four years since—and the poor creature will be just as
glad to see me to-morrow, I know ! Why—what is it ?'
For Berrington, with an utterly stolid expression on his
contented, well-fed visage, only slowly compressed his lips,
and wagged his head in dissent. Then, after taking a
long whiff at his pipe, he said, with kindly gravity:
' I'm afraid it's a black week up at the cottage. Best bide
a bit, mayhap.'
' How do you know ? Have you seen her ?'
' No ; but I've heard her !'
The significance of his meaning was fully grasped by the
nurse, who looked at him blankly a moment, then let her
hands fall heavily in her lap. Berrington softly pulled at
the front of his coat by the button-hole, to relieve himself
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from feeling awkward. This is a trick common enough in
many of his class.
' Dear—oh dear ! . . . So her poor head is bad again.
I did hope that would be righted when she'd got away safe
from him. It was his wickedness sent it wrong before. Oh
my—! But, do tell me now, is she really bad ?'
' I fear so.'
Berrington overlooked the femine foolishness of asking
twice what had been answered once. Nay, more, much as
he loved taciturnity, and most especially after supper over
his pipe, he unlocked his lips further, to add:
' Cheer up. What's quickly come is lightly gone mostly j
and I saw them both out walking on the moors a week ago.
I'll find means to let Miss Rachel know you've come; and
maybe she'll see you—even to-morrow. That's a good
woman ; ay, a lady from her heart's core to the nails of her
fingers.'
The farmer solemnly nodded his head to confirm his
word, till his vast double chin and his whiskers made meet-
ing with the ample folds of his blue neckcloth.
' Miss Rachel! Miss Rachel! It's always, Miss Rachel
with the men, and never Miss Magdalen; Peter Quigg was
the same,' muttered Hannah, half crossly. Then, feeling
herself ungracious, added, ' But the Lord bless you for all
your goodness to them both. It was He raised you up
to be a friend when they fled from the wickedness of the
great world into the desert, so to speak. Why, you knew
nothing of them before.'
Berrington shook his head.
' Nought.' Then, puffing at his pipe, he added, with a
seriousness akin to sadness, ' But one day, when my wife
was just buried, I was standing by her fresh grave, and
looked up and saw Miss Rachel. My heart was softened,
which she perceived. So when she asked after my cottage,
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and I replied 'twas no fit dwelling for ladies, she maybe
trusted me more than might otherwise have been.'
' When they parted from me and the child, they said they
had heard of this in their youth as a wild place, but
with kindly people,' hazarded Hannah, watching his face,
curious to draw forth any further information.
Berrington drily smiled, which wrinkled his eyes
quizzically at the corners. But he only said:
' I'm most sorry for women in this world. They've more
to bear and less strength than us. Well, let's hope 'tis made
up to them in heaven ... I'd ha' endeavoured to be a
good husband longer to my wife, but she couldn't stay with
me, being ready for a better place, you see. So I try'—
puff, puff—' I try to make things easier to other women, as
if 'twas done to her. That's my rule in life . . . Good-
night now; and to-morrow we'll see about this.'
Nurse Hannah slept deep and sound that night at the
Red House Farm in a good feather-bed, and between sheets
that had been dried on a sweet-briar hedge, the faint scent
of which gave her dreams of her youth long ago in the
bonny, fresh northern lowlands. And beside her lay little
Joy, like a folded poppy-bud, in her rosy sleep; as Blyth
lay in an adjoining room equally happy, in the same blissful
slumbers of their age.
And both children dreamt of each other.
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CHAPTER XV.
' A l'heure ou le soleil s'eleve,
Ou l'arbre seut monter la seve,
La vallee est comme un beau reve ;
La brume ecarte son rideau :
Partout la nature s'eveille,
La fleur s'ouvre, rose et vermeille ;
La brise y suspend une abeille,
La rosee—une goutte d'eau.'
Victor Hugo.
Two days and a night after Hannah and the child had
come to the Red House, Rachel Stone, as we may now call
her, stole out of her cottage very early in the morning.
She stopped and listened several times if any sound
could be heard coming from the little brown house she had
just left. Then, reassured, she at last went on with quicker,
less careful football by the river's bank towards the Logan-
stone.
No human creature was in sight around. She was too
early, having no clock in their poor abode; and though now
used to regulate time by the sun, impatience had made her
believe him already high this morning.
It was not yet six o'clock. She stood beside the huge rock,
and, letting her hood fall backwards, inhaled deep draughts
of morning air, while the sweet-scented moorland breeze
played about her dark tresses, cooling her weary brows.
There was a charm of birds, as the saying is in that
country, to be heard all around. Among the bushes and
alders by the river, the little feathered musicians of the air
were still singing lustily with full throats, as if in welcome of
the dawn. It was their hour, as yet, to enjoy possession of
the earth, before ' Man goeth forth to his work and to
his labour, until the evening.'
JOY.
89
How new, how doubly fair the whole earth seemed, still
wet with its daily baptism of dew, thought Rachel. Then
the sun rose fully over the hills before her, and all the
valley broadened and brightened, fully waking to the day.
O blessed orb, reviver of the earth, before which even the
black terrors begotten of night in the human heart flee
away! Who could not well-nigh forget all the wickedness
of the world, and also the troubles of the barely past dark
hours, she thought ? And so, while grateful for the sun,
and wind, and nature's consoling influences around her,
Rachel's heart swelled in praise to the Light Giver—to the
God of earth and sea and air.
With one hand resting on the side of the grey lichened
monolith, her black dress falling in long severe folds of
drapery, her head upraised and her beautiful dark eyes
turned to the sky, this woman might have been a priestess
of Phoebus. But her words were less pagan in their de-
voutness while her lips murmuring repeated :
' IIow fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean,
Are Thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in spring.
***** * *
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.'
Brave old George Herbert's rejoicing after his affliction
rejoiced her too.
She looked, shading her eyes, across the meadows
stretching towards the Red House. For, lo, the joy of a
new interest she had wished for, the gladness of a little
child's life to brighten the grey twilight of her own and her
sister's existences, had come. It was not even her own
doing. Of which she was thankful—dreading, poor soul,
what Magdalen might do, or say, when restored to her
senses.
Rachel was a young woman still; and the past three
9°
JOY.
years of a life almost that of a recluse in this lonely valley
had been heavy and dark upon her. Nay, perhaps that
first year had been a rest, when her soul was still crushed
and sore with a great sorrow. Then the loneliness of the
wide moors, the almost total absence of speech between
herself and Magdalen, had been best for both sisters, who
suffered strangely from the same cruel wrong. But often
during the past two years, there was, alas ! no longer silence.
There were sometimes hours made hideous by cries, by
bitter reproaches hurled against herself as a traitress, a
wicked woman, in that past dreadful trial. And Rachel
was always silent, out of her great love to that distracted,
pretty creature. Poor Magdalen ! her weak head had never
been able to control the violent impulses of a generous but
passionate heart; less so now than ever.
They were coming. Two figures were approaching over
the young grass of the meadow, all speckled with daisies and
buttercups. They threw long shadows behind them in the
morning sun. Farmer Berrington was conducting Hannah
to the accustomed tryst.
Then Rachel went forward, stretching out both hands to
Hannah, her eyes shining like dark suns.
' Oh, Hannah,' she said, ' I can never thank you enough
for all you have done for us both, and the child, since we
parted. You have been a good and faithful servant. May
He who blessed such, reward you !'
Hannah—confused, and half ashamed at feeling her thick
hands held in that delicate, yet close clasp—made a short
curtsey with her dumpy person, being old-fashioned in her
up-bringing. Then, finding her hands gently loosed, wiped
her eyes for a second with the corner of her shawl, yet
answered, rather doggedly:
' Whatever I did, was only my duty. And I did it out of
love to Miss Magdalen—asking pardon for calling her
JOY.
9i
so still; but I've been used to it ever since I first went
to your dear mother as nursemaid, and she but a slip of a
child.'
' Of course; the old name comes naturally,' said Rachel
gently, never showing by any change in her sweet voice that
she noticed the slight ungraciousness which implied nought
had been done for love of herself. And yet, though so
morally strong, she was a most sensitive woman; and her
soul, that had already in life sounded the deepest diapason
of agony, could even still answer with a light, inner note of
pain to so slight a jar as this.
Then she rapidly asked :
' But, Hannah, tell me ! How—why was it you came
with the child ? Why did you leave Mr. Quigg ? I hope
there is no bad news ?'
As slowly, Hannah made dubious answer:
' Bad news ! Well, no—not to say bad . . . Providence's
ways is mysterious; and it's an ill wind blows nobody luck.
So, any way, it was all made safe for us ones—an' I com'.'
Berrington here interposed. He had been keeping aloof,
from delicacy, till now; but, either hearing or guessing what
was coming, made shift to say his say first.
' Your pardon, Miss Rachel, but I must be going to my
labourers now. Mistress Hannah will find her way back,
surely. And seeing one can speak you so seldom' (ay,
verily—about once in six months), ' I will make bold to put
before you a thought that came to my mind yesterday, or
maybe earlier, hoping it may not be disagreeable.'
'Pray go on, Mr. Berrington,' said Rachel, in an in-
voluntarily altered voice, as if speaking from a distance,
across the desert of loneliness with which she felt sur-
rounded. As mechanically, she rapidly pulled her hood
over her head, which, in the excitement of meeting Hannah,
she had left fallen backwards.
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JOY.
'Why, here it is. Seeing the little maid and her nurse
here have come to bide among us, I would be mortally glad
to have them stay at the Red House Farm. Children is
best company for children, and my boy Blyth would be
sorry already to part with the little girl. It is but a rough
home, perhaps, for her, with no mistress now to order things
as a gentlewoman likes them ; for delicacy keeps plenty in
its place. But still it might be better for an infant than
being up here at the cottage—at times? His voice had
fallen quite low at the last words, and he looked steadily
towards a pair of hoodie crows flying across the sky.
Rachel was quite affected by the truly chivalrous thought-
fulness underlying the farmer's stolid manner.
'You are very good ... I hardly know what to say,' she
murmured. ' It is not for me to decide, but still I believe
—I feel you are right.'
' Very well, ma'am. No need to answer in a hurry. Let
them stay now till it can be decided; then, if 'tis yes, why,
we must all try a bit, with goodwill, to see how the plan
works.' Whereupon Berrington turned sideways, preparatory
to departure; adding, in a careless, lower key: ' And as to
board or lodging for such a little one, and her so pretty, too,
it need never be mentioned between us.'
' No, no, no !—Mr. Berrington !' exclaimed Rachel. 'You
are too generous; and you do not understand. We are not
poor, indeed ; we are almost rich.'
But even as she spoke, the farmer was gone, lifting his
hat respectfully, but with a deprecatory wave of his big
stick.
'Well, well, we shall find means to settle all that, if
Magdalen wishes it so. It would make all easy; heaven
opens doors out of difficulties,' Rachel murmured; then
added, with an explanatory smile to Hannah, though her
lips trembled : 'We must be quick now. You have so much
JOY.
93
to say that I long to hear. But I dare not leave her long.
She was sleeping quietly at last when I left, poor soul. We
had a terrible night together.'
Hannah gravely nodded; no more; but felt touched in
her heart, too, though she was jealous of Miss Rachel at
times for her own dear lady's sake. She did not tell how
Farmer Berrington had brought her to within a few yards of
the little brown cottage in the night past, nor how, while the
lantern shone, sending forth faint rays to where they stood,
and the night breeze came down sweet and fresh from the
moors, they had heard through the mud walls the moans and
cries of a spirit as if under temporary demoniac possession.
Poor Magdalen, and also poor Rachel! They had heard
the latter's voice, too, through that storm of passions, steady
in prayer, as one could guess without hearing the words,
wrestling in spirit, as if she could herself cast forth by
faith the tormenting demon.
But Hannah said nought. The sisters had made their
home in the desolate glen not to be spied upon.
The two now sat down, side by side, on the rocks that
were the base of the Logan-stone, and began to talk eagerly.
* How was it safe for you to come, Hannah ?'
' Because the devil deserted his own for once, maybe to
drive a harder bargain next time. Hes got penal servitude
for some years,' said Hannah, with jubilant vindictiveness.
'He! Who?'
' Why, that Gaspard da Silva. Who else ?'
Even as she spoke Hannah remembered—then, though
so lately touched with pity, could not resist the feminine
curiosity of looking in Miss Rachel's face, just to see 'how
she took it.'
Rachel Estonia felt numbed for a moment; then conscious
of a sharp, great pain at the news. But, knowing that curious
gaze was upon her, she bore herself bravely, and would not
94
JOY.
flinch. The nurse did not guess from her noble face how
great the relief would have been to scream aloud, to cover
her face, and mourn in sackcloth and ashes that the proud
were so degraded. The dawn seemed black, and her heart
nigh bursting with bitter pain. Then, the first anguish past,
the after-sadness was almost as terrible—the horror and
penitence of feeling herself well-nigh a wicked woman for
that very pain; seeing, on the bare sands of her memory,
the ribs of the wreck of her once fair ship of hopes. Oh,
she had hoped, prayed that remembrance might be covered
evermore henceforth from her own inner sight by waters of
oblivion. Dear Lord ! she had so striven not to sin thus in
thought, though stainless in word or by deed.
'Go on,' she said only. 'Tell me all about it.'
So Hannah told her all.
When the latter ended with poor Peter Quigg's death—at
which she had not hinted before—Rachel started, cried out:
and then was at no pains to hide her emotion. Why should
she ? He had loved her devotedly; ever since he had met
her, whilst travelling, now several years ago. Those were
her happy days. And she had refused him; but, both being
noble souls, she had known how to ' convert a lover to a
friend.'
So he was dead—poor Peter! For a few minutes, with
bowed head, her face hidden under her hood, Rachel felt
almost as if she herself was his murderess. It was she who
had asked him to shelter her sister's child and its nurse at
a time of great sorrow and peril to them all. And he,
always loyal, had never hesitated, but risked the disturbance
of his recluse-like habits, of responsibilities, even dangers,
such as had at last too truly come; all this to shield the
child of the man whom he had most cause to hate, or at
least think of with anger and envy. And Gaspard da Silva
had shot him ! Rachel felt no doubt which burglar did the
JOY
95
deed in her own sad heart. It numbed her faculties to
think of it. The thought was indeed so dreadful that, like
some women who have suffered great mental trials, and
thus invisibly shield themselves from succumbing in mind
or body, she took refuge in a present dulness of feeling,
thinking to herself she would have time enough for mourn
ing in the days to come. Yes, this year. Then next year,
and the year after; and, maybe, a succession of years, all
long and silent, passed among these quiet moors.
' And for many years—how long will he be in prison ?' she
asked, feeling choked.
' That I don't know for certain. The trial was not on yet.
The paper I saw only said he was sure to get five years, or
ten. And I came here then.'
' Incertitude again. But still, this time it may be best,'
sighed Rachel to herself. Then aloud, ' Perhaps Berrington
might be able to learn, though we seem at the world's end
here. But, Hannah, how can I ever tell my sister? My
heart bleeds for her. Even when she is recovered, it might
unsettle her reason again—perhaps for life.'
Hannah looked aghast at the dreadful possibility, which
had never struck her before. Rachel's heart sank too, lower
than even before.
'No, it won't make me mad. It has restored me to my
reason, quite on the contrary, as you may see,' said Mag-
dalen's voice close beside them.
Both started in horror, and she appeared from behind the
Logan-stone, disordered in dress certainly, having huddled
merely a skirt and shawl over her night garments. But her
blue eyes were steady enough; her face, no longer flushed,
was indeed very pale but for two slight hectic spots. They
gazed transfixed.
'Yes,' she went on, ' my wrongs are avenged. Gaspard is
in prison. Now he will learn what stone walls are like—the
96
JOY.
living death to which he condemned his wife. It is righteous
—it is just. The moment the words left your lips, Hannah,
I felt electrified into my full senses again.'
She placed one hand lightly on her head as she spoke,
and stood so a minute; then extended it to Hannah, who,
faithful creature, covered it with kisses and tears.
' Poor Hannah! How fond you always were of me!
Come, I will kiss you myself, for you have been very good.'
Thereupon she touched her old maid's cheek with her lips
as gracefully and lightly as she did everything.
4 Oh, my dearie, my dearie ! But how did you come to
hear all? And, Lord help us, with your feet bare, too !'
uttered Hannah, gazing down on the dew-wet greensward
with horror, while Rachel, too, perceived the fact for the
first time.
'It cools my brain,' said Magdalen, carelessly looking
down at the pretty feet that peeped bare from under her
skirts. 4 What brought me here, you dear, foolish old
Hannah ? Why, I saw Miss Rachel there getting up early
very cautiously, so I was cunning enough to pretend being
asleep, and then crept out here after her. I've been
crouched behind that old stone till I'm cramped ; and you
would both murmur so low sometimes, I quite longed to call
out to you to speak louder. No matter—I heard enough.'
4 Well, now, you will come home, dear. You must have
your feet dried, and get some warmer clothing; besides,
you have hardly eaten anything the last two days,' urged
Rachel, concealing her anxiety under tenderness of voice.
4 Oh, yes. Would Hannah like to come and see the mud
hovel we call home, eh ?'
' Shall I come a while later to-day and bring the child ?
You'll be thinking sore long to see your own child, my
dearie.'
A sort of shudder ran through Magdalen's body.
JOY.
97
' The child ! To-day ! .... Oh ! I cannot. Tell her
it would not be good for me, Rachel. You know my poor
head might not be able to stand it. Another time—perhaps
in a week, Hannah.'
'Say the day after to-morrow. She and Berrington will
think you so unnatural,' whispered Rachel.
'Very well,' acceded Magdalen, not too willingly. 'Then
the day after to-morrow, Hannah. Good-bye now,' and she
waved her hand in farewell.
Hannah watched both the sisters as they went away,
Rachel's tall dark figure supporting Magdalen, who winced
and clung to her arm, crying out sharply if a thorn touched
her feet.
After a few steps Rachel stopped, and, hastily pulling off
her own shoes, put them on her sister. The nurse felt
a tightness across her chest, as she, too, turned to go. A
curious disappointment, too, she was aware of, but could
hardly account for.
' Poor dear, it was that her mind had been so unhinged.
When I bring her the child, it will all be right—all be like
old times again,' she thought.
CHAPTER XVI.
' Sorrows succeed.
When one is past, another care we have :
Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.'
Herrick.
But when, two days later, Hannah, who had been carrying
little Joy for the last quarter of a mile, set her down on the
dried mud floor of Cold-home Cottage, all was not yet
right.
The little one was frightened at the strange place, so bare
7
98
JOY.
and uninviting, and hung back as they entered. She was
scared, too, by the black dresses and hoods of the sisters,
and, being still unused to strangers, turned and hid her
head obstinately in Hannah's apron. Magdalen looked at
her curiously and critically, as the nurse made efforts to
disengage the tight baby grasp.
' Is she always like that ?' she asked.
Then Rachel went near, and, going down on her knees,
managed, by pretty coaxing words and loving enticements,
to draw the black curly head round to spy at her. Presently
Joy, as was her custom when pleased, promptly kissed
Rachel full and unasked with her rosy lips. At that
Magdalen sprang forward with a jealous exclamation,
caught up the child, and half angrily covered her with
hasty, almost harsh kisses. Joy cried out in alarm, as was
natural; Magdalen was enraged. There was some ado to
pacify them both.
' It is so long since she saw you. How could she re-
member?' pleaded Rachel.
' Don't you know who the lady is, my birdie ?' murmured
Hannah caressingly, soothing her charge. ' Why, she is
your own '
' Hush 1' screamed Magdalen; ' I forbid you to tell her.'
'I beg pardon; I—I thought you meant to tell her
to-day, surely,' stuttered Hannah, frightened. ' I've told
her nothing, even as we came along. I thought it not right
till she'd seen you; but now '
' No, I will not have it. You think he is safe, but I know
him; stone walls will never hold him. Then it will all
begin again, and we must separate and fly; so it is better
she should know nothing. Besides, she must live at the
Red House—I wish it so. When she grows older, she
would only be asking inconvenient questions if she knew
who we were.'
JOY.
99
Hannah would have demurred, amazed, but that Rachel
sorrowfully signed to her it was so to be. Then the child
was bidden play in the cottage kitchen, while all three
women watched her.
It was a strange dwelling-room for two ladies of gentle
breeding ! so Hannah thought silently in her mind, wonder-
ing. It was almost utterly bare, but how spotless ! The
earthen floor was so clean one might have dined on it; the
solitary deal table and dresser were scoured white as milk ;
the few tin utensils shone like silver. These were signs of
Rachel's daily toil. The only touches of colour and soft-
ness were some feather cushions, covered with bright stuff,
piled on the wooden settle by the fireplace, where Magdalen
generally stretched herself. Also a heavy rug was placed
here, to keep her feet warm, made of bits of cloth coarsely
knitted together with cord. Such rugs are sometimes seen
in peasant cottages. Rachel's delicate fingers had worked
that.
Also the two straw chairs, made much after the shape
and manner of a beehive, were disguised likewise under
bright coverings. Magdalen's guitar on the settle; her
footstool—that was all! Not another sign of taste, of
educated mind, of ease (for though Rachel had a few books
—Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, and Goethe—they were
carefully hidden away in a little locked box, kept under her
pallet-bed in the next room). Other poor cottages on the
moors had surely more articles for use, or even pleasure.
Here was no tall wooden clock, no flowers in the window,
no.purring cat or cheerful fowls cackling on the threshold—
nothing. Hannah's grieved mind thought the room like
a cell presently, in spite of the cushions, the guitar, and the
nosegays of wild flowers that poor Rachel had placed here
and there. Then a thought struck her: It was a cell—
here ivas nothing to be broken! She had, indeed, under-
7—2
ioo JOY.
stood the matter. Once, when they first came, Rachel had
tried the softening influences of a few pretty objects on
which to rest the eye, procuring what she could at Moor-
town, through Farmer Berrington. Then one dreadful
night came, and by morning all was shivered, smashed,
rent in a thousand fragments; and worse, a caged linnet
dying. Again, she had tried the experiment with like
disastrous results, then gave it up. After all, Nature was
beautiful and bright enough out of doors, except in the
terrible winter.
For a minute or two, little Joy slowly and conscientiously
walked round, examining the big fireplace with its ingle
nook, the little window in which hung the old lantern.
There was nothing to play with.
'This is an ugly house ; Joy doesn't like it as much as
our house,' she innocently said.
' There ; you see !' said her mother significantly. 'Juan-
ita, come here—speak to me; why did you call yourself
Joy? You are Juanita.'
' No, no. Joy !' persisted the child, laughing and shaking
her soft, curly, dark head.
' What, does she not even know her own name ? Not
that I gave it her—the nuns who visited the asylum baptized
her when they thought I was dying.'
'It was such an outlandish name,' apologized Hannah,
looking hot. For she was such a stickler for all that was
British, she hated the idea of returning to the foreign
'Juanita' she had so cleverly evaded. 'She always had a
trick of calling herself something like Joy as a baby, so I
just let it rest so.'
'May not we, too, Magdalen? Our Joy—it is a pretty
idea,' said Rachel. Her sister smiled assentingly. When
at the same time the child unluckily exclaimed, 'Yes, yes;
I'm Joy—Joy likes you !' and prettily running forward and
JOY.
101
looking up for sympathy in Rachel's face, she leant—drawn
by some secret sympathy—against her knee.
'Take her away. She is her father's own daughter; she
likes you best P passionately exclaimed Magdalen. 'Yes, I
could see it in her face the moment she came in, and she
has his eyes. She is an unnatural little wretch. Oh, my
child, my child, you don't care for me either.' She rushed
into the next room weeping; it was their bedroom, the onlv
other room. Rachel followed her there, in spite of denials,
strong in her love. Presently the complaints inside were
pacified by degrees, but when Rachel came out it was to say,
softly but briefly, the two visitors must go. Nevertheless,
she herself hugged the child in a long warm embrace, and
then squeezed Hannah's hand.
So nurse and child went slowly back through the wet
meadows, for it was a rainy spring afternoon.
It had been a disastrous day.
Yet, besides the overt disappointment the nurse felt again
that of the previous meeting now intensified. What was
this doubt at her heart? She did not find her mistress as
perfect as she had believed her these last three years. She
did not love her anear as much as she had done in absence.
Then the faithful woman blamed herself bitterly—poor
Hannah !
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JOY
CHAPTER XVII.
' Sweet country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others, not their own !
*****
O happy life ! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood !
Who all the day themselves doe please,
And younglings with such sports as these,
And, lying down, have nought to affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.'
Herrick.
So, as was now agreed, Joy and her nurse lived at the Red
House.
There could hardly have been a happier home for any
child than this farm, lying warm and sheltered towards the
south in its rich pasture-lands, with behind it the hills and
the sweet heather for leagues and leagues. Indoors, there
reigned peace, plenty, and smiling faces. Out-doors were
wide horizons, the large air to bring roses on the cheeks, and
perfect liberty.
One small matter had given Hannah some trouble : this
was the child's name, when the farm-folk began to ask
natural questions. Magdalen hotly refused to let her bear
her father's name, or even the grand-maternal one of Men-
doza. It was dangerous, she darkly said, haunted by the
fear of Da Silva appearing some day on their track. Stone,
again, denoted too clearly the child's connection with the
cottage—at which wondering tongues would have wagged.
'And to call her only Joy is to miscall the child, Farmer
Berrington. Why, even the very cows here have Christian
names,' she said, almost in tears.
George Berrington's phlegm was moved to consideration.
' 'Tis true enough—folk will ask questions; and, if they
get no answer, at times they'll talk the more,' he mused.
JOY.
103
He considered the matter over three pipes that evening
in the porch, and finally thus announced his mind there-
upon:
' Some name the little maid should have that will attract
small attention; for it's better to be little known than ill-
spoken of, as the saying is. Now—if no better can be found
—I'm thinking my dead wife would be heartily glad to lend
the child what help would lie in hers. Haythorn, it was—
and I know of no cousins or kin of hers; so that, if neigh-
bours suppose the infant to be somehow related to her, none
can dispute it. Furthermore, it's a good name. May she
wear it as it deserves, for it will never disgrace her.'
This offer (not made without a sense of generous effort)
was received v/ith true gratitude by Rachel, and graciously
condescended to by Magdalen.
' Of course, it need be only for a time—while we stay here,'
the latter said.
As for Hannah, the relief of this arrangement was great.
Her own thickheadedness in making evasive answers as to
the child's parentage no longer puzzled her. She had only
to say, £ Her name ! Why, the same as the dead Mrs. Ber-
rington. Ask the farmer—he can tell you best. Which last
suggestion few of the farm folk carried out, as can be guessed.
Berrington had said so little about his young wife or her
people that the parentage of a scapegrace Haythorn was
easily invented by the people around and fathered on little
joy—and so the wonder was presently forgotten.
Blyth and the little maid became fast friends. How they
played together that spring—ay, and many more—in the
orchard, where the sleek, black pigs fed below, and the rosy-
white clouds of blossom bloomed above; a strange contrast
you shall see any day in that country.
Then Blyth taught Joy the delights of bird's-nesting. What
unspeakable happiness she felt on finding first a thrush's nest
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JOY.
all by herself! It was on the banks of the Chad, where she
was wandering, while Blyth sailed sticks, which he called
ships, down the stream. Joy perceived something blue a
little way below her feet, and there it was just above the
water's flow, built so that the overhanging edge of the turf
slightly sheltered it. Joy fell on her knees, and fairly
screamed in her ecstasy, which brought Blyth, running.
He admired it too ; although giving his opinion that it was
a foolish spot to choose, and they must be a young couple
of birds that built it.
This did not prevent Joy from dreaming all night of her
mud-lined treasure, with its four azure-speckled beauties of
eggs, as the loveliest ever seen. Alas ! when, next morning,
she hurried to the beloved spot, the nest was gone.
There had been a freshet in the night, and a brown turbid
flood now rushed along, filling the river-bed to its brink.
Blyth was right. But he did not triumph over her. He only
said, ' I thought Chad came down last night; I heard the
cry of the river as I lay awake.'
And next came the first time in her life that Joy heard a
strange call of ' Cuck-oo, cuck-oo !' and stood turning her
head in puzzled amazement towards the oak-copse on either
side. Blyth at once made her lift her small left foot, and
showed how to search its imprint on the ground carefully
for a hair. This, the boy explained, would be in its colour
the same as that of her future husband. He found a small
hair triumphantly after diligent search and mutual poking
of their fingers. It was of a dusky red, much like that of
any of the calves, Joy thought (they were in the paddock
behind the cow-house), but Blyth announced it was just the
same as his own yellow locks, so the little maid, with beau-
tiful faith, piously believed him.
Year after year, they two sought new birds' nests; heard
returning mysterious cuckoos ; and were happy. If once
JOY.
Joy, grown older and less trustful, found a white hair under
her foot, and again none—which somewhat shook her belief
in Blyth's natural magic—still he unfailingly produced a
jetty one that by no conceivable chance could belong to
anyone but herself. Farmer Berrington was once shown
this wonder, and asked with mysteriousness, where did he
think it had come from, to which he answered, not knowing,
' Why ! off a black pig, I say.'
When told with eager horror of his mistake, how he had
roared with silent laughter, till his face grew purple, and his
capacious sides ached.
Yes ; the long years after years, that Rachel up at the
cottage had somewhat sadly foreseen for herself and her
companion, strange silent sisters both, passed over merrily
for little Joy and the bigger Blyth. Winter snows were
piled on summers' graves ; these were in turn thawed by
the lusty warmth and quickening influences of new young
years. Meanwhile both children grew bigger and stronger;
rosy, if tanned by the warm suns and moorland breezes ;
healthy and hardy, though somewhat wild, according to
prim notions of upbringing.
Blyth had been given his pony the winter after Joy came,
and daily rode to Moortown grammar-school, the few hours
of separation only making both of them more happy to see
each other again. For, though the boy was glad to have
comrades now of his own age and kind, he never flinched
in affection to his little pet plaything. She would wait for
him down the lane every afternoon, till he came in sight.
Then he would lift her on his pony and walk by her side to
the farm-gate where Farmer Berrington often chanced to be
also silently waiting. It was a pretty sight.
Hannah, for her part, felt as if she had at last come to a
land of Goshen ; and was happy among the strangers, and
only hoped to live on there in peace now—peace was always
JOY.
her inner cry—and to wander no more. By degrees she had
taken up the duties of housekeeper at the Red House, being
the most capable and experienced woman therein ; and her
soul at last was thoroughly content.
' But I'll not meddle with the butter; for it's clean against
the principles in which I was brought up as a young girl to
use a tub for a churn and turn my hand to be a churn-stick,'
she had said.
She had loved putting the fresh milk into a vast churn
and hearing the dash of the dipper, while afterwards there
was no drink like fresh butter-milk or evening meal like
supping sowens, to her mind. Still, with all her prejudices,
Hannah could not resist over-seeing the big pans of Devon-
shire cream mantling and wrinkling as they were scalded
on the hot hearth, or having a sharp eye on the pounds of
golden butter sent to Moortown market. Also she loved
the big dishes of junket rarely, and soon learnt to make
them as to the manner born. Then no one could turn
out a more excellent weekly batch of loaves, or had a lighter
hand with the pastry of the big pies, or knew so many
kinds of hot cakes, the secret art of which she had learnt
in the land of her birth. Thus, what with spring and
autumn great house-cleanings and weekly scrubbings and
scourings, preserving, pickling, mending napery, seeing to
all the washing and the poultry of all kinds, and calves, and
sighing over Blyth's torn jacket and Joy's new frocks,
tatters of which adorned all the bushes within miles, besides
knitting for all the household, Hannah verily had her hands
full. Her northern energy astonished the easy-going, rather
lazy, gentle people around her.
Little Joy, however, was the life and light of the Red
House. She had fairly nestled herself into the innermost
core of Berrington's big heart. Though he grew more
taciturn as he also became broader and redder every year,
JOY.
fo 7
yet he seldom failed to have a full-moon smile to greet her;
and would always unlock his lips to say slowly : ' Well, my
little sunbeam.' Joy was alike his plague and darling.
By-and-by Joy too trotted down the lane with her satchel
to a dame's school, and the quiet that ensued in the farm-
house for two hours was 'amazin',' said Berrington. He
quite missed her footstep following him round the fields and
farmyard in the mornings; but the sisters up in the glen
had willed it so.
At first, Miss Rachel had hoped they might themselves
have taught the child, but the experiment failed in three
days. Magdalen frightened little Joy by her impatience
and occasional outbreaks of anger during the lessons, as
well as by her equally capricious fits of passionate affection.
Her light, bright nature that had itself flashes of wayward
genius could not endure the slow unfolding of the young,
immature brain. Then if for once the child sat on the
floor, with her feet stretched before her (almost unnaturally
quiet, Rachel thought, for she was generally like the tricksiest
spirit of mirth and mischief imaginable), Magdalen would
break into a tiff at finding she was, after all, only watching
a black-beetle crawling, or studying with interested big eyes
the antics of the queer-looking crickets that came out on
the hearth.
On this Joy would rush passionately to Rachel's knee for
protection, who was always so sweet, so tender; the child
herself being as violent in her emotions as her mother, but
with already the promise of a far deeper feeling and stronger
understanding. The scenes of jealousy that ensued were
painful and hurtful. From the last one the child escaped
unnoticed for the moment, and, young as she was, ran back
towards the farm as fast as her small legs could carry her,
meeting Hannah half-way, who had come to fetch her, and
was scandalized.
io8 JOY.
Then Rachel sorrowfully saw that the young spirit would
only look on them as its task-mistresses and tormentors, or
else bring disunion between herself and the poor suffering
sister she loved as her own life. So it ceased.
At times there would be a little feast spread on the bare
cottage table, of bilberries with tea, or perhaps some delicacy
of short-cake smuggled by Hannah for that purpose into
the basket left on certain days at the Logan-stone. Then
Joy would come with her nurse, learning by the latter's
admonitions as she grew yearly older to dissemble her affec-
tion for ' Miss Rachel' and pretend more towards ' Miss
Magdalen'; and at such times Magdalen, being pleased,
could take a rare winning manner, so seductive, so strangely
fascinating (though capricious) that she did really charm the
child for brief happy spaces. Then Hannah's love for the
mistress, who was always young to her, returned in full ad-
miring flow; and Rachel, whose love never wavered through
good or evil times, smiled, glad to see the black cloud lifted
from the being dearest to her.
But still often little Joy tired. The brown cottage was
so still, the hooded sisters so weird; her young mind quickly
pined for Blyth, who was never allowed to come thither, and
for the many delights of the Red House.
Ah, no one knew, and Joy least, how those short visits
were as sun-bursts in the chill life of the tall dark woman
at Cold-home. No one guessed, when at rare| times she
met the child alone, by mere accident, it seemed, and would
hug her to her heart with wet, deep eyes, that she had been
waylaying its path in fear of offending her other beloved one
up yonder in the glen.
And how often—how often, when the opportunity came,
the poor hungry soul was disappointed, and had to go back
to the terrible stillness of the glen, and to the mean little
JOY. 109
brown cottage, disappointed and furtively wiping away the
tears that fell thick and fast upon her hood !
'Oh, Joy—little Juanita, if I had been your mother,
nothing should have parted us, my child, my child!' she
thought. After all, however strong, she was only a woman,
with woman's longings, capacities, and little heart-aches.
Then Rachel would cross her threshold wearily as the
shades of night fell, and light the old lantern. Its rays
shone in the darkness over the ford where so few travellers
came. The lone light seemed like an emblem of her life—
wasted. .
CHAPTER XVIII.
' Call me no more,
As heretofore,
The rnusick of a Feast;
Since now, alas,
The mirth that was
In me, is dead or ceast.
' But Time, Ai me,
Has laid, I see,
My Organ fast asleep ;
And turned my voice
Into the noise
Of those that sit and weep.'
Herrick.
On Saturday half-holidays, which were among their happiest
days, Blyth used to take Joy long rambling excursions over
the moors, or up the hills to explore the rocky fastness of
some tor.
One day, when Joy was about nine years old, and Blyth
some four years more, they amused themselves by tracking
the Chad down from its spring three miles away, up among
110
JOY.
the dwarfed mountain-ashes, and the heather and rocks.
And thus, following the stream, they had presently found
themselves where the waterfall leaped down white into the
green darkness of the narrow glen, here almost a chasm or
rift, where hardly a ray of sun ever found its way. In
general, both boy and girl avoided the neighbourhood of
the cottage by mute consent; for laughter and play died
away as if banned at sight of the lone brown cottage and
the dark-hooded women. But this day they had vowed to
follow the river all the way down its bed, without flinching
from obstacles, till they reached the Red House Farm. To
their childish imaginations, to draw back now would have
implied loss of honour; so, promising themselves to steal
past Cold-home with hushed footfall and bated breath, they
plunged with daring recklessness down the steep cliff-side,
where the noise of falling water roared in their ears, and
the green, gloomy shade grew darker and denser of the
trees that filled the chasm, while their foothold became more
difficult every minute; but safety lay seventy feet below
them, for they could not climb up again !
It was a very difficult descent—so difficult that none but
themselves, or the badgers leaving their holes to feed at
night and returning at dawn, and perhaps an occasional
fox, ever had tried it.
The sides of the glen were indeed as dangerous all the
way, to its mouth. Therefore, as none of the superstitious
country-folk or moor-men cared to pass the lone cottage of
the wisht sisters, as they now called Rachel and Magdalen
(fearing the evil-eye or some unknown harm), the glen was
as much the undisturbed retreat of the latter as if it was a
little park in their own demesne. (Wisht means weird or
uncanny in those parts.)
' Oh 1 Blyth, help me. I carit get down !' cried Joy, in
dismay, hanging by one arm to a slender oak-tree, whose
JOY.
in
roots seemed riven in a mass of rock that hung for a few
feet sheer below her, whilst on either side was only a fearful
tangle of brushwood, bramble, and no foothold to speak of.
' I'm coming,' gasped Blyth, rather breathless himself.
But, before he could come, Joy had loosed her hold, and
somehow dropped on a ledge a little below, being as lithe as
a wild cat.
' Why, there you are !' grumbled the boy ; ' first you say
you can't do it, and then you go and do it. That's just like
a woman.'
What did he know of women ? That was spoken like an
embryo man. Joy, who was breathless too, shook back her
dark curls, her cheeks being flushed like a damask rose, and
held out her small brown hands, that were cruelly rasped
by the oak bark, before his face.
' But I'm frightened now, Blyth. Help me ; I'm so tired
too.'
' Why, it's as easy as easy, now,' jeered Blyth, jumping
down lesser big boulders and holding up his arms to help
the little girl, who slid after him. ' But that's you always,
Joy. When there is any real danger, you're a dare-devil;
Dick said so only yesterday. Why, my heart was jumping
up and down inside me when you were hanging over that
big rock; you might have broken your neck. And now
here, at these little hop-o'-my-thumb places, you ask for
help.'
Joy only looked at the gruff young Saxon with laughing,
sweet, black eyes. She was as fearless and self-reliant as
any wood-nymph, following this mad, sylvan adventure with
a faun ; but as caressing and full of wiles, too, as the
earthliest of little Delilahs. In this lay her charm * So
she only clasped Blyth's hand tighter in silence, until, hot,
exhausted, and with large rents in their clothes, both found
themselves at last at the foot of the waterfall that here sank,
112
JOY.
with final white hiss and ceaseless rush, into a deep, dark
pool.
' Show me those poor little hands of yours now, and I'll
wash them,' said Blyth, kneeling on the edge of the rock-
basin ; and, though his words were curt, schoolboy-like, his
action was tender as his heart was soft.
' How strange it is here ; how dark and wild ! Do you
think any persons have ever been here before ourselves ?'
murmured Joy, shrinking close to his side, and looking
timidly around ; her more fervid imagination, of southern
root and tropical birth-influences, impressed, as was not
Blyth's steady, sterner nature.
The glen was dark. On either side the trees almost met
across the high cliffs ; while here and there crannies, amongst
rocks and bushes, looked black as midnight caverns, even
by day. In front, the foaming, white water came billowing
down, leap upon leap, from a far, narrow streak of light up
there amongst the foliage, which alone told of upper world,
air, and freedom on the moors.
The waterfall's spray wet the children's heads as they
knelt; the rocks were slippery under them. Long fringes
of ferns hung thick and moist along the walls of rock.
Long water-grasses waved in the hurrying water, with sinuous
motion, like the feelers of some half-animal plant. There
was hardly a sound, little air, in this cool, green obscurity,
where tradition said the sun never shone down, but for one
mid-day hour, on one day in the year. And what that day
is no man knoweth.
The children rose, and wandered further along by the
stream's side. Here the glen began to widen, the light to
break down. Presently, the banks on either side became
little open glades, with a greensward as old as fairy days,
though only the rabbits kept it so short and sweet now, and
pattered over it on summer nights. Bosky underwood was
JOY.
"3
dotted here and there ; hawthorn-trees, so old, grey-bearded
with lichen, and stunted, they might have seen Merlin, stood
in clumps, rejoicing in fresh leafage. For it was the time of
spring, and all the woodland sides of the dell, and every
nook and cranny, too, were bursting out in tender green,
while golden primroses made libations in treasure spots of
happy brightness, or shone elsewhere in scattered stars, like
' Fancies that frolick it o'er the earth.'
Tender bluebells hung on their hollow stalks in the
thickets, gleaming azure in shy company. There was a
twittering and singing everywhere to be heard from branch
and brake in this sweet, secluded hollow, where no rough
winds came down or disturbing foot of man trod. This
narrow moorland rift, rather than glen, was like a little bit
of Eden on this spring evening, here where it rejoiced in
the kindly warmth of sunlight, God's chiefest blessing on
earth; the birds hopped about more fearlessly than else-
where, and the rabbits scuttling with jerking white tails sat
up and gazed curiously at the children, thinking, each and
all, it seemed, 4 We know Magdalen, we love Rachel, but
who are you ?'
' What is that?' both Blyth and Joy had exclaimed simul-
taneously, as a strain of strange music faintly reached their
ears. They paused, looked at each other, wondering in
hushed murmurs what this might mean ; then hand-in-hand
the boy and girl stole on together, keeping behind the
shelter of the bushes as they approached the elfin sound.
It was delicate music, played on strings for certain: as
now and then the air seemed picked out with a slightly
twanging sound, then by fits and starts the hand would be
swept up and down with a rush and a wild shake or two,
and then again it would strike the instrument with a deep
8
H4
JOY.
sound that intensified the bass, like the drum in a band of
shrill light pipings.
Holding their very breath with exquisite delight, for such
music had never been known in all the country round about,
they parted the bushes and peered through.
In the sunniest little open of all, Magdalen sat on the
river's bank. Her hood was thrown back, her dress was
loosened at the throat, and her sleeves were rolled up as if
to show the rounded whiteness of her arms.
She had placed a fantastic garland of bluebells and ferns
on her fair hair, and bunches of starry primroses in her
bosom; and so, believing herself secure from all eyesight,
bent over now and then to see her dark reflection mirrored
in a still, clear pool below, as well as might be. Sometimes
she would wave her arms and raise them in graceful attitudes,
admiring the outline as she gazed. Then she would snatch
up a guitar in her lap, and, playing it with fitful passion,
draw forth the sweet, maniac music that had enthralled
the children's ears, now wailing, sobbing, or in plaintive
murmurs; again madly merry like a gipsy's carousal song,
sung to the sound of castanets and tambourine—a snatch,
no more, for too soon the broken, doubting chords began
again.
But hark ! some memory of an air crossed her distracted
mood, for she raised her head, played a prelude with a light
laugh and lingering fingers; once more, with growing
passion and a wilder, more rapid, yet assured touch. Then,
looking up to the sky and woods for inspiration and audience,
she began to sing—
' Taza be taza,
No be no.'
It was the famous Gazel of Hafiz, familiar to all nautch-
girls in India who have sung and danced to ' Mutriba
Khush, his sweetest song,' so the words begin, perhaps since
JOY,
ever the poet's lips first uttered them, five hundred years
ago.
The listeners still listened, entranced, after the last notes
had died away. But then
Up sprang Magdalen, flung down her guitar, and, as if
intoxicated with the praise and applause of an unseen
audience, she smiled in ecstasy, bowed to all sides, pressed
her flowers to her heart with a pretty gesture of deprecation
yet triumph. Then, daintily holding out her skirts with her
finger-tips, began to dance on the short green turf. First
she moved airily, with measured steps, curtseying, crossing,
taking hands in graceful windings and turnings with
imaginary partners, at whom she threw coquettishly bright
or languishing glances, poor soul! But soon, possessed by
her own music that had mounted to her brain, her feet
moved faster and faster, as if impatient, till presently she
was dancing in a maddened whirl, with flying steps that beat
their own time, on the greensward. Round and round,
with upraised arms, Magdalen, with heaving breast and hair
now fallen down in loose, disordered light masses, still, like
a maenad, went on, on, on ! in that wild dance ; with mazy
circlings and wavings and frenzied, yet always instinctively
graceful, alluring gestures, till the brains of the children
grew giddy as they watched from their ambush.
One last convulsive whirl; then her muscles flagged,
and, with labouring breath, the dancer suddenly stopped
short. She gave a cry, threw up her arms to the heavens
above as in appeal, Chen hid her face in her hands, and
sinking slowly, exhausted, on the ground, stretched herself
there, with her head buried in the grass.
She had remembered, by a flash of returned reason,
where and what she was. The boy and girl watching knew
it—no human soul would have failed to understand the
despair of that last pitiful gesture. They shrank back,
8—2
JOY.
awed by their young, intense pity for this disordered intellect,
and the mystery and horror of why such suffering should be.
Then both shivered, as low moans came from that prostrate
form, those of a soul in agony. The moans grew quicker,
sharper; then followed a storm of sobs, blinding weeping,
choking cries upon cries.
The woman lying there knew herself at that moment,
still young, passionate, with her life wasted, her brain
wrecked by the cruelty of man; and ' God had permitted
it!' No hope, none, in the days stretching barren before
her; but the dreadful certainty instead of more black
tunnels of time, down which her spirit must wander, groping
and weeping for light and company, or else tasting a fearful,
delirious joy, to be afterwards bitterly scorned like that from
which she had just awakened. And still her cries echoed
from the cliff-sides of the lonely glen, and rang up to the
still blue strip of sky overhead, through which no angel-
faces could be seen looking down in pitying consolation.
They pierced the ears and wrung the hearts of the children,
who felt weak to the marrow of their bones, hearing them.
These dreadful cries against man—to God against God!
Would they never cease? Frightened and heartsick, the
boy and girl stole away down the glen; Blyth quite pale,
and tears washing down Joy's cheeks. Neither had believed
grown persons could be so miserable. Long after they had
left the glen, those shrieks still seemed to haunt their ears,
and they would stop and listen to any faint sounds borne
on the breeze. They only breathed freely—both with a
great sigh of relief—when they saw the cheerful Red House
Farm windows.
JOY.
1x7
CHAPTER XIX.
' The bairnies they were talking,
And we listened to what they'd say ;
Says one : "I saw a strange thing
As I played in the wood one day.
I saw—and I saw  so it chattered on,
And all wondered in innocent strife ;
But we looked at each other, pale to the lips,
'Twas the secret of a life !'
Blyth held his peace about the late scene in the glen, when
both children returned to the farm. But little Joy, who was
strangely pale and silent all the evening, could not refrain
from mysterious answers when Hannah made affectionate
and solicitous inquiries of her. And so the matter was told
to Berrington.
He spoke to both of the children seriously that night, ex-
plaining the horrors which even the most harmless poor souls,
who suffered from occasional dark periods of obscured
reason, had endured in asylums; so he and his neighbours
and their fathers had heard tell. Of being chained to a wall,
half-naked, half-starved, with less straw than a dog for miser-
able bedding ; of indignities; of broken limbs and ribs; and
the last glimmer of intellect suffocated, till Joy trembled
and wept, suddenly stirred, poor child, by a storm of pas-
sionate emotion, inexplicable to herself. At which Blyth,
watching her, felt moved, too, in an inward way; so that he
was half ashamed of himself, though with little cause for
that either.
Then the farmer lifted his pet on his knee, and consoled
her. Nay, there was no cause for such fears. While he
lived, no one should hurt a hair of the heads of those poor
women souls up the valley; and afterwards, please God, he
could trust his boy to guard them. Which Blyth, in his
n8 JOY.
heart, there and then swore to do ; outwardly, he nodded.
So Joy, who had hidden her face in his old velveteen coat,
listened to Berrington—her sobs lessening—who hinted how
she herself, aye, and Blyth, too, in future, might help Miss
Rachel in her good and great work. Especially he bade her,
however, be careful, now she was growing such a mortal big
girl, to hold her peace on this matter, which Joy solemnly
promised.
' And Blyth '—eager for her comrade to be sworn likewise.
i Why don't you tell him to be silent, too ?'
' He is a boy; it matters more to thee,' said Berrington
oracularly.
So both children forbore to speak of what they had learnt,
except to each other.
' So that is why Miss Rachel and Miss Magdalen live al-
ways alone. Have you not often thought, Blyth—no, felt,
their lives were strange ? And this is their secret,' whispered
Joy, in an awed voice, as she and Blyth sat on a branch of
their favourite old pear-tree, on high among the white bios-
soms, dangling their legs.
Blyth nodded, and said slowly :
' I suppose so.'
He had a way of being curt and oracular now, at times,
like his father, which Joy found provoking, even unfair, when
wishing to open her heart in a full disburdening, and, of course,
interchange of confidences. Joy was so quick in apprecia-
tion, she was almost Blyth's companion in intelligence ; for
girls
' Grow upon the sunny side o' the wall,'
and ripen soonest. Still Blyth was four years older, and
could recall many wondering comments and guesses in scraps
of talk between Dick and the shepherds, when the child first
came to the farm. That she bore his mother's name of
Haythorn signified little; for once, when he had asked if
JOY.
119
Joy was his cousin, his father had told him no, with a kindly
admonition not to talk or trouble his own head yet on the
subject. Blyth, too, believed in the scapegrace father in-
vented for the child by the gossips, the more so as his father,
he noticed, had never contradicted any chance allusions
thereto, while Hannah's portentous sighs were as so many
blasts of affirmation. But he knew, of course, and often
wondered over, Joy's visits to Cold-home, and puzzled him-
self much thereat. These visits were kept as carefully secret
as could well be by Hannah from the few farm-labourers
and the maids. Otherwise, what with the child's swarthy
looks, not unlike Rachel herself, Berrington might not have
escaped the gossiping tongues of the poorer village-folk, who
talked often with cruel candour of all the doings of their
employers round the faggot-fires at night.
Country gossip is perhaps the worst gossip there is; for
open-air life, while it keeps most who live far apart from each
other innocent and kindly as dwellers in solitary tents, tends
to make some brutish in thought, too, as their own herds of
peaceful cows and silly sheep. So, when the poorer of this
last-said kind of outdoor living folk swarm together in little
villages at night and talk, little do they heed of the complex
motives, the small ambitions, and more refined pleasures
familiar, perhaps, to even as mean dwellers in cities. All is
good or bad to them; what they do not understand they
attribute to the blackest causes, and that without much
malice, knowing no better. They feel so simply but strongly,
and while told they have a divine spark within them, know
themselves so earthly.
Blyth solemnly believed Joy knew nothing of these sur-
mises. But she was very sharp to hear and note, and could
keep her thoughts secret, too. Also, he supposed, feeling
as grave as a young owl, she guessed nothing now of what
was in his heart as they sat among the branches. Did she
120 'JOY.
not, though ; a something ? For thought strangely com-
municates with thought, especially among those who live
together and are in sympathy. And the little maid's face
grew grave, too.
CHAPTER XX.
' Weep not, my wanton—smile upon'my knee ;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.'
Greene.
' Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke ?'
Wordsworth.
Next day Rachel Estonia had gone forth alone towards the
village where Joy went to school, hoping to have her eyes
blessed by sight of the child; her chances for doing so had
been so rare of late. More bold than usual, because feeling
heart-starved for lack of love, she adventured herself down
the steep lane leading to the village, which lay in a shadowy
coombe.
The banks that rose on either side were nearly thirty feet
high, and so steep and tangled with holly, briar, and a
wildly luxuriant growth of flowering bushes and creepers
that any escape up them from the curious gaze of peering
villagers was impossible. Still the men were at work in the
fields; the women were, or should have been, at their
household labours, for it was three of the afternoon.
Rachel went slowly, therefore, down the narrow stony
road, hollowed by so many winter rains, and generations of
travellers wending from the wooded rich valleys below or the
wilder moors above.
JOY.
121
She feasted her eyes with artistic appreciation of beauty
on the banks on either side; the lichened out-cropping
rocks, or rain-slips exposing red soil, the waving fringes and
banners of ferns and briony, the glory of broom, growing
far up, and red campion and bluebells mingling in startling
contrast; the proud hollies like a serried rank of soldiers
meeting the sharp wind of winter highest aloft of all, and
giving its name of Holme Coombe to the dingle. By the
roadside, a crystal streamlet hurried from the hills above.
In winter it often poured over the road, making the lane
dangerous in times of frost. But now it only sang and
tumbled in its stony channel, till reaching the village below
it poured so clean and swift through the old moor-stone
runnel down the street that the gossiping housewives all
washed their potatoes therein before cooking-time. Rachel
could see the village lying deep below her now, as she
gazed down a bend of the road.
The thatched cottages straggled picturesquely in the
valley among apple-trees, their cob walls of mud and
pebbles leaning at all angles, and washed either white, buff,
or a favourite warm pink. Noisy children, hens, ducks, and
domestic animals scrambled and swarmed about the doors,
with cheerful noises that came up the hill. How untidy,
yet clean and happy, the village looked to Rachel's dark
eyes as she gazed. It did her good to see other human
homes even from afar; and she thought, with a pang, of
their own bare silent cottage, whose brown cob walls, the
better to escape observation, were never washed of any
cheerful colour; and where the child, their one joy, only
came at times. What a contrast!
But where was Joy? Some other children who lived on
an upland farm, too, came tripping by, hushing their chatter
and stealing curious glances as they passed Rachel. £ Have
I the evil-eye, do they think?' she sighed to herself, and
122
JOY.
went on depressed, with slow hesitating steps. She would
so gladly have blessed their sunny heads and clear eyes.
The lane turned sharply round some high rocks now,
behind which Rachel heard a little voice singing, or rather
trying to sing. She listened, then crept nearer—
' Tazabe taza,
No be no !'
sang the little voice again and again, like a young bird
repeating the first parent-notes it can mimic.
There was an ancient stone cross raised on two worn steps
at one side of the hollow lane, and little Joy was sitting at
its foot, swinging her sun-bonnet and humming with a
defiant air to herself.
' Who taught you to sing that, dear ?' The child started,
and looking up saw Rachel's deep eyes bent upon her. She
gave one quick frightened glance round, then seeing no
Magdalen near was reassured. Rachel's look had a light to
her like love shining through darkness. At first she did
not answer, but as the gentle woman sat down beside her,
drawing the small form caressingly to her side, Joy nestled
closer of her own accord, and presently a few questions
elicited all.
' And so you want to sing, and to play the guitar ?' said
Rachel dreamily.
' Yes, yes; teach me ! The other children at school can't
do that, if they do laugh at me and ask questions—why
I have no father or mother!' cried the little girl passionately.
' What? said Rachel,'breathing the question low, as if
much moved. 'Do they ask you about that, Joy? Tell
me, dear . . . yes, I must know; this is important.'
Joy's face flushed a deep, hot red; but she turned it in
sudden impulse up to the speaker, who now noticed recent
tear-stains upon her cheeks.
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123
' They do. That is why I would not go back with them
to-day; I pretended not to care, and sat here, but
Oh ! tell me, why does no one speak to me of my mother ?
I have asked Hannah about my father, and she said he was
a wicked and cruel man, but that he would trouble us no
more; so I suppose he is dead. But she never says that of
my mother. She only sighs, and says she wishes I may
only grow up worthy of her, but that I must ask no
questions.'
'Wicked and cruel,' repeated Rachel, murmuring to
herself, while a spasm she could not control crossed her
features, the outcome of a sharp pain in her soul, and her
lips were dry as she went on huskily, 'Child, child, you
must not judge your father. He may have been all that,
and yet—and yet . . . Oh ! how can we tell ? Perhaps he
never knew !—never meant to work such ill. What can a
child of your age, what can even women guess of a man's
temptations and trials? Never speak of it, Joy, never think
of him—unless in your prayers; yes, yes, pray, pray hard
that he may be forgiven.'
' Then he is not dead ?' said the child slowly.
' We do not know—no one does. He was alive we
heard two years ago, but then we lost all news of him: dead
to us, at least.'
'To us,' repeated little Joy, whose lustrous dark eyeballs
were fixed with the gently merciless scrutiny of her innocent
age full on her companion, whose emotion she perceived;
while a dawning thought gave a strange, slow tone of
happiness to her voice as she added: 'You liked him, did
you not? ... I know that, because your face looks so
sorry, as if you wanted to cry. But why don't you tell me
of her V
Rachel started back, pierced to the heart, yet powerless
before the child's words; looking at her with hopeless,
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miserable eyes, as if found guilty of a deadly sin, done,
nevertheless, without her own knowledge.
But Joy did not see, did not wait. The child of impulse,
she was carried away by a hungry orphan's craving, and the
irresistible idea of solving the mystery of her own birth to
her own delight. Next instant she had thrown her arms
round Rachel's neck in a soft, clinging embrace. She
pressed close to that loving breast, and while her child's
face, with longing, lustrous eyes, like brown jewels set
therein, was upturned to that above her in a transport of
affection and expectancy, she asked low :
1 Are you my mother V
4 No ' said Rachel. She could utter no more.
The little girl loosened her clasp, but hid her face
silently in her elder's neck, whose arms now enfolded her.
Violent sobs shook Joy's childish frame, in the bitterness of
this great disappointment. What Rachel bending over
her meanwhile thought, who can guess ? But she consoled
the hurt young soul with murmurs, with caresses, and the
unheard, unseen atmosphere of love that surrounded her
darling, exhaled from her own spirit, and that was surely
perceived as by a sixth sense, for presently the first outburst
of grief lessened in force.
4 I do know—I did think, oh, for ever so long !—there
was some secret about who I was,' said the poor child
brokenly, by-and-by.
Ever so long meant, after all, some months—she was so
young. Then Joy continued, feeling herself unable to speak
the chief words:
4 But I thought to-day you were—because you love me so
much, and I love you more than anybody.'
4 Dear, dearest child,' murmured the woman beside her,
perplexed with conflicting feelings that stirred even her deep,
strong spirit, like the ground-swell of an ocean. 4 But still I
JOY.
125
trust you do not—you ought not to love me more than my
sister—than—than Magdalen.'
' If I had never seen you, I might have cared more for
her; but, as it is, I love you far the best,' declared Joy, in a
clear, decided voice, of which there was no mistaking the
fully-meant intensity of feeling.
Rachel shuddered. Did the child's words remind her of
some similarly spoken by another voice? words she had
rued her life long, yet that could never be wiped out of her
memory, with bitterest penitential tears. For her heart,
innocent in happiness then, had received their impress too
deeply.
'Joy, never say that to me again,' she uttered, in intensity
of emotion, hardly knowing what she said. ' It is not right.
You must love her best.'
The child looked up, and this time, as their eyes met in
a long, unconsciously-sorrowful gaze, they understood each
other.
'•Ah!'' said Joy,
She knew now.
Rachel was frightened. The young creature's face turned
of quite a swarthy red, whilst the veins of her forehead
swelled to suffocating painfulness. Then the blood ebbed
back to Joy's heart as suddenly, leaving her face pallid, and
her short upper lip quivering.
'Is she often like that—like what she was ? Oh,
we saw her in the glen the other day, so strange and wild.
I cannot bear to remember it,' she whispered, with faint
utterance.
Rachel bathed the child's forehead with water, dipping
her handkerchief in the cold stream by the roadside.
'No, no; not often—you should never have seen that.
Poor child, you are too young to understand. We wished
to shield you from the knowledge. Think how greatly I
126
JOY.
love her, sweet; how lovable she is; how graceful! You
must love her as I do.'
Presently she led the little maid homeward, still silent,
still pallid; and clinging to her side very closely, unable yet
to throw off the shock, It was growing towards four o'clock,
as Rachel knew, with a pang; and tea-time, as all such
times and seasons, must be kept by herself and the child for
others' sake, whatever storms of secret emotion had shaken
their souls.
Leaving the lane, they clambered up the side of the bank
to the upper fields. Here, in a wood of young larch-trees,
thickly carpeted with pale wind-flowers and purple violets,
Rachel rested on a tree-stump. Joy crept to lean against
her aunt's knees, feeling weak and childish, poor young soul,
by contrast with her late momentary exultation in flight after
a fancied hope. Picking a white star-flower, after some
grave moments, Rachel showed it to the child. Her fingers
had chosen the only withered, broken one among its satin-
petalled sisters.
' See, dear—it is blighted by sun and wind; by no fault
of its own. Does it not deserve more pity, more love than
these other snowy, happy flowers ? It is like your mother,
Joy—will you not try to love her best ? Think how she has
suffered.'
' I will—I will!' cried the child, sitting up straight, and
uttering her promise with a vehement accent, looking away
from Rachel as she spoke.
Rachel's lips smiled to herself. Why do lips smile in
bitterness of soul ? She knew Joy would keep her word—
at least, strive her best. A sort of shame in having wrongly
guessed her own mother, revulsion of feeling, and a pas-
sionate loyalty to the woman hitherto unknown, that had
borne her, and towards whom the child's heart had been
vainly seeking, like a disturbed needle quivering wildly till
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127
it can point truly to its pole—all, all would, must eject her-
self, Rachel, from the chief place in this young heart, where
hitherto she had been dearest. And, oh, merciful heavens !
she loved this child so. Her heart swelled big with bitterness,
felt even such pangs of anguish, as if she were renouncing
the rightful love of her own offspring. But she must, she
would abandon her secret claims on this dear, white soul,
bravely, yea, and cheerfully.
* Why does God let my mother be mad ?' said the childish
lips beside her, with dreary intonation, and the first sad sigh
Joy had perhaps ever yet uttered.
Rachel looked hastily round. What! would her own
mind-troubles be reproduced here : the battle of doubt
against faith through which she had struggled, weary and
wounded, to difficult victory?—must.it be fought again, and
in one so young ?
' Dear Joy ! You believe that God is good, though ?'
she said, with solemn reverence, as if the wood was holy
ground where she spoke to this young soul of its Maker.
' Of course He is quite good—I know that,'' retorted Joy,
looking at the sky with big eyes, and an expression of face
and voice as if she would as soon have doubted the evi-
dences of her senses that the sun shone up there now;
then she added naively, 1 But how bad the devil must
be!'
Rachel did not dispute this idea. She was intensely
relieved. To herself—a large-brained woman, having both
culture and intellect—this devout belief in the devil's per-
sonality was not absolutely necessary to salvation ; but to a
young mind, that might have grown hopelessly puzzled over
the origin of evil, it was perhaps the best solving of such
problems. Her pretty Joy had inherited the Spanish
woman's cast of mind, she now supposed to herself—
intensely loving, utterly believing: love, indeed, blending
128 JOY.
with religion and faith, if no evidence of powers of mind,
yet sweetly supporting life's burdens.
' Yes, women with such faith are the happiest,' she mused.
' Be their deeds never so foolish, their sins shall be forgiven
them, for they love much.'
She, like many more, was inclined to think that greater
wisdom than their sisters brought small gladness to women.
What had it availed herself ?—of what use her own intellect,
learning, brilliance, of which her dear father had been so
proud, when with admiring friends—himself a man of mark
among giants of mind? Buried, seemingly, amongst these
moors. Yet, who knows? naught is wasted in the universe !
The clouds that have absorbed the earth's moisture return
it in rain ; the sunlight, hid deep for ages in coal-mines,
flashes forth at last again in firelight flame.
Some day, some-when, somewhere, in what other life who
can say? her dormant powers too, with patience added,
might know again the joy of action.
'Pray for me, little Joy—pray for us when you go to
church next Sunday,' she said.
' I will,' answered the little girl. ' But why do you not
come to church with us too ?'
' You do not see me,' said Rachel gently; ' but still—I am
there.'
Then she rose up, and they went their homeward ways,
the woman to her poor bare cottage, the child to the pleasant
farm.
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129
CHAPTER XXL
' Sundays the pillars are,
On which heaven's palace arched lies.
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities,
They are the fruitful beds of borders
In God's rich garden ; that is bare
Which parts their ranks and orders.'
G. Herbert.
The little church on the moor stood all alone. It was so
old, thought the countryfolk, that when it was built, or by
whom, none knew any more than what pagan men reared
the circles, and mysterious stone avenues leading to the
rivers, still standing thereabouts on the furzy moors. A hill-
side rose steep behind the old church. A wood screened
it in front, dark and thick, even in winter, because of its
many aged yew-trees. In troublous days, when Round-
heads and Church-spoilers had gone sacking through the
richer lowlands, they had never come up hither to break the
small window of coloured glass in which the Virgin smiled,
or to deface its few rude carvings. Quite alone it stood, but
fairly placed between the few farm-houses, some miles away
on this side, and as many more on that. Two paths diverged
through the wood from its porch, going opposite ways; a
third mere track wandered down from the hill, and was
used by the few moor folk, and as often by the sheep that
came in the week-days of silence and desertion to nibble
round the grey, lone head-stones, where the turf rose in old,
old waves, and to lie on the steps of this simple moor-stone
hermitage in the wilderness whence the hermit seemed dead
or fled. They, mindful of Scripture parables, were the
congregation ; the birds, choristers. Lonely, exquisite
situation !
When on Sundays the small bell had ceased to tinkle,
9
i3o JOY.
however, and when the most belated church-goers through
the wood had long been inside, meekly kneeling on their
knees and acknowledging themselves miserable sinners, as
had their forefathers for several ages, with the same old
wooden roof above them and ancient stone flooring beneath
them—then came, last of all, two more figures.
These were Rachel and Magdalen, hooded and wrapped,
who had come over the hill-brow, from the lonely moor,
unseen by any eye save that of a wheeling march-harrier
overhead. They stole past the thick buttressed walls
through which the dim hum of voices in worship sounded,
none noticing them, because the little leaded windows were
so gloomy with ancient greenish glass.
They entered softly into the old decorated porch. It
was deep, and on one side of its recess ran a worn stone
seat, on which they sat down closely side by side. Their
eyes then sought with prayerful awe a small oblong aperture
in the stone wall of the body of the church. This was a
' squint,' made in older days for convenience of the attend-
ant or lay brother, whose duty was to ring the sanctus bell
when the sacred host was elevated at the little altar inside
there. Where he had once watched, there with far more
intensely earnest gaze the sisters worshipped with hearts,
ah! so yearning, humbled to the dust, deeply penitent for
weekly sins that surely the recording angel smiled at in
forgiving pity. Through the said loophole they could see
the backs of the honest parish-folk at prayer, among them
little Joy and Blyth between Farmer Berrington and Hannah.
Through a second aperture, at exactly the same angle with
the first, but this one in an inside pillar beside the old
wooden screen, they could see the altar itself. Till the
service of intercession and praise was over, they sat with
bowed heads and hands clasped. When the sermon began
they went silently away. So they- had done unknown, un-
JOY.
noticed for the last several years they had now passed on
the moors—so they would always do.
Leaning on each other, they went silently homeward,
weeping often in a quiet way ; Magdalen finding comfort
in such support, Rachel comforted by giving it. On Sun-
days they felt their loneliness most of all.
' Sister,' Rachel would always say, ' let us go in next
Sunday and pray with the rest.'
' No, no ; not the next one. Some day, perhaps, but not
so soon,' Magdalen would reply, as invariably, with an
affrighted, yet secret air. 'Go in, if you like, but I will
stay outside. While I am possessed by an evil spirit, the
leper's squint-hole, where they used to look through, people
say, is only fit for me. I am an outcast as they were.'
And Rachel, still thinking to herself, ' This kind cometh
not out save by prayer and fasting,' wiped her eyes, and
was silent.
It was on a Sunday afternoon ; and Rachel had first
called up her courage to tell her step-sister of Joy's ques-
tionings of herself two days ago, and the consequence there-
of. She had feared an outbreak, but Magdalen took it
quietly, almost lightly.
' I knew it must come to this some day,' she said. Strange,
shifting creature; one could never count on her ways before-
hand.
They were sitting on the hillside among low bushes, but not
far they could hear the rush and babble of the hidden river.
' She must go to school,' went on Magdalen decidedly.
4 When she comes back to the farm in holidays, she will be
too eager to enjoy herself to ask questions. And she is too
young to be told more than she has found out from you.'
Rachel only bent her head gravely in silent assent, but
there was thankfulness in her heart for those last words.
9—2
132
JOY.
4 She must go to a good school, to be brought up like a
lady, too; for she will not have to herd with the boors in
this country all her life, I trust. Why, I might go back into
the world any day, if it were only safe / Then I should
take her into society myself,' went on the elder sister ex-
citedly, seizing the initiative this once, somewhat against
their usual custom ; for in general she would cry in careless
bitterness or light indolence : What mattered any thing in
such a life as theirs ? Pah ! a mere vegetable existence,
that of plants and bushes. Even the animals had more
pleasure; the trees would live longer. But now her eyes
sparkled, her cheeks took a flush of youth.
4 Yes,' she added. 'The very idea would make me quite
well again, I know ; if only it were safe ! As to the child's
schooling, Rachel dear, I hate having to ask you for a penny
towards it. But still you like giving to me and her; and
when she comes of age, she will be rich, and you shall be
paid back everything, interest and all.'
Rachel smiled. Would she still be living when Joy came
of age ? She did not hope it, unless Magdalen still needed
her.
4 Why should you hate to let me give to the child, without
thought of payment between us ? It is my one pleasure,' she
said, in her rich, deep voice.
41 know.' But, though you pay for her, still the child is
mine, Rachel. I have lost all I care for, husband, happiness,
fortune, and even my own reason at times. But still I will
keep my child myself.'
Magdalen spoke excitedly, trying to seem laughingly affec-
tionate, feeling she took all and gave so little back herself;
but a wild glitter in her eye menaced danger.
4 You are her mother, so what you say is just,' replied
Rachel. 4 Had she not better come and see you, then,
dear, to-morrow ?'
JOY.
133
CHAPTER XXII.
' In la sua volontade e nostra pace.'
Dante.
The morrow came.
Rachel went out of the little brown cottage, and began
walking swiftly towards the hills. She walked as if anxious
to leave her thoughts behind her; to get away, away from
them under the broad, blue sky, bending in blessed sunshine
over the free moors, to be alone among the miles of heather
and bog, corrie and crag; away, away, too, from all sound
or sight of mankind.
At last she reached her goal, some miles upward among
the hills. She sat down wearily at the base of three huge
stones forming an ancient cromlech. The shadow of the
fourth, the great headstone, protected her from the heat of
the noon-day. Behind her from a ' clatter' of granite frag-
ments rose what seemed the pillars of a huge temple, hewn
in the weather-beaten rock. It was a giant tor capping the
hill with a solemnity better befitting the vastness and deep
loneliness of the scene, than the fantastic or grim rock-shapes
like crumbled idols of its many brethren around; and there-
fore Rachel loved it. Those who seek the loneliness of the
high hills, either in mind or with the body, are nearest to
Nature and to Nature's God. This upland moor, dark-toned
now before the flush of heather came, whose streams ran
brown but clear from the bogs in its heart, seemed Nature's
sacred ground; the tor above, her temple; the wild creatures
of the moor, the birds and beasts, unvexed by man, its
attendants.
The one lonely human soul, sitting there, a speck in the
landscape, might have been the spirit of a worshipper of that
x3 4
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old dead faith, which had reared the cromlech over her head
with rude but giant labour.
Alone ! alone ! Clasping her knees, Rachel Estonia sat,
gazing far as her eyes could reach at the most distant hills
that, veiled in light haze and sunlight, receded to the hori-
zon; their tor-capped heads rising ghostly in the blue dis-
tances like earth-spirits turned to stone by enchantment.
Then, nearer, she seemed to watch the giant shadows chasing
each other across the hills like spirits at vast play; and still
she saw them not. The breeze that blew those light clouds
overhead veiling the sun stirred her dark, heavy masses of
hair, but she did not feel it. She sat so still, indeed, that
the shy small birds in the bushes near hopped close by her
with inquisitive boldness—whin-chats, stone-chats, and
finches; and her fine ear might have caught, as often before,
the hum of a whole world of insect life, unheeded by most
grosser hearing. But she heard nothing ; only her body sat
there among the rocks. At last she said aloud, ' Alone !—
my heart and I.' At that she started. People who live
solitary lives speak oftener to themselves than others ; still
her own voice sounded strange in her ears. It was like the
echo of her soul's cry, and intensified the desolateness of
the lone woman in the wide heather waste.
She wondered what scene might be passing down in the
little brown cottage. Mother and child were drawing to-
gether, as she had wished, planned, prayed they might—even
though she herself must stand henceforth aloof, not entering
into that divine close union, nor tasting the bliss of being
nearest and dearest to either. Her great deep heart yearned
for love with a fervour undreamed of even by the best of all
the natures round her ; and it gave in brimming measure,
gave—but got not.
She had sacrificed to Magdalen her love, nay! that was
duty; but her life, too, the whole offering up of herself,
JOY.
r35
body, soul, and being, till death should them part. And
Magdalen !—light, fickle, bright creature—loved her as well
as she could in her sunshiny moments; at darker times up-
braided her in wild bitterness, regretting her lost husband
with far intenser love, but hate also in equal violence, and a
passionate vehemence that tortured Rachel's soul like glow-
ing irons on the flesh. And Joy, little Joy—was not hers.
Even Hannah loved her own mistress best. These three
were Rachel's little world.
One other perhaps still lived who had loved her against
man's laws, though she, in her innocence, knew it not;
against God's laws, too—but that he, God-forsaken soul,
recked not, knew not, drifting to what dark limbo human
knowledge cannot tell—like a storm-cloud borne on the
whirlwind of his own passions. She had been a young,
white soul, a virgin, with vague Madonna dreams, whom in-
nocent—yes, thank God for that mercy—his passionate love
had yet enwrapped as with fire, till her heart became alight,
flaming heavenward in holy thanksgiving joy. It was extin-
guished suddenly, in blackness and horror, by a sister's
threatened curse.
She awoke, and found her love burnt out, blasted; her-
self innocent as ever in thought and deed, but stricken with
a deep anguish that had left such traces as, in this world's
life, would never be removed. Duty remained: she had
followed its stern path to guard, cherish her unhappy, dis-
tracted sister, perhaps dedicating herself—who can say?—
with some unspoken, even unthought, feeling still for him
whose best-loved that sister should have been.
Yes, he had loved herself best. Rachel remembered it
with a fearful joy; then, as a tide of dark crimson suffused
her face, she buried her head in her hands, and moaned at
the sin of such memory. For years she had fought down
the thought. It would have been a relief to have screamed
136 JOY.
aloud to the grandly desolate rocks overhead, and the
wind-hover poised there, a dark bird-blot against the blue,
and the wild curlew that flew sadly piping over the wolds.
Her pale lips moved now, yet mutely cried in pleading to
heaven, ' Oh, God, who made me thus, a woman, with
woman's nature, capacities, cravings—why am I left so
lonely ?' Her love shattered, her life ruined! Why
was her soul detached, a spark from the Divine All-life, and
sent on earth to dree a useless weird. It seemed such
waste. Not in lightness of spirit, but in solemn faith, as
believing utterly in God's holiness of purpose, yet question-
ing His ways, as did Job, with the spirit within her He had
created to feel what was justice—did Rachel Estonia arraign
her Maker with that agonized Why ? God seemed nearer
to her than to others. She, too, as did Moses, could meet
with Him here in the bush.
Though herself Christianized, Rachel was of pure Jewish
parentage. This woman, who could trace her ancestors back
to the days when the Lawgiver had led forth the tribes out
of Egypt, thought now of their wanderings in the desert,
their trials and long penance, as of a story that had a near,
almost living interest for herself. The Bible was her
chiefest book in the brown cottage among these moors.
Reading it, the ages between seemed to shrivel together,
like a mist-wreath, and she herself to be sharing in the life
of her tribe—dwelling in the dark tents, in their appointed
camping-ground. At times, mystic thoughts flitted through
her brain—wonderings whether the old, old tradition of
transmigration of souls might not have some truth. She
vaguely remembered some hints of that mysterious doctrine
held by the wisest and most secret of Eastern sects, as told
by one of its priests to her father, his trusted friend. Each
spirit lived many human lives, through immense ages, on
this present world (at least), he had said—reincarnated,
JOY.
137
according to no blind chance, but to new circumstances for
which their last lives had fitted them. If so, might not she,
this new yet self-same being, have perhaps sinned in re-
bellion with her people in the wilderness; and, dying
before her years of expiation were accomplished, be now
ending their appointed term?
Oh, dread thought! She looked round with eyes dazed
by her own fancy and loneliness. Forty years in this
wilderness of moors and hills ! Oh, far, far worse than the
forty years even in the hot scorching desert, for there her
people lived and suffered with all those they loved, and the
land of promise lay before them wherein their children
should go in and dwell with gladness. But she, Rachel!
no children's arms might ever cling round her neck, true
and tender as would have been her care of them. No wife
and mother in Israel was she now, great as would have been
her love and deep devotion. Ah ! if she had indeed lived
and suffered by the waters of Marah, surely the sight of the
Shekinah must have comforted her. God's visible presence
was a sign unto His people; they knew why they were
chastised. But Rachel Estonia now did not know. No
pillar of smoke rose before her anguished gaze into the
unanswering blue of the empyrean; no fire-column glowed
across the black moorland wastes in the desolation and
darkness of the mirk midnight.
' O God, how have I sinned,' she cried in her heart, ' that
I should have loved a man who was so evil, and that my life
is useless and ruined ?'
Useless! Even as the word left her lips, she knew it was
not so. Useless to have ministered to a mind diseased,
through years to have kept the light of a fellow-being's soul
from going out during life? Nay, not so. And then, as
the sun moved slowly westward, her story was unrolled
before her in thought, as so often before. The moors
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silently seemed to know it. Yonder bright sun-kissed
valley, or that peep into the smiling champaign-land below,
was like the fair ground which her youth had gone gaily
through. Then came the sudden dangerous gorges, the
difficult but sun-kissed hills, the awful black chasm behind
that distant tor called The Lover's Leap, the morass of
deadly ground in midmost moors that no living man durst
cross. Lastly, the wide desolate heath around her now,
bleak and bare—but safe. And here follows the story they
mapped, the living geography of the life of a lonely soul.
CHAPTER XXIII.
' Oh, swallow sister, oh, fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember,
And over my head the waves have met;
But thou wouldst tarry, or I would follow.
Could I forget or thou remember—
Couldst thou remember and I forget ?
Oh, sweet stray sister, oh, shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.'
Swinburne.
What, then, was Rachel Estonia's story ?
It was the old, old tale of the fair swallow and her sister,
the nightingale—that beautiful Grecian myth.
The false King Tereus of Thrace had wooed and
married Procne, a princess of Attica.
Then, deserting her, he sees and loves her deep-hearted
sister Philomel; but here the resemblance ends. In the
myth, he tells the latter that her sister is dead, till, the twain
meeting, she learns his treachery. Procne thereupon kills
her child, and flies with Philomel from Attica; then, being
pursued, they pray to the gods, who thereupon change the
JOY.
139
wife into a swallow, Philomel into the mournful nightingale,
and Tereus himself into a hawk.
From her earliest childhood, Rachel had looked up to
her pretty step-sister, Magdalen Mendoza, as the bright ideal
of all that was most beautiful and winning. A dark, graye
child herself, she had not many attachments ; but those
few were passionately deep, and took such root in her soul
they were part of it. Magdalen was just the opposite, of
a humming-bird nature, that lightly flitted from flower-heart
to heart, sipping the honey from each, then darting upward
and away, like a flickering sunbeam gone astray. She had
been also their mother's favourite; but Rachel shared that
mother's- worshipping admiration too much to be jealous,
and loved her elder sister better than her life.
Their household led a very still existence, though one
rich with pleasures of the truest kind—no Dead Sea apples,
but golden Hesperidian fruit, as befitted the home of a
priest of science.
Estonia himself was a great scholar and deep thinker; of
most high esteem among his learned brethren, and, what is
rarer, so much appreciated and revered therefore in his own
household that neither his wife nor child would have
disturbed his almost sacred hours by even a louder footfall
than usual on the marble floors of their Genoese palace—
for then they lived in Italy. Only Magdalen rebelled !
She was smiled upon and borne with by all, the patient
great scholar like the rest; it was her nature, they saw.
After all, she was their song-bird, in that hushed, if happy
silence. She was like the dancing and glancing of sunlight
in their great, sunk courtyard-fountain, that was reflected in
shifting, hide-and-seek play of brightness on the cool marble
walls that were, but for this, shadowed in a pleasant twilight
during the hottest blaze of noon.
But when Magdalen grew to feel herself a woman, then—
r4° JOY.
to follow the metaphor a little farther—the cage-door being
one day set open by chance, their song-bird fled.
She went travelling with her father's relatives ; found life
suddenly a spring outburst of welcome to the new beauty
and also heiress, as she was, in certain Parisian salons, at
German watering-places—herself a young goddess. On and
on she went, from one round to another of pleasures appro-
priated to the seasons. Her mother, for that first dead
husband's sake, did not like to recall her; perhaps could
not.
Wilful, but charming always, Magdalen had been too
indulged from her babyhood to be checked now.
Then they were startled to hear she was married. Her
lover was a handsome Spaniard, Da Silva by name, whom
her friends had thought an adventurer. But Magdalen,
chafed by their opposition, married him in secret; and so,
trusting her wayward self and her fortune to the stranger,
sailed with him for the southern half of the New World, as
we call it—that is so mysteriously old in itself. And then,
after a few, stray letters . . . followed . . . silence !
An utter silence, as of the dead. Whether dead or living,
no answer came to the loving, urgent appeals, sent wander-
ing, on thinnest of paper, through rough journeys across
Brazilian plains and forests. They cried to Magdalen, but
it was as to a dead wall; no word, no reply came back.
Nearly two years had so passed, during which the Estonias
travelled, and ^Rachel saw many fair and some strange
countries, the memories of which were pictures that, in her
present hermit existence, she would often call up with
delight, and see again. The old Nile flowing softly by
Philse or Luxor; or the dusky daughters of Southern Europe
pressing the grapes with wine-stained ankles; or the Aero-
polis outlined white and severe against the fervent blue sky,
a noble stone corpse from which the spirit had long fled.
JOY.
141
Let no one say, in foolish consolation for not having seen
beautiful countries, ' Ah, that is a pleasure to come.' Once
seen, the pleasure is for then and always.
But, though mother and daughter thus found enjoyment
of eyesight and mind, yet their hearts yearned after their
wanderer. She must be dead, they said at last; she could
not forget them so, otherwise ! So those who love best
always think—forgetting that those who are loved have many
distractions, self-excuses.
Then Estonia died. It was a great bereavement to
Rachel and her mother. Still both felt that, as he had
loved and cherished them perfectly in this life, so some-
where his strong soul only awaited their coming for all three
to be reunited, as he had taught them to believe, in nobler,
higher tasks for which those of earth might have been the
mere alphabet letters.
Both returned to England; and there, after a while,
natural human happiness softly conquered sorrow, as the
young year's sun the winter's rains. And it was spring-time,
the time of all love in nature, when hearts are set wide open
to gladness. The nightingales were singing in the south
country; and Rachel remembered that always thereafter,
her heart aching again at their notes.
Love came to her, too, for the first time. To a woman
of her mould, the last and only time ; such are grand-
natured women, but not the happiest, unless Fate is very
kind and gives them their one heart's desire. She had been
living contented as always, but no more, among kindly,
prosaic English folk. They were good and she liked them,
but felt herself an alien. They admired her—(which said
much for their overcoming of insular prejudices)—but as a
strange being they did not understand.
Then came the King Tereus. He appeared, like a comet,
from unknown regions ; handsome, of even brilliant if
142 JOY.
neglected gifts. Rachel crossed his path a moment. He
saw and loved her as his better self, with his whole powers
of being. No one, of even those who blamed him most
bitterly, ever doubted that! She was his ideal of a perfect
woman ; seeming allied to the better spirit within him he
had so often yearned to be, of the two fighting for mastery
in his strange, dual being. To her he had at least been
honest, not telling her he had been a good man—nay, rather
the contrary; but that her help, hers only, could redeem
him.
It was no lie. He felt himself evil, but longed to be
better; so he grasped at a new sin in the vain hope of re.
deeming the old evil. Adoring Rachel as a white soul high
above the fatal descent of Avernus—from the slopes whereof
he gazed wistfully upwards—he yet would have dragged her
down to his side, while thinking her hand could raise him.
Ah ! . . . Rachel was one of the most fair-judging women
on earth, most being too partial or prejudiced; and she
could understand his conduct, and pity him, while pitying,
too, the others in this sorrowful play of life and—herself.
If a fiend in his conduct to her, he was, nevertheless,
Lucifer, the fallen son of the morning. She recognised a
strong, ambitious nature that could not rest, but must ever
strive—strive for good or ill. Women are like the angels in
this, that they will all joy over one sinner that repenteth
more than over the ninety and nine just persons who need
no repentance.
So Rachel believed in Gaspard's yearnings for good; as
did her mother, who was won, too, by his grace of address
and great love for her daughter. And he, unhappy dark
soul, believed also in himself. Looking back, afterwards,
Rachel could never remember one instance of a word or
sign that might have revealed to him the fact that Magdalen
Mendoza and Rachel Estonia were half-sisters. Nor was
JOY.
T43
this very surprising; for Magdalen had been so much more
proud of her own family—allied with the great Spanish Jews
—than of her simple and scholar-like step-father, that she
had rarely alluded to the latter and her mother before her
rash and hasty marriage. After that—finding only too soon
her mistake, and that her fortune had been her chief attrac-
tion—she entirely ceased from all mention of her own people
to her neglectful, perhaps often irritated, husband. By her
own acknowledgment, she had never told him of the little
sister, a child when she left home.
Thus, when Gaspard met the Estonia widow and her
daughter in England, as English, both highly esteemed for the
late great scholar's sake, how should he guess they were the
same family as that of the mother and book-worm step-father
he had vaguely heard of as living in Italy ? The Estonias,
too, were a numerous clan. Again, poor souls ! how should
Rachel and her mother guess that the Count Rivello had
but recently inherited that unexpected title ; and had hailed
it, though an empty one, as Fortune's timely help in enabling
him to ' turn over a new leaf' ?
So time and events hurried on—oh ! so happily. And
no warning dream, no angel's voice came to tell Rachel that
the spring days she blessed, and the love and happy future
she thanked God for, must be her last great joy ; that the
summer's sunshine would be hateful to her soon; and the
beneficent sky seem a domed prison-house overhead.
The very day before the wedding, as Madame Estonia,
Rachel, and her future husband were all three together,
there came the noise of wheels. A murmur of voices was
heard outside—above the rest, one piercing, that was to the
glad ears of the Estonias as that of their dead restored to
life !
Mother and daughter sprang to their feet, with cries of
welcoming joy and outstretched arms, as Magdalen burst
144
JOY.
into the room. Gaspard rose too, pale and stern of face,
seeing his fate had found him out! . . . Then all Rachel
remembered afterwards was that her loving embrace was
thrust back violently. For with a dreadful outcry, a half-
mad, outraged woman raised her arm—arraigned Gaspard
da Silva as her husband, and Rachel as her sister, to answer
to heaven for their wrongs to herself!
'Your husband?—the Count Rivello !' shrieked the pooj
old mother of both women. Rachel was stricken dumb.
Gaspard, horrified himself, could not speak.
' Mine ! mine !' she retorted. Then came wild words
telling of ill-treatment, cruelty, of having been left as mad in
a Mexican asylum, whence she had escaped with her child,
born since its father's desertion. It was Hannah, her old
nurse, who had faithfully tracked her mistress to where she
was shut up, then rescued her.
There they were, nurse and child. In the background
stood Hannah, with her well-remembered, resolute face con-
fronting her master; and little Joy, a babe, in her arms.
Rachel then only saw a man's face looking at her as if
from far—far away across a misty sea of faces and voices
. . . heard these words in beseeching, passionate pleading,
' Rachel, forgive me !—I never dreamed she was your sister!'
Then, understanding it all, and having reached the highest
point of agony a human being can endure, she loathed the
fierce light and the eyes upon her, when there came a
merciful darkness, blotting all out . . . hating, it seemed
to herself in that moment, the world and all existence,
Rachel sank into blessed nothingness.
Why had she not died ? she wondered afterwards. What
an amount of mental agony people can bear and live ! Our
bodies are so curiously fashioned, they sometimes seem to
go on living out of mere habit, though the spirit within them
longs to be freed, and dies daily deaths of most poignant
JOY.
M5
anguish. But she rose up, and, being strengthened to see
her duty, set about doing it. Their old mother died very
soon afterwards from the shock, leaving her small fortune to
her grandchild, when it should come of age; so that Da
Silva himself might have no control over this sum. This
she did at Rachel's request, who herself solemnly promised
to share her own portion, the slender reward of her father's
science, with her sister while both lived; for Magdalen's
own large fortune was gone, like summer snow.
But before this last happened, there had been a further
terrible trial for Rachel. Magdalen had declared she would
never see nor live with her husband again—perhaps recon-
ciliation with Gaspard was impossible; not that he had
attempted it. On the contrary, he had, to Rachel's horror,
appeared before her in her solitude; as she was struggling
back, it seemed, to a life she rebelled against. He entreated,
used every appeal and impassioned argument to induce her
not to desert him, to be still his life-companion and better
angel, so he said—lastly, when all this failed, had tried to
carry her off by force !
Upon this, their mother dead, the two sisters had fled
together. Rachel dreaded Gaspard's violence for herself no
less than for poor Magdalen ; for in his baffled rage he had
threatened to lock up the latter again in a lunatic asylum, in
one of those fits of madness which had now again showed
themselves; and to possess himself of his child.
Strange ! that his passionate love for herself should have
turned to something so like hate, thought Rachel. She,
who had been blinded, almost ruined by him, could not
have vexed him in the smallest matter wantonly, nor
would hurt a hair of his head. And thus they fled to the
glen of the Chad; parting from the child the better to
defeat pursuit.
Alone on the moors, with only her own thoughts to
10
146
JOY.
commune with, Rachel had often dreaded she might go
mad, like her sister. Again she would fancy, when her
soul was weighed down to the dust, that surely she must
unwittingly have sinned some terrible sin to be so bitterly
chastised. Then followed weeks, months, of awful doubts
of God's goodness, when faith nearly died out. She went
down in mind to the valley of the shadow of death; through
which the only little taper to guide her steps in the right
way was her love for her unhappy sister, increased by pity;
and a dim feeling that even were there no God—did evil
prevail through the world—still she herself, Rachel, must
do the right! ... in defiance of sorrow, misery, although
her life should be quenched, unrewarded, like that of the
beasts which perish.
CHAPTER XXIV.
' I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day,
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away.
And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled,
Yet for old sakes' sake, she's still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.
C. Kingsley.
Sitting this day on the moor, Rachel lived her past pain
over again so intensely that she was an unconscious image
of sorrow. Dark-featured, but still beautiful, she sat almost
motionless for nigh two hours, while the sun shone
westering overhead. She seemed hardly to breathe, but
for deep low sighs now and again: her nobly-shaped figure
JOY.
i47
was bent forward on her knees, her head drooped, while
her large eyes were fixed, dull and listless, on the heathy
swells and hollows.
Now, with an effort, she slightly roused, sat up, and
looked with more seeing eyes around; now she remembered
how, the darkest time passed, she had found her way to a
more blessed day. One in which the light was that
' which never shone on sea or land,' that of a purified,
Christ-like love.
When Rachel Estonia came to herself in her lonely new
life, she had ceased to suppose her afflictions worse than
others kpew; remembered that the Galileans whose blood
Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices, and those eighteen
upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, were not offenders
above others. Nay, but she must repent! And then, in
the hereafter life into which she seemed already to have
almost entered by longing, loving anticipation, she should
see the meaning of these things clearly which she had been
called to suffer; though now she knew them not.
'Let patience have her perfect work.'.
Her dead father, Estonia's, words were still living in her
mind. ' It is vain,' said he, ' to think that all the trouble
and danger accompanying our discipline might have been
saved by making us at once as we were to be. What we
shall be must be the effect of what we will be.' And this
world he had looked on as a theatre to show forth our
character, not necessarily to an All-Wise Being, but per-
chance to some of His creation, our great cloud of witnesses,
earthly and spiritual, in view of higher tasks in eternal life.
Why are the wicked so often happy, and the .good
afflicted ? she had wondered with the Psalmist, in her past
dark days. She wondered less now. What was salt for
but to purify, and leaven to mix with the unleavened lump ?
And if at times she lamented within herself that her love's
10—2
148
JOY.
passion had been so wasted, as it seemed—yet a dim
thought vaguely whispered that her prayers might therefore
the more avail Gaspard, in that she strove with ever-in-
creasing intensity of purpose to be righteous.
Women are strangely prone to love unworthy men if
thrown in their society. How often Miranda is mated, not
matched, with Caliban ; and ' Athene to a Satyr.' Although
themselves nobler, although dimly aware their glorious
devotion is offered to a poor object, yet they are unable
wholly to root out the feeling. Why is this ? . . . Surely
there must be some great hidden law of compensation in
the universe. If the wise mated only with the wise, the
weak with the weak, it would be an ill world for the latter.
And such good women, if they believe that ' all things
work together for good to them that love the Lord,' will
possess their souls in patience and be comforted ; seeing that
here they are, maybe, instruments in God's hands for saving
such men's souls; and there—in the future life—they can
trust also to Him . . .
What helped Rachel most through her long time of trial,
was her glorious love for her sister. This strengthened her
to endure, and warmed her with a glow of heart. And
Magdalen had accepted her as a fellow-sufferer, extending
her own self-pity in a curious way to Rachel. Gaspard da
Silva had ruined her life, she said, and her sister's too;
Rachel ' would never get over it,' she mutely argued with
herself, therefore she also was happiest far away from the
mad, whirling world. Rachel had always been so terribly
in earnest, ever since she had learned to toddle; yes, even
when a grave, dark-eyed baby.
In this way. in her saner intervals, Magdalen taught her-
self to look on her sister's companionship and devotion as
only natural; her imagination so subtly weaving this reason-
ing that she herself believed in it utterly, and even Rachel
JOY.
149
wondered at times whether her sister was not right, and
that, if even Magdalen recovered, she herself must never
know a new spring to the winter of her life.
For the first year or so, poor afflicted Magdalen no
doubt hoped to recover quickly from her distressing malady;
then she, as the lighter spirit, would lead back Rachel to
' the world,' and bid her cheer. Later, she grew used to
looking on her own recovery as a longer way off their
utter loneliness of existence pleased her crazed fancy by its
freedom, however she railed against it; she grew used to it,
and to Rachel's life-service, as a matter of habit.
Magdalen spoke very little; indeed, for days sometimes
would be utterly silent. This was worst when she felt her
attacks drawing on. But then ! her fermented imagina-
tion burst forth, soaring to such wild heights of bliss or
falling to such unspeakable depths of woe as those in full
health of mind rarely, if ever, know. Her long-restrained
speech was loosed ! and now she would talk and talk, with
such a sparkling play of wit—wild, weird, but beautiful
fancies, though broken, short, and confused—that Rachel
thought with sorrowful admiration her words were like jewels
all fallen loose from their setting; a kaleidoscope of gems,
or sunlight upon dancing water.
Meanwhile Rachel at first, nay, even for long ! had hoped
and tried to believe that patient love might cure her sister.
But as months and years passed, still darkened by periods
of affliction, hope grew tired.
' Oh, God !' prayed the poor woman often with herself,
' let me live so long as I can be of any comfort to her, for
the love I unwittingly stole from her. Only for that, I am
very weary, and would gladly rest.'
Evening had come.
Rachel woke up to full reality, and found herself sitting,
bare-headed, in the low, slanting light. The shade of the
i5o JOY.
cromlech had left her, and now was thrown behind in three
low shadows on the hill-side. She rose to her feet, and,
standing, prayed and gave thanks in her heart. Seven
times a day she did so ; then was comforted in her loneli-
ness. So having bewailed her life on the hills, and found
comfort, she went homeward, with slower steps this time.
When Rachel came within sight of the brown cottage,
mother and child came out to meet her, and from a distance
she blessed them in her heart. Magdalen approached
silently, with her little daughter holding shyly by her hand;
the mother's face under her hood having a new expression,
strangely quiet for her, and subdued. Joy did not speak
either : but as she looked up in Rachel's face, moved by
some impulse of her quick, warm nature, she took her aunt's
hand, and pressed her lips upon it, with affectionately
childish reverence. Whatever had passed between the
two that day, Rachel, after that, was satisfied.
The two hooded women stood still, gazing down at the
bright child between them ; feeling as if they were on the
other side of a great gulf, having left their youth afar over
there; but still glad of the merry laughter and winsome
glances sent across to them by this glad young creature,
herself the very embodiment of Joy.
' I have been talking—-talking more than usual for me,'
said Magdalen, in the sweet, low voice, the winning power
of which was one of her greatest charms, when she pleased,
but yet with a melancholy ring. £I have been telling Joy
that, now she is growing a great girl, she is to go to a good
school, to be taught like a lady. So now, little one—Juanita
—our Joy—you must go home. Rachel and I are best
alone together.'
Joy said good-evening, therefore; and went back to the
Red House Farm, where Blyth was impatiently waiting for
her at the farmyard-gate, and old Farmer Berrington in the
JOY. 151
porch. In the kitchen, Hannah had a noble dish of smoking-
hot ' toad-in-the-hole' and a fine squab-pasty for supper, with
sweet cider to wash it down ; and clotted-cream and black-
berry-jam to follow.
At Cold-home, Rachel, leading her sister back, lit the
lantern, and hung it in the window. Their poor supper was
only some salted pilchards and brown bread, laid on a
coarse but very white cloth. Some coffee was warming by
the fire-embers. Magdalen, who ate and drank little, and
that carelessly, never noticed that her sister denied herself
more than one slice of bread, and drank water, afterwards,
instead of coffee, reserving what remained of the latter for
the morrow.
They might have been lavishly supplied by Hannah from
the farm, did they listen to good Berrington's entreaties;
but, being very poor, Rachel strictly forbade any presents of
more than she could pay for. Magdalen must not want.
But she would have starved herself rather than little Joy,
either, should miss anything at the ' good school,' for which
she herself would have to pay, as she now insisted on paying
Berrington for the child's keep. Furthermore—was it a
weakness ?—she tried to lay by a little secret hoard, in case
Gaspard should ever want it!
*52
JOY.
CHAPTER XXV.
' Blythe, blythe and merry was she:
Blythe was she but and ben ;
Blythe by the ba)is of Em,
Blythe in Glenturret glen.
The highland hills I've wandered wide,
And o'er the lowlands I ha'e been ;
But Phemie was the bonniest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.'
Old Song.
So Joy went to school. Not far; it was only half a day's
journey by coach. Dick used to drive her to and from the
Black Bull (where the mail coach changes horses) in the
spring cart; for old Berrington was growing stiff in the knees
and did not get easily in and out of any vehicle, much as he
would have liked to see his pet thus later—or earlier—on
her journeys.
Spring came with flowers and showers; then Joy returned
at Eastertide. Summer brought hayfields and harvest; then
none more merry than Joy in the Red House Farm fields
through the long sunny holidays. Autumn and its apples,
and the cider-making she sorely missed; but came back for
the Christmas merry-doings. Then they had monster faggots
piled in the great kitchen fireplace, and young Steenie
Hawkshaw and girls and boys from the other farms more
far than near around, indeed, came to have romps under
the mistletoe-bough, and to make havoc in the glorious piles
of pasties, apple-pies, mince-pies, and cakes that Hannah
had prepared for her darling's return.
Good Hannah ! She declared herself most lonesome
when Joy was away; yet, in truth, her hands and mind were
so full with the day's work at the farm, year out, year in,
and she herself so happy in thus being busied, that her
nursling's absence gave her only that last luxury—something
JOY.
i53
more to look forward to. Then, when home-coming arrived,
how she and Farmer Berrington would perform a mutual
litany of admiration and thanksgiving, in which Hannah
uttered the praises and the farmer said amen, by assenting
emphatic grunts and puffs of smoke.
What prodigious advances Joy had made in learning and
looks ! How daintily she tripped like a young lady, while
her hair grew glossier and rippling, rolled up in a little love-
knot, so to say, at the back of her pretty head. And her
eyes became brighter, and lips redder, and her figure taller
and more womanly. The truth was, beyond singing and
sewing, both of which she loved dearly (that is, ballads, and
pretty embroidering of the finer sort), Joy had very little
taste for schooling. She learnt far more gladly at the farm
from Hannah how to bone a turkey and stuff it for supper,
in a way new in those parts, than arithmetic. Still, no one
was smarter in counting the pounds of butter for market,
which she did with help of her ten pretty fingers spread out;
declaring to Blyth, who was an excellent scholar, that Nature
plainly meant them so to be used.
The old farmer took more and more pride in his pet,
calling her his ' heart's Joy.' But Blyth, who had grown a
big young lad, now between boy and man, was getting shy
and awkward and reluctant to dance with Joy and the other
girls, yet furiously sulky if Steenie Hawkshaw, never bash-
fill, caught and kissed the Red House maiden, like the rest,
under the mistletoe's waxy berries.
Meanwhile, once a week, or sometimes twice, Joy would
trip alone over the fields dutifully to the lonely brown cot-
tage. Thence she returned with often blither steps, it must
be owned, to the fuller joyful domestic life at the farm.
But sometimes her young heart would be prematurely heavy
with thoughts of the sadness away up there in the glen.
Then Hannah would be surely waiting for her to ask ' Is
J54
JOY.
all well?' and would cosset and attend her till she partly
forgot about it. Perhaps Hannah thus atoned to her own
conscience for living in comfort at the Red House, and
gradually coming to think of Cold-home and the glen as
miles further away than they really were.
Hannah herself went very seldom now; but then—she
was not wanted. After all, in conversation she was only
dull, she thought, and a servant serving another master
besides. Truly, though the kind soul still heartily loved
both her former mistresses in spite of Holy Scripture, yet all
she had to tell was of the fowls and bees, the butter and
apples at Red House Farm. The past was a topic strictly
forbidden; close inquiries as to Magdalen's health were
dangerous, and often she dared not go at all for weeks,
having received a secret message from Rachel to stay away.
She would gladly have helped at such dark hours, but the
sight of anyone but Rachel only made Magdalen worse, it
was found, after one attempt. It is strange how our love
slowly turns from those who do not want help to those who
do. Hannah would not own it to herself, yet her ardent
attachment for her first young mistress, Magdalen, had thus
become transferred to Joy. Meanwhile she had long lived
as paid housekeeper at the Red House, and was happy.
If little has been said of her lately in this story, it is
because there is little to tell. Her daily walks were be-
tween the kitchen and dairy, fowl-yard and garden. Her
loneliest hours were passed at set times in a service of
cleanliness at the deserted shrine of Joy's room, when the
latter was at school. Here the worthy woman dusted, aired,
and polished, even doubly as much as in the other un-
tenanted chambers of the fine, rambling old farmhouse.
