The Bishop's speech may sound to us unnecessarily long and formal, but, sixty years ago, the old spirit of chivalrous respect towards maidens, in approaching the subject of marriage, had not then died out. Perhaps, also, in the time of the good Bishop, when the first gentleman in Europe was setting so wretched an example in his behaviour, good and honourable men felt it the more inc.u.mbent on them to give the woman the full privileges of her position.

Love was to be sought as a favour granted, not claimed in a careless fashion as a right; while the whole aspect of courtship and marriage was dealt with more seriously than it is in our day.

Barriers are more easily broken down than set up again, and, perhaps, there is too great a tendency now-a-days to treat what is grave as a jest, and to show but little inclination to tread in the paths which our mothers and grandmothers found safe. Thus the Bishop, when he had heard from Gilbert's lips the object of his visit to Wells, thought it his duty to speak to Joyce in the grave manner I have described.

The Bishop rose from his chair, and, laying his hand on Joyce's head, solemnly p.r.o.nounced a blessing, and, with crimson cheek and bowed head, she left him, to prepare to go to the afternoon service.

Later in the day, the supreme moment in her young life came, when she walked with Gilbert in the fields towards Dinder, turning to the left, where, in a tangled copse, the first budding flowers of the starry celandines were peeping amidst fallen leaves and mosses.

The cl.u.s.tering primrose buds were hardly yet showing themselves amongst their crinkled leaves, and only the upright stems of the alders, and the lowest boughs of the maples and hazel bushes displayed the first emerald green of spring. It was a time and place for the exchange of first young love, and confidences never to be forgotten.

And in all the changes and chances of her future life, Joyce could look back to that first spring afternoon, and say from her heart that it was the opening for her of a new and beautiful chapter. If the hopes of the earlier days of their acquaintance had lain dormant during the winter, they now sprang up with the coming life of the spring time, and were sweet with the promise of the future.

When once Gilbert had found voice to tell his story he was eloquent, and when once Joyce had given her response there was no further need for reticence.

"And why did you not write to me?" he asked.

"As I said, because you did not ask me; and then when your uncle came, he told me that you cared for Miss Anson; and I thought, _half_ thought, it might be true."

Gilbert made an impatient gesture.

"You only _half_ thought so; you knew, Joyce, you knew better. So," he went on under his breath, "that is the mischief he went to Fair Acres to work. My mother soon stopped him from daring to persecute you."

"Mr. Paget and Mr. Gill said there was no lawful claim on poor Melville, for the money had been lent him to gamble with, and that Lord Maythorne knew he had no just claim to it."

"Of course he knew it; he thought he would frighten you, and your poor mother. But let us not speak more of him."

"I wonder what will be done when Melville comes home, for I suppose he will come home in the summer."

"Yes; perhaps he may have turned over a new leaf, as the children say; anyhow, I can't help being grateful to Melville."

"To Melville?" she said.

"Yes; for was it not he who invited me to Fair Acres, to find _you_, my darling."

Then he drew her closer, and with her hand in his arm, they walked through the quiet fields back to the little city.

The cathedral stood up in a dark mysterious ma.s.s against the clear sky.

The last purple gleam was dying from the distant hills which encircle Wells; Venus hung her silver lamp over the central tower of the cathedral, and the whole scene was one of infinite peace.

They did not speak of the future, the present was sufficient for them; but the cry of Joyce's heart, even in its happiness, found words:

"Oh! that my father knew."

"He may know, my darling," Gilbert said; "and I think we may rest in the certainty that if he were here he would give me a welcome."

"Yes," Joyce said, softly; "yes, I know he would. Oh! dear father."

PART II.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

'Tis Nature's plan The child should grow into the man; The man grow wrinkled, old, and grey.

In youth the heart exults and sings, The pulses leap, the feet have wings; In age the cricket chirps and brings The harvest home of day.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL.

A carriage stood before the door of Fair Acres one bright morning in April, an old-fashioned travelling carriage, with a "d.i.c.key," or back seat piled with luggage, and more packages waiting to be pushed under the seat inside, which a lady was superintending and remonstrating with a young sailor for his rough and ready help.

"Take care, take care, Harry; there is gla.s.s in that hamper. Oh! we must have the carriage closed after all."

"Nonsense, Joyce; I'll manage it. There, let that bag go into the hold, and heave over the box. I'll cram them all in."

"The captain is right, miss--beg your pardon, missus, I should say"--said old Thomas, wiping his head vigorously with his pocket handkerchief.

"Very well; now we are all ready. I hope mother is coming. Gently, Falcon, gently; don't pull dear old Duke so roughly."

"I want to take Duke to Bristol, mother; Grannie has left Fair Acres, and she is old; why shouldn't Duke?"

"Duke would not be happy in Great George Street; would you, dear Duke?"

Joyce bent down to the grizzled head of the friend of so many years, and said:

"Ah! Duke, we are all getting old."

Presently more voices were heard in the hall, and Mrs. Falconer appeared with a little grand-daughter on either side, while Susan Priday brought up the procession with the baby in her arms.

"Now, dear mother, I think we are all ready. Have you enough wraps?

Where are Melville and Gratian and Piers?"

"Melville is not dressed," said Piers, coming forward, "and Gratian has just had her cup of chocolate taken her in bed."

"I must run and say Good-bye to her," exclaimed Joyce. "What a pity to lie in bed on this lovely morning!"

Joyce tripped upstairs and tapped at the door of the room which had been her mother's in years past.

To the amazement of all the world, Gratian Anson had signified to Melville Falconer that she was ready to be mistress of Fair Acres, and include him in the bargain. On the whole the plan had answered fairly well; but Mrs. Falconer had found the new _regime_ a perpetual vexation, and three years before this time had, by her son-in-law's advice, retired to a little cottage on Clifton Down with Piers, within reach of the great joy and comfort of her declining years--Joyce and her husband and children.