Under the Mendips Part 13

"It would be far better if I could persuade Melville to stay here, and learn about farming."

"Yes; but that, I am afraid, you will never do; and considering that your father wished him to work on the estate it was a mistake to send him to Oxford at all."

"Oh, yes; but it was mother's wish, you know," Joyce said, with a heightened colour. "Mother always feels that her family was not considered as good as father's; they were simple, homely, good people, but not what are called gentry, and I think it has always been mother's desire that Melville should have exactly the same advantages as the sons of our neighbours. Charlie Paget went to Oxford; they live at Ebbor Court; and so it seemed her eldest son ought to go. It is so strange that mother should be quite consistent on every subject but one, and that one, the indulgence of Melville; and now I believe he will break her heart."

"No, no, I trust not so bad as that," Mr. Arundel said. "I have hopes that there will be a change for the better, and all this folly and aping his betters will drop off like an old cloak one day."

Joyce sighed.

"I wish I could have hopes too; there is always, I suppose, some cloud in everyone's sky; and we are so happy, that if it were not for Melville, we should have all we wished for. Yesterday in the hay-field I felt as if even to be alive was delicious, everything was so bright and joyful. Then Mrs. Hannah More came and invited me to Barley Wood. Have you heard of Mrs. More?"

"Yes, I think I have. A very good old lady, who has set up schools for the poor children. My mother knows all about her. Will you like going to Barley Hill?"

"Barley Wood," Joyce corrected. "Yes, I think I shall. Charlotte is to come also; and I dare say I shall like it when I am there, and it may do me good. You know Aunt Let.i.tia always calls me 'a little rustic.' Of course I _am_, but I do not know that it is of such great consequence as Aunt Let.i.tia thinks."

"It would be a pity, indeed, if you were anything but what you are,"

Gilbert said earnestly. "A change could hardly be an improvement."

"Oh, do not say that," Joyce said. "I want to _know_ more, and though I read everything I can in father's library, I do not get any new books.

Ralph helps me with Latin, and Piers and I learn French together, though I expect our p.r.o.nunciation would make you laugh. We have just read Madame de Stael's 'Corinne' and a story called 'Matilde,' which Charlotte lent me. Is not Piers wonderful?" she asked; "he is so happy, and have you seen his collection of moths and b.u.t.terflies? You must come into his room and see them."

"Yes, I should like to do so very much, if you will be showwoman."

He liked to hear her talk of her simple home pleasures and interests; he liked to watch the ever-changing expression of her lovely face; he felt within himself that this hour on the hill-side, was to remain a bright memory with him for many a day, to which he would recur with pleasure, and over which no cloud could come.

At last the sound of the boys' voices in the copse below, roused them both from their earnest talk, and Joyce's name rang through the still summer air--

"Joyce! Joyce! tea has been ready ever so long. Mother does not like waiting. Do come!"

"Yes, pray come, Joyce; there is no one to pour out tea, or cut the cake. Mother says you ought not to have put sugar on the cake," said Bunny. "I am so glad you did."

Joyce flew swiftly down through the wood, and by the time Mr. Arundel and her brothers had reached the house, she was at her post behind the large bronze urn, and taking up her accustomed duties with a face so bright and winning, that her mother forgot her vexation, merely saying:

"I like punctuality at meals, Joyce, especially on Sunday; for it puts the servants out if they are driven."

"Why, my Sunshine," her father said, "where have you been hiding? We thought you were lost."

"Joyce has been sitting under the fir-tree with Mr. Arundel," shouted Bunny in his ringing, boyish treble. "They have been there two hours."

Bunny was in advance of the other boys and their guest; and it was Piers who said: "You need not shout as if you were the town-crier!" While Melville dragged himself out of the depths of a large sofa covered with horse-hair, where he had been sleeping off the effects of his large dinner and repeated gla.s.ses of ale and wine, and said the boys' voices were a perfect nuisance, and he did not know what Arundel thought of such a hubbub.

A laugh from the person in question, as he pa.s.sed the open window with Ralph, seemed to point to the fact that Gilbert had as light a heart as any of the young brothers at whom Melville so often took offence.

