The communication which Mr. Benthall, in his bluff offhand manner, had made to Walter Joyce, had surprised the latter very much and embarrassed him not a little. Ever since the receipt of Marian Ashurst's letter announcing her intention of marrying Mr. Creswell--ever since the subsequent interview with Lady Caroline, in which she counselled him to discharge the subject from his mind, to encourage new hopes, and to cultivate aspirations of a different kind--Joyce had lived absolutely free from any influence of "the cruel madness of love, the poison of honey flowers, and all the measureless ill." All his thoughts had been given up to labour and ambition, and, with the exception of his deep-rooted and genuine regard for Lady Caroline, and his friendly liking for the Creswell girls, he entertained no feeling for any woman living, unless a suspicion of and an aversion to Marian Creswell might be so taken into account. Had he this special partiality for Maude Creswell, of which Benthall had spoken so plainly? He set to work to catechise himself, to look back through the events of the past few months, noting what he remembered of their relations to each other.
Yes, he had seen a great deal of Maude; he remembered very frequent occasions on which they had been thrown together. He had not noticed it at the time; it seemed to come naturally enough. Gertrude, of course, was engaged with Benthall when he was in town--in writing to him or thinking of him when he was away--and Lady Caroline had to go through all the hard work which fell upon a great lady in society--work the amount of which can only be appreciated by those who have performed it or seen it performed. So that, as Joyce then recollected, he and Maude had been thrown a great deal together, and, as he further recollected, they had had a great many discussions on topics very far removed from the mere ordinary frivolity of society talk; and he had noticed that she seemed to have clear ideas which she understood how to express. What an odd thing, that--what Benthall said--had never struck him before! It must have been patent to other people, though; and that put the matter, unpleasantly, in rather a ridiculous light. After all, though, what was there ridiculous in it? Maude was a very handsome girl, a clever girl, and an unmistakable lady. What a pretty, slight, girlish figure she had!--such a graceful outline!--her head was well posed upon her neck! And Joyce smiled as he found himself drawing lines in the air with the paper-knife which he had been idly tossing in his hand.
And he had Benthall's assurance that the girl cared for him--that was something. Benthall was a man careful in the extreme as to what he said, and he would not have made such a statement where a girl was concerned, and that girl his own sister-in-law, unless he was tolerably certain of being right. His own sister-in-law; he had it then, of course, from Gertrude, who was Maude's second self, and would know all about it. It was satisfactory to know that there was a woman in the world who cared for him, and though without the smallest particle of vanity he accepted the belief very readily, for his rejection by Marian Ashurst and the indignity which he had suffered at her hands had by no means rendered him generally cynical or suspicious of the sex. Marian Ashurst! what an age ago it seemed since the days when the mention of that name would have sent the blood flowing in his cheek, and his heart thumping audibly, and now here he was staying in the old house where all the love scenes had taken place, walking round the garden where all the soft words had been spoken, all the vows made which she had thrown to the winds when the last parting, with what he then and for so long afterwards thought its never-to-be-forgotten agony, had occurred, and he had not felt one single extra palpitation. Mrs. Creswell was staying away from Woolgreaves just then, at some inland watering-place, for the benefit of her health, which it was said had suffered somewhat from her constant attendance on her husband, or Joyce might have met her. Such a meeting would not have caused him an emotion. When he had encountered her in the lane, during the canvassing time, there was yet lingering within his breast a remembrance of the great wrong she had done him, and that was fanned into additional fury by the nature of her request and the insolence with which she made it. But all those feelings had died out now, and were he then, he thought, to come across Marian Creswell's path, she would be to him as the merest stranger, and no more.
If he were to marry, he knew of no one more likely to suit him in all ways than Maude. Pretty to look at, clever to talk to, sufficiently accustomed to him and his ways of life, she would make him a far better wife than nine-tenths of the young ladies he was accustomed to meet in such little society as he could spare the time to cultivate. Why should he marry at all? He answered the question almost as soon as he asked it. His life wanted brightening, wanted refining, was at present too narrow and confined; all his hopes, thoughts, and aspirations were centred on himself. He was all wrong. There should be some one who--the chambers were confoundedly dreary too, when he came home to them from the office or the House; he should travel somewhere abroad when the House rose, he thought, and it would be dull work moving about by himself, and--
What pretty earnest eyes Maude had, and shining hair, and delicate "bred"-looking hands! She certainly was wonderfully nice, and if, as Benthall avowed, she really eared for him, he---- Who was this coming to break in on his pleasant day-dream? Oh, Gertrude.
"I was wondering where you were, Mr. Joyce! You said you wanted your holiday, and you seem to be passing it in slumber!"
"Nothing so commonplace, Mrs. Benthall."
"One moment, why do you call me Mrs. Benthall? What has made you so formal and ridiculous all of a sudden? You used to call me Gertrude, in London?"
"Yes, but then you were an unmarried girl; now you are a wedded woman, and there's a certain amount of respect due to matronhood."
"What nonsense! Do call me Gertrude again, please; Mrs. Benthall sounds so horrid! I should like the boarders here in the house to call me Gertrude, only George says it wouldn't be proper! And so you weren't asleep?"
"Not the least bit! Although I'm ready to allow I was dreaming."
"Dreaming!--what about?"
"About the old days which I spent in this place--and their association!"
"Oh yes, I know--I mean to say----"
"No, no, Gertrude, say what you had on your lips, then! No prevarication, and no hesitation--what was it?"
"No, really, nothing--it is only----"
"I insist!"
"Well, what I mean to say is--of course, people will talk in a village, you know--and we've heard about your engagement, you know, and how it was broken off, and how badly you were treated, and--oh, how silly I was to say a word about it! I'm sure George would be horribly cross if he knew!"
"And did you imagine I was grizzling over my past, cursing the day when I first saw the faithless fair, and indulging in other poetic rhapsodies! My dear Gertrude, it's not a pleasant thing being jilted; but one lives to get over it and forget all about it, even to forgive her whom I believe it is correct to call the false one!"
"Yes, I dare say! In fact, George and Maude both said you didn't think anything about it now, and----"
"Maude! did she know of it too?"
"Oh yes, we all knew of it! The old woman who had been housekeeper, or cook, or something here in the old Ashurst's time, told George, and----"
"What did Maude say about it?" interrupted Joyce.
"She said--I forget what! No! I recollect she said that--that Mrs. Creswell was just the sort of woman that would fail to appreciate you!"
"That may be taken in two senses--as a compliment or otherwise," said Joyce, laughing.
"I'm sure Maude means it nicely," said Gertrude earnestly. Then added, "By the way, I wanted to talk to you about Maude, Mr. Joyce."
"About Maude!" said Walter. Then thought to himself, "Is it possible that the seeds of match-making are already developing themselves in this three months' old matron?"
"Yes. I don't think George mentioned it to you, but he had a talk with Maude, just before our marriage, about her future. George, of course, told her that our house would be her home, her permanent home I mean; and he gave her the kindest message from Lady Caroline, who bargained that at least a portion of the year should be spent with her."
"What did your sister say to that?"
"Well, she was much obliged and all that; but she did not seem inclined to settle down. She has some horrible notions about duty and that sort of thing, and thinks her money has been given to her to do good with; and George is afraid she would get what he calls 'let i' by some of those dreadful hypocritical people, and we want you to talk to her and reason her out of it."
"I? Why I, my dear Gertrude?"
"Because she believes in you so much more than in anybody else, and is so much more likely to do what you advise her."
"She pays me a great compliment," said Joyce, rising, "and I'll see what's to be done. The first thing, I think, is to consult Lady Caroline, who would be sure to give good advice. I shall see her to-morrow, and I'll----"
"See Lady Caroline to-morrow! I thought you were not going back till Saturday?"
"I've just thought of some special business about which I must see Lady Caroline at once, and I'll mention this at the same time. Now, let us find George. Come for a turn."
They found George and went for their turn, and when their turn was over, and Gertrude was alone with her husband, she told him the conversation which she had had with Walter Joyce. The schoolmaster laughed heartily.
"'Pon my word, Gerty," he said, "match-making appears to be your forte, born and bred in you! I never believed in the reality of those old dowagers in Mrs. Trollope's novels, until I saw you."
"Well, I declare, George, you are complimentary! old dowagers, indeed! But, seriously, I wish Walter wasn't going to Lady Caroline!"
"Why, what on earth has that to do with it?"
"Well, I mean speaking in Maude's interest!"
"Why, one would think that Lady Caroline was in love with Walter Joyce herself!"
"Exactly!"
"Why--why--you don't think so, my dear?"
"I'm sure so, my dear!"
And, as response, the Reverend George Benthall whistled in a loud and unclerical manner.
When Walter Joyce arrived in Chesterfield Street, he found Lady Caroline was absent--passing the holidays with Lord and Lady Hetherington at Westhope--and, after a little hesitation, he determined to go down there and see her. He had not seen anything of the Hetheringtons since his election: his lordship was occupied with some new fad which kept him in the country, and her ladyship did not care to come to town until after Easter. Lord Hetherington had viewed the progress of his ex-secretary with great satisfaction. His recollections of Joyce were all pleasant; the young man had done his work carefully and cleverly, had always been gentlemanly and unobtrusive, and had behaved deuced well--point of fact, deuced well--brave, and all that kind of thing--in that matter of saving Car'line on the ice. Her ladyship's feelings were very different. She disliked self-made people more than any others, and those who were reckoned clever were specially obnoxious to her. She had heard much, a great deal too much, of Joyce from Mr. Gould, who, in his occasional visits, delighted in dilating on his recent foeman's abilities, eloquence, and pluck, partly because he respected such qualities wherever he met with them, but principally because he knew that such comments were very aggravating to Lady Hetherington (no great favourite of his); and she was not more favourably disposed towards him, because he had adopted political principles diametrically opposed to those which she believed. But what actuated her most in her ill-feeling towards Mr. Joyce was a fear that, now that he had obtained a certain position, he might aspire to Lady Caroline Mansergh, who, as Lady Hetherington always suspected, would be by no means indisposed to accept him. Hitherto the difference in their social status had rendered any such proceeding thoroughly unlikely. A tutor, or a--what did they call it?--reporter to a newspaper, could scarcely have the impertinence to propose for an earl's sister; but, as a member of Parliament, the man enjoyed a position in society, and nothing could be said against him on that score. There was Lady Violet Magnier, Lord Haughtonforest's daughter. Well, Mr. Magnier sold ribbons, and pocket-handkerchiefs and things, in the City; but then he was member for some place, and was very rich, and it was looked upon as a very good match for Lady Violet. Mr. Joyce was just the man to assert himself in a highly disagreeable manner; he always held views about the supremacy of intellect, and that kind of rubbish; and the more he kept away from them, the less chance he would have of exercising any influence over Lady Caroline Mansergh.
It may be imagined, then, that her ladyship was not best pleased when her sister-in-law informed her that she had had a telegram from Walter Joyce, asking whether he might come down to Westhope to see her on special business, and that she "supposed Margaret had no objection."
Margaret had strong objections, but did not think it politic to say so just then, so merely intimated that she would be happy to see Mr. Joyce whenever he chose to come.
The tone in which this intimation was conveyed was so little pleasing to Lady Caroline, that she took care to impress on her sister-in-law the fact that Joyce's visit was to her, Lady Caroline, and that she had merely mentioned his coming as a matter of politeness to her hostess, which did not tend to increase Lady Hetherington's regard for Walter Joyce.
But thebien-séanceswere never neglected on account of any personal feeling; and when Joyce arrived at the station, he recognised the familiar livery on the platform, and found a carriage in waiting to convey him to Westhope.
During the drive he occupied himself in thinking over the wondrous changes which had taken place since his first visit to that neighbourhood, when, with a wardrobe provided by old Jack Byrne, and a scanty purse supplied from the same source, he had come down in a dependent position, not knowing any of those amongst whom his lot in life was to be passed, and without the least idea as to the kind of treatment he might expect at their hands. That treatment, he knew, would have been very different had it not been for Lady Caroline Mansergh. But for her counsel, too, he would have suffered himself to have remained completely crushed and vanquished by Marian Ashurst's conduct, would have subsided into a mere drudge without energy or hope. Yes, all the good in his life he owed to the friendship, to the kindly promptings of that sweetest and best of women. He felt that thoroughly, and yet it never struck him that in asking her to advise him as to his marriage with some one else, he was committing, to say the least of it, a solecism. The axiom which declares that the cleverest men have the smallest amount of common sense, has a broader foundation than is generally believed.
On his arrival at Westhope, Joyce was informed by the butler that Lord Hetherington had gone round the Home Farm with the bailiff, and that her ladyship was out driving, but that they would both be home to luncheon, when they expected the pleasure of his company; meanwhile would he walk into the library, where Lady Caroline Mansergh would join him? He went into the library, and had just looked round the room and viewed his old associations--glanced at the desk where he had sat working away for so many hours at a stretch, at the big tomes whence he had extracted the subject-matter for that great historical work, still, alas! incomplete--at the line of Shakespearean volumes which formed Lady Caroline Mansergh's private reading--when the door opened, and Lady Caroline came in. Country air had not had its usual beneficial effect, Joyce thought as he looked at her; for her face was very pale, and her manner nervous and odd. Yet she shook him warmly by the hand, and bade him be seated in her old cheery tone.
"It is very good of you to let me come down here, breaking in upon the rest which I have no doubt you want, and boring you with my own private affairs," said Joyce, seating himself in the window-sill close by the armchair which Lady Caroline had taken.
"It is not very good of you to talk conventionalities, and to pretend that you don't know I have a deep interest in all that concerns you," replied Lady Caroline.
"I have every reason to know it, and my last words were merely a foolish utterance of society talk----"
"Which you always declare to despise, and which you know I detest."
"Quite true; think it unspoken and absolve me."
"I do; but if we are to have what you used to call a 'business talk,' we must have it at once. In half an hour Lord and Lady Hetherington and the luncheon will arrive simultaneously, and our chance is at an end. And you did not come from London, I suppose, to discuss tenant-right, or to listen to Lady Hetherington's diatribes against servants?"
"No, indeed; with all deference to them, I came to see you, and you alone, to ask your advice, and to take it, which is quite a different thing, as I have done before in momentous periods of my life."
"And this is a momentous period?"
"Undoubtedly--as much, if not more so, than any."
Had she any notion of what was coming? Her pale face grew paler; she pushed back the rippling tresses of her chestnut hair, and her large eyes were fixed on him in grave attention.
"You alone of any one in the world, man or woman, know the exact story of my first love. You knew my confidence and trust, you knew how they were abused. You saw how I suffered at the time, and you cannot be ignorant of what is absolute fact; that to your advice and encouragement I owe not merely recovery from that wretched state, but the position to which I have since attained!"
"Well?"
"That first love fell dead--you know when! Ambition, the passion that supplied its place, was sufficient for a time to absorb all my thoughts, hopes, and energies. But, to a certain extent it has been gratified, and it suffices me no longer. My heart wants some one to love, and turns to one to whom it owes gratitude, but whom it would sooner meet with a warmer feeling. Are you not well, Lady Caroline?"
"Quite well, thanks, and--and interested. Pray go on!"
"To go on is difficult. It is so horrible in a man to have to say that he sees he has awakened interest in a woman, that she shows all unknowingly to herself, but still sufficiently palpable, that he is the one person in the world to her, that she rejoices in his presence, and grieves at his absence; worst of all, that all, this is pointed out to him by other people----"
Lady Caroline's cheeks flushed as she echoed the words, "Pointed out to him by other people!"
"Exactly. That's the worst of it. However, all this being so, and my feelings such as I have described, I presume I shouldn't be repeating my former error--inviting a repetition of my previous fate--in asking her to be my wife?"
"I--I should think not." The flush still in her cheeks. "Do I know the lady?"
"Do you know her? No one knows her so well!" The flush deeper than ever. "Ah, Lady Caroline, kindest and dearest of friends, why should I keep you longer in suspense? It is Maude Creswell!"
Her face blanched in an instant. Her grasp tightened rigidly over the arm of the chair on which it lay, but she gave no other sign of emotion. Even her voice, though hollow and metallic, never shook as she repeated the name, "Maude Creswell!"
"Yes. Maude Creswell! You are surprised, I see, but I don't think you will blame me for my choice! She is eminently ladylike, and clever, and nice, and----"
"I don't think you could possibly---- What is it, Thomas?"
"Luncheon, my lady."
"Very well. I must get you to go in to luncheon without me, Mr. Joyce; you will find Lord and Lady Hetherington in the dining-room, and I will come down directly. We will resume our talk afterwards."
And she left the room, and walked swiftly and not too steadily up the hall towards the staircase.
Both Lord and Lady Hetherington were in the dining-room when Joyce entered, the former with his brown velveteen suit splashed and clay-stained, and his thick boots rich with the spoil of many a furrow (he was bitten with a farming and agricultural mania just then), and the latter calm and collected as Walter ever remembered her. She received the visitor with perfect politeness, expressed in a few well-chosen sentences her pleasure at seeing him again and the satisfaction with which she had learned of his improved position; then, after scanning him with rather a searching glance, she turned to the footman, and asked where was Lady Caroline, and whether she knew luncheon was ready. Joyce replied for the man. Lady Caroline had heard the announcement of luncheon, but had asked him to come in by himself, saying she would follow directly. Her ladyship had gone up to her room, the footman added; he did not think her ladyship was very well. The footman was new to Westhope, or he would have known that the domestics of that establishment were never allowed to think, or at least were expected to keep their thoughts to themselves.
Lady Hetherington of course ignored the footman's remark entirely, but addressed herself to Joyce.
"I hope you did not bring down any ill news for Lady Caroline, Mr. Joyce?"
"Not I, indeed, Lady Hetherington. I merely came to ask her ladyship's advice on--well, on a matter of business."
"In which she was interested?"
"No, indeed! I was selfish enough to lay before her a matter in which my own interests were alone concerned."
"Ah!" said Lady Hetherington, with a sigh of relief, "I was afraid it might be some business in which she would have to involve herself for other people, and really she is such an extraordinary woman, constituting herself chaperone to two young women who may be very well in their way, I dare say, but whom nobody ever heard of, and doing such odd things, but--however, that's all right."