Then she would say her prayers at night, content to think
that no dust left in dark corners reproached her conscience.
If, at times, a thought like a north blast struck Hannah,
JOY.
I55
that perhaps she might have to leave all this with the child
and her mistress again, she shivered to herself, stout, strong
woman though she was. She had known wanderings and
romance of perils enough; let her rest only now in this
blessed land if it might be ! What with spring-cleanings,
and sheep-shearings, and harvest-suppers, and cider-makings,
picklings, and preservings, she h^d change enough in her
life to content her.
As to Rachel, the seasons to her now meant Joy's coming
and going; her winter began when school opened in autumn,
and December's dreariest days budded with gladness at see-
ing the child. No one knew, not even the girl Joy, how
that large, lonely heart pined for her. Magdalen was some-
times vexed, and spoke her thoughts, that her daughter had
not more accomplishments like herself, bright talent that
would shine in society ' some day when they left the moors.'
But Rachel, if she sighed, smiled also. It is natural in us
all to wish the young, in whom our lives and thoughts are
centred, to carry on our tastes and life-efforts into a later
generation.
' But the child is not of Magdalen's own nature, nor like
me,' she thought. ' She is meant just to love and live satisfied
wherever her lot is cast; and such a woman is blessed and
wise in her seeming unwisdom.'
And year by year, the more Rachel Estonia was drawn
with her whole heart to the child, and longed to have her
nearer to herself, the more she saw that it must not be.
The lonely life of two women who almost felt dumb from
lack of expression was not fit for such as Joy. Poor fare, a
dark past for all background of thought, and sometimes as
the subject of their rare talk—hopelessness of the coming
years! these were not meet for that young lark which sang
and fluttered from pure gladness in its spring-time of life.
One day this was brought strongly home to her.
JOY.
CHAPTER XXVI.
'Oh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the brae,
As I watch the great harts feeding, nearer, nearer a' the day.
Oh, to hark the eagle screaming, sweeping, ringing round the sky '
C. Kingsley.
It was a late September day, warm and still, when old
memories stir and rise most in our minds as the year softly
dies. Magdalen and her sister had gone up on the moors
to spend a long day there in the fresh air and sunshine, as
till winter began they mostly always did. Rachel sometimes
rebelled inwardly against what seemed, as regarded herself,
wasted days spent in no useful work for other children of
men, only in wandering over the hills. Then she chid her-
self. It was God's work, and if her Maker chose thus to
employ the high faculties He had given her, might she not
remember that 'they also serve who only stand and wait'?
She dared not let Magdalen stray anywhere alone except up
the glen, which last was both lonely and safe. There were
shaking bogs on the moors, treacherously green from rank
marish grasses, and edged with sun-dew and cotton-grass,
anyone venturing over which might lose their life in a hor-
rible way. Many a day, out of pure freakishness, Magdalen
would wander nowhere else but in these parts, shunned
by even the few shepherds and moor-men who passed
thereby.
Often, for work's sake, Rachel would cut heather to make
brooms, and carry it down in a blooming pile on her strong
shoulders at sunset. But frequently Magdalen was vexed
with her for undertaking this toil.
' It is such labour. Why, your hands are as coarsened
afterwards as if you had been hedging and ditching !' she
JOY.
*57
would cry, looking at her own small fingers, which she care-
fully kept smooth and white.
' Dear, it brings me in a little money to give to the poor.'
' The poor! There are few poorer than ourselves. Why,
I would rather go with less food, or fire, or something.
Don't do it, at least to-day, Rachel, to please me; it is
lonely for me to see you working, and, as I say, it will spoil
your appearance so much, if ever we go back.'
So she would break off her sentences. Rachel, under-
standing, would stop her work. As to Magdalen being ever
shorn of any few comforts, Rachel dismissed the thought at
once, as the poor creature herself soon forgot it. If they
ever went back! Ah! Rachel knew hers was a life-task,
without any hope to lighten its gloom, not so much as a
rushlight's glimmer.
So, on this especial day, the sisters were sitting silent and
side by side in an ancient sacred circle of upright stones,
called the Grey Wethers. There were nineteen of them,
some small enough, half sunken, others nine feet high.
Tradition said they were once all young folk, who began
dancing here on a Sunday afternoon, and were suddenly
turned to pillars of stone in punishment for their sin.
Furthermore, at noon on a hot day these stones might still
be seen, it was believed, curtseying softly, and rising and
sinking in a ghostly dance with their grey granite partners.
Joy loved to believe this, and declared she herself had
certainly seen them from afar swaying like shadows on
water; though it had been a hot mid-day in broad sunlight.
' Why, of course !' Blyth answered, smiling, with a rather
disparaging air, having few superstitions housed inside his
handsome flaxen head. 'Just so in winter, when they light
the stove in church, you may see the air above it quivering
and dancing too in a sort of haze. The summer sun is the
stove that heats our moors, and makes objects near the earth
153 JOY.
seem tremulous; the devil is not the piper to our poor Grey
Wethers.'
' Blyth, you are a boy without any reverence,' retorted
Joy, with dignified reproach, having a most wholesome awe
of the devil herself.
It was very warm for September. All around the sisters'
eyes strayed wide over rugged, desolate moor that lay uphill
and down dale, black bogs showing in some of the hollows.
Yet, rugged or not, it was a grand view under that hot, wide
sky, softened by an autumn haze and a few lazy clouds low
down on the horizon. It was so free. Only a few loose
stone fences might be seen at great distances, marking,
rather than enclosing, large tracts; and these walls the
straying mountain sheep and ponies easily jumped. All
around Nature was mistress, and her sway was shown in a
thousand signs, had one eyes to see her delicate handiwork.
But, in a few plain words, there was neither sight of human
dwelling nor sound of man. Overhead a moor buzzard
might be seen, and other birds, such as reed-warblers, golden
plovers, coots, and water-ouzels, were in the marshy places,
and black grouse and landrails, with small song-birds, on
the moors. The cloud-shadows swept unbroken in grand
breadth over the hills; who notes them in the hedged and
wooded lowlands ?
True, where man ploughs and sows, he paints the smiling
champaign country with bright colours unknown up here,
miles and miles of brown-gold wheat, leagues of paler corn
and of meadow-grass, scarlet clover, orchards of rosy flowers
or ruddy fruit. Here the heather that made the hills all one
broad, violet flush, is over; the golden furze that vied there-
with in widespread glory is past too, for the most part—what
remains ? All along the bed of the Chad, down yonder,
mountain-ashes spread low and graceful among grey or white
granite boulders, and the brilliant red of their berries glows
JOY.
i59
like flame beside the water's brown current. There are
acres of giant bracken so golden that a bit of mellow sunset
appears to lie on earth, or again shading into brown in an
unimaginable richness and difference of tints.
This little upland world is all coloured in subdued tones;
grasses, and marsh-plants, lichened or mossy rocks, weather-
beaten crags on the hill-crest, tiny flowers that scarcely
attract the eye till closely looked at. Yet what infinitely
variegated hues the moors have; what a movement of lights
and shades; what an exquisite sense of rest and pleasure !
Tired eyes feel jarred by no inharmonious contrasts, here
where unity of design spreads for leagues around. And,
lastly, a peace falls upon the soul in the solemn stillness
where the slow seasons bring such gentle change, and the
land rests in a perpetual Sabbath, unvexed by labour.
Magdalen spoke first, and dreamily, as they sat together.
'Joy is away riding over the moors somewhere. The
hounds are out—cub-hunting, she said . . . Blyth Berring-
ton was to take care of her.'
. 'Where were they to meet, dear? You never told me;'
and Rachel sat more upright, and looked intently round on
the hills that were like a sea, of which the great rolling
earth-waves had been suddenly arrested in full motion.
' I forget—I hardly listened.' And Magdalen went on
with a silent amusement, plaiting little butterfly cages, as
children call them, of rushes she had gathered on her
way.
. The silence was resumed; but before long, Rachel ex-
claimed, low :
' What is that ?'
Across the broad, green hill-side before them, on the far
side of a deep coombe, as she gazed, surely her keen vision
caught sight of something like a fleeting speck—another;
and whilst she still doubted, what seemed a white patch,
i6o JOY.
a fragment of snowy cloud from the sky, swiftly racing over
the moor.
Then followed a scarlet dot in motion—more red dots.
' It is the hounds—there is the hunt!' Magdalen cried, in
excitement.
The hill looked as steep as a house-roof, as seen from the
stone circle ; but distance deceives.
'There is a darker clump of riders—not red-coats. Joy
must be among them,' Rachel uttered, watching these last
specks with intense earnestness of gaze.
To right of the hounds fled away a little cluster of what
seemed at this distance tiny shadows, that was a herd of
ponies. To left, another, up the hill-face—those were red
cattle. The pack swept up to the skyline; the darker flecks,
as the riders still seemed, followed them to the breezy ridge
—disappeared.
' The play is over,' said Rachel then.
Her sister rejoined, grumbling:
'Yes; it was like the ghostly hunt on the Hartz Moun-
tains. It is too bad—all over so soon! We shall see no
more now, I suppose.'
Not so, however, After a few minutes, a musical sound
came faintly wafted to their listening ears—again, again !
Down in the glen, amongst the copse wood, the hounds were
giving tongue now. They must have come at a tremendous
pace to be there so soon. Then a reddish object became
visible, making for a gorse-patch by the Chad, stealing out
soon by another corner, as the hounds dashed in. Hu-sh !
straight up the slope to the stone circle, leaping along
amongst heather and gorse, came the handsome red crea-
ture—a fine cub-fox. Magdalen and Rachel, who had
risen to their feet, stood still as statues. Perhaps poor
Reynard thought them only two more of those upright
Druid stones, as he flew past in his hot race for life, with
JOY. 161
the hounds, who' had now viewed him, streaming up the
slope at a bloodthirsty pace.
He went straight towards a treacherous black bog, be-
tween the two nearest hills, with despairing cunning.
Another few moments, and the sacred circle was full of a
mass of eager hound-heads, and white and dappled bodies,
and waving tails, as the pack burst through in full cry.
Behind, three riders came thundering noiselessly up through
the heather.
What, Joy! Joy herself riding on a moor pony with
handsome Steenie Hawkshaw, wearing pink, and riding
close beside her on a black hunter; while a more modest
black Sunday coat kept as jealously near on her other side.
He was mounted on his good mare Brownberry—his heart's
pride—and he was watching sternly from under his broad
brows both his impetuous charge, his rival, and^ above all,
the hounds. Joy waved her whip, seeing the dark figures
first.
' We are leading them all—the rest are behind—bogged,
I think,' she called, in a delirium of ecstasy, as they
galloped by, her last words coming fainter on the breeze.
Her dark hair had broken loose, and was blowing behind
her in a veil, her face was joy itself in brightest being, with
flashing eyes and glowing cheeks. Her still childish figure
wearing a blue short habit, she sat her rough bay pony as if,
like a true daughter of the moors, she and the little animal
were one.
' How well she looks, the little flirt! Oh, if I were but
young again !' cried Magdalen, her blue eyes sparkling with
the excitement of the scene, as, leaning on a stone pillar, she
watched the three ride down to the quagmire with such
intentness she saw and heard nothing else.
But Rachel's fine ear caught fresh hoof-strokes behind on
the soft sward. She looked round, anxious to escape the
11
162
JOY.
sight of more human beings, who always excited her sister's
poor crazy brain. Some of the belated riders were coming
up, old Hawkshaw's burly figure foremost, a mass of mud
on one side from his eyes to his spurs, and his hot temper
the worse for the bogs. Seeing the sisters, he pointed the
butt of his whip at them, with a brutal oath.
'See there !—blast them! No wonder we have bad luck
to-day, with those old witches looking on to spoil sport.
See them—devil fly away with them !'
There came bursts of laughter, but warning exclamations
from the other men ; broken sounds, such as, ' Keep a civil
tongue, Hawkshaw;' 'The black sisters;' 'Best let them
alone.' The voices hushed as the sportsmen urged their
panting horses past the sacred circle—not a sound was
uttered, and several of the farmers, as these men were,
looked the other way. Rachel's gorge rose. ' As if we
had the evil-eye,' she said in her heart, deeply hurt and
indignant. Then, from long habit, she quickly turned with
fearful caution lest Magdalen in a frenzy should scream and
leap out in anger against them.
Her sister had heard nothing. She remained with eyes
fixed on the bog below, through which the hounds were now
floundering. Blyth Berrington waved to Joy in a masterful
way to come after him by a track he knew of old, and few
save himself and the shepherds.
' This way, Joy, follow me—this is the only safe part.'
' Don't mind him. Let me be your guide, and you shall
have the brush,' laughingly cried Steenie Hawkshaw.
Blyth's boyish face flushed red.
' Joy ! My father desired me to take care of you.'
'Then you can do so by coming after her] mockingly
answered his handsome enemy. ' Is he your master, Miss
Joy?'
The two young fellows in their hearts hated each other.
JOY. 163
Joy looked from one to the other. Blyth's tone had nettled
her pride, and he truly, like most fair-haired lads, looked
younger than his age. Long-limbed and raw, with only
callow down on his face, his body was as yet thin and
awkward, though bearing the promise of future great
strength. But Steenie already was a grown young man,
middle-sized and stout enough. His gipsy face, high-
coloured and full-lipped, with black whiskers, was that of a
youthful Bacchus now, though it might coarsen early to
appear a Silenus, like his father.
Joy looked, one swift moment, at his gay, laughing
features, then at Blyth's wrathful expression, like a righteous
Saint Michael still in his teens. The hounds were running
fast; there was no time to tarry.
4 Go on, Mr. Hawkshaw—I'm after you !' she cried, and
pressed her pony forward.
The sagacious, moor-bred animal sniffed the ground and
stopped dead short, stiffening its fore-legs to a decided nay.
Joy, angered, struck it sharply.
4 Obstinate beast!' cried Steenie, and bought down his
heavy hunting-whip across its back behind the saddle to
help matters, as he forced his own hunter past her.
Joy's pony snorted with pain, and sprang forward against
its better will and knowledge; lost its footing; struggled.
In front, young Hawkshaw's heavier horse had plunged
deeper in the morass, and both were wildly floundering to
regain firmer ground.
' Help me, Blyth—help me !' rang the sweet young voice
that had the most power of all sounds, human or otherwise,
over Blyth Berrington's mind.
He forgot the bay of the hounds, then in full cry in view
of their tired fox, turned back on his own sure path (in-
deed, his eagle eyes had hardly quitted Joy's figure but to
guide his mare, and he had checked Brownberry even before
x 1—2
164
JOY.
that cry struck on his ears). Just a few moments—then,
having dismounted, Blyth caught Joy's bridle, and cheered
her little steed by voice and hand to some strong efforts
that landed it with trembling flanks on the sound heather.
But her saddle had turned, and he must needs see to the
girths, whilst good Brownberry stood obediently by, though
with pricked ears, hearkening to the distant sounds of the
hunt.
' Hooray ! I'm out!' shouted Steenie Hawkshaw, bogged
no longer, who had struck on Blyth's former track, and was
pursuing it with joyful selfishness.
Two minutes more, and Blyth, with Joy safe in his wake,
was after Steenie, followed in cautious single file by the
later riders.
A last gallop over a breezy upland. Then the good cub
ended his short life in a rocky corrie. And
'Here is the brush, Miss Joy. I told you / should get
it for you,' cried young Hawkshaw, with gay bragging,
bringing his trophy up to the two riders from the Red
House Farm, who had come—just late.
Joy scornfully knitted her pretty brows and turned from
him.
' Keep it yourself. You would not have been in first at
the death, if Blyth had not turned back to help me.'
JOY.
CHAPTER XXVII.
' Le temps emporte sur son aile,
Et le printemps et l'hirondelle,
Et la vie, et les jours perdus.
Tout s'en va comme la fumee,
L'Esperance, et la renommee,
Et moi qui vous ai tant aimee,
Et toi qui ne t'en souviens plus !'
A. de Musset.
As Rachel Estonia went homeward with her sister, she
could not help often repeating to herself, ' Those old
witches !'
It is always a shock to be called old for the first time.
Can one be really old, and not feel it ? Though still a
beautiful woman, however tried by hardships and sorrow>
the brutal words rankled in Rachel's mind like the evil of a
poisoned arrow, even albeit her Christian charity had made
her draw out the dart by forgiveness. Oh ! if she and her
sister were so scouted and shunned, how dared she wish
even in thought for Joy's young life to be blighted by living
with them in Cold-home's dreary mud walls ?
' That young Hawkshaw looked pleasant as he rode past
beside Joy,' said Magdalen suddenly, that night.
There had been silence in the cottage for two hours.
The lantern burned in the window-sill, the thin red curtain
was drawn before it, so that a warm glow like firelight was
shed therefrom. Magdalen was crouched as usual among
her cushions on the settle with her guitar, but did not
touch it. Her sister was knitting stockings by the light of
a tallow candle; at moments she glanced at Magdalen watch-
fully—she was afraid.
< Pleasant! He must be different from his father, then,'
i66
JOY.
Rachel answered, rousing heavily. Curiously, her thoughts
had been on the Hawkshaws, too—' those old witches.'
'Why, your favourite, Blyth Berrington, is a mere
farmer's son in comparison. Young Hawkshaw looked
quite like a gentleman.'
Rachel dropped the subject gently. She knew what was
in her sister's mind and sighed in her own. Women are
always prophetic of possible marriages for the children they
love. Ah! well, she trusted Joy might like the plain
farmer's son best.
Presently, Magdalen's eyes began to sparkle, and she
pushed away her guitar impatiently. It fell with a clang;
yet fond though she was of the instrument, calling it her
' Ariel, her little treasure,' she never heeded but muttered
to herself unintelligibly, with ever-increasing vehemence and
quickness. Then Rachel rose and barred and locked the
door, putting the key in her pocket. It was as she feared.
The sight of the cub-hunt, and riders, recalling thoughts of
her past life, of youth and gaiety, had roused the sleeping
furies in poor Magdalen's brain, to which her light bright
spirits had turned.
That night, as on many a one before, Rachel took her
life in her hand when she locked the cottage door.
She must be alone. If a breath of rumour spread among
the moor folk around, who knew but they might believe
themselves in danger ? might drag the frightened shrinking
creature Rachel loved so dearly to the hopeless dungeon of
a county asylum, whence there would be no joyful coming
forth again to enjoy the freedom and health-giving breezes of
the moors once more.
What danger there was indoors Rachel would brave alone
with faith, thanking God in heart for her great physical
strength. Outside the river was deep and swift in the pools,
and the moor wide and treacherous at parts; and what risks
JOY. 167
might not a distraught soul run, if broken loose from
restraint, and wandering out there through night and bog by
the waterside?
CHAPTER XXVIII.
' Come with the springtide forth, fair maid, and be
This year again the meadow's deity.
Yet, ere ye enter, give us leave to set
Upon your head this flow'ry coronet ;
To make this neat distinction from the rest,
You are the prime, and princess of the feast.'
Herrick.
* A letter fur Farmer Berrington—it be from furrin parts,
I reckon,' said the parcel carrier, who was also in a lesser
way postman, stopping his shaggy pony at the Red House
Farm gate, and addressing Dick, who was gently resting
from immediate labour in the picturesquely old, and, it must
be owned, somewhat untidy farmyard, as is the manner of
those parts, though all told of ease and plenty. Dick,
like his fellow-labourers, found hearty spells of rest com-
forting after toil, unless, indeed, the eyes of his master or
young master were on him, when pride, no doubt, will urge
a man to greater exertion. But the Berringtons, father and
son, were in the meadows, where the hay-making had begun.
'A letter,' said Dick, taking it between a most inquiring-
natured finger and thumb, but as the latter had learnt no
more how to read than had his head, this was little profit;
however, he had the solace of a prolonged easy conversation
with the carrier before observing, ' Well, good-marnin',
Mistress Hannah, hur be in the kitchen, and I'll take un to
hur.'
Hannah was busy, as always, shelling peas into a fair basin
168 JOY.
of spring water, and she did not fail to reproach Dick's
laziness in gossiping at the gate. Her northern energy was
terribly untiring to these easy southrons. Then she called
Joy in turn, who was busied upstairs in the dark wainscoted
passage-way, putting rose-leaves to dry in the sun, for which
the deep window-seats and sills of the broad ancient case-
ments were useful.
' A letter. I'll run and give it him,' cried Joy, flinging on
her sun-bonnet, and running out past the bees and through
the orchard down into the meadow.
There were the mowers, in rows, toiling in their shirts,
with bared, vigorous arms. Blyth led the row, as was right
by reason of his strength and powerful scythe-sweep, no
less than because he was the young master. Joy stopped to
watch him. Swish ! with a sweep and a backward stroke; and
swish ! with a sweep again. And the grass and clover softly
fell in long, green swathes, so different from the meadow's
pride of the morning, that Joy was quite sorry to see it.
Seeing her, Blyth stopped at the edge of the field, and
made a feint of using his sharpening-stone on the scythe
edge, with a clirring sound, not to seem idly fond of talking
to a young maid in the men's eyes.
'Have you brought me some cider, Joy?' said the young
giant, eyeing thirstily the far cans under the shade of the
oak-tree.
'No; a letter,' returned Joy; then guiltily blushing,
' But, oh, I forgot; it is not for you. It is for the father,
only I—I—don't see him here.'
' Why, he is over there, under the hedge,' returned Blyth,
but not looking himself in the direction indicated; rather
slowly staring, thinking how well her blush became Joy's
clear, olive skin.
' Oh, I see. Now, why could you not tell me that before ?'
pouted the girl.
JOY.
169
She turned, leaving Blyth with a man's natural justifica-
tion stopped short on his very lips; and ran, light and
lissom, across the meadow to where Berrington was examin-
ing a gap in the wildly luxuriant tangle of native holly,
honeysuckle, briony, thorn, and traveller's-joy atop of a high
bank, which Blyth called a hedge, whilst it was truly a screen
of flowers and foliage.
'You come flying like a fawn, when I've seen the red deer
out on the hills,' said old Berrington slowly, smiling at the
girl, with her dark, liquid eyes. ' What have you there ?'
' It's a letter, for the master; and I'm wondering what's in
it.'
' Spoken like a woman. Well, writing, Joy—I—should—
think.'
So saying, Berrington slowly turned and turned the letter
round, examining the postmarks with great deliberation.
Joy felt the blood rise again under her dark skin. The
child—for so she still was, in spite of her seventeen years—
remembered suddenly that, though no such letters had ever
come within her knowledge to Red House Farm, that was
no good reason for herself, in reality still a guest, to pry into
the good man's correspondence. She generally called Ber-
rington, after a pretty notion of her own, ' the father,' when
speaking to Blyth, and ' the master,' in a laughing, roguish
way to himself or to others. It was hard to say what else or
better she could have called him; for ' Mister Berrington'
would have been truly stiff.
She felt embarrassed, but the farmer's hand was laid
caressingly on her shoulder. A shout from Blyth relieved
her. He had ceased mowing, having come on a belated
land-rail's nest, and just escaped the vexation of injuring the
faithful mother-bird.
'I must go—I am coming,' cried Joy, loving all animals
and birds tenderly, but especially fond of hearing the hoarse
170
JOY.
cra-i-k, cra-i-k of these meadow-watchers through the
summer nights.
Away she sped, and heard no more about the letter till
after supper-time. Then, wandering with Blyth out in the
gloaming to find a strayed galini-poult, or guinea-fowl,
feminine curiosity got uppermost again, and Joy asked:
'Well, did your father get any news to-day, Blyth? His
letter had Australian postmarks. I did not know he had
any friends out there.'
' He has not chosen to tell me anything about it yet, any-
way,' said the young man. ' My mother's brother went out
to Australia, I believe.'
The evening was dark and cool, and fragrant with white
mountain-ash blossoms that swung overhead and scented
the air; yet Joy felt suddenly hot and shamed and dis-
pleased with herself and the night. For she had secretly
fancied the letter might have contained some news for her-
self. It might have had reference to—her father. In truth,
it was for that same thought that Farmer Berrington had
been so slow to open it when with her.
CHAPTER XXIX.
' Like a fawn dost thou fly from me, Chloe,
Like a fawn that astray on the hill-tops,
Her shy mother misses and seeks,
Vaguely scared by the breeze and the forest.'
Lord Lytton's Horace.
Next day was Sunday; and, after church and the mid-day
dinner, Blyth asked Joy would she take a walk with him
over the moors. The farmer was fast asleep, with a hand-
kerchief over his face, in his big chair in the parlour, which
JOY. 171
was dark and cool this summer's day, being wide if low,
and wainscoted all in dark wood after the fashion of good
Queen Anne's days. Hannah was likewise nodding in the
kitchen among her bright army of tins and coppers, with
her Bible on her lap, and a low fire banked over till it should
be time for tea. It was dull and silent indoors, even in the
pleasant old house. Outside the animal world was resting
too, chewing the cud, and the birds still in the noonday
heat, yet the breeze was fresh and the insects danced, and
the river rushed by, gurgling an unceasing song, telling of
motion that was life, life, life; of the hurry of each water-
drop to do Nature's work, out from the earth's bosom, down
to the sea, up to the clouds, falling on the grain; and be-
ginning again in a ring eternal.
The farm stood with one foot on the moor, so to speak,
and an invigorating fresh breeze could always be felt from
the hills; the heather was springy under foot, as they left
the meadows and the sheep-run over the first furzy hill.
Away went Blyth and Joy over the upland they both loved
so well, and drew in long draughts of the breezy, high air.
Down into gorges full of oak-scrub; up again on heights
overgrown with bracken for a mile or two; till a wide, lonely
valley spread before them, with not a sign of human or
animal life in it, or on the violet, heather hills beyond, save
a few half-wild cattle browsing here and there.
The Chad was running merrily through the valley, young
and brown yet from its source among the peat-bogs higher
up in the hill's wild heart.
Blyth silently led Joy still on to where, half a mile away,
the little river's banks became picturesquely rugged with high
boulders stemming the current, and piled in confusion along
the stream's edge; while the rowan bushes grew in and out
of the rocks, where their roots could find hold. Bushes
they were up here, not trees ; vegetation had dwindled.
172 JOY.
' Shall we sit down a little while, Blyth ?' said Joy, as they
came up to the rocks, which offered pleasant seats with
cushions of springy heather for one's feet; and where the
small cup-moss she loved to look at raised its tiny crimson
goblets over the surface of the old, grim stones. She went
on, with gay pettishness, suddenly turning to her comrade
with a flash of her dark eyes and a bright smile:
' I am tired of walking, and not talking. At least, this
livelong day I have always had to answer myself. You are
quite strange and silent.'
' I know. But I have something to tell you by-and-by,'
assented Blyth gravely, to her surprise. ' Will you mind
sitting on the tolmen this last—for this time ? I am fond
of it.'
Midmost of the brown brook a great whitish boulder lay,
with a large hole through its upper end, worn smooth by
the dash of wintry floods for ages. It was, perhaps, no
true tolmen after all, but such some Moortown antiquarian
had supposed it to be, wandering thereby, and the name had
fastened to it. They clambered easily enough on the great
holed stone from the other rocks, for now the Chad was
low with summer's drought. Joy took off her broad straw
hat, and let the gentle wind cool her young brows and ruffle
her hair. She waited in silence, with growing impatience.
But at last, as her companion did not speak, she cried out,
thinking him dull and herself injured :
' Well, Blyth ? ... You said you had something to tell
me.'
' I have.' Blyth straightened his back and looked her
full in the face. ' Should you be sorry, dear—should you
mind much if I had to go away from the Red House ?'
'What? and my holidays not over yet!' murmured Joy,
in dismay. ' Oh, I know; you are asked over the moors to
stay for the big sheep-fair with some of the farmers you met
JOY.
173
last time. But that is not till next week, and I go back to
lessons and primishness in three more days for another
whole half-year. There are to be some junketings, I sup-
pose, you don't want to miss. Well, go—but I call it very
unkind, Blyth; I do, indeed.'
She was near crying. The pleasures of the farm-life, of
even being with the old farmer and Hannah, both of whom
she loved, faded suddenly at thought of losing her strong
slave—young tyrant that she was.
'No, it was not the sheep-fair. I am going,'said Blyth
slowly, ' to Australia for two or three years.'
Joy gave such a start that he quickly caught her round
the waist, or she might have slipped down into the water.
' Going !—why ?' she exclaimed at last, with a gasp.
' Oh, Blyth, I know—it was that dreadful letter. I wish I
had put it in the kitchen fire.'
She burst into thick sobs now, not heeding hardly that
Blyth drew her closer to himself and petted and coaxed
her; his own heart, indeed, being far more sore than her
own. She only felt irrationally what was the use of his
having been her big brother all these years, and she his
loving little sister, if now half the world was to part them,
and sorrow come and desolation ?
' My mother's brother has written—my uncle,' Blyth ex-
plained. ' He is a lonely man and childless, so he wants
to see me, and speaks of leaving me his sheep-run. He
seems well-to-do.'
'I don't care who he is, nor what he has,' wept Joy, un-
consoled. ' Once you go out there, I believe you will forget
all about us, and never, never come back.'
She had turned away and bent her face so low over her
knees, Blyth could not see it, being so much taller as he sat
beside her.
Next instant, he dropped his body through the great hole
i74 JOY.
of the tolmen, finding foothold below on a slippery rock;
and so, bringing his visage on a level with Joy's pretty face,
rather to her surprise, wound his arms again round her
slender waist.
' Look here, Joy,' he said, reddening, ' I swear to come
home—if you will have me—to marry you. And, if not,
then I don't care if I never see the farm or my old father
again, yet you know how I love them both ! Say—will you
marry me ?'
Joy pouted, half laughing in his face, with the tears,
arrested by surprise, still hanging on her long lashes. She
did not feel herself mistress of the situation, being fast held
there; and besides, though she had grown up insensibly
with the thought that she could never bear to part from
Blyth, still she rapidly remembered the romantic ideas learnt
from her school-comrades.
She should be wooed before being won.
Now Blyth, to her mind, was only a great tall boy still, in
spite of his having nearly reached the one-and-twenty
years of manhood; and he had surely never rightly wooed
her.
But Blyth, looking at her with blue eyes all gleaming,
feeling a mighty rush of manhood's strength of purpose
within him at thoughts of facing the great world, seemed to
himself to have been wooing her all through his young life.
' Speak, Joy ! Dear—surely there is no one that you like
better,' he reiterated, clasping her tighter.
' Why, that is it. I have seen so few besides you, Blyth,'
replied the school-maiden with dignity. Then, seeing by
the pained tension of the muscles round his mouth and by
his eager eyes—divining, too, with her loving heart—how
much it cost her dear boy-companion to go away across the
world of waters, Joy cried, torn asunder betwixt her sup-
posed self-duty of pride and real affection.
JOY.
i75
' Oh, don't look like that, Blyth ! Listen, I will promise
marry no one till you come back; and then, if I have
en nobody else I like better, why, why '
Joy stopped, blushing,; she did not well know why.
fter all, she had known Blyth all her life, and to agree to
re thus always together seemed quite a simple matter, she
ought, in a childish way. She considered her lover raw-
rned and awkward, and not at all romantic.
' Will you put your hand in mine and promise me that ?'
ged Blyth, still not taking his eyes off her.
Joy laid her small palm in his, and said sweetly :
' I promise.'
{ Will you kiss me now ?' said Blyth, very low.
' Oh, yes,' replied Joy, who every night of her life was
lite accustomed to give Blyth a flying kiss, aimed at what-
rer part of his cheek or forehead was attainable; since he
snerally bent his head, as if half ashamed of her caress
:fore his father and Hannah and the servant-maid. Bat
)w, as Blyth's lips touched hers for the first time, and of
s own accord, for many a month, with a close, eager pres-
re, it was—well, quite different.
He drew back then an instant; and it seemed to the
>ung girl as if the evening sun had transfigured the young
ant. His yellow hair shone like gold; his look was noble,
s face strange—that of a man.
' Let us go,' she said, in a quavering voice, wishing to
ugh at her companion; but feeling as if something, she
lew not what, had happened to them both.
For a moment Blyth seemed as if he would fain have
ssed Joy again; but, seeing her discomposed face and
etty lips quivering in doubt how to take it all, he con-
ailed himself, and only pressed her two little hands in a
ip that nearly made her cry out. Then, raising himself by
e power of his arms, with a strong swing, out of the holed
176 JOY.
stone, he helped her off the rock, and they went gravely
homeward by a different way.
They hardly spoke again; and when they did, it was
with constraint and about the long voyage and Australia.
Joy felt that she did not understand Blyth, for the first time.
And he felt that it was so, because she was truly a child
still.
Slowly they skirted the stream. Then they came to a
strange bridge, a huge granite block laid across the Chad.
There was no other such stone nearer than the pillars of
the sacred circle far away yonder on the hill-rise, and yet
the rude Britons of bygone ages had put it simply down
here where the river was too deep to ford, as if it were a
plank. Blyth, crossing the narrow surface steadily, turned
and held out his hand to lead Joy. Often enough before
she had tripped lightly across, scorning aid, or yet many a
time had taken his hand, thinking nothing of such slight
help. But this Sunday she hesitated, drew back ; then next
moment, seeing Blyth looked vexed, though silent, she gave
him her hand, urged by another impulse, and so followed,
feeling bashful and ill at ease. So they mounted the swell-
ing ground towards the Raven-tor, so called because these
birds frequented the mass of rock that crowned the hill's
crest like a huge mushroom.
All around here lay remains of an early British village;
stones were placed upright in small circles with boundary
walls surrounding them. There were bigger pens, or
pounds, maybe for sheep or cattle. And at some distance
ran a long avenue of upright stones down to the river, such
as are said to be seen in many other parts of the world,
though to what purpose, unless as a sacred symbol of some
lost religion, who can say ?
Blyth stood still, after they had picked their difficult way
through all these blocks lying close together half hidden in
JOY.
177
heather and furze, or scattered in seeming desolate con-
fusion.
£ It's a strange sight,' he remarked. ' Look at that old
village lying roofless, while the cattle and sheep have been
wandering through its walls for how many hundreds of
years. And yet there were men and women living in it,
Joy, who once felt like us.'
'I think they must have felt more like savages; don't you
think so ?' said Joy, innocently. ' The father says, when he
was young, no one knew this was a village. It looks just as
if a crop of rocks was sown here; not a straight line any-
where.'
1 I've read somewhere that they had round huts. Then,
most likely they would fill up the space between these
uprights with peat and furze, and roof the top with poles
and sods, like a brown beehive,' said Blyth, smiling at her
in a curious way.
' Ah ! I see, you think how ignorant I am, with all my
schooling, while you know so much, though you only read
now at home of nights,' exclaimed Joy ingenuously, with
frank admiration. ' But then, I have no head for learning.'
'Nay?—Well, so long as you have heart enough, the
head does not so much matter,' returned Blyth oracularly.
He had not smiled at all in disdainful pity, as she wrong-
fully supposed ; no ! only at the thought of how many men
and young girls in those bygone, hoary days must have lived
and loved here, and passed, hand in hand, over that old
bridge, under which the Chad still flowed, young as ever.
But Joy had not understood him.
So they went home to the farm; the young man and the
young girl, who was still a child in heart.
Blyth Berrington therefore sailed for Australia. But Joy
went back to her schooling for another year, only broken by
12
JOY.
holidays at the pleasant Red House, that seemed lonely
now by contrast.
Still the red light of the lantern glimmered nightly across
the ford of the Chad. And still the 'wisht' sisters lived
their secluded, silent lives in the little cottage at the mouth
of the lonely glen; or, if sometimes seen by the peasants
wandering over the moorland, were shunned as witches, in
spite of their deed of mercy.
CHAPTER XXX.
' Merye is in the time of May,
Whenne foulis singe in her lay ;
Flowreson apyl-irees and perye,
Small fowles singe merye.
Ladyes strowe here bowres
With rede roses and lyle flowres.'
Romance of' Richard Ccenr de Liond
Nearly three years after Blyth Berrington had sailed to
Australia, Joy stood one evening at the Red House Farm
gate.
The fields were deserted, the farm noises stilled; but
overhead, in the plain o'f the sky, the first faint lights of the
watchers of night were trembling in the east, and down in
the copse by the river the nightingales were singing rarely.
Above her drooped long plumes of golden laburnum ; white
lilac on either side of the gate scented the air, and a wild
rose on a bush trained up the gate post leaned over to touch
Joy's cheek.
Behind, even in the gloaming, the Red House looked
glowing and trim. It had all been painted fresh, against
Joy's return, by the old farmer; and the brick walls and
JOY.
17 9
tiled, steep roof, with the dark red wood-work of doors
and windows and carved bargeboards, made the fine old
farmstead seem quite a proper home for gay young folk, so
he said.
So he said! Joy, turning her head as she remembered
the fatherly glance at herself with which good old Berrington
had accompanied the words, thought it did truly look a
pleasant home. She had herself dressed up the windows
with red blinds, to carry out a fancy that the colour of such
things pertaining to the house should help to bear out its
name. The now shadowed garden itself was full of tall
white lilies and pinks, columbines, monkshood, and all such
sweet and long-lived flowers; with rosemary, and southern-
wood, and such-like pot-herbs, more for savour than sightli-
ness. But the borders round the house-wall gleamed even
in the twilight with the warmer hues of gaudy favourites
which Joy had planted there to carry out her freak.
Apothecary roses with their crimson leaves and yellow
hearts, red sweet-pea, flaunting peonies, and an army, not
yet blown, of such gorgeous great poppies, emperors of
their kind, that all the farmhouse neighbours, near and far,
envied the show and begged for some seed. Farmer Ber-
rington had laughed at her; she might do as she pleased,
being 'the joy of the house,' he said.
No wonder Joy thought of his words, for she knew what
he meant. They had had no letter from Blyth for some
ten months, and yet in his last he had said his uncle was
failing.
' I am not the man I was, either; so I hope my son can
be spared to come home,' old Berrington had opened his
lips to remark. He was hearty still, but had grown so heavy
that it was a trouble to him now to walk much about the
farm. His broad, ruddy face had become greyer and
heavier, either with time, or perhaps his son's absence, for
i8o
JOY.
such silent men do not take to other folk's company lightly,
or at all, maybe, when those they most care for are gone
from them. But still his glance would always light up at
Joy's presence, at the flash of her splendid black eyes and
her sunny laugh. And she knew what a warm, still quick
heart housed in that mountain of flesh, where careless or
dull eyes only saw a stolid and ponderous old man, ofttimes
afflicted with gout, or shortness of breath, and such-like
ills.
Joy had grown taller, fuller in form, fairer to look on in
the last three years. Now, as she stood there in a pale
cotton dress with a white muslin kerchief folded over her
bosom, she was—beautiful! She laughed in her heart,
being young and glad, as she thought of Farmer Berrington's
sayings, and half hid her face, blushing at its own fancy, in
her arms folded on the rail. But then she sighed soon, and
raising her head, looked down the lane, as if her thought
would fain see into the dark future as her eyes sought to
pierce the shadows. For Blyth had not come home; and—
he might have changed his mind. He was only a boy in
heart, though a man in years when he left, she believed.
And, when he had asked her to plight her troth down by
the great holed stone, she herself was a mere child, and
knew nothing of life or the world, and had seen so few
besides himself. But now . . . Well, now, not a young
farmer for sixteen miles round the moors but would gladly
ride far on the darkest night on the chance of meeting her
at any merrymaking. For she was reckoned the greatest
beauty in all the country, so they told her. But she thought,
alas ! so many of them mere yokels, however well-grown of
body and well-housed at home. Perhaps it was her school-
ing had done it, or some inbred greater gentleness of race;
but she felt there was something in herself they lacked each
and all, and longed for more signs of gentility in her lovers.
JOY.
181
Stephen Hawkshaw, indeed, was beyond the rest. But
then he had been to college (though he could not pass his
examinations, it was rumoured), and he aspired to be con-
sidered an equal by the younger sort of gentry, as his father
loved to be called ' squire' by all the meaner sort of folk
who wished to scrape favour with him. Yes, he was hand-
some and merry, and admired herself, without doubt. Did
she like him? Joy asked her heart. Why, yes; she did.
Better than all others, even old friends ? Well, better than
the rest of her farmer suitors; as to old friends, she must
see them again to know. Heigho ! what would old Hawk-
shaw say, though, should his son ask leave to bring home a
dowerless maiden to the Barton? And Joy began singing
to herself, careless and happy, whatever might betide.
Meanwhile, at this same hour, on this same evening, a
young man was walking towards the Red House Farm,
along the lane that led from Moortown. He was very tall
and broad shouldered. He wore a large soft hat of fashion
unknown in those parts, and a short, yellow-gold beard that
was likewise a rarity in those days. Even by the make of
his clothes, he was a stranger for certain; so that the maidens
by the bridges over the hill-streams, and the men jogging
homewards on their rough ponies, while they called out
'Good evening' in the friendly fashion that was usual,
wondered who he might be, and gazed curiously after him.
' Good evening,' he always cried; but strode on with the
help of his big stick, never stopping to have a chat, never
thinking how, behind him, all the girls said how handsome
he was, and the men how big and strong. And yet he felt
as if he loved them all. He loved the soft-faced maidens,
and the men with their kindly, lazy speech, the nestling
villages in the wooded coombes, the tumbling brooks and
mossy mill-wheels. Then the sight of the wide moors and
the free hills and craggy tors up yonder, the flocks of sheep,
182
JOY.
the soft-eyed red cattle knee-deep in the fords, and in the
brooks the beds of tall yellow-lilied iris, and the sweet,
breezy air he had drunk into his lungs since boyhood—he
loved them all. For he was Blyth Berrington.
As Blyth neared his home with swinging pace, leaving
mile after mile more and more gladly behind him, he did
not heed that he was becoming footsore—he did not waste
thought in grumbling that he had not found man and cart,
or any vehicle or beast even, to bring him from Moortown.
He thought, instead, how purely white the lane glistened
here and there in the twilight with the granite dust ground
down from the rocks. And again, how deeply rich and red
was the earth where ploughed, the land his forefathers had
lived on so long. Then never had any other country such
hedgerows, such banks and lanes, so great and deep, so
massed with holly and broom, and wildly luxuriant with all
twining, twisting plants, that curl their tendrils with the sun
or contrariwise ; such a paradise of ferns, or such an English
wild garden of flowers, from the Lent-lilies opening the
season with their yellow bells shaking music soundless to
our grosser ears in the mad March wind, to the great summer
army that followed, and the last of the laggards of autumn.
Blyth's heart gave a leap in his body for pure gladness
when first he saw the Chad again. And then he hurried on
faster than before, while it came foaming and singing and
tumbling along the road beside him. As each well-known
landmark came in sight, his eyes grew dim often enough,
and his heart felt very soft, while his throat foolishly swelled.
And as among much we love one object is still singled out
specially, so even while Blyth watched for the first sight of
the Red House chimneys above the oak-trees; and often
wondered how his old father might be, and whether he was
yet hale and well; still truly the most secret fires and deepest
JOY.
tenderness of his feelings were reserved for the image of one
other well beloved—were urging his well-nigh jaded body on
with fresh efforts to see her dear self, face to face again.
He remembered a young, slight girl, half-child still, with
flying feet, and lissom, still unformed figure; whose dark
eyes were flashing with merry mischief, or opened wide in
pure deep innocence. What would Joy be like?—how would
she meet him ?—and where
He was near home now. He came up the lane with
beating heart, and surely, surely there was a shadowy figure
gleaming pale at the gate. Who was it? Was it—could it
be she ?
Meanwhile Joy, straining her eyesight at the handsome
stranger in the darkened light, watched and wondered too.
Blyth approached, then stopped short, and, taking off his
broad hat while he bent forward to see the maiden closer,
asked :
'Will you have the kindness to tell me, does Farmer
Berrington live here now at the Red House Farm ?'
1 Blyth P screamed Joy the instant he had spoken, and
held out her two hands to him across the gate.
He caught and pressed them hard, and so, approaching
close, they looked at each other quite near a few moments,
in utterly astonished breathless silence.
Joy saw before her no raw, fair-haired lad such as he who
had gone from them, but a finely-made man, with a hand-
some open face; and who carried himself with an upright
steadfast air, as one who knows he is of some worth in the
world, but assumes neither more nor less.
And he? He had never thought Joy could have grown
so beautiful! Her eyes, full of dark liquid light, flashed a
welcome in which surprise was lost in great gladness. They
were the same eyes he remembered well ever since Dick
had first lifted her as a child out of the waggon at their
184
JOY.
gate. But otherwise all features seemed to him not changed
but glorified. He had loved her ever since she was a little
rose-bud child; when he left she had been like the young
flower only beginning to unfold its beauty; but now she was
' A rose in June's most honied heat,
A red-mouthed rose, that woman of the flowers.'
More by token she wore a full-blown red rose in her bosom,
which she rivalled in glorious beauty and sweetness.
So he looked at her a few moments, not speaking. The
hush of the hour was around them, the night-scents of the
flowers in the garden was fragrant on the air. And from
the long lush grass of the meadows still standing in their
summer pride, came the hoarse cr-a-ik, cr-a-ik of the land-
rails, the night watchmen of birds.
Then, with all these sights and sounds and scents around
him he had known since boyhood, Blyth found his voice
again. He cried, hardly knowing what he said, only
conscious of glad surprise :
'Why, Joy, you are a woman !'
CHAPTER XXXI.
' The larks are loud above our leagues of whin,
Now the sun's perfume fills their glorious gold
With odour like the colour; all the wold
Is only light and song and wind therein
These twain are blest in one with shining din.'
Swinburne.
Joy and Blyth were up on the moors a morning or two
later Before them lay a long sloping hillside yellow with
JOY.
gorse, sweet of scent, alive with music of gladness; for, as
old Dunbar sings,
' The skies rang with shouting of the larks.'
They rambled where their feet had so often strayed together
as children; for Blyth said he felt as if he could not look
enough upon all the old spots he loved, nor take his fill of
strong, sweet, moor-air again into his lungs.
How young and happy and handsome they both were,
wandering over the heather and bracken ! The sun looked
down with a great shining eye of love upon them out of a
deep blue sky, swept clear of clouds by the high breeze.
The lintwhites and stone-chats whirred in and out of the
furze before them, playing courtship, the brown bees droned
heavily by, honey-laden from the heather, working for their
home and hive. All things around in earth and sky seemed
only to speak of love and gladness and mirth. They were
in the heyday of their youth and beauty, and the gorse was
in bloom when 'kissing is in favour.'
At last, after a quick hour's stretch up the hills, which
tried their breath, good walker though Joy was, and because
Blyth had been so long pent up on ship-board, they sat
down on the hill-side to rest. And then it was little
wonder, as Joy sat on a flat stone, like a young princess of
the moors in her proud beauty, that Blyth stretched himself
at her feet in silent worship; and, while he let his gaze rest
on her now and again by stealth, felt sweet and secret
thoughts creep about his heart.
Her hair, that waved in strong, glossy ripples back from
her pretty ears, was black as were the ravens yonder up
at the tor, with blue lights in the sun; such as none of
the soft-complexioned, brown-haired maidens round could
equal. The sunny, laughing face, with its clear olive tint,
and glorious, dark-red glow of health, showed, too, such a
i86
JOY.
gleam of snowy teeth between her lips ! which last were
like
' Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower.'
And her eyes were dark suns, lighted up with frank
affection for all the world, yet holding depths of untried
love for some. Joy was not by nature a deep thinking
girl, or given to learning, or with craft or ambition in the
least degree. Yet neither was she light or shallow, nor
even simple. A woman to love and be loved, caring deeply
but for few, maybe, but for those with all her heart and
soul, besides her duty to her Maker; blending passionate,
earthly feeling with religious devotion. A woman who
would tend and toil and moil for husband and children to
her last breath, and still be happy, having them.
All the while walking, Blyth had only talked of Australia
—by fits and starts interrupting himself to exclaim on the
home-sights round him. He spoke in answer to Joy's
repeated and rather pertinacious questions, and answered
her about the climate, and that his uncle had been kind to
him; so that he was sorry when the old man died, though
it left himself free to come home, after settling what business
remained. But, though thus talking, it was curious how
little he told! He never said if the dead man had been
rich or poor, or had left himself aught. Joy little heeded;
she kept to the subject, because it was so safe. She was
quite sure Blyth would hold back no secrets from her. But
when they sat, neither spoke much for a time; for indeed
Joy was rather silent for a woman, and her eyes often said
more than her tongue.
At last Blyth said, softly :
'Joy! do you remember, one August evening, a little
while before I went away, nearly three years ago, we were
coming over Black-tor there, and found some white heather ?
I have the sprig you gave me still.'
JOY. 187
Joy, surprised, blushed a little as he deliberately drew a
leathern pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and
showed her, carefully wrapped therein in paper, a small
brown sprig.
'It—it has nearly crumbled away,' she said, suddenly
embarrassed.
'Yes,' answered Blyth. He did not wish to hurry her, so
added, in a musing way, ' Don't you think you might .give
me a fresh flower, now ?'
Joy looked at the young whortleberries that grew thick
and pale-green under foot, and then around, where only
golden gorse met her gaze; and that she could not give
because of its meaning.
'Wait. There are flowers of all sorts at home, in the
garden,' she said, laughing under her breath at him. ' Wall-
flowers, and—and bachelor's buttons, and lavender.'
She had thought of prettier flowers even in the haste of
her answer; pansies—but their other name was jump-up-
and-kiss-me; and rosemary, but that meant remembrance;
while forget-me-nots must not be thought of.
'Yes, and there are hen-and-chicken daisies, and rose-
peonies, and—and monk's-hood, and snap-dragon. I wonder
you do not offer them too, Joy,' said the young giant at her
feet, rather angrily.
But his heart was so soft towards her that love extin-
guished anger, and he added, in gentle reproach :
' I should have liked a red rose, such as the one you wore
the other night in your breast when I came.'
' Oh, I nearly always wear them; our red roses blow
best. Perhaps—but I do not promise,' answered Joy, still
smiling in her glorious, fresh beauty above him, and keeping
her light air.
' Joy, will you come back with me past Raven's-tor, and
down to see the Holed-stone—again?'
188
JOY.
' But, Blyth, you forget; the sheep that the father wished
you to see are on the other side of the valley.'
A little silence. Young Berrington, strong, handsome,
and travelled as he was, began to feel as if he was getting
no further in his love-making. Nevertheless, the fresh west
wind blowing on his face brought a sense of elation and
briskness of spirit in its breath. And all the earth was full
of secret strivings, budding, and bursting to sure success in
blossom and fruit, which makes spring the season of hope.
Lying there on the heather hills owned by his father, seeing
with lazy, half-closed eyes their own flocks of sheep, all
baa-ing, and springing, and browsing around, with a red B
on their fat flanks; and further on all their grazing cattle in
the valley; and the meadows with the milch-kine near the
brown, stout farmstead walls just to be descried in the
distance—seeing all this, I say, such a sense of solidity and
well-being brought comfort into Blyth's soul, that with Joy,
his dear little playfellow of old and sweetheart now, beside
him, he could not believe it possible he should lose her any
more than these.
So, plucking up courage, he beat about the bush no more,
but went manfully straight to the point, though with some
awkwardness of voice and inward hesitation.
' I have not yet spoken to you, Joy, about the question I
asked you when I went away, two years and a half ago—
whether you would be my wife. But since I have been at
home these two days there has been so much to see on the
farm ; and my father and Hannah always beside us, to hear
any such talk ; and I feared it would seem too soon, too '
'Yes, Blyth ; it would have been too soon.'
' Maybe. But to-day it came upon me you might think my
mind had changed,' pursued Blyth, keeping to his point as
steadily and straight as hehad often driven Dogberry and Dew-
berry, their last farm-bred pair of horses, through the heaviest
JOY.
189
furrows of the low wheat-fields, when holding the plough.
' I do not want to harry you, nay, nor hurry you either, dear,
God forbid! You are under the shelter of my father's roof:
and, rather than vex you by presuming on that situation, I
would go back to Australia, ay, for a year, till you had
decided in your own heart; or—for always !'
The blood had come into Blyth's cheeks and a clear ring
to his voice now, as he faced his own words. He had
scarcely meant to say this last; and yet, now he had said it,
he believed it was right, and meant to stick to it.
' No, no, no !' cried Joy, warm and quick, all her lightness
gone, and speaking with her whole loving woman's soul.
'You are too generous, Blyth. It is I who must leave the
farm, if we—disagree about this matter. I am not your
father's daughter, dearly as I love him. You are his son ;
and he is an old man.'
' Why should we disagree ?' Blyth went on, sturdily,
almost stolidly. 'You are so fond of my father and the Red
House, and we have been fast comrades ever since the
evening you came, as a little girl, in our waggon; and I
loved you at first sight then, as I do now. Why ?— . . .
but have there been others, while I was away? Tell me,
Joy, have there been others V
His tone had changed, with the last turn in his thoughts,
to one of almost stern insistance. Vexed with him, Joy
cried back, in frank and saucy petulance.
'Others! Yes; half a score of admirers. Do you think,
sir, that no eyes but your own should like to look at me ?'
'To admire you is one thing, and is quite natural; but
what I want to know is this : do others, or does some one
— whom perhaps you like—seek to marry you V
Blyth spoke heavily, only wishing to learn how far matters
had gone. For if this girl, his dear little playfellow of old
was unhappy, he must help her, at whatever cost to himself.
190 JOY.
But her hasty woman's mind overshot his meaning; like an
arrow sped by one of too fearful a heart, yet no coward,
rather one imagining and daring the worst.
' I thank you, Blyth Berrington. You are worldly wise.
Hannah taught me as much long ago, though, in an old
Scotch song of hers; so I am not at all offended.'
Upon which Joy raised her voice, and sent it trilling
clearly over the furzy lea, singing,
' Be a lassie ne'er sae black,
Gin she ha'e the penny siller ;
Set her up on Tintock tap,
The wind will blaw a gudeman till her.
' Be a lassie e'er sae fair,
An' she want the penny siller,
A flie may fell her i' the air,
Before a man be even'd till her.'
She sang with a merry, mocking lilt, as if not caring a
straw. Yet, however quick to take fire, and brave to scorn
her own pain, Joy was still more guileless in all things, and
her lip trembled. Blyth saw it, slow of perception as she
thought him.
' I don't like your Scotch words, nor their meaning,' re-
plied he, with gathering warmth, fixing his blue eyes full
upon her, and rousing like a sleepy young lion, who shakes
himself and rises from his couch. 'Your song is folly to an
honest man, as satire often enough is. Here am I, for one,
no better, I fear, than most men, unless they are fools, or
rogues, or liars. Yet, I would hold myself more lucky to
get you for my wife, with only the gown on your back, than
another girl who owned all the forest of the moors and the
low lands that run for twenty miles down to the sea. There!'
'You are a good man, Blyth Berrington,' breathed Joy,
with heaving breast, and breath that quickly came and went.
' But there is more to say. Could you hold up your head,
proud as you are that the Berringtons have been honest
JOY , ioi
people for generations, if the other farmers round knew that
you had married a convicts daughterV
Her eyes shot a gleam like a sword-flash, accompanying
the swift thrust of her words. She thought to herself, ' By
this I will try him.'
Blyth never flinched from her gaze; but, standing straight
and strong on the hill-side before her, raised his open hand
towards the sky in grandly simple attestation of his words.
'As there is a heaven above us, I swear that I would
marry you if your father, grandfather, and every man
ancestor of your family each swung on a gibbet on every
tor round the moors !' Then, resuming his ordinary quiet
manner, he came near, and said tenderly, ' Darling, is that
all ?'
'No,' whispered Joy, so moved she could hardly speak.
' There is—did you know—my poor mad mother down
there in the cottage ?'
'Yes; I guessed it long ago. My father told me as
much as he could, without breaking faith, three years ago;
and Hannah let out more, as women will. Poor child ! does
that thought distress you so much?' and Blyth dropped on
his knees beside her, the better to give her comfort. ' Dear
Joy! she was driven crazy by an unhappy marriage, and her
temper was not one to bear such troubles well, I have
gathered. But, if kindness can soothe her declining days,
let me help '
' Ah, how do I know that she will have me, Blyth ? I
owe her all duty because she is unhappy; but still she has
her reason between-whiles, and will talk to me often, poor
soul, of leaving the moors, and of her ambition for me.'
' Her ambition ; and what is that ?'
' She wishes me to marry a rich man—a gentleman.'
Blyth gently drew back a little, and an odd smile, small of
its kind, sat a moment on his lips. As to Joy, the moment
192
JOY.
she had spoken, looking at him, a glow of crimson so
spread in a shamed tide from her beating heart over her
cheeks that she hid her face in her hands and wept. Her
soul had melted within her, thinking how the friend and com.
rade of her whole young life had spoken to her; and how
she had answered him. Besides, she could not look at him,
for he seemed a new man. What was this feeling ?
Had she not always known that Blyth had a noble head
and hair as yellow as a wheat-field, and eyes as blue as the
far, far sea one could just see from the top of the highest
tor; and that he was straight and tall and stalwart as any
young oak down in the wooded country. But never before
had it come to her to wonder how it would be if, for the last
time, she saw those eyes turned up to hers in honest, dumb
beseeching—to go away and never see Blyth or the Red
House nigh again.
And yet others (Steenie Hawkshaw for one) were hand-
some too, and admired her, and Oh, it is hard for
a girl to know what is best sometimes, as also what she
truly wishes !
' Don't cry, dear; don't,' said Blyth, pained. Then he
spoke with a sort of sorrowful wonder; his voice seeming
strange, yet as familiar to her as the scent of the gorse, or
the larks' songs and the sun shining; she knew its tones so
well, though the words were new. ' But, Joy darling—surely
you love me a little ?'
' I do like you very much, Blyth,' she answered, with
quick breath. ' Indeed I have always loved you as a
brother, and do so still. But whether I care for you more,
this is the whole truth—I don't know! See here, this is
what I fear, that you and I have grown up so used to being
together, as we are used to the Red House, and seeing the
Chad flow by, and the heather grow in the hills, that we
may mistake this feeling of habit and true liking for the
JOY.
193
highest passion of which our hearts are capable. Then, if
we found out our mistake too late, we should be miserable.
When you went away, I was still almost a child, too ! . . . .
' That is true. But I was a man in heart, and have come
to know my own mind as fixed, whilst far away.'
' There has not been time for me, since you came back, to
know mine; and, besides, I hardly know you for the same
again,' murmured Joy. ' Give me time, Blyth, a long time.'
'Would a month be too short for you, Joy? To me it
means four long weeks, and I have now been here three
days, too.'
'A month . . . let it be at least Midsummer's eve. That
is only a few days more,' she pleaded.
'Well, let it be as you wish, dear. Meanwhile, at least
tell me this, that you are free. If my chance is as good as
another's, I will not yield to any man. But if not—if not—
you must trust me indeed as a brother. And—I—will swear
to help you.'
He spoke slowly and sighed. Joy did not mistake his
slowness now.
' I am quite free; oh, yes,' she said, low and clear.
' Thank you from my heart all the same. Come ; dinner
will be waiting, Blyth ; let us go home.'
194
JOY.
CHAPTER XXXII.
' Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst,
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst.
By partners in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow,
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.'
Walsh.
That same afternoon, after he had been on the moor with
Joy, Blyth sought out Hannah in the wash-house, hoping
for a few private words. But the good soul was almost
invisible from the steam of hot water rising out of the great
tubs around; while piles of wet clothes surrounded her like
the thick clouds over which angels peeped their heads and
shoulders, in the farmer's old family Bible. Mistress Han-
nah was scolding, washing, and vigorously directing two
farm women who were wringing out the linen—all in a
breath. As she turned a hot red face of inquiry to Blyth,
and wiped her forehead, he felt it was not the time or place
for love-confidences.
' It is Saturday evening, Hannah,' he said in her ear with
a significant look. 'So you had better let me carry the
basket to the Logan-stone, now I am home again. It is too
heavy for you, after all this hard work.'
' Well, as to its being too heavy, there is no labour I
would call too great for those ones. I have done it these
three years, nigh since you went away, and the master had
to give it up when his legs failed. Still, it's a good offer,
and I'm obliged—and this week's wash is heavier by ordinar'
JOY.
*95
with all your clothes forbye the rest. Besides, it's safe
enough, for only Miss Rachel ever comes for the basket,
and if you walk off directly she'll not see you.'
' Quite so, quite so,' responded Blyth, turning on his heel
with alacrity and with pleasure in his heart. ' Then that's
settled, Hannah. I'll take it.'
He distinctly meant to seek a private interview with
Rachel Estonia, and plead his cause, and gain her aid, if
possible ; and now he knew how to do this without rousing
Magdalen's quick suspicions.
When the evening fell, it was the custom at the Red
House after supper for old Berrington to sit in the porch,
with his pipe and some beer comfortably placed beside him
on a small table. Joy, meanwhile, might be straying near
him in the garden, tying up pinks, or otherwise tending the
flowers, or taking a stroll down the lane. Each one en-
joyed his or her ease after their own fashion. And Hannah,
for her part, reigning over the back premises, generally
inhaled the cool of the air in the poultry-yard outside the
kitchen. Here Blyth found her on this especial evening,
sitting in state on an inverted bucket, while a crowded court
of scratching, clucking hens and their broods surrounded
her, little dreaming she mused how many should find early
deaths and grace the pot, or go to market.
'Here is your basket ready. A batch of bread of my
own making, and Miss Joy's butter, some eggs, and a little
bit of flesh-meat (they don't eat as much as a sparrow's
Friday dinner). It's heavy enough,' Hannah said, hardly
looking up, still counting her chickens.
' I wish they would take the loan of a cow from us, and
graze it up the glen. Goat's milk is not fit for them,' ob-
served Blyth, without yet touching the burden that awaited
him.
' Ay, pride's an ill horse to ride ; and, for my own part, I
13—2
196
JOY
never found plenty a plague,' sententiously returned Hannah.
' I was thinking just now that next year I'll rear more young
game-hens. Their eggs are delicater, and your father likes
them, forbye that those at the cottage up yonder will eat
them when they care for no other.' (Hannah always used
vague terms when speaking of the sisters at Cold-home.
They had not wished to be known as ladies, and wondered
at; so in her respect she was troubled to find any suitable
phrases.)
' Hannah, I wonder how we should get on without you,'
said the young man suddenly. 'You would not like to
leave the Red House either, and turn out now, after making
yourself and us comfortable for so long; would you ?'
Hannah gave a jump on her bucket, and turned almost
pale. Her big person was so visibly moved, she quaked
like a jelly.
' What do you mean, Blyth ?—I ask pardon, Mister
Blyth ?' she asked, her voice quavering ; adding with sinking
heart the correct form of words, so long disused in her
mouth, ' If so be that I have not given satisfaction '
Blyth kindly stooped and patted her shoulder.
' You good old goose ! It's nothing of that kind; but
can't you guess my meaning? If Miss Joy'—here he
lowered his voice—'if she were to like other places and
people better than the Red House and us—why, you would
go away with her, too, I suppose ?'
' Oh, I see ; yes—that's it . . . You took away my breath
nearly,' gasped Hannah, trying to recover the shock of this
new view of possibilities. But her puzzled mind refused to
grasp the change of ideas as to her future, and she could
only utter in feeble protest, ' But I thought that you and
she . . at least, you seemed made for each other from you
were children. And the master—he was by way of telling
me you were courting her, only this blessed morning. Be-
JOY.
197
sides, there's no man after her to compare with yourself in
these parts; unless to some folks' minds that young Steenie
Hawkshaw.'
' Ah—Hawkshaw ? And does he come often, Hannah ?'
' More often than my will allows him,' returned the old
woman, emphatically. ' He may have a handsome face,
still there's an empty head behind it, and a poor heart below
it. But there ! I spoke up for you whilst you were far away;
for, thinks I, it's a poor hen that can't scrape for one chicken,
and Miss Joy has only me to look after her. But now you're
back, and you're not the man I take you for if you need an
old wife's help in courting.'
'Her mother wants her to marry a gentleman, Hannah.
And, they say, Steenie Hawkshaw calls himself one, now.'
' A gentleman J Oh, Lord ! drat his impudence ! I've
known too much of that sort of gentleman in my life,' replied
Hannah, with a snort of indignation.
'You would prefer an honest farmer like me. Well, I am
glad to have you on my side, Hannah,' smiled Blyth, adding,
in a slightly scornful tone, ' And if becoming a gentleman
depends on a fair stock of grandfathers, or a smattering of
learning, or even a longer purse than one's neighbours, why,
who knows but I might hold my own with my rival yet?'
' It's not all that,' sobbed Hannah, fairly overcome now.
' It's the airs that does it! Your mother was a lady, if only
a governess; and his was a gipsy, they say, and not rightly
married either. But no matter; it's always airs as gets folks
on in this world, and he's got the best of them.'
'Well, good-night, Hannah; I must be going.'
Young Berrington caught up the heavy basket like a
feather-weight and trudged off. He was secretly well pleased
with the probable result of his own wiliness, and thought
gaily enough, 'All is fair in love or war.'
The night was falling when he parted from Hannah in the
i98 JOY.
Red House fowl-yard. The darkness had deepened when
he found himself waiting behind the Logan-stone. He
listened, it seemed for a long time, but heard nothing of
human presence—only a night-jar's cry, or the short fine
squeak of the bats flitting around like winged mice, or
perhaps a cry, as mournful as that of a lost child, which
came from the white owls who lived up in the wood, and
were now hunting their prey of ' rats, mice, and such small
deer' in noiseless flight. At last he distinguished a light
footstep coming stealing over the ground, halting in an un-
certain way, then fitfully nearing him. It approached.
' Miss Rachel!' said Blyth, stepping out from the black
darkness of the big stone.
There was a cry. He saw a white face one instant; the
next, a black, slight figure went speeding away through the
night like a scared shadow, and knew he had frightened
Joy's mother.
' It is only Berrington—Blyth Berrington,' he shouted, in
his fresh, honest voice, to reassure her.
But no answer came back, though he waited and listened
long. And there lay the basket. Heartily vexed, and not
knowing what was best, Blyth at last took up the cottage
provisions again, which he carried as far as the little porch
of Cold-home 3 setting down his load with a sound thump,
and clearing his throat with a resounding ' Hem !' before
remarking aloud, ' I beg pardon—the basket!'
He fancied a nervous wailing could be heard behind the
cottage door, and soothing, whispering sounds of answer.
As he slowly retreated, Cold-home door opened, and by the
lantern he could descry the sisters' figures, both peeping
after him. He halted and hesitated.
' Thank you, Blyth—I had lamed my foot with a thorn,'
said Rachel's clear voice, reaching him some yards away,
though she seemed to speak low. ' Don't wait.'
JOY.
199
Blyth Berrington took off his hat courteously, though they
could hardly see the action. He went home in the darkness
less gay than he had gone forth that night, feeling—foiled.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
' If ye would love and lov£d be,
In mind keep well these thingis three,
And sadly in thy breast imprent—
Be secret, true, and patient !
*****
Thus he that wants ane of these three,
Ane lover glad may never be,
But aye in something discontent—
Be secret, true, and patient!'
Dunbar.
They were very busy at Red House Farm with the moor-
ponies. These had been driven in from the hills into a
stone-fenced pound; and then Blyth and his men chose out
of those branded with George Berrington's mark all fitted
for breaking-in for home use or for sale. The latter were
now confined in a large lower yard, where they behaved
much like schoolboys when holidays are over and lessons
not yet begun, alternately playing with, kicking, or biting
each other.
' There is a beauty ! Oh, I should like to have that one
myself to ride,' Joy had cried, pointing out a jetty black
pony, with never a white hair upon him.
This was a handsome little animal, with short, thick fore-
legs, a broad, intelligent forehead, and prominent eyes;
short in the back, and with strong hind-quarters.
' He is the pick of the basket,' quoth Blyth, looking at
the little beast with sage deliberation. 'You are right, Joy;
and you shall have him. I will train him for you myself.'
200
JOY.
Whereupon, he gave orders to Dick that no one but him-
self, Blyth, should touch or meddle with Blackberry, as Joy
soon named her choice. All the Red House horses were
called after berries of some sort. Blackberry was to be the
young mistress's own pony, and required a careful education.
Dick only put his tongue in his cheek, and at once resolved,
like the obstinate old blockhead that he was, to have his
finger, when possible, in this pie.
This training of the moor-pony is like unto the Firstly of
the short discourse of this simple chapter. The Secondly
concerns an incident of the sheep-washing on the farm.
The Chad had been partly dammed in the near meadow,
at a spot where it ran shallow and sparkling, after having
just made a wide pool, firm of footing, and not much deeper
than would reach to a well-grown man's knee. Here, time
out of mind, the Red House sheep had been washed; and
here, once more, the cleansing of the flock began. But
presently, whilst overlooking his men, young Berrington's
soul became sorely vexed within him.
All the labouring men of those parts had most easy, if
not lazy, notions of what a day's work might be. And
whilst he, who had always felt proud and glad of exerting
his strength—and came, indeed, of a different race, long
ago, than theirs—had brought back fresh vigour and ideas
of energy from Australia, without doubt, the farm-work had
been growing more and more slack in his absence. Old
Farmer Berrington seemed to have lost heart while his
handsome son was away. His weight of flesh was a heavy
burden upon him. Because he suffered from gout and
swelling of the legs, he could only move about slowly and
not far; wherefore, his men behaved more and more as if
they had all bad legs too. Dick was the worst, being as
nearly a rogue as an honest man can well be; also that
often privileged plague, an old servant.
JOY.
20I
So now, as the sun grew hot that day, so did Blyth's
inward wrath, as he from time to time urged on the easy-
tempered laggards who washed the sheep, while another
man passed each animal down, and boys and sheep-dogs
kept the flocks from straying. Meanwhile, Joy and old
Berrington looked on from beneath the shade of an oak-
tree on the bank, and saw little amiss.
'Isn't it a pretty sight?' exclaimed Joy, rejoicing in the
warm sunlight; the fresh, early green of the trees and grass;
the shining of the clear river above and below the pool;
the pastoral scene with all the woolly, gentle creatures
crowded together; the mild baa-ings and barkings that filled
the air.
' I am quite sorry for the poor sheep in the river • they
bleat as if they disliked the water so much. But see, as
each one is washed and set free out there in the meadow,
how happy they are. It makes one think of souls passing
through the river of death, and enjoying themselves white
and spotless in the happy fields of Paradise.'
' Well, now, that thought surpasses mine,' said old Ber-
rington admiringly. ' I had only thought this sheep-wash-
ing reminded me of the Baptists on a christening Sunday.
I've seen them dip as many as forty in this very Chad, away
down by Moortown at Dippers' Hole, they call the spot.
There is a rock mid-stream where one man is placed lest
any should drown, for the pool is deep enough to souse
them over their heads and ears. I was mortal sorry for
some of the poor maidens, who looked grieved over their
Sunday finery all dripping. But the happy souls !—now,
that is a pleasant thought to dwell upon in one's mind. Is
it not so, Blyth ? Eh, boy ?'
'Joy has always sweet and pleasant thoughts, sir, I think;
and what is more, she gives them to those who only look at
her,' said Blyth, looking up at the girl under the tree no less
202
JOY.
admiringly than his father had done, o«,ly—differently. Or
perhaps Joy thought so, for she gently murmured something
about helping Hannah in the house, and flitted away in her
pale cotton dress, like a spring butterfly.
When she had gone, Blyth could stand his dissatisfaction
no longer. He had hitherto restrained himself, but now he
called out in anger to the men that he could wash two sheep
himself to every one of theirs, ay, and better! Their task
at this rate would not be over by sundown. The men
paused and looked up at him. Dick slowly grinned and
made reply:
'Well, young master, us don't know as to that. Two to
our one! he, he, he! Well, mebbe her had better
try.'
' I will,' cried Blyth, his blood fired.
So, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, and rolling up his
shirt-sleeves, he waded into the pool, and began his task in
thorough earnest, yet dealing gently with the dumb beasts.
He had some ado to keep his word; for the men of course
at once brisked up, and, grumbling to each other in
murmurs, were apparently resolved to thwart him in so
shaming them.
One, two, three, four, five! Blyth had so far gained, and
old Berrington above on the bank saw fair play, and enjoyed
the sport, counting aloud for them. Presently a little lad
called out that a man was riding up to the farmhouse.
' It is young Steenie Hawkshaw,' said old Berrington,
shading his eyes, for Blyth was too fiercely busy to look up.
' He will have come to wish you a welcome home, Blyth,
for he was over here lately just before you returned. Will
you not leave off now and go to see him ?'
'No,' said Blyth shortly, his face having hardened at the
name. ' He may come and see me, if he likes.'
' Is it worth while to keep dogs and yet to bark one's self,
JOY.
203
my son ?' said the old man, in a low voice that only reached
Blyth's ears, who was nearest him.
'Yes, father, it is,' said Blyth, just pausing one moment
to wipe the sweat from his brow, and going on again. ' If
the dogs are watch-dogs and don't give warning, or sheep-
dogs and won't guide, it is worth while to teach them their
duty. Then if they won't learn, get rid of them.'
Ten! fifteen ! twenty ! Blyth had still kept his word,
working grim and silent, and the men, seeing that, had
become half surly, half admiring. They were doing their
best now, but he did better. Mortal man could not have
worked harder; only that but a few sheep remained, he
could not have held on at that rate much longer.
Time was passing, and still young Hawkshaw tarried up
at the Red House. Blyth was wrathful and jealous in heart,
but, because of pride, would not stir a step to greet his pos-
sible guest. At last his old father announced, like a speaking
watch-tower—
' Here they come—Joy and that fellow Steenie. Will
you not come out of the water now, and get your coat on ?
The young sprig is fine enough for a wedding.'
Blyth raised his eyes and saw a pair pacing softly down
the meadow by the hedgerow side, with such a dainty, easy
motion and mutually agreeable air that there and then he
almost hated his rival, as if the latter was Agag, who came
delicately; and if Blyth would not have altogether hewed
him in pieces, yet he veritably gnashed his teeth upon him
in secret.
' I will not leave off till every sheep is washed—not for
any man,' he said desperately; temper and pride had kept
him in a false position after hearing who the new-comer was.
'And now '
'What, Blyth, are you there?' cried Joy's clear, flute-like
voice, astonished from the bank.
204
JOY.
Gazing up as he held a struggling sheep in his strong
grasp, his arms and massive throat bared, his yellow hair
feeling damp upon his brow, Blyth, with nought cool about
him but the fouled brown water in which he stood im-
mersed, knew that the beautiful, dark-eyed girl above him
must needs be contrasting himself as a lover with his rival
at her side. Gazing through the level sunlight, Blyth saw
that Steenie Hawkshaw was handsome, indeed, though with
a devil-may-care, licentious look in his restless black eyes.
He wore a riding-coat and a new hat, and kept slapping his
boots in a swaggering, dandified way with a hunting crop.
' Hallo ! Berrington, my old friend Blyth; devilish glad
to see you back. Hard at work already, eh, like—like the
best labouring man among them all,' he cried, patronisingly,
in answer to Blyth's gruff enough greeting (for they two had
never been friends).
Blyth held his peace, but there was a hoarse laugh among
the men, and Dick allowed himself to make reply.
1 Her is raight enough there. I tell 'ee thic, young Hawk-
shaw, not another man on the moor could do the laike.
Her has beaten ussen—vairly.'
A murmur of grim assent went up from the other men,
which so heartened old Berrington that, with his face shining
and ruddy, not unlike a setting sun, he explained the
matter.
' Capital, excellent; you have come back still just as
much a farmer as ever from Australia, I see,' cried the
young man, nodding with a most irritating air of lightness,
or so it seemed to Blyth. 41 came to bid you welcome
back especially; but 'faith the dairy, where I found Miss
Haythorn, was so pleasant, and the garden too, that it was
impossible to hurry. Indeed, we should only have dis-
turbed you, it seems—ha, ha !'
' That was precisely why I did not hurry up to the house
JOY.
205
to meet you. I had no doubt you were both enjoying
yourselves, or you would have come down to seek us
sooner,' retorted Blyth, with a fine air of careless, if not
contemptuous, good humour.
Joy blushed rosy-red, and half cried.
' Indeed, Blyth, it was only ' then stopped her-
self.
' I fear I must be going soon,' said Steenie Hawkshaw.
' Not without something to eat! ... nay, or at least
to drink in my house,' put in old Berrington hospitably.
And pressing the point so as to overcome the young man's
slight and assumed unwillingness, the good farmer hobbled
slowly, with help of his stick, to the Red House.
' I will be with you in a few minutes,' called out Blyth.
'This is my last sheep.'
He did not wish to go with them dripping like a wet dog,
and all disordered in dress, as he was, for Joy to note still
further contrasts.
In a few minutes, once they were out of sight, he leaped
on dry earth, and going up the Chad, to where the river
ran clear as crystal, there among some hawthorn bushes that
made a hidden arbour, he rapidly cleansed himself. Then
feeling fresh and cool again, however rough his toilet had
been, Blyth hastened with long strides towards the Red
House.
He was late, however; for on entering the farmyard, there
was Steenie Hawkshaw already mounted on a handsome,
well-bred mare.
At that moment, old Dick, who had left the sheep just
before Blyth, on pretext of his other farmyard duties (in
reality, because he felt dry and wanted cider) passed by,
leading the new pony, Blackberry. The old fellow believed
Blyth still safely down by the river, so was disobeying orders
partly from love of contradiction, but also to spite Steenie
2o6
JOY.
Hawkshaw. If the latter did ride a fine hunter like the
mare, at least he should see that the Red House boasted
a pony not to be matched on the moors.
The pony that was still as wild as a hawk came by snort-
ing with excitement, straining at his halter, and showing off
at his best to Dick's secret triumph. Suddenly, seeing the
strange mare, Blackberry wheeled round and, with manner-
less mischief, sent up his heels against her in a sound kick;
just to show he hated in his free heart all such well-trained
servility.
Steenie Hawkshaw uttered a big oath. He brought
down his hunting whip with a furious lash upon the pony's
back; and, in his rage, might have done so a second time,
but that next moment Blyth intervened. He caught
Blackberry by the head, in an iron grip. For, with some
maddened plunges, the pony was almost breaking loose
from old Dick's hold, and was backing wildly towards the
stable-wall, against which Joy stood pressed, too frightened
to stir—indeed, not knowing what side to fly to, as the
startled animal dashed now here, now there !
The girl put up her hands, as if to shield her face, and
knew nothing for a few seconds of confusion and outcries.
Then came a hush around her. Opening her eyes, she now
saw Blyth holding back the still struggling pony in a corner,
and soothing it. His eyes were blazing, his rough farmer's
coat torn at the shoulders ; for Blackberry had forced him
back upon an iron hook in the wall, whilst Blyth himself
was protecting Joy. On the other side, Steenie Hawkshaw,
on his mare, which he had now succeeded in calming,
offered a still, but striking contrast. He himself so spick
and span, the mare well-groomed and well-bred, though a
trifle weedy, while Blyth, and his maddened pony looked
like a struggling centaur, rude and wild—so one were they,
man and beast, in that fight.
JOY.
207
' Go to the house-door, Joy ; go now, dear,' quietly called
out. Blyth, adding, between his teeth, ' If you can't keep
your hand from striking, Hawkshaw, you might at least
control your tongue.'
' I owe you no apology for that brute of yours nearly
laming my mare,' retorted Steenie hot and quick. ( As to
Miss Haythorn, she will forgive me, I'll answer for it, for a
mere hasty word.'
He was off his mare in a jiffy, as he spoke ; and with
profuse murmurs of penitence and comfort after her fright,
gallantly led Joy, who had not yet stirred, to the shelter of
the house.
Then he took off his hat with a deep bow, remounted, and
rode away, with a farewell nod to his rival, and an air of
gay flourish. Blyth, meanwhile, looking on, dared not
leave his wild charge, and was maddened with foolish
wrath that Hawkshaw should have struck his lady-love's
property, and then have so impertinently ventured to console
her. He told himself he was only angered lest Blackberry's
temper should be spoiled at the outset of training; but he
did not believe himself.
After soundly rating Dick—which relieved his mind a
little—he went to seek Joy. But Hannah, who was in the
kitchen, told him shortly enough he might spare his pains,
for her young mistress had gone upstairs to her own room,
and was crying.
' Crying, is she ?' returned Blyth, aghast. ' Why—why—
she was startled, no doubt; and yet she did not use to be
so timid. Why, Hannah, what is the matter ?'
For the old nurse turned, and looked upon him with an
eye of scorn.
' You are a fool, Blyth Berrington !'
' Perhaps so, Hannah ; but still it is not very civil to say
so, for no one is as clever as they would like to be,' said
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JOY.
Blyth, with grave satire. Then he saw the old woman's eyes
held tears, which she dashed away with her knuckles.
'Why do you go and demean yourself, then, this day into
looking like any working-man, just when Steenie Hawkshaw
comes here as fine as a jay? It's enough to vex any girl
who may be trying—not that I know !—to make up her
mind. And when one is as fond of your father, and you,
and the farm as any woman can be, it's heart-breaking to see
you spoil your chances! . . . Oh, go away out of my
kitchen, now do ! The bread is burning in the oven—I
smell it.'
On which Mistress Hannah flung open the oven, and
banged it to again; and whisked all available kitchen
utensils out of her path so energetically that Blyth knew no
more would be got from her then; so slowly, sadly took
himself away. He scarcely saw Joy that evening, who
pleaded a headache. How fallen was he from his first
joyfulness of home-coming ! All things seemed to go amiss
with him.
Poor Blyth!
CHAPTER XXXIV.
' The dance o' last Whit Monday exceeded all before,
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor :
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay !
She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my heart away.'
W. Allingham.
It was a summer night of hospitality and merry-making at
the Red House.
Old Farmer Berrington had invited all his neighbours and
friends round, ay ! as far as Moortown, to rejoice with him
JOY,
209
over his son's return. The parlours were full of guests. A
great supper-table just now groaned with food, which had
cost Hannah a week's cooking; ale had frothed, cider
flowed, jaws had wagged busily on the part of the elders,
while the young folk let their tongues and laughter loose.
And now the good cheer had been cleared away, and
dancing had begun.
Joy had adorned the house with flowers and wreaths till
the doors seemed bowers, and dressed herself to seem more
distractingly pretty than ever in the young men's eyes.
Many a whisper told her so ; many a glance or sigh. But,
among all her suitors, she recked little of what any thought
of her excepting Blyth Berrington and Steenie Hawkshaw.
These two rivals strove hard against each other for her
favour, urged her to dance, and, while beating all the rest
from the field, yet would neither give way an inch. Joy's
eyes were flashing, her cheeks flushing, and pulses beating,
for love seemed to breathe round her like the sweet smoke
of incense, making her reason giddy, and admiration was
offered her as in a brimming cup, of which she might drink
deep.
Every maiden in life almost has her hour of triumph.
This was Joy's.
To-night she would surely make up her mind which of
these two she could love best and like to live with all her
life. As yet she did not know—and to-morrow was mid-
summer's eve !
Blyth was so strong and handsome, and had been so good
to her for years. But again Steenie Hawkshaw was hand-
some too, with a reputed dash of devilry in his behaviour
that was no disfavour in women's eyes; was looked on as a
young squire, and the best match in the country. She did
not know / She held back her love perforce as yet, till her
mind decided, feeling that then her soul's whole force and
14
2 IO
JOY.
passion would rush forth to be poured in happy libation at
the feet of her master, never to be taken back.
But as yet she was queen of herself, though this night
must decide.
'Neighbour Berrington,' uttered old Hawkshaw patroniz-
ingly, ' this is the finest supper I have ever sat down to in
these parts in any farmer's house. I say so—I declare it
is !—you may be proud of it 1'
'Well, well, if the fatted calf was rightly killed for the
return of the prodigal son, one may well do as much when
the best son God ever gave comes home safe with His
blessing,' said George Berrington, solemnly enough, yet
slowly smiling and puffing out a cloud of smoke. For the
elders had retired to finish their ale and cider at leisure in
the big kitchen, while the young people were footing it
merrily in one parlour, and the matrons gossiped and watched
in the other.
Meanwhile no one looked outside, at the hills, the moor,
and sky, while indoors was so much feasting and revelry.
Yet, being farming folk all, who live depending more on the
influences and changes of earth and sky than other men,
had they done so, there would perhaps have been an uneasy
hush among them, with the meadows all full of tall grass
ready for cutting, and the tender crops green in the fields.
It had been a dull yet gentle-seeming afternoon. Yet with-
in the last hour had come a more brooding, ominous quiet
in the air; while the sky lowered with a heavy glooming,
and animals, seeming frightened, either roosted still, or had
crept away to shelter.
Presently it grew very dark; a few drops of rain fell.
Then suddenly—with a moan down the valley, and a sound
in the air as if of mighty spirits' wings rushing by—came
the wind! There was a silence even amongst the young
folk, who gazed at each other almost awestruck.
JOY.
211
' What is it ?—a storm ?—Why, who heard it coming ?'
they cried.
But—as in the middle of questions and answers the open
doors were furiously slammed, and the windows, which had
been set wide for air, banged wildly to and fro—there was
too hurried a running in the house to set all straight, for
answers. Then the old folk, peering out at the trees that
were bending and swaying before the fury of the blast,
shook their heads and ominously recalled to each other
what a ' gr-ait wind' this or that one remembered in such
a year, and the damage thereby done. All were anxious
enough to be at their own homes to see what mischief might
be happening; but, as old Berrington declared, ' what was
quickly come would be quickly gone—and only mad folk
would start out in such weather.'
So they all piously agreed to trust in Providence watching
over their barn-roofs, seeing themselves could not do so;
and they settled down to the cider and ale again with great
resolution, to make the best of the matter.
On a whisper from Blyth, who himself slipped outside,
Joy likewise led off the dance once more. In a few minutes
afterwards no one in the Red House seemed much heeding
the storm.
Blyth was busied outside putting things safe in the farm-
yard, meantime, for a quarter of an hour. The last of a
winter rick of hay was caught up and whirled spirally aloft
before his very eyes, seeming scattered among the tops of
the oak-trees. He could not save it, and was glad enough
to hold fast by a fence.
' Talk of cyclones in the tropics! This is one, sure
enough; and I have now seen several,' he said to him-
self.
He went back to the kitchen door, and was just entering
the house, when he heard a gasping cry in his ear, as of
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212
JOY.
some one who had lost all breath, and felt a hand on
his arm. Turning, he saw Rachel Estonia in her long
black gown, her face looking deadly white under her
hood.
' Help me! Magdalen has escaped from the cottage—a
little while ago! It was in one of her attacks. It never
happened before,' she uttered, with difficulty. ' My sister
broke away from me, and got out in the storm. I have
tracked her so far, but I am lame.'
Blyth knew she had hurt her foot.
'I will come—let me only tell Joy.'
' Yes, yes ! Tell her to come too ; say that her mother
may be lost or drowned. Follow me.'
And without further pause Rachel limped away in the
storm. Blyth dashed into the Red House. He came into
the parlour by a little passage door leading from the kitchen,
and caught Joy just as she was going to begin a new dance
with Steenie Hawkshaw.
'Joy, stop ! stop ! I want to speak with you.'
' It was your dance, I know; but as you forgot it, and
kept me waiting so long, I am going to dance it with Mr.
Hawkshaw,' pouted Joy, giving him an unspeakable flash of
her luminous eyes, then scornfully turning away in the pride
of her fresh young beauty.
Steenie gave one glance of smiling disdain at his rival,
which at any other time would have maddened Blyth's
veins, and he put his arm round Joy's trim waist. But
Blyth caught her arm hard, grasping her soft flesh almost
fiercely, indeed, as he raised his voice above the twanging
of the fiddles close by.
' I don't care about the dance, but I must speak to you.
I have a message—your mother /'
Low as were the two last words in her ear, Joy heard,
and, disengaging herself from Steenie, with a quick gesture
JOY.
213
bidding him wait, stood beside Blyth alone in the passage
in a moment.
' What is it ? It must be bad for you to speak of her at
such a time,' she said, quite pale.
' It is. She had one of—her fits' (he could not frame it
better), ' and she has escaped.'
Then he hastily explained matters.
' Oh, quick!—come quickly, Blyth. We must go and
search for her. Will you come with me? You will, won't
you ? But, no matter!—you can stay with your guests, and
amuse yourself; I can go alone.'
Thus cried Joy in the heat of some foolish feeling against
Blyth she could not have described. And yet what had
he done amiss, poor fellow, but not come to claim her last
dance? and that now he stood still, as if thinking one
moment—no more.
' Where do you want to go ? And, if you want anyone,
I am here, Miss Haythorn,' said Steenie Hawkshaw, at
her elbow, that instant.
' Yes, yes; come. Oh, it is a poor soul out in this
storm ; lost perhaps—and wandering'on the moor.'
' But who is it ? And why should you go ?' cried the
young man.
' Never mind. You are not wanted, Hawkshaw. I am
going; and that will be enough, without any more help,'
roughly interposed Blyth.
But Joy, with a little cry from her inner spirit that just
reached their ears, was out and away into the storm as she
was, in her thin dress of gay-flowered cotton. Hawkshaw,
partly to oppose Blyth, partly from being really enamoured
that night, rushed after her, without his hat. Blyth saw
them both go; but himself strode back into the house.
As it was mid-summer, though night had almost come
during the dancing, yet it was not dark over the earth, even
214
JOY.
though the storm had brought with it a lowering of the already
grey, overcast sky. On such June nights there is always a
glimmer of light; even at the darkest, before dawn. So that,
as Joy sped onward down the lane—thinking of nothing,
knowing nothing beyond that Rachel and her mother wanted
her—she could still see her way, and some distance ahead.
The storm was terrible. It roared around her as if the
element was all alive with anger and malice from its skirts,
that still troubled the hills behind, to where its forefront
blew, in wild spiral curves ahead, scattering ruin and fear
on its path, unroofing houses, breaking down chimneys, and
even walls, tearing up trees. The bushes bent like whip-
cord before the blast. The trees on either side the banks
of the lane ached, groaned, and swayed as in mortal pain.
Joy felt herself torn along as a thing of nought, her human
force availing nothing against this vast, senseless power,
which no appeal could touch. She seemed to be in a grey,
whirling world, where nothing was firm but the ground under
her flying feet. The very stars seemed to reel and swim
in the rack of grey cloud overhead. She was so fleet of
foot, that in a few minutes she was far down the lane, and
had already begun to think she was alone, to be sadly
frightened, not for herself, but for her mother—her mother !
Oh, that poor, distracted soul! What if they never found
her! Men might help-—-but where were they ? She was
alone! What was that ahead ? 7 A spot of blackness upon a
path crossing the flat of grey, open meadows. It was strug-
gling forward with difficulty ; Rachel Estonia without,doubt.
Joy saw her aunt Rachel was in danger of being blown
down, and shouted her loudest to give promise of help.
Oh, where were Blyth and Steenie ? . . . How had they
the heart to desert her so ?
' Hullo, wait a bit—I am here !' called Hawkshaw, now
coming up behind her. ' I missed you coming out of the
JOY.
2I5
gate, and took the wrong turning. You run so fast!—but,
I say, what does it matter to you who is lost to-night ? Do
come home; this is sheer madness.'
'No, no, no !' she only replied, running on.
'Here am I, too, Joy,' said Blyth's voice, at her other
side. ' I have brought you a cloak. I waited to bring it,
and some other things—which might be necessary. And,
Hawkshaw—here is a hat.'
Both would have thanked him, doubtless, but that at this
instant there was a strange sound just a yard before them.
A great elm was swaying and straining before the blast,
which had caught its head as if wishing to lift it to heaven
by the forelock. It creaked; it groaned. Both men in-
stinctively sprang back, pulling Joy with them, whose knees
quaked. Little wonder ! for, the next instant, with a loud
crash, down came the great tree that had known the storms
of a hundred years blow over it unmoved, and fell prone
across the lane, low in its mightiness ; its torn, twisted roots
upturned towards the sky. Another few steps nearer and
its spreading branches might have caught, and, if so, must
have killed them.
One second or so, all three paused; and, while Joy
trembled, thanking Heaven in heart for their preservation,
even the two men felt that death had been very near them.
' Come on—come on,' said Blyth then, wrapping a cloak
round Joy as he drew her forward. 'You are safer out of
this ; and there is Miss Rachel ahead.'
' Yes, yes ; let us hurry,' she acceded; and they clambered
over the fallen tree, even while Hawkshaw cried :
'What! one of the wisht sisters? Surely you are not
mad enough to trouble yourself what happens to them, and
on such a night ?'
' Be quiet!' uttered Joy, in a choked voice. 'You do not
know how good—how dear—they have been to me.'
2l6
JOY.
And Blyth replied in his deep voice, from the other side :
' If it were only a sheep or a heifer in danger you would
save it, as would any man. How much more a woman—
and a helpless soul besides.'
Now they were beside Rachel Estonia, whose breath had
almost gone. She felt as if she would have died there in
the field, but that Blyth held her up till they came to the
shelter of a hedge, when, luckily, the storm lulled somewhat.
'Magdalen is in front—I saw her. She had stopped for
shelter, but when she saw me, she ran on and on by this
path.'
'To the black country!' cried Joy, aghast, for so, with
inborn love of beauty in nature, she had named the wild
and boggy part of the moors, which she hated.
' To the old bridge over the Blackabrook !' exclaimed
both men at the same moment, and Hawkshaw added :
' She'll never cross it alive. But is she wrong in her head ?
What is the matter ?'
Blyth saw Joy's young face wrung with pain, as she bent
it before the wind and put up her cloak as if to hide it; and
the horror in Rachel's eyes, though she held up her brave
dark face and never flinched as they hurried on. He
whispered a few words of explanation in Steenie's ear, who,
though still hardly understanding why they should be run-
ning madly through the storm and night after one of the
witches from Cold-home Cottage, yet became silent; looking
often sideways at Rachel, whom he had never seen near
before, with a growing feeling that this strange woman was
unlike anyone he had ever hitherto met; and of a different
class, too, surely—though what he knew not.
It was two miles to the old bridge, yet very soon, almost
without a word spoken, they found themselves nearing it.
Rachel's foot, which had been lamed by a thorn lately, was
swollen to agony now. None knew how intensely she was
JOY.
217
suffering, though they heard her laboured breath coming in
great sobs. Blyth, supporting her on his strong arm, almost
carried her on; but though once or twice he entreated her
to stop and rest while he should hurry forward and certainly
find her sister, she only shook her head and redoubled her
efforts.
'No, Magdalen would be frightened at anyone but me.'
Meanwhile Steenie was taking charge of Joy as if she was
his own property. He drew her cloak constantly about her
when the wind blew it back; whispered to her; kept close
by her. Blyth saw it all—but it was no time to take heed
of that.
Once or twice Joy fancied she saw, Rachel certainly saw,
with her marvellous keen eyesight, a something flitting
mysteriously ahead, like a spirit of the storm. As the path
wound round the hills, this form disappeared behind corners,
or was hidden by rocks and bushes ahead. Both felt as if
living in a nightmare—an evil dream. It seemed such a
terrible eldritch thing to be out in such a storm, pursuing a
bare-footed, lightly-clad creature over the hills; a mother—
a sister—who, with frenzied brain, was flying from those who
loved her best.
2l8
JOY.
CHAPTER XXXV.
' The fit's upon me now !
Come quickly, gentle lady :
The fit's upon me now !'
Beaumont and Fletcher.
The path sloped steeply to the bed of the Blackabrook,
which, only flecked with sullen foam at a few deep eddies,
flowed dark and turbid from its parent morass among the
most gloomy and savage hills on the moors. Below an
early British bridge, of which some few still remain there-
abouts, spanned the stream. Huge piers of blocks piled
flat upon each other, without mortar, had been placed, it
seemed by giants, in the current, across which four far
greater slabs of granite were laid in succession. Four only,
without hand-rail, made this Cyclopean bridge; and the
wind was howling down the valley and the water flowing
black and deep.
Across the river were old, deserted tin-mine workings in
the dreary hillside. Where was Magdalen? They copld
not see her as they gazed down.
' A ghost—look, look, by the cross!' cried out Hawkshaw,
suddenly, pointing above the path on which they stood,
being now half-way down its steepest and narrowest part.
An old granite cross, of which many were scattered over
the moors, was overhead in the heather, outlined against the
sky. And by it a white figure was making wild and frantic
gestures, peeping from behind the cross, flitting round it by
starts like a child at play, waving both arms on high, cower-
ing down.
Seeing itself perceived, as they stood still consulting below,
a wild shriek of laughter rang in their ears. Then, spring-
JO Y 219
ing forward to the verge, Magdalen caught hold of a large
loose stone that was piled among others in a ' clatter,' and,
exerting all her strength, hurled it down upon Blyth Berring-
ton, who stood a little apart from the others. The big stone
in its descent struck violently on a lower, projecting rock,
and so, bounding off, passed over Blyth's head, though so
close, all thought him killed for an instant.
Joy gave a scream of terror, and rushing to her old play-
fellow's side, regardless of more danger, threw her arms
about his neck. Rachel called out, in piteous entreaty:
' Magdalen ! Magdalen ! ... it is I ! Hear me; let me
come to you,' and was even already climbing up perilously
to the cross.
But only a maniac shriek came back in answer on the
wind, for Magdalen was flitting down from crag to boulder
like one of the pixies still feared on the moor, and meant to
reach the old bridge before them. She leaped down and
fled on and on, where no path was, through heather and
bracken, a white, weird form, seeming a spirit, or, if human,
a possessed being.
' Let me go, dearest,' said Blyth, low and very gently, as
he looked in Joy's horrified dark eyes. £I must prevent
her from crossing the bridge—there is not a hair of my head
hurt.'
He himself unbound the imprisoning arms he loved so
dearly, and would have kissed Joy's hands, but that Steenie
Hawkshaw glowered at him behind with hate and anger in
his face. Then Blyth darted down the path to the river,
the others following him.
When the latter reached the banks, however, they saw he
was too late. Magdalen was already half way over the
terrible bridge. Through the grey night they could see her
long, fair hair blown out on the wind that howled and swept
down the blackness of the valley. Her little bare feet
220
JOY.
tottered pitifully over the narrow footway. Her arms were
spread out, as if seeking a hold or safety where none was;
and her body seemed to cower and quiver, they fancied,
even at that distance, either from cold in her light night-
gear, or with fear. For the Blackabrook was rushing close
beneath her fierce and deep, with a sound of evil joy when,
as it swished round the rude, stone-piled piers, as if telling
how greedily, how quickly, it would suck in this woman's
poor, frail body, and whirl her down in its course—drowned!
Blyth stood still at the near side of the bridge. He had
his coat off, and was watching.
' I dare not follow yet, lest she should be frightened, and
fall in. If that does happen, I will try to save her—you
will find brandy in that pocket, if it should be wanted,' he
said, in an ordinary quiet voice, to Joy and Rachel.
Then, as both women marvelled at his self-possession, he
added:
' She is almost over now : almost—quite safe. Is it not
like seeing a wraith crossing over the Styx ? Ah ! What is
that f
Blyth had supposed safety too soon. With a wail of real
terror, Magdalen started back, even as her feet almost
touched the opposite shore of the dark, wild land of
shadows beyond, which seemed to promise freedom to her
hunted body and throbbing, distracted brain.
Out of the darkness, under the hill rising from the river
steeply, she now descried a herd of horned heads blocking
her way, moving, tossing, transfixing her with curious
animal eyes. A troop of half-wild cattle had been shelter-
ing, huddled under the lee of the bank, and, attracted by
the strange spectacle of a white object, were now shuffling
each other, and crowding round the bridge end and down
to the water. Looking back despairingly and seeing the
group of persons at the other end, through the dim twilight
JOY.
221
not recognising friends, Magdalen's overtasked powers gave
way. She stopped short, turned giddy, then threw up her
arms and fell fainting on the rough granite bridge with a low
cry. Her body swayed sideways in the fall, so that her
head and the upper part of her person overhung the water,
and, being dragged downwards by its own weight they saw
her gradually slipping, slipping over into the stream.
Joy screamed, and was then only conscious that she was
fast held and struggling in strong arms. Her aunt Rachel
was holding her back by force to prevent the girl throwing
herself into the water. She saw Blyth and Steenie rush
forward
The two men rescued Magdalen. Blyth it was who first
jumped into the black swirling water, almost as soon as he
saw the white body slip over before his eyes. But, though a
strong swimmer, he might hardly have saved the helpless
woman and himself without Hawkshaw's aid, who, wading
out to where Blyth and his burden were swept against a
rock, helped both to land. They carried Magdalen's sense-
less and dripping white figure back over the old bridge to
where Rachel and Joy awaited them. Luckily there was a
shepherd's cottage near belonging to Farmer Berrington,
where Blyth's authority induced the startled shepherd's wife
to let the poor creature be put in her bed and tended by
Rachel and Joy. But Blyth started to return to the Red
House as fast as he could, and bring back the spring-cart.
For Rachel, seeing the sufferer was regaining consciousness,
though still terribly exhausted with her mad chase, was
anxious she should come to full recovery with only the
familiar objects of the cottage round her, resisting Blyth's
most urgent entreaties to take her to the Red House.
' Will you come with me, Hawkshaw ?' then asked young
Berrington.
222
JOY.
But Steenie hesitated, and made a sullen answer. He
had run enough to-night after a crazy woman, and thought
he would now take the cross-road leading homewards.
Blyth might tell his old father to pick him up with the
gig half-way, at the Black Bull.
'As you please,' said Blyth, hesitating too; then, over-
coming dislike of his rival's manner, added generously: ' I
am heartily obliged to you, anyhow, for coming into the
Blackabrook after us. It was cold work—shake hands.'
Hawkshaw shook hands. Then, when Blyth Berrington
strode out of the hut, the other went to the door of the
inner room, and softly called Joy. The girl came out,
looking still flushed and bewildered.
' I am going—good-bye !' he said, looking closely at her,
with a searching expression.
'Good-bye; and God bless you for your help to-night,'
she said gently, still feeling in a dream.
' Is that all the thanks you have for me, after running
such a fool's race, besides wading up to my waist in the
Blackabrook this beautiful summer's night?' Steenie said
sarcastically. ' You near enough kissed Berrington without
his asking just now, for doing no more.'
Joy drew back, and her eyes blazed at him.
' How dare you ?'
' I do dare. What is more—as I have courted you before
all the other girls in the country—I think I have a right
to know what this mad witch we have been hunting to-night
is to you that you should be crying over her and kissing her,
when we brought her out of the river. It is too much, Joy
—I can't stand any more of that.'
' It is not too much, sir. She is my mother !'
' Your motherP
Steenie Hawkshaw made two steps back, staring . . . .
then gave a low whistle, and slowly uttered:
JOY
223
' And I who had meant to ask you to-night to be my wife!
I thank you, Miss Haythorn, for undeceiving me in time.'
His face, voice, and the manner in which he now bent his
head low in mock respect, were so insulting and sarcastic
that Joy felt her little hands clench, while her figure seemed
to grow taller, and swell with pride and just indignation.
The words rushed to her lips, ' You would have asked me
in vain!' But truth restrained them. An hour ago—one
little hour!—would it, indeed, have been in vain ? She
raised her hand imperiously, and pointed to the door.
Steenie Hawkshaw's eyes feasting even then with coarse
enjoyment, yet vindictiveness, on her beauty.
' Go,' she said—no more.
And he went.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
' I think the sky calls living none hut three ;
The God that looketh thence and thee and me ;
And He made us, but tve made Love to bed
Morris.
Midsummer Eve. What a warm, what a soft, what a sweet
night it was !
A day of wild, driving rain was over, and at evening the
sun had burst out for a last hour of glorious, reviving beauty.
