"Give me another bit of cloth and a nail, Piers," she called to her brother.

The tap of Piers' crutches was heard in the hall as he went to do her bidding.

As she stood in the sunshine, with her arm raised to secure the truant branch of the trailing rose, waiting for her brother to bring the nail, a figure cast a shadow against the porch, and, turning her head, she saw a gentleman standing near her. Instantly she dropped the branch, and, with a bright colour in her cheek, waited till the stranger spoke.

"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 n.o.ble 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 embarra.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances 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 _bouleverse_ 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, a.s.serted 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: