Henry was now in the habit of having letters. During his prosperous days
he had visited many shops of various kinds, not running up large bills,
but buying some article he fancied, with a promise to call and pay. How
the whole mercantile body in England could have heard that the little
prosperity he had enjoyed was now departed, it would be hard to say, but
such appeared to be the case; for although he had never been troubled
before, little bills from divers parts of London and England were now
suddenly sent in.
It gave him a feeling of desperation when, morning after morning, these
little bills appeared upon his table; and yet, notwithstanding the
desperation it caused, he would not draw a small balance which remained
from his last quarter, and which would have been sufficient to set this
particular annoyance at rest. Not one penny of _that_ money would he
touch, as he observed to himself again and again, grinding his teeth as
he said it.
He had been persuaded at this moment by a young man, one of the least
idle of his associates, to dine and sleep at his father’s villa at
Hampstead. It was the first diversion Henry had taken, and he was
persuaded to it only because the whirl of his brain frightened him. He
had attempted to take some lessons in arithmetic, and partly from the
agitation and nervousness into which the attempt cast him, and still
more because his pre-occupied mind refused to clear itself of its
imaginings, and give itself to its subject, he had disgraced himself.
This would not have mattered could he have taken it good-humouredly; his
teacher was probably accustomed to the sight of failure, but Henry could
not take it calmly. He saw contempt, as he fancied, in the face of his
instructor; he heard words of condemnation and contempt, and he
quarrelled with him.
It was after the despair caused by this last occurrence that Henry had
accepted the invitation to the house of his friend. Another day of
thought upon his prospects would, he felt, make him mad in good earnest,
and he went. It was the home of a rich merchant with a large family.
There were games, and there was music, and singing, and all that Henry
had formerly most enjoyed. But he could enjoy nothing now.
“I thought you said he was such a capital fellow,” said one of the girls
to her brother.
“So he is, but he is out of sorts. Don’t notice him. The change will do
him good.”
It was an amiable family, and the handsome young man out of sorts became
a subject of interest with the young ladies. They did not notice his
depression, but they tried hard to please, and so far succeeded that
Henry returned to London in a saner state of mind. For more than a month
he had listened unceasingly to his father’s cold words, his mother’s
complaints, his sister’s sharp remarks, and his own despairing
cogitations. It was no wonder that his poor brain had lost its
tranquillity. The fresh air, the change, and the kindness he had
received, all combined to allay the inward fever, and, to his surprise,
he whistled as he walked along the streets. But the sound of the whistle
brought him back to himself. “What’s the use?” he said, gloomily, and
the black dog sprang on his shoulders again. He banged the door of the
house as he entered with his wonted impatient movement, and strode up to
his room without vouchsafing an inquiry after the health of his family.
“You will find some letters in your room, sir,” said the housemaid, as
he passed her on the stairs.
“Hang them!” was his gracious reply.
There were five letters on his table. He knew the look of them and
their contents well; nevertheless, in gloomy disgust he opened them. One
was a small bill of five and sixpence for a pot of pomatum; another was
of ten shillings for a “waterfall.” But there was a more serious one, a
few words to remind him that he had never paid for a gun purchased the
year before, a matter of twenty or thirty pounds.
Henry groaned aloud. Not that this addition made any very great
difference in the amount of debt that hampered him. But there was
something in it which at that moment completely overset him. He dropped
the bill and groaned. It was then that his eye fell on Nora’s letter,
which was the last in the heap. He was not very well acquainted with her
handwriting, but by some intuition he recognized it, and he shuddered
as he took it up. It was opened, however, and read. But his mind,
overset and excited, could not calmly understand its contents.
“She is determined to trample upon me!” he cried passionately; “and I
will _not_ be trampled on. Thus I treat her and her offers,” and he
threw the letter on the ground, and put his foot upon it with a stamp.
Thus he stood, when there came a little, sharp tap at the door, and
without waiting permission to enter, Letitia opened it.
“You intended to escape me,” she said, with a laugh, “but you won’t. I
heard your very dignified slam, and should know it among a thousand
noises, and I came up to see what is the matter now.”
She walked a few steps towards him, and then exclaimed,
“Why, what _is_ the matter now? Goodness gracious me! you look as fierce
as crooked-backed Richard in the play last night.”
“I didn’t tell you to come in here,” Henry replied. “I am very busy, and
I don’t want you.”
“Not very busy, I think. Dancing on a piece of paper,” for her quick eye
had seen it at once.
“Not dancing on a bit of paper,” he said passionately; for, like a
child, he could be played upon to any extent. “Trampling on it, if you
will.”
“All the same. From the fierceness of your face, I did not suppose it
was a graceful dance. Well, what is it? One of your precious bills? How
childish! I would not vex myself about a bill.”
“It is _not_ a bill!” in a very loud voice.
Letitia was perfectly aware of that; but she paused a moment to examine
his face before she said--
“I guess it. You have received an offer of marriage from Miss Smythe, or
Smith, or whatever she chooses to be.”
“Have done with your folly!”
“Let me see how she words it,” and she stooped and endeavoured to pull
the letter from under his foot. “It is an awkward thing for a lady to
do; but I have no doubt she does it well.”
“Have done, I say!” he cried; and he took up the letter and put it in
his pocket.
“Come, Henry, don’t be nonsensical. I know it is from Miss Smythe. I
looked over your letters this morning, and I saw the Cheltenham
post-mark. That is where she lives, is it not?”
“I neither know nor care.”
“Well, if ever a man quarrelled with his bread and butter, it is you.
What is in that letter of course I can’t guess, but that it is an offer
of something I am sure. I don’t exactly suppose she mentions marriage;
but that is the aim and end, depend upon it. From all I hear, she does
not find many lovers, notwithstanding her riches, and she is determined
to make hay while she can.”
“Letitia, I hate you!” he cried with vehemence.
“Do you? You are not singular in that. I have not many lovers either.
But no matter for my affairs. I want to give you advice. Make up to
that woman, whether you can like her or not; make her like you, and
then profit by it.”
“I believe you are--” he paused.
“Well, what?” laughing.
“A fiend, Letitia.”
“Indeed I am not. I am only advising you for your good. If you could
make her like you, and then ill-use her, I own I should be glad. I hate
her, and a revenge in that small way, a jilt, an offence to her pomp,
would be a brilliant revenge; but I am sorry to say I have no such hope.
I know you are in love with her; if not, you are too soft to take any
revenge.”
“Go away, and leave me alone!” he cried half passionately, half wearily.
The soothing of the previous evening’s refreshment, even while soothing,
had unstrung him. While his sister spoke, there was a choking sensation
within which seemed as if it must find vent in tears.
“As you please. Only this, Henry--take my advice, and, whatever it may
be, accept her offer. I don’t believe in disinterested offers; I think
people always have a motive for what they do; above all, I don’t believe
in disinterested offers from _her_. I think she has a selfish motive in
making up to you, and, as I can think of no other, I suppose that motive
to be love. If so, don’t _you_ be a fool and throw your good hands away.
Now I have done.”
He made no comment nor answer to what she said, and she closed the door
and left him. Then he sat down at the table and put his face in his
hands, and sighed as from his heart’s depths. Letitia’s words had not
affected him as she intended, but the manner in which they affected him
tended to the same result.
She wished him to accept the offer, and she supposed every man would be
flattered by the suggestion that he had gained a heart. Of the malice
that coloured all her words she made no account. She had a malicious
disposition, and her words and thoughts were naturally coloured by it.
But while her suggestions of Miss Smythe’s affection for himself passed
totally unheeded by Henry’s ears, the maliciousness of her words made
him shudder.
He shuddered, not at Letitia, she was nothing to him, but at himself.
Why was this innocent being, who had innocently inherited that thing
which they desired, to be treated as he had treated her; to be thought
of as he thought of her? What had she done, that he should trample on
her kindness?
He raised his head and drew her letter from his pocket, and as he read
it tears fell from his eyes. It was the contrast of her words, soft,
kind, truthful, and touched with gentle reproach, to the words of his
sister and his own hard thoughts, which thus affected him. His nerves
were unstrung, and for a few moments the tears dropped one by one on the
letter, and he was unconscious of it. When he did perceive them,
although he dashed them away with a passionate gesture, he still
remained gazing on the words before him, and yielding to the softer
impulse that was stealing over him.
Henry was the slave of his impulses. He had never learned, had scarcely
been taught to control them, and after a short cogitation he yielded to
his impulse now. It was on this occasion a good one, a forgiving
impulse, one tending to humble himself; and, without consulting anyone,
he took up a pen and wrote:--
“MADAM,
“I accept the offer you make me, and will do my best to discharge
the duties you entrust to me faithfully.
“I know well that I am at present unfit for such a charge, but I
will endeavour to make myself fit; and I trust you may not repent
the generous confidence you show in me.
“Your humble servant,
“HENRY DEVEREUX.”
The formal style proceeded from three different sources, of none of
which he was exactly conscious. He only knew that so, and so only, did
he choose to write; that as a stranger only did he choose to be
employed by her.
The three sources were pride, self-defence, and hate. It was a balm to
his impotent pride to express himself thus. The style he used was an
answer to his sister’s insinuations; and to sever himself from her, to
place her in her personal relations far from him, was food to that hate
which, in the midst of his penitence and softer feelings, still fretted
him, still kept him unquiet and disturbed.
When his letter was written, and the envelope directed, he rose and rang
his bell with vehemence. The nurse and a housemaid both flew to answer
it. Henry was the only person who was loved or respected in the house.
His ways certainly asked for no great respect, and his “Hang them” to
the communications made him were not strictly to be called courteous.
Still, so it was. Henry was beloved, and in a certain sense respected
also. The servants, when they looked in his face, saw the good nature
that shone through the faults; and, looking up to that good nature,
reverenced it.
He took no great notice of the _empressement_ shown to obey him, but
said with peremptoriness,
“Beg my mother to come up and speak to me.”
The door closed, and he stood with the two letters in his hand until his
mother came.
“Goodness me, Henry, do you want to startle us quite out of our wits?”
she began, gaspingly.
“No, mother--never mind. I want you to read these two letters. There,
sit down,” perceiving she was really out of breath. “I beg your pardon.”
He pushed her into a chair, and put the letters into her hand; then
stood looking at her.
“Now, for goodness sake, Henry, do turn your eyes away! How ever am I to
read if you stand staring like that.” Most people would have felt the
same.
“Remember, mother,” he said, as he moved away, “that I ask no opinion. I
want you to read them, that you may tell my father what I have done.
What she says, and what I have said. Don’t hurry yourself. When you have
finished, I shall take my letter to the post at once.”
“Do you want me to learn them by heart, then?” she asked, in sincere
alarm.
“No, no, only remember them. Get on, mother, pray do.” He spoke
coaxingly--he was hardly ever ferocious with her.
It took Mrs. Devereux a considerable time to master the two letters.
From maternal affection, she read Henry’s first; and not understanding
it in the least, had to turn to the other. “Who is Madam?” she inquired,
while she was puzzling over it; but as her son did not answer, she asked
no further questions. When Miss Smith’s had been fully mastered, she
turned again to Henry’s, and the first comment she made on the
correspondence was--
“I don’t see why you put ‘your humble servant’; you are quite as good as
she is. In point of family a great deal better, as I have often told
you.”
“Never mind, mother. I put what I thought best. I do not want any
opinion; I only want you to know what I do, and to tell my father. Of
course,” and he kissed her, “I shall be glad if you are glad.”
Henry’s little tendernesses were the one charm of Mrs. Devereux’s life.
He was the only one of her children who ever kissed her, except at
stated times; and whenever he kissed her, she felt like a slave at his
feet.
“Of course, my dear boy, I am very glad. It seems quite like what people
call an opening; and I daresay the work will be nothing so very hard.
Odd work it sounds, looking after workmen; but I daresay you will like
it better than sitting at a desk.”
She did not feel very clear as to whether he was to make mortar or not:
but she felt this would be rather good fun if it were so.
“Oh! yes, I shall like the work. Do you remember the letters, mother?”
“Yes, pretty well. They are very proper letters. I don’t quite like that
humble servant, but perhaps I am wrong.”
“That will do, then, mother. And I hope,” he added, and as he spoke he
kissed her again, “that I shall never in future worry you as I have done
for the last month.”
“I am sure I hope not,” she honestly said, notwithstanding the kiss. “I
assure you, my dearest boy, I have hardly slept a wink; for what was to
become of you I did not see.”
“No more did I. Now, mother, that will do.” And she obediently
disappeared.
She reserved her news till her husband came in, notwithstanding
Letitia’s pertinacious efforts to know what that idiot Henry was about.
It was not often that she was placed in a position so important. When he
came in she made her statement, and considering all things, made it
pretty faithfully. She did, indeed, leave both her hearers in great
perplexity as to what the proposed office was, some idea of manual work
lingering in her head; but still she conveyed a not unfaithful idea of
the correspondence; she especially remembered, and reported with
emphasis, the beginning and end of each letter.
“How ridiculous of Henry!” was Letitia’s comment. “I would have died
sooner than put ‘humble servant’ to her.”
“I did point that out,” replied her mother. “I told him that he was as
good as she was in point of family, and a great deal better.”
“That has nothing to do with it, mamma. If the Queen was writing, she
might put it to you if she pleased. But I would not have put it to
_her_. So that was the mystery! Well, he has taken my advice.”
“You do not speak, my love,” said Mrs. Devereux, looking at her husband.
“I hope you do not disapprove of what Henry has done?”
Mr. Devereux was looking fixedly at the fire. On his hard, impassive
face no expression was to be seen. Even Letitia did not feel certain of
his feeling on the subject.
After a moment Mrs. Devereux repeated a part of her question.
“I do not know,” he then said, turning slowly round, and speaking with
that cold calm bitterness which made his voice at times unlike a human
voice, “whether I am most disgusted or delighted.”
His wife, even after her many years’ experience, totally blind to his
unamiable disposition, gazed at his hard face with amazed curiosity. He
answered the gaze.
“I am disgusted with Henry for accepting a servile employment under such
a woman; but my disgust is qualified by the delight of knowing that he
can do her nothing but mischief.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Devereux, “I think Henry will do his best.”
A sound came from her husband that was more like a laugh than anything
that had ever proceeded from him. But such a laugh as it was! It made
his wife uncomfortable; it even for a moment repelled Letitia. Nothing
more was then said about Henry’s prospects. Later in the evening, when
Letitia, who, finding, as was usual, the society of her parents
wearisome, retired, Mr. Devereux spoke again.
“You will tell Henry from me that I approve,” he said, suddenly looking
up from some papers he was studying.
“Yes, my love. I hoped you would.”
“That is quite enough for him to know. You need not say another word.”
“No, my love.”
“If he can bring himself to receive as pay the money which is his own,
it is his affair, not mine. If justice will not give it, let us take it
when we can.”
“I sometimes think,” observed his wife, after a moment of intense
thought, “that perhaps all the money _is_ hers. In a kind of way, at
least,” seeing his darkening face.
“We may think any folly,” was all he coldly observed, and returned to
his papers.