And now, at night, the moon looked down on the fair
landscape of the Chad valley, which seemed steeped in a
haze steaming up in incense from the grateful earth, exhaling
224
JOY.
in fragrance from the flowers—the honeysuckle and carna-
tions—that had kept their sweetness pent in all day. The
lush grass, so lately bent low, was raising its green banners
imperceptibly once more. The shaken flower-blossoms, the
heavily wet-laden leaves felt free again. And the nightin-
gales were singing passionately down in the hawthorn brake
by the running river, which sang too in a low, full gurgle.
And across the river was the moon, rising over the opposite
hills just touching with its beams the softened outlines of
trees and bushes on which the dew gleamed like a woolly
shining pall. There was not a harsh outline, not a discord-
ant note or sound that night in the whole world—the world
of these two people.
Blyth and Joy stood together in the dusk in the shelter
of the linnhay, where it was dry underfoot. The ground
in front was carpeted white with torn petals from a tall
rowan-tree, whose blossoms overhead were even now send-
ing out their strong scent on the night air. Close by a
wicket-gate led into the farm garden, where a thousand other
sweets mingled with those of the wilder trees and bushes
that loved the open moors. In front of the pleasant shed,
with its moor-stone posts and thatched and lichened roof,
the meadow sloped gently to the river. Such was the scene,
the little world that held these two, who asked nothing
beyond.
Joy was standing with her head on Blyth's breast. His
arms were round her. It seemed to both that the climax of
their lives had come, the highest point at which they seemed
nearest heaven.
' Oh! Blyth, Blyth,' murmured the girl, ' oh, dear
Blyth, I must have loved you best all the time ! I
did love you best always. I must have been dull, stupid,
blind, indeed! not to have known it the first moment I
saw your face again.'
JOY.
225
Blyth drew her still closer to himself, and did not speak
because his lips were laid on hers, that were soft and sweet
as the leaves of a rose. At last he said :
' Dear, be glad you had not such heart-ache as I had,
these last three years while I was away.'
And in the pauses of their sentences they could hear the
nightingales singing of a gladness that was almost pain; of
a pain that was the ecstasy of passion overfilling the beings
too small, too poor, too earthly, to express rightly such
supreme rapture.
'Blyth,' said the girl softly, ' I cannot help thinking what
will my mother say? She was so ambitious, poor soul,
for me. Oh ! why can one never feel pure joy ?'
' Earth might be too like heaven, perhaps; we could not
resign ourselves to leaving it,' said Blyth. Then he gave a
silent laugh that shook his body, not unlike his father; and
Joy wondered what this meant till he said, ' Forgive me,
darling, for not having told you something sooner that may
please—your mother. To you it will make no difference.
See here, you know that as regards old family there is not a
squire all round the moors whose land has been owned as
many hundred years, from father to son, as ours. But
though we are only simple farmers, for all that, still I have
come back a rich man from Australia ; even very rich com-
pared with those around us.'
' Blyth 1 is it true ? And you never told me 1! . . . But
there, say nothing; I am glad you did not. You know now
I could not love you better, or feel more proud of you, if
you owned all the moors round down to the sea.'
' I do know it, my love. I always trusted you to be true
and honest, whether I was rich or poor; but, if you had
known it, so might others, and it was best you should not
be influenced.'
(Had Blyth been so sure always as now that gold has no-
i5
226 JOY.
weight in woman's mind? Well, he believed so; so did
Joy. Ah ! happy, happy souls, they did right to believe the
best of themselves ; it helps us all to do the best.)
'You mean my mother. Yes,' said Joy thoughtfully.
'But oh, Blyth, think of Aunt Rachel; how happy she will
be ! I wonder what they are saying now.'
CHAPTER XXXVII.
' Non, l'avenir n'est a personne !
Sire ! l'avenir est a Dieu !
A chaque fois que l'heure sonne,
Tout ici-bas nous dit adieu.
L'avenir ! l'avenir ! mystere !'
Victor Hugo.
What were the two sisters in the brown thatched cottage
saying to each other at the same hour that night, even while
the lovers stood in the dusk together ?
Magdalen was crouching by the embers of a low fire—for
though the night was so warm and still she shivered ; and
yet again she said she needed air, so the door was set ajar
into the porch. The nightingales wer£ singing even more
loudly up here in the glen, making the heart of one of the
two sisters ache with an old pain. The lantern burned as
ever of nights in the window-sill, with the red curtain drawn
behind it.
Magdalen, strangely, on recovering consciousness after
the terrible adventures of the night ofs the storm, seemed,
JOY.
227
though weak, to have come to her full senses again, but to
have utterly forgotten what had passed. Sometimes she
would look with a sort of musing wonder at her wounded
feet and the scratches on her arm—seemed surprised at her
own great exhaustion of body. But she never said a word
of the matter, nor did Rachel.
Now Magdalen, as she rocked herself to and fro, crooned
the words of an old ballad, broke off impatiently, and said:
'Rachel! Are you listening? I wonder why I feel so
restless ? All this spring I have felt as I never did before,
as if I was always waiting, waiting. First it seemed to be
for Joy to leave school at last. But, that point passed, it
goes on and on within me all the same. Do you hear ?'
Then came a low sigh from the dark figure knitting, with
unwearying mechanical fingers, in the dull red gloom.
'Dear, I always hear you—I always listen.'
' Then tell me what it means,' went on the plaintive voice,
with a dissatisfied sound of longing like a wail in the words.
When will the end come, and what will it be after this
weary waiting and waiting ? Do you think' (speaking low)
' it means that this is waiting to see him—that he will come
some day ? I have always felt that we should see him
again, you and I.'
Rachel shuddered, and felt as if a stab had just been
given to her heart, but controlled herself and kept silent.
' He will think me faded and withered,' went on the poor
self-tormented soul. ' Rachel, you are handsome still. It
is not fair! For, after all, I was far prettier than you as a
girl, and I am so very little older. If he did come back, he
would still care most for you. Oh, it is dreadfully wrong
still—after all these years !'
' But think of Joy—think of your own young daughter,
dear Magdalen. Surely any father, seeing her so lovely,
would love you, if he did come.'
x£—2
228
JOY.
(Ah ! poor Rachel, how troubled was that ' if'! She was
such a strong woman, both in mind and body, and her years
since then had been so still and unchangeful, it seemed as
if what had once grown in her heart would never quite die,
so as to be forgotten and clean out of sight. No, as a dead
tree still stands to tell of what has been, so was it with this
memory in her heart.)
'He would love you best—he must! for her sake and
your own, too,' repeated unfalteringly the lips that trembled
unseen pf her who had been unwittingly her beloved sister's
rival.
' Love me ! And of what good would that be now, so
late; except to revenge myself? Yes ! . . . yes, I should
like that. Revenge is what I want still. Besides,' added
poor Magdalen musingly, ' if he came and asked me to
go back into the world and society again, it might not suit
me just now, with Joy likely to be well established in life.
One grows used even to this hermit's existence and our
crusts of bread in the wilderness; and when she is married
to young Hawkshaw, and living at the Barton, I should like
to be near, of course.'
Rachel became sick at heart. For the fear had been
pressing upon her all this day that now perhaps they must
indeed perforce leave the glen and hills and the shelter of
the poor moor cottage. Ever since the night of the storm,
all the guests who had been enjoying the hospitalities of
the Red House Farm must know why Blyth Berrington and
Joy had left the dance in such haste, and the news would
have spread of the night-chase after the mad woman. Then
the village children would know of it, and come up to beck
and point at the silly woman at Cold-home, perhaps call out
foolish, jeering words she might hear. For since the days of
Elisha the prophet, so out of the mouths of ill-taught babes
JOY.
229
and sucklings such words of evil, soiling innocent lips, will
be heard.
' After all, Joy may not marry young Stephen Hawkshaw.
She may prefer my favourite, Blyth Berrington.'
' He is not so rich—the other is called a squire; and Joy
has gentle blood in her veins.'
' So has Blyth Berrington, on his mother's side, at least;
while the Berringtons have done yeoman's service since the
days of Athelstan. Steenie Hawkshaw's mother was a
gipsy, they say; and his father is a drunken churl. Oh,
my dear sister, the money at the Barton may flee away as on
wings, but young Blyth has a heart of gold, and he adores
our child.'
' No man is really good, Rachel; or not good as women
are. Perhaps the best among them may think of God be-
fore themselves. But women come always last in their
thoughts, believe me. Men will say otherwise; but it is not
the woman, but their own love for her they think much of.
Besides, how should Joy be happy? Are not the sins of the
fathers visited on the children ?'
There was a silence in the cottage for some time. The
lantern glimmered red, the embers glowed ; out of doors,
one could hear the Chad running in the dusk; and still the
nightingales sang.
A long, long silence. . . .
Then a cautious but heavy step outside was distinctly
audible in the small porch. There was a pause as of some
one listening, next the door was little by little opened wider,
and a man's figure stood in the doorway, bent forward in a
crouching attitude. Both women felt their hearts beating
hard with terror to suffocation; for, even in that uncertain
twilight, their eyes had recognised the coarse canvas dress,
cropped head, and striped stockings of a convict escaped
230 JOY.
from a great prison over the moors. By long habit each
drew her hood far over her face. Then Rachel, nerving
herself, drew back the red curtain sharply, and, snatching
up the lantern on the window-sill, turned it full on the in-
truder's face.
It was Gaspard da Silva /
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
' Woman's love is hard to kill,
Lopp'd or felled there sprouteth still
Some small shoots of tender green,
To remember what has been /'
' Madre de Dios!' muttered the convict, starting back at
the flash of the lantern, and at sight of the nun-like, dark
figures which hitherto, in the twilight of the room, his eyes
had not been able to'distinguish. 'Are these little sisters
of charity ?'
There was perfect silence a few moments in the cottage;
then, recovering himself, Gaspard asked, in a rough, threaten-
ing voice :
' Is there a man in this house ?'
Magdalen half raised herself from her couch, trying to
shriek out, ' Yes, several men. They will come soon; they
will protect us.' But her lips could not utter a word, though
they moved ; and it was Rachel's low voice that replied :
JOY.
231
'No.'
' Who are you both, then ? Speak !—are you dumb ?'
Slowly came the answer; Rachel waiting for her sister,
who still did not or could not speak, trembling and wonder-
ing if he would not recognise them.
' We are sisters. We live alone—and we try to serve God.'
' Then you can serve Him by serving me now,' said the
convict, with an air of greater assurance at once, and a
sound like an effort at a laugh. ' I want some iood—food.
I have been starving all day and last night. Give me some-
thing to eat quickly, I tell you, or it will be the worse for
you both.'
At the hoarse, horrible tone as of a desperate man,
Magdalen cowered down closer on her bench, and hid her
head among her cushions, seeming in a faint state. But
Rachel hastily obeyed, and took out all the eatables in their
scanty cupboard, little enough excepting a loaf of home-
made bread from the farm and some cheese. Gaspard did
not wait till she had placed the food on the table, but,
snatching some from her hands, began to devour it, tearing
at it with his teeth like a famished wolf. Presently he
dropped heavily on the wooden chair she had silently
placed for him, and, taking up a knife and fork, ate on now
more like a human being.
Rachel, watching him, felt the horror and repulsion that
had first filled her heart change little by little to divine pity.
Under those coarsened, degraded features, where the brute
alone was now visible, and the soul seemed reduced to
some faint spark within, almost overpowered, she yet recog-
nised the traces of the former handsome Da Silva—the man
of brilliant powers who then had admiration, even awestruck
reverence, for all that was good and holy, but whose star
seemed evil from his birth; ever unlucky, poor, noble, am-
bitious, and overmastered by his own violent passions.
2 32 JOY.
When he had partly finished, Gaspard looked up and
said:
' I was hiding this evening up there on the hills among
the heather and stones, for I saw two peasants coming, and
I was afraid. They met each other and pointed down here
at the light, speaking of two witches that lived in this cot-
tage, and how one sister had gone mad last week, and no
one dare come near them. That is she, I suppose ?'
He nodded with brutal carelessness over towards Mag-
dalen, who visibly shook, whether from rage or more
sorrowful emotions.
Then, as no one answered, taking silence for consent, he
added:
' Ah—so it is so. Yes; I thought to myself that is the
house for me ! Mephistopheles among the witches, ho, ho !'
His laugh, that resounded strangely within the bare walls,
had no ring of mirth in it. He still ate on till quite satis-
fied; next, looking up suddenly, said :
' Now, I am dead tired, and am going to sleep; but you
two must watch, for I may be tracked here. I have escaped
from prison, and by G—d I mean to stay free this time or
die. If either of you betray me, see here, I will cut your
throats first, I swear, and then my own.'
He held up the knife with which he had just finished eat-
ing his bread and cheese, an old table-knife, sharpened to a
point by long use, and with an air of bravado, yet something
of former grace lingering in his mock politeness, bowed to
the silent women, then stuck the weapon in his waist-belt.
Rachel could hardly restrain herself from speech. Her
heart was full to bursting, her pulses beating like hammers
in her temples with the pity, the agony of it all; her ears
were already straining lest they might indeed hear the foot-
steps of those coming to drag this unhappy wretch back to
the gaol that was a living death. Words were rushing to
JOY.
233
her very lips ! She longed to .fling back her hood and cry
out:
' Rest, poor hunted soul! You know us ! . . . We, the
women who loved you, forgive all the past; we will watch
over you. No blind chance, but a Divine guidance, has led
you to us here at last. Only repent, repent, and God will
forgive you as we do.'
But looking past Gaspard da Silva, as Rachel stood
motionless like a dark statue, all her emotions hidden under
her draperies, she saw that Magdalen had started, half raised
from her crouching posture, with a wild glitter in her blue
eyes, at her husband's threat of murder. Her pale features
twitched in an agony of fear as she laid her finger on her
lips with a gesture imploring caution; then, drawing her
hood forward, that had fallen back in her fright, she sank
down again unseen by Da Silva, whose back was turned to
her. At that, Rachel's words of consolation and revealing
utterance stood still like a swift river arrested. Magdalen
was a wife; this was her husband. Who dare speak, if she
would not have it so ?
'You are quite safe; do not fear. . . . You may trust
us,' she murmured, almost soundlessly, her voice being
almost unrecognisable to herself.
Then she pointed towards the inner room, of which the
door stood ajar, showing the truckle bed on which the sisters
were accustomed to sleep together.
' We two will sit up by the fire and guard you,' she added,
in her faint breath, like the wind rustling through dry leaves,
for she was hoarse from emotion.
The convict paused with a slight awakening of curiosity.
Till now his mind had only been full of the instinct of self-
preservation—his chances of escape, his hunger and thirst
and fears. But already freedom was beginning to revive
insensibly old influences and habits, and he said:
2.34
JOY.
'You are not a common peasant woman. Let me see
your face.'
But Rachel held her hood more tightly drawn down than
before with her strong hand.
' I am not young or handsome now. No one in this
country round has seen our faces these many years . . .
We have taken you in, and will take care of you ; but '
Her faint tones died away.
' Some vow, I suppose. Who would have guessed
religion played such pranks in this howling English
wilderness ?' carelessly muttered the Spaniard, adding louder,
' Well, I can see you are telling truth, for that sister, for one,
has grey hair.'
With a harsh laugh, he pointed towards Magdalen, whom
he had turned to see, and one of .whose long coils of hair
had fallen loose on her shoulders. Rachel looked also;
and for the first time seemed truly to perceive and know
that her sister's luxuriant fair hair, she had so often
admired, had slowly changed — that now it was grey!
Magdalen's form quivered slightly about the shoulders and
chest, whether from passion or suppressed sobs the others
did not know.
But Gaspard went into the next room, and, not even
pausing to kick off his heavy boots, flung himself on the
bed, begrimed as he was with bog mud and damp moss-
stains, after his wanderings and concealment all night and
day on the moors. And soon the weary wretch was fast
asleep.
JOY.
235
CHAPTER XXXIX.
' How strange it is to wake
And watch while others sleep,
Till sight and hearing ache
For objects that may keep
The awful inner sense
Unroused, lest it should mark
The life that haunts the emptiness
And horror of the dark.'
Patmore.
That terrible night the long hours passed almost silently
for the two sisters. They sat close together, as for protec-
tion, over the low fire which Rachel fed at times to keep up
vital warmth in Magdalen.
At first they had spoken together in whispers, but only
saying* what both knew—that Gaspard was a convict; that
he was in hourly danger of being recaptured, and being
sentenced to worse penal servitude; that it was terrible ! . . .
' Will you not tell him who you are before he goes ?' asked
Rachel, with an effort.
' I do not know yet. Don't torment me, Rachel—let me
think. He might only know of Joy to ruin her marriage,
or ask blackmail of her all her young life. Besides, as he
called me mad and grey, he might admire you still P
This last was said with such intense bitterness that Rachel
bent her head on her two hands, and felt as if unable to
bear it. Was nothing sufficient to atone then, in Magdalen's
eyes, for the wrong so innocently done? Not the sacrifice
of Rachel's life, the love and self-denial of every hour
during days and weeks that had grown to long, long years ?
Then she felt, after a few moments of this worst anguish
of soul, a soft pressure of Magdalen's body leant close
236
JOY.
against herself, an arm passed caressingly round her neck,
and her sister's head laid upon her shoulder.
1 Oh, Rachel, forgive me; you know I don't mean it,'
said the poor creature. ' I am only mad when I say these
things, so you needn't mind me. If ever I get to heaven, as
I hope now, it will be your work, for without you I should
have gone quite deranged these dreadful years, and so been
ruined body and soul; because then I could never have
repented of all my own old sins. But I have been better
lately, have I not ?'
Rachel said tenderly:
' Yes, dear. I don't mind.'
Her heart melted with affection as she looked down at the
worn, delicate face beside her; at the hair still curling so
prettily as it escaped from Magdalen's hood, and in which,
whatever Gaspard had said, fair streaks still mingled with
the grey.
Rachel said truly that now she did not mind. For such
a caress is enough to gain forgiveness from any woman who
loves truly.
And after this both sisters had remained long, long silent.
Inside the other room the heavy breathing told them that
Gaspard still slept. At last Magdalen sat upright, and said
in a whisper, as if she could bear some suppressed wish no
longer:
' I must see him again. I want to be quite sure what he
looks like now. Do not come, Rachel; I want to go by
myself.'
Lighting a tallow candle, which she shaded carefully with
one hand, Magdalen stole on tiptoe into the sleeping-chamber.
She stayed a long time, or what seemed so to Rachel, left
alone with all her nerves strung to highest tension.
Magdalen was his wife. She had a right to go, but still
He was sleeping, for the heavy breathing could be
JOY. 237
heard through the open door; yet who knew that he might
not awaken any moment ?
But still—but still—this was not the vague fear pressing
on Rachel growing each moment to such heavier weight,
she too could bear the suspense no longer; and, springing
up in her turn, she followed her sister into the next room.
Only just in time !
Magdalen was standing, bending over the bed; her eyes
fixed on the sleeper's upturned face and exposed, brawny
neck with a strange, self-horrified, yet magnetized expres-
sion. She held the light partly concealed behind herself
with one hand. But the other, which had evidently with-
drawn the knife from Gaspard's waistbelt, was slowly stealing
towards him, while grasping the weapon with twitching
fingers. Rachel saw it all in a glance, and said softly, in
her ear :
' Remember Joy / He is her father !'
Magdalen started so violently that she trembled all over,
and she gazed helplessly in Rachel's face, as if imploring
mutely that she might not be accused of meaning ill.
' Come away, dear; come back with me,' murmured
Rachel, low, taking the knife and light from those nerveless
fingers, and leading her sister back into the cottage-kitchen.
Once there, Magdalen sank down in a violent fit of
smothered weeping, which Rachel did not attempt to check,
believing it would best relieve her brain. She was right;
for at last, when exhausted, Magdalen looked up, and was
able to speak coherently, though interrupted still by occa-
sional low sobs. She was weak, but again in her right mind.
' I don't know how I could think of such a thing ! Oh,
surely I could never have really done it,' she repeated,
shuddering. ' It was not as if it was I myself, Rachel, but
something seemed saying quite loud in my ear, that Gaspard
wanted to cut our throats; and that it would be kinder
238
JOY.
to stab him to the heart, rather than that our two lives, and
perhaps Joy's also, should be taken—and then all seemed
to grow red before my eyes, like blood!'
' I believe the devil does so tempt many persons; and
that some evil spirit did really so whisper to you,' returned
Rachel, deeply moved with horror of sympathy, yet all the
more strong and solemn in religious faith. ' Oh, Magdalen,
if the powers of darkness are so near us, let us pray. We
are told, you know, that by prayer alone we shall be granted
help in an hour of need. Let us pray, dear, together.'
' Yes, yes; pray that good angels may be sent to us in-
stead,' faltered Magdalen, looking round as though she
could see the ghostly visitants she so dreaded beside her in
the cottage. She knelt close to Rachel, shivering; who
placed a protecting arm around her shoulders, and raising
her own noble head with the grandly solemn, yet simple
look of a human being addressing the heavenly Father—
whose omnipresence and actual presence there in the cot-
tage, though unseen, she believed in, yea ! as fully as ever
her patriarch forefathers, who had spoken with God face to
face in the desert—she prayed aloud in undertones of great
emotion.
When, after long intercession and entreaty for Magdalen,
for Gaspard, for herself also as a fellow-sinner with them
both, during which her whole soul and heart seemed bared
before her Maker, Rachel ceased—calmed and exalted as
one whose petitions are granted—Magdalen, who had
listened awe-struck, though weeping often in penitence,
turned and kissed her.
Now, her kiss was so rare that Rachel felt a great sur-
prise; for Magdalen, while always accepting her sister's un-
spoken devotion as a matter of course, invariably expressed
an almost whimsical distaste to - any personal show of affec-
tion between those who, living together, knew, she said, or
JOY.
239
ought to do so, of their mutual regard. She had often in
this way rebuked Joy, whose exuberant nature, however,
could not be so easily checked. And Rachel, in her own
heart, had as often longed for some refreshment in her
desert of that water, which she submissively believed the
closed well contained. For in things of the heart, mere
spiritual faith without proof is apt to grow disheartened, and
the plant that never blossoms seems no better than a dead
stick.
' Rachel,' Magdalen said, ' I never have known, till this
very moment, how much you have done for me all these
years—nor what you really are! You have been my good
angel. I have forgiven Gaspard now, all, with my whole
heart, and I feel pardoned myself. I seem to feel so white
and clean too by that forgiveness that, if I were to die at
this instant, it might be a happiness to me.'
' Dear,' suggested Rachel, ' let us show forgiveness, be-
sides feeling it. His pockets must be empty, leaving prison ;
and by sunrise he is sure to waken and leave us. We have
money, let us put up all we can spare for him, and he will
find it when he has left us.'
'Yes, yes; but shall we tell him who we are? Advise
me, Rachel; I feel as helpless as a child, and cannot think
what is right, though I wish to do it. There is Joy '
' Shall we leave it, as we prayed, to God's guidance ?'
said Rachel, staggered herself; for, alas, she now expected
no late repentance, no good to Gaspard from such a revela-
tion.
He would only insist, perhaps, on staying hidden in the
cottage; and who could foresee the effect upon Magdalen ?
She repeated again, firmly, after short reflection :
'We shall be shown what is best to do; do not fear that.
Now help me to get out our bag.'
The sisters kept a little hoard of gold hidden under the
240
JOY.
hearthstone. Hannah only, besides themselves, knew of
this treasure; for it was the last of Rachel's small fortune,
to be kept in case of her own death for Magdalen's use.
The difficulties of putting this money in a bank, owing to
their circumstances of life, had seemed enough to induce
them to hoard it themselves like the peasants among whom
they lived. Rachel, being strongest, lifted the stone by a
contrivance she had made of first removing a brick from
those that edged it, and so inserting her hand. The tilted
hearthstone showed a snug little cavity below, from which
Magdalen eagerly lifted out an old-fashioned satin bag,
embroidered in purse silks. Drawing up a stool beside
Rachel, who was still on her knees by the fireplace, both
sisters put their hooded heads together in whispered con-
sultation, while Magdalen, opening the reticule in her lap,
ran her slender fingers through a little glistening heap of
sovereigns it contained.
They could hear the young house-martins chirping outside
under the eaves, in the stillness, as they two bent close side
by side, for the dawn was coming.
' How much can we spare him ? Let us give him all, all
we can ! for Joy will be rich enough when she marries,'
Magdalen eagerly murmured. 1 It is only yours, you know,
Rachel, for mine was all spent by him—but you agree?
Yes, thanks, thanks. Ah! my God . . . /'
The words came with such terror from her lips, while her
eyes dilated looking back, that Rachel quickly saw—oh,
horror, Gaspard da Silva, just roused from sleep and stealing
close upon them, his eyes still drunk with slumber, yet fixed
with a savage, terrible joy on the gold, his brawny brown
hand with its strong muscles clenched. There was a cry of
entreaty! He heard not; understood nothing! . . . Quick,
blinding blows! a horrible hopeless struggle as the women
put up their arms helplessly to defend themselves. Magda-
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241
len, sinking, made by some inexplicable instinct—she could
not have told why—a last convulsive effort to hold the bag
that was being wrenched from her clenched fingers.
With a brutal execration, the convict caught up the knife
that still lay on the table by the lantern, where Rachel had
placed them both, and aimed a blow that must have stabbed
the poor woman at his knees, but that Rachel caught his
arm. Half stunned herself, she yet averted the full force of
the stroke, but it grazed her own neck and shoulder, inflict-
ing a long flesh-wound.
' GaspardP—she cried. The hood fell back on her neck,
revealing her still beautiful face, deadly white, in its setting
of rich black hair. The murderer paused with his arm
raised, and the muscles of his face yet working in the frenzy
of bloodthirstiness, and glared with fear as at a spirit-being.
' Do you not know us?—I am Rachel, and that is Magdalen
your wife!'
She pointed to where, on the floor, her sister had fallen,
almost insensible, her face also now visible, but like that of
the dead ; her long hair curling about her. Gaspard gazed
at her, wild-eyed—back at Rachel.
'Witches!—ghosts!' he cried, with a horrible curse. Then,
still clutching the gold, he burst away from the sight of that
pale face and those imploring arms—out of the little brown
cottage under the cliff, and away into the chill, and mists,
and coldly-coming dawn on the hills.
16
242
JOY.
CHAPTER XL.
' This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Everie nighte and alle.
Fire and salte, and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy satvle.
*****
If hosen and shoon, thou gavest none,
Everie nighte and alle.
The whinnes shall prick thee to the bare bane,
And Christe receive thy sawled
Lyke- Wake Dirge.
All the next day a lonely man was wandering, wandering
over the hills, lost in a fog that covered the moorland far as
ever his weary feet could stray. Sometimes, sitting down
under the poor shelter of a bush—dulled—cursing fate, and
the life he still clung to, he would try to think. Which way
had he come ? . . . where was he ?
With the dawn he had found himself at the topmost
height of the Raven's Tor.
The cold, white light in the east, stealing upwards through
the thin mists that veiled the world and sky, told of the
coming sun. Down in a deep, broad valley below him were
huge, opaque clouds—one shaped like a whale, he thought,
others like monstrous, woolly white animals. Up rose
Phoebus Apollo! glorious in morning splendour; his beams
warming the earth far and wide, and shooting at last into
the valley below. At that gleam, as if obeying a master-
spirit's summons, the huge white clouds rose slowly at once
into the warmed higher air. Up and up, like enormous
sheep crowding to their shepherd's call, they hastened,
faster and yet faster.
Once more the beautiful, ancient myth was daily fulfilled.
JOY.
243
Indra leads forth his cows to pasture in the plains of heaven;
moisture-laden at night, they will noiselessly sink down to
rest, brooding near earth once more.
Ah! the sun was rising higher, with faint but revivifying
warmth, on chilled human marrow and bones. Poor Tom's
acold!
The man crouched among the piled stones of the huge
natural cairn aloft, starts hearing the black ravens solemnly
flapping over his head, and looks up at them with haggard
eyes. Why do they come there ? For him ?—to pick his
bones, if his pursuers, hunting the country far and wide,
force him to stay hidden here in damp brushwood and
bracken, hungry and wet for days, maybe, till his flesh rots,
leaving only a skeleton lying in this cursed lair ? Had he
eaten food last night ?—had shelter ? or was it all a wild,
horrible dream, a nightmare? Perhaps yonder two black
birds overhead were only those two witches watching him
under another form ! . . . His heavy brain was bewildered,
yet he told himself fiercely again and again that the cottage
and those two he had seen there was all a dream! an illu-
sion of the senses ! Liberty had driven him mad.
Yet his pockets were heavy with gold. And ha! what
was this ? The full sunlight showed him specks of blood
on his shirt; blood—hers, Rachel's !
Ah, God!—if there be a God !—fate, cursed fate ! it was
true, then ?
Her own face, that, after all these gaol-years and memories
of crime, had looked so sweetly up in his; her voice, her
praying arms raised, and—her blood, hers on his shirt!
The convict—for Gaspard da Silva no longer seemed
himself after all these years in which he had not heard his
real name in prison, or among his evil associates—bowed
his head on his knees.
So had Rachel Estonia sat in that very spot, on the deso-
16—2
244
JOY.
late moor, how often in the bygone years, but with what
different thoughts in her heart.
At last, after a time, the man felt a perceptible sensation
of chill, though the sun should have been rising and grow-
ing warmer. He raised his head. What was this ? The
sun no longer shone, except like a dull lamp, hardly visible
through obscuring white mist. He started up and stared
wildly round; but already nothing could be seen of the
surrounding country.
A fog on the moors—he knew what that meant. Perhaps
safety from his enemies; perhaps, perhaps !—that he could
not find his own way.
No thought of giving back the money that weighed down
his pockets was even now in his mind. His only idea on
leaving the cottage, and betaking himself once more to the
shelter of the hills, was the instinctive fear that a hue and
cry might be raised after him for this robbery. If he could
but skirt along the upper moorlands till nightfall, then
descend and make his way to the nearest great town, where
he might lie harboured among those who would shelter such
as he till danger was past!
All that day, miles away in the lower cultivated country,
the country-folk could see the fog rolling in swathes of mist
on the moors, passing in great clouds over the hills, only
parting at moments to close together in thicker curtains
than ever.
It was a grey, mild summer's day with them; thin mists,
the edges of the great fog, swept down to them at times;
but still the work of mowing the hay-meadows went on.
1A terrible day on the moor!' they would say at times,
pausing to sharpen scythes and looking up afar. They little
thought a man was wandering on those hills, lost, lost, lost 1
soaked to the bone, heavy with gold, but hungry.
In the late afternoon the sun made a brief effort, and,
JOY.
245
piercing the upper stratum of vapour, touched the highest
hill-tops. Up one of these the wanderer was now climbing
out of valleys and coombes, in which the mist was so thick
and blinding, their nature and depth could be guessed by
no man; while he had slipped and been bruised often on
the cliff-sides. Ha! aloft here it was pleasant at last. A
man could feel warm and at ease almost, but for the cruel
hunger-pain gnawing at his vitals.
Gaspard stood in the pale sunlight and looked up at the
mild blue sky flecked with cloudlets. Around him was
a clearly defined area of a few square yards, but on the
shoulders of the hill the fog was like great wool-fleeces.
He stared hard, with all his might, striving to discern some
outline of the new country which must lie below his eyrie—■
but in vain.
Close behind rose a tor, as on almost all these hills ; but
something in the shape of these rocks, like granite cheeses
piled on each other, struck him as vaguely familiar. As he
gazed, a slow flapping of wings sounded overhead, and two
solemn black birds rose and sailed slowly away.
It was the Raven's Tor! He had come back to the very
spot he had left that early morning ! Then he blasphemed.
There was a chasm on one side of the hill—a sheer fall
for the few yards he could see. He had half a mind to
fling himself down there on the soft grey vapour that hid all
horrors of the descent, and have done with it all. But the
gold that jingled in his pockets, as he moved, restrained
him. He sat down under a broom bush, every twig of
which was coated with moisture, and, pouring a glittering
stream of coins through his fingers, gloated over them. He
would still defy the world, buy life, liberty, pleasures
Ah! Raising his eyes, he saw white, curving shapes
rising like spectres from the abyss full of mist below him.
Were those women ? two women pointing at him with wan
246
joy.
long spirit-fingers. He trembled, and cold drops broke out
on his brow. Then he laughed at his own superstition,
seeing now it was only some faint breeze, unfelt here, that
had stirred the vapour below. But the fog was rising surely
—rising to rob him of his sunlight and warmth, and choke
him once more with its cold, death-giving breath. There
were ivy-trails falling down a wall of rock that jutted out to
one side of the chasm; he would watch them as a tide-
mark. He waited : inch by inch rose the wavering mist, in
slow smoke-wreaths, rising, slowly, touching the ivy ; falling
—then rising, rising, creeping upwards inch by inch, with
merely a few mocking, deceitful ebbs again !
Night had come. There was no moon, and the faint
twilight of early summer only showed a ghastly contrast
of rifts of deep blackness in the moor valleys, alternating
with steaming, rolling swathes of white mist. At last the
man heard the welcome sound of running water, as he
descended a path that led to a river's bed. Surely he knew
the spot; this was the ford of the Chad, and across there
stood the cottage he had reached last night. But this ?iight
there was no lantern lit there!
It was too dark to guide himself but by the trees; yet he
adventured himself hardily enough into the water, thinking
that a second time he would go to the cottage at any risks,
and see The water became deeper and deeper at each
step. Still, surely he knew the look of the rocks to right
and left. Suddenly he was carried off his feet; his strength
left him, and there came a strong rush of water singing in
his ears.
Striking out in vain against the force of the current,
dashed in the dark against wet and slippery rocks, that
hemmed in every side, Gaspard da Silva found himself
overcome in the depth and icy cold of the Deadman's Pool!
JOY
247
CHAPTER XLI.
' Shine ! shine ! shine !
Pour down your warmth, great sun !
While we bask, we two together,
Two together !
Winds blow south, or winds blow north ;
Day come white, or night come black.
* # # # *
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.'
The sun shone gloriously next day on the Red House
meadows, where the hay-making was in full swing. The
air was full of summer scents; there were jokes and mirth
and cider passing down the ranks of the mowers, and among
the women tossing the newly-cut grass.
It was such a day when the pure joy of living sends a
thrill through the frames of those who can appreciate its
subtle essence of delight; when the pain and sorrow and
death in the world seem small things compared with the
present full sense of being, and the more veiled belief in our
background of mind that thus we shall continue to exist, in
spirit, through eternity. Blyth and Joy stood together,
watching the hay-makers. In their new gladness, it seemed
as if, while they kept thus side by side, they saw together
and thought together.
' I feel so happy to-day, Blyth ! It seems as if, almost, I
had nothing left to wish for on earth,' said the girl.
She raised her hands, to screen her eyes from the sun,
looking round with a heart full of love on the hills, some
veiled in haze, some basking in the noontide heat; on the
cool, winding Chad among its bushes and poplars; and at
the red farm-walls beyond the meadow, where the garden
glowed with flowers.
248 JOY.
' I have the promise of all I wish for; but still, I should
like to know what day you will make it all really mine, said
Blyth.
Joy blushed.
' It is so soon Oh ! there, I think the father wants
to speak to me.'
And on this pretence she went lightly over the grass, thus
hiding her slight confusion, to where old Berrington sat
under the hedge with his hands clasped atop of his stout
stick. He, too, was supposed to be watching the men at
work, but his eyes rested more often, with twinkles of sly
satisfaction, on the young couple.
When Joy left him, Blyth's eyes and ears became free
again to oversee the mowers; and so he heard old Dick
remark, with a certain emphasis (Dick had already repeated
the matter once or twice, but his young master had not
heard him):
' And so hur had no lantern alight at Cold-home last
night, do 'ee say ? God gi' no poor crature has lost un's
life, then, at the ford . . . Well, well, now ! And it lit there
for years !'
' What is that, Dick?' Blyth sharply asked, understanding
that he was meant to take notice of the remark.
The men told him that there had been no light set in the
cottage window by the wisht sisters during the past night;
some of the villagers coming back from a wedding had
noticed it, and being afraid of the ford, because it was so
dark that night, had gone round by the lower fields.
Blyth became thoughtful as he heard this.
' What is the matter ? What are they saying ?' asked
Joy, tripping back.
Blyth made a pretence so as to lead her away a few steps,
out of earshot of the men; then he said, with assumed care-
lessness:
JOY.
249
'The river was very full last night, and there was no
moonlight. They hope that no life was lost; that is all.'
' How silly it seems to believe, as they do, that some one
is sure to be drowned in it every year. And yet how often
it does so happen!'cried Joy, referring to an old moor
superstition. Then clasping her hands behind her head,
and looking down at the little river on whose banks they
stood, she sang whimsically the old couplet:
' Chad ! Chad ! river of Chad !
A dead man's body maketh thee glad.'
The river flowed with a laughing ripple by the hillock on
which they stood, those two young lives, full of present, and
hopes of future happiness. The clear water was lit by the
sunlight till it seemed pure and limpid as innocence; its
little eddies sparkled like smiles. Who could have guessed
that only two miles higher up from this scene of healthy labour
and sunlight and innocent gaiety in the Red House Farm
meadows there was a stark body lying at the edge of the
Deadman's Pool with eyes turned blindly to the summer
sky ?
Blyth now became somehow so ill at ease in his heart, on
hearing that there had been no light in Cold-home window
the past night, that he soon made a pretext for stealing away
from the hay-field. Hastening to the farm, he found Hannah,
and asked her to go with him to reconnoitre if .all was right
at the cottage.
' By good luck, Hannah, it is the day for bringing their
basket of provisions. We can leave it at the Logan-stone;
and, if this is a false alarm, you can say we shall be working
late in the hay-field, so it was easier to come at noon.'
' We will so, Master Blyth. I'll have the eggs and butter
packed before you can turn yourself round. Oh, dear heart!
but I hope she's not taken worse, and poor Miss Rachel
25°
JOY.
alone there, too,' sighed old Hannah, with gusty sounds
of fearfulness, as she bustled about making her utmost
haste.
Helped by Blyth's able head and useful hands, she was
soon ready, and on their way to the glen. Arrived at the
Logan-stone, Blyth put down the heavy basket, which he
lightly carried, at the accustomed spot. Then he advised
Hannah to skirt the river side by the path of the ford till
near the cottage, which would have a less premeditated air
of approach should Magdalen be looking out, and shrink, as
usual, from human faces.
In this way, Hannah agreeing, they both passed by the
Deadman's Pool. Blyth afterwards could never rightly
explain to himself what uneasy feeling made him take a few
steps through the bushes to look at it—perhaps only some
impression or idea left by the haymakers' talk. But on
looking down at the pool, into which the water poured
white with all the force of a mountain torrent that had been
pent between narrow rocks till it burst out now as from a
spout, and then whirled round and round in deep eddies, he
started back with horror, for there lay close to his feet a
something jammed between two stones.
At his exclamation, Hannah hastened also to the spot; and
both stood gazing in mutual awed silence till the old woman
suddenly gave a long cry, and then, clasping her hands
to her head, uttered, in a whisper of surprise and great
horror:
'"Why, Lord ha' mercy, it is—it must be him! Oh, to
think of seeing my master like that after all these years—
and I that never forgave him ! He served the devil, and
these are his wages. Lord have mercy on his soul!'
She sank back sobbing, and rocking herself to and
fro.
' What do you mean, Hannah ? This was a convict, you
JOY.
25r
see. Surely you don't really recognise him as—as anyone
you knew ?'
' Yes, yes, but I do. Convict or no convict, that is, or—
God have mercy on his poor soul!—that was, the Count
Rivello, Gaspard da Silva.'
Blyth, shuddering at the news, stood still, thinking; but
then, after a few seconds, stepped down into the pool, and,
exerting all his strength, brought the corpse out and laid it
on the moss under the alder-trees.
' What has happened at the cottage—at Cold-home? Come
at once and see,' said Blyth, cutting short the old woman's
useless lamentations.
Quaking in her shoes as they reached the porch, Hannah
knocked, calling out that it was she, with entreaty that Miss
Rachel would speak to her a moment.
The door was ajar. A low sound came in answer, as of
some one endeavouring feebly to answer them.
They entered hastily at that, stepping lightly and
cautiously, and found Rachel lying on the settle, apparently
very ill.
She roused up at their footfall, and raised her head.
1 What is it ? Magdalen has gone out,' she said faintly.
' Oh ! Miss Rachel, are you so bad as that, and us never
to know !' cried Hannah, shocked. ' What has happened to
you ? What is it ?'
' What has brought you ? Has anything strange hap-
pened ?' returned Rachel.
' Your face is all bruised and your neck bandaged,' went
on the old nurse. ' Oh, poor dear ! Was it Miss Magda-
len ?'
' It was not my sister. Don't ask me questions, Hannah
—it was all an accident. What has brought you both ? Tell
me at once ! I know there is some news—something. Go
on—I desire it.'
252 JOY.
Hannah, who was hesitating, and attempting, but failing
always, to frame words, though her lips moved, began at
last.
' It's very terrible. It's the worst, and yet it's the best
news for us all. All things are ordered by Providence, and,
if he had escaped free, who knows I'm speaking of
him, my dear—the count. Well, he must have been in the
prison up yonder all these years, and last night '
She stopped short. But it was enough. With a convul-
sive effort, Rachel raised herself, catching at the side of the
settle, as if hardly able to support herself. They then saw
with mute concern that her face was deadly pale under her
hood : she had dark hollows beneath her eyes, and an ugly
bruise on one cheek.
' Have they caught him, then ? Have they taken him
back to prison again ?' she asked in a hollow voice.
Hannah could not speak, and looked at Blyth, who an-
swered more bravely; not supposing the news could touch
Magdalen's sister with very deep personal feeling now; yet
with reverent pity in his manly voice.
' He will never be taken to gaol any more, Miss Rachel.
You need not fear that—you need fear nothing now.'
A spasm of pain that darted across Rachel's features star-
tied him. As if aware of it herself, she hastily drew her
hood more forward, concealing her face. Then, strangling
a sob in her throat, she breathed, rather than said aloud,
rapidly :
' He is dead ? ... Tell me, quick, Blyth Berrington, how
it happened; tell all, truly.'
' He was drowned last night in the Chad, down there. I
have just found the body,' said the young man unwillingly,
yet forced to obey her.
' There was no light in the window,' she moaned to her-
self, having at once guessed the whole truth Blyth would so
JOY.
253
fain have spared her. ' Oh, fate ! fate ! . . . Magdalen so
ill; yet why could I not have roused myself to do that one
act, if even I had been dying !'
She seemed unable to stand as she spoke, and a horrible
fear came over both as they saw her so ill; they suspected
why she had been unable to guard over the ford last night,
for the first time these many years. Blyth would have held
her up with his strong arm, but she motioned him away,
and sank back, as if utterly broken down. Hannah cried
out:
' Oh, Miss Rachel, did he hurt you ?'
' Hush ! It was an accident. He did not know ' said
Rachel, with a dignity that awed them. Then added,
heavily, ' Blyth, do you knowr who this man was ?'
' I do. He was the father of the girl I love best in all the
world, and who, I am proud to say, has just promised to
marry me,' said Blyth stoutly.
A glfeam of joy flashed in the dark caverns of Rachel
Estonia's eyes.
' And this makes no difference to your feelings, now V
' What difference can it make; but that I wish with all
my heart to help you the more, Miss Rachel ? I believe
you like me—will you not ask Joy's mother to look on me
as her son ; ask her to give me the right to help you both ?'
' I will; indeed I will. None could better deserve her;
our child ! Joy.'
Alas! poor Rachel. But a few, short days ago, and
Blyth's news would have given her what she had not tasted
for so long—pure happiness. It would have been a glorious
sunburst through the dark clouds of her life. But now!—
not even this could gladden her in the old way any more.
She might verily have bewept her own fate for the pity of it;
but she could not pause to think of herself, and only asked,
with painful anxiety:
254
JOY.
' Must the prison authorities be told that—that the body
has been found ?'
' I fear they must. But why are you so anxious now ?'
replied Blyth, not comprehending.
' They will take his body back to the gaol, and bury it in
a pauper's grave; in that dreadful prison, without even a
stone perhaps to mark his resting-place,' said Rachel
desperately. ' Oh, Blyth, indeed he was once a gallant gen-
tleman, before ill-fate and evil ways and associates brought
him to ruin. Believe me he was! Oh, try, try to have him
spared this last indignity !'
She was weeping. Blyth was greatly moved.
' If I can by any means prevent it, if we, my father and I,
have any influence in such a matter, it shall not happen,'
said he warmly. ' There is a quiet corner of our own in the
churchyard, just where the path comes down from the
moor, and there we can make room for Joy's father. I
can promise nothing, of course, but I swear I'll * do my
best.'
'That is enough. And, meanwhile, where will you bring it ?'
She looked, shivering, towards the window, and away out
at the river where the greenwood of trees and bushes hid the
something she dreaded, yet almost craved to behold.
'Will you have him carried to the farm, or—or here?
Shall I go and see ?'
She tried to rise, the strong woman who had never spared
herself, but for once her power failed her, and her trembling
limbs refused to obey.
'Don't go, dear—don't try,' cried Hannah soothingly,
with a gush of tears, though Rachel was quite dry-eyed. ' I'll
see to it all, trust nte.'
' And trust me, too,' said Blyth. ' There is the old corpse-
house beside the church, you know. I thought that would
be best.'
JOY. 255
This was a tiny building meant to shelter the coffins which
often had to be brought a long distance across the moors,
and in olden days, when roads were fewer and worse, some-
times overnight.
' God bless you, Blyth Berrington,' said Rachel solemnly.
And then—then only, she fainted.
CHAPTER XLII.
' She came not, no, she came not home,
Though cold the night, and black ;
They looked out long, and looked out late,
A-down the forest track.
They waited long and wearily,
Dear saints ! where can she be ?
J ust for one hour she rambled forth,
But never back came she.'
Rachel Estonia's strength always seemed 'sufficient for
the day.'
She had kept up her energies till her last cares for the
unhappy man she had so greatly loved were taken from off
her feeble shoulders by Blyth's intervention. Then she
seemed to slip away from earth, for a short time, into the
grey land of know-nothing.
Blyth carried her into the next room, and laid her on the
truckle-bed. Hannah chafed her cold hands, and sprinkled
water on her face. Presently, as they watched her, while
looking at each other and whispering their wondering fears
as to what had passed between the convict and these help-
less women, a little flutter of reawakening life moved Rachel's
256
JOY.
eyelids. Then she stirred as her spirit was heavily returning
to take up its wonted duties in command of the body.
' Raise me a little. My head is so heavy—my neck is
sore; the pain goes down to my heart. What is the matter ?'
she muttered. Then ' Where is the money ? Did he
take it all? Gold—that brings all evil! Ah ! only for that
he might have gone in peace.'
The others started and met each other's eyes with the
same questioning glance.
' Did he take the money from you, Miss Rachel ? Did he
rob you then of your little savings, after all ?' asked Hannah,
in a caressing, pitying voice in her ear.
But Rachel turned from her shuddering and in anger;
she that was almost never so.
' He had the best right to it! We gave it—no, we meant
him to have all he needed. Go home, Hannah, go back to
the farm. You are very good, both of you, but I cannot
talk and am best left alone, indeed ! I am used to it.'
At that moment there was a quick footfall, and Joy, with
her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed with excitement,
appeared in the doorway of the inner room.
'Yes, they may go back to the Red House, but I will
stay and nurse you,' she said, hearing Rachel's last words.
Then she came and knelt down by the bed, putting her
strong young arm under her aunt's head, who, turning, hid
her face on the girl's shoulder with an utterly weary, yet now
restfully satisfied air, that in her touched them all.
'Where is your mother? Child, you don't know all.
Hannah will tell you.'
'My mother has told me all! She came herself and desired
me to go to you and nurse you. She wanted fresh air for a
little while—and said I was to stay with you till she returned.'
After a few minutes, Rachel being soothed, Joy, obeying
Hannah's secret signals, slipped into the other room a mo-
JOY.
257
ment. Blyth was waiting there, alone. He held out both
hands to her and drew the girl towards him, looking pity-
ingly into her eyes.
' Darling, I could not bear to leave you without one word,
though I am going now. But there is something I must
tell you that your mother does not know. Your father last
night was—well, he was '
'He was drowned down there!' said Joy hastily. And
Blyth now perceived that the flush on her cheeks burnt still
in scarlet feverishness, that her lips were parched, and her
big dark eyes dilated with a look of standing horror. 'No,
do not kiss me now, Blyth. I can hardly bear you to touch
me. I feel such an outcast. My brain is on fire; my heart
is like a coal. I have no pity for him yet; but still to die
in his sins, almost a murderer !'
'Judge not,' muttered Blyth awkwardly. Then—'How
did your mother know he was dead ?'
' She had gone down to the river for water, then she saw
it. She came flying down to the farm to find me, so terribly
excited she had not even put down her can, or emptied it,
but ran with it full, and splashing over her all the way. How
she frightened me!'
' My poor dear, you heard it all too suddenly indeed !
Tell me—how did she take his death? Is she grieved, or
only greatly shocked ?'
Joy turned away her face, and almost wrung her hands
out of Blyth's detaining grasp.
' Don't ask me, Blyth. At least, I can tell you only this,
that she was terribly excited, and very strange in her manner
—but there ! she cannot help herself. Then we somehow
spoke of you, and I said you would help us, and told of our
engagement. Oh, Blyth, Blyth, she was so angry at that !
It was too painful, and you who are our best—except your
father, our only friend !'
25S JOY.
Breaking down sobbing, Joy hid her face in her hands,
but this time did not repulse Blyth, who put his arms round
her slight form, shaken with violent weeping, but beyond a
murmured word or two of brave hope, of tenderness, thought
it best to leave her to herself.
In a very short time the sudden storm of grief was
over, as was Joy's nature. Dashing away her tears, she
whispered:
' Now, it is no time to indulge my nerves, is it? I must
go back to that dear saint in there. I hope she hasn't
heard me crying. Good-bye, for the present, Blyth. You
will go and do all that you can for him now, and I for
her.'
She slipped from his hold, and was gone into the sick-
room next moment, while Hannah as promptly hurried out,
and, catching Blyth by the sleeve before he could leave the
kitchen, they held a short consultation in broken whispers.
The old nurse, who was in the secret of the hiding-place
for the sister^' money, got Blyth's help to raise the hearth-
stone, which was lying all unevenly in its bed. As they
expected, the hollow underneath was empty; the nest-egg
vanished.
' How much was there ?' asked Blyth low.
' About three hundred pounds in sovereigns. They had
it so, because it was easier to change in this part of the
country than notes. Besides, Miss Magdalen will tear up
any paper she sees when the fit is on her, while she likes
seeing gold; so it was safer. They kept it in an old satin
bag—their mother's reddycule, they called it, that for old
sakes' sake Miss Rachel never parted with.'
' It may be on the body still,' said Blyth, with a mo-
mentary shudder of aversion. ' I will go and see.'
But he found nothing, after nerving himself to the neces-
sary task. The coarse canvas jacket was half pulled from
JOK
259
off the dead man's shoulders, perhaps had been caught on
the rocks in his last struggles for life.
Blyth then waded into the dark pool, under the trees, and
began a hasty search there in spite of the cold and the rush-
ing strength of the river. The glitter of steel under water,
close to where he had found the corpse of Da Silva, stuck
fast, caught his eye. He pulled out the object. It was an
old knife—'the one Gaspard had taken from the cottage.
Finding this loose, Blyth therefore concluded that the
money had likewise been washed out of Gaspard's pockets
by the current and force, and the position of the body.
But he could not find the bag, although he waded all round
the pool, and probed its depths with a long alder bough he
tore off one of the trees.
The sides and bed of the Deadman's Pool were all fissured
with crags and crannies among the rocks.
'No matter,' thought Berrington. 'If I can't find it
now, no other persons are likely to do so. Only that it is
Miss Rachel's little fortune, I would never grope more in
this accursed spot.'
As Blyth got out of the river, he saw two men at a little
distance, coming down from the hills. They were shepherds,
but were evidently shunning the accustomed ford, and direct-
ing their way down the other bank of the Chad, which meant
a longer road to the village. As Blyth hailed them, they
seemed alarmed and took to their heels, to his surprise.
He started in pursuit, but only after a hot chase down a
long meadow, and when finding he was gaining on them,
did they stop and face round.
' Why, it be young Muster Berrington sure-lie,' said one to
the other slowly, breathing hard, as Blyth came up with them.
'Us had our run for nought.'
' Well, I won't have my run for nought, I promise you,'
said Blyth, who was cross and disposed enough to give them
17—2
260
JOY..
both a thrashing for their behaviour. ' What did you run
like a couple of hares for, eh ?'
They explained in a half-shamed but dogged way that
there was a hue and cry of police over the moors. A
desperate convict had escaped from the prison up on the
hills. He had knocked down a warder with a big stone,
and had nearly murdered him, when out working with a
gang of other prisoners; so the shepherds had felt scared
of meeting such a desperate man, while also one of the
sister-women at the ford was said to be gone mad, and ready
to murder anybody that passed.
'Who dared say such foolish lies?' asked Berrington
sternly.
The men looked at each other askance, but stuck to their
belief.
Young Mr. Hawkshaw, it was, who had warned them the
night of the great storm, when he met his father at the
Black Bull, where they were sheltering. He had stood
them a glass all round, and told them of his chase after the
lunatic, who ought to be shut up, he declared, and not
allowed to run loose like a mad dog through the country.
And so she ought—he was right—both repeated.
Blyth ground his teeth in silence.
Then he began to speak. After telling them there was
no longer any fear of the escaped prisoner, for that he him-
self had just found his body in the Chad, he ordered them
to take a gate off its hinges and help him to carry the dead
man down to the Red House.
They demurred at first, but Blyth's temper was up; and
he threatened to knock down whichever of them, or both,
that dared oppose him—calling shame on them if they
would leave the corpse of any human being, prisoner or
free, exposed to the indecency of being attacked by flies in
the wood there, before the police could come. As to the
JOY.
261
mad woman, whom they also seemed to imagine larking in
the bushes ready to spring out ' like a wild cat and claw
them,' as one muttered, he reasoned and expostulated.
Had not she and her sister lived in his father's cottage for
years? he said. A little dazed at times, maybe, she was
still as harmless as he had known her from boyhood; and
her sister was the best, the most gentle of women.
It was all in vain.
Only when he spoke of the lantern lit every night for the
past fourteen years or so, to guide wayfarers safely over the
ford, one wavered.
The other struck in, that like enough it was only doing
good that evil might come. All folk knew witches were
powerless to cross running water 5 the Cold-home lantern
might only be to entice wanderers over to the cottage side
of the Chad.
Blyth became hopeless of persuading them; indeed his
blood boiled so that he felt too savage to use soft words in
winning the men to his view of the matter. He had a
rough temper, that only a good deal of self-control and
hard work most days kept under. But he made the men
obey his orders, nevertheless; and so, helping to place
Gaspard da Silva's poor body on the improvised litter, he
covered it reverently with his own coat.
Then, grimly remarking that he would carry his own
share as much as both the two other men, so there need be
no grumbling, he made them raise the gate till he took up
the dead man's head and shoulders on his own strong
shoulders, and started for the farm at such a stout pace that
the faint-hearted couple behind him, who were breathing
hard and wishing to stop and wipe their faces, only did not
call out for grace because of their manhood.
Blyth was proud, perhaps too proud, of his strength, and
liked feeling superior thereby, which was better, after all,
262
JOY.
than purse-pride, that accepts being fawned upon. He was
bent on hurrying the body away from the cottage vicinity,
in order that the sight of the police authorities and gaping
rustics should not vex the women there. Avoiding the hay-
field, he succeeded in carrying his burden unseen into the
farmyard, and placed it, with the men's help, in the empty
apple-room that was all clean swept, and, being flagged, was
cool and sweet; then he brought a deal table from the
kitchen for a bier.
After this he gave some beer to the thirsty men, and,
sending them off* on messages to the police in different
directions (rather against their grain, for they would have
liked resting and drinking for an hour maybe), he hastened
to find his old father among the mowers, and to break his
news.
Farmer Berrington, though a man of such calm mood,
was a good deal moved by the intelligence, owing to his
age and state of health. Blyth did not like to put seeing
after what was needful upon the old man alone, by going
up the glen himself again like a love-sick swain. Besides,
in another hour or so, his messages had reached the
searchers, and the farm-yard was presently full of a small
gaping crowd of the cottagers around, whom he had some
ado to keep from getting into the apple-room after the
prison-warders, to stare at the sight; failing this, they began
gossiping with the servant-maids and farm-men, till Blyth
turned all the intruders out, neck and crop, and locked the
road-gate upon every one of them.
One big idler, who did odd jobs at the Barton for the
Hawkshaws, tried to resist authority, till Blyth, suddenly
catching him by a neat little wrestling trick, laid him low
in the swine-trough; after which, the rebel's determination
and that of his fellows vanished speedily. Murmurs reached
Blyth's ears : 'That young Berrington was not to be crossed
JOY.
263
since he had come back from Australia'; ' that he was
stronger than any two men, and for very little would up wi'
his fist and knock any man's two eyes as black as a marnin'
coach !'
'Turk or no Turk,' responded a matronly female admirer,
'he was twice the man his father was, although old George
Berrington had been no fool neither in his day.'
Whereupon, the tide of opinion turning (especially swelled
by the farm-men, who were being sent back to work by
their stern young master, after having deserted the hay
without leave), the latter found himself looked on as a sort
of Samson, feared as much as admired ! whose late feats of
strength were whispered round and much exaggerated.
And thus the hours passed, so that it was fully evening
before Blyth could again set forth for the cottage up by the
ford.
He went slowly now ; for the last half-hour and more
had been spent in a difficult and long parley, in which he
had to use all his wits and weightiest arguments, both with
his old father and the authorities, in order to carry out poor
Rachel's wishes respecting the convict's burial. Old Ber-
rington's feeling of sentiment stopped short there; or rather
revolted at his own last resting-place being contaminated
by such an unwished-for neighbour. Only Blyth's private
entreaties and the remembrance of Joy had reluctantly
prevailed with the old farmer, after all.
It was weary work, but Blyth won the day, he believed,
at last. So now it was a well-earned rest to go steadily,
though not slowly, and feel the sweet evening air blow on
his brow as he trudged through the fields. Blyth was medi-
tating what was now best to be done, because there was little
room for four women in the Cold-home cottage, yet he could
not think of leaving Joy alone there with her crazed mother,
and Rachel so helpless; therefore must Hannah stay till
264
JOY.
some better counsel came to his mind, or the farm was freed
from the dead presence there.
As Blyth neared the cottage which lay hidden under the
shadow of the cliff, a figure came out from the porch, hesi-
tated, looking back as if divided in mind, then ran swiftly
towards him. He had recognised Joy, and the very flutter
and lines of her gown, he thought, before he could really
descry her face or outline; likewise she had guessed who he
was.
She came flying up to him light as a wood-nymph, flushed,
but only breathing a little more quickly than usual.
{Oh, Blyth, Blyth, where is my mother ? Have you seen
her ?' was her first query.
' I have never seen her all day. Has she not come home?'
Blyth retorted.
' No—no; not yet. Her last words to me were that I was
to wait for her with Aunt Rachel till she returned. She was
wearied of yesterday's nursing, of staying in the cottage, she
said; she must ramble a little, but she would surely come
back soon, and she made me promise to stay with my aunt,
and take great care of her meanwhile.'
' I will go and search for her up the glen to the water-
fall,' said Blyth, dreading evil in his heart, but speaking
cheerily.
An hour later he returned—alone.
Joy met him again, still more anxious. Rachel was so ill
and faint, she knew nothing of their anxieties, and the poor
girl dared not leave her. Old Hannah had gone searching
down the river's banks to the farm and back by the fields—
in vain.
Magdalen had not returned.
Blyth Berrington, now thoroughly alarmed, hurried back
to the Red House, got all the farm-men together as they
were leaving work for supper, excepting Dick, who had gone
JOY.
265
to Moortown, and, with liberal promises of reward, raised a
search-party that dispersed in various directions.
Some hours later he rode up, after midnight, to the
cottage.
Before he could call softly, Joy herself slipped out into
the porch and looked at him in the summer starlight.
Before he could speak or dismount, she came and laid her
head against good Brownberry's neck, who whinnied in
greeting; then she softly cried :
' Don't get off, Blyth,' she said, laying her hand on
his knee, as he would have alighted to comfort her, if
possible, though not knowing what to say. ' I see you
have no news. Something tells me we shall have none. If
I could only go and search too—oh, it would be easier to
bear ! But you will try your best still, dear, for my sake, if
not hers. It is all you can do for me.'
Blyth did search his best that night with his men. Pie
searched till the next day's sun was high, still uselessly.
Magdalen never came back to the cottage.
She had utterly vanished.
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JOY.
CHAPTER XLIII.
' They made a bier of the broken bough,
The saugh and the aspen grey ;
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,
And waked him there all day.
*****
They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,
By the edge of the Nine-stane Burn,
And they cover'd him o'er wi' the heather-flower,
The moss and the lady-fern.'
Scottish Ballad.
Blyth Berrington had proved true to his word.
The evening sun was sinking, three days later, when a
little group stood in a corner of the moorland churchyard
round a fresh-made grave, beside the sheltered spot under
the lee of the hill where the Berringtons had been laid to
sleep for many generations.
How still it was !
The service was over; the earthly body laid in earth; the
grave covered in with the last sods. Yet old farmer Berring-
ton and his strong son remained standing bareheaded there
and motionless in the golden low light. They could hear
the sheep cropping on the furzy hill rising steep behind the
little lonely church, while the wild bees flew droning past
them on a last homeward journey, honey-laden, to their
hives.
Down one of the paths leading through the yew-darkened
old, old wood—that had long ago hidden the little place of
worship safe in its shelter, when the larger churches around
were being ruthlessly demolished by Puritan emissaries—a
vehicle could be seen driving away. It held the two gaol
officials come from the great convict prison away up in the
heart of the moors.
JOY.
267
Down the narrowing perspective of another path, a solitary
rider was departing. That was the hunting parson, who did
hard work riding to this solitary little moor-chapel from his
own larger church some miles away.
' They're all gone safe now, boy. 'Twere no good to have
raised gossip before,' said old Berrington quietly to his son,
as he stood leaning on his staff, a massive, immovable
figure.
Blyth nodded; then moving a step or two, he looked
steadfastly up at the hill-side above them, towards which his
eyes had several times stolen unseen glances during the late
solemn service for the dead.
There was a clump of yellow, waving broom thick on the
brae, just where the path sloped most steeply down. Out
of this thicket two figures now rose, one short and very
stout, the other tall and slender as a young birch-tree.
These were Joy and her faithful old nurse. Hand-in-hand,
like spirits evoked from the heart of the hill at Blyth's
signal, they rose and now stole down together; both
dressed in decent black, but yet in no mourning that would
attract notice.
Joy, poor child, came and knelt lowly by the fresh-turned
earth, with her hands clasped in earnest prayer. Whatever
her creed might teach, whether it was too late or not for
intercession, she never thought, but, following her feelings,
prayed for the dead; the others, in reverence for her filial
devotions, drew a little away.
A strange mingling of shame yet pity filled the young
girl's heart for the dead so near her knees, yet so far away
now. Who knows where ? A few feet below this red,
broken soil on which her warm tears fell, only hidden by
that and a wooden coffin from her gaze, lay the father whom
she could not remember, whose face after death they would
not let her see, in spite of her entreaties.
268 JOY.
1 Best not; I can tell you, dearie, how handsome he once
was,' Hannah had murmured.
' Oh, the pity of it all !' thought the girl, shuddering.
She was so pale and altered in the last three days, that the
change was startling. She seemed not so much suffering
from grief as looking infinitely older by the terrible experi-
ences that had so suddenly assailed her in such a short
time. All come like thunderbolts falling from a smiling
sky, when her young happiness was at its height !
Her father an escaped convict, his chase, and Magdalen's
wild hints of the terrible night in the cottage that she could
not keep from her child, the horror of his death; next, and
worst of all, her mother's disappearance—the agony of sus-
pense as to her fate; lastly, that Rachel Estonia, who was
dearest and nearest in heart to her niece of all women-souls
she had known, lay still too ill even to guess at the cause of
Magdalen's absence 1
They had only dared to tell soothing evasions to the sick
woman, that her sister had promised to return very shortly;
that she wished Joy to do the sick-nursing in her stead.
And this last seemed so natural to poor Rachel, in her long
habit of unselfish devotion, which asked and expected no
return, that she lay dreamily imagining Magdalen at the
Red House, well cared for. But she roused herself to bid
Joy in a weak whisper leave her to attend the funeral of the
girl's father. And Hannah must go too: all respect must
be paid. (Perhaps the inability to follow Gaspar da Silva
to his grave herself seemed the last bitter expiation to the
sorrowful woman of her great trial of life, which at times,
looking back, seemed so terribly like a sin !)
So Joy covered her face with her hands now, shaken with
pity, not so much for herself, but imagining the sorrows of
those two women who had so long lived up yonder glen.
Her mind, with pure daughter's instinct towards all three,
JOY.
269
as it were, glanced away from the early history of their lives
(though guessing something of that troubled tale). But
the later years rose before her: the unhappy madness on
one side, the life-sacrifice on the other. The fears; the
hard, poor manner of living; the loneliness, with so few or
no other human souls of cultured mind or kinship in birth
near
It was all true. Yet whatever her sympathy, her own
true grief for them, Joy could never equal, or even enter
greatly into, the feelings of the two elder women for whom
her young heart mourned with such aching pity.
What could she tell, this young bright girl, of the days
when they also had been young, and her father like a
strange, bright, if baleful star on their life horizon ? What
could she guess, even with help of love's imagination, of
their secret pain and sorrow ?
So little, it was almost nothing! Each heart truly
knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth
not with its joy.
A voice startled Joy. Looking up, she saw Blyth stand-
ing over her, strong and tall, with the living love in his
honest blue eyes that gave her consolation and the sense of
support even as her troubled gaze met his.
' My father and Hannah have driven away in the gig,
dear. She could not walk back to the cottage. I will stay
with you here as long as you like; but—do you not think
the living needs you now more than can the dead ?'
'You are right, Blyth; you are always right. Yes, I will
go back to Aunt Rachel now. It was best for Hannah to
drive, so I meant to walk back by myself over the moor-
path.'
' I thought you would do that; and so I meant to walk
with you.'
Silently Joy rose, checking a small smile that half broke
270
JOY.
on her lips; checking, too, an embrace that Blyth, suddenly
moved by strong pity as he looked down at her bright
beauty, so dimmed and downcast, would have bestowed
upon her. It was not the fit time or place. But she
thought forgivingly to herself that after all a man was not
expected to know better; so she softly nestled her hand
into his large palm, and they went away over the hills
together.
CHAPTER XLIV.
' We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon,
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly !—yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever.'
Shelley.
As they went back to the cottage over the sun-kissed hills,
while the valleys lay in shadow, going along the very track
the two sisters from the cottage over yonder had paced so
often on Sundays, Joy leant more heavily than usual on
Blyth's arm. She had sat up the last three nights with
Rachel, against Hannah's entreaties, unable to sleep with
thoughts of her mother's fate. Her springy step was
vanished. For the first time in her life, she felt tired out in
mind and body.
Both were silent at first, their thoughts oppressed by the
JOY.
271
late scene they had left. Then Joy's eyes began to wander;
gazing over the swells of moorland to where, in the heart of
these, lay the dangerous quagmires and boggy grounds she
had only heard of as impassable to human footstep.
' Blyth ! could my mother have strayed up there ?' she
asked, pointing, and drawing nearer to him, with horror of
the thought. ' I feel as if I would like to go away yonder
with you now, and search, and search till I dropped down,
unable to stir—or till I had found her.'
'Joy, my dearest, you would not find her there. Our
men are still searching; but, if alive, she must have wandered
further. If not '
He broke off; but the poor girl understood the remainder.
If dead, those greenly treacherous bogs up yonder never
gave up their prey; but the sundew would blossom, and the
cotton-grass wave over their pit-falls as if no harm to any
creatures of God's earth lay hidden under that treacherous
surface.
She began again presently.
' There is something on my mind to tell you, dear Blyth.
It may be nothing, and yet I wonder could Steenie
Hawkshaw have seen my mother after she left me at the
farm ?'
Blyth started violently, almost guiltily; then, controlling
himself, asked:
' What makes you think that ?'
' Think it, no ; not that exactly. But there is a curious
feeling on my mind that it might be so. To explain it a
little (for it is only a fancy !), I must tell you something that
happened, Blyth, the night of the storm, after you left us.'
Then Joy, faltering, with a modest country maiden's
feeling, who does not think it right to boast her conquests,
told of young Hawkshaw's words to her in the hut, and his
anger at the revelation of who her mother was.
272
JOY.
' Exactly. I thought as much,' assented Blyth, with a
curious reluctance to enter further into the subject, and as if
that ended all to be said.
' But stay, you don't see; you can't understand,' pur-
sued Joy. 'I told you a little of what she said to me that
dreadful morning when I saw her last, but not all. There
was something more; but all that day I could not tell you,
for it did not seem to matter, and you were so busy at the
farm with—with the police. And ever since, you have been
searching these three nights and two long days. Oh, what
years those hours have seemed ! . . . . She was very angry,
as I told you, to hear of our engagement, and cried out she
had always meant me for young Hawkshaw, and urged and
ordered me to have him instead of listening to what I said.
I did not like before to tell you all her ravings, poor dear.'
'Tell me now,' said Blyth, in a suppressed deeper voice
than usual. ' I have had something to tell you also, but it
will keep awhile.'
To abbreviate the questioning and answers with which
these two lovers naturally broke Joy's discourse, it may now
be told without these interruptions, which one invited and
the other gave, not necessarily, but in proof of mutual
sympathy and affection.
On that sunny morning, then, when all Nature seemed
rejoicing and the haymaking was in full swing in the
meadows, Joy, finding Blyth and even old Hannah unac-
countably absent (about their various work, no doubt, she
thought), had betaken herself to a favourite occupation of
nailing up some creepers, everlasting sweet-pea, and morning-
glories in the garden. As she gaily hammered her own
pretty nails often enough, instead of the iron ones, she was
singing at the top of her voice, while standing on a step
ladder.
Thus, being deaf to all around her, Joy all at once felt
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the ladder violently shaken ; and looking down alarmed
while catching at the creepers for support, saw, with infinite
amazement, her mother.
Magdalen had never been inside the farm-gates all these
years. She was no longer looking round affrighted for fear
of any stranger, however, but explained, as if in extreme
haste and impatience :
' Come down at once, Joy, come down. You made such
a noise I could not get you to hear me. I want to speak to
you immediately ! immediately !'
Seeing the glitter of her mother's eye, and feeling the
strangeness of this visit, Joy got quickly down, and, quietly
taking her hand, endeavoured to lead Magdalen into the
parlour.
' We shall be alone there,' she said; ' the farm-servants
often come by here, and you won't wish them to hear us.'
But Magdalen resisted.
' Let all the world hear me; the world, and all that is
therein ! I fear nobody and nothing now,' she exclaimed,
in a loud voice, looking round defiantly, although wrapping
her cloak about her with a secret air. 'The devil is dead,
child; he was drowned last night in the Chad. I went to
get some water for poor Rachel this morning, and saw him
lying there in the Deadman's Pool. Then I took to my
heels, and ran and ran down here to tell you.'
' Oh, come into the house, mother dear,' implored Joy, to
whom it was dreadful that this frenzied talk, as she believed
it, should be overheard ; and looking round in agony.
'Ha! you are cunning, I see. Yes, yes, as you are his
child, it is wiser of you. I can be careful, too !' said
Magdalen, whispering now, and sitting down on the bench
in the porch, drawing Joy close beside her, with a tenacious
grasp, wonderful in those slim fingers. 'You think me mad,
child, but I'm not. See, here is the little can I took, and
18
274
JOY.
this is some of the water he was baptized in. Was he
washed from his sins, do you think ? I hope he was—but
still I don't—oh, I dotit want to meet him in heaven !'
With difficulty, Joy persuaded her mother to allow her
arm to be relieved of the can's weight, while still Magdalen
kept her cloak closely huddled about her. But she went on
more coherently, telling how that, as Joy knew, Da Silva,
her father, was a convict; nay, more! that he had been
only some fourteen miles away all these years, in the moor-
prison. She acted, unconsciously, the scene of his entering
the cottage with such vividness, giving even the smallest
details of her own and Rachel's behaviour at first so
naturally, that a sudden revelation that here was no insanity
came upon Joy; and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed :
' Merciful heavens!—it is true, then. Go on, go on,
mother ! Tell me all '
'What is there so much more to tell?' returned Mag
dalen, pausing suspiciously at once on being urged. ' He
mistook the ford last night, and is drowned; and we are
free, free as the birds, now !'
Then she went on, rubbing the palm of her hand restlessly
to and fro on her knee.
' I didn't kill him; no, I didn't, though I thought I would.
And then he tried to kill us instead. Is that divine justice?
Rachel is very ill now—she saved me from being stabbed
by him. He always liked her best . . . There, now, be
calm; do be quiet, Joy !' For the girl sprang up, horrified,
with entreaties to know the worst about her aunt Rachel.
' She had to stay very quiet yesterday, and the fog made
her worse; but now you shall nurse her. I never was good
at that.'
' But him—the body ! I must find Blyth at once, and he
will help us,' cried out Joy, distracted.
' Blyth, indeed ! No, you shall not tell him. I don't like
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275
him—from this time forth you shall not speak to him. A
mere farmer's son, and no fit company for you.'
'Oh, mother! I am going to marry him—I have promised
him,' burst from Joy's lips, who felt pained and vexed, even
while suffering so much greater agony, to hear her Blyth
underrated.
' Marry him ! now—now that we are free !' shrieked Mag-
dalen, stretching out one arm and shaking her clenched
hand against her child in violent denunciation. ' You shall
not do it—never ! never ! you will not dare to brave my
curse by crossing me. I mean you to marry young Hawk-
shaw, and be a lady, and mistress of the Barton. I can
come and visit you there, and we will travel, and be gay and
rich, and visit London and Paris again; but I could not
condescend to enter a mere farm like this.'
The poor soul looked round with a lofty air at the pretty
Red House in its homely garden, and the fair view before
her of the Chad valley and the hills around.
' Aunt Rachel has always wished it. Oh, mother, he and
I have grown up together as if meant for each other,' faltered
Joy, feeling cold with the dread of another dark cloud of
evil drawing over her. ' And as to Steenie Hawkshaw, dear,
don't think of him. He does not want me for a wife. Blyth
Berrington is too noble to mind my—my parentage; young
Hawkshaw would.7
Magdalen doubled herself up, rocking back and forward
with a whimpering cry.
' All against me to thwart my wishes, you and Rachel,
and even this young fellow. But no, he did want you; it
must be some mismanagement. Go and tell him your father
is no more, child. Say you will be rich—you will have a
fortune. Men love gold; gold-mines is what they all want.'
Joy pleaded, soothed, tried to reason with her.
' How can I beg a young man to marry me, dear mother?
t8—2
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JOY.
You love me, you love Aunt Rachel—do not make us both
unhappy even to please yourself.'
' Yes, yes, poor Rachel—of course. But still—oh, I do
want to have my own way at last!' Magdalen returned,
weeping in a low, hysterical way, pitifully, like a vexed child.
' Such a miserable life as I have led, chained all these years
under that great rock up in the glen, fettered by fears.
Rachel is a saint of goodness, but she always liked being
dull. And now, if you marry your country clown, she will
want me to settle down like herself into feeling a grand-
mother, I know; and will only be happy knitting socks for
your babies, with no more change of life than an old tree.
No, trees put off their leaves in winter, that's their change;
we are more like sheep, just a woolly shawl on and a little
more miserable weather in winter—no other difference be-
tween the seasons.'
'Mother, mother, only think that all this time we are
leaving Aunt Rachel alone, and she so ill! We can talk of
all this later; there is no hurry,' implored Joy, in accents of
the most agonised haste and distress, only controlled by
fears of exciting her mother too much, even in a right
direction.
' Would you give up your Blyth if young Hawkshaw did
still ask you to be his wife?' Magdalen reiterated, only partly
heeding her daughter.
' What does it matter whether I say yes or no ? He will
never ask me. Oh, mother, mother, let me go ! Come
yourself. Remember how often she has nursed you.'
The last words seemed to restore Magdalen to some
sense of the real situation of matters about her. She rose
too, and said, in a nervous, hurried voice:
' Don't think ill of me, dear child. There is no one like
Rachel; but I do so hate sick-rooms. I was with her all
yesterday, and did my best, indeed' (that was true), ' but
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277
now I feel so tired of being mewed up in the cottage. I
want a little fresh air and liberty. Do you go to your aunt
—promise me not to leave her till I come back, for I will
only just ramble for a little way, and then return. Promise
me.'
So Joy promised, with hurried beseechings to her mother,
not to be late; then sought Blyth and Hannah with vainly
flying footsteps till she heard from the servant-maid they
had gone up the glen. Thither she sped after them, sup-
posing they had heard the news; and avoiding the Chad
and the sight of any human being on the farm, for she felt
branded as a convict's daughter. It was her own father
who had twice attempted, if not committed, murder in his
escape, and who lay somewhere near—drowned.
' Do you think she could possibly have tried to see Steenie
Hawkshaw? Is it any clue?' asked poor Joy of Blyth, with
anxious half-shame at her own idea, when she had ended.
' Yes, dear, we found that clue,' said Blyth slowly and
heavily. He felt himself a brute well-nigh in his inability
to break the truth to her as gently as he could have wished.
Nevertheless she was dimly aware of some of the great
kindliness and pity in his bosom as she grasped his arm
closely now, trembling.
' We found she was seen going to the Barton, where she
asked to speak to Steenie. Don't be hurt, dearest; but,
whatever passed between them, he seems to have been rude
and insulting.' (Blyth had some ado to say this quietly,
though his face took a grim, sternly-set expression.) ' Any-
how, she was next seen hurrying out of the Barton gate, and
taking her way up the hills as fast as possible, and over the
moor. She may have passed across the Moortown road, and
gone higher still. No one has seen her since.'
'Is that all you have to tell me?' asked Joy, with
278 JOY.
suppressed passion that made lightnings of her eyes, while
her throat tightened and her heart beat violently.
'That is all I need tell you.'
'Then it is his fault, young Hawkshaw's fault,' said the
girl fiercely, her quick southern blood asserting itself.
Blyth, for all answer, passed his arm round her waist and
imprisoned both her hands in his, as if to keep her still.
Then, looking down closely at her, he said :
' Remember your battles are mine, dear, so far as a man
may rightly and lawfully fight them for you. Steenie
Hawkshaw is ashamed enough now of his conduct, you may
be fairly sure.'
' But that is not enough. Ashamed ! I want him to be
hurt too, remorseful, punished as he deserves !' breathed the
girl passionately, stamping her foot.
' That vengeance is not ours ; wait!' said the young man,
with a stern inner belief that what sins are not otherwise
righted surely avenge themselves by natural laws of cause
and effect. Then in a changed tone of sudden surprise, he
exclaimed, ' Look !—see ! what is that ?'
They had reached the brow of the moors immediately
above Cold-home ; and down in the glen they now per-
ceived a crowd of little beings, darting round the cottage
hither and thither. A school seemed broken loose and run-
ning riot in play-hours.
Not pausing to ask each other what such an unusual
event might mean—only knowing it portended some news
whether of good or ill, both ran down the path towards
Cold-home at their utmost speed.
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270
CHAPTER XLV.
' I winna play at stane-chucking,
Nor will I play at the ha',
But I'll gae up to yon bonnie green hill,
And there we'll warsell a fa'.
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till John fell to the ground ;
A dirk fell out of Willie's pouch
And gave him a deadly wound.'
Old Ballad.
If Blyth had not told Joy all the details of her mother's visit
to the Barton, it was a pious fraud. The truth he kept back
was as follows.
When he heard the rumours of poor Magdalen having
been seen at the Hawkshaws', it was the second day of the
painful quest, and Blyth was then on the moors with one of
the scattered search parties. He galloped off on good
Brownberry in hot haste to the Barton, eager to ascertain
more and suspecting no ill there.
Blyth saw old Hawkshaw distinctly shambling behind the
close-clipped cherry-laurel hedges, in what he was pleased
to call his little pleasure-ground (an open grass-plot). The
old man must have recognised Blyth also, but disappeared
into the house. The Barton had been rebuilt, and was now
a pretentious sort of small villa, with white-washed walls and
a sickly ' puzzle-monkey' shrub or two edging its curving
gravelled walk of a few yards in length in a forlorn manner.
Tying Brownberry to the gate, Blyth pulled the bell at the
front-door for some minutes without seeing or hearing a
sign of life on the premises. Provoked at thus losing
time, he strode round to the yard behind, equally empty,
and there hammered so soundly at the fastened kitchen-door
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JOY.
that the echoes resounded. A mongrel sort of mastiff and
a lurcher hereupon tore at their chains and howled at him,
till their throats must have been sore.
At last came a rasping sound in answer.
A rusty window was opened overhead, and a crone put
her head out to ask what he wanted. But hardly waiting
for young Berrington's explanations, she bade him go off;
him and his search parties be dratted ! Her master said
they would get no satisfaction from him, and advised the
Berringtons, father and son, to try to find some wits for
themselves before hunting the moors for a crazy beggar-
woman who never had any.
The window closed again with a snap, and Blyth was left
alone.
He went off repulsed and chafed now, all the more re-
solved to inquire closely or bring the police. But at a
wretched cottage by the roadside belonging to old Hawk-
shaw he got his information. A woman therein, smarting
under notice of dismissal from her landlord, told how she
had felt curious on seeing one of the wisht sisters stealthily
hurrying by, cloaked and hooded, with an excited air, as if
afraid of being seen, and watched her going in at the Barton
gate. This was so odd that the woman caught up her baby
and went out to see what next might happen; wishing also
to have a better look at one of the strange recluses whom
she had never seen near. She bad not waited a few moments
when a terrible noise was heard inside the house. Steenie
Hawkshaw appeared, pushing out the poor mad-woman,
who resisted, clinging to him and shrieking out entreaties to
be heard. Old Hawkshaw stood by, roaring with laughter
at the fun. Suddenly ceasing her importunities, Magdalen
collected herself and walked to the gate with the dignity of
the finest lady in the land. Then, stopping short and raising
her arm like a play-actress, she pronounced words of such
JOY.
281
an awful curse upon the inmates of the house that the poor
labourer's wife, listening, declared her blood ran cold! Even
Blyth was appalled, hearing the anathemas but partly re-
peated—denunciations which in all her life one might swear
Magdalen never could have heard. It was enough to make
him believe in the old doctrine of possession, and that the
demon within that frail delicate form had cried out, not she
herself. What followed was as terrible in a different way.
Young Steenie then shouted out he would set his dogs upon
her. And unfastening the two house-dogs, although holding
them by their chains, he called out two or three terriers
from the stables, hissing them at Magdalen, and following
them up himself with half-tipsy, brutal mirth. Screaming,
the unhappy woman fled as for her life, down the road, on
and on, followed by the posse, snapping, yelping, barking at
her heels; besides jeered by a troop of small urchins such
as seem to spring up from the earth on all occasions of un-
usual events.
' The terriers didn't bite her, but law! she had the heart
as frightened in her body as if they had,' said the woman.
' And if Steenie had not held in the big dogs with all his
might, they would have torn her to bits.'
Then in desperation, as it seemed, Magdalen climbed up
the hillside that there led steeply to the moors, and so
presently the chase dropped. That was all.
Blyth, on hearing this, only asked quietly :
' Where might Stephen Hawkshaw be likely found ?'
The woman said at the inn of Drewston (a little village
popularly supposed to be thus called as a corruption of
Druid's town).
Thither went Blyth, and Brownberry's reeking sides
showed the pace as he drew bridle after a mile and a half's
gallop. The inn there boasted a rickety billiard-table,
which, however wretched, was a chief attraction to young
282
JOY.
Hawkshaw and a few other idle spirits, lower in the social
scale than himself. For he loved to be king of his company
at times, or, as he expressed it, £ cock of the walk.' He
was taking an afternoon drink at the bar now, with some of
these companions, when Berrington came in and curtly
asked him for a few moments' private conversation. Hawk-
shaw returned rudely he wanted to hear nothing from him,
nor himself to say anything to him.
' Are you afraid of what I may have to ask ?' said Blyth,
low, seeing his enemy quailed under his eye; being indeed
tormented by visions he was trying to drown in drink of a
dead woman lying in the bogs.
''Afraid V
Hawkshaw fired up at that, and looked round for admiring
scorn of such a charge from his backers, but out of respect
for Blyth's request, whose favour it was not amiss to con-
ciliate, they had all retired a few steps aside.
Seeking to command his temper, Blyth demanded to
know for what cause Steenie had turned out of his house,
two days ago, the poor woman now lost on the moors.
' For what ? Because she came and nearly worried the
life and soul out of me. Would you like to know why she
came, eh?'
And, exulting in the opportunity of giving a nasty wound
to his successful rival, Steenie jeeringly went on :
' You'll be interested, so I'll tell you as a kindness. She
came to beg me to marry her daughter—there! wanted to
bribe me with ravings of gold she would give me, ha, ha!
I wish you good luck of your mother-in-law, if you find her.'
' Hold your tongue, I advise you, since you may be
responsible before God for her death,' said Blyth, in a tone
so stern it brought a horrible conviction of guilt for a
moment to his hearer's brain, though inflamed and confused
by drink. Then adding, ' You neither knew who she was
JOY.
283
nor what she was,' he moved towards the door round which
the men were grouped.
But Hawkshaw yelled after him, striking his fist on the
bar among the glasses :
' What is that you say ? Stop a bit—I'll tell you before
these gentlemen here. Says I don't know who the old
mad-woman is that he is hunting for through the country.
Well, she called herself by the name of Stone, and she's
own mother to Miss Joy Haythorn, so-called, up at the
Red ^House, who is said to be engaged, or likely to be, to
our neighbour, Mr. Blyth Berrington here, and I wish him
much joy of her. And as to what the old witch was '
He uttered some coarse expressions, on which Blyth,
turning sharply back, caught him near the throat, and
ordered him to take back his own words as a foul lie.
Stephen wrestled violently. Stronger by far though Blyth
was, his opponent was muscular and quick as a panther.
A few seconds the bystanders watched the struggle with
breathless interest; then as Stephen, gasping still, refused
to retract his words, Berrington (having foreseen some such
likely emergency) gave him a severe chastising with the
short riding-whip the, Blyth, carried stuck in his pocket,
then walked out of the inn, mounted, and rode away. In
two days the fame of this exploit went far and near. Only
Joy did not hear of it.
But ill-deeds breed emulation still more than good ones,
unhappily; and one of the boys who saw Hawkshaw chasing
poor Magdalen it was that now had been fired to organize
the raid on the cottage.
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JOY.
CHAPTER XLVI.
' Oh, near ones, clear ones ! you in whose right hands
Our own rests calm ; whose faithful hearts all day
Wide open wait, till back from distant lands
Thought, the tired traveller, wends his homeward way.
' Young children, and old neighbours, and old friends,
Old servants—you, whose smiling circle small
Grows slowly smaller, till at last it ends
Where in one grave is room enough for all.
' Oh, shut the world out from the heart you cheer !
Tho' small the circle of your smiles may be,
The world is distant, and your smiles are near :
This makes you more than all the world to me.'
Lord Lytton.
Since the day when the children of Bethel came out with
their mockings of ' Go up, thou baldhead,' other little ones
through ages have repeated the good or evil outcries, or
hosannahs, caught up from their parents' lips, and so have
been blessed or cursed, according as the righteousness
or the sins of the fathers were visited on the next genera-
tion.
On reaching the little cottage, Blyth found it attacked by
a swarm of all the village children. They were jeering at
old Hannah, who stood scolding them from the porch like
a demented being. Every now and then she would make a
short raid upon the enemy, which dispersed at once, far out-
stripping her heavy movements, and then returned with fresh
delight to bait her.
A shower of missiles was flung against the cottage walls
as Blyth appeared, in haste to the relief. Most were in-
offensive enough—twigs, lumps of moss; but some few
stones rattled about the door, to Blyth's anger.
JOY.
285
He dived into the fray, while Hannah uttered exclama-
tions of thankfulness at the unlooked-for succour.
'Oh, Mr. Blyth, you don't know what mischief they've
done. They've gone and screamed out to Miss Rachel
about her sister being lost in the bogs—and she knows it
all! Goodness forgive me for being angry with such children,
but to spare them would be to spoil them.'
Catching one of the ringleaders, whom he recognised as
an incorrigible brat (so far in the imp's history), Blyth held
him fast, kicking and struggling. Then, calling to the rest,
who at once dispersed with cries of alarm, he announced he
was going to make a scapegoat of his prey, and duck him
in the river; the others might follow, and see, if they liked.
Thereupon, tucking the shrieking victim under his arm,
tight-pinioned, Blyth started down by the Chad towards the
village. Of course the rest of the little crew all trooped
after him, at a distance, however fearful, and ready to rush
off if he looked round. The pied piper of Hamelin was no
less sure of small followers.
The whole way to the village Blyth led them a dance
after him. Then, pitying the mental pangs of his prisoner,
he solemnly ducked the latter's head at a convenient shallow
place, and led him, howling, with dripping pate, to his
mother. As the maternal wrath against the culprit was apt,
by frequent necessity therefore, to be easily aroused, Blyth
harangued all the other matrons who were attracted to the
scene by the crowd of children. He told them—what few,
and none there, yet knew—of the escaped convict's nocturnal
visit to the cottage up the glen. Then, their curiosity and
love of horror being roused, he excited their womanly pity
for the poor sisters. One who no doubt was afflicted at
times, yet whom none of them had ever known to hurt a
fly, as Blyth affirmed with honest kindling zeal, had been so
dazed and frightened that all knew her supposed terrible
286
JOY.
fate—lost straying on the moors, it seemed. The other lay
dangerously ill: the best and gentlest woman, as he, Blyth
Berrington, declared, he had ever known from his child-
hood. And all were aware how long she had been his
father's tenant.
The women, being moved by natural commiseration for
the dead, and the speaker's own earnest and burning indig-
nation that must stir hearts always (Blyth's own words sur-
prising himself, by inflaming what he had secretly blamed
himself for as stolidity of feeling respecting poor Magdalen,
something as flame-tongues leap higher and higher up a
bonfire hitherto a cold mass), murmurs of pity broke out
among the hearers. Blyth then made his last artful appeal,
described the children's misbehaviour, and, worse, uncon-
scious cruelty to one of their elders, a lame, sick creature—
pointing to the hot faces, the torn and soiled clothes of the
band. The last plea moved all the housewives to the very
marrow of their feelings. On every side offspring were
snatched up, and punishments of such primitive nature
ensued, to a chorus of infantile howls and squeals, that
Blyth fled in dismay, feeling as if so many small sucking-
pigs were being butchered.
Never again would those children make a raid up the
glen, he knew; and yet, though convinced he had done
rightly, he was half ashamed of his harshness—weary and
sick of all the events of the last few days.
Back up the glen went he with heavy steps to ask after
Rachel.
Hannah met him with more heavy news. Joy and she
had left Rachel alone that afternoon for one hour and a
half, while they both attended the funeral at her own solemn
command. Her brave, noble spirit would not suffer hinder-
ing others in their duty. She never asked was Magdalen
going to the funeral, perhaps feared to know. There was
JOY.
287
no one to stay with her; she had prayed them faintly to
send no strange woman; and indeed her illness lay now
heavier on the mind than the body. So as she lay in her
weakness, with thoughts far beyond earth, the children's
clamour had startled her—adventurously clamouring at the
door, and thrusting their faces closely at the little windows.
Rising, affrighted, from het sick bed, she was met by foolish
outcries against the witch ! taunts and jeers as to where her
sister was ?—lost! lost! since three days, in the bogs on the
moor.
When Hannah reached the cottage, having been set down
by Farmer Berrington at the foot-stile beside the high-road
nearest Cold-home, she found the children unchidden
dancing like a ring of gnats about the brown nest from
which one bird had flown. Rachel Estonia seemed utterly
"erwhelmed and sunken under the dreadful intelligence.
No need now for their anxious consultations, how to break
to her that the charge and burden of her life she had loved
so well was taken from her.
She never asked was it true, seeming to understand too
well their late evasive replies as to Magdalen's absence.
' Hannah ! Hannah ! After all my years of watching to
lose her so . . . .'
That was all.
' The ways of Providence are mysterious,' answered the
old nurse, with tears raining down her cheeks, though
Rachel, white and still, did not weep. ' Think how many
a mother brings up her child for years and years with care
and prayer, and sees it grow up to be a sorrow and shame at
last. It's worse to know a soul lost than only a body, and
there's no life so hard but what you will find others that had
as hard to bear—or harder.'
Rachel Estonia raised her dark eyes slowly at that, with-
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JOY.
out speech; the words had gone into her heart, and brought
some balm there.
That evening, late, Blyth Berrington drove up the spring-
cart from the farm, with a mattress and blankets laid inside.
Joy helped him to lift Rachel into it with tender care.
Then they locked the cottage door, taking almost nothing
away with them ; indeed, there was little to take.
But, before leaving, Joy, struck by a sudden thought,
hastily ran back and lit the lantern that still stood in its
accustomed place on the window-sill. The young girl
looked still at its red glow as the cart drove away, Hannah
sitting at Rachel's feet, Joy supporting the latter's head on
her lap.
' There will be no other life lost while I can keep that
burning,' she thought.
(The last three nights she had done likewise.)
And thus that night how strangely was realized Joy's
frequent happy dream of having her aunt Rachel living
also with herself among the comforts of the Red House
Farm, and Rachel's unspoken, vague longing to be with
the child of her heart.
JOY.
289
CHAPTER XLVII.
' Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night and night and day
Drifting on his weary way.
*****
Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony.'
Shelley.
Rachel lay very ill for days at the Red House, during
which time Joy nursed her with the most devoted tender-
ness. Something of Rachel's mantle seemed to have fallen
upon the girl with her new experiences in suffering; she
was so brave, patient, and showed a wonderful sick-room
instinct for knowing always what to do that is a native gift.
Hannah did much, but Joy did more.
By degrees the sick woman recovered. She had been
indeed long inured to suffering in her life, had long ago
learnt to walk down the grievous valley of life with her eyes
fixed on the far light she saw shining over the dark hills at
the end, unheeding the pains and wounds that afflicted her-
self alone on the road. Now that she could no longer hope
to do anything for Gaspard, could do no more for her be-
loved sister on earth, a strange calm took possession of her.
Joy was the light of her eyes, her support, comfort, care-
taker. To Rachel, who had not known since years the
feeling of being thus tended and lovingly surrounded with
attention—she who had so long given the best of her life in
Magdalen's service—how sweet it was to be thus cared for
herself!
J9
290
JOY.
As she lay in the black-raftered bedroom of the Red
House, looking out on the garden, in a soft bed, the sheets
smelling of dried lavender, while fresh scents of living
flowers came up through the unlatched window, Rachel
Estonia liked just to watch and watch Joy's straight, brisk
figure, her young face glowing with dark beauty and health,
and the quick helpful stirring of her hands. Some strong
persons seem by their own healthiness to insult the weak-
ness of the sick; others to give something of their own
cheery vigour by the very touch of their hands. And of
the latter was Joy.
When the July days were becoming few, and the hay
was long gone from the fields, and the bramble in white
flower, then, with tottering steps, Rachel at last came down
into the garden-plot, leaning on Joy's shoulder. Blyth
carpentered for her a wooden seat near the bee-hives, for
she loved to hear their humming (faintly reminding her,
maybe, of the heather hills where now she had no heart to
go). On one side the scarlet-runner beans hid her from
being seen from the lane, for she shunned being wondered
at or eyed with pity; on the other, white jessamine stars
covered the cob-wall, and Joy's great poppies, with their
silky petals, burnt against the grey moorstone lower course
of the house. For days, Rachel spoke very little; but
there would sit, looking at the hills whence, as says David,
cometh help, while peace and refreshment flowed gently
into her soul. And she said to them, she felt somewhat as
did Christiana and her family during their stay at the House
Beautiful, near which lay the Valley of Humiliation, where
the pilgrims went down and gathered lilies.
The aunt and niece were both dressed in black, but wore
no deeper sign of mourning. Rachel abstained since she
was too poor to buy crape, and in her heart despised such
outward show ; Joy because of Farmer Berrington's earnest
JOY.
291
request. The good man had been sorely exercised by all
the gossip during the time of the inquest at the farm,
together with the search for poor Magdalen, and lasting,
indeed, for days afterwards. Himself, his house, and all its
inmates had been the subject of what he most hated all his
life—that is, the idle talk of busy-bodies.
With the generous warmth of youth, Joy would have now
readily declared herself the daughter of the lost woman
whom wrongs and her own temperament had distracted.
Ay ! and the girl would have scorned those who scorned her
for her origin, and held her head the higher; feeling dimly
as if, thereby, some reparation for the cruelties of fate could
be made to the poor shade one might imagine hovering over
some of the reedy marshes, or black sloughs away, close
under the low clouds on the upper moor, where human life
was none, and but few small birds or wild creatures.
But Farmer Berrington said his ' nay' decidedly; and as
he had accepted Joy for a daughter-in-law he was in his
rights. ' Why raise more talk ?' he asked, striking his oak
stick on the floor. ' Can it do good to those that are gone?
No ! . . . . Then leave well alone; and tongues will soon
stop wagging.'
To tell Jhe honest truth, the old man was crotchety and
uncertain in temper the end of this summer. He was aged
and heavy, and, having manfully helped day and night in
the search for Magdalen, had taken a cough and wheezing
in his chest that seemed likely not to leave him. A man
shall do his duty; yet be unhappily racked by rheumatics
and lumbago therefor. And if so tormented he may be
testy, however good and upright in his life. No doctor's
embrocations allayed old Berrington's pain much. Nor
would he, naturally perhaps, listen to frequent messages sent
him of the favourite village remedies for rheumatisms.
These were to put a slab of fat bacon on his chest, or
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292
JOY.
be rubbed with benzoline oil night and morning, disregard-
ing the smell.
' O la, my dear creature !' Hannah would now cry to all
gossips who came on this last errand of mercy, ' why, my
young mistress says he'd burn the dear soul, if a candle
went near him, like one of them Christian martyrs.'
Even Blyth saw no use in Joy's telling more of her
parentage. Cuibono? he too thought. As Joy Hay thorn,
his sweetheart had grown up at the farm. As such he
wished her to remain known in the country. And when Joy
naturally said that by her own name of Da Silva she must
truly be married, he replied almost testily that, of course>
they must be married at the nearest big town and have
a license, and keep it all dark. Besides, Steenie Hawk-
shaw's version of the story to his idle associates was
disregarded even by them as tipsy chatter, and since his
horse-whipping but little had been heard of him, for a
sufficient reason. Having been urged by the witnesses of
his defeat to drown his fury in drink, before inflicting
a sevenfold revengeful chastisement on Blyth by breaking
every bone in his body, and being likewise truly sorely
pricked by his conscience accusing him of almost murder,
the weak-headed young man drove back to the Barton in a
state of maddened drunkenness. Finding another dog-cart
ahead in a narrow lane between the immensely high banks
of that country, Steenie, with his friend the veterinary
surgeon, roared out he would swallow no one's dust, and
lashing his horse furiously, tried to pass the other vehicle.
This was impossible, for the deep trackway, like many
thereabouts, had been only meant in olden days for pack-
horses.'
There was a hot race for precedence down the lane, since,
foreseeing trouble, the first-comer, a sporting lawyer from
Moortown, had also whipped up his beast. Coming down a
JOY.
293
steep bit of hill at a tearing pace, there was a violent
collision. Steenie was pitched out, and his leg broken
in two places, his dog-cart shattered, and the mare badly
injured. The others came less to grief; but naturally the
lawyer brought a fine bill of damages, which made old
Hawkshaw doubly exasperated with his son, being angry
already at the injury to his own mare and cart. Thus
for weeks Steenie lay at the Barton, unable to stir, deserted
perforce by his boon companions, whom his father now
angrily denounced as rogues and idiots !
Blyth further held that, while there were some difficulties,
anyway, about the matter of the real name and family his-
tory of his wife that was soon to be, there would be more in
opening the door wide to gossip about poor Magdalen and
Count Rivello. His convict father-in-law was, in truth, no
matter of pride to Blyth, and a secret thorn in the flesh to
old Berrington; though both strove to hide their sore feeling
from poor Joy.
But she guessed it.
'Let us be married immediately. You will have my
name then. That will put a stop to all questions,' said
Blyth rather dictatorially.
Then Joy faltered, clasping both her hands on his arm,
and standing straight and slim beside him, in the shadow of
the deep farm-porch, while the moon rose over the hills :
' Dear, it grieves me to think your future wife should
have her origin gossiped and wondered over. Besides, the
Berringtons have been proud of being an honest, upright
family for generations. I should bring the first stain into
their history, and—and—I could not bear to think that!
.... Oh, let me go away quietly with my aunt Rachel^
when she is well enough. Indeed, I shall think it quite
right, if you love some other girl more happy in her parents,
and marry her.'
294
JOY.
Whereupon, for the first time since many days, Joy
began crying, but in a quiet way, with much resolve in her
manner and voice, nevertheless.
Of course Blyth laughed her to scorn, calling her a silly
child, and kissing her forehead. But, as she still persisted
he should weigh the matter, he took both her hands into
his own, and said, with decision :
' My poor darling ! I swear to you I will marry no other
girl, and will hold you to your promise—so there ! Never
trouble your dear little head about a pedigree. Mine will
be sufficient for us both—so marry me in a fortnight.'
Whereupon, he felt pleased with himself, with a masterful
sense of getting his own way always—and as a man does
who knows he is doing a right and perhaps fine deed.
Joy consented to say no more about giving up Blyth.
The girl's heart was swelled with a strange pride, that
kept telling herself she should be judged by her own worth,
and not made to bear shame for her father's sins or her
mother's misfortunes. Nevertheless, with a newly-broken
spirit, she was aware that, as this world is ordered, it most
often is thus!
Yes, she would marry Blyth, because she believed no one
else could ever love him with such great love, such devotion,
as herself—and that for ever. Her loving soul, deep and
true, had chosen him as master, and his will was her law.
Yet she felt a little chillness at heart, slight as the first
frosts of September nights, aware that Blyth and his father
would have smoked their pipes o' nights with greater ease
and comfort of mind had Gaspard da Silva died unfreed in
his prison up yonder, and had not Magdalen's sorrowful
affliction been blazoned and magnified by vulgar tongues;
though doubtless the Berringtons had borne much willingly
for the sake of their duty to God and love of Joy's own
self.
JOY.
295
That was all! Ah, well, thought the girl: Who is per-
fectly happy ?
But she would by no means consent to be married till
September was over, out of respect to her mother's memory.
And Rachel, however seldom she spoke, and almost never
interfered—being like one whose occupation was to foster
the wretched only and finds that gone—gravely blessed her
on hearing her resolve, saying she was right.
Joy wanted to pass some time in secret thought, and to
try to feel true sorrow for her mother's loss !
Shocked she had been, as the great change to seriousness
told, that gave depth to the young girl's expression; most
grieved and horror-stricken. But as Magdalen had dele-
gated her own duties to Rachel and Hannah, whom Joy
felt with a tightened heart she loved (even the latter) far,
far better; so the poor girl was repentant of what seemed
her own hard-heartedness, and strove to feel a rightful
daughter's sorrow for the mother Magdalen might have
been.
Of her dead father she tried to think less, shrinking from
the awful questions as to his future fate, that must arise at
times. And yet there was a germ—a natural instinct—in
her heart, though never fostered by circumstances, that
made her also sorry not to be more sorry !
So Joy asked to be left to pass the next two months
almost in perfect seclusion at the farm ; which wish, being
fulfilled, it thence followed that few, if any, in the sparsely-
peopled neighbourhood knew of Rachel's presence there,
or, if known, it was attributed to Farmer Berrington's good-
ness of heart, pitying her bereavment. The days passed
softly and still, therefore, and the wheat-fields ripened in
August, and the apples grew red and yellow in September,
thickly hung among the leaves in the orchard.
It was a serious time, and yet not without its sweetness.
296
JOY.
' In tyme of harvest mery it is ynough ;
Peres and apples hangen on bough.
The hay ward bloweth mery his home ;
In every felde ripe is come ;
The grapes hangen on the vyne;
Swete is trewe love and fyne.'
Of ' trewe love,' in spite of her chastened mood and daily
hours spent sewing beside Rachel in mostly silent reflection,
Joy and Blyth tasted still some sweet moments. Many an
evening they wandered together across the low meadows to
the Chad; and there smelt the creamy, meadow-sweet spires
heavy on the air, and watched the kingfisher's blue quick
gleam, or the fish rise.
But Blyth was away several times on business relating to
his Australian property, which he thought it well to settle
before his honeymoon. And more—there was some talk of
old Hawkshaw selling the best portion, far more than half,
of his land; which, fitting nicely into the Red Farm ground
at the fattest part of the Chad valley, would make a fair and
pleasant-lying, if not a fine estate of the Berringtons' free-
hold if thereunto added. The cause was strange enough—
as follows.
Steenie Hawkshaw lying helpless and ill-cared for at the
Barton, with only his father for company and their old
housekeeper, a cross hag, had besought leave to send for a
certain widow to help nurse him and while away the time.
She was a handsome woman, older than himself, whose society
in Moortown Steenie (keeping it dark) a good deal affected.
As to her character, as Hannah remarked, ' There is little
call to talk about what there's so little ofP
Three weeks later the country-side was ringing with the
news that old Hawkshaw himself had taken the widow to
wife, in a secret and sudden way. Young Steenie, hardly
yet able to use his crutches, found himself duped, deserted,
abused for his debts by his old father and stepmother; and
JOY. 297
likely to be disinherited of what little remained to the
Hawkshaws in favour of the new mistress of the fearton, the
old man's debts being fitting parents to those of the son.
Poor Steenie ! His retribution had come sharp and swift.
Blyth felt even sorry for him ; if better brought up he
might have been a gay and pleasant-tempered fellow enough.
As soon as he could well move he left the Barton, pale and
miserable-looking, and went to Bristol to a cousin for awhile,
finding home unendurable.
So all things had regained serenity and a regular swing
once more of duties to do, and duties done, at the Red
House. The weather was pleasant, some plentiful showers
calling out the dried sweetness of the earth too. And all
were fairly well again in health, which means so much of
happiness in the daily reckoning. Only old Dick was ill,
and that in a strange way, which now requires being told.
298
JOY.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
' Don't expose me ! Just this once !
This was the first and only time, I'll swear—
Look at me !—see, I kneel!—the only time,
I swear, I ever cheated.'
Browning.
' Tarn o' the Lin grew dourie and douce,
And he sat on a stane at the end o' his house ;
 What ails, auld chiel ? He looked haggard and thin.
 I'm no very cheery, quo' Tam o' the Lin.
' Tam o' the Lin lay down to die,
And his friends whispered softly and woefully,
 We'll buy you some masses to scour away sin
 And drink at my lyke-wake, quo' Tam o' the Lin.'
Tam 0 the Lin.
It was in the last days of August that old Dick took ill;
owing to a fall he got when standing on a cart full of wheat
sheaves, helping to pitchfork them into the upper barn, and
stepping back a little too far. It was a heavy fall, and in-
jured his back badly, so that he could only lie without doing
a stroke of work that autumn.
Here was a chance for Rachel Estonia to be once more
useful, and immediately she seized it.
Hitherto, the lonely sister had seemed during the past
months of the summer as one only half awake from a terrible,
troubled dream, however sweetly her great dark eyes smiled
on those around. Or, again, looking at her pale and worn,
though still noble features, you might fancy her a nun who,
after spending the best of her life in solitary seclusion and
religious contemplation, had been by some chance brought
back to the world and set down by a happy hearth. She
seemed in a strange land, and stilly smiled on its ways and
domestic happiness, but was too old herself to learn them ;
JOY.
299
there was no more spring-time for her. She moved among
them like a statue almost, finding nothing of a place or need
for her services in that easy-ordered household, where none
had much work, and all only strove to spare her; where no
one was ailing.
When old Dick took ill, however, Rachel got her call.
She went daily to his cottage—a thriftless, untidy place it
was, though he had a wife, but no children at home. Rachel
doctored him, cooked and tidied, read to him, even sat up
there at nights often. And, above all, she bore patiently
with old Dick's crossness and churlish nature. New energy
and her old independence seemed to return with this charge
to her body and mind.
For some three weeks Rachel was thus busied ; but old
Dick showed small signs of recovery. His back might be
somewhat better, but in mind he only grew more broken-
down and hopeless of health ; he slept little and badly,
being troubled with terrible dreams from which he would
wake up trembling and all in a cold sweat, so his wife told,
who was a weak-minded, helpless sort of creature, a good
soul enough. Old Dick swore so fearfully at her for saying
this, that Rachel severely reprimanded him. Though grum-
bling, Dick had come to adore the latter in a frightened,
awed way as his good angel, the being who alone brought
comfort and help to his dark hours. Yet at first it had been
only by Blyth's own presence and firm desire that he could
be prevailed on to let ' the black witch' examine his injuries,
and lay the pillows more easily for his sore bones.
So Dick grew worse and worse, sinking daily from being
a tough and hale old fellow into a feeble dotard, only show-
ing vigour in his flashes of ill-temper; and even these,
mourned his wife, grew fewer.
One September night, Rachel, who had just lain down to
sleep, was roused by a message that old Dick was dying,
300 JOY.
and wished to see her at once. Hastily dressing, she
hurried down the lane with Joy, who, having heard the news
likewise, had sprung up to accompany her; and Blyth, who,
not having yet gone to bed, came to take charge of
both.
It was dark down the lane, where the trees, still in full
leafage, though yellowing in patches, met overhead. But
they all remembered afterwards how the hunter's moon,
hanging overhead in the sky in a great silver disc—seeming
larger than in any other month—shed a soft radiance over
all the open country round. A night for sweet thoughts
and hopefulness only; not for those of a sinful, troubled
spirit, it seemed.
Rachel Estonia went alone quickly into the cottage.
Blyth and Joy waited outside for her, and whispered at
times, walking up and down the lane together arm-in-arm,
as affianced lovers might; though they shunned being seen
by other eyes indulging in any such demonstrations of
affection, in a way old Farmer Berrington quite failed to
understand.
Although they began by speaking of Dick and his possibly
approaching end with pity, somehow soon the broken talk
took a more tender turn. Blyth was saying:
' In one fortnight now, dear Have you finished
sewing the wedding-dress ?'
A woman's sharp call rang out from the cottage. It was
Rachel's voice. The door was flung open, and the light of
the cottage interior gleamed in the lane. Both ran to the
threshold, where Rachel was steadying herself by the door-
post, her breast heaving, saying, with strong, self-enforced
outward quiet, yet as one whose mind was almost beside
itself:
' Come in here—listen ! Dick says that Magdalen is not
dead—that he helped her to escape—beyond—Moortown !'
JOY.
301
It was true enough. They hurried in, but the fresh wit-
nesses to Dick's repeated confession only confirmed its evident
truth. The miserable old man declared, between gasps for
breath, that he could bear the tortures of his conscience no
longer, and would make a clean breast of it all; for his fall,
he reiterated, was a punishment, he knew—ay, he knew!—
and yet he had told no lie either, nor hurt the woman.
But still, when Mistress Rachel had prayed and read to him,
he had felt like one of the damned, knowing what she had
suffered with grief for her mad sister's loss. So, as he had
been taken that night as if death was coming, he would tell
first—ay, ay I
Blyth bade him go on, then, and be quick about it.
The day Magdalen was lost, Dick related, he had been
sent to Moortown with the waggon in the afternoon. And
so, when about some three miles on his way, he saw a
woman-creature dragging herself over the moors like a
hunted hare. She made frantic signs to him to stop, but
he would pay no heed at first, recognising her, and thinking
it was merely some silly-Sally craze, till she kept running
along the road beside him. At last, plainly ready to drop
with fatigue, she showed an odd-shaped bag she held strung
over her arm under her cloak, and took out a gold sovereign
from it, which she held up.
This seemed so strange an act, that Dick cried whoa ! to
his horses, out of pure curiosity, he averred. He turned
over the gold piece, rang it, thought it a good one. Mean-
time, Magdalen implored him so urgently to give her a lift
in the waggon—saying she was so tired, so tired, and that
Farmer Berrington, her good friend, would not refuse her
such a little service, that Dick complied.
After resting a while in the waggon, getting near Moor-
town, she began making minute inquiries of Dick as to the
neighbourhood and roads, and how to go to London. As
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JOY.
he got suspicious at this, and spoke of driving her back,
Magdalen prayed and besought him not to tell she had
gone away; adding a wild, confused tale of having been ill-
used by the Hawkshaws, whom she hated, and that she was
merely going away for a short time, a very little while ! It
was so dull and lonely in the glen.
If only Dick would help her, she would give him five
more sovereigns—ten! And she assured him again and
again she was soon coming back to her sister.
So he agreed; and at her request drove her through
Moortown, she sitting back under the hood of the waggon,
so as not to be seen. She bade Dick go and buy her a
bonnet, and a bright little shawl she pinned over her bosom;
so that, when she stepped out of the waggon, you would not
have known her. And she did up her hood and old cloak
in a bundle; 'for she was powerful cunning.' Then Dick
got her some tea and food at a respectable woman's house
he knew of. Lastly, he saw her into the mail-coach, which
passed just at that hour through Moortown. And she had
laughed in a pleased way to herself, and told Dick she was
going to London, and perhaps to Paris; and had taken her
seat with such a sensible, quiet way, like a fine lady in the
way she spoke and demeaned herself, that Dick, groaning,
declared it had quite relieved his conscience, believing she
knew well enough how to take care of herself. After the
coach was gone, he had to hurry back to the Red House,
being late, and his horses were all of a lather—Master
Blyth might recall speaking sharply to him about them,
too.
That was all he could tell. Good Lord! he knew no
more.
And, oh ! (with a heart-rending groan), let no one ask
him to give back the money, for it was all spent in drink
or tobacco; or, if not spent (Dick, fearing he was dying,
JOY.
writhed between the torments of his greed and his con-
science), they might find some of it hidden in a hollow of
the earthen floor, under one of his bed-posts. But surely
folk might leave it to him until he died, at least; for now
he had told all, and cleansed his soul to the best of his
power. . . . Ah, Mistress Rachel need not look at him
like that, with those eyes of hers, in reproach. He was
only a miserable old man, who had meant no harm. Speak
up for him, Miss Joy dear! and let him keep the money,
for he loved it; and ask the young master, who was always
cruel hard upon him—to let him die with a roof over his
head.
This was Dick's confession.
(But oh, how did my mother get all that money ?' asked
Joy innocently, in wonder.
Blyth touched her gently, in secret signal not to inquire
more then; for Rachel had clasped her hands to her head
at that question. The girl had never been told that last
dark detail of her father's flight from the cottage.
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JOY.
CHAPTER XLIX.
' Wenn Zwei von einander scheiden,
So geben sie sich die Hand ;
Und fangen an zu weinen,
Und seufzen ohne End.
' Wir haben nicht geweinet,
Wir seufzten nicht  Weh ! und  Ach !
Die Thranen und die Seufzer,
Die kamen hintennach.
Heine.
A lovers' parting ! It is hard and sad enough at all times,
yet how much worse when it is not the will of a remorseless
fate, weighing equally heavily on both, but the deliberate
wish of one who still loves, and is opposed by the other.
' You shall not go. I will not hear of it, Joy ; I will not
bear it! Or else I will grant this much—marry me first,
and then go and search for your mother.'
' Oh, Blyth ! dear, dear Blyth ! don't wring my heart
with opposing me in this. How could I, a daughter,
marry you and feel happy—marry and expect a blessing
from heaven on our union, if I had neglected or even
delayed my first duty, to find my poor, unhappy mother ?'
'But, Joy, think of me. Those two years I was out in
Australia, I was only waiting, hoping for you, thinking of
you. And now, when I come back and find happiness
almost in my grasp, almost—/ to ask me to give it up !
Any man would think this too hard.'
' But I shall come back to you and the Red House,
Blyth, if I live. Then remember my promise to my mother.
She solemnly made me promise not to leave my aunt
Rachel till she returned! Oh, dear love, do you think /
don't feel it too ?'
JOY. 305
' Don't cry, darling ; that is like the last straw. What a
miserable, tantalizing life it is on earth ! Yes; you will
come back, if it lies in your power—that I believe. But
what changes and chances every day brings, especially in
separation, illness, dangers, and troubles of alt kinds,
perhaps coldness and loss of affection. For there ! you are
beautiful, Joy—and you have not seen the world.'
' I have not seen it. I am going out into it a poor, home-
less, houseless wanderer, Blyth; searching for another
strayed soul. And, if I thought you could trust me with
as great trust and love as mine, dear, towards you, it would
cheer me up; for perfect love, I have heard, casteth out
fear. But if you doubt me, and distrust me, then '
Poor Joy could not finish her words. Something seemed
to rise up and down in her throat, as if her loving heart,
swelled with pain and bitterness, was fluttering there.
Blyth felt heartily ashamed of himself.
Already, in this altercation, their first quarrel, he had
said hard things that now seemed brutal to himself con-
cerning Joy's father and mother. Her mother, even at
the seasons when in full possession of her reasoning
faculties, had never shown a right and natural maternal
devotion to her daughter, he said. His father, George
Berrington, had reared her, been a father to her for years;
and, now the old man was declining, it was cruel to spoil
his last happiness. What would he be without his beloved
Joy in the house ?
(And indeed she was the old man's pet; his last gleam
of sunshine, so to speak ; his adopted dear daughter.)
But in spite of all this, the girl's resolve to set out with
her Aunt Rachel immediately in search of their poor wan-
derer was adamant to Blyth's anger. It hurt her cruelly,
but she would not flinch.
So now, being ashamed of himself, feeling that in her
20
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JOY.
selj-sacrifice the woman was far braver, and higher, and
nobler than himself, Blyth bowed his head and said huskily :
'Then go, darling. I will not hinder you by another
word . . . But God knows when you will come back to me!'
'Yes. God knows,' answered the girl he loved, with a
simple, firm trust, as she echoed the words, that made him
feel still more self-reproved.
Blyth and Joy were together in the farm-parlour during
this scene. It was the morrow after old Dick's strange con-
fession, and the day was now wearing to late afternoon.
In the early morning Blyth had risen and ridden to
Moortown, without waiting for breakfast or telling his pur-
pose. He wished to make inquiries, as the mail-coach
passed through Moortown that morning on its down journey,
as to whether anything could be discovered further as to
Magdalen's flight. When he rode back to the farm through
a steady drizzling rain from the hills, Blyth carried the news
that, so far as could yet be known, the woman described by
him had certainly gone towards London. In his heart he
then felt he had done what was right that morning, and
deserved Joy's thanks, which were always so sweetly given.
He struggled bravely against dim and evil promptings of the
worser human nature that is in us all, which whispered that
this future mother-in-law of his was like a clog round his
neck; and that for her own sake as well as his happiness and
that of her daughter, it was almost a pity she had been
saved from the Blackabrook that night she ran off to the
' cold country!' or, however horrible a fate, the poor soul
might have had as peaceful an end, perhaps, had she indeed
been sucked in living into the black mud of one of those
dreary morasses to which the country folk gave the terrible
name of the ' stables of the moor.' Better that than to be
robbed and murdered, maybe, for her money in London.
Blyth was of a disposition that grudged no time or labour,
JOY.
3°7
provided a good result came to be shown for it. But it
vexed him now to think how he had wasted a week's fine
weather and the work of many men scouring the country far
and wide for a woman who had got clear away—and old
Dick, no doubt, laughing in his sleeve, the hoary villain!
Still, as he trotted Brownberry home, Blyth urged his
lagging mind up to a dogged resolve on starting himself with
Miss Rachel to London. He would not fail in his efforts
to find Joy's mother, now, at the end. Even their wedding
might be delayed one week ; for if, after a fortnight's fresh
search, they could still discover no trace of Magdalen, well,
then it would be a useless job trying further. Meanwhile,
he would trust Joy to look after his father's health—ay,
better than himself, while the old man would care his best
for her, the darling.
Thus Blyth had all settled within his breast; then told
his news and proposition to Rachel, who was out in the rain
waiting for him down by the cottage (where Dick was still
alive). She had divined the young man's errand in her
heart. She earnestly thanked him, but said no word more;
neither to gainsay nor yet to approve. The poor woman
was dazed in her mind by want of sleep and the multitude
of new thoughts that had whirled in her head through the
night. She had only been able to tell herself that but one
thing was clear—her own duty. Let Joy settle for herself;
and Blyth with his heart. Rachel must not come between
these lovers.
Joy, meanwhile, at the farm guessed, too, where Blyth
was gone. But she did not go out, like her aunt, to wait in
the rain. She had much to do, to prepare, and direct; for
if Hannah was the hands, she was now the young head of
the household.
After dinner, Blyth, seeing an anxious, set look, as of
trouble, on Joy's face, no doubt with thoughts of her
20—2
3O8 JOY.
mother, fears succeeding relief, felt he could do no good,
so had betaken himself to the fields. There was much to
see to in person, if he was to go on his wild-goose chase so
soon (but he only called it that very secretly; even within
his own heart it seemed base towards Joy). By evening he
came in, well soaked with the ceaseless rain. Not that he
cared for a wet jacket. The true damper he felt was when
Joy called him aside into the parlour, where no one would
interrupt them, and told him, with many most loving,
humble thanks for his offer, that yet she must go herself,
and not he ... .
Now, at that hour before supper, a man who has had a
long ride in the morning, and done hard work all afternoon,
and felt himself generous in his battlings with selfish prompt-
ings, does not feel in the mood to receive in the best manner
disagreeable news.
Blyth did not bear opposition very well. He had some-
thing lugged in his nature; a far-away strain of fierce north-
man's blood, .inherited through long generations from his
ancestors, that made him chafe when fate or others' wills
crossed his; a different nature from the easy-tempered,
indolent folk of those parts.
So now, though Joy had won the day, he was sorely
vexed at heart.
There was silence in the parlour for, it seemed, a long
time. The tall clock standing in the corner ticked on.
The rain still pattered down with ceaseless pertinacity.
Blyth caught himself thinking sullenly that it would rain
for days now, probably, and that he could do little good at
work on the farm, and might as well be away; except that
his old father was not strong enough for it to be right to
leave him if Joy were gone. Several days' rain, and bad
for delicate women to be journeying; while to the threshing
JOY.
3°9
his presence would make little difference. Says a well-
known but defamatory rhyme of that moor-country :
' The west wind always brings wet weather,
The east wind cold and wet together :
The south wind surely brings us rain,
The north wind blows it back again.'
Pitter, patter! drip, drip ! And still Joy sat without stir-
ring at one side of the large mahogany dinner-table, looking
away out of the low, wide window fringed with her favourite
creepers, whose wet tendril-fingers tapped the panes; her
thoughts directed even far, far further than the distant gaze
of her eyes.
And still Blyth Berrington, sitting at the end of the table,
on which he had planted his elbow in a sturdy, aggrieved
manner, rested his head in the hollow of his hand, watching
her. He seemed to note as never before the details of the
old room he had known from boyhood; for he was asking
himself how it would look soon without that one figure to
which his eyes always turned, wherever she might be, as to
their centre of attraction. The walls wainscoted in dark
wood, the low ceiling, whitewashed, but crossed by beams
of wood unspoiled by paint; the deep window recesses,
with their cupboard seats and heavy lattices, generally in
fine days opened outwards into the garden, while Joy's rose-
leaves were dried on the sill.
It was a dark room, pleasant to him hitherto; it might
easily become gloomy.
The heavy table filling all the centre of the room shone
with a mellow, dark glow, kindly answering to the care and
frequent elbow-grease of many years. The same tale was
silently told by the solid, square armchairs and the big side-
board, on which stood some silver cups won at agricultural
shows and at wrestling matches. Two stuffed foxes' heads
and some brushes, the spoils of his own youthful exploits,
310 JOY.
adorned the mantelshelf. Some shelves of old-fashioned
books, some on farriery, the others mostly godly, and that
had belonged to his dead mother, represented the literature
of the Berrington household.
Most comfortable ; most respectable !
But of lightness, of colour, of beautiful outline, or aught
to cheer the eyes, what was there in the room but Joy her-
self—with her dark, glorious eyes, her rich complexion, the
exquisite poise of her beautiful head, and the noble, easy
grace of her figure as she sat there so still ? She was like a
splendid exotic flower, a tropical, bright-plumaged bird under
a grey northern sky—and she was going away ! who knew
for how long ?
A sigh from Blyth broke the silence.
Joy started, as if thrilled at the light sound.
'You are wet—you are all wet, Blyth, and I have been
keeping you here. How selfish, how careless of me !'
' Never mind my wetting. It won't hurt me,' curtly
replied the young man, yet not ungraciously, rather with
gruff resignation. ' Only I wanted to ask, Joy—if you
must go on this unknown expedition—will you not want, or
at least be helped by some small loan ? for your travelling
and inquiries will cost money, you see. What is mine
would have been yours in a fortnight, or one day less, dear,
from now. Consider it yours beforehand—and let me feel
I am giving that much share, if I'm not to do more, in the
search.'
Joy's cheeks glowed of a beautiful crimson for a few
seconds.
' You are always so kind—always so generous !' (Ah !
was he? That smote him in the conscience.) 'But, in-
deed, we have been already far too much like the plagues
of Egypt upon you. Aunt Rachel and I have got some
money truly—enough to last us for some months.'
JOY.
' Plagues of Egypt! What an idea! More like the
Israelites, who were a blessed people, for whom the plagues
were sent because they were ill-treated. But excuse me,
Joy dearest, you can't have much !'
' Indeed, dear Blyth, though I must not explain how, we
have a good deal. If it is not enough, then indeed I might
borrow some, because I can repay it from my little fortune
when I come of age.'
' For some months . . . and then more ! How long, in
heaven's name, do you suppose you will be away? A year?
—say two years just as well! Well, well, well! I will say no
more against it all.'
Thereupon Blyth rose, and, walking heavily, went out of
the room and up the shallow dark stairs, each of his steps
echoed dully by the beats in Joy's heart.
312
JOY.
CHAPTER L.
' Each thing has its work to do, its mission to fulfil,
The wind that blows, the plant that grows, the waters never still.
Then need we ask,  Have we a task? 'Tis graven on each breast,
Then do life's duties manfully, and never mind the rest.
' Gentle words and kindly deeds are never thrown away,
But bring unlooked-for harvest on some cloudy autumn day.
We are but stewards of our vvealth, of all by us possessed.
Then do life's duties manfully, and never mind the rest.'
Song.
Joy had not wept, or even shown much outward signs of
grief, during her interview with Blyth. The unusual and
strange consciousness of his being displeased and opposed
to her wishes—to what she felt a sacred duty not to be
argued about—had chilled her heart.
But now, she rose too; slipping softly up to her own
room, almost as if she was an ungrateful creature who had
no longer right to go boldly about the old house that had
sheltered her. She found Hannah, spectacles on nose,
standing ponderously beside an open oak wardrobe, in which
she was laying fresh lavender, with most tender fingers, on
a delicate white dress lying, folded, on the shelf—Joy's
wedding-gown !—while all around the room lay little piles
of clothes, made ready for a journey.
'Oh, Hannah, Hannah !' . . . And, without another
word of explanation, down bent Joy, holding back her
nurse's fat arms from continuing their work, and laid her
face on the broad, faithful breast, where it had so often
come for refuge in childhood; murmuring now, and rub-
bing her head to and fro as if in pain.
' Oh, my doatie, my lamb ! . . Sit down on that stool
there, beside me. It's hard, it is hard on young hearts !
JOY.
3i3
But there, don't fret; Master Blyth may be a bit vexed now,
but he'll think all the more of you for going, in the long
run.'
So Hannah babbled, in broken consolation, and often
merely foolish ejaculations. But she understood, and her
silliest fondness seemed to do Joy's foolish young heart
more good at this weak moment than even Rachel's high
example; who always herself felt that—
Because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'
Rachel, at that moment, was praying, not packing. She
was praying for guidance and protection on their journey,
and uttering thanksgiving praises. She had little, indeed,
to pack. She was kneeling at the seat of her open window,
her eyes gazing at the far hills, while the tide of inexpres-
sible thankfulness that filled her heart still surged high.
She had been like a lone bird pining for the mate of her
years of secluded captivity. Now—whatever might come
more of new sorrow or cares for herself!—yet how joyfully
would she take up her old beloved burden, at thought that
Magdalen, her sister, had not been swallowed up quick as
they that go down into the pit; that she might haply live
to gaze steadfastly at the river of death with a clear mind,
and pass down into it with a glad heart and singing.
As Rachel had perforce led a hermit's life, one who little
by little forgets the common ways of men, so to her Joy's
lot seemed so blissful in past and future, she had failed to
notice the girl's small present trouble in disappointing her
lover, displeasing old Berrington, and putting off her own
wedding-day, that was so near—so dear ! for an indefinite
time. The elder woman walked on lone heights in spirit;
but the young girl down in the valley felt so earthly she
could only look up thither, and humbly hope some day to
climb higher herself.
3M JOY.
But it must now be explained that it was old Hannah who
had secretly provided the necessary expenses for the journey.
In the first ten minutes that she heard of the projected plan,
the good old soul had come secretly to Rachel and Joy as
they consulted together, offering in a humbly joyful manner
quite a large sum for their use. Law ! it was only her
wages she had put by in the savings bank all the years she
was at the Red House. Call it a loan!—what they pleased.
They must take it, she insisted, bless their hearts !—it was
all left in her will to her darling Miss Joy, anyway. How
could it be better spent than to assist in finding her dear
lost mistress ? Why, only that she would likely prove more
hindrance than help, what with her age and weight and
rheumatism, and being of necessity now to old Berrington
and his wants, Hannah would gladly set forth once more
herself.
Good Hannah! So she would; although so thankful
these quiet years to be at rest. But, indeed, she weighed
nearly sixteen stone now, and found it hard to move about
with briskness, notwithstanding her still great strength; and
she was short of breath from stoutness.
The three women had consulted together; and agreed,
that proper pride would forbid both Rachel, and even Joy,
from being beholden more deeply to the two Berrington
men, unless it became quite necessary for poor Magdalen's
sake. Both father and son had been so kind, so good for
years, to the woman and child who had taken refuge with
them, that how could these latter now borrow from their
purses to go on a journey which could bring little gladness
to the good old farmer or to Blyth ? For, alas ! might not
Magdalen in future raise fresh difficulties to the marriage;
even in her sane seasons. Who knew ?■—best not to think
about it!
JOY.
CHAPTER LI.
' La pauvre fleur disait au papillon celeste,
Ne fuis pas !
Vois comme nos destins sont differents, je reste,
Tu t'en vas !
Mais helas ! l'air t'emporte et la terre m'encliaine
Sort cruel!
Je voudrais embaumer ton vol de mon haleine
Dans le ciel !
Mais non, tu vas trop loin ! Parmi des fleurs sans nombre
Vous fuyez,
Et moi je reste seul a voir mon ombre
A mes pieds !
*******
Vivre ensemble, d'abord ! c'est le bien necessaire,
Et reel;
Apr&s on peut choisir au hasard, ou la terre
Ou le ciel.
Victor Hugo.
And so the next afternoon Rachel Estonia was gone, with
her young niece—the pride and darling of the Red House !
Gone!
It had been raining all day, as Blyth prophesied, heavy
showers succeeding each other. But before they started
the rain had ceased awhile, the sun shone out in a faint
gleam on a dripping, misty, but sweet-scented moorland
world, blue-black cloud-armies retreating, slowly rolling up
their forces, over the hills, while a rainbow spanning half
the vale gleamed in greeting to the departing travellers.
'See, dear Blyth,' Joy whispered aside, pressing his arm.
' It is a sign of hope, the bow in the cloud.'
Blyth made an effort to smile upon her, but with poor
success. The strong man felt tied hand and foot by withes
that, however seemingly weak, yet he could not burst
like Samson, for they were ties of filial affection towards his
316
JOY.
father. The old farmer, after appearing unwell all yester-
day, had a rather severe attack of illness in the night. But
for this, Blyth would have insisted on going to London for a
week with the two women, and giving them the protection of
his presence and travelled experience, and (secretly) the
help of his purse, though they should not know that.
What could they, two helpless creatures, know of the means
to be tried in such a case ; how bear up against the weari-
ness, rebuffs, trials, disappointments? And here was he,
strong and able for the task, bound to stay in comfort under
the old roof-tree!
There was no other course now possible. Blyth dared
not leave his father alone in old age and sickness, even for
the sake of his love.
And then Joy had sweetly tried to console him. It must
all be for the best. Her mother might be tempted back by
Rachel and Joy herself, but would only flee further from
sight of Blyth, who had no lawful control over her either.
As to ways and means : ' We will ask the police, as you
say; and then—trust in Providence.'
Concerning Rachel, she bade them farewell with prolonged
and warmly grateful hand-clasps, but with few words and
those deeply meant. Her dark eyes were shining as if they
were fixed on a moving pillar of fire to guide her in their
wanderings. She had no doubt of the success of their
quest; but the when and where and how it all might end,
that her faith did not seek to foresee !
Blyth had a carriage and horses hired from Moortown to
take them away. That was all he could do ; but neither the
old gig nor his own new dog-cart were fit vehicles, he con-
sidered, for them on such a day; but, please the Fates,
when Joy came back
Then the farewells were over, and the carriage started
down the lane, Joy looking back and smiling as long as she
JOY.
could see them; Hannah weeping loudly, but giving
encouraging waves of a large pocket-handkerchief; Farmer
Berrington, on the other side of the gate (for he had
insisted on coming out, though the air was so damp), giving
dry sniffs and fetching wheezy sighs, with both hands planted
on his staff.
Gone!
How different it was from the evening some fourteen
years ago, when the farm-waggon had stopped at the gate,
and set down a nurse and a little child! thought Blyth. He
watched the carriage at every curve and winding of the lane
at which he could still descry it; following it with troubled
gaze from under his bent brows, his heart heavy and
growing cold within him. Yet surely they would return,
perhaps before a month was over, or in two months, or at
latest by Christmas.
And then Blyth gave his arm to his old father and helped
him into the house.
Thus the elderly woman and the young girl went out into
the highways of the great world, along its iron roads, and
into the roar and hurry, the splendour and squalor, and
crowded loneliness of its great cities.
They left the pleasant moorland valley, that had so long
sheltered them, far away. And in a few days—what with
the rush of new sights, sounds, and ideas, the excitement of
their strange chase, the false hopes, disappointment, fluctua-
tions of dull despair, struggles of reviving faith and energy,
or brave efforts to hide fears from the other—both soon felt
as if they had lived weeks since leaving the Red House on
that sun-lit, wet evening.
Both grew home-sick, and both would have been heart-
sick, but for finding now and again they were on the right
track; that duty was leading them, although through devious
JOY.
ways and difficulties, on the same path as the Will-o'-the-wisp
soul they were pursuing ; stray news coming to cheer them,
like the ignis-fatuus light.
CHAPTER LII.
' Der Herbstwind riittelt die Baume,
Die Nacht ist feucht und kalt ;
Gehtillt im grauen Mantel,
Reite ich einsam im Wald.
' Und wie ich reite, so reiten
Mir die Gedanken voraus ;
Sie tragen mich leicht und lustig
Nach meiner Liebsten Haus.
' Es sauselt der Wind in den Blattern,
Es spricht der Eichenbaum ;
"Was willst du, thorichter Reiter,
Mit deinem thorichten Traum ? '
Heine.
The autumn slowly waned in the Chad valley, while, as
Victor Hugo has sung of his own land, ' the rain and the
sun seem to have rusted the woodlands.' And still Joy had
not come back to the Red House.
Days grew shorter, darkness longer; the lanes were
muddy, the hedges black and dripping; rains were heavy
and mists rolling; the cold came creeping in, and on and
on, till it took the air, and the surface of the earth, and held
the world fast in its grip. And yet, even when a white
Christmas came—a fine old-fashioned one, as people said,
JOY.
3i9
when icicles and snow made pleasanter good cheer and
roaring fires within doors, such as the farm was famous for
—Joy returned not!
Farmer Berrington was more or less ailing and helpless
all that winter. Again and again, when Blyth, hoping the
old man was better, made all his preparations ready in
secret to be off for a week's hasty travelling to see Joy again,
and hear her dear voice, if only for a day, and perhaps be
of help to her too—so surely did some fresh, attack silently
shatter his plans. Young Berrington once more had to take
up for days the hard part to a man of prolonged care of the
sick, of soft words and gentle footfall.
Blyth was an excellent son and a most tender nurse.
Rich though he now was, he yet would let no hired attendant
sleep in his old father's room at nights, but himself under-
took that wearisome duty. George Berrington had been a
good father to his motherless boy, and Blyth felt now, after
his own absence in Australia, the wish to do only far, far
more for him. A man can do so little, he thought, a woman
so much in a thousand little words and acts !
If Joy could but have stayed !
Nevertheless the young man did his best nobly; bore
patiently with the little whims and querulousness with which
weary weakness will torment most poor sick creatures. He
learnt to subdue his own temper hourly, to make his own
love of self-will give way even against reason, to soften not
only his own words if a trifle rough, but also his voice and
manner. As to his heart, that was always tender and pitiful
enough beneath the slight upper crust of hardness and selfish-
ness that grows upon men often, especially when left alone
in youth to struggle in the battle of life. He chafed like a
strong horse obliged to go at a snail's pace.
' But it's done him good,' soliloquized Hannah to herself,
in a low tone, sometimes ; as she would stop bustling in the
320
JOY.
spotless shining cleanliness of her kitchen, and peer, with
her wise little old eyes, out of the window.
There would go Blyth, perhaps, kept in most of the after-
noon waiting for the doctor's visit, and now striding away
on some dark, wet evening, glad to expand his chest and
give his muscles play at last in a long walk over the hills;
while the strong air, however damp-laden, blew like gusts of
life and exhilaration into his face.
'He'll be all the better man when she comes back. To
be rich and young and strong makes a man's heart so lifted
up, till he thinks himself lord over all those about him and
a pet of providence. And he's like a nut, hard outside but
sweet when you crack it. Ah, he's learning now that to
have got all his money in Australia isn't everything.'
Blyth, an hour later, standing meditatively down the Chad
valley, would have doubtless agreed with Hannah's last
words. He would be most likely looking over the mossy
parapet of the second bridge down the river, from their
farm. The swollen river, after winding in loops through
the narrowed valley up which he gazed, here foamed, white
and shallow, over a weir, filling his ears with brawling noise.
The hills on either side looked steep and black and lower-
ing, clothed with underwood and copse that now was brown,
and shaggy, and leafless. With Joy all the summer's
softening influence and beautiful hues seemed fled from the
rugged nature around.
And yet Blyth loved his home as much as ever. Even
this wintry evening had its charms for him, as he watched
idly the intensely deep indigo hue of the great clouds over-
head, showing that a storm was brewing; then the white
water hurrying seaward below him; and the wet pallid
green of the little flat valley with red rocks out-cropping
here and there from the hills that rose close on either
hand.
JOY.
321
Bestirring himself, he would resolve to walk round over
the ground he had now bought from old Hawkshaw. A
hill with a fine oak-wood he had coveted from his boyhood,
and then some fat fields, a meadow, and lastly, rounding
the hill and touching the old Red Farm land, a dell that
Joy had always loved and sometimes strayed into.
The sward was always short and green here, even though
rough and wet with winter growth, while some white rocks
pushing their shoulders out through the wood were laced
with ivy trails. Hawthorns stood scattered through the
dell, deep russet with haws : others as white as if they
had caught and kept the morning mist, or the wool of
several sheep hanging on them in a pall. This strange
sight, almost like snow in a dull twilight, was from the
twining traveller's joy, whose hoary winter seeds made grey-
beards of the trees.
' Here,' thought Blyth, ' I will make a drive for her,
following the hollow of the ground up to the Red House.
Yonder shall be the gate leading out on the Moortown
high-road. If it could only be done now by magic before
she comes back; and I would drive in here with her by my
side, and my darling would say it was a pleasant demesne
to live in all one's days.'
By no magic, though by men's good labour, the road
through the dell was made by early spring; and yet no
young mistress passed up it.
There was a new horse for Joy that Blyth himself had
carefully trained through the long winter, whinnying in the
stable. A new wagonette stood beside the old shabby gig,
waiting for Blyth to mount its front seat some day with
Joy at his side, while there was capacious room behind for
old Mr. Berrington, and Rachel too—if she would.
But the spring had stolen imperceptibly into summer, and
once more the hay stood high and crested; the cuckoo
21
3 22
JOY.
called by day, and the night-jar and landrail were heard at
night. And still Rachel was far away, abroad, keeping the
sunshine of the farm with her, the life and gladness of the
house.
So old George Berrington grumbled, adding he had short
time left on earth, maybe, and that it seemed hard. Blyth
sighed audibly, but said nothing.
Up spoke Hannah at that, fired in the defence of the
absent and of her sex, sharply rebuking them both.
'You're better than you were last December, Mr. Berring-
ton, now that the swellings of your legs has eased your
chest. And who knows but what you may long outlive
Miss Rachel yet, who's had troubles enough, the dear
knows, to kill a dozen men ? Why should you both grudge
the poor soul what is just, I believe, the happiest time of
her hard, hard life? It's like a mother who has been sepa-
rated always from her own child (for Miss Joy has been like
that to her), and who has her at last all to herself, by her
side. They're travelling a hard road, and on a task which
Him who made us only knows whether it will be for their
own happiness or chastisement, if they do succeed. But
never you fear, Miss Joy isn't fretting. She knows her call
in life is to cheer them that most want it. Be thankful,
both of you men, that your lives have been, and are still,
passed in ease and plenty; if even, at the end, you have to
want something you desire, master.'
Both the Berringtons took Hannah's words well, though
each after his fashion. Old Berrington kept more silence
from repinings. Blyth threw redoubled energy into his
work, in improving, altering, and beautifying the farm and
the Red House itself.
With the fine weather had come sounds of masons' tools,
carpenters' hammers, clinking and driving all day long.
Not a plank, brick, or nail of the pleasant old house should
JOY.
323
be altered, so Blyth assured his father. But some more
rooms were added, in design matching the fine, ancestral
homestead so excellently well, that the Red House of
former days seemed not only spread more substantially, but
as quaint-looking as ever. And these were rooms for Joy;
airy and sunny, lined to be a nest fit for such a bright bird
of delicate parentage.
CHAPTER LIII.
' I wander east, I wander west,
Where'er my fancy guides me ;
And laugh and sing and care nothing,
If weal or ill betide me.
Once—was it long, long years ago ?
Or yesterday ?
I had a dream that some one cared
For me—well-a-day I'
Song.
What of Rachel Estonia and Joy, meanwhile?
A year found them wandering still, and still in vain, from
town to town after the elusive feu-follet that ever flitted
before them, a lost soul indeed, according to the old super-
stition.
They had not been without some gleanings here and there
of actual news of poor wayward Magdalen on her erratic
course.
In London, the police discovered for them, after some
324 JOY.
time, that she had left before they arrived. She had gone
to a quiet hotel, where she called herself by her rightful
name of Countess of Rivello. Rachel and Joy listened
breathlessly to the account from the very lips of those who
had seen her; of how quiet and winning the ' foreign lady '
had been in her manner, though a little whimsical in her
dress. Very restless she was only in this, that morning,
noon, and evening, she must always be driving about or
walking. ' She wanted a hundred eyes to see all the sights
with,' she said. At nights she complained that sleep only
came to her if she was quite tired out.
Presently her loneliness in London, 'that great sea,'
seemed to weary the countess. She told the people of the
hotel vaguely of having left friends behind her in the
country who liked its dulness; but for her, she was tired
of grey skies and green fields, and wanted to enjoy a little
gaiety, movement, life. London had grown dull and stupid
of late years, she said—it used to be so different \ she
should go to Paris.
To Paris they followed her, and through France. Then
said Rachel, with a sudden inspiration, ' She will go to
Genoa—to our old home there.' It was so, indeed.
Magdalen had been there before them; had stood once
more on the echoing marble halls of the old palace, the
place whereof knew her no more. She had turned away
light as thistledown blown by the wind. It was dreary there,
she said, but Italy was bright and gay outside, and she was
happy. She was happy! they repeated, looking wonder-
ingly at each other; she had not said that for years.
But to Rachel her father's home gave a thousand silent
welcomes to the daughter whose happiest days had been
spent there, listening to his words of wisdom, fostered by
maternal love. And to Joy she told a thousand memories
of those dear dead ancestors, whom the girl, thus learning
JOY.
325
to imagine and know by loving description in their own
stately chambers and amidst those beautiful associations,
thenceforth learnt to revere and think of with such affection,
that she believed she should recognise them by instinct as
having been of her own kindred on earth, when in some
future blissful state they might meet her face to face.
Those months were a wonderful education to Joy. Her
mind was drinking in all it saw with keen delight; for albeit
her zeal to find her mother slackened no less than Rachel's,
yet her eyes perforce took in at every glance beauties of
sights and scenery she had never before imagined.
Oh, the glorious ' roof of blue Italian weather'!
Who could long be unhappy under such a sky ? Surely,
thought Joy, knowing her mother's light spirit unfettered by
thoughts of duties left behind, or the anxieties of those who
loved her, surely she was happy, too. She had said so.
Every additional scrap of news discovered with difficulty
described her as rambling wayward, but wildly gay, it
seemed, past classic marbles and lemon groves, where
Florence basked under her hills, and on, on, still straying
south, through towns once famous and stirring, now still as
in a noonday siesta.
' Let us go straight to Rome. We shall find her
there,' both the lips of the loving ones who followed her
agreed.
So they went to Rome, the mother city, whose mysterious
influence has drawn travellers through so many ages to her-
self; but Magdalen was not there. They turned back,
seeking her, and then, once more getting on her track,
found she had gone there as they went away !
Back to Rome with the new year they hurried, with beat-
ing hearts, every hour, every minute, expecting to meet
Magdalen face to face round some street corner; settling
how gently they would greet her, as if nothing unusual lay
326 JOY.
in such a meeting. They feared to frighten her, now, by
making many inquiries.
It seemed that Magdalen had somehow become aware she
was being followed. For, when last they heard with their
own ears intelligence from a peasant woman with whom she
had actually lodged in a village of the Alban hills, the poor
soul had been only fitfully gay, at other times nervous and
suspicious, hinting at being pursued by unknown, mysterious
enemies. She was so cunning, too, that at the least
alarm she would most likely dart away and elude their
grasp.
But to-night, or else to-morrow morning, or certainly in
the following evening, they would meet her by some foun.
tain, or in a garden, or among the grand ruins of the Rcime
of the Caesars.
She would not be frightened at them. No ! now their
task was indeed almost at an end!
Joy learnt fresh lessons of heart and head she never
' forgot in those long weeks of search; but, above all, in
those last few days of excited waiting and hope, Rachel
Estonia was her silent teacher. Never too eagerly elated,
nor cast down in the bitterest moments when her hopes
proved fruitless for the thousandth time; steadfast, sweet,
and loving, however weary, she walked as one who knows
not, asks not, why her path should be so full of difficulties,
but, cheered and guided by faith, still presses on her way,
undoubting that all is for the best.
So three or four days passed in vain. Then one evening
they heard Magdalen's voice !
It was after sunset, and already dusk and cold, so that
both the women watchers had wrapped themselves against
the chill night air. By staying at home they could do no
good in their quest, and feeling that Magdalen, with her
constant craving for air and movement, was sure to be
JOK
327
abroad even when the Romans would be indoors, they stole
out together.
They were passing down a street, being anxious to gain
the better-lighted Piazza di Spagna, for here the gleam of
only a few lamps fought with the dark shadows thrown by
projecting buildings. Here and there open church-portals
repealed glimpses of interiors where dreamy lights, music,
and incense might still be seen, for some special services
weie being performed, contrasting strangely with the barking
and quarrelling of street-dogs that were ravenously search-
irg the dust-heaps for offal, while making night hideous with
their clamour.
On a sudden, Joy, who had a quicker musical ear than
Richel, caught her aunt's arm, whispering :
1 Stop; listen ! That is my mother's voice singing '
\s you shall hear a bird's note trilling above all the bustle
and roar of a street, so they distinguished now, to the
accompaniment of a few chords struck on a mandoline,
Mcgdalen's very tones singing, as of old, the Indian song
thqr had so often heard :
' Taza be taza,
No be no.'
A few words followed, as both listened spell-struck. No
more!
Then Rachel raised her voice in a clear call.
£ Magdalen! Magdalen! It is I, Rachel, calling you.
Come to me ... .'
No answer came back.
They rushed across the street through the darkness, heed-
less of jostling passers-by, of fruit-carts, and flower-baskets,
against which they stumbled. Where had she been ? Alone
there, in some one of those dark houses, at a balcony, or
down here on the footway ? They had not been able to
328
JOY.
distinguish from the sounds. Rachel and Joy tried hither
and thither; searched and asked and waited up and down
for long, till only utter exhaustion drove them at last
lingeringly away to rest awhile before dawn—all, all in vain!
When, in despair, daughter and sister applied for he^p
and information to the authorities, there was long waityig
before it was tardily found that the street-singer they sought
had some time since disappeared.
A street-singer ? . . . . Impossible !
Nay, it was true. She did not make her livelihood
altogether thereby, but seemed to eke out slender means. j\
foreigner she was, of what country none precisely knew, bat
she called herself Maddalena. A woman who seemed of
middle-age by her profuse grey hair, but younger in mird,
as gay and lightly pleased as a child. But also she \as
quick, shifting, never to be depended on, and dangerous in
her sudden tempers. She was gone ?—gone! Yes, vfry
certainly; but none knew whither.
But to loving hearts how much is not possible ?
The two women, guided only by some blind guessjat
truth, something in their hearts seeming to whisper that \las
right, tracked her to Naples. Thence, after a short ret,
Magdalen had started northwards, seemingly in ill health
and daily poorer. With what difficulty they slowly followed!'
now taking a wrong route and having to retrace their steps,
now overshooting the mark in a right direction. But after
some weeks all trace seemed lost
A whole month they waited near where Magdalen's last
footsteps had certainly passed. One steadily, one eagerly,
the young girl and the elder woman examined carefully
every track, watched for any clue—finding many kind hearts
and much sympathy.
At last came a message from where a little town lay
clinging to a steep hillside among olives. A good priest
JOY. 329
there had taken in the poor wanderer, footsore, hungry,
and ill. Her brain had become distracted, but she had
been pitifully dealt with, most kindly nursed. And the
warm, simple hearts had grown fond of her, she had such a
light charm and helpless but coaxing ways, like a petted
child masquerading in a body of one of its elders.
She was still white and weak, but able to sing again to the
accompaniment of a little mandoline she carried, when one
spring morning (as all the earth seemed bursting into flower)
they found that in the night past stye had slipped away.
Without a word of farewell, ungrateful one ! But may
the saints protect the poor innocent ! She was not to be
blamed for aught she did.
The months that followed were spent in fresh journeyings
and inquiries made from town to town under the Alps.
But no sign, no faintest trace now ever came to stir Joy's
warm impulsive heart to fresh energies and hope, or to cheer
in the least Rachel's more resigned spirit. The latter seemed
wandering in the desert without a well of water anywhere,
or palm-tree to rest and refresh her. But for Joy's love now
she would have broken down ; her mind turned often to
lean on the younger one for comfort. Dark doubts came
in the lone watches, whispering that she had been given but
one charge and care on earth—and had lost it! That at
the end of her trial she had been found wanting; was a
careless unloving sister ; a faithless servant.
The bravest pilgrim of life may suffer such temptings and
torments, when the journey is already almost well ended.
In those days, in the darkest of those hours, the gleam
of Joy's smile and her voice, even her laugh broke the spell;
and Rachel would lift up her voice to bless her in heart.
At last, when the fiercest summer heats came and both
women drooped in their task, and had begun to look
33° JOY.
silently at each other with almost hopeless but still patient
eyes, there arrived an urgent letter from Blyth Berrington.
1 Come back, if only for two days,' he wrote to Joy. ' My
father is very ill, and wishes to see you ; he thinks it may be
for the last time.'
The girl's tears fell like warm rain as she thought of the
kind old man who had been a true father to her in her
childhood.
{Surely I can go, now—at last ?' she appealed to Rachel,
as if distrusting the quick beats of her own heart.
' Go ! We must go, of course,' replied Rachel, surprised,
as if a priestess had heard a divine call doubted by a young
attendant in the temple. 'Yes, I am going with you. We
are no longer required to stay here, I believe; and there we
are needed.'
JOY.
33i
CHAPTER LIV.
' Tell me, gentle traveller, thou
Who hast wandered far and wide,
Seen the sweetest roses blow,
And the brightest rivers glide ;
Say, of all thine eyes have seen,
Which the fairest land has been ?
. . . Shall I tell thee where,
Nature seems most blest and fair'
Far above all climes besides?—
'Tis where those we love abide ;
And that little spot is best
Which the loved one's foot hath pressed.'
The Rose-Garden of Persia.
' East and west, home's best,' says the proverb.
Joy felt that true, in every tingling pulse, as once more
she saw the well-known tors rising one after another against
the sky into view; and as she rejoiced in the wild freshness
of the moorland, reviving her jaded senses and mind wearied
by hasty travelling. And when the twisted chimneys of the
Red House came in sight, and its glittering vanes, even
from afar, her heart leaped to greet them.
There was home to her where Blyth Berrington dwelt !
They had hastened back, fearing to be too late. But
Blyth met them at Moortown, and said, in his first greet-
ing:
' My father is still alive. The doctors say he cannot
recover, but that he has lasted so wonderfully against all
their experience, he may still hold his ground for some
days.'
How strange it was to Blyth that here was Joy again by
his side, as he had planned ; seeing the new lands by the
windings of the Chad that now owned a Berrington as
master; and admiring with honest unspoilt gladness, like a
332
JOY.
child almost, all the wonders and additions that had im-
proved, but not changed, the dear old house one bit, so she
declared. It was not the home-coming he had dreamed of.
For however often and lovingly they would turn to look
each other in the eyes (and that at the same moments,
almost always, by some strange mutual prompting), yet there
was a weight of sadness on their faces, and they smiled
each to each in the sad way that says, ' We could be so
happy now, if '
No; are such meetings again, as most things planned
and looked forward to too eagerly, ever quite what imagina-
tion dreamily and delightfully pictured ? Happy they who
have least imagination, when the inevitable disappointment
comes.
Blyth had a steady fancy, luckily for himself. He felt so
humbly glad to have his Joy back that he cared little how
she came, so long as she cared for him.
And she did care; she loved him, so her own soft lips
told him that evening under the low spreading, great elm-
tree, where the bench was, in the old close, now a lawn;
loved him as well—yes, and far better than ever.
