Joyce had just come in from her morning walk. She was standing in the middle of the room with her hat, which she had just taken off, in her hand. And Mrs. Hayward had been making some remarks to her, such as mothers often, and step-mothers in some cases, feel it their duty to make. It was on the subject of the Sitwells, whom Mrs. Hayward regarded in their poverty (notwithstanding that the parsonage-house had been begun, and things were on the whole going well with them) with a certain contempt.
‘I think, indeed, you prefer such people to those of your own class.’
This was what Mrs. Hayward was saying when Baker, still more contemptuous of the inferior world than she, opened the door. ‘There is a person,’ he said, ‘asking for Miss Hayward.’
‘A person—one of your district people, no doubt. They come at all hours. There really must be a stop put to this, Joyce.’
‘Well, ma’am, it’s a male person, with a haccent,’ said Baker—‘not one from these parts.’
‘Miss Hayward can’t see every idler who chooses to ask for her: inquire his name,’ said the mistress of the house.
And no premonition crossed the mind of Joyce. She stood to receive the interrupted lecture, with her head a little bent, and her hat in her hand. She never made any stand for herself on such occasions, nor said a word in self-defence—probably afraid to trust her voice, and too proud to squabble. This made her, it need scarcely be said, very provoking to her step-mother, and aggravated any original offence in the most insufferable way. She stood quite silent now, waiting till she should be dismissed. And to tell the truth, Joyce, in the multitude of her thoughts, was very sick of everything about her, and of the friends for whom she was incurring reproof, and of the petty fault-finding which seemed to surround her steps wherever she went. Mrs. Hayward did not
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 resume her lecture. She sat down, slightly flushed and angry, expectant to see what new visitor might betray Joyce’s inclination towards shabby persons. ‘Mr. Andrew ‘Alliday,’ said Baker, reading from the card. And then Joyce uttered that cry—her hat fell out of her hand upon the floor. She started violently, gave a hurried glance round as if looking for some way of escape, then turned a pale and terrified countenance towards the door.
‘Joyce!’
The man was quite respectable; his frock-coat made him look like a Dissenting minister, or perhaps a commercial traveller, or something of that kind. This was Mrs. Hayward’s bewildered reflection. She sat and looked on as if it had been a scene in a play.
‘Oh!’ Joyce said, clasping her hands. Then with a great effort she held out one hesitatingly to the new-comer, and said, ‘Andrew!’ her voice dying away in her throat.
He seized her hand in both his. Though he loved Joyce, and his heart bounded at the sight of her, he was also anxious to impress the pampered menial with a sense of the hideous mistake he had made. ‘My darling!’ he cried.
Baker did hear, and grew purple with horror, and lingered about the door after he had reluctantly closed it, to hear more if possible. But Joyce retreated before the ardent advance of her lover. The light began to fail in her eyes. She put up her hands faintly to keep him back. ‘Oh, Andrew! what has brought you here?’ she cried.
‘Who is this—person?’ said Mrs. Hayward, rising from her chair.
Andrew turned round upon her with a smile. ‘It is a long time since we have met,’ he said. ‘She is a little agitated. She was always very shy. Another man who did not understand might think this was a cold reception. But I know her better. You will be Mrs. Hayward, ma’am, without doubt?’
‘Yes, I am Mrs. Hayward; but what have you to do with Joyce? and how do you dare to call Miss Hayward by her Christian name?’ cried the lady of the house.
Andrew smiled again—he was prepared even for this emergency. ‘My name,’ he said, smiling with a complacency which diffused itself all over him, and shone even in the glister of his well-blacked boots, ‘should be sufficient passport for me in this house. But perhaps you did not properly catch my name, for English servants clip the consonants in a surprising manner. Allow me——’ He had taken out the card-case, that infallible mark of gentility, and
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 here handed her a card with an ease and grace to which he felt no objection could be made. Mrs. Hayward, confounded, read out aloud, ‘Mr Andrew Halliday.’ Underneath, in very small letters, was written, ‘Schoolhouse, Comely Green.’
‘You will at once perceive, ma’am,’ said Andrew, ‘that if I ask to be left for a little alone with Joyce, I am asking no more than my right.’
