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 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 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 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.’

‘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 can tell what they are settling all by themselves? Henry, I tell you go and put a stop to it!’

The Colonel put down the pot upon the hall table. He was quite bewildered. ‘The Scotchman?’ he said; ‘the—the—schoolmaster?—with Joyce? I suppose, my dear, it must be one of her old friends?’

‘I suppose, my dear, it is the man you—never told me of,’ cried Mrs. Hayward fiercely. ‘The man she was to marry. Go, I tell you, and put a stop to it, Henry!’

‘I put a stop to it!’ he said. The Colonel grew red like a girl—he grew pale—he wrung his hands. ‘Elizabeth, my dear, you know all about that better than I ever could do; you understand—such things? How could I—put a stop to it?’ In his trouble he paced up and down the hall, and knocked against Baker, who was hanging about in the hope of hearing something, and ordered him off in a stentorian voice. ‘What are you doing here, sir? Be off, sir, this moment!’ cried the Colonel. Then he added, apologetic yet angry, ‘These servants take a great deal upon them. You should teach them their proper place.’

‘Henry,’ cried Mrs. Hayward, ‘it is not like you to save yourself behind the servants. You must come with me, at least. I insist upon it. What authority have I over her? If I must interfere, it can only be as representing you. They may have settled everything by this time,’ she cried, and seized her husband’s arm. It was not to support him, as he very well knew, but to drag him to the sacrifice.

Andrew had risen: he had gone towards his love, holding out his arms. His figure, not graceful in itself, with the long frock-coat coming down a little too low, and putting him out of drawing, showed against the light; while Joyce, trembling, pressed against the window, shrinking from his advance, seemed to stand on the defensive, with a pale and panic-stricken face. When the Colonel saw this scene, he no longer needed any stimulant. He dropped his wife’s arm, and, stepping forward quickly, put his hand upon the intruder’s shoulder. ‘Hey, sir! don’t you see the young lady is afraid of you?’ he cried.

Andrew turned round at once with a quick recovery, and instantly extended his hand. He required not a moment to recover himself, being primed and ready for whatever might happen. ‘How do you do, Cornel?’ he said; ‘I’m extremely glad to see you. I was telling Mrs. Hayward—as I presume that lady is, though Joyce, being so shy, did not introduce me—I was telling her that this happy meeting would be incomplete without a sight of you.’

‘What do you want here, sir?’ cried the Colonel. ‘What have you to do with my daughter?’ Then Colonel Hayward’s natural courtesy checked him in spite of himself. ‘I—I beg your pardon,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Perhaps I’m making a mistake—perhaps it’s me you want, and not my daughter. Joyce, no need to be frightened, my love, when your father’s here.’

Andrew had not given way an inch. He had no want of courage. He confronted the angry warrior without flinching. ‘What do I want here, Cornel?’ he said. ‘I see you have forgotten me. I have just come to see her. It is natural I should want to see the young lady I am engaged to. You took her away in such a hurry, I had no time to make any arrangement. But nobody will doubt my right to come and see her, I suppose. Joyce, my dear one——’

‘Be silent, sir!’ the angry Colonel cried.

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘Silent or not, it makes little difference. Words between you and me, Cornel, will change nothing,’ he said.

‘Joyce,’ cried the Colonel, with a gasp, ‘what does this fellow mean? You are almost fainting with terror. Go away, and leave me to deal with this man.’

‘She’ll not do that,’ said Andrew calmly.

‘She’ll not do that? She shall do what I wish, sir, I can tell you, and nobody shall interfere with her actions in her father’s house.’

‘She’ll not do that, Cornel, for this good reason, that Joyce will never give up her word pledged and her promise given. If you think so, it is clear you know very little of Joyce, Colonel Hayward, though you are her father,’ Halliday said.

He did not look at Joyce to intimidate her. He held up his commonplace head; and though he was of unimposing stature, and his frock-coat was too long, the schoolmaster looked every inch a man. His homely features grew dignified, his attitude fine. The Colonel stared at him, silent, not comprehending the transformation; while Joyce, roused too by this subtle change in the air, stood upright apart from the window on which she had been leaning, and turned to her father with a steadiness which was given at once by the sudden stimulus and by the rising despair.

‘Father,’ she said, ‘it is quite true. I—did not expect him—and it gave me a shock. I thought perhaps—he might be bringing ill news. It is true,’ she said, after a pause; ‘I am engaged—to Andrew Halliday. He has a right to come—for me——’ Her voice stopped again. She stood quite still for a moment, then flinging herself suddenly on the Colonel’s shoulder, ‘Oh, father! FATHER!’ she cried.

‘What do you think of this, sir?’ cried the Colonel, clasping her fast with one arm, holding out the other with an oratorical wave.

‘I think just what she has said herself, that she is excited and overdone. I am very sorry I did not write and tell her I was coming. It would have saved her all this. But her nerves were not in this agitated state in the old days. I would like to know what you have been doing to my betrothed among you in England,’ the schoolmaster said, ‘to make her like this.’

Colonel Hayward was too angry, too much bewildered and agitated, to reply. He took Joyce to the sofa, and made her sit down. ‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘you must not let yourself be intimidated—you mustn’t give way. You may be sure you are quite safe. Nobody shall bully you or put forth a false claim upon you here.’

Mrs. Hayward had not said a word all this time, her husband having unexpectedly risen to the height of the occasion. Elizabeth knew how to hold her tongue. But she intervened now with calm authority. ‘We’ve no right to say it is a false claim,’ she said, ‘till we know more about it; but you can see for yourself, Mr.—Mr. Halliday, that she is not in a state now to have it proved. Come back later; nothing can be done now. Come back in the evening, and my husband will see you finally.’

‘Finally!’ said Andrew. ‘You will see me finally, ma’am, when I take away my wife—but not till then. After that, you may be sure I will have little temptation to show myself in this house.’

The schoolmaster was roused. All that was best in him—his real love, his true independence, his sense of manhood, all came to his aid. He knew his rights and his power, and that no father could crush a lover so determined. But though he said these words with genuine and indignant feeling, the utterance of them brought another side of the question back to his mind. If it came to that—yes; he was man enough to carry his love away, herself alone, as he had wooed her for herself alone. But nobody but he knew how many glorious visions, how many hopes, would be cut off if he shook the dust from off his feet and resolved to cross that threshold no more. He would not give up Joyce, but he as good as gave up the headmastership—that dream of glory. He saw it melt away in the air, the baseless fabric of a vision. He felt himself come down, with a giddy sense of descent and failure, and become once more Andrew Halliday, schoolmaster, Comely Green. He had even perhaps a little neglected Comely Green for the sake of that too sweet, too tempting illusion. And now he must resign all thought of it, all hope. The renunciation thrilled through all his nerves, as he stood there facing the prejudiced and foolish people who did not perceive what it was they were throwing away. But even this did not shake his faith in himself and his confidence in his rights. He cast a glance which was full of compassion yet disapproval at the group on the sofa. ‘I can see,’ he said, ‘that Joyce is too much agitated to be responsible, and that the Cornel is excited and unable to see the rights of the situation. Therefore, ma’am, I will take your advice. It is not the reception I had a right to expect; but, nevertheless, I have full faith in Joyce when she comes to herself. I will withdraw till this evening. No ceremony, I beg,’ cried Andrew hurriedly. ‘I will find my way out—there’s no need for any one to open the door.’ Even in the midst of questions so much more serious, he remembered that it would be bitter indeed to show his discomfiture to the pampered menial who had admitted him. That at least he would not endure.

Mrs. Hayward followed him out of the room, sparing him this indignity. Perhaps the sight of Joyce leaning upon her father, absorbing his every thought, was as little agreeable to her as to Andrew. If Joyce was in trouble, it was at least her own making, whereas the innocent people whom she dragged into it had done nothing to deserve it. Mrs. Hayward regarded Andrew with angry contempt, but she was not without a certain fellow-feeling for him as a sufferer from the same cause. His air of terrible respectability, his coat, his hat, his gloves, everything about him, were so many additions to the sins of Joyce. And yet she felt herself more or less, as against Joyce, on Andrew’s side. She stood behind him while he opened the door, grimly watching all his imperfections. The back-door, she said to herself, the servants’ hall, would have been his right place. And yet, if the man spoke the truth, he was quite a fit and proper match for Joyce!