Chapter I.Life at Westhope.
"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 just 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-in-law, 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 whoOh, 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 knowGood 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 are impayable! 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 you do ask him, don't send. You know the sort of message which the footman would deliver, no matter what formula had been entrusted 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 a short nod, and left the room.
Left alone, Lady Hetherington took a few minutes to recover herself. Her pet sister 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'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 to-night, 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 school-house 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 them, 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, we must succeed 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 endorsing 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 looked around him.
Lady Hetherington looked splendidly handsome, he thought. She was dressed in maroon-coloured velvet, lit up wonderfully in the firelight, which 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 from her splendid beauty—she should be addressed, but 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 on 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 depôt battalion, and a noted amateur singer. The two gentlemen chatting with Lord Hetherington on the rug were magnates of the neighbourhood, representatives of old county families. Mr. Boyd, a very good-looking young gentleman, with crisp wavy hair and pink-and-white complexion, was staring hard at nothing through his eye-glass, 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 overburdened 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 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 toward 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 toward 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 chesnut 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 lappels 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 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 doosed 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 tell 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 quite new. 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 of that given 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 endorsed with the date of its receipt, from the number, he handed it to Walter.
Lady Hetherington was naturally shocked at the infringement of the bienséances caused 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's 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.