Under the Mendips Part 47

"Few winter days are like this," Gilbert said; "but, darling, one day I may be able to give you a country home."

"A dear old-fashioned one like _this_?" she said, "Oh! then we will call it 'The Haven!'"

"It is not built yet," Gilbert said; "we must remember all that the children will want, education--"

"And accomplishments," she added, laughing. "Lettice, Lota, and little baby Joy must not grow up 'little rustics.'"

Joyce laughed, just her old, sweet, silvery laugh.

"It answered my purpose to be a little rustic, after all, as I took your fancy in my lilac cotton gown and white ap.r.o.n."

He put his arm round her as they walked, and pressed her close.

"They might be lovers of yesterday," Susan Priday thought, as she watched them from the nursery windows, "instead of having been married seven years. Such love must make a poor man rich and a rich man happy, and may G.o.d bless them both. The mistress grows prettier every day."

No one ever sounded Susan Priday's depth of grat.i.tude; she was not a demonstrative person, and the other servants, as might be expected, were a little jealous of her, and sometimes she had dark hints to bear "of the daughter of bad folks being lucky," and muttered words of self-congratulation that _their_ fathers had not been rioters and died in "'ospital beds."

But all these shafts were powerless to disturb Susan's peace, and baby Joy heard many a soliloquy which reached no other ears than hers.

"Yes," she was saying, as she swayed Joy gently to and fro; "they look like lovers of yesterday. The master is aged since his illness, and stoops a bit, but the mistress is younger than ever."

The husband and wife had turned now, and faced the house. Joyce looked up, and waved her hand and smiled, that "little pure, white hand," Susan thought, "which poor father said had saved him from despair."

Then the two little girls, in scarlet cloaks and hoods, came with Falcon to announce that they were ready for a walk with mother, and Gilbert asked if he might be permitted to come also.

"Of course," Falcon said; "only we thought you might be tired. Mother told us never to plague you to take us for a walk."

"I am getting quite well, my boy, and it will not be so easy, I hope, to plague me now as it has been lately."

"I've put away the trumpet, father, where I can't possibly see it, for I was afraid if I saw it I should be forced to give a big '_too-te-too_.'

So mother said, put it away till father is quite well, and then you can blow it in the garden. She wanted to _keep_ it for me, but that was like a baby; now I could get it any minute I wished, only I _won't_."

Gilbert was half amused, half touched, by this lesson of self-restraint that Joyce had taught her little son, by means of the discordant trumpet, and he patted his head fondly, saying:

"You'll always be right if you follow mother's advice, my boy."

"I know it," Falcon said; "Susan says mother can make every one _better_."

Joyce and her little daughters were on in front, walking up the village to the churchyard.

Presently they retraced their steps to the village, where an old tree, with a gnarled trunk, stands at the junction of four roads, and was a favourite post of observation to the children.

A smart post-chaise, seen from afar, coming swiftly onwards, contained Melville and Gratian. They had slept at an hotel in Clifton on the previous night, and came in the style which befitted them.

Joyce was a little alarmed at the large amount of boxes on the roof, and wondered if they could by any means be carried upstairs.

Gratian, handsome and gay as ever, gave all the orders and settled with the post-boy, while Melville looked on.

It was one of those cases when it is expedient, perhaps, that the wife should take the lead, from the incapacity of the husband to manage himself or his affairs, but it has never a pleasing effect on those who look on, and Gilbert thought how well it was there were no children to hear Gratian's ringing tones ordering Melville to 'wake up' and carry two small packages into the hall.

"Where is Ralph?" Joyce asked.

"He took some qualm about leaving Fair Acres. Mr. Watson is ill--dying, they say--so Ralph said he did not want to leave the place; there are still many bad characters about."

"I am sorry to miss Ralph, and mother will be disappointed, especially as Harry has joined his ship."

"What a nice room," Gratian said, as they went upstairs; "but I hope you have a hanging-closet."

"I am afraid only pegs," Joyce said; "but there is a tiny dressing-room."

"Is Mrs. Arundel coming to this family gathering?"

"No; mother is in Oxfordshire."

"Staying at Maythorne's; how like Aunt Annabella."

"She is not at Maythorne's you know, it is shut up, for the owners are gone abroad."

"But I hear another carriage. Yes! that is mother and Piers."

Joyce flew downstairs to greet her mother, and to give Piers a rapturous embrace.

Everything in the house was well arranged, and especial care had been bestowed on "mother's room."

Mrs. Falconer had no fine dresses, so she did not enquire for a hanging cupboard. She speedily found her way to the nursery, and baby Joy delighted her by holding out her arms to her grannie, with a bewitching smile.

"It's all beautifully neat, Joyce," she said, looking round her with a critical air. "Well, you don't regret now I taught you useful things, though you have no accomplishments like that poor, foolish Charlotte?"

They were a very happy party at an early dinner, and the good arrangement of everything, and the excellence of the bill of fare, brought many compliments to Joyce, especially from her mother.

"Except at Fair Acres," she said, "she had never tasted such light pastry, or such good plum-puddings and mincemeat. The turkey, too----"

"Ah!" Joyce said, "the turkey came with a hamper of good things from Fair Acres. Dear Ralph is continually despatching home produce."

The real master of Fair Acres did not seem at all discomforted at this proof of his ignorance of his own estate.

Melville had resigned himself to an easy-going life, and, being well kept in check by his wife as to unlimited wine and spirits, he managed to pa.s.s muster, and was looked upon by his neighbours as a "good-natured fellow, a little given to airs, and not worthy to tread in his father's shoes; but it might have been worse."

Poor praise this; and of how many besides Melville do we say, sometimes with an aching heart, "It might have been worse; but it might have been oh! so much better."

Wasted lives, neglected opportunities, withered hopes, how thick they lie strewn upon our paths as the autumn of life is sinking into the days of winter barrenness and dearth.

But there is a bright "beyond" for faithful hearts, where the things we know not now we shall know then, and this bewildering maze of doubts and fears shall be made plain in the light of G.o.d's love.

A certain wistful look in Piers' eyes made Joyce think he would like to talk to her alone.

So, when the evening shadows were closing over the waters of the Severn, and the blue mountains fading into obscurity, and the white-winged seagulls sought their nests, Joyce asked her brother to come out with her, for it was more like midsummer than Christmas.

Joyce put her arm on her brother's shoulder as of old, and they went together to the churchyard, where the old grey tower of the church stood out solemnly against the after-glow in the west, where a planet shimmered in the opal depths.