Her ladyship subsiding, his lordship here had a chance of expressing his delight at his ex-secretary's advancement, which he did warmly, but in his own peculiar way. So Joyce had gone into Parliament; right, quite right, but wrong side, hey, hey? Radicals and those sort of fellows, hey? Republic and that sort of thing! Like all young men, make mistakes, hey, but know better soon, and come round. Live to see him in the Carlton yet. Knew where he picked up those atrocious doctrines--didn't mind his calling them atrocious, hey, hey?--from Byrne; strange man, clever man, deuced clever, well read, and all that kind of thing, but desperate free-thinker. Thistlewood, Wolfestone, and that kind of thing. Never live to see him in the Carlton. No, of course not; not the place for him. Recollect the Chronicles? Ah, of course; deuced interestin', all that stuff that--that I wrote then, wasn't it? Had not made much progress since. So taken up with farmin' and that kind of thing; must take him into the park before he left, and show him some alterations just going to be made, which would be an immense improvement, immense imp---- Oh, here was Lady Caroline!
What did that idiotic footman mean by saying he thought Lady Caroline was not well? She came in looking radiant, and took her seat at the table with all her usual composure. Lady Hetherington looked at her in surprise, and said--
"Anything the matter, Caroline?"
"The matter, Margaret! Nothing in the world. Why?"
"You told Mr. Joyce to come in to luncheon without you, and Thomas said you had gone upstairs. I feared you had one of your faint attacks."
"Thanks for your sympathy. No! I knew Mr. Joyce would be leaving almost directly after luncheon, and I had a letter to write which I want him to be good enough to take to town for me. So I seized the only chance I had and ran off to write it."
"Deuced odd that!" said Lord Hetherington; "here's British post-office, greatest institution in the country. Rowland Hill, and that kind of thing; take your letters everywhere for a penny--penny, by Jove, and yet you'll always find women want fellows to make postmen of themselves, and carry their letters themselves."
"This is a special letter, West," said Lady Caroline. "You don't understand."
"Oh yes, I do," said his lordship with a chuckle, "women's letters all special letters, hey, hey? order to the haberdasher for a yard of ribbon, line to Mitchell's for stalls at the play--all special, hey, Mr. Joyce, hey?"
When luncheon was over Joyce imagined that Lady Caroline would return with him to the library and then renew their conversation. He was accordingly much surprised when she suggested to Lord Hetherington that he should show Mr. Joyce the alterations which were about to be made in the park. His lordship was only too glad to be mounted on his hobby, and away they went, not returning until it was time for Joyce to start for the station. He did not see Lady Hetherington again, but his lordship, in great delight at the manner in which his agricultural discourse had been listened to, was very warm in his adieux, and expressed his hope that they would meet in town. "Politics always laid aside at the dinner-table, Mr. Joyce, hey, hey?"
And Lady Caroline, after bidding him farewell, placed a note in his hand, saying, "This was the letter I spoke of."
He glanced at it and saw it was addressed to himself, and the next instant the carriage started. Addressed to himself! Did she not say at luncheon that she had been writing a note which she wanted him to take to town for her, and--and yet there was the address, Walter Joyce, Esq., in her bold firm hand. There must be an enclosure which he was to deliver or to post.
And then he did what he might have done at first--broke open the seal of the envelope and took out the contents. One sheet of note paper, with these words--
"I think you will be doing rightly in acting as you propose. Miss Creswell is handsome, clever, and exceptionally 'thorough.' From what I have seen of her I should think she would make you an excellent helpmate, and you know I should not say this were I not tolerably certain about it. I may not see you again for a few weeks, as I detest this specially cold spring, and shall probably run away to Torquay, or perhaps even to Nice, but letters to Chesterfield Street will always find me, and I shall always have the warmest and deepest interest in your welfare. Good-bye. C.M."
"She is a woman of extraordinary mental calibre," said Joyce to himself, as he refolded the note and placed it in his pocket. "She grasps a subject immediately, thinks it through at once, and writes an unmistakable opinion in a few terse lines. A wonderful woman! I've no doubt she had made up her mind, and had written that note before she came down to luncheon, though she did not give it to me until just now."
Walter Joyce was wrong. The interval between leaving him and her arrival in the dining-room had been passed by Lady Caroline on her bed, where she fell, prone, as the door closed behind her. She lay there, her face buried in the pillow, her hands tightly clasped behind her head, her hair escaped from its knot and creeping down her back, her heart beating wildly. Ah, what minutes of agony and humiliation, of disappointment and self-contempt! It had come upon her very suddenly, and had found her unprepared. She had never dared to analyse her feeling for Joyce; knew of its existence, but did not know or would not admit to herself what it was. Tried to persuade herself that it was "interest" in him, but laughed contemptuously at the poor deceit when she found her heart beating double pace as she read of his progress at the election, or her cheek flaming and her lip quivering as she did battle against Lady Hetherington's occasional impertinences about him. Those were the signs of something more than interest--of love, real, unmistakable passion. What a future might it not have been for her? She had respected her first husband for his kindness, his confidence, his equable temper. She would have respected this man too--respected him for his talent, his bravery, his skill and courage with which he had fought the great battle of life; but she would have loved him too--loved him with that wild passion, with that deep devotion. For the first time in her life she had learned what it was to love, and learned it too late. On those few occasions when she had dared to reveal to herself what was hidden in the inmost recesses of her soul, she had come to the conclusion that though the happiness for which she pined would never be realised--and she never concealed from herself the improbability of that--yet she should always hold the first position in his thoughts. The bitter disappointment which he had suffered at Miss Ashurst's hands had, she thought, effectually extinguished all idea of marriage in his mind. And now he came to her--to her of all women in the world--to tell her of his loneliness, his want of some one to sympathise with and be his companion, and to ask her advice as regarded his selection of Maude Creswell! It was too hard upon her, too much for her to bear this. A score of schemes flashed through her brain. Suppose she were to temporise with this question? A word from her would make Joyce defer taking any steps in the matter for the present, and in the interval she could easily let him see how she--the state of her---- Ah, the shame, the wretched humiliation! Was she bewitched, or was she in sober seriousness--she, Caroline Mansergh, whose pride as Caroline West was a byword--was she going to throw herself at the head of a man who had not only never shown any intention of proposing to her, but had actually come to consult her about his marriage with another woman It was impossible.Noblesse oblige.Lady Caroline West's pride, dormant and overlaid with other passions, yet lived in Lady Caroline Mansergh, and asserted itself in time. She rose from the bed, bathed her face, adjusted her hair, poured some sal-volatile in a glass with a shaking hand, and swallowed it through her set teeth, then went down to luncheon, as we have seen. She expressly avoided any chance of future conversation with Walter, and the note was written while he was out with Lord Hetherington.
Of course, Walter Joyce was utterly ignorant of Lady Caroline's feelings. As she hid them from herself as much as possible, it was unlikely that she would suffer him to catch the smallest inkling of them; and it is very questionable whether, had his powers of divination been infinitely stronger than they were, he would have understood them. The one spark of romance with which nature had endowed him had been completely stamped out by Marian Ashurst, and the rest of his organisation was commonplace naturally, and made more commonplace by practical experience of the world. He wondered Lady Caroline had not arranged to have a farther talk with him. She had left him, or rather they had been interrupted just at the critical moment, just when he had told her the object of his visit; and it was odd, to say the least of it, that she did not seek an early opportunity for letting him know her opinion on the really weighty question on which he had consulted her. And yet she always knew best; no doubt she thought it was essential that he should please Lord Hetherington, who was evidently bent on showing him those alterations, and, perhaps, she thought, too, that he might like to have her answer in writing to refer to on occasion. What a capital answer it was! He palled it out of his pocket, and looked at it again, so clear and concise and positive. His excellent helpmate. Yes, that was what he wanted. How exactly she appreciated him! Running to Torquay or Nice? What a funny thing! He had never heard her complain of being affected by the cold before, and--however she approved of his intentions in regard to Maude Creswell--that was the great point. So ruminated Walter Joyce, the hard-headed and practical, sliding gradually into a hundred other thoughts of work to be done and schemes to be looked into, and people to be seen, with which he was so much engaged that, until he reached London, both Maude and Lady Caroline were fairly obliterated from his mind.
He slept at his chambers that night, and went down to Helmingham the next day. There was a station now at the village, and it was here that Joyce alighted, not merely because it was more convenient than going to Brocksopp, but because it saved him the annoyance of having to run the gauntlet of a walk through the midst of his constituency, every other member of which had a complaint to make or a petition to prefer. The Helmingham people, of course, were immensely impressed by the sight of a man who, originally known to them as pursuing the mysterious profession of a Schoolmaster, had grown into that yet more inscrutable being, a Member of Parliament; but their wonderment was simply expressed in gaping and staring. They kept their distance peasant-like, and never dreamed of button-holing their member, as did the Brocksoppians. The road that led from the station to the village skirted the wall of the school-garden. It was a low wall, and looking over it, Joyce saw Maude Creswell tying up a creeper which was trained round the study window. Her attitude was pretty, a sunbeam shone on her hatless head, and the exertion given to her task had brought a bright colour to her usually pale face. Never before had she looked so attractive in Joyce's eyes. He dismissed from his mind the interesting question of compulsory education for factory children, which he had been revolving therein for the last hour and a half, and quickened his pace towards the house.
Maude was in the study when he entered. The flush had left her face, but returned when she saw him. He advanced and took her hand.
"So soon back!" she cried. "When I came down yesterday, they told me you had gone to town, and probably would not return; and I was so horribly vexed!"
"Were you? That's kind of you, indeed!"
"Well, you know--I mean----"
"What you say. I believe that firmly, for you have the credit of being quite unconventional. No, I merely went to London on business, and that finished I returned at once. Where is your sister?"
"Out."
"And her husband?"
"How can you ask such a question? With her, of course. They have gone to pay a visit."
"A visit; where? I--I beg your pardon; how very rude of me to ask such a question! What a tell-tale face you have, Miss Creswell I saw the rudeness I had committed by your expression."
"You give me credit for more power than I possess. There was no rudeness in your asking. They have gone to Woolgreaves."
"To Woolgreaves!"
"Yes. Mrs. Creswell called here two days ago--the day you went to London; but Gertrude and George were out, So she left a note stating she was very anxious to see them, and they have gone over there to-day. They had no notion you would have come down, or they would not have gone. I am so sorry they are not here."
"I confess I am not."
"Not sorry! That's not polite. Why are you not sorry?"
"Because I wanted to talk to you."
"To me?"
"Yes, to you. I've something to consult you about, in relation to my recent, visit to town; rather a difficult matter, but I have all faith in your good judgment."
"I'm afraid you rate my judgment too highly, Mr. Joyce; but at all events, you may be assured of my answering you honestly, and to the best of my power."
"That is all I ask. That granted, I can make sure of the rest. And really it is not such a great matter after all. Only a little advice; but such advice as only a woman--more than that, only a peculiar kind of woman--can give."
"Do I fulfil the requirements?"
"Exactly."
"Then proceed at once; and I will promise to answer exactly as I think."
"Well, then, I have a friend, about my own age, of sufficiently mean birth, whose father was a man of restricted views and small mind, both cramped and narrowed by the doctrines of the religious sect to which he belonged, but whose mother was an angel. Unfortunately the mother died too soon after the boy's birth to be of much good to him, beyond leaving him the recollection of her sweet face and voice and influence--a recollection which he cherishes to this day. After his wife's death the boy's father became more and more imbued with the sectarian doctrines, an undue observance of which had already had its effect in his home, and, dying shortly after, left his son almost unprovided for, and friendless, save in such friendship as the lad might have made for himself. This, however, proved sufficient. The master of the school at which the lad attended took great interest in him, half-adopted him as it were, and, when the youth was old enough, took him as his assistant in the school. This would have met my friend's views sufficiently--for he was a plodding, hardworking fellow--had he had no other motive; but he had another: he was in love with the schoolmaster's daughter, and she returned the passion. Am I wearying you with this rigmarole?"
"You know you are not. Please go on!"
"So they proceeded in their Arcadian simplicity, until the schoolmaster died, leaving his wife and daughter unprovided for; and my friend had to go out into the world to seek his fortune--to seek his bread rather, I should say--bread to be shared, as soon as he had found enough of it, with his betrothed. But while he was floundering away, throwing out a grappling-iron here and there, striving to attach himself to something where bread was to be earned, the young lady had a slice of cake offered to her, and, as she had always preferred cake to bread, she accepted it at once, and thought no more of the man who was hunting so eagerly for penny rolls for her sake. You follow me?"
"Yes, yes! Pray go on!"
"Well, I'm nearly at the end of my story! When my friend found that the only person in the world which was dear to him had treated him so basely he thought he should die, and he said he should, but he didn't. He suffered frightfully; he never attempts to deny that, though there was an end of all things for him; that life was henceforth a blank, and all that sort of thing, for which see the circulating library. And he recovered; he threw himself into the penny-roll hunting with greater vigour than ever, and he succeeded wonderfully. For a time, whenever his thoughts turned towards the woman who had treated him so shamefully, had jilted him so heartlessly, he was full of anger and hopes for revenge, but that period passed away, and the desire to improve his position, and to make progress in the work which he had undertaken, occupied all his attention. Then he found that this was not sufficient; that his heart yearned for some one to love, for some one to be loved by: and he found that some one, but he did not ask her to become his wife!"
"He did not. Why not?"
"Because he was afraid her mind might have been poisoned by some warped story of his former engagement, some----"
"Could he swear to her that his story--as you have told it to me--is true?"
"He could, and he would!"
"Then she would not be worthy of his love; if she refused to believe him!"
"Ah, Maude, dearest and best, is there any need to involve the story further; have you not known its meaning from the outset? Heart whole and intact, I offer you my hand, and swear to do my best to make the rest of our lives happy if you take it. You don't answer. Ah, I don't want you to. Thanks, dear, a thousand times for giving me a new, fresh, worthy interest in life!"
"You here, Mr. Joyce? Why, when did you get back?"
"Half an hour since, Gertrude. You did not expect me, I hear!"
"Certainly not, or we shouldn't have gone out. And we did no good after all."
"No good? How do you mean?"
"Oh, madam was out. However, bother madam. Did you see Lady Caroline?"
"I did."
"And did you settle about Maude's staying with us?"
"No."
"Nor about her going to her ladyship's?"
"No."
"Why, what on earth was the use of your going to town? What have you settled?"
"That she's to stay with--me."
"With you?"
"With me."
"Why, you don't mean to say that you're going--that she's going----?"
"I do--exactly that."
"Oh, you dear Walter! I am so delighted! Here, George! What did I say about those three crows we saw as we were driving in the pony-chaise? They did mean a wedding, after all!"
To have an income of fifteen thousand a year, and to be her own mistress, would, one would have imagined, have placed Marian Creswell on the pinnacle of worldly success, and rendered her perfectly happy. In the wildest day-dreams of her youth she had never thought of attaining such an income, and such a position as that income afforded her. The pleasures of that position she had only just begun to appreciate; for the life at Woolgreaves, though with its domestic comforts, its carriages and horses and attentive servants, infinitely superior to the life in the Helmingham schoolhouse, had no flavour of the outside world. Her place in her particular sphere was very much elevated, but that sphere was as circumscribed as ever. It was not until after her husband's death that Marian felt she had really come into her kingdom. The industrious gentlemen who publish in the newspapers extracts from the last will and testaments of rich or distinguished persons--thereby planting a weekly dagger in the bosoms of the impecunious, who are led by a strange kind of fascination to read of the enormous sums gathered and bequeathed--had of course not overlooked the testamentary disposition of Mr. Creswell, "of Woolgreaves, and Charleycourt Mills, Brocksopp, cotton-spinner and mill-owner," but had nobly placed him at the head of one of their weekly lists. So that when Mrs. Creswell "and suite," as they were good enough to describe her servants in the local papers, arrived at the great hotel at Tunbridge Wells, the functionaries of that magnificent establishment--great creatures accustomed to associate with the salt of the earth, and having a proper contempt, which they do not suffer themselves to disguise, for the ordinary traveller--were fain to smile on her, and to give her such a welcome as only the knowledge of the extent to which they intended mulcting her in the bill could possibly have extorted from them. The same kindly feeling towards her animated all the sojourners in that pleasant watering-place. No sooner had her name appeared in the Strangers' List, no sooner had it been buzzed about that she was the Mrs. Creswell, whose husband had recently died, leaving her so wonderfully well off, than she became an object of intense popular interest.
Two ladies of title--the widow of a viscount (Irish), and the wife of a baronet (English), insolvent, and at that moment in exile in the island of Coll, there hiding from his creditors--left cards on her, and earnestly desired the pleasure of her acquaintance. The roistering youth of the place, the East India colonels, the gay dogs superannuated from the government offices, the retired business-men, who, in the fallow leisure of their lives, did what they would,--all looked on her with longing eyes, and set their wits to work on all sorts of schemes to compass knowing her. Over the laity the clergy have a great advantage--their mission is in itself sufficient introduction--and lists of all the local charities, district churches to be erected, parsonages to be repaired, and schools to be established, had been presented by those interested in them to the rich widow in person before she had been forty-eight hours in the place.
It was very pleasant, this popularity, this being sought after and courted and made much of, and Marian enjoyed it thoroughly. Unquestionably, she had never enjoyed anything so much in her previous life, and her enjoyment had no alloy. For although just before her husband's death, and for some little time after, she had had certain twinges of conscience as to the part she had acted in leaving him ignorant of all her relations with Walter Joyce when she married him, that feeling had soon died away. Before leaving home she had had a keen experience of absolute enjoyment in signing cheques with her own name, and in being consulted by Mr. Teesdale as to some business of her estate, and this feeling increased very much during her stay at Tunbridge Wells. Nevertheless, she did not remain there very long; she was pleased at being told that her duties required her at home, and she was by no means one to shirk such duties as the management of an enormous property involved.
