An Ambitious Man

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: