Mrs. Caruth almost thought she heard these last words spoken, but they were only the final echo of her own thoughts. Yet they were true words, for she had been a portionless bride five-and-thirty years before, and had known the happiness of being loved only for what she was in herself. So her heart went with the invitation to Joyce, and she told the girl of her son's happy return to Fernsclough, and his wish to meet again his old pet and playmate.
When Joyce received the letter she had already promised to remain at the Park, for Mrs. Ross had told how glad they would all be to keep her with them, and to make the season a real bright holiday to her. The prospect of having their darling governess had made the children almost wild with delight. So, when Mrs. Caruth's letter came, Joyce could only send grateful thanks, and tell her what had been already decided upon.
The thought that Major Caruth might probably leave England again without her seeing him was the one cloud in what was otherwise all bright and hopeful. He had been so much to her in those old days, when she owed her chief childish pleasures to his kind thought, and was accustomed to appeal to him in every difficulty and trouble.
Yet Joyce had other memories of nearer date. She recalled that time when Alec Caruth came to Fernsclough after a long absence, during which she had changed from the merry, romping schoolgirl into the tall, slender maiden of seventeen, and she could picture his look of surprise and admiration, mingled with regret, as he said in his frank fashion—
"I was coming to meet my child-friend, and, alas! I have lost her, and find that I have to make acquaintance with a new Joyce Mirlees, who has grown-up to young ladyhood in a most objectionable manner during my absence."
She had laughed at his rueful face, and taken his arm to be led in to dinner, instead of dancing into the room holding by his hand, as in former days. She had noticed a little change in Mrs. Caruth's manner from that day—a sort of reserve towards herself and watchfulness over her son, as if she were a little jealous of his attentions to her. And her father had seemed to want her more, and kept her by his side at times, when formerly she had been accustomed to run over to Fernsclough and spend hours together with Mrs. Caruth, always receiving from her a motherly welcome.
"She has her son now, Joyce," he would say. "She will not want my little girl from me so much, and I shall be so glad to have more of your company."
Joyce could recall how, at length, the conviction dawned upon her that the old, free intercourse between her and Alec Caruth must be deemed a thing of the past—dead and buried with her childhood. Also that Mrs. Caruth, whilst still as kind and motherly as ever, did not express regret at her absence when she had stayed away longer than usual, or urge her to come more frequently, until she was once more left alone by the departure of her son.
Then Joyce's pride took alarm, and she did not respond quite readily to the renewed invitations of Mrs. Caruth, though she was most careful not to allow her feelings to be suspected. On the contrary, her manner was perfectly frank and natural as she replied—
"Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Caruth, but my father really requires my help more than he did. He finds that I can now be of some use to him, and I am quite proud to feel that he misses me when I leave him. I fear I used to leave him too much alone, for Fernsclough had so many charms for me, thanks to your great kindness. But there is something else. I am supposed to have finished my education and to be a grown-up girl, but really I am only just finding out how ignorant I am, so my father is going to let me read with him, that I may gain more information, instead of losing the little already acquired."