Under the Mendips: A Tale

"Miss Falconer, I think?" he said, his eyes fastening upon her fair young face.

"Yes," she said, simply. "Do you want to see my mother?"

"Nay," he said, "I came to see you. I have heard much of you; I am your brother's friend."

Joyce looked inquiringly at her visitor, and said, with a little quiver in her voice:

"I hope, sir, you have brought no ill news. We have had so much sorrow of late."

"I know it, indeed," the gentleman said. "I bring no bad news of your brother's health; he is abroad, I think."

"Yes, at Genoa; he was at Genoa when we heard last; we have not heard from him since our father's death."

"Ah! that was a sad loss for him and for you all. What a lovely place you have here, but very far removed from 'the world' – the world where you would shine as a bright star of beauty."

This broad flattery was received very differently from what the speaker expected. Joyce's face underwent an instant change, as she said:

"I think, sir, if you please, I must ask you to excuse me, for I have some things which are needing my attention this morning; perhaps," fearing she might seem deficient in courtesy, "you would like to rest a little while."

"You are very kind, fair lady; I will accept your offer, I shall be glad to rest. What a noble hall!" he exclaimed, as he stepped across the threshold, where Piers was leaning against the old oak table, his crutches under his arm.

"Piers," Joyce said, "this gentleman wishes to rest; will you ask Sarah to fetch him some refreshment?" She was thus dismissing the guest to the care of her brother, glad to escape from his prolonged and embarrassing scrutiny of her face, when Lord Maythorne said:

"Pardon me, I want to speak to you on a serious matter. I ought to have introduced myself earlier. I am Lord Maythorne; you will have heard of me?"

"Yes," Joyce said, calmly; "yes, I have heard of you."

"No good report, I will venture to affirm, guessing, as I do with some certainty, from whom the report came. If you tell that little boy – lame, I see, poor fellow! – to leave us, I will briefly relate the circumstances of my friendship with your brother. Come, Miss Falconer, do not be unjust to me, but hear what I have to say. I prefer that our conversation should be private; it is of great importance that you should hear what I have to say, alone."

Joyce hesitated; that instinctive dread of men who are neither honourable nor good, which all pure-minded maidens feel, made Joyce shrink back from the very touch of Lord Maythorne's hand, as he tried to take hers, with a gesture of profound reverence and raise it to his lips.

"I little thought," he murmured, "that I should find in Melville's sister any one so charming, and I confess that I am bouleversé at once. Nay, do not look so sternly at me."

"I do not know what right you have, my lord, to come here to alarm and annoy me. If the matter you have to tell me is important about Melville, I would refer you to my brother Ralph, and Mr. Paget, who is my dear father's executor."

Piers, who had been watching the whole scene, now came hastily forward.

"Ralph has gone into the Wells market, and Joyce has no one at home but me to take care of her. She does not wish you to stay, and you ought to see that, and go away."

"You had better try the effect of one of your crutches on me, my boy! I am not going away, at present."

Piers reddened, and was beginning an angry rejoinder, when Joyce said, in a low tone:

"Go and stand at the further end of the hall, Piers, and I will go into the porch. If I want you I will call, but do not let mother know anyone is here. Now," she said, turning to Lord Maythorne, "we will go into the porch, if you please, and you can tell me about Melville."

"Well," Lord Maythorne said. "I had an interest in your brother, and I should have pulled him through his troubles, if it had not been for the meddling interference of a kinsman of mine, a young fellow – great in his own eyes – who cants like any old woman, and can turn up the whites of his eyes with any Methodist in the land. He made a nice mess of it for your brother owes me the money, and if he had left us alone we should have arranged matters. As it was the whole story came out, your brother was 'sent down' and those sharks the tradespeople, poured bills upon your father's head."

"Yes," Joyce said, "which my father, my dear father, paid. What does Melville owe you?"