'But how long are we still to be parted, dear?'asked
Blyth, holding firmly the main point within his mind in
view. ' A year has gone that we have passed away from
each other! That is lost to both of us ! No, I must not
say lost to you, for you have grown even far more beautiful;
though I could not have believed that possible before. And
you have a new air, too, as if a princess had come back to
our old farm.'
' Oh, Blyth, I have not heard such flattery all the months
I have been away ! That is new to you—and you are
changed in other ways, too. But,' her warm, red lips laugh-
ing prettily up at him, not to seem accusatory of his past, ' I
really believe it is an improvement!'
JOY.
333
Joy felt, but knew not yet how to describe what came to
her intuitively by woman's quick divining, forestalling expe-
rience, that Berrington was in much a different man; softened
in his pride of strength, youth, and good-fortune; more
patient and thoughtful for others, and forbearing.
Blyth paid her for her praises; which, however, she had
not altogether foreseen. Then he repeated his question :
'Joy, dearest—promise me that now you have come back,
we two shall not be parted any more.'
The girl sighed and looked round as if for counsel to the
well-beloved trees, the valley and river, but all seemed to
echo Blyth's request, 'Do not leave us, Joy; do not leave
us!'
' It seems so strange that we mortals should so often talk
of not being parted any more,' she murmured. ' Why, see
how death comes, or misfortune of all kinds, and, against
their will and vows, those who love best, and have had,
perhaps, very little time to be happy, are sundered. The
only thing we can be sure of having in life, is some duty—it
seems to me; and there is a satisfaction in fulfilling it that
is certain, too, though it may not be happiness. Well, our
duty now is to see to your father, Blyth. Let us wait till
later to talk about ourselves.'
A week later the two lovers were out rambling once more
together.
It was afternoon; and while Rachel stayed indoors by
old Mr. Berrington, who was sleeping, Blyth and Joy, who
had both sat up several nights watching in the sick-room,
were glad to go out for fresh air and a little while of each
other's company alone.
They had strayed down into the newly-bought fields.
How warm it was! but with a fresh wind rustling the
branches of the elms in the great hedgerows they passed
under, skirting the wheat that stood green and as high
334
JOY.
already as Joy's waist. Here and there, through the gaps,
could be seen peeps of the distant sunlit hills, lying free and
uncultured, fleeting shadows passing over them like light
thoughts.
And ever and again, as the breeze drove the clouds by
overhead, they would see what Joy loved, how
' A ripple of shadow
Runs over the whisperous wheat.'
Then Blyth spoke once more.
Farmer Berrington was no worse, but indeed marvellously
retaining his strength in a stout-hearted way against the
grim enemy. The doctors had given him up. Good nursing
was all that could now be of any little service to him, they
said, shaking their heads in kindly dolorousness. Good
nursing the old man now truly had since Joy returned, with
Rachel to help her; though he loved best to see his 'beauty,
his daughter to be, with her voice drawn out as fine as a
bell-wire, and as sweet as a flute,' he slowly uttered, with
admiring affection.
And, lo and behold ! instead of turning his face to the
wall, and being gathered to his fathers by now, as was pro-
phesied, old George Berrington was, somehow, no worse—
nay, so incredibly better, that Blyth had to check his own
lightheartedness, for it was indeed ' too good to be true.'
'Now, we may allow ourselves to consider our own future
a little,' he pleaded of his love. ' Surely—surely, Joy dearest,
our two lives need not always be sacrificed to following a
wraith! You might as well try to catch one of those shadows
on the hill-side yonder '
' Our lives need not be always sacrificed, as you say,
Blyth,' replied the beautiful dark girl beside him slowly,
with slightly quivering lips. ' If—if, say, in two years from
now, we have not found my mother, then I will come to you
as your wife—if you still wish to have me.'
JOY.
335
'In two years! Good heavens, darling, you must be
joking with me. You do not seriously think it necessary to
wander for two whole years longer on such a wild, hopeless
task—when all trace and chance is lost too !' uttered Blyth
aghast.
' It is almost hopeless indeed; a tangled skein ! . . .'
whispered Joy, low, not having strength of heart enough at
that moment to speak louder.
It was hard indeed, with Blyth's arm round her waist, and
his handsome face looking down in hers, appalled; sorrowful
reproach in his blue eyes, as he stood stock-still on hearing
her words in the narrow path between the tall wheat and
the shady, high hedgerow.
Then she looked aside, her own eyes full of pain; and
somehow she noticed just there how red the poppies were
that burned in crimson spots through the green waving army
of wheat-spears that, rustling, over-topped them. And was
that a woodpecker in the deep oak-wood yonder, tap-
tapping ?
All the while—it was but for a few silent seconds—the
poor girl was aware, in a vague way, that she must cling fast
to a resolve taken some time back in her own mind. There
was pain in holding to the duty, abnegation, and so some-
how she seemed trying to divert her own inner self, as if it
were a different being, by noticing the outer landscape and
sounds. How often again in later years of her life she re-
membered those poppies and the summer scene; recalled
the past pain, and could hear the woodpecker plying his
trade so busily, once more !
So Joy did not finish her sentence.
' It pains you too ? You don't wish truly to part from me
for all this weary while !' Blyth exclaimed, seeing only her
face, not what was passing in her heart; and he passionately
drew Joy close to him, her head resting on his broad breast.
336
JOY.
A moment or two Joy so stayed still: then, raising her face,
she murmured :
'It pains me, but I must go ! Were it only for Aunt
Rachel's sake I must go, not to leave her so lonely. When
I am with her, she says every fresh roof we sleep under on
our wanderings is home to her. Think of her desolate and
disappointed, she who is a saint on earth. Oh, Blyth, if
you love me, don't tempt me !'
' I won't—I won't—not to leave her entirely. But think
of my old father, Joy—you are the light of his eyes. Marry
me first, darling—put up the banns next Sunday. He will
be satisfied in his old age; and when you have stayed with
us a little while, the dear old man will be either laid to
sleep in peace, or else so much better that you and I will
go on our travels together. There! let me have one kiss,
and say you will meet me half-way.'
Thus Blyth uttered in return hurriedly, and, not waiting
for Joy's assent, he had just sealed the compact on one side,
thinking to secure victory, when the sound of some one
coughing violently at a little distance made both start.
JOY,
337
CHAPTER LV.
' Weep, foolish heart,
And, weeping, live;
For death is dry- as dust, yet if we part,
End as the night, whose sable hue,
Your sins express, melt into dew.'
G. Herbert.
Blyth and Joy looked all round. But only the wheat-field
and the waving branches of the elms were to be seen, or
had descried them. Nevertheless, with a sober and demure
air they proceeded along the narrow footpath; Joy feeling
specially guilty, because the no in her heart had not yet
been uttered with which she must have frozen the kiss that
was so warm on her lips.
At the corner of the field was a stile, the path leading to
which ran at right angles with theirs, so that the thickness
of the tangled hedgerow had completely hid the lovers from
any indiscreet eyes approaching.
A young man was trying to get over the stile as they
came up. Or rather, he seemed so ill that, being taken
with weakness in the very act, he was supporting himself
with difficulty on the top bar.
Joy almost gave a scream of surprise as she saw him.
It was Steenie Hawkshaw—but looking like a ghost in a
living man's clothes. Deathly white, with cheeks so hollow
that the skin seemed drawn over them with difficulty, only
his eyes being wonderfully brightened and larger, and his
cheek-bones tinged with a round red flush in deceptive
appearance of health, the poor fellow was coughing again
as if the fit would rack him to pieces.
'Oh, Blyth, help him; he may fall 1' exclaimed Joy, with
a woman's quick pity.
22
338
JOY.
More slowly, man-like, Blyth had come forward, not
liking to seem forcing aid on anyone. But now, urged by
that dear voice of divine sympathy, he held out his arm
like a strong bar for support, saying simply, in an honest,
kindly way:
'Just take hold of me till you get down, will you, Hawk-
shaw? That cough of yours would shake any man.'
As Blyth thus stood quite close to the stile, Steenie col-
lected himself. He had seemed ready to faint, and his
brow was damp with bead-drops, but a faint flush now
overspread his features, and, summoning all his remaining
strength, he struck Blyth in the face with his wasted, nerve-
less fist.
' There! that's for you and your help !' he gasped, with
excited, working features. ' Take that in return for the day
we met at Drewston.'
Joy had grown crimson with fury at the insult, for her
lover's sake. But Blyth, though he had stepped back a
pace, forbore to show a sign of anger, after the first quick
start. He said, very quietly :
' I will take that and another blow besides, Hawkshaw, if
in your conscience you think it right for you to give and me
to deserve. God judge between us as regards the poor,
hunted woman that caused our quarrel!'
There was a minute's silence. Steenie Hawkshaw had
succeeded in getting down from the stile unaided, though
he was so weak that he tottered. Then another fit of
coughing came on, so bad he had to hold his head, and it
made them ache with pity to hear him. When it was
over, Hawkshaw laid his head against the top bar and
sobbed.
Blyth and Joy watched him, feeling quite stricken with
pity, and, as it were, ashamed of beingt so well and strong
themselves. Had Steenie died then and there in the field,
JOY.
339
they would hardly have been surprised, so near the end of
his life did he seem. Bodily weakness had overpowered
him, besides the reaction after the impulse of his anger
against Blyth. Then the forgiving manliness of the latter,
added to who knew what stings of his own conscience about
Magdalen that had long tortured him—increased on seeing
Joy—had broken down the poor wretch's pride utterly.
Ashamed of himself, he stopped, with an effort to laugh.
' Well, you've the best of me, Berrington. I'm dying—
and, if not, I'd have been disinherited, anyway, for a
wretched, puling baby up there at the Barton. Ha, ha!—
that's how the world goes.'
He could not stir yet; hardly speak. Joy pitifully bent
over him and wiped the damps from his brow with her
handkerchief.
Hawkshaw suffered her to do it, then spoke with some
relenting in his bitterness.
'You don't grudge me going through these fields, per-
haps, Berrington. This path was sometimes said to be a
public one, though we tried to stop its being used.'
'You are welcome to it, at all events,' answered Blyth
gravely. ' But will you do either of two things ? Let me
give you my arm back to the Barton, for you are not strong
enough to be left by yourself; or, if you can get as far as
the Red House, I'll drive you back myself.'
Without a word, Hawkshaw looked Blyth in the face
awhile.
Then he slowly said:
' I'll do neither; but I believe you're a good sort, after
all. And, if I could live the past time over again, we might
have been friends. Well, no matter now ! But still I may
be able to do you both a good turn. . . . Have you been
to the fair at Moortown to-day ?'
'No,' said Blyth, wondering.
34°
JOY.
He had sent his farm-bailiff, though, and his thoughts
flashed at once to wondering what foolishness that individual
could have been about, although supposed a very superior
successor to old Dick, who was now bedridden, and in a
state of dotage.
' Go, both of you, then, and see the travelling show.
There's an evening performance. I went last night, and—
though I couldn't be sure—I hardly slept afterwards think-
ing of what I saw there. You go especially !' (to Joy).
' If you don't, you may regret it to your dying day.'
His two listeners tried to make Hawkshaw speak more
distinctly on the subject in his mind, by natural queries,
objections, surmises.
But Steenie would by no means say more than—
' Go, I tell you—go ! I never supposed two fine travelled
people like you both would care the snuff of a candle for
the show; but still you go. Wait for the waxworks to be
opened—never mind the other performances, the puppet-
show and the fat boy and Zulus, a lot of them—you watch
for the music in the waxwork tent .... Good-bye. I
make no promise, for I may be all wrong—I couldn't be
sure. But just you go and see.'
With which oracular words, and no more of explanation
vouchsafed, Steenie left them slowly, leaning on a stick
heavily, and every now and then stopping to rest and watch
the yellow butterflies fluttering by, and the darting swallows
in mid-air, with a sort of envy.
Blyth and Joy watched him a little, then seeing he was
better, and apparently able to take his own way back, both
looked at each other.
' What does he mean ?' asked Joy, her woman's curiosity
all alive.
' I don't know,' answered Blyth, musing. ' But we had
better go and see.'
JOY.
34i
CHAPTER LVI.
' The first company that passes by,
Say na, and let them gae ;
The next company that passes by,
Say nae, and do right sae ;
The third company that passes by,
Then I'll be ane o' thae.
First let pass the black, Janet,
And syne let pass the brown,
But grip ye to the milk-white steed,
And pu' the rider down.'
The Young Tamlane.
The sun was setting behind the Moortown hills, as Blyth
drove Joy up to the little town.
There was a small square in the middle of the town, in
which stood an old market cross, raised on three tiers of
steps. And round this central spot—a strange contrast—
were pitched seven large yellow waggons.
These blocked up the little side-streets, one leading from
the grey church with its low tower, and another from the
almshouses, and another ending the road up from the valley.
The traffic was choked, and the country crowd, wedged into
narrow space, seemed multiplied. The tops of the great
vans were on a level with the little bedroom windows above
the butcher's, and baker's, and grocer's shops, and even
obscured those of the Three Crowns Inn.
The evening air was noisy with the braying of a brass
band attached to the great show, and preluding one of the
various performances which succeeded each other. Mingled
with this came the baaing of many sheep on the air, that
were being driven away in different flocks; the good-
humoured and sleepy voices of fat farmers standing about
342 JOY.
the inn door in groups, broken by an occasional great
laugh; the excited calls of the village gossips, noise of
children, and disregarded hoarse shouts of ' Aunt Sally and
' shies-at-a-cocoa-nut' men, whose mean baits were altogether
outdone by the big yellow caravan, which combined so
many attractions in itself.
As Blyth Berrington, after putting up his dog-cart at the
Three Crowns, escorted Joy through the good-humoured
crowd of sight-seers, the business of the day was over, and
the fun of the little fair in full swing.
Here was one yellow house on wheels, with the hideous
fat lady, who resided squeezed therein, portrayed outside;
resembling much, apparently, a Yorkshire pig. If, by
chance, she moved one of the blinds for air before the tiny
windows of the carriage-house in which she was boxed, or
that, by chance, a glimpse of a stout bare arm could be
seen, the excitement of the children outside, who could not
afford to pay their pennies, knew no bounds. There was
the popping of a shooting-gallery also to be heard in a dif-
ferent direction ; another waggon had disgorged a movable
wooden stage, on which marionettes had lately been put
through their puppet dance; while some last sounds of
most hideous clamour in a tent signified that some ' real
Zulus' were just ending their native war-dance, hoarse with
shouts, and no doubt leg-weary, to judge by the violent
stamping that shook the protruding boards of their tempo-
rary ballroom.
Blyth and Joy passed all these attractions, and went
towards the wax-works, as directed. The show was not
yet open.
Feeling a little foolish, and still curious, yet prepared by
their own anticipation for disappointment, they conversed
together in whispers upon Steenie Hawkshaw and his
mysterious words; tried to pretend interest in the scene
JOY.
343
around; and half thought of driving straight home again to
the Red House.
' These good people are all looking at us, and wondering
what we are here for. If I thought it was a hoax '
said Blyth, half gruffly, feeling uncomfortable in the
situation.
' Oh, no, no; anyone so ill as Steenie was would not
hoax. Having come so far, we must see what there is to be
seen,' pleaded Joy, whose curiosity, though mixed with
doubts, had only grown with the delay.
At that moment the brass band struck up again. The
evening show of the wax-works was about to open.
The largest yellow waggon, which had unroofed itself, now
let down a row of flap shutters from its sides, displaying
behind these a striking portrait gallery of the Queen and all
her Ministers, both in and out of office, with strict imparti-
ality. The floor of the waggon became a platform, on
which the effigies of six gilded knights apparently brayed
from trumpets, while very real, untuned sounds came from a
group of mortal musicians behind them.
' Walk up, walk up, lady,' cried a red-faced showman,
with a tall hat stuck much on one side of his head, perceiv-
ing Joy's beautiful face under her shady gipsy bonnet. ' Walk
up, and the gen'l'man will be 'appy to pay for you, I'll be
bound.' Then, in a hoarse-whispered shout to another
assistant at the back, ' I say, Bill, make room there inside.
Here's a couple of real huppers coming.'
Blyth and Joy found themselves mingling with a crowd of
better-class sightseers, all eager to partake of the atmosphere
of art and refinement in this department of the ' travelling
exhibition,' reported to be much superior in its elegance to
the other more vulgar entertainments in its company.
They stumbled up some wooden steps on to the platform,
stumbled down more on the other side, and found them-
344
JOY.
selves inside a dark tent, surrounded by mysterious cur-
tains.
The showman now seized a long whip, and, as a prelude,
gave it a sharp flick over the heads of a group of Moortown
children, whom he transfixed with his eye.
£ Do I hear a noise there ; chattering and disturbing ladies
and gents, besides all this assembled company ? I'll turn
you all out, everyone, next minute—this instant—and return
you your money, at half-price. Money indeed ! What do
I care about money ? Elegant behaviour's the thing for
these wax-works.'
The frightened children had been as mum as mice,
huddled together ; but flick ! went the whip a second time
over their innocent heads.
Joy was indignant, and about to take their part, when a
whisper from behind a curtain near thrilled her strangely.
£ Be quiet yourself, stupid man, or I won't sing ! Do you
hear—behave better at once.'
The red-faced man, who had had his arm sharply grasped
from behind the curtain, looked nonplussed a minute. Then,
recovering himself (the little scene being perceived by few),
he grew instantaneously milder, though placing his hat more
rakishly than ever on one side of his head, by way of self-
assertion. He began now to draw back the curtains one
by one from before various inanely smiling wax-work
figures. Then, turning the light from some strong reflecting
lanterns, managed by his assistant, on each in turn, went on
eloquently explaining their merits and meaning ; rolling his
r's as he declaimed with an unction, r-r-representing
superfine education.
But Joy heeded not a clammy group, setting forth the
story (recited at some length) of 'Amlet and the lovely
unfortunate Hophelia. She never gave a loyal glance at the
Royal Family, standing life-size in real though faded ball-
JOY.
345
dresses, and all wearing bigger or lesser gilded coronets.
The ghastly horrors of the last celebrated murder were lost
upon her; though the murderer's head was shown on one
black-draped pedestal glaring at his pale victim's face on
another (the latter being represented with a red gash on his
forehead,' to give the company present a hexcellent idea of
the sufferings of this pore gentleman !').
Joy could heed nothing, fix her eyes on nothing, but the
curtain from whence had come that sharp whisper.
'You are not well, I think; it is very hot and stuffy.
Would you like to come away ?—there is nothing after
all to be seen here,' asked Blyth, in a low tone, in her
ear.
' No, no! He said we were to wait for some music,
didn't he? We'll not go just yet?—at least, unless you
wish it, Blyth.'
So Blyth, marvelling, and having come to the disgusted
conclusion in his own mind that he was a fool for his
pains, waited of course patiently at his dear sovereign's
bidding.
They had still to wait some time.
Once more Blyth asked Joy presently if she would now
like to come away. And—hesitating, with a sensation of
faintness stealing over her, not so much from the heat and
closeness of the place, as from an indescribable disappoint-
ment and heart-sinking, when yet—no, surely !—she had
not allowed herself to think, expect anything—she again
answered :
' Shall we just wait to see it all ended ? Unless you very
much mind, dear Blyth.'
At last the showman had gone round all the waxworks in
their separately-draped little stalls. The curtains had been
drawn back from all but one side; that where Joy still kept
her eyes fixed in a fascinated way, while her ears were
346
JOY.
strained to catch the slightest sound, though all behind
there was now still.
'And now, ladies and gents, for the last and crowning
attraction of this performance. The gifted Countess Mad-
dalena, a Spanish lady of high descent, who has con-
descended for a while to honour the boards of our royal
travelling theatre as a bright, par-&k-ular star, will now sing
a native song in the costume of an Indian princess.'
With a sharp rattle the curtains were pulled back from
the end. There was revealed a tiny, low stage, the interior
draped as a tent, with bright, Eastern-looking, coloured
stuff. And, on a low divan of cushions, the light thrown
full upon her, sat—Magdalen !
JOY.
347
CHAPTER LVII.
' While sadly I roam, I regret my dear home,
Where lads and young lasses are making the hay;
The merry bells ring, and the birds sweetly sing,
And maidens and meadows are pleasant and gay.
Oh, it's home, dearest home,
It's home I fain would be !
Home, dearest home, in the North country.
For the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree,
They grow best at home in the North country.'
Old Ballad.
Joy had gripped Blyth's arm tight, and leant heavily upon
it for support. But she did not speak or move on seeing
her mother. He, for his part, stood steady as a rock,
though feeling most pitifully for the heart beating painfully
beside him. The semi-darkness in which they all were
crowded together in the tent, concealed them from observa-
tion; and both felt, without a word, that as yet they must
not betray themselves.
Magdalen was dressed in a fantastic garb of crimson
petticoat and black velvet bodice, that might have been
supposed originally Italian, but for fringes of gilt, glittering
sequins fastened here and there, which jingled and tinkled
as she bent forward now—not rising, but bowing with a sort
of careless grace in answer to the shufflings and murmurs
of curiosity, and some encouraging hand-claps from her
little audience in the twilight tent. Her eyes gleamed so
keenly from under a white head-dress, adorned with false
jewels, as she gazed forward, that Blyth and Joy felt as if
she must see them ! And yet she did not; her gaze wandered
restlessly on all around.
Then, with a weary air that she seemed at no trouble to
348
JOY.
disguise, the betinselled countess took up a mandoline that
lay on an old leopard-skin rug at her feet, and, carelessly
drawing out a prelude from the strings, began the song, two
listening there knew so well, ' Taza be taza.'
Moment by moment, the well-known air and her own
voice seemed to excite the singer's feelings, however. The
old artistic spirit, only dormant till then, broke forth again.
Her eyes flashed; her voice grew clearer and stronger; her
whole form took a momentary fire and grace of youth, it
almost seemed, for a few fleeting moments, as striking her
hand passionately now and again on the wood of the in-
strument, drawing out deep sounds, and then moving her
fingers rapidly up and down the strings in a dreamy, sweet-
tinkling, almost laughing accompaniment, Magdalen chanted
the old, old love-song of Hafiz.
An honest burst of applause drowned the last notes as
they lingeringly died away. Despite the shufflings, hoarse
' Brayvo's,' violent stamping of umbrellas and thick sticks
on the ground, and such-like marks of want of refinement
in the criticism, it was good genuine praise.
As such Magdalen felt it, with the quick magnetism of
relations always established between true orator, actor, or
singer and audience, who so greatly influence each other.
She bowed and bowed again, and smiled with just such a
delighted air as Blyth and Joy remembered so well seeing
her wear in the glen, when, hidden in the bushes, they first
saw her sing and dance to an imaginary crowd of spectators.
For a moment she believed herself a star, a prima-donna, at
the height of her triumphs ! The travelling tent was a great
theatre ringing with acclamations !
A few moments of gratified silence . . . Magdalen sat
smiling as in a dream. Then the noisy calls, clappings,
and stamping burst forth again from the crowd eager for
another song; the red-faced manager anxiously moved as if
JOY. 349
to attract the singer's attention, but, thinking better of it,
stopped himself.
' Best not, Bill,' he muttered, replying to the urgings of
his assistant; 'this werry partic'lar star of ours might fly
out upon me, you know. A star, he, he ! Humph, more
like a sky-rocket. The countess is in one of her humours
to-night, and wants humouring, I can tell ye. My arm is
sore yet.'
Hush ! Silence ! She has begun again.
But it is an old English ballad this time.
' A north-country maid up to London had stray'd,
Although with her nature it did not agree :
She wept and she sigh'd, and she bitterly cried,
I wish once again in the north I could be.'
So on in the simple well-known words telling of home
sickness, longing, pining for the fresh air, the free life, the
love left behind her, of the dear ones away up yonder.
What is the matter? The singer's voice has begun to grow
fainter, to falter, the sadness of the words is infecting her
own heart.
Suddenly—as if trying to rouse to a last effort and find
relief in expression—Magdalen burst forth with all her
powers, but in a wail of infinite pathos ! such sadness as
made any mothers there hold their babies tighter clasped to
their breasts, and brought tears to the eyes of some.
' For it's home, dearest home,
It's home I fain would be !
Home, dearest home, in the north country.
Oh, the oak, and the ash, and the bonny ivy-tree,
They grow best at home in the north country !'
The mandoline dropped from Magdalen's hand. Slowly
she rose to her feet and stood dumb, with a sort of
awakening horror in her eyes facing the crowd.
In that moment, as so often before, the mask of madness
35°
JOY.
seemed fallen from her face; a veil from her understanding.
She loathed the eyes upon her ; despised herself.
The manager gave a hasty signal. His startled assistant
instantly began moving one of the lanterns behind to
divert the public attention from the dazed woman at once,
and so flashed the light full upon the audience
A sharp cry rang from the little stage.
Magdalen threw up her arms wildly, and calling ' Joy !
Joy !' fell sideways prone, with her head buried among the
cushions of her couch.
The curtains were hastily pulled before the stage again.
The crowd was pushed, urged, persuaded outside by the
hotly bustling showman, deaf to all expostulations or kindly
troublesome inquiries.
In a few minutes the tent was almost empty.
'Take me home, Joy; take me back to the cottage—to
Cold-home,' Magdalen was whispering, with her head on
her daughter's lap. ' Take me to-night, do you hear ?' with
something of her old imperiousness. 'That dreadful man
has made enough money by me. I always told him I
should leave when I pleased.'
At a little distance by the platform steps, now deserted,
another conversation was passing.
' Well, sir, of course it is a tremendous sacrifice for us . . .
such a thing on a country tour as perhaps no manager but
me, no, sir ! would be generous enough to allow . . . No,
I don't say the  countess  signed any agreement exactly.
Know her, sir? Wouldn't put pen to paper, so suspicious ;
no, nor let herself be bound in any way. Quite the 'aughty
lady ! just so . . . She did say, when we came across her
near Dover, that she was struck by the superior style of my
Royal Travelling Show; and that, if I was likely to come
into these parts on our tour, she would like to travel in my
company. But still . . .'
JOY.
35i
Blyth stilled all the objections of the generous manager.
The latter, indeed, after a certain cheque had been safely
enclosed in a greasy leathern pocket-book inside his own
breast-pocket, was good-natured enough in speeding his
late star and her newly-found protectors on their way.
' Poor soul! quite in a dangerous state of disrepair in the
hupper story at times, though always the lady ! Will be
best with friends,' he whispered, significantly laying his
finger down his red nose. ' But we must hurry, sir . . .
Bustle up there, Bill, bustle. We travel at night, sir, when
the roads are more free, and by to-morrow morning we
must be nearly arrived at our next destination.'
And truly, when the lights of Moortown were all out, and
the little town hushed after its unwonted excitement, while
Blyth's dog-cart, with three figures on it now, was driving
swiftly down the Chad valley in the darkness, the square
round the old market-cross was once more empty.
Seven great yellow vans were rumbling in a southern
direction, having
' Folded, their tents like the Arabs,'
and silently gone away.
For some time after, the talk of those who had been at
the fair often turned on the royal show, and the foreign
singer especially. Then little by little the remembrance of
the yellow vans faded, as of the strange countess, supposed
to have gone away with them.
352
JOY.
CHAPTER LVIII.
' The same old home,
The same small house,
With moss and houseleek overgrown ;
And surely 'tis the self-same mouse
That from the wainscot shyly peers.
The flowers, bees, creepers, all the same !
No weather-stain our eyes can lack,
Where is the change we inly blame ?
'Tis in ourselves, alack ! alack !
The years have sped,
Our youth has fled.'
The next day, once more a faint blue smoke rose in the
morning and evening from the chimney of Cold-home.
Anyone nearing the porch would have seen that the great
rusty padlock was gone which had been fastened across two
staples in the door and post by young Berrington's own
hands, for additional security to the deserted house.
That was all to be seen of change. Yet the cottage was
once more inhabited by its old inmates. The old still life
had begun there again.
But how should anyone in the country-side know that
news, for weeks to come ? The little brown house was so
lonely, and had a reputation of being haunted now, more-
over: and the glen was so little frequented. Even the
swallows were not disturbed. They had reared some
young broods in nests between the very door and lintel in
peace.
True, there was the lantern at night, which, if now lit,
according to old custom, would have told its silent tale by
the red light gleaming over the broken wan water, and
JOY.
353
illumining rocks and trees here and there, to leave the rest
in deeper shadows.
But there was no longer, now, need for a lantern.
During the past summer, Blyth Berrington had caused a
little foot-bridge with a stout hand-rail to be laid across the
Chad by the ford. He had made the bridge soon after
Rachel Estonia came to stay at the farm; for, until this was
done, Joy had herself gone up every evening to light the
lantern in the little deserted house. And the way was long
for the young girl—although, indeed, Blyth had always
gone with her in protection.
Magdalen had with difficulty been induced to sleep
through the few dark hours of the first night at the Red
House. Only the thought of seeing Rachel, and ' giving
her a little surprise,' she said—with a low, light laugh like
that of a child—had at last so tempted her.
And then, when the crisis so dreaded by Blyth and Joy
had come—when the young girl, in fear and trembling as to
the result of the meeting between the two sisters, had stolen
upstairs to wake Rachel in her dark bedroom, and break
the wonderful news to her gently—and when Rachel, trem-
bling now very much in her turn, but marvellously self-
restrained from years of habit, had crept down the creaking
stairs softly with Joy, not to waken the good old farmer in
his sick-room, and had come face to face with the sister so
long sought and greatly loved, at last—Why, then Magdalen,
after receiving Rachel's close embrace, in which her great
emotion, though repressed with effort, was still felt, and
gratefully answering with a light, quick kiss on either cheek,
which was a sign of effusive affection in her, only said :
'Well, are you surprised to see me back? I had a
strange fancy, do you know, Rachel. I thought at Rome
one night that I heard you calling me—calling me from far,
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354 JOY.
far away. A silly idea, wasn't it ? But I turned homeward
after that, and here I am.'
And they answered nothing, but held their peace.
Magdalen was too restless to sleep that night, though she
lay down beside Rachel, at the latter's earnest entreaties.
But she could not be long still; the old disquiet, the old
feeling that she needed to roam in the open air and large
silence of the hills, roused her by the glimmer of dawn.
' Up then crew the red, red cock,
"And up and crew the grey;
The eldest to the youngest said,
 'Tis time we were away. '
At Magdalen's bidding, Rachel had asked for the keys
of the cottage from Blyth, before he had said good-night to
them a few hours ago. They lay outside her door now—a
heavy, rusty lump of iron—as the sisters stole out in the
early gloaming.
Blyth had asked leave to go with them and help them at
the cottage. But Magdalen had so turned away, silent,
with a little shuddering movement of her shoulders ex-
pressing dislike of strange company that Rachel hastily
refused, with an expressive look of thanks to the young
man.
The sisters wore again their long black cloaks and
little hoods. Magdalen had never parted from hers all
the year she had been away, but carried them in a bundle.
' I wanted to have it ready for when I came back,'
she whispered, with a little air of pride at her own fore-
sight as she displayed it. Where is yours, Rachel ? Oh,
you must put it on too ! The people round will never
know I have been away. It will all be just the
old life again together. I am glad to come back
to it.'
JOY.
355
The cottage was in all respects just as it had been left
after Magdalen's flight and Rachel's hurried departure
in illness. Only for a layer of dust over everything, it
seemed to have been deserted but yesterday.
By evening Blyth came towards the little brown house
under the cliff, and waited outside at the Logan-stone for
Joy; because he saw Magdalen's dark figure wandering
down from the upper glen, under covert of trees and
bushes, with a secret air. It seemed to him, almost, as
if neither of the wisht sisters had ever gone away.
In the early morning, Joy had gone up to the cottage
carrying the provisions that, as she guessed, Magdalen's
impatience had not suffered Rachel to wait for. All day
the young girl stayed with her aunt silently helping her to
clean, rub, and scour all in the little house to the old spot-
less perfection. All day long Magdalen was rambling
alone out on the heathery moors, or down the glen among
the hawthorns by the waterfall.
Rachel and Joy spoke hardly a word to each other.
They had drawn so close together in the past year, and
were so dear to each other, and now
Joy had said :
' Must the old life begin again for you ? It ought not, it
shall not ... I will come every day '
' Hush, dear, it must!' Rachel replied. ' You have been
my sunshine !—it is a blessing to look back upon! But
she, Magdalen, has taken such a hold on my life, we
seemed so ordained to be bound together, that it is a
sacred duty laid upon me from heaven, I believe, to give
her my whole thoughts and powers as she wishes to the end.
At times, it has seemed to me as if she could not die—
would never venture down into the river of death—unless I
came too ... A wrong fancy ! She will have a better
23—2
356 JOY.
guide, then. Still it often made me feel, even when we
thought her lost on the moors, that she could not be really
gone from earth without me.'
And now at sunset Blyth had come to seek his betrothed,
and Joy, shading her eyes, presently came out to look for
him.
' Speak to my mother a minute,' she said. ' She wishes
so much to thank you.' (Nay, that was Joy's own sweet
persuasion, as Blyth very well knew; but he honoured the
small, loving pretence.)
Magdalen, sitting in the little porch, with her hood pulled
over her face, being perhaps confused in her own mind
between past and present, perhaps playing at trying to re-
store her own feelings—who can say ?—rose with dignified
grace and gave him her hand.
'You wish to marry my daughter, Juanita da Silva, I am
told,' she said. 'Well, you are a worthy young man, and as
I hear you have got gold-mines in Australia—or, what, Joy,
sheep-farms, do you say? No matter, it all means riches,
wealth ! So I will give my consent, as you can keep her in
a position befitting her rank, Good-bye, and—be good to
her !
She hastily turned and disappeared into the inner bed-
room before Blyth could speak. Nor did he again see her,
indeed, for many a day; and then—the meeting was still
more strange.
But Rachel's majestic form stood looking after the young
people as they went away. Her still smile, so brave it told
nothing of what was passing in her heart, seemed yet to
lighten upon them as they halted in the distance, and
beckoned their last greetings from the Logan-stone.
Ah! and yet it was so hard, they thought together; so
hard for her to have tasted some of the happiness of domestic
JOY.
357
life and requited affection without constant fears ; yet now,
to have to take up the old burden again, and travel on once
more the weary old road !
But how did they know whether Rachel Estonia felt it
so ? If little has been said of her inner feelings of late, it is
because of such spirits as hers there is little to say, unless
when great trials or duties call forth their powers. She had
seemed to herself in a dream, relieved of her heavy duty,
yet wandering ever to find it again. There was no place
fitted in the world for her, unless she might once more
undertake some weighty task—so used she had been to such.
And now, in the browning twilight, there came a rustle
behind her; Magdalen's breath was on her cheek.
' So they are gone! Ah, it is better; I am so tired of
seeing many faces, and hearing talk. . . . Silence ! liberty !
that is what I want; and you always liked what I liked,
Rachel. It will be such a great rest. The old life is best
for me, after all.'
' But you were happy while away, sister ?'
(Rachel used the old term, once fancifully begun by Mag-
dalen, who grew weary of hearing their names mutually
reiterated, she said.)
'Yes, yes; very happy in a way,' Magdalen musingly
replied. ' It was all like a dream, travelling, and the new
scenes and people, sights, and crowds, and music. I felt
like a child at times, straying down the primrose-path, you
know, and gathering flowers; and often I was half frightened
at times, being alone. Then it seemed to me as if you were
somehow appointed my guide to heaven, and that you would
be sure to call me back, and look for me before I had gone
too far. That was not the narrow, right path, was it? Ah,
I fear I have been a silly stray sheep for'you to watch over,
poor Rachel! , . . Well, but now I mean to try to be
358
JOY.
good, and follow you wherever you wish, dear; I do
indeed.''
Summer had passed into autumn, and the yellow stubble-
fields were empty, while the stockyards and granaries were full.
The Red House was just as full of gladness and health,
in a quiet manner of rejoicing. For old Farmer Berrington
had taken a new lease of life, so the doctors owned, with
astonishment. And indeed he did, thereafter, live hale and
hearty, however heavy, to a still riper, good old age before
he fell on sleep; and his mortal remains were laid beside
those of his forefathers.
And, for more good news, Blyth and Joy Berrington, bis
wife, had come back, after a short and happy time that they
had gone away together, following their quiet marriage by
license (to avoid gossip) in the nearest large town.
They might indeed have stayed away longer, for it was
lovely weather, with a soft warm sun by day and only mild
hoar-frost at night; and the country they wandered in was
one of lakes and high mountains, and rural, old-fashioned
inns, delightful and new to both; and lastly they were not
too new to each other's way to feel anything but happy and
at ease and perfectiy trustful of each other under whatever
little trials of travel might happen.
But one morning Joy was uneasy. And as she could not
shake off the strange impression, she told Blyth presently of
a dream that seemed to haunt her. She had imagined she
awoke in the dead of the past night, in the hour when the
deepest sleep falls upon men, feeling a cold air blow over
her face.
And then—though it was. quite dark—she, opening her
eyes, saw her mother sitting on the bed at her feet like a
white illuminated shadow.
JOY.
359
Magdalen smiled at her with her old winning smile, and
said :
'We were not as mucft to each other in life as we should
have been, dear child. It was my fault—but it is all made
right now ! Go back to Rachel—she needs you !'
Thereupon, it seemed to Joy that she knew no more,
until she awoke in the glad morning with the sun shining
and the birds singing. So, therefore, she could not really
have wakened to have slept again so immediately, as Blyth
pointed out.
Nevertheless, argue as he might, Joy, though dutifully
agreeing in his every word, felt still as uneasy all the same.
It was so true that at any moment Rachel might want her;
would allow no other help (if even hers!) were Magdalen
suffering in one of her sad periodical attacks ! And Blyth,
while proving to her that such imaginary visions were only
the effect of a ray of moonshine seen between waking and
sleeping, or some such other fanciful cause, nevertheless
was so willing to relieve her anxiety that they prepared to
start on their return journey at once.
So, two days later, the young husband and wife arrived
at mid-day at the Red House. There, in spite of their
arrival being unexpected, a most hearty home-coming wel-
come greeted them. The old farmer and Hannah, the men
on the place, the dogs and horses, nay, the very fowls and
bees and flowers seemed all to rejoice. It was a spontaneous
outburst of gladness, and a cheerful, willing running hither
and thither to get all to rights for the young master and
mistress, surely a hundredfold better than any more elaborate
preparations of honour.
4 And is all well up at the cottage?' Joy asked at once,
striving to conceal her anxiety.
' All is well!—could not be better,' replied Hannah,
36 o
JOY.
cheerfully. ' I was up there four days ago, with a basket,
and my own dear lady, your mother, dearie, came and
kissed me. Which was wonderful for her—but she was
tired-like, and soft-hearted, the creature !'
So all was right.
' We will go up there this evening,' said Blyth cheerily.
JOY
361
CHAPTER LIX.
' My hearth is growing cauld,
And will be caulder still,
And sair, sair in the fauld
Will be the winter's chill.
The peats were yet to ca',
Our sheep they were to smear,
When my a' passed awa',
In the fa' o' the year.
' Be kind, O heaven abune,
To ane sae wae and lane,
And tak' her hamewards sune,
In pity o' her maen.
Lang ere the March winds blaw,
May she, far, far frae here,
Meet them a' that's awa',
Sin' the fa' o' the year.'
The Widoids Lament.
And so the pair, the young man and woman, came that
evening by the upper path over the hills (because Blyth had
some new sheep there) to where they could look from the
high ground of the moor down on the great rock, almost
directly below them, at the glen's mouth, and the little cot-
tage sheltering under it.
' There is no smoke from the chimney ; yet it ought to be
their time for supper,' said Joy, with troubled solicitude in
her voice, as she looked down at Cold-home—fit name,
truly, always, for the small moor-stone dwelling.
' Your mother will not willingly see me, so I had better
wait at the Logan-stone till whatever time you like to come
home,' said Blyth, with the steadfast cheerfulness that made
all the time or trouble he gave seem as things of nought.
And yet, in his mind's core, he hoped she would not be very
362
JOY.
long; and likewise reflected that, though a man may be
patient, yet he must smoke.
So Blyth was wending his way towards the river, when,
just as he had filled his pipe, something caused him to
stand still. The she-goat belonging to the cottage was
springing wildly, and rattling her chain, fastened to a tree, as
if half maddened, as he approached her.
Then he noticed she had not been milked lately, and
that all the grass round her tether was nibbled close and
trampled.
Blyth was very fond of animals, so he made haste to
release the poor beast, when a low call from the cottage
reached his ear. He knew it was Joy; and, hastening to
her summons, found her standing, looking pale and
frightened, before the cottage.
' Oh, Blyth, the door is locked,' she said, as he came up.
'What does it mean? They are always at home at this
hour; but I can make no one hear me.'
' They are up the glen, or down by the river, dear. They
can't be far off.'
'They are not up the glen.' Joy was half beside herself
now with growing fears. ' Look, the red curtain is drawn
across the window, as it only is at night. And, see there !—
a spider has spun its thread over the doorpost. Oh, they
cannot have gone away and left us again!'
' Come round to the bed-chamber window, and call,'
cried Blyth, excited at sight of that spider's thread. ' If
they are there, your mother ought to know your voice,
whether she is ill or not. Miss Rachel will.'
A white blind was drawn closely down over the little
window at the other end of the cottage. Nothing could be
seen; all was mute as the grave from inside those moor-
stone walls. Joy, nevertheless, raised her fresh young voice
in a thrilling call.
JOY. 363
' Mother ! mother ! Aunt Rachel!—it is I, Joy> your own
child. Hear me; answer me.'
Then came from inside a low, faint sound. It was
human breath, a voice; but its utterance only reached the
outside of the walls no louder than a sigh. Both the
listeners looked eagerly at each other; bent their ears
again .... nothing more.
Blyth waited no longer, but ran round to the door, and,
snatching up a large stone, gave two or three violent blows
against the lock, and then, using all the strength of his
own broad-shouldered body, burst into the cottage. The
first object he stumbled over in the half-gloom was a basket
of provisions, the self-same Hannah had last brought. But
he could not stop to look about, for Joy had darted before
him into the inner room, while he more softly followed.
What a sight met their eyes !
The westering sun striking full on the little window, and
passing through the white blind, illumined the scene with a
pure, yet ghostly light.
On the low truckle-bed lay Magdalen, her hands folded
on her breast. Or was it really she, so still, so pallid, so
small? She was a corpse. And at her side sat a silent,
dark mourner on the ground, bending over her sister with
her own head leant against the wall; speechless, motion-
less as her dead, with living eyes that saw nothing, and ears
that seemed not to hear the footsteps that entered. So
Rachel Estonia sat, like a statue, and, as the moments went
by, never stirred or sighed or took her gaze (if, indeed, she
saw) off Magdalen's face.
Joy's first outcry and impulse of anguish and pitying love
frozen by that awful stillness, she caught Blyth's arm, and,
clinging to him, they gazed together in moments of silence
that seemed almost hours.
364 JOY.
Magdalen was all laid out in spotless white, with not a
wrinkle either on the fresh sheets on which she lay, and that
were folded so delicately corpse-wise on her faintly-outlined
form. Plainly Rachel Estonia's strength had not failed her
till the last needful services had been done for the sister she
loved so truly in life. Then she must have sunk down here,
and so stayed—how long? None ever knew! But Mag-
dalen had been dead, perhaps, three days and nights.
Joy knelt by the living, whom, after all—yes, indeed—
she had loved the best! folded her in her arms, caressed
her, wept over her, laying her own warm, tear-wet cheek
against that dear one. Yet Rachel still seemed in a trance.
Though Joy's voice in that first call had power to bring back
her spirit from where it seemed to have wandered out from
her body, striving vainly to follow her beloved dead in
thought while yet bound to the flesh, now she had relapsed
into unconsciousness of all earthly objects around her.
At last Blyth took her up bodily in his arms, and gently
carried her into the other room. There, while he hurried
for help to the Red House Farm, Joy watched and tended
her with all the love and poignant grief of her warm young
heart, rising often to self-accusing pangs of keenest remorse.
But she wronged herself.
In intervening moments, her better sense told her this
weird call had not come through any neglect of her own.
And it comforted her not a little to think that, in the vision
she had seen, her mother had worn no accusing look, but,
on the contrary, had seemed to bless her.
Blyth came back in utmost haste from the farm, and old
Hannah with him; but the twilight was already falling, and
to Joy it seemed hours that she had sat there alone with
Rachel and her dead mother. They brought restoratives,
and, after awhile, with much pains, had the satisfaction of
JOY.
365
seeing Rachel's dark eyes light up in a gleam of con-
sciousness and love as they rested on Joy, while her lips
moved.
' Dear! . . . my heart's child! . . . ' she uttered in broken
murmurs, ' my task on earth is finished now; I am going to
rest! Where is your Blyth ?'
They brought Blyth to her, who had been sitting in the
porch in the outside summer darkness, guarding the little
house, while the river could be heard flowing by, and the
stars shone soft in the clear sky. Rachel looked so still,
with a wonderful sweetness on her face and holy calm light-
ing her steadfast eyes, while her low voice seemed to come
from far, far away, that Blyth almost felt as if her spirit
already belonged to another world. She looked at him and
faintly said :
' You will be good to Joy ?'
'As God is my witness, I will try to make her happy
while my life lasts,' said the young man solemnly.
A smile of ineffable satisfaction came on Rachel Estonia's
face, as she sank back with her head on Joy's breast.
She did not speak again collectedly, though her lips some-
times moved, and, bending down, they could catch broken,
loving expressions, as her memory strayed to each of the
few persons who had been the little world of this noble
soul—words treasured by them atterwards as blessings.
She never mentioned Magdalen, never Gaspard, though
once Hannah heard her say ' Poor Peter !' and understood
her; no one else.
The night wore on; the still small hours came, when the
earth is coldest and the tide of human vitality lowest.
Then—all three still thought her half sleeping—they aroused
to be aware that they no longer heard her murmur, saw her
move. Bending their ears, feeling her pulse, no breath, no
366
JOY.
beat of vitality answered their awe-struck, fearful expectancy.
So, sweetly and calmly, Rachel Estonia had gone on her
unknown journey, while the night-sky was clear, the stars
shining, the air so still. Surely, of the many who died that
night on the million-peopled world, no spirit passed more
happily from its bodily covering, its poor tenement of clay,
than did hers. Surely she was a true sister!
Where the little lone church stands hidden between wood
and hills, in its wild and solitary nook, there, where its acre
of graveyard touches the moor's edge, rise three low waves
of turf. They are a little apart from the rest of the sleeping
congregation ; as in life, so in death. But the yellow broom
bends its butterfly blossoms over the fence, and the heather
and gorse smell sweetest here. One of these three lies by
itself, a small wooden cross at its head bearing only these
two letters, ' G. S.,' half effaced by time. But a red rose-
bush, like those down at the Red House, scattering its
crimson petals to every breeze, seems to think itself the
better living remembrance of the dead below.
Side by side, at the foot of this grave, sleep the two
sisters, who in death were not divided; two plain moor-
stone slabs bearing their names—Rachel!—Magdalen ! No
more. Except, indeed, that a white rose-bush is planted by
each, and these blow, however shyly in the strong upland
air, yet sweetly in summer weather.
Joy Berrington planted the roses; her loving hands, and,
in after-years, those of the fair-haired, and some dark-eyed,
children she thus piously taught, tended these three graves
with loving care. Nevertheless, the moor-folk still look
that way askance and wonder, and will tell strange legends
of the wisht sisters, and of a ghostly light still seen on wild,
dark nights at Cold-home Ford, though the cottage has long
JOY.
367
fallen in ruin. A light that did good while the sisters lived
could not prove themselves evil, some few fair-judging
minds stoutly declared at times; the rest said, ' Ay, but it
was plainly only a deed of repentance for some former great
sin in their lives.' Let them say what they will; little does
it matter to those who knew the true story and brave spirit
of Rachel Estonia. Little would she care !
Blyth Berrington and Joy, his faithful wife, rich in all
that wise men have agreed to consider the chiefest good
things on earth, live blessing and blest. If some ever ask
who was Mistress Berrington, it is always confidently asserted
that she was a far-away cousin, and a well-dowered one, of
her good husband.
Young Steenie Hawkshaw, in a drunken fit long ago
before her marriage, had been known to hint at some wild
tale to the contrary. But he was dead, and his old father
too. And so the story, whatever it was, died out.
But in all the country, far or near, there was no homestead
more happy than that at the Red House.
THE END.
BILLING & SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS' CATALOGUE.
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i
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Half Brothers.
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Helen.
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My Brother's Wife.
Half a Million of Money.
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Destiny.
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Gilderoy.
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A Wife to Order.
Two Convicts.
Feathered Arrow.
Each for Himself.
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Romance of War; or, The
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Jane Seton : A Scottish His-
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m
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Jack Manly : His Adventures
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Only an Ensign: The Retreat
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Under the Red Dragon.
Queen's Cadet, & other Tales.
Shall I Win Her.
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The Secret Dispatch.
One of the Six Hundred.
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Did She Love Him ?
The Ross-shire Buffs.
Six Years Ago.
Vere of Ours.
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Author of.
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Barren Honour.
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Sans Merci.
Sword and Gowr,.
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Sam Slick, the Clockmaker.
The Attache.
Letter Bag of Great Western.
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Singleton Fontenoy.
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Through the Mist.
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All in the Wrong.
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Fathers and Sons.
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Les Miserables.
JAMES, G. P. R.
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Morley Ernstein.
Damley.
Richelieu.
Gipsy.
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Woodman.
Agincourt.
Russell.
King's Highway.
Castle of Ehrensteic.
Stepmother.
— a
6 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE &* SONS'
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JAMES, G. P. R., continued.
Forest Days.
Huguenot.
Man at Arms.
A Whim and its Consequences.
Henry Masterton.
Convict.
Mary of Burgundy.
Gowrie.
Delaware.
Henry of Guise.
Robber.
One in a Thousand.
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De L'Orme.
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Gentleman of the Old School.
Philip Augustus.
Black Eagle.
Old Dominion.
Beauchamp.
Arrah Neil.
My Aunt Pontypool.
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Tom Bulkeley of Lissington.
The Girl He Left behind Him.
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Stretton.
Old Margaret.
The Harveys.
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KINGSTON, W. H G.
Pirate of the Mediterranean.
L. E. L.
Francesca Carrara.
LANG, John.
The Ex-Wife.
Will He Marry Her?
>, continued.
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Con Cregan.
Horace Templeton.
(See page 19./
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Handy Andy.
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ffi-
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Rattlin the Reefer,
Poacher.
Phantom Ship.
Dog Fiend.
Percival Keene.
Frank Mildmay.
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2. Pacha of Many Tales—
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man Easy—Japhet.
3. Phantom Ship—Dog Fiend
—OllaPodrida—Poacher.
4. Percival Keene—Monsieur
Violet— Rattlin—V alerie.
(See pages 13, 16, 18.)
MARTINEAU, Harriet.
The Hour and the Man.
MAXWELL, W. H.
Stories of Waterloo.
Bryan O'Lynn; or, Luck's
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Captain Blake.
The Bivouac.
Hector O'Halloran.
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Flood and Field. [Highlands.
Sports and Adventures in the
Wild Sports in the West.
MA YHE W, Brothers.
The Greatest Plague of Life.
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Whom to Marry. (Cruik-
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Kaloolah.
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Gideon Giles, the Roper.
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Hajji Baba in Ispahan.
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OLD CALABAR.
Won in a Canter.
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At His Gates.
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Solitary Hunter.
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City of the Sultan.
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Scottish Chiefs.
Thaddeus of Warsaw.
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Murphy's Master.
A Perfect Treasure.
Saved by a Woman.
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The Rifleman.
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Anne of Geierstein.
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St. Ronan's Well.
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9
Novels at Two Shillini
SC0 TT, Sir Walter, continued.
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Sir Victor's Choice.
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Cross of Honour.
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The Golden Lion of Granpere.
>, continued.
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Twenty Thousand Leagues
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Five Weeks in a Balloon,
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