Some few minutes passed before Marian felt sufficiently recovered to move. The attack had been so unexpected and so brutal that she would have been perfectly paralysed by it even if the words which the boy had used had been the outpourings of mere random savagery, instead of, as they evidently were, the result of premeditated and planned insult--insult grounded on hate, and hate springing from fear. Marian's quick intelligence made that plain to her in a moment. The boy feared her, feared that she might obtain an ascendancy over his father, and get the old gentleman to advance money to Mrs. Ashurst--money that ought not to go out of the family, and should be his at his father's death--or perhaps fancied she was scheming to quarter herself at Woolgreaves, and---- Good heavens, could he have thought that! Why, the idea had never crossed her mind. She dismissed it at once, not without a half smile at the notion of the retribution she could inflict, at the thought that the boy had suggested to her what might be such a punishment for himself as she had never dreamed of.
She walked on quickly, communing with herself. So they had found her out, had they? Tom's blurted warning was the first intimation she had had that what she knew to be the guiding purpose of her life, the worship of, love for, intended acquisition of money, was suspected by any, known to any one else. No syllable on the subject, either jestingly or reproachfully, had ever been breathed to her before. It was not likely that she would have heard of it. Her father had considered her to be perfect; her mother had set down all her small economies, scrapings, and hoardings which were practised in the household to Marian's "wonderful management;" and however the feminine portion of the Whicher and Croke families might talk among themselves, their respect for the schoolmaster and their dread of Marian's powers of retort always effectually prevented them from dropping any hints at the schoolhouse. So Marian heard it now for the first time. Yet there was nothing in it to be ashamed of, she thought; if her poor father had been guided by this sentiment his life might have been perhaps preserved, and certainly an immense amount of misery would have been spared to them all. Love of money, a desire to acquire wealth,--who should reproach her for that? Not Mr. Creswell, of whose good opinion she seemed to think first, for had not his whole life been passed in the practice, and was not his present position the result, the example to which she could point in defence of her creed? Not Maude or Gertrude Creswell, who if they had possessed the smallest spark of independence would have been earning their bread as companions or governesses. Not the people of the village, who---- Yes, by Tom's account they did talk of her; but what then? What the people in the village thought or said about her had never been of the smallest interest to Marian Ashurst when she lived among them, and was brought into daily communion with them; it was therefore not likely that she would take much heed of it now, as she had made up her mind that she and her mother must go and live in another place, far away from all old scenes and associations, when they left Woolgreaves.
When they left Woolgreaves! Hitherto she had not bestowed much thought upon that necessarily closely approaching event, but now she turned her attention to it. Under ordinary circumstances, even if things had gone on pleasantly as heretofore, if their stay had been made as comfortable to them, the attention of Mr. Creswell and his nieces had been as great, and the general desire for them to remain as obvious, they would have had in common decency to propose some date for the expiration of their visit. And now that Tom, who had hitherto been only a negative nuisance, developed into a positive enemy, it was doubly necessary that they should take precaution not to outstay their welcome. Yes, they must go! Give up all the comforts and luxury, the fine airy rooms, the bedroom fires, the carriage drives, the good living, the wine, and attention, all of which combined had done Mrs. Ashurst so much good, and rendered her stronger and sounder than she had been for years--all these must be given up, and they must go away to poky, stivy lodgings, with dirt and discomfort of every kind; with wretched cooking which would turn her mother sick, and the attendance of a miserable maid-of-all-work, who would not understand any of their ways, and the perpetual presence of penury and want making itself felt every hour of their lives. The picture was so horrible, so repugnant to Marian, that she determined not to let it engross her thoughts in anticipation; it would be quite sufficient to cope with when it came, and she should require all her energies fresh and untaxed for the encounter. So she walked briskly on, and as she had now reached the village her attention was soon quickly absorbed by the greetings which she received, and the talk in which she had to take part.
The first greetings were from Mr. Benthall. Marian had determined that she would not go down Southwood Lane, which led to the schoolhouse, as she had no desire of encountering either master or boys in her then mood. She had not been near the school since she and her mother left the house, and she had arranged in her mind a little farewell on her part to both when she left the village. And now here was Mr. Benthall advancing straight towards her, and there was no possibility of escape, as she remembered that it was the Saturday half-holiday, and that she should probably have to run the gauntlet of a score of friends. Mr. Benthall was a brisk, lively, agreeable man, with cheerfulness and pleasant manners, and plenty of small talk. He was, moreover, a gentleman and a man of the world, and he knew exactly how to pitch the key of his conversation to a young lady, the daughter of his predecessor, who might or might not--Mr. Benthall's experience of human nature told him might, and probably would--feel somewhat antipathetic towards him. So Mr. Benthall talked of Mrs. Ashurst, and of Mr. Creswell, and of the young ladies, and of Tom. "My friend Trollope's young charge," as Mr. Benthall spoke of him, with a somewhat malicious sparkle in his eye. And the weather was quite cold, was it not? and the frost had set in quite early, had it not? And Miss Ashurst was looking so blooming that Mr. Benthall had no need to ask her how she was, which was, indeed, the reason why he had not done so long since, but must beg her to take charge of his kindest compliments for her mother and the young ladies and Mr. Creswell. And Mr. Benthall had taken off his well-brushed hat, and had skipped across the road in his well-brushed, shapely boots, and Marian was contrasting him with that figure which was ever present to her memory--her father, bowed, and shrunken, and slatternly, and ill-dressed--when she heard her Christian name called aloud, and Dr. Osborne, in his little four-wheeled pony-carriage, drew up by her side.
"Well, Princess!" said the cheery old medico; "for since I have made you hear I may as well address you by your title--well, Princess, how goes it?"
"It goes very well indeed, dear Dr. Osborne," said Marian, returning his hand-pressure. "But why Princess?"