So Marian Creswell went back to Woolgreaves, and busied herself in learning the details of her inheritance, in receiving from Mr. Teesdale an account of his past stewardship, and listening to his propositions for the future. It was very pleasant at first; there were so many figures, the amounts involved were so enormous, there were huge parchment deeds to look at, and actual painted maps of her estates. She had imagined that during that period just prior to their marriage, when she made herself useful to Mr. Creswell, she had acquired some notion of his wealth, but she now found she had not heard of a tenth part of it. There was a slate quarry in Wales, a brewery in Leamington, interest in Australian ships, liens on Indian railways, and house property in London. There seemed no end to the wealth, and for the first few weeks, looking at the details of it with het own eyes, or listening to the account of it in Mr. Teesdale's sonorous voice, afforded her real pleasure. Then gradually, and almost imperceptibly, came back upon her that feeling which had overwhelmed her in her husband's lifetime, of which she had gotten rid for some little space, but which now returned with fifty-fold free-questioning, "What is the good of it all?"
What indeed? She sat in the midst of her possessions more lonely than the poorest cotter on any of her estates,--less cared for than the worn-out miner, for whom, after his day's toil, his wife prepared the evening meal, and his children huddled at his knee. Formerly her husband had been there, with his kindly face and his soft voice, and she had known that, notwithstanding all difference of age and temperament between them, so long as he lived there was one to love her with a devotion which is the lot of few in this world. Now he was gone, and she was alone. Alone! It was a maddening thought to a woman of Marian's condition, without the consolation of religion, without the patience calmly to accept her fate, without the power of bowing to the inevitable. Where money was concerned she could scarcely bring herself to recognise the inevitable, could scarcely understand that people of her wealth should, against their own will, be left alone in this world, and that love, friendship, and all their sweet associations, could not be bought.
Love and friendship! Of the latter she could scarcely be said to have had any experience; for Marian Ashurst was not a girl who made friends, and Mrs. Creswell found no one equal to being admitted to such a bond; and as to the former, though she had enjoyed it once, she had almost forgotten all about it. It came back to her, however, as she thought over it; all the sweet words, the soft endearing epithets, and the loving looks came back to her, all the fond memory of that time when, for a period, the demon of avarice was stilled, the gnawing desire for money, and what money in her idea might bring, was quenched; when she was honestly proud of her lover, happy in the present, and expectant of the future. She recollected the poor dresses and the cheap trinkets which she had in those days; the wretched little presents which she and Walter had exchanged, and the pleasure she experienced at receiving them at his hands. She remembered the locket, with her portrait, which she had given him, and wondered what had become of it. He had it, doubtless, yet, for he had never returned it to her, not even in that first wild access of rage which he may have felt at the receipt of the letter announcing her intended marriage, nor since, when he had cooled down into comparative carelessness. Surely that argued something in her favour? Surely that showed that he had yet some lingering regard for her? In all that had been told her of him--and specially during the election time she had heard much--no mention had ever been made of any woman to whom he was paying attention. She had thought of that before; she remembered it delightedly now. Could it be that in the secret recesses of his heart there glimmered yet, unquenched, a spark of love for her, the idol of his youth? It was not unlikely, she thought; he was very romantic, as she remembered him--just the sort of man in whom commerce with the world would be insufficient to blot out early impressions, to efface cherished ideals.
Could it be possible that the great crisis in her life was yet to come? That the opportunity was yet to be given her of having wealth and position, and, to share them with her, a husband whom she could love, and of whom she could be proud? Her happiness seemed almost too great; and yet it was there on the cards before her. Forgetting all she had done, and shutting her eyes to the fact that she herself had made an enormous gulf between them, she blindly argued to herself that it was impossible such love as Walter Joyce's for her could ever be wholly eradicated, that some spark of its former fire must yet remain in its ashes, and needed but tact and opportunity on her part to fan it again into aflame. What would not life be, then, were that accomplished? She had been pleased with the notion of entering society as Mr. Creswell's wife (poor prosaic Mr. Creswell!), but as the wife of Walter Joyce, who was, according to Mr. Gould, one of the most rising men of the day, and who would have her fortune at his back to further his schemes and advance his interests, what might not be done! Marian glowed with delight at this ecstatic day-dream; sat cherishing it for hours, thinking over all kinds of combinations; finally put it aside with the full determination to take some steps towards seeing Walter Joyce at once.
How lucky it was, she thought, that she had behaved amiably on the announcement of Gertrude Creswell's marriage, and not, as she had felt inclined at first to do, returned a savage, or at best a formal, answer! These people, these Benthalls, were just those through whose agency her designs must be carried out. They were very friendly with Walter, and of course saw something of him; indeed, she had heard that he was expected down to stay at Helmingham, so soon as he could get away from London. If she played her cards well--not too openly at first, but with circumspection--she might make good use of these people; and as they would not be too well off, even with the interest of Gertrude's money, if they had a family (and these sort of people, poor parsons and schoolmasters--James Ashurst's daughter had already learned to speak in that way--always had a large number of children), she might be able, in time, to buy their services and mould them to her will.
It was under the influence of these feelings that Marian had determined on being exceedingly polite to the Benthalls, and she regretted very much that she had been away from home at the time when they called on her. She wrote a note to that effect to Mrs. Benthall, and intimated her intention of returning the visit almost immediately. Mrs. Benthall showed the note to her husband, who read it and lifted his eyebrows, and asked his wife what it meant, and why the widow had suddenly become so remarkably attached to them. Mrs. Benthall professed her inability to answer his question, but remarked that it was a good thing that "that" was all settled between Maude and Walter, before Walter came in madam's way again.
"But he isn't likely to come in her way again," said the Reverend George.
"I don't know that," said Gerty; "this sudden friendship for us looks to me very much as though----"
"You don't mean to say you think Mrs. Creswell intends making a convenience of us?" asked Mr. Benthall.
"I think she did so intend," said Gertrude; "but she----"
"We'll have nothing of that sort!" cried Mr. Benthall, going through that process which is known as "flaring up;" "we can get on well enough without her and her presents, and if----"
"Ah, you silly thing," interrupted Gertrude, "don't you see that when Walter marries Maude, there will be an end of any use to which we could be put by Mrs. Creswell, even if we were not going away to the Newmanton living in a very few weeks? You may depend upon it, that as soon as she hears the news--and I will take care to let her know it when she calls here--she will gracefully retire, and during the remainder of our stay in Helmingham we shall see very little more of the rich widow."
On the night of his acceptance by Maude Creswell, Walter wrote a long letter to Lady Caroline. He wrote it in his room--the old room in which he used to sleep in his usher-days: he had bargained to have that when he came down--when all the household was in bed, after an evening passed by him in earnest conversation with Maude and Gertrude, while Mr. Benthall busied himself with an arrangement of affairs consequent upon his giving up the school, which he had decided upon doing at midsummer. In the course of that long conversation Walter mentioned that he was about to write to Lady Caroline, acquainting her with what had taken place, and also told the girls of his having consulted her previous to the step which he had taken. He thought this information, as showing Lady Caroline's approbation of the match, would be hailed with great delight; and he was surprised to see a look pass between Maude and Gertrude, and to hear the latter say--
"Oh, Walter, you don't mean to say you asked Lady Caroline's advice as to your marrying Maude!"
"Certainly I did; and I'm sure Maude will see nothing strange in it. She knows perfectly well that----"
"It is not for Maude's sake that I spoke; but--but, Walter, had you no idea, no suspicion that----"
"That what, my dear Gertrude? Pray finish your sentence."
"That Lady Caroline cared for you herself?"
"Cared for me!"
"Cared for you loved you! wanted to marry you! Can I find plainer language than that?"
"Good heavens, child, what nonsense are you talking! There is not the remotest foundation for any such belief. Lady Caroline is my kindest and best friend. If there were no social difference between us, I should say she had behaved to me as a sister; but as for anything else--nonsense, Gertrude!"
Gertrude said no more; she merely shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject. But the effect of that conversation was not lost on Walter Joyce. It showed in the tone of his letter to Lady Caroline written that night, softening it and removing it entirely from the brusque and business-like style of correspondence which he generally indulged in.
The next day he left Helmingham early, having had a stroll with Maude,--in which he expressed his wish that the marriage should take place as soon as possible,--and a short talk with Gertrude, in which, however, he made no reference to the topic discussed on the previous evening.
It was a lucky thing that Mr. Joyce had started by an early train; for the Benthalls had scarcely finished their luncheon, before there was a violent ringing at the gate-bell,--there was no servant in the county who, for his size, could make more noise than Marian's tiger,--and Mrs. Creswell was announced. She had driven the ponies slowly over from Woolgreaves, and had been enjoying the bows and adulation of the villagers as she came along. Though of course she had driven through the village scores of times, she had never been to the schoolhouse since she left it with her mother on their memorable visit to Woolgreaves, that visit which resulted in her marriage.
She was not an emotional woman, Mrs. Creswell; but her heart beat rather faster than its placid wont as she crossed the threshold of the gate, and stepped at once into the garden, where so many of the scenes of her early history had been passed. There was the lawn, as untidy as in her poor father's days, bordered by the big elm-trees, under whose shadow she had walked in the dull summer evenings, as the hum from the dormitories settled down into silence and slumber; and her lover was free to join her there, and to walk with her until their frugal supper was announced. There were the queer star and pear-shaped flower-beds, the virginia-creeper waving in feathery elegance along the high wall, the other side of which was put to far more practical purposes--bore stucco instead of climbers, and re-echoed to the balls of the fives-players. There were the narrow walks, the old paintless gate-bell, that lived behind iron bars, the hideous stone pine-apples on either side of the door, just as she remembered them.
In the drawing-room, too, where she was received by Mrs. Benthall, with the exception of a smell of stale tobacco, there was no difference: the old paper on the walls, the old furniture, the old dreary outlook.
After the first round of visiting talk, Marian asked Gertrude how she liked her new home.
Gerty was, if anything, frank.
"Well, I like it pretty well," she said. "Of course it's all new to me, and the boys are great fun."
"Are they?" said Marian, with an odd smile; "they must have changed a great deal. I know I didn't think them 'great fun' in my day."
"Well, I mean for a little time. Of course they'd bore one awfully very soon, and I think this place would bore one frightfully after a time, so dull and grim, isn't it?"
"It's very quiet; but you mustn't let it bore you, as you call it."
"Oh, that won't matter much, because it will only be for so short a time."
"So short a time! Are you going to leave Helmingham?"
"Oh yes; haven't you heard? George has got a living--such a jolly place, they say--in the Isle of Wight; Newmanton they call it; and we give up here at midsummer."
"I congratulate you, my dear Gertrude, as much as I bewail my own misfortune. I was looking forward with such pleasure to having you within reachable distance in this horribly unneighbourly neighbourhood, and now you dash all my hopes! Whence did Mr. Benthall get this singular piece of good fortune?"
"George got the presentation from Lord Hetherington, who is a great friend of Wal--I mean of a great friend of ours. And Lord Hetherington had seen George in London, and had taken a fancy to him, as so many people do; and he begged his friend to offer this living to George."
"That is very delightful indeed; I must congratulate you, though I must say I deserve a medal for my selflessness in doing so. It will be charming for your sister, too; she never liked this part of the country much, I think; and of course she will live with you?"
"No, not live with us; we shall see her whenever she can get away from London, I hope."
"From London! ah, I forgot. Of course she will make your friend Lady--Man--Lady Mansergh's her headquarters?"
"No; you are not right yet, Mrs. Creswell," said Gertrude, smiling in great delight, and showing all her teeth. "The fact is, Maude is going to be married, and after her marriage she will live the greater part of the year in London."
"To be married! indeed!" said Marian--she always hated Maude much worse than Gertrude. "May one ask to whom?"
"Oh, certainly; every one will know it now,--to the new member here, Mr. Joyce."
"Indeed!" said Marian quite calmly (trust her for that!). "I should think they would be excellently matched!--My dear Gertrude, how on earth do you get these flowers to grow in a room? Mine are all blighted, the merest brown horrors."
"Would he prefer that pale spiritless girl--not spiritless, but missish, knowing nothing of the world and its ways--to a woman who could stand by his side in an emergency, and help him throughout his life? Am I to be for ever finding one or other of these doll-children in my way? Shall I give up this last new greatest hope simply because of this preposterous obstacle? Invention too, perhaps, of the other girl's, to annoy me. Walter is not that style of man--last person on earth to fancy a bread-and-butter miss, who---- We will see who shall win in this round. This is an excitement which I certainly had not expected."
And the ponies never went so fast before.