It was only a few weeks later that the end came to all her dreams,
through that terrible anonymous letter.
It was the Baroness who had sent it, she knew--the Baroness whose
early hatred for her mother had descended to the child. "And now I
must sit in the same house with her again," she said, "and perhaps
meet her face to face; and she may tell the story here of my mother's
shame, even as I have felt and feared it must yet be told. How
strange that a 'love child' should inspire so much hatred!"
Joy had carefully refrained from reading New York papers ever since
she left the city; and she had no correspondents. It was her wish
and desire to utterly sink and forget the past life there. Therefore
she knew nothing of Arthur Stuart's marriage to the daughter of
Preston Cheney. She thought of the rector as dead to her. She
believed he had given her up because of the stain upon her birth,
and, bitter as the pain had been, she never blamed him. She had
fought with her love for him and believed that it was buried in the
grave of all other happy memories.
But as the earth is wrenched open by volcanic eruptions and long
buried corpses are revealed again to the light of day, so the
unexpected sight of Arthur Stuart, as he took his place beside Mabel
and the Baroness during the funeral services, revealed all the pent-
up passion of her heart to her own frightened soul.
To strong natures, the greater the inward excitement the more quiet
the exterior; and Jay passed through the services, and performed her
duties, without betraying to those about her the violent emotions
under which she laboured.
The rector of Beryngford Church requested her to remain for a few
moments, and consult with him on a matter concerning the next week's
musical services. It was from him Joy learned the relation which
Arthur Stuart bore to the dead man, and that Beryngford was the
former home of the Baroness.
Her mother's manuscript had carefully avoided all mention of names of
people or places. Yet Joy realised now that she must be living in
the very scene of her mother's early life; she longed to make
inquiries, but was prevented by the fear that she might hear her
mother's name mentioned disrespectfully.
The days that followed were full of sharp agony for her. It was not
until long afterward that she was able to write her "impressions" of
that experience. In the extreme hour of joy or agony we formulate no
impressions; we only feel. We neither analyse nor describe our
friends or enemies when face to face with them, but after we leave
their presence. When the day came that she could write, some of her
reflections were thus epitomised: