It was a cruel experiment to try. Joyce flushed and paled again with an agitation beyond control. ‘It is very kind,’ she faltered, ‘to think of—but they would not look for me now.’
‘Why not now? They don’t go away on a round of visits in autumn, I presume.’
‘My dear!’ said the Colonel, in a shocked admonitory voice.
‘Well, Henry! I mean no harm; but one time is the same as another to them, I should suppose. And we all know how fond they are of Joyce, and she of them. What more natural than that she should go to see them when the chance occurs?’
It was natural. There was nothing to reply. If all was true that Joyce had professed of love and reverence for these old people, what could be thought of her refusal, her reluctance to go and see them? She sat there like a frightened wild creature driven into a corner, and not knowing how to escape, or what to do, looking at them with scared eyes.
‘My dear,’ said Colonel Hayward, that all looks reasonable enough, and if Joyce wished it—but she must know best when it would be convenient to them. It might not be convenient at this time of the year, for anything we know.’
‘It would be harvest,’ said Joyce, thankful for the suggestion; ‘they would be busy, busy: another time it would be better. Oh,’ she cried suddenly, in an outburst of despair, ‘how can I go home?’
‘Joyce!’
‘Oh, I’m unnatural! I’m not fit to live! How am I to go home!’ cried the girl, who, less than three months ago, had left old Peter and Janet with, as she thought, a breaking heart. The two calm people at either end of the table put down their knives and forks to look at her—the Colonel with great sympathy, yet a certain pleasure; Mrs. Hayward with suppressed scorn.
‘It is not so very long since you were sighing for it, Joyce,’ she said; ‘but a girl at your age may be allowed to change her mind.’