Lord Hetherington was a powerful man, who had great influence in most things, but he could not get his letters delivered at Westhope before eleven o'clock. Not that he had not tried. He had, as he expressed it, "put on all kinds of screws," but he could not manage it, and if he had had to wait for the regular delivery by the walking postman, it would have been much later. A groom, however, always attended at the nearest post-town on the arrival of the London mail, and rode over with the Westhope letter-bag, which was unlocked by the butler, and its contents distributed. There was never much curiosity or anxiety about letters exhibited at Westhope, at least, amongst the members of the family. Of course young visitors had occasional faint flutterings of interest about a certain portion of their correspondence, but they were too true to the teachings of their order to allow any vulgar signs of excitement to be visible; while the letters received by Lord and Lady Hetherington were too uniformly dull to arouse the smallest spark of emotion in the breast of any one, no matter how excitably inclined. Lady Caroline Mansergh's correspondence was of a different kind. A clever woman herself, she was in the habit of writing to, and receiving letters from, clever people; but they simply contained gossip and small-talk, which might be read at any time, and which, while pleasant and amusing when taken in due course, did not invite any special eagerness for its acquisition. In a general way, Lady Caroline was quite content to have her letters brought to her in whatever room she might happen to be, but on this Wednesday morning she was seated at the window as the postbag-bearing groom came riding up the avenue, and a few minutes afterwards she stepped out into the hall, where the butler had the letters out on the table before him, and ran her eye over them.
There it was, that plain, square letter, addressed to him in the firm, plain hand, and bearing the Brocksopp postmark! There it was, his life-verdict, for good or ill. Nothing to be judged of it by its appearance--firm, square, and practical; no ridiculous tremors occasioned by hope or fear could have had anything to do with such a sensible-looking document. What was in it? She would have given anything to know! Not that she seemed to be in the least anxious about it. She had asked where he was, and had been told that he was at work in the library. He was so confident of what Miss Ashurst's answer would be, that he awaited its arrival in the most perfect calmness. Would he be undeceived? Lady Caroline thought not just yet. If the young woman were, as Lady Caroline suspected, playing a double game, she would probably find some excuse for not at once linking her lot with Walter Joyce's--her mother's ill-health seemed expressly suited for the purpose--and would suggest that he should go out first to Berlin, and see how he liked his new employment, returning later in the year, when, if all things seemed convenient, they could be married. She was evidently a clever girl, and these were probably the tactics she would pursue. Lady Caroline wondered whether she was right in her conjecture, and there was the letter, a glance at which would solve her doubts, lying before her! What a ridiculous thing that people were not allowed to read each other's letters! Her ladyship told the butler to see that that letter was sent at once to Mr. Joyce, who was in the library expecting it.
The Westhope household was eminently well drilled, and the footman who handed the letter on the salver to Mr. Joyce was as respectful as though the secretary were my lord himself. He had heard Lady Caroline's remark to the butler, and had turned the missive over and scrutinised it as he carried it along the passages. The handwriting of the address, though firm, was unmistakably feminine, and the footman, a man of the world, coupling this fact with what he had heard, arrived at the conclusion that the letter was from Mr. Joyce's "young woman." He walked up to Joyce, who was busily engaged in writing, croaked out, "A letter, sir," in the tone usually adopted by him to offer to dinner guests their choice between hock and champagne, and watched the secretary's manner. Joyce took the letter from the salver, muttered his thanks, and turned back to his work. The footman bowed and left the room, with the idea, as he afterwards remarked to the butler, that if his suppositions were correct, the secretary was not "a fellow of much warmth of feelin'; looked at it and put it down by his arm as though it was a bill, he did!"
But when the door had shut behind the retreating figure of the Mercury in plush, Walter Joyce threw down his pen and took up the letter, and pressed it to his lips. Then he opened it, not eagerly indeed, but with a bright light in his eyes, and a happy smile upon his lips. And then he read it.
He started at the first line, astonished at the cold tone in which Marian addressed him, but after that he read the letter straight through, without evincing any outward sign of emotion. When he had finished it he paused, and shook his head quickly, as one who has received some stunning blow, and passed his hand rapidly across his brow, then set to work to read the letter again. He had been through it hurriedly before, but this time he read every word, then he pushed the paper from him, and flung himself forward on the desk, burying his face in his hands. Thus he remained during some ten minutes; when he raised himself, his face was very white save round the eyes, where the skin was flushed and strained, and his hands trembled very much. He reeled, too, a little when he first stood up, but he soon conquered that, and began silently pacing the room to and fro. Some time afterwards, when asked to explain what he had felt at that crisis in his life, Joyce declared he could not tell. Not anger against Marian, certainly, no vindictive rage against her who had treated him so basely. His life was spoiled, he felt that; it had never been very brilliant, or very much worth having, but the one ray which had illumined it had been suddenly extinguished, and the future was in utter darkness. He was in the condition of a man who has been stunned, or has fainted, and to whom the recollection of the events immediately engrossing his attention when, as it were, he was last in life, came but slowly. He had but a confused idea of the contents of Marian's letter. Its general tenor of course he knew, but he had to think over the details. The letter was there, lying before him on the desk where he had thrown it, but he seemed to have an odd but invincible repugnance to reading it again. After a somewhat laborious process of thought he remembered it all. She was going to be married to Mr. Creswell--that was it. She could not face a life of poverty, she said; the comforts and luxuries which she had enjoyed for the last few months had become necessary to her happiness, and she had chosen between him and them. She did not pretend to care for the man she was about to marry; she merely intended to make use of him as the means to an end. Poor Marian! that was a bad state for her to be in--poor Marian! She had jilted him, but she had sacrificed herself: he did not know which was the more forlorn out-look.
Yes, it was all over for him! Nothing mattered much now! Copy out anecdotes from the family chronicles, hunt up antiquities and statistics for those speeches with which Lord Hetherington intended to astonish the world in the forthcoming session, settle down as librarian and secretary for as long as this noble family would have him, and when they kicked him out, live by literary hack work until he found another noble family ready to receive him in the old capacity for a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Why not? He smiled grimly to himself as he thought of the Berlin proposition, and how astonished old Byrne would be when he wrote to decline it--for he should decline it at once. He had thought about it so often and so much, he had allowed his imagination to feast him with such pictures of himself established there with Marian by his side, that he felt utterly unable to face the dark blank reality, heartbroken and alone. Besides, what motive had he for work now? Experience had taught him that he could always find sufficient press-work in London to keep body and soul together, and what more did he want! What more did---- Was it all real, or was he dreaming? Marian! was it all over between him and her? was she no longer his Marian? was he never to see her, to touch her hand, to hold her in his arms, to live in the light of those loving eyes again? He thought of their last conversation and their parting, he thought of his last letter to her, so full of hope and love; so tender of the past, so full of the future; and there, to that, was the reply lying before him announcing her marriage. Her marriage?--her sale! She had bartered herself away for fine houses, horses, carriages, dresses; she, daughter of James Ashurst, who had loved her as the apple of his eye, and would as soon have thought of her renouncing her religion as of her breaking her plighted word.
It was odd he could not explain it; but his thoughts ran more upon her than upon himself. He found himself picturing her as the squire's lady, taking up her position in society, seated at the head of her table, receiving her guests, at church in the pew which he recollected so well. He recollected the back of her head, and the kneeling figure as he had noticed it Sunday after Sunday when he sat amongst the boys in the school pew immediately behind her, recollected the little grave bow she would give him as she passed to her seat, and the warm hand-pressure with which she always met him after morning service. His love had lived on that warm hand-pressure for days; hers, it seems, was not so easily nourished. He wondered at himself for the way in which he found himself thinking of her. Had the mere notion of such treatment ever entered his mind, he should have been raving; now when the actual fact had occurred, he was quiet. He ran through the whole matter in his mind again, pointed out to himself the deception that she had practised on him, the gross breach of faith of which she had been guilty, showed himself plainly how her desertion of him had sprung from the basest motives, not from lack of love for him, not from overweening fancy for another--those were human motives and might be pardoned her--but from mere avarice and mammon-worship. And, after cogitating over all this, he felt that he pitied rather than hated her, and that as to himself he had not the remotest care what became of him.
A knock at the door, and before he could answer Lady Caroline had entered the room. Joyce was rather pleased than otherwise at the interruption. He had taken her ladyship so far into his confidence that it was impossible to hide from her this last act in the drama, and it was infinitely pleasanter that the explanation should come about here--accidentally, as it were--than that he should have to seek her with his story.
"Good morning, Mr. Joyce."
"Good morning, Lady Caroline."
"Mr. Joyce, a triumphal procession, consisting of Lady Hetherington and the new housekeeper, is marching round the house, settling what's to be done in each room between this and the autumn. I confess I have not sufficient strength of mind to be present at those solemn rites, and as this is the only room in the house in which no change ever takes place--save the increase of dust, and lately the acquisition of abonâ-fidestudent--I have taken refuge here, and have brought theTimesin order that I may be sure not to disturb you by chattering."
"You will not disturb me in the least, I assure you."
"Why, what a dreadfully hollow voice! and--Mr. Joyce," continued Lady Caroline, changing her tone, "how very unwell you look--so strangely pale and drawn! Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing in the least!" he replied. "You have been good enough to let me talk to you about myself and my hopes and aspirations, Lady Caroline Mansergh. You have probably forgotten"--ah, man, devoid of the merest accidence of worldly grammar!--"you have probably forgotten that this is the morning on which I was to expect my answer from Miss Ashurst. It has come! It is here!" and he stooped forward, picked from the table the letter, and handed it to her.
Lady Caroline seemed rather surprised at this mode of proceeding. She took the letter from Walter's hand, but held it unopened before her, and said--
"You wish me to read it?"
"If you please," he replied. "There is no other way by which you could exactly comprehend the situation, and I wish you to be made aware of it--and--and to advise me in it."
Lady Caroline blushed slightly as she heard these last words, but she said nothing--merely bowed and opened the letter. As she read it, the flush which had died away returned more brightly than before, her eyes could not be seen under their downcast lids, but the brows were knit, the nostrils trembled, and the mouth grew hard and rigid. She read the letter through twice; then she looked up, and her voice shook as she said--
"That is a wicked and base letter, very heartless and very base!"
"Lady Caroline!" interrupted Joyce appealingly.
"What! do you seek to defend it?--no, not to defend it, for in your own heart you must know I am right in my condemnation of it, but to plead for it. You don't like to hear me speak harshly of it--that's so like a man I tell you that it is a heartless and an unwomanly letter! 'Deepens the pain with which she writes,' indeed! 'Deepens the pain!' and what about yours? It is her nature to love money and comforts, and luxuries, and to shrink from privations. Her nature! What was she bred to, this duchess?"
In his misery at hearing Marian thus spoken of, since the blow had fallen upon him he had never been so miserable as then, when she was attacked, and he saw the impossibility of defending her. Joyce could not help remarking that he had never noticed Lady Caroline's beauty so much as at that moment, when her eyes were flashing and her ripe lips curling with contempt. But he was silent, and she proceeded--
"She says you are better without her, and, though of course you doubt it, I am mightily disposed to agree with her! I--Mr. Joyce!" said her ladyship, suddenly softening her tone, "believe me, I feel earnestly and deeply for you under this blow! I fear it is none the less severe because you don't show how much you suffer. This--this young lady's decision will of course materially affect the future which you had plotted out for yourself, and of which we spoke the last time we were here together?"
"Oh yes, of course. Now I shall--by the way, Lady Caroline, I recollect now--it scarcely impressed me then--that during that conversation you seemed to have some doubts as to what Marian--as to what might be the reply to the letter which I told you I had written?"
"I certainly had."
"And you endeavoured to wean me from the miserable self-conceit under which I was labouring, and failed. I recollect your hints now. Tell me, Lady Caroline, why was I so blind? What made you suspect?"
"My dear Mr. Joyce, you were blind because you were in love! I suspected because, being merely a looker-on--an interested one, I acknowledge, for I had a great interest in your welfare, but still merely a looker-on, and therefore, according to the old proverb, seeing most of the game--I could not help noticing that the peculiar position of affairs, and the length of time you remained without any news of yourfiancéeafforded grave grounds of suspicion."
"Yes," said poor Walter; "as you say, I am blind. I never noticed that."
"Now, Mr. Joyce," said Lady Caroline, "the question is not with the past, but with the future. What do you intend doing?"
"I have scarcely thought. It matters very little."
"Pardon my saying that it matters very much. Do you think of taking up this appointment for the newspaper that you spoke of--this correspondentship in Berlin?"
"No; I think not. I really don't know--I thought of remaining as I am."
"What! pass the rest of your life in writing Lord Hetherington's letters, and cramming him for speeches which he will never deliver?"
"It is an honest and an easy way of earning a living, at all events."
"Of earning a living? And are you going to content yourself with 'earning your living,' Mr. Joyce?"
"Oh, Lady Caroline, why should I do anything else? The desire for making money has gone from me altogether with the receipt and perusal of that letter. She was the spur that urged me on; my dreams of fame and wealth and position were for her, not for myself; and now----"
"And now you are going to abandon it all--do you mean to tell me that? That you, a young man possessing intellect, and energy, and industry, with a career before you, are about to abandon that career, and to condemn yourself to vegetation--sheer and simple vegetation, mind, not life--merely because you have been grossly deceived by a woman, who, your common sense ought to have told you, has been playing you false for months, and who, as she herself confesses, has all her life rated the worthiness of people as to what they were worth in money? You are clearly not in your right mind, Mr. Joyce. I am surprised at you!"
"What would you have me do, Lady Caroline? You sneer at the notion of my remaining with Lord Hetherington. Surely you would not have me go to Berlin?"
"I never sneer at anything, my dear Mr. Joyce; sneering shows very bad breeding. I say distinctly that I think you would be mad to fritter away your days in your present position. Nor do I think, under circumstances, you ought to go to Berlin. It would have done very well as a stepping-stone had things turned out differently; but now you would be always drawing odious comparisons between your solitary lot and the 'what might have been,' as Owen Meredith so sweetly puts it."
"Where, then, shall I go?"
"To London. Where else should any one go with a desire to make a mark in the world, and energy and determination to aid him in accomplishing his purpose? And this is your case. Ah, you may shake your head, but I tell you it is. You think differently just now, but when once you are there, 'in among the throngs of men,' you will acknowledge it. Why, when you were there, at the outset of your career, utterly friendless and alone, as you have told me, you found friends and work; and now that you are known, and by a certain few appreciated, do you think it will be otherwise?"
"You are marvellously inspiriting, Lady Caroline, and I can never be sufficiently grateful for the advice you have given me--better still, for the manner in which you have given it. But suppose I do go to London, what--in the cant phrase of the day--what am I to 'go in for'?"
"Newspaper-writing--what do they call it?--journalism, at first; the profession in which you were doing so well when you came here. That, if I mistake not, will in due course lead to something else, about which we will talk at some future time."
"That is just what I was coming to, Lady Caroline. You will allow me to see you sometimes?"
"I shall be always deeply interested in your welfare, Mr. Joyce, and anxious to know how you progress. Oh yes; I hope both to see and hear a great deal of you. Besides, Lord Hetherington may feel inclined to take up the chronicles again; he is rather off them just now, I know; and then you can give your successor some very valuable hints."
When Lady Caroline Mansergh was alone in her own room after this conversation, she reflected long and deeply upon the effect which the receipt of that letter would probably produce upon Walter Joyce, and was sufficiently interested to analyse her own feelings in regard to it. Was she sorry or glad that the intended match had been broken off, and that Joyce was now, so far as his heart was concerned, a free man? That he was free she was certain; that he would never return to the old allegiance she was positive. Lady Caroline in her worldly experience had frequently come across cases of the kind, where the tender regret which at first forbade any harsh mention, scarcely any harsh thought of the false one, had in a very short time given place to a feeling of mortified vanity and baffled desire, which prompted the frankest outpourings, and made itself heard in the bitterest objurgations. The question was, how it affected her. On the whole, she thought that she was pleased at the result. She did not attempt to hide from herself that she had a certain regard for this young man, though of the nature of that regard she had scarcely troubled herself to inquire. One thing she knew, that it was very different from what she had at first intended it should be, from what in the early days of their acquaintance she had allowed it to be. Of course, with such a man, flirtation, in its ordinary sense, was out of the question; she would as soon have thought of flirting with the Great Pyramid as with Walter Joyce. In its place there had existed a kind of friendly interest; but Lady Caroline was fully cognisant that, on her side, that friendly interest had been deepening and strengthening, until, after a little self-examination, she felt forced to confess to herself that it would bear another name. Then came the question, And if it did, what matter? She had never particularly set herself up as a strict observant of the conventionalities or the fetish worship of society; on the contrary, her conduct in that respect had been rather iconoclastic. There need be no surprise, therefore, on the part of the world if she chose to marry out of what was supposed to be her "set" and station in society; and if there had been, she was quite strong-minded enough to laugh at it. But to a woman of Lady Caroline's refinement it was necessary that her husband should be a gentleman, and it was necessary for her pride that, if not her equal in rank, he should not merely be her superior in talent, but should be admitted to be so. Under the fresh disposition of circumstances she saw no reason why this should not be. Walter Joyce would go to London, would there resume his newspaper occupations, and would probably, as she guessed from occasional hints he had recently let fall, turn his attention more to politics than he had hitherto done. He must be clever, she thought. She knew him to be clever, in a woman's notion of cleverness, which was so different to a man's; but he must surely be clever in a man's way too, or they would never have offered him this Berlin appointment, which, according to her notions, required not merely a bright literary style, but, in a far greater degree, the faculty of observation and knowledge of the world. His experience had been very small, but his natural ability and natural keenness must be great. Granted his possession of these gifts, pushed as he would be by her influence--for she intended to give him some excellent introductions--there was little doubt of his success in life, and of his speedily achieving a position which would warrant her in accepting him. In accepting him? Lady Caroline laughed outright, rather a hard bitter laugh, as this idea crossed her mind, at the remembrance that Walter Joyce had never said the slightest word, or shown the smallest sign, that he cared for her as--as she wished to be cared for by him, much less that he ever aspired to her hand. However, let that pass! What was to be, would be, and there was plenty of time to think of such things. Meanwhile, it was decidedly satisfactory that the engagement was broken off between him and that girl, whom Lady Caroline had been accustomed to regard as a simple country wench, a bread-and-butter miss, but who certainly had done her jilting with a coolness andaplombworthy of a London beauty in her third season. She would have been a drag on Walter's life; for, although ambitious to a degree, and always wanting to rise beyond her sphere, she would have induced him to persevere at his work, and have encouraged him to great efforts; yet, according to Lady Caroline's idea, fame could not be achieved when a man was surrounded by babies requiring to be fed, and other domestic drawbacks, and had not merely himself but a large family to drag up the hill of difficulty, ere eminence was attained. Now Walter would be really free, even from mental ties, Lady Caroline thought, with a half sigh, and if he were ever to do anything worthy of himself, the beginning at least should be now.
The conversation with Lady Caroline Mansergh had not merely the effect of diverting Walter Joyce's thoughts from the contemplation of his own unhappiness for the time being, but rousing within him certain aspirations which he had scarcely ever previously entertained, and which, when they had occasionally arisen in his mind, he had successfully endeavoured to stifle and ignore. No doubt the advice which Lady Caroline had given him was most excellent, and should be followed. There was a future before him, and a brilliant one! He would prove to Marian (already his feelings towards her were beginning to change)--he would prove to Marian that his life was not made utterly blank on account of her cruel treatment; on the contrary, he would try and achieve some end and position, such as he would never have aspired to if he had remained in the calm jog-trot road of life he had planned for himself. He would go to London, to old Byrne, and see whether instead of being sent to Berlin he could not be received on the staff of the paper in London; and he would turn his attention to politics--old Byrne would be of immense use to him there--and he would study and work night and day. Anything to get on, anything to become distinguished, to make a name!
His decision once taken, Joyce lost no time in communicating it to Lord Hetherington. He said that circumstances of great family importance necessitated his immediate return to London, and would require all the attention he could bestow on them for many months to come. Lord Hetherington was a little taken aback by the suddenness of the announcement, but as he had always had a kindly feeling towards Joyce, and since the day of the ice-accident he had regarded him with especial favour, he put the best face he could on the occasion, and expressed his great regret at his secretary's intended departure. His lordship begged that when Mr. Joyce had any leisure time at his disposal he would call upon him at Hetherington House, where they would be always glad to see him; and Joyce trusted that if ever his lordship thought that he (Joyce) could be useful to him in any way, more especially as connected with the chronicles, with which he was so familiar, he would do him the honour to send for him, through Mr. Byrne, who would always know his address. And thus they parted, after the interview, with mutual expressions of goodwill.
This was a little excitement for Lord Hetherington, who at once started off, so soon as Joyce had left him, to tell her ladyship the news.
Lady Hetherington was far more interested in the fact that the secretary had given warning, as she persisted in calling it, than her husband had anticipated. She had always, except when temporarily aroused on the occasion of the accident, been so determined to ignore Mr. Joyce's existence, or had treated him with such marked coldness when compelled to acknowledge it, that his lordship was quite astonished to see how interested she showed herself, how she persisted in cross-questioning him as to what Joyce had stated to be the cause of his leaving, and as to whether he had mentioned it to any other person in the house. On being assured by her husband that he had come straight to her boudoir after parting with the secretary, Lady Hetherington seemed pleased, and strictly enjoined the little lord not to mention it to any one.
They were a very small party at dinner that day, only Mr. Biscoe being present in addition to the members of the family. The conversation was not very brisk, the countess being full of the coming London season, a topic on which Mr. Biscoe, who hated town, and never went near it when he could help it, could scarcely expect to be enthusiastic, Lord Hetherington being always silent, and Lady Caroline on this occasion preoccupied. But when the cloth was removed, and the servants had left the room, Lady Hetherington, in the interval of playing with a few grapes, looked across at her sister-in-law, and said--
"By the way, Caroline, Lord Hetherington's secretary has given warning!"
"You mean that Mr. Joyce is going away, is that it? I thought so, but you have such a curious way of putting things, Margaret!"
"How should I have put it? I meant exactly what I said!"
"Oh, of course, if you choose to import the phraseology of the servants'-hall into your conversation, you are at perfect liberty to do so."
"Anyhow, the fact remains the same. We are to be bereaved of the great secretary! Weren't you astonished when I told you?"
"Not the least in the world!"
"Because you had heard it before?"
"Exactly!"
"From Lord Hetherington?"
"Oh no!" laughed Lady Caroline; "don't scold poor dear West on the idea that he had anticipated you! I heard it from Mr. Joyce himself."
"Oh, of course you did!" said Lady Hetherington, slightly tossing her head. "Well, of course you're very much grieved. He was such a favourite of yours."
"Just because I like Mr. Joyce very much, or, as you phrase it, because he is a favourite of mine, I'm very pleased to think that he's going away. A man of his abilities is lost in his present position."
"I quite agree with you, Lady Caroline," said Mr. Biscoe. "Sound scholar, Mr. Joyce, clear head, well grounded, and quick at picking up--good fellow, too!"
"I'm sure," said Lord Hetherington, "I've grown so accustomed to him, I shall feel like--what's-his-name--fish out of water without him."
"I dare say we shall manage to exist when Mr. Joyce has left us," said the countess; "we scrambled on somehow before, and I really don't see the enormous improvement since he came."
Nobody commented on this, and the conversation dropped. Lady Hetherington was cross and disappointed. She expected to have found her sister-in-law very much annoyed at the fact of Mr. Joyce's departure, whereas, in place of visible grief or annoyance, there was a certain air of satisfaction about Lady Caroline which was dreadfully annoying to the countess.
Two days after, Joyce left for London, Marian's letter, on Lady Caroline's advice, and in accordance with his own feelings, remaining without notice.
It has been seen that Mr. Creswell's marriage with Marian Ashurst was sufficiently popular amongst the farmer class at Helmingham, but it was by no means so warmly received in other grades of society. Up at the Park, for instance, the people could scarcely restrain their indignation. Sir Thomas Churchill had always been accustomed to speak of "my neighbour, Mr. Creswell," as a "highly respectable man, sprung, as he himself does not scruple to own, from the people," chirrupped the old Sir Thomas, whose great-grandfather had been a tanner in Brocksopp,--"but eminently sound in all his views, and a credit to the--ahem!--commercial classes of the community." They sat together on the magistrates' bench, met on committees of charitable associations, and suchlike, and twice a year solemnly had each other to dinner to meet a certain number of other county people on nights when there was a moon, or, at least, when the calendar showed that there ought to have been one. In the same spirit old Lady Churchill, kindliest of silly old women, had been in the habit of pitying Marian Ashurst. "That charmin' girl, so modest and quiet; none of your fly-away nonsense about her, and clever, ain't she? I don't know about these things myself, but they tell me so; and to have to go into lodgin's, and all that! father a clergyman of the Church of England too!"--staunch old lady, never moving about without the Honourable Miss Grimstone's Church-service, in two volumes, in her trunk--"it really does seem too bad!" But when the news of the forthcoming marriage began to be buzzed about, and penetrated to the Park, Sir Thomas did not scruple to stigmatise his neighbour as an old fool, while my lady had no better opinion of Miss Ashurst than that she was a "forward minx." What could have so disturbed these exemplary people? Not, surely, the low passions of envy and jealousy? Sir Thomas Churchill, a notoriousrouéin his day, who had married the plainest-headed woman in the county for her money, all the available capital of which he had spent, could not possibly be envious of the fresh young bride whom his old acquaintance was bringing home? And Lady Churchill, to whom the village gossips talked incessantly of the intended redecoration of Woolgreaves, the equipages and horses which were ordered, the establishment which was about to be kept up, the position in parliament which was to be fought for, and, above all, the worship with which the elderly bridegroom regarded the juvenile bride-elect--these rumours did not influence her in the bitter depreciation with which she henceforth spoke of the late schoolmaster's daughter? Of course not! The utterances of the baronet and his lady were prompted by a deep regard to the welfare of both parties, and a wholesome regret that they had been prompted to take a step which could not be for the future happiness of either, of course.
Mr. Benthall, who, it will be recollected, had succeeded the late Mr. Ashurst at the Helmingham school, and was comparatively new to the neighbourhood, took but little interest in the matter, so far as Miss Ashurst was concerned. He had a bowing acquaintance with her, but he had neither had the wish nor the opportunity of getting on more familiar terms. Had she married any one else but Mr. Creswell, it would not have mattered one jot to the Rev. George Benthall; but, as it happened, Mr. Benthall had a certain amount of interest in the doings of the household at Woolgreaves, and the marriage of the chief of that household promised to be an important event in Mr. Benthall's life.
You could scarcely have found a greater difference between any two men than between James Ashurst and his successor. When James Ashurst received his appointment as head-master at Helmingham, he looked upon that appointment as the culmination of his career. Mr. Benthall regarded the head-mastership as merely a steppingstone to something better. Mr. Ashurst threw his whole soul into his work. Mr. Benthall was content to get people to think that he was very hard-working and very much interested in his duties, whereas he really cared nothing about them, and slipped through them in the most dilettante fashion. He did not like work; he never had liked it. At Oxford he had taken no honours, made no name, and when he was nominated to Helmingham, every one wondered at the selection except those who happened to know that the fortunate man was godson to one of the two peers who were life-governors of the school. Mr. Benthall found the Helmingham school in excellent order. The number of scholars never had been so large, the social status of the class which furnished them was undeniably good, the discipline had been brought to perfection, and the school had an excellent name in the county. It had taken James Ashurst years to effect this, but once achieved, there was no necessity for any further striving. Mr. Benthall was a keen man of the world, he found the machine in full swing, he calculated that the impetus which had been given to it would keep it in full swing for two or three years, without the necessity for the smallest exertion on his part, and during these two or three years he would occupy himself in looking out for something better. What that something better was to be he had not definitely determined. Not another head-mastership, he had made up his mind on that point; he never had been particularly partial to boys, and now he hated them. He did not like parochial duty, he did not like anything that gave him any trouble. He did like croquet-playing and parsonical flirtation, cricket and horse exercise. He liked money, and all that money brings; and, after every consideration, he thought the best and easiest plan to acquire it would be to marry an heiress.
But there were no heiresses in those parts, and very few marriageable girls. Mr. Benthall had met the two young ladies from Woolgreaves at several garden-parties, and had conceived a special admiration for Gertrude Creswell. Maude was far too grand, and romantic, and self-willed for his taste, but there was something in Gertrude's fresh face and quaint simple manner that was particularly pleasing to him. But after making careful inquiries, Mr. Benthall discovered that Miss Gertrude Creswell's chance of wealth was but small, she being entirely dependent on her uncle, whose affections were known to be entirely concentrated on his son. She might have a few hundred pounds perhaps, but a few hundred pounds would not be sufficient to enable Mr. Benthall to give up the school, and to live idle for the rest of his life. The notion must be given up, he feared. He was very sorry for it, for he really liked the girl very much, and he thought she liked him. It was a bore, a nuisance, but the other thing was impossible!
Then came Tom Creswell's death, and that gave affairs another aspect. There was no son now to inherit all the accumulated wealth. There were only the two nieces, between whom the bulk of the property would doubtless be divided. That was a much more healthy outlook for Mr. Benthall. If matters eventuated as he imagined, Miss Gertrude would not merely have a sufficiency, but would be an heiress, and under this expectation Mr. Benthall, who had not seen much of the young ladies of Woolgreaves for some time, now took every opportunity of throwing himself in their way. These opportunities were tolerably frequent, and Mr. Benthall availed himself of them with such skill and success, that he had finally made up his mind to propose for Gertrude Creswell's hand, with the almost certainty of acceptance, when the news came down to the village that Mr. Creswell was going to be married to Marian Ashurst. That was a tremendous blow! From what Mr. Benthall had heard about Miss Ashurst's character in the village, there was little doubt in his mind that she had deliberately planned this marriage with a view to the acquisition of fortune and position, and there was no doubt that she would hold to both. The chance of any inheritance for the girls was even worse than it would have been if Tom had lived. In that case a sense of justice would have impelled the old gentleman to do something for his nieces, but now he would be entirely under the sway of this money-loving woman, who would take care to keep everything to herself. It was a confounded nuisance, for in regard to Gertrude Creswell Mr. Benthall had progressed considerably beyond the "liking" stage, and was really very much attached to her. What could be done? It would be impossible for him to marry a portionless girl. It would be utterly useless for him to ask her uncle to endow her, as Mr. Creswell would at once refer the question to his new wife, who--as he, Mr. Benthall, happened to know from one or two little scenes at which he had been present, and one or two little circumstances of which he had heard--was by no means lovingly inclined towards the young ladies who had become her step-nieces. It was horribly provoking, but Mr. Benthall could not see his way at all.
One evening, some two or three days after Mr. Creswell's marriage, Mr. Benthall was sitting in his study, when there came a knock at the door, and a smart housemaid entering told him that Mrs. Covey had come back, and would be glad to see her master. Mrs. Covey was an old woman who for many years had lived as cook with the Ashursts, and who, on their recommendation, had been accepted in a similar capacity by Mr. Benthall, on his assumption of office. But the old lady had been away from her work for some few weeks with a sharp attack of illness, which rendered her unfit for her duties, and she had been staying with a married daughter some miles on the other side of Brocksopp. A few days previously she had reported herself as cured, and as about to return to her place, and in due time she arrived at the schoolhouse. Mr. Benthall was glad to hear of the old woman's safe return; not that he cared in the least about her, or any other old woman, but she understood the place, and did her duty well, and some of the boarders had given decided evidence of the unpopularity of Mrs. Covey'slocum tenensby leaving their dinners untouched, and making their meals in furtive snatches from their lockers during school-hours of provisions purchased at the "tuck-shop." This sort of mutiny annoyed Mr. Benthall considerably, and consequently he was very glad to have the news of Mrs. Covey's recovery, and gave orders that she should be sent up to him at once.
Whatever might have been the nature of Mrs. Covey's illness, it certainly had not had the effect of toning down her complexion. She was a singularly red-faced old lady, looking as if constant exposure to large fires had sent the blood to her cheeks and kept it there, and she wore a very fierce little black front, with two screwy little curls just in front of either ear, and in honour of her return and of her presentation to her master, she had put on a gigantic structure of net and ribbon which did duty for a cap. She seemed greatly pleased at the notice which Mr. Benthall took of her, and at the interest he seemed to show in her recovery, but nothing would induce her to be seated in his presence, though he repeatedly urged the advisability of her resting herself after her journey. Finding her obdurate in this matter, Mr. Benthall let the old lady have her way, and after he had chatted with her about her illness, and about her family, he thought he had exhausted the topics of interest between them, and inwardly wished she would go. But as she evinced no intention of stirring, he was obliged to cast about for something to say, and oddly enough hit upon a subject, the discussion of which with this old woman was destined to have a certain amount of influence on his future life.
"Well, we've had wonderful changes here in Helmingham since you've been away, Mrs. Covey," he remarked.
"Ah! so I did heer, sir!" said the old woman. "Poor old Muster Pickering gone to his feaythers, and Mrs. Slater's bad leg brokken out again, and not likely to heal this time, Anne told me Dr. Osborne says."
"Ay, ay, but I'm not talking about old Pickering or Mrs. Slater. I mean the wedding--the great wedding!"
"Ah, well, I've heerd nowt o' that," said Mrs. Covey; adding in a grumbling undertone, "I'm a stupid owd woman, and they tell me nowt."
"Not heard of it? Well, I wonder at that," said Mr. Benthall, "more especially as it concerns your young mistress that was--Miss Ashurst, I mean!"
"What, is she married at last?" asked the old woman.
"She is indeed, and to Mr. Creswell--Squire Creswell of Woolgreaves---"
"What!" screamed Mrs. Covey, falling backward into the chair, which was fortunately close behind her. "You don't tell me that!"
"I do indeed! When was it?--last Thursday. The--the happy couple" (and Mr. Benthall gave a cynical grin as he said the words)--"the happy couple are away now on their wedding-trip."
"Well, I niver did! I niver did! The old squire to come and marry Miss Marian! He that was allays so mumchance and so meek, and had a sweet tooth in 's head after all I thowt it was to talk wi' the poor old master about book-larnin' and such stuff that he comed here! I'd niver an idee that he'd an eye for the young gell."
"Only shows how sly these old gentlemen can be when they choose, Mrs. Covey," said Mr. Benthall, much amused, "if they can deceive such sharp eyes as yours."
"Dear heart, I've no cause to call mine sharp eyes any longer, I think," said the old woman, shaking her head, "for I was took in by both on 'em. I niver thowt Miss Marian would throw t'other one over, that I niver did."
"What's that you're saying, Mrs. Covey?" asked Mr. Benthall, sharply.
"I was sayin' that I allays thowt Miss Marian would howld by the t'other one, and----"
"Other one? What other one? I never heard of there being any 'other one,' as you call it, in regard to Miss Ashurst."
"No! You didn't, I dare say! Nor didn't not no one else!" said the old lady, with a frightful redundancy of negatives; "butIdid."
"And who was this 'other one,' if one may ask, Mrs. Covey?"
"One may ask, and there's only one can answer, and that one's me. Ah, well, there's no harm in tellin', now that she's married, and all that, though I niver opened my mouth about it before to livin' soul, hopin' it would come all right like. Miss Marian were keepin' company wi' young Joyce!"
"Joyce! Joyce!" repeated Mr. Benthall. "What, young Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters here?"
"That very same! ay, and he were Miss Ashurst's master, he were, at the time I'm speakin' of!" said the old woman.
"Too much kitchen-fire has brought on softening of this old person's brain!" said Mr. Benthall to himself. "There can't be a shadow of foundation for what she says, or I should surely have heard of it in the village!" Then aloud, "What makes you think this, Mrs. Covey?"
"What meks me think it? Why, my own eyesight meks me think it, and that's the best think I can have i' the matter," replied the old woman, waxing rather cross at her master's evident incredulity. "Nobody niver spoke of it, becos' nobody knowed it; but I've sat at the kitchen-window o' summer nights and seen 'em walkin' roun' the garden for hours thegither, hand in hand, or him wi' his arms round her waist, and I know what that means, tho' I may be an old fool!"
"No, no, Mrs. Covey, no one ever thought that for a minute," said Mr. Benthall, anxious to soothe the old woman's offended dignity, and really very much interested in the news she had given him. "No doubt you're quite correct, only, as I had never heard a hint of this before, I was rather startled at the suddenness of the announcement, Tell me now, had Mr. Ashurst any notion of what was going on?"
"Wasn't the schoolmaster, poor feckless critter, allays buzzed in th' heed wi' book-larnin' and troubles o' all sorts? No bittle as iver flew war blinder, nor deafer, than my poor owd master in matters what didn't concern him!"
"Nor Mrs. Ashurst?"
"Ah, the poor sickly thing, wi' pains here and aches there, and so dillicate, and niver 'nuff strength to look after what she ought, let alone anything else! No! they kept it to themselves, the young pipple, and nobody knowed nowt about it but me, and they didn't know as I knew, for the kitchen-window, as you know, is hid wi' fuzz and creepers, and you can see out wi'out bein' seen! Lor, lor, and so she's gone and married that owd man! And t'other one's gone for a sojer, they say, and all that story, as I used to sit i' the kitchen and make up in my head, will niver be! Lor, lor, what a world it is!"
Mr. Benthall was very much surprised at the information which had come to him in that odd way. He had never thought much about Marian Ashurst, but he knew perfectly well that popular opinion in Helmingham and the neighbourhood held to the fact that she had never had any love affair. He was disposed to regard her with rather more favour than before, for if what Mrs. Covey stated of her were true, it showed that at one time she must have possessed a heart, though she had allowed herself to ignore its promptings under the overweening influence of avarice. Mr. Benthall thought a good deal over this story. He wondered when, how, and under what circumstances Miss Ashurst had broken her engagement, if such engagement existed, with Joyce. Whether she had deliberately planned her marriage with old Creswell, and had consequently abandoned the other design; or whether the old gentleman had proposed suddenly to her, and the temptation of riches and position being too great for her to withstand, she had flung her first lover aside on the spur of the moment, and thereby, perhaps, rendered herself wretched for life. Or what was it that the old woman said, about Joyce enlisting as a soldier? Perhaps that step on her lover's part had been the cause of Miss Ashurst's determination. No! on reflection, the enlisting, if he ever did enlist, looked like a desperate act on Joyce's part, done in despair at hearing the news of Marian's intended marriage! Mr. Benthall did not pin much faith to the enlisting part of the story. He had heard a good deal about Joyce from various sources, and he felt confident that he was by no means the kind of man who would be led to the perpetration of any folly of the kind. Mr. Benthall was puzzled. With any other two people he could have understood the hand in hand, and the arm-encircled waist, as meaning nothing more than a pleasant means of employing the time, meaning nothing, and to be forgotten by both persons when they might chance to be separated. But Mr. Joyce and Miss Ashurst were so essentially earnest and practical, and so utterly unlikely to disport themselves in the manner described without there had been a sincere attachment between them, that, taking all this into consideration in conjunction with the recent marriage, Mr. Benthall came to the conclusion that either Mrs. Covey must have, unintentionally of course, deceived herself and him, or that there was something remarkably peculiar in the conduct of Miss Ashurst, something more peculiar than pleasant or estimable. He wondered whether Gertrude or Maude had any suspicions on the matter. They had neither of them ever spoken to him on the subject, but then Maude generally left him alone with Gertrude, and when he and Gertrude were together, they had other things than other people's love-affairs to talk about. He had not been up to Woolgreaves since the wedding, had not--which was quite a different matter--seen either of the girls. He would ride over there the next afternoon, and see how matters progressed.
Accordingly the next day, while Maude and Gertrude were walking in the garden and discussing Mrs. Creswell's newly arrived letter, or rather while Maude was commenting on it, and Gertrude, as usual, was chorusing her assent to all her sister said, they saw Mr. Benthall, at the far end of a long turf walk, making towards them. Immediately on recognising the visitor Maude stopped talking, and looked suddenly round at Gertrude, who, of course, blushed a very lively crimson, and said, "Oh, Maud, I wish you wouldn't!"
"Wish I wouldn't what, Gertrude?"
"Make me so hot and uncomfortable!"
"My dear,Idon't make you hot and uncomfortable! We have been talking together for the last half-hour perfectly quietly, when suddenly--why, of course, it's impossible for me to say--you blush to the roots of your hair, and accuse me of being the cause!"
"No; but, Maude, you don't mind his coming?"
"No indeed, Gertrude, I likehim,if you mean Mr. Benthall, as of course you do, very much; and if you and he are both really in earnest, I think that you would. Here he is!"
"Good day, ladies!" said Mr. Benthall, advancing with a bow. "I haven't seen you since you were left deserted and forlorn, so I thought I would come over and ask what news of the happy couple."
"They will be back at the end of the week; we heard from Mrs. Creswell this morning."
"Ah, ha, from the blushing bride! And how is the blushing bride, and what does she say?"
"She makes herself rather more odious and disagreeable than ever!" said Gertrude. "Oh, I don't mind, Maude! Geo--Mr. Benthall knows precisely what I feel about Miss Ashurst and her 'superior' ways and manners and nonsense!"
"What has she done now?"
"Oh, she has--no, Maude, I will speak! She has written to say that Maude must give up her music-room, you know, where she always sits and practises, and where she's happier than anywhere else in the house, because my lady wants it for a boudoir, or something, where she can show off her 'superiority,' I suppose."
"Of course," said Maude, "Mrs. Creswell has a perfect right to----"
"Oh, bother!" said Gertrude; "of course it's perfectly disgusting! Don't you think so, Mr. Benthall?"
"That's a home question," said Mr. Benthall, with a laugh; "but it is scarcely in good taste of Mrs. Creswell so soon to----"
"I should think not, indeed!" interrupted Gertrude. "Oh, I see plainly what it will be. We shall lead nice lives with that awful woman!"
"I don't think you'll find, as I've told you before, that that 'awful woman,' as you call her, will trouble herself with our companionship for long," said Maude; "and I cannot say that when she once comes into the house as mistress I should feel the least desire to remain here."
"And she'll do anything with poor uncle," said Gertrude; "he dotes on her."
"Naturally," said Mr. Benthall; "and she is very much attached to him?"
This question was rather addressed to Maude, and she answered it by saying quietly, "I suppose so."
"Oh, nonsense, Maude!" said Gertrude; "uncle's an old dear--kindest, nicest old thing in the world, but not for a girl to like in--well, in that sort of way, don't you know! Not the sort of man to be a girl's first love, I mean!"
"Are you sure that your uncle is Miss Ashurst's first love?"
"We never heard of any other. What is it, George--Mr. Benthall, I mean? You've found out something! Oh, do tell us!"
"Did you know anything of a Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters?"
"Certainly--a small, slim, good-looking young man," said Maude.
"Good looking, oh?" said Mr. Benthall.
"Should not you say so, Gertrude?"
"Well, I don't know," said Gertrude; "he was too short, I think, and too dark. I like a--I mean----" And Gertrude broke down, and flew the flag of distress in her face again.
"What of Mr. Joyce, in connection with the subject on which we were talking, Mr. Benthall?" asked Maude.
And then Mr. Benthall told them all he had heard from Mrs. Covey.
Gertrude went alone with Mr. Benthall to the gate, and they were a very long time saying their adieux. When she came back to the house, she found her sister in the hall.
"You found the gate very difficult to open, Gerty!" said Maude, with her grave smile.
"Yes, dear, very difficult! Do you know, dear,--he hasn't said anything, but I think Mr. Benthall is going to ask me to be his wife!"
"Well, Gerty, and what then?"
"Then I shall have a home to offer you, my darling! a home where we can be together, and needn't be under the rule of that beautiful, superior creature!"