"Why Princess! What lower rank could a girl be who lives in a palace, over there, I mean, with 'vassals and slaves by her side,' as I've heard my girl sing years ago, and all that kind of thing?"
"But surely only a princess of the Cinderella style, my dear doctor; only enjoying the vassals and the slaves, and what you call 'that kind of thing,' for a very limited time. Twelve o'clock must strike very soon, dear old friend, in our case, and then this princess will go back to the pots and kettles, and cinder-sifting, and a state of life worse than ever she has known before."
"God forbid, my dear!" said the doctor seriously. "Which way are you going--back again to Woolgreaves? All right. I'm driving that road, and I'll set you down at the gates. Jump in, child. I wanted a few minutes' talk with you, and this has just happened luckily; we can have it without any interruption."
He stretched out his hand and helped Marian into the seat by his side; then gave the brisk little pony his head, and they rattled cheerily along.
"Let me see, my dear, what was I saying?" said the doctor, after the silence of a few minutes. "By the way, I think I ought to have called in the village to see little Pickering, who's in for measles, I suspect. I must start a memorandum-book, my memory is beginning to fail me. What was I saying, my dear?"
"You were saying that you wanted to talk to me--about Woolgreaves, I think it must have been."
"About Woolgreaves--the palace, as I called it--oh yes, that was it. See here, child; I'm the oldest friend you have in the world, and I hope one of the truest; and I want you to answer my questions frankly, and without reserve, just as if I were your father, you know."
"I will do so," said Marian, after a faint flutter at her heart, caused by the notion of the little doctor, good little soul as he was, comparing himself with her dead father.
"That's right," said Dr. Osborne. "I knew you almost before you came into the world, and that gives me some right to your confidence. Now, then, are you happy at Woolgreaves?"
Marian hesitated a moment before she replied: "Happier than I thought I could have been--yet."
"Ah, that's right, and straightforward. Mind, in all these questions I'm alluding to you, not to your mother. I know her--charming lady, affectionate, and all that, but clinging and unreasoning, likes to lie where she falls, and so on; whereas you've got a head on your shoulders, finely developed and--so on. Now, are they all kind to you at Woolgreaves? Old gentleman kind?"
"Most kind!"
"Of course he is. Never was a man so full of heart as he is. If he had only been at home when your poor father--ah, well, that's no matter now."
"What's that you said, Dr. Osborne--that about my father?"
"Stupid old fool to go blundering into such a subject! Why couldn't I have let it alone? 'Let the dead past bury its dead.' What's that I've heard my girl sing?" the old gentleman muttered to himself. Then aloud, "Nothing, my dear. I was only thinking that if Mr. Creswell had been at home just at the time I dare say we might have made some arrangement, and had Godby down from St. Vitus, and then----"
"And then my father need not have died for the want of a hundred and thirty guineas! Oh, don't think I forget." And there came into the girl's face the hard, stony, rigid look which Dr. Osborne remembered there so well on the night of her father's death, six months before.
"Well," said the little doctor, laying the whip across his knee and blowing his nose so loudly that the pony shied at the noise--"well, well, dear, Mr. Creswell's absence at that particular time was, to say the least of it, unfortunate; we may say that. Now, what about the girls; are they kind?"
"Very, in their way."
"Good!" said the little doctor, bringing his hand down with a ringing slap on the chaise-apron, "I like that! Dry--deuced dry. Like your poor father, that. 'In their way.' Ha, ha I understand. Their way is not much yours?"
"They are very good-tempered and polite, and press one to eat and drink a great deal, and hand chairs and footstools, and always sing when they are asked. And," added Marian, after a moment's pause, and under a fear that she had been unduly cynical, "and they are most attentive and affectionate to mamma."
"I am delighted to hear that, for that's just as it should be, just as one would have wished it to turn out. Oh yes, quite ladies, with all the feelings and perceptions of ladies, and talking to your mother nicely, and so on. Not too bright--not to be compared with you or my girl. Ah, there would have been a companion for you, my dear; all soul, and such an arm for the harp, but married to the coastguard in Dorsetshire!--but still nice girls. Well, I'm glad you give me this account, my dear, for it suits exactly the suggestion I was about to make. But before I made it I wanted to be quite sure of your position at Woolgreaves, and to know for certain that you were liked by all the family."
"You are not certain of that yet, doctor. There is one of the family about whom you have made no inquiry."
"One of the family--at Woolgreaves? Oh, by Jove, Tom--Master Tom! I recollect now--a most important personage in his own esteem, and really some one to be thought of in such a matter as this. And how does Master Tom behave to you?"
"Like a--like a scoundrel!" cried Marian, her eyes flashing, and all the colour ablaze in her cheeks: "He has been, ever since we have been there, either rude and rough, or sulky and unpleasant; but to-day, just before I saw you, not an hour ago, he met me in the fields, and insulted me in the grossest manner; talked about our poverty, and hinted that--hinted----" and the remainder of the sentence was lost in a burst of tears.
"Happy hit of mine, that," muttered the doctor to himself. "I seem to be distinguishing myself to-day. Young ruffian, that Tom. He shall have a pretty dose next time I'm sent for to him, I'll take care.--Come, my dear, then, you must not mind; he's only a boy--a rude beastly boy, with no manners, and no heart either, and not much chest or stomach, for the matter of that. You must not mind him. It's a pity he's not nice to you, because he has a certain power in that house; and if he were to pronounce himself as decidedly in opposition to the little scheme I had in my mind, and about which I was going to talk to you, it is very probable it might fall to the ground. But there are various ways of getting over objectionable boys. Lord bless me! in my time I've taken boys into the surgery, and brought them round by a handful of acidulated drops, and have tamed the most refractory by a Tolu lozenge."
"I scarcely think that Tom Creswell is to be bought over on such easy terms," said Marian, with a faint and weary smile. "But, doctor, what was the suggestion you were about to make?"
"Simply this, my dear: That instead of your removing into Mrs. Swainson's lodgings, which are by no means suited for you, and where I should be very sorry to see you, or into any lodging at all, you should--when I say you, I mean, of course, you and Mrs. Ashurst--should remain at Woolgreaves."
"Remain at Woolgreaves? For how long?"
"Well, as romantic or thoughtless people say, 'for ever;' at all events, until the condition of each of you is changed--by different means, let us hope."
"And under what conditions is this scheme to be realised? I suppose Mr. Creswell would scarcely take us in as boarders at Woolgreaves, doctor?"
"No, my dear child, no. You are pleased to be satirical, but I am in earnest. That the labourer is worthy of his hire is a principle that has been recognised for centuries; and you shall labour, and for hire. See here, this is how the thought first came into my head. Mrs. Caddy, the housekeeper at Woolgreaves, a very worthy woman, has been ailing of late, and came to consult me last week. Our climate don't do for her. She's a little touched in the chest, and must get away further south for the winter. I told her so plainly, and she didn't seem at all uncomfortable about it. Her friends live in Devonshire, and she's saved a good bit of money, I should think, since she's been in Mr. Creswell's service. All that seemed to worry her was what they would do at Woolgreaves without her. She harped upon this several times, and at last a ray of light seemed to break upon her as she asked why her place should not be taken by 't' young girl, schoolmaster's daughter?'"
"Dear me! Mrs. Caddy's place taken by me?"
"By you. It was an irreverent way to speak of you, Marian my dear, I'll admit, but there was no irreverence intended. Mrs. Caddy, once set going, launched out into an interminable list of your special virtues. There never was a girl who 'cottoned' so completely to her style of pickling and preserving; there never was a girl who so intuitively grasped the great secret of making cherry-brandy, or who so quickly perceived the shortcomings of the still-room maid in the matter. And this talk of the worthy woman's gave me an idea."
"The same idea as Mrs. Caddy's?"
"The same, with a difference. Mrs. Caddy's was preposterous, mine is possible. And mine is this: When Mrs. Caddy goes, let it be understood that Mrs. Ashurst has consented to superintend the Woolgreaves household. There would be nothing derogatory in the position; all with whom she would be brought in contact would take care of that; and though she would not have the least qualification for the post, poor woman--no affront to you, my dear, but she wouldn't--you would be able to keep all smooth, and take care that everything went straight."
"But even such an establishment as Woolgreaves would not require two housekeepers, doctor?"
"Of course it would not," said the old gentleman, pleased to see by Marian's brightening face that the proposition was not so disagreeable to her. "Of course it would not. Mrs. Ashurst would be the responsible housekeeper, while your position as companion to the young ladies could be very easily defined, and would be very readily understood. Do you like the plan?"
All the details of the proposition rushed through her mind before she spoke. Home-comforts, luxury, good living, warmth, care, attention, money, or at least the command if not the possession of money, that is what it meant, instead of a wretched lodging, a starveling income, penury, and perhaps, so far as certain necessaries for her mother were concerned, want. What would they sacrifice? Not freedom--they had never had it; and if their lives were still to be passed in drudgery, it would, at all events, be better to be the drudge of a kind old man and two insignificant girls, than of a set of rackety schoolboys, as they had hitherto been. Position? No sacrifice there; the respect always paid to them was paid to them as James Ashurst's wife and daughter, and that respect they would still continue to receive. All in the village knew them, the state of their finances, the necessity of their availing themselves of any opportunity for bettering their condition which might present itself; and out of the village they had but few acquaintances, and none for whose opinion they had the least care. So Marian, with beaming eyes and heightened colour, said--
"Yes, dear old friend, frankly, Idolike the plan. If it were carried out an immense load of anxiety would be removed from my mind respecting mamma's immediate future, you know, and it would suit our circumstances in various ways. Is it possible? How can it be brought about?"
"You are as prompt as ever, Marian," said the doctor, smiling. "I never saw a girl retain so many of her childish characteristics." Marion winced a little as he said this, remembering Tom's remarks that afternoon on her childish character as depicted by Mesdames Whicher and Croke. "Yes, I think it is perfectly feasible, and it can be brought about by me. Mr. Creswell, having known me for many years, and believing that I never advise him but for his good, is always ready to listen to any advice I give him, and if I judge rightly, will be already predisposed to agree with this proposition, and to take it as though you and your mamma were conferring a favour on him rather than---- Dear me, look at this foolish fellow coming towards us at full gallop! The man must be drunk.--Hallo, sir; hi, hallo!--Why, it's one of the Woolgreaves grooms, isn't it? I think I know the man's appearance.--Hallo, sir, hi! what is it?" and the little doctor pulled the chaise close into the left bank, and stood up, waving his whip, and shouting lustily.
The horseman, who was urging his horse to yet faster speed, paid no attention to the shouts, and contented himself by rising in his stirrups and waving his hand as though bespeaking a clear way, until he came close upon the chaise, when he apparently recognised its occupants, and strove to pull up his horse. With some difficulty, and not until he had shot past them, he succeeded; then turning back, he cried out--
"Dr. Osborne, I was going for you, sir. For God's sake, drive up to the house at once--you're wanted awful bad!"
"What is it?" asked the doctor.--"Quiet, my child, don't be alarmed; don't shake so.--There is nothing happened to your master?"
"No, sir; Master Tom."
"What of him--taken ill?"
"No, sir--chucked off the chestnut mare, and took up for dead in the Five Acres. Ben Pennington was bird-scarin' close by, and he see the accident and hollered out, and gave the alarm. And some of the farm-men came and got a hurdle, and put Master Tom on it and carried him up to the house. Master see 'em coming, and ran out, and would have fell down when he see who it was, but they caught hold of him; and they say he's like a madman now, and Miss Maude, she told me to come after you. Make haste, sir, please. Hadn't you better jump on this mare, sir? she'll carry you quicker nor that cob of yourn, and I'll drive Miss Ashurst home."
"Not for any money," said the doctor; "get on that horse, indeed! There'd be another accident, and no one to be of any assistance. I shall be up at the house in a very few minutes; ride on and say I'm coming.--Lord, my dear, fancy such an interruption to our conversation--such a bombshell bursting over the castle we were building in the air!"
"The doctor wishes to speak to you, miss, outside master's door," said Mrs. Caddy, in that hissing whisper which servants always assume in a house of sickness. "He didn't say anything about Master Tom, but his face is as white as white, and----"
"Thanks, Mrs. Caddy; I'd better go at once;" and Marian left the dining-room, where she had been doing her best to calm her mother's agitation, which expressed itself in sparse tears, and head-shakings, and deep-drawn sighs, and flutterings of her feeble hands, and ascended the stairs. As she gained the landing, the little doctor, who had evidently been on the watch, came out of a bedroom, shutting the door cautiously behind him, and hastening to her, took her hand and led her into the recess of a bay-window, round which was a luxurious ottoman.
When they had seated themselves, Marian broke silence.
"You have examined him, doctor? You know the worst?"
"I say nothing about the worst, my dear, as I just told our old friend; that is not for us to say. Poor boy! he is in a very bad way, there's no disguising that. It's a case of fracture of the skull, with compression of the brain--a very bad case indeed!"
"Does he know what has happened? Has he given any explanation of the accident?"
"None. He is insensible, and likely to remain so for some time. Now, my dear, you're the handiest person in the house, and the one with your wits most about you. This poor lad will have to be trepanned--ah! you don't understand what that is; how should you?--I mean, will have to be operated upon before he gets any relief. Under the circumstances, I don't choose to take the responsibility of that operation on myself, and, with Mr. Creswell's consent, I've telegraphed to London for one of our first surgeons to come down and operate. He will bring a professional nurse with him, but they cannot arrive until the mail at two in the morning, and as I must go down to the surgery for two or three little matters, and see some of my patients tucked up for the night, I intend leaving you in charge of that room. You have nothing to do but to keep everybody else--except, of course, Mr. Creswell--out of the room. You must not be frightened at Tom's heavy breathing, or any little restlessness he may show. That's all part of the case. Now, my child, be brave, and so good night for the present."
"Good night, doctor. Oh, one minute. You said you had telegraphed for a London surgeon. What is his name?
"What on earth makes you ask that, you inquisitive puss?" said the old gentleman, with a smile. "Have you any choice among London surgeons? His name is Godby--Godby of St. Vitus!"
Godby of St. Vitus! That was the name. She remembered it at once. The man for whom Dr. Osborne had telegraphed to come and see her father, or rather would have sent for, but for the amount of his fee. Good God, what a contrast between that sick room and this! The boy had been carried into his father's bedroom, as nearer and larger than his own; and as Marian looked around on every side, her glance fell on signs of comfort and luxury. The room was very large, lit by a broad bay window, with a splendid view of the surrounding country; the walls were hung with exquisite proof-prints in oaken frames, a table in the centre was covered with books and periodicals, while on a smaller table close by the bed was a plate piled with splendid grapes. The bed itself, with fresh bright chintz curtains hanging over it, and a rich eider-down quilt thrown on it, stood in a recess, and on it lay the suffering lad, giving no sign of life save his deep, heavy, stertorous breathing, and occasional restless motion of the limbs. How vividly the other room rose to her memory! She saw the ugly panelled walls, with the cracking, blistering paint, and knew the very spots from which it had been worn off. She saw the old-fashioned, lumbering bedstead, and the moreen curtains tied round each sculptured post. She remembered the roseate flush which the sunlight shed over the face of her dying father, the hopeless expression which remained there when the light had faded away. It was money, only money, that made the very wide difference between the two cases, and money could do anything. Money was fetching this clever surgeon from London, who would probably save the life of this wretched boy. What was the value of a life like this as compared to her father's? But, for the want of money, that sacred life had been suffered to pass away. Thoughts like these crowded on her brain, and worked her up to a pitch of feverish excitement during the early part of the night. She had plenty of time for reflection, for she had become accustomed to the regular heavy breathing of the patient, and no one entered the room save Mr. Creswell, who would sit for an hour together by his boy's bedside, and then, watch in hand, get up and murmur piteously: "Will the night never go! Will the man never come!"
"The man," Mr. Godby, principal surgical lecturer and demonstrator at St. Vitus's Hospital, was coming as fast as the mail-train could bring him. Unlike most of his brethren, he was essentially a man of the world, fond of studying all sorts and conditions of men, and with all his enormous practice finding time for society, theatres, music, and literature of all kinds. He was engaged out to dinner that day--to a very pleasant little dinner, where he was to have met the private secretary of a Cabinet minister, a newspaper editor, a portrait-painter, a duke, and a clerk in an insurance office, who gave wonderful imitations. The hostess was a French actress, and the cooking would have been perfect. So Mr. Godby shook his head very mournfully over the Helmingham telegram, and had he not held his old friend Osborne in great respect, and wished to do him a service, he would have refused to obey its mandate. As it was, he resigned himself to his fate, and arrived, chilled to the bone, but bright-eyed and ready-witted, at Woolgreaves at two in the morning. He shook his head when he saw the patient, and expressed to Dr. Osborne his doubt of the efficacy of trepanning, but he proposed to operate at once.
"It's all over, mother," said Marian to Mrs. Ashurst, the next morning. "Mr. Godby was right; poor Tom never rallied, and sank at seven this morning."
"God help his poor father!" said the old lady, through her tears; "he has nothing left him now."
"Nothing!" said Marian; then added, half unconsciously--"except his money! except his money!"
"Tea, my lady!"
"Very well. Tell Lady Caroline---- Oh, here you are! I was just sending to tell you that tea was ready. I saw you come in from your ride before the curtains were drawn."
"Did you? Then you must have seen a pretty draggletailed spectacle. I've caked my habit with mud and torn it into shreds, and generally distinguished myself."
"Did Mr. Biscoe blush?"
"Not a bit of it. Mr. Biscoe's a good specimen of a hard-riding parson, and seemed to like me the better the muddier and more torn I became. By the way, his wife is coming to dinner, isn't she? so I must drop my flirtation with the rector, and be on my best behaviour."
"Caroline, you are too absurd; the idea of flirting with a man like that!"
"Well, then, why don't you provide some one better for me? I declare, Margaret, you are ignorant of the simplest duties of hospitality! I can't flirt with West, because he's my brother, for one reason, and because you mightn't like it, perhaps, and because I mightn't care about it myself much. And there's no one else in the house who---- Oh, by the way, I'll speak about that just now--who else is coming to dinner?"
"Some people from the barracks--Colonel Tapp, and Mr. Frampton, the man who hunted through all those papers the other day to find the paragraph you asked him about, don't you know; a Mr. Boyd, a good-looking fair-haired boy, with an eyeglass, one of the Ross-shire Boyds, who is reading somewhere in the neighbourhood with a tutor; the Biscoes, the Porters--people who live at those iron gates with the griffins which I showed you; and--I don't know--two or three others."
"Oh, heavens, what a cheerful prospect! I hate the army, and I detest good-looking boys with eyeglasses; and I've been all day with Mr. Biscoe, and I don't know the griffin people, nor the two or three others. Look here, Margaret, why don't you ask Mr. Joyce to dinner?"
"Mr. Joyce? I don't know---- Good heavens, Caroline, you don't mean Lord Hetherington's secretary?"
"I do indeed, Margaret--why shouldn't I? He is quite nice and gentlemanly, and has charming eyes."
"Caroline, I wonder at your talking such nonsense. You ought to know me sufficiently----"
"And you ought to know me sufficiently to understand there's nothing on earth I detest like being bored. I shall be bored out of my life by any of the people you have mentioned, while I'm sure I should find some amusement in Mr. Joyce."
"You might probably find a great deal of amusement in Norton, the steward, or in William, my footman; but you would scarcely wish me to ask them to dinner?"
"I think not--not in William, at all events. There is a dull decorum about Mr. Norton which one might find some fun in bearing----"
"Caroline, be quiet; you areimpayable.Are you really serious in what you say about Mr. Joyce?"
"Perfectly--why not? I had some talk with him in the library the other day, and found him most agreeable."
"Well, then, I will send and say we expect him; will that satisfy you?
"No, certainly not! Seriously, Margaret, for one minute. You know that I was only in fun, and that it cannot matter one atom to me whether this young man is asked to join your party or not. Only, if youdoask him, don't send. You know the sort of message which the footman would deliver, no matter what formula had been intrusted to him; and I should be very sorry to think that Mr. Joyce, or any other gentleman, should be caused a mortification through any folly of mine."
"Perhaps you think I ought to go to him and offer him a verbal invitation?"
"Certainly, if you want him at all--I mean, if you intend asking him to dinner. You'll be sure to find him in the library. Now, I'm dying to get rid of this soaked habit and this clinging skirt! So I'm off to dress."
And Lady Caroline Mansergh gave her sister-in-law a short nod, and left the room.
Left alone, Lady Hetherington took a few minutes to recover herself. Her sister-in-law Caroline had always been a spoiled child, and accustomed to have her own way in the old home, in her own house when she married Mr. Mansergh--the richest, idlest, kindest old gentleman that ever slept in St. Stephen's first and in Glasnevin Cemetery scarcely more soundly afterwards--and generally everywhere since she had lost him. But she had been always remarkable for particularly sound sense, and had a manner of treating objectionably pushing people which succeeded in keeping them at a distance better even than the frigid hauteur which Lady Hetherington indulged in. The countess knew this, and, acknowledging it in her inmost heart, felt that she could make no great mistake in acceding to her sister-in-law's wishes. Moreover, she reflected, after all it was a mere small country-house dinner that day; there was no one expected about whose opinion she particularly cared; and as the man was domiciled in the house, was useful to Lord Hetherington, and was presentable, it was only right to show him some civility.
So, after leaving the drawing-room on her way to dress for dinner, Lady Hetherington crossed the hall to the library, and at the far end of the room saw Mr. Joyce at work, under a shaded lamp. She went straight up to him, and was somewhat amused at finding that he, either not hearing her entrance, or imagining that it was merely some servant with a message, never raised his head, but continued grinding away at his manuscript.
"Mr. Joyce!" said her ladyship, slightly bending forward.
"Hey?" replied the scribe, in whose ear the tones, always haughty and imperious, however she might try to soften them, rang like a trumpet-call. "I beg your pardon, Lady Hetherington," he added, rising from his seat; "I had no idea you were in the room."
"Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Joyce; I only looked in to say that we have a few friends coming to dinner tonight, and it will afford Lord Hetherington and myself much pleasure if you will join us."
"I shall be most happy," said Mr. Joyce.
And then Lady Hetherington returned his bow, and he preceded her down the room, and opened the door to let her pass.
"As if he'd been a squire of dames from his cradle," said her ladyship to herself. "The man has good hands, I noticed, and there was no awkwardness about him."
"What does this mean?" said Walter Joyce, when he reached his own room and was dressing for dinner. "These people have been more civil than I could have expected them to be to a man in my position, and Lord Hetherington especially has been kindness itself; but they have always treated me as what I am--'his lordship's secretary.' Whence this new recognition? One comfort is that, thanks to old Jack Byrne's generosity, I can make a decent appearance at their table. I laughed when he insisted on providing me with dress-clothes, but he knew better. 'They can't do you any harm, my boy,' I recollect his saying, 'and they may do you some good;' and now I see how right he was. Fancy my going into society, and beginning at this phase of it I wonder whether Marian would be pleased? I wonder----"
And he sat down on the edge of his bed and fell into a dreamy abstracted state; the effect caused by Marian's last long letter was upon him yet. He had answered it strongly--far more strongly than he had ever written to her before--pointing out that, at the outset, they had never imagined that life's path was to be made smooth and easy to them; they had always known that they would have to struggle; and that it was specially unlike her to fold her hands and beg for the unattainable, simply because she saw it in the possession of other people. "She dared not tell him how little hope for the future she had." That was a bad sign indeed. In their last parting walk round the garden of the old schoolhouse at Helmingham she had hinted something of this, and he thought he had silenced her on the point; but her want of hope, her abnegation of interest, was now much more pronounced; and against such a feeling he inveighed with all the strength and power of his honest soul. If she gave in, what was to become of him, whose present discomforts were only made bearable by anticipation of the time when he would have her to share his lot?
"And after all, Marian," he had said in conclusion, "what does it all mean? This money for which you wish so much--I find the word studding every few lines of your letter--this splendour, luxury, comfort--call it by what name you will--what does it all mean?--who benefits by it? Not the old gentleman who has passed his life in slaving for the acquisition of wealth! As I understand from you, his wife is dead, and his son almost estranged from him. Is this the end of it? If you could see his inmost heart, is he not pining for the woman who stood by his side during the conflict, and does he not feel the triumph empty and hollow without her to share it with him? Would he not sooner have his son's love and trust and confidence than the conservatory and the carriages and the splendour on which you dwell so rapturously? If you could know all, you would learn that the happiest time of his life was when he was striving in company with her he loved, and that the end now attained, however grand it may be, however above his original anticipations, is but poor and vain now she is not there to share it with him. Oh, Marian, my heart's darling, think of this, and be assured of its truth! So long as we love each other, so long as the sincerity of that love gives us confidence in each other, all will be well, and it will be impossible to shut out hope. It is only when a shadow crosses that love--a catastrophe which seems impossible, but which we should pray God to avert--that hope can in the smallest degree diminish. Marian, my love, my life, think of this as I place it before you! We are both young, both gifted with health and strength and powers of endurance. If we fight the battle side by side, if we are not led away by envy and induced to fix the standard of our desires too high, we shall, wemustsucceed in attaining what we have so often hopefully discussed--the happiness of being all in all to each other, and leading our lives together, 'for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.' I confess I can imagine no greater bliss--can you?"
He had had no answer to this letter, but that had not troubled him much. He knew that Marian was not fond of correspondence, that in her last letter she had given a full account of her new life, and that she could have but little to say; and he was further aware that a certain feeling of pride would prevent her from too readily indorsing his comments on her views. That she agreed with those comments, or that they would commend themselves to her natural sound sense on reflection, he had no doubt; and he was content to await calmly the issue of events.
The party assembled were waiting the announcement of dinner in the library, and when Joyce entered the room Lord Hetherington left the rug where he had been standing with two other gentlemen, and, advancing towards his secretary, took his hand and said--
"I am glad her ladyship has persuaded you to come out of seclusion, Mr. Joyce. Too much--what is it?--books, and work, and that kind of thing, is--is--the deuce, in point of fact!" And then his lordship went back to the rug, and Joyce having received a sufficiently distant bow from Lady Hetherington, retreated into a darkish corner of the room, into which the flickering firelight did not penetrate, and glanced around him.
Lady Hetherington looked splendidly handsome, he thought. She was dressed in maroon-coloured velvet, the hues of which lit up wonderfully in the firelight, and showed her classically shaped head and head-dress of velvet and black lace. Joyce had read much of Juno-looking women, but he had never realised the idea until he gazed upon that calm, majestic, imperious face, so clearly cold in outline, those large, solemnly radiant eyes, that splendidly moulded figure. The man who was bending over her chair as he addressed her--not deferentially, as Joyce felt that (not from her rank, but rather her splendid beauty) she should be addressed; on the contrary, rather flippantly--had a palpable curly wig, shaved cheeks, waxed moustache, and small white hands, which he rubbed gently together in front of him. He was Colonel Tapp, a Crimean hero, a very Paladin in war, but who had been worn by time, not into slovenry, but into coxcombry. Mr. Biscoe, the rector of the parish--a big, broad-shouldered, bull-headed man, with clean-cut features, wholesome complexion, and breezy whiskers: excellent parson as well as good cross-country man, and as kind of heart as keen at sport--stood by her ladyship's side, and threw an occasional remark into the conversation. Joyce could not see Lady Caroline Mansergh, but he heard her voice coming from a recess in the far side of the fireplace, and mingled with its bright, ringing Irish accent came the deep growling bass of Captain Frampton, adjutant of the depot battalion, and a noted amateur singer. The two gentlemen chatting with Lord Hetherington on the rug were magnates of the neighbourhood, representatives of county families centuries old. Mr. Boyd, a very good-looking young gentleman, with crisp wavy hair and pink-and-white complexion, was staring hard at nothing through his eyeglass, and wondering whether he could fasten one of his studs, which had come undone, without any one noticing him; and Mr. Biscoe was in conversation with a foxy-looking gentleman with sunken eyes, sharp nose, and keen, gleaming teeth, in whom Joyce recognised Mr. Gould, Lord Hetherington's London agent, who was in the habit of frequently running down on business matters, and whose room was always kept ready for him.