‘Alone with Joyce! You want—what do you want? ME to take myself out of your way! Oh, this is too much!’ Mrs. Hayward cried.
‘It is not too much, madam,’ said Andrew, increasing in dignity, ‘if you consider the circumstances. It is surely no more than any man in my position has a right to ask.’
‘Joyce, who is this man? Joyce, do you hear that he wants to turn me out of my own drawing-room? For goodness’ sake——! Oh, I must call Colonel Hayward.’
‘That will be just in every sense the best way. The Cornel knows me, and he will at once understand,’ said Andrew, with the blandest self-possession. He opened the door for Mrs. Hayward, which he knew was the right thing to do; and it was sweet to him to feel that he was acting as a gentleman should from every point of view.
‘Joyce!’ he cried—‘my Joyce! now we are really alone, though perhaps only for a moment—one sweet look, my own dear!’
Joyce drew back from him, shrinking to the very wall. ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘don’t!’ retreating from him. Then, with something of her old authority, ‘Sit down there; sit down and tell me, has anything happened? What has brought you here?’
‘Oh, is that what is wrong?’ he said. ‘I’ve frightened you, my dear one. No, no—no reason to be frightened. They are all well, and sent every message. Joyce, can you ask why I came? Because I could do without you no longer—because I was just longing for a look, for a kind word——’
‘Sit down,’ she said in peremptory tones, ‘sit down!’ She herself kept standing, leaning upon the glass door which led out to the verandah, her slender figure standing dark against the light. Her heart beat so, that there was a thrill and tremble all over her, visible against that background to which she clung. But it gave her a little relief when he obeyed her, and deposited himself upon a chair.
‘I am very sorry to have alarmed you, my dear. I thought that when you heard my name, your first thought would be for
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 me. It was not too much to expect, was it, after being engaged—for more than a year?’
‘Andrew,’ she said, with a shiver— ‘Andrew.’
‘What, my dearest? I know you’re very shy—very, very diffident—far more than you ought to be. If ever girl should have a little assurance, a little confidence, surely it would be you with me.’
He could not but be superior still—trying to reassure her, to give her a little boldness, smiling upon her in his most protecting, encouraging way.
‘Andrew,’ she said again. And then Joyce’s courage failed her altogether. She seized on any, the first expedient that occurred to her to postpone all personal questions. ‘You are sure they are well,’ she said tremulously. ‘Granny—and my grandfather—and all; and not missing me—not too much—not breaking their hearts——’
‘Breaking their hearts! But why should they, poor old bodies?—the feelings get blunted at that time of life. So long as they have their porridge and their broth, and plenty of good cakes—and a cup of tea. It is me you should ask that question. Do you know you have used me ill, Joyce? You have written oftener to them than to me—though it is me,’ Halliday said, ‘with whom you have to spend your life—I am not saying at Comely Green. No doubt you’ve got different notions in a house like this. It’s always difficult to go back, and I would not wish it—I would not ask it. But in some more refined, more cultivated place—in some position like what we read of—like what able men are securing every day——’ He rose as he spoke, inspired by this conviction, and approached her once more with outstretched arms.
Mrs. Hayward could not find her husband upstairs or down. He went to his library invariably after his walk, but he was not there to-day. He had not gone to his room upstairs. He was not among his flower-seeds in the closet, where he had at the present season a great deal to do, arranging and naming these treasures. At last she met him coming in, in his tranquil way, from the garden, a pot of flowers in his hands.
‘Look at these begonias, my dear. Now isn’t it worth while to take a little trouble when one gets a result like this? I am carrying it in for your own little table.’
‘It is a fine time to talk of begonias,’ she cried, pushing away the plant which he held out to her. ‘Henry, for goodness’ sake hurry into the drawing-room and put a stop to it at once! That man is there with Joyce.
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’
‘That man!’ cried the Colonel, astounded. ‘What man? Bellendean?’
‘Oh, how can you talk! What objections could there be to—— Henry, wake yourself up, for goodness’ sake! It is the man—the man you would never tell me of—the schoolmaster—the Scotchman. Go, go! and put a stop to it. I have been hunting for you high and low. Who ............