Family prayers were the exception in many households in these days; but as there was only one service in the church on Sundays, the squire, following his father's custom before him, always a.s.sembled the household in the evening, and read a chapter from the old family Bible, and a short dry sermon with a prayer from an old book, in which was written his mother's name. It might be questioned whether the rosy-cheeked maiden and the stalwart young men from the Farm, who sat with their hands one on each knee, staring at Melville and the visitor, as strange specimens of humanity, could understand a word of the sermon or follow the prayer.

Perhaps Joyce scarcely realised how dry and formal this service was, and yet this evening a new spirit seemed to be stirring within her, an aspiration for something, she hardly knew what, but something which was not outside of her, but touched her inmost heart.

Her mood was subdued and quiet during the rest of the evening, and when she knocked at Piers' door to be admitted, as was her invariable custom, to make his room tidy, and place his crutches near the bed, the boy said:

"Do you like Mr. Arundel, Joyce?"

"Yes, dear; I think I like him very much."

Piers was silent.

"The next thing will be that you like him better than me."

"Nonsense, Piers; is that likely?"

Joyce had finished her labours in the little room now, and had seated herself in the window-seat looking out into the grounds.

The moon, nearly at the full, was lifting her round, white face above the low-lying range of hills eastward while the colour of the sunset sky still lingered in the west.

The window was open, and from below Joyce heard the sound of her father's voice and Mr. Arundel's. She knew what they were talking about, and she said:

"Of course I like Mr. Arundel, who is so good about Melville, and came here solely to try to be of use to him: very few people would have taken that trouble."

Piers gave a low rejoinder, which might be taken for consent.

"He says, Piers, a man he knows has a bad influence over Melville, and that he is a relation of his, and that he thinks Melville ought to be sent abroad."

"To do just what he likes, as he always does," was Piers' rejoinder. "It is a shame that Melville should bring so much trouble on us."

"Yes, it does seem a shame," Joyce said; and then she went to the bed, and, kneeling down, kissed Piers' hand as it lay upon the counterpane.

"I felt so sorry for you this afternoon, dear," she said. "It gave me a great pain to hear Melville speak as he did to you."

"Never mind, Joy, never mind. What does it matter?" And the boy stroked his sister's hair fondly. "I don't mind; I would rather have my crooked, helpless legs than be like _him_. Yes, I really would," he repeated.

"But Joyce, don't begin to care for any one more than me; that is what I dread."

"You foolish boy," she answered; "as if I could care for any one as I do for you! And when I come back from Mrs. More's I shall have so much to tell you; and I may get some nice books there, which we will read together."

Piers turned suddenly and threw his arms round his sister's neck. He was not usually demonstrative, but he said, with pa.s.sionate energy, "While I have you, Joy, I can bear anything. Good-night."

"Good-night, dear; and never take foolish fancies into your head. You may be sure I shall always love you and be all I can to you.

Good-night."

There is no doubt that a protecting maternal element in the love of a sister for a brother makes the tie one of the most beautiful that exists. From the time of Piers' accident Joyce had const.i.tuted herself his helper and friend. Mrs. Falconer in her busy life could not devote herself to her crippled boy, as mothers of a less energetic and active nature might have done.

Joyce and she had it is true one aim in common: to hide from the father the sad consequences of that one rash act which had shut Piers out for ever from the free, joyous life of his young vigorous brothers. Mrs.

Falconer did this by apparently making light of her boy's ailments, and inability to do what others did.

It was a good thing, she would say, that he could not climb trees and tear his clothes, or get into the stream by Wookey and ruin his boots and socks, or make her anxious by carrying a gun behind his father, in the time of rabbit and rook shooting.

Mrs. Falconer never betrayed what was indeed the truth, that the sound of Piers' crutches as they tapped across the old stone pavement of the hall, sent a thrill of sorrow through her breast, and that when Piers was laid up, as was not unfrequently the case, with an attack of pain in the hip which had been so severely injured, she avoided being much with him, and left him to Joyce, because the sight of his suffering brought back the memory of that morning when she saw him clinging with a frightened face to Rioter's back, and heard her husband say, "Don't make a coward of the boy: his brothers rode long before his age."

She knew too well how bitter had been her husband's self-reproaches, and she dreaded adding to them by any impulsive, unguarded word of her own.

Thus it was that Joyce was sister, mother, and friend to her lame brother. Their lives were bound up together, and the bond strengthened as time went on.