"A pretty round sum, but I would let it rest at five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred! Oh! it is impossible we could pay that. I will ask Mr. Watson and Mr. Paget – "

"Pray do nothing of the sort," said Lord Maythorne, with lofty superiority; "it is a mere trifle, but just now it happens to be a little inconvenient. The debts are such, as no honourable man would leave unpaid. I promised Melville to keep them secret, and I have no wish to let the town crier go about with the news, but I naturally judged that on the death of his father, your brother would come into his fortune, and repay me."

"I do not think it is possible," Joyce said. "My dear father had so many sons, and it was hard to provide for them. Please let me think about it, and give you an answer. I must consult Ralph, who is in charge here now, till Melville comes home."

"Nay, I would ask as a great favour that you consult no one. If, when your brother returns, you can come to any arrangement, let me know. I would not wish to press my claim unduly. I think you have seen my young nephew, Gilbert Arundel; he got a pitiable hold over your brother. It is not the best taste to abuse one's own relations, so I will forbear giving you Arundel's character in extenso; suffice it to say, he is a hypocrite. He has been playing fast and loose ever since he was a boy, with a fair lady much older than himself; he fancies himself in love with her, and she is so foolish as to believe it. The ten years which separate them in age is a trifle in his eyes. She is handsome enough, and fascinating; knows the world and its ways, and, resents my good sister's pious exhortations, rather laughs at them, in fact. Am I speaking in riddles? Arundel's mother is my step-sister; my father taking it into his head to marry for the second time, when no one expected him to do so. But it was a lucky thing for the world at large that he did marry, for I am the result!" The low satirical laugh had a ring of bitterness in it, and the face that was really handsome, was clouded by a most disagreeable expression.

It was a hard ordeal for Joyce to be thus, as it were, in the hands of a keen-witted man of the world, who, when he had finished his own story, began to pour out the most fulsome flattery, and to appear to take it for granted that Joyce would be won by it. He little knew the strength and courage which the "rustic beauty," as he inwardly called her, could show.

As soon as she could get a word in, she rallied herself, and said, in a low, determined voice:

"I do not wish to hear any more, my lord. I do not think you have any right to come here and offend me by saying what you cannot mean. I will take advice about my brother's debts to you, and, if you please, I will let you know the result."

"What a charming woman of business!" exclaimed Lord Maythorne. "A veritable Portia. A little indignant protest is so becoming. Well, well, we will leave the matter for the present."

And now a figure, clothed in deepest mourning, appeared from the hall behind, and Mrs. Falconer with a curtsey which was profoundly respectful, said:

"May I ask, sir, what brings you to the house of a poor widow? My daughter is very young and very inexperienced; I cannot allow you to remain to annoy her."

"My good lady, I am your daughter's slave. I am ready to lie at her feet. Annoy her, forsooth!"

Joyce, who had endured bravely up to this moment, sprang towards her mother as if instinctively for protection, and Mrs. Falconer took her hand in hers.

"What is it, my dear, what is it? Piers came to call me; I thought you were distressed."

This was really the first time since her sorrow that Mrs. Falconer had roused herself to take an interest in anything; but Piers' summons, with the announcement that there was a man in the porch talking to Joyce, and that he knew by the sound of her voice she was frightened, had not been in vain. The maternal love, deep in Mrs. Falconer's heart, asserted itself, and put to flight for the time the selfish brooding over her sorrow, in which for so many weeks she had indulged.

"Joyce is very young," she said, tenderly, "and she has been left to bear a burden too heavy for her years. I beg you, sir, to say no more to hurt her and annoy her, but to leave the premises."

"My dear madam," Lord Maythorne said, "I came in a friendly spirit to discuss a little business about your elder and very hopeful son. He owes me some eight hundred pounds – a debt of honour, but at the same time a debt;" and, setting his teeth, "One I mean to have paid! It may seem a trifle to the owner of these broad acres, and to the inhabitants of this grand ancestral home, but to me it happens to be no trifle. Good morning."

Lord Maythorne turned away, raising his hat to Joyce, and saying:

"Adieu, mia bella! adieu! but au revoir! au revoir!"