Dinner announced and general movement of the company. At the table Joyce found himself seated by Lady Caroline Mansergh, her neighbour on the other side being Captain Frampton. After bowing and smiling at Mr. Joyce, Lady Caroline said--
"Now, Captain Frampton, continue, if you please!"
"Let me see!" said the captain, a good soldier and a good singer, but not burdened with more brains than are necessary for these professions--"let me see! Gad--'shamed to say, Lady Car'line, forgot what we were talkin' of!"
"Mr. Chennery--you remember now?"
"Yas, yas, course, thousand pardons! Well, several people who heard him at Carabas House think him wonderful."
"A tenor, you say?"
"Pure tenor, one of the richest, purest tenor voices ever heard! Man's fortune's made--if he only behaves himself!"
"How do you mean, 'behaves himself,' Captain Frampton?" asked Lady Caroline, raising her eyebrows.
"Well, I mean sassiety, and all that kind of thing, Lady Caroline! Man not accustomed to sassiety might, as they say, put his foot in it!"
"I see," said Lady Caroline, with an assumption of gravity. "Exactly! and that would indeed be dreadful. But is this gentleman not accustomed to society?"
"Not in the least; and in point of fact not a gentleman, so far as I'm led to understand. Father's a shepherd; outdoor labouring something down at Lord Westonhanger's place in Wiltshire; boy was apprenticed to a stonemason, but people staying at the house heard of his singing, sent for him, and Lord Westonhanger was so charmed with his voice, had him sent to Italy and taught. That's the story!"
"Surely one that reflects great credit on all concerned," said Lady Caroline. "But I yet fail to see why Mr. Chennery should not behave himself!"
"Well, you see, Lady Caroline, Carabas House, and that sort of thing--people he'll meet there, you know, different from anything he's ever seen before."
"But he can but be a gentleman, Captain Frampton. If he were a prince, he could be no more!"
"No, exactly, course not; but pardon me, that's just it, don't you see, the difficulty is for the man to be a gentleman."
"Not at all; not the slightest difficulty!" And here Lady Caroline almost imperceptibly turned a little towards Joyce. "If Mr. Chennery is thrown into different society from that to which he has been hitherto accustomed, and is at all nervous about his reception or his conduct in it, he has merely to be natural and just as he always has been, to avoid any affectation, and he cannot fail to please. The art which he possesses, and the education he has received, are humanising influences, and he certainly contributes more than the average quota towards the enjoyment of what people call society."
Whether Captain Frampton was unconvinced by the argument, whether he found a difficulty in pursuing it, or whether he had by this time realised the fact that the soup was of superior quality, and worth paying attention to, are moot points; at all events, the one thing certain was, that he bowed and slightly shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into silence, while Lady Caroline, with a half smile of victory, which somehow seemed to include Walter Joyce in its expanding ripple, replied across the table to a polite query of Mr. Biscoe's in reference to their recent ride.
She certainly was very beautiful! Joyce had thought so before, as he had caught transient glimpses of her flitting about the house; but now that he had, unnoticed and unseen, the opportunity of quietly studying her, he-was astonished at her beauty. Her face was very pale, with an impertinent little nose, and deep-violet eyes, and a small rosebud of a mouth; but perhaps her greatest charm lay in her hair, which lay in heavy thick chestnut clumps over her white forehead. Across it she wore the daintiest bit of precious lace, white lace, the merest apology for a cap, two long lapels pinned together by a diamond brooch, while the huge full clump at the back, unmistakably real, was studded with small diamond stars. She was dressed in a blue-satin gown, set off with a profusion of white lace, and on her arm she wore a large heavy gold bracelet. Walter Joyce found himself gazing at her in an odd indescribable way. He had never seen anything like her, never realised such a combination of beauty, set off by the advantages of dress and surroundings. Her voice too, so bright and clear and ringing, and her manner to him--to him? Was it not to him that she had really addressed these words of advice, although they were surely said in apparent reply to Captain Frampton's comments? If that were so, it was indeed kind of Lady Caroline, true noble-hearted kindness: he must write and tell Marian of it.
He was thinking of this, and had in his mind a picture, confused indeed, but full of small details which had a strange interest for him, and a vivid sadness too, of the contrast between the scene of which he formed at this moment a part, and those familiar to himself and to Marian. He was thinking of the homely simple life of the village, of the dear dead friend, so much a better man, so much a truer gentleman than any of these people, who were of so much importance in a world where he had been of so little; of the old house, the familiar routine of life, not wearisome with all its sameness, the sweetness of his first love. He was thinking of the splendour, the enervating bewildering luxury of his present surroundings, among which he sat so strange, so solitary, save for the subtle reassuring influence, the strange, unaccountable support and something like companionship in the tones of that fair and gracious lady's voice, in the light of her swift flitting smile, in which he thought he read an admission that the company was little more to her taste than to his, had as little in common with her intellectual calibre as with his. He could not have told how she conveyed this impression to him, if he had tried to explain his feelings to any third person; he could not explain it to himself, when he thought over the events of the evening, alone in his room, which was a dingy apartment when compared with the rest of the house, but far better than any which had ever called him master; but there it was, strong and strangely attractive, mingling with the sights and sounds around him, and with the dull dead pain at his heart which had been caused by Marian's letter, and which he had never quite succeeded in conquering. There were unshed but not unseen tears in his eyes, and a slight tremulous motion in his lips, which one pair of eyes at the table, quick with all their languor, keen with all their disdainful slowness, did not fail to see. The owner of those beautiful eyes did not quite understand, could not "fathom" the meaning of the sudden glitter in his--"idle tears," indeed, on such an occasion, and in such company!--but, with the fine unfailing instinct of a coquette, she discerned, more clearly than Walter Joyce himself had felt it, that she counted for something in the origin and meaning of those unshed tears and of that nervous twitching.
Lady Caroline had just removed her eyes with well-feigned carelessness from Walter's face, after a covert glance, apparently casual, but in reality searching, in order to effect which she had leaned forward and plucked some geranium-leaves from a bouquet near her on the table; and Walter was removing himself still farther from the scene around, into the land of reverie, when a name spoken by Mr. Gould, and making an odd accidental harmony with his thoughts, fixed his wandering attention.
"What sort of weather had you in Hampshire?" asked Lord Hetherington, in one of those irksome pauses usually selected by some individual who is at once commonplace and good-natured enough to distinguish himself by uttering an inane sentiment, or asking an awkward question.
"Awful, I should fancy," said Lady Hetherington, in the most languid of her languid tones. "Awful, if it has been like the weather here. Were you really obliged to travel, Mr. Gould? I can't fancy any one going anywhere in such weather."
"As it happened," said Mr. Gould, with a rather impatient glance towards her ladyship--for he could not always smile complacently when she manifested her normal unconsciousness that anybody could have anything to do not entirely dependent on his or her own pleasure and convenience--"as it happened, I had not to go. A few days after I told his lordship the particulars of the sale of land, I had a letter informing me that the matter was all off for the present."
"Indeed!" said Lord Hetherington; "a domed bore for Langley, isn't it? He has been wanting to pick up something in that neighbourhood for a long time. But the sale will ultimately come off, I suppose, unless some one buys the land over Langley's head by private contract."
"There's no fear of that, I think," said Mr. Gould; "but I took precautions. I should not like Sir John to lose the slice off Woolgreaves he wants. The place is in a famous hunting country, and the plans are settled upon--like Sir John, isn't it?--for his hunting-box."
"I don't know that part of Hampshire at all," said Lord Hetherington, delighted at finding a subject on which he could induce one of his guests to talk without his being particularly bound to listen. "Very rich and rural, isn't it? Why didn't the--ah, the person sell the land Langley wanted there?"
"For rather a melancholy reason," replied Mr. Gould, while Lady Hetherington and the others looked bored by anticipation. Rather inconsiderate and bad taste of Mr. Gould to talk about "melancholy reasons" in a society which only his presence and that of the secretary rendered at all "mixed." But Mr. Gould, who was rather full of the subject, and who had the characteristic--so excellent in a man of business in business hours, but a little tiresome in social moments--of believing that nothing could equal in interest his clients' affairs, or in importance his clients themselves, went on, quite regardless of the strong apathy in the face of the countess. "The letter which prevented my going down to Woolgreaves on the appointed day was written by a lady residing in the house, to inform me that the owner of the property, a Mr. Creswell, very well known in those parts, had lost his only son, and was totally unfit to attend to any business. The boy was killed, I understand, by a fall from his pony."
"Tom Creswell killed!" exclaimed Walter Joyce, in a tone which directed the attention of every one at the table to the "secretary."
"I beg your pardon," Joyce went on, "but will you kindly tell me all you know of this matter? I know Mr. Creswell, and I knew this boy well. Are you sure of the fact of his death?"
The paleness of Walter's face, the intensity of his tone, held Lady Caroline's attention fixed upon him. How handsome he was! and the man could evidently feel too! How nice it would be to make him feel, to see the face pale, and to hear the voice deepen, like that, for her! It would be quitenew.She had any amount of flirtation always at hand, whenever she chose to summon its aid in passing the time; but feeling did not come at call, and she had never had much ofthatgiven her. These were the thoughts of only a moment, flashing through her mind before Mr. Gould had time to answer Joyce's appeal.
"I am sorry I mentioned the fact at so inappropriate a time," said Mr. Gould, "but still more sorry that there is no doubt whatever of its truth. Indeed, I think I can show you the letter." Mr. Gould wore a dress-coat, of course, but he could not have dined comfortably if he had not transferred a mass of papers from his morning-coat to its pockets. This mass he extricated with some difficulty, and selecting one, methodically indorsed with the date of its receipt, from the number, he handed it to Walter.
Lady Hetherington was naturally shocked at the infringement of thebien-séancescaused by this unfortunate incident, and was glancing from Mr. Gould to Mr. Joyce--from one element of the "mixture" in the assembled society to the other, with no pleasant expression of countenance--when Lady Caroline came to the rescue, with gracefulness, deftness, lightness all her own, and by starting an easy unembarrassed conversation with the gentleman opposite to her, in which she skilfully included her immediate neighbours, she dissipated all the restraints which had temporarily fallen upon the party. Something interesting to the elevated minds of the party, something different from the unpleasantness of a boy being killed whom nobody knew anything about, at a place which did not belong to anybody,--and the character of the dinner-party, momentarily threatened, was triumphantly retrieved.
Walter saw that the letter which Mr. Gould handed him was in Marian's writing. It contained an announcement of the calamity which had occurred, and an intimation that Mr. Creswell could not attend to any matters of business at present. That was all. Walter read the brief letter with sincere concern, commiseration for the childless rich man, and also with the thrill, half of curiosity, half of painless jealousy, with which one regards the familiar and beloved handwriting, when addressed, however formally, to another. He returned the letter to Mr. Gould, with a simple expression of thanks, and sat silent. No one noticed him. Every one had forgotten the dismal occurrence about somebody whom nobody knew, down in some place that did not belong to anybody. He had time to think unquestioned.
"I wonder she has not written to me. The accident occurred four days ago," he thought. "I suppose she has too much to do for them all. God bless her, she will be their best comfort."
Though unversed in the minor arts and smaller tactics of society, Walter was not so dull or awkward as to be ignorant of the skill and kindness with which Lady Caroline had acted on his behalf. When the ladies were to leave the room, as she passed him, their eyes met, and each looked at the other steadily. In her glance there was undisguised interest, in his--gratitude.