Mrs. Falconer pressed Joyce, trembling and frightened to her side, saying, in a low voice:

"What does he mean? Who is he?"

"He means that Melville has lost money to him by gambling; I think he is Lord Maythorne."

"What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said.

"We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man."

"Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I will try to do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce."

"And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people."

"Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and – "

"It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?"

It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand.

"The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?"

And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch.

The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes – the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back.

One glance, and Mrs. Arundel felt sure she saw before her her son's "Joyce, Sunshine, Birdie! for they call her all those names," he had said.

She looked just now, with her head drooping, and the traces of tears on her cheeks, very like one of the China roses above her, hanging its head after a shower.

Gratian also examined her critically.

She is beautiful, she thought, but she has no style; while the Bishop leaned forward, and asked:

"May we alight?"

"Yes, my lord," Joyce said, in a low, gentle voice. "My mother has seen no visitors for a long time; but she will be pleased to see you, and – "

"Mrs. Arundel, I hope, also, and Miss Gratian Anson," the Bishop said, by way of introduction, "Madam," he continued, as he went into the hall, "Madam, I have heard of your good husband; I had once the pleasure – I may say the honour – of seeing him at the palace, and I desire to express to you my condolences. My son," he added, addressing a young gentleman in clerical dress, who was as much like his father as youth can resemble age, "my son is also anxious to pay his respects. My wife, Mrs. Law, is yet absent on account of her health, but returns to the palace next week."

Both the Bishop and his son were courtly gentlemen of what we call now "the old school," and they had peculiarly clear and sonorous voices; the old man's set in rather a lower key than his son's.

"Pray, my lord," Mrs. Falconer said, "walk in, and I beg you to excuse a desolate sitting room," opening a door to the right of the hall; "I have never had courage to sit here since – since our trouble. Joyce draw up the blinds and set the chairs." Mrs. Falconer said this, with something of her old quickness.

"Our little parlour would be warmer, mother; this room feels cold," Joyce said, in a low tone, as she obeyed her mother, and noticed the cold, damp, unused atmosphere, which always clings to a room that has been closed for some time.

That room, with its three windows set in thick frames, with deep window-seats beneath, had been Mrs. Falconer's pride. As she looked round now, the furniture seemed dull, and the whole aspect of things changed.

"Yes," she said, sadly, "yes, you are right, Joyce; this room is not fit to sit down in; we will go to our own sitting room, if his lordship will follow me."

The whole party adjourned there, and Piers, with unusual forethought, had already ordered a tray to be brought in; for it was always en règle in country houses in those days to offer refreshment of wine and cake, as calls were paid early, just as afternoon tea is brought in now for visitors later in the day.

Mrs. Arundel left the Bishop to talk to Mrs. Falconer, and Gratian won Piers' heart by professing the deepest interest in his drawer full of birds' eggs, which happened to be opened. That was one of Gratian's strongest weapons; she took, or appeared to take, an interest in everybody's particular hobby, and yet she was listening with one ear to every word that passed between Mrs. Arundel and Joyce. Poor Piers was quite unconscious that he had not her whole attention. When Mr. Law joined the discussion she withdrew and said to Joyce, "I should like to see the grounds, would you show me round." Piers wondered at her abrupt departure from the contemplation of the wren's eggs, and his animated story of the way the little wrens huddle together in a nest in the winter, under ground, in a hedge facing south, and come out to try the air in the first warm days in February, retiring again if it is too cold for them.

Joyce led the way, thankful to see how much more her mother looked like herself, as she told to the sympathetic ear of the Bishop the story of her grief.

Gratian took pains to suit herself to her company; she always did. She linked her arm through Joyce's, and talked in a low voice, instead of her wonted high pitched rattle. She told her how grieved she felt for her; she could easily imagine what such a sorrow must be; for she, a "poor orphan" herself, could indeed sympathise with her.

So she talked, as they paced the gravel walk under the sunny south wall of the old-fashioned garden, where the arms of a huge pear-tree were still heavily laden with brown fruit, and where bushes of pale lilac, Michaelmas daisies, and lavender, still attracted a number of late bees and errant wasps, who, like all the rest of the world, found it hard to believe that this was the November sunshine of a short winter's day, and not the long drawn out heat of July.

"I should like to know more of you; to see more," Gratian was saying. "Of course, I expected you were charming from what Gilbert told me. Gilbert and I are great friends; he tells me everything."

A scarcely perceptible recoil, in the little figure by her side, was not lost on Gratian.

"Yes," she said, "he is a dear boy – a little spoiled by the notions he has taken up lately; but they are spreading everywhere. The Cambridge men are even worse than the Oxford men. However, I won't quarrel with Gilbert about that, and I can take a little preachment from him. Aunt Bella is pleased with anything Gilbert says or does; and as to Maythorne – "

Joyce started, very visibly this time, at that name, and said, withdrawing her hand from her companion's arm, and stooping to gather some sprigs of lavender:

"I suppose Lord Maythorne is a relation of yours?"

"Distant; very distant," was the reply. "A connection is nearer the truth."

"Because," Joyce said, "I think he is a very bad and wicked man, and I wish you could tell him never to come here again."

"Come here! Has he been here," Gratian exclaimed. "What on earth did he come here for?"

"He had not been gone half-an-hour before the Bishop's carriage drove up. He has, as you know, done my eldest brother a great deal of mischief; and, though my dear father thought he had cleared all his debts, this Lord Maythorne says that he still owes him a great deal, and we cannot pay it."

"And is that what he came to say; very kind and pleasant of him, I must confess. I expect he said a great deal more."

Joyce blushed scarlet.

"He was very impertinent," she said, "and talked in a very free way to me, but it is over now, and I wish to forget it. Only, if you can, will you prevent him from coming again; or as he is Mrs. Arundel's brother, could you ask her to prevent him. When I have consulted Mr. Paget, dear father's executor and our trustee, I will try if any of the money can be paid."

"Don't think of paying a farthing," Gratian said, "pray; I will see what I can do in the matter. I will talk to Gilbert. Gilbert is certain to do what I ask him, and I know how much he cared about your brother. Yes, you may depend upon my doing my best, you darling!" Gratian said, stooping down and kissing Joyce's rounded cheek.

Joyce made no response, as Gratian expected, and then they walked silently to the house.

As they drove towards Wells, Gratian, after a pause suddenly said:

"Aunt Bella, Maythorne is still in this neighbourhood. He has been at Fair Acres to-day."

"Maythorne!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed. Then to herself, but not aloud, she said:

"I must let Gilbert know at once."

CHAPTER XI.

MEETING

From the time of the Bishop's visit, Mrs. Falconer began to resume her usual employments. She covered her crape with a large apron, and pinned back the long "weepers" of her large widow's cap, and went about the house again, with none of her old sprightly manner, but still going through her duties in regular order.

It was a time which needed much patience, for, as was natural, Mrs. Falconer saw many things which she considered neglected, and Joyce felt herself held responsible for the misdemeanours of the maids, especially of Susan Priday.

The schoolmistress at Mendip had given Susan an excellent character, and Mrs. More had dictated a note to Joyce from her sick bed, telling her that she believed Susan might really prove a friend as well as a servant, for gratitude would be the spring of all her work, gratitude to Joyce for taking her, and holding her free from all blame in her father's ill-doings and bad life, which had apparently been the cause of the great sorrow which had fallen upon Fair Acres.

Mrs. Falconer had consented with the cold apathetic consent which was discouraging enough. She had taken little or no notice of Susan's presence in the kitchen and dairy till she began to come forth from her seclusion. Then, indeed, poor Susan had a hard time of it; but love, and gratitude to Joyce, were too strong for her to show any resentment for the many unjust suspicions and sharp reproofs which she had to bear.

"It's only what I must look for, Miss Joyce," she said one day, when the breaking of a plate, which she had never touched, was at once laid to her charge. "It's only what I must look for. My dear mother always used to say, when poor father beat and ill-used her, that she remembered some words of St. Peter, that if you were buffeted for doing well, that is, doing your best, and took it patiently, it was acceptable in God's sight. Besides, Miss Joyce, I have been used to hard words, and I know how brokenhearted the poor mistress is; why, she is even a bit cross to Master Piers and you, which is more than I can understand, for you are next door to an angel, Miss Joyce."

"No, Susan I don't feel at all angelic. That is a mistake. I feel angry and discontented sometimes, if I don't show it. There are so many troubles which can't be talked of."

"Yes, miss, I know that well enough; but you can tell them to God, and that's a rare comfort. Dozens of times in the day I tell Him of my biggest trouble, that I have a father who – "

Susan stopped, threw her coarse apron over her head, and ran away to scour the pans in the dairy till they shone like silver.

The bright November weather soon vanished, and the winter closed in rapidly. Except for a visit of a few days from Miss Falconer and Charlotte, nothing occurred to break the monotony of this dead time of the year. Farming and gardening operations were suspended, and Ralph got out his beloved books again, and Piers arranged and re-arranged his large collection of curiosities, and Christmas drew near.

Joyce had given up listening for a footstep on the road, or looking anxiously for the old postman, who trudged from Wells, on fine days, with the letters, but in bad weather pleased himself as to the length of his rounds.

Mrs. Falconer worked, and knitted, and darned, and, when the wind blew fiercely round the house on the dark winter nights, thought of her little Middies tossing about on the wide sea; and of Melville in that far-off land, which she knew more by its shape of a boot on the map Piers had hung up in his room, than by any distinct notion of what was to be seen there.

Rome, Florence, Naples, were but names to her, and as dim and distant as Haiphong or Hong Kong are to many in the present day.

'Melville was in Italy,' and her interest in the country was expressed in these words. Melville's letter, written on hearing of his father's death, was sad enough. Weak natures like his, always find relief in trouble by many words, and give vent to grief by vain protestations of affection and of remorse.

Mrs. Falconer treasured the letter, and read it many times, and thought Joyce unfeeling in expressing so little sympathy with her brother. There could be no doubt that all his wilful disregard of his father's wishes started up before Melville, now that it was too late to atone for them, and for the time, as he said, "he was distracted with grief." But there was no word of a desire to redeem the past by coming to Fair Acres and doing his best to perform his duties there. Selfish people are not cured by trouble of their selfishness. It commonly happens that they are more selfish in their grief than in their joy, more self-absorbed by pain than pleasure.

While Melville could write of his distracted condition, of his love for his father, of his burning indignation against the wretch who had caused his death, and of his determination to have him brought to justice, Joyce was silent; only sometimes, when kneeling by Piers' bed, would she allow her grief full vent; only when alone in the seat under the fir trees would she cry out in the bitterness of her heart for the lost father who had been so dear to her.

And there were other causes of trouble, which she could scarcely confess to herself. Not another word had Gilbert Arundel written, not another sign had he made of remembrance. She knew now, as the time went on, that she loved him, and that, after all, she was nothing to him. How could she have been so foolish? How often she had laughed at Charlotte's fancied admirers, at her continual discovery that some one was in love with her, but was kept back by circumstances from declaring his devotion! For the minor canon was one of a long list of visionary admirers, and he had been followed by the pale-faced clergyman she had met at Barley Wood, about whom, during the few days Charlotte had spent at Fair Acres, she had talked, till Joyce grew weary of the theme.

"Such nonsense!" she had said. "Besides, no girl ought to acknowledge herself to be in love till she has had good reason given her. It is not nice; it is not womanly."

And as day by day passed, and night after night, when she leaned against the casement of her window, when the stars were throbbing and shining in the deep-blue of the winter's sky, she had to confess, with deep abasement of spirit, that she had been as weak as poor Charlotte, nay, weaker; for as Charlotte's heroes fell from their pedestals, or vanished into thin air like the mirage in the desert, she could always replace them, and pour forth her romantic soul in verses addressed to new objects, as if the old had never existed.