"HE LOVES ME; HE LOVES ME NOT."
The interest which Walter Joyce had awakened in Lady Caroline Mansergh
on the night of the dinner-party by no means died out, or even waned.
Flirtation is certainly not an exceptional amusement in the dead level
of dreary occupations which a country-house life affords, but this
word-pastime was certainly not flirtation. The notion of flirting with
her brother's secretary, which would have been exceedingly comic to
the rest of the world, and afforded a vast deal of amusement to the
kindly noodle portion of the Westhope society, did not strike Lady
Caroline at all in a ridiculous light; but to flirt with Walter Joyce
she knew would be impossible. The sighing and looking, the giving and
taking, the fetching and carrying, and all the poodle tricks which are
played by the best style of male flirts, in the best style of society,
she knew would be impossible to him; and though she had had long
practice in the art, and had derived no little amusement from it, she
felt it would be repulsive to her to try her hand on such a subject.
If not a desire for flirtation, what was it that irresistibly impelled
her to seek this man's society; that made her start and thrill at the
unexpected sound of his voice; that enabled her to picture to herself
so vividly certain expressions in his eyes, gestures of his hands, to
recall phrases of his conversation? Was it real passion? Had love come
to her at last? Was this the man with whom her fate was to be for ever
bound up? Lady Caroline half smiled as she contemplated this
tremendous possibility. It was too wild, too romantic, this story of
the Lord of Burleigh with the sexes reversed, and with herself for
heroine; the man was different from those with whom her life had been
passed, had brains and courage to use them, did not think the society
thoughts nor speak the society language, and was not conformable in
any way to the society pattern. That was what it meant. That was the
source of the strange interest she felt in him--interest which was
friendly and appreciative, but nothing further.
Nothing further. That was why she had manoeuvred, carefully,
skilfully, and with perfect feminine tact, never ceasing until the
object was accomplished, that it was understood that Mr. Joyce joined
the family circle always after dinner, whether there were visitors or
not; that was why she invariably found opportunities to have him
seated by her side, or standing by her turning over the pages of her
music, while Lord Hetherington, with a dexterity only acquired by long
practice, held up the newspaper before him, being at the time sound
asleep, and her ladyship, scorning concealment, slumbered placidly in
the garish light of the moderator lamp.
Nothing further. That was why Lady Caroline had suddenly taken to
pedestrian exercise, wanted an escort occasionally to the village, and
hated the idea of being followed about in the country by a footman;
found she had quite forgotten that charming Shakespeare, and
determined to read his dear plays again, and would not trouble Mr.
Joyce to send those heavy big volumes from the library, but would come
in and read them there occasionally, if he was quite sure she did not
disturb him. The jealous tortures endured by the valiant Othello,
which Lady Caroline selected for her first Shakespearian reading,
apparently did not interest her very much. The great family history of
the Wests, derived from ancient chronicles and documents, upon which
Lord Hetherington's secretary was engaged, made but little progress on
the occasions of her ladyship's visits. There were the longest and the
pleasantest talks. In Caroline Mansergh's hands Joyce was as pliable
as potter's clay. In less than a week after the dinner-party he had
told her the history of his life, made her acquainted with his hopes
and fears, his wishes and aspirations. Of course she heard about his
engagement to Marian; equally of course that was the part of the story
in which she felt and shared the greatest interest. Very quickly she
knew it all. Under her skilful questioning, Joyce not merely told her
what had actually occurred, but opened to her the secret chambers of
his heart, and displayed to her penetrating sense feelings with the
existence of which he himself was scarcely acquainted. The odd
uncomfortable sensation which first came over him in his last walk
with Marian round the school garden, when she spoke of how it might
have been better if they had never met, and how poorly armed he was
for the great conflict of life, the renewal of the sting with its
bitterness increased fifty-fold at the receipt of her letter dilating
on the luxury of Woolgreaves, and her dread of the poverty which they
would have to encounter, the last hint given to him in the worldly
advice contained in Jack Byrne's letter--all these were submitted to
Lady Caroline's keen powers of dissection, without Walter's being in
the least aware how much of his inner life he had made patent to her.
A look, a nod, a word here or there, begat, increased, and developed
his assurance of sympathy; and he could have talked till all eternity
on the subject dearest to his heart.
Lady Caroline let him talk, and only starred the dialogue with
occasional interjections, always of a sympathising character. When she
was alone, she would sit for hours reviewing the conversation just
past in the minutest detail, weighing and reweighing sentences and
even words which Joyce had spoken, sifting, balancing, ascribing to
such and such influences, putting aside such and such theories,
bringing all her feminine wits--and in the great points of feminine
cleverness, an odd common sense, and an undefinable blundering on to
the right, she had no superior--to the solution of the question of
Walter Joyce's future so far as Marian Ashurst was concerned. Whatever
conclusion she may have arrived at she kept to herself; no one ever
had the slightest glimmering of it. Her talks with Walter Joyce were
as numerous as ever, her interest in his career no less, her delight
in his society by no means impaired; but the name of Miss Ashurst
never passed Lady Caroline's lips, and whenever she saw the
conversation necessarily veering that way, she invariably struck it
out into some new channel. Not that Lady Caroline Mansergh had any
jealousy of this "simple maiden in her flower;" she would not have
allowed that for an instant, would not have allowed, in her most
secret communings with herself, that such a thing could be possible;
for she had been properly and rigidly brought up in the Belgravian
code of morals, though a little inclined to kick against them now and
think for herself; and the Belgravian code of morals holds the
cultivation of the _bien-séances_ as the most essential portion of a
young lady's curriculum, and the _bien-séances_ effectively ignored
the existence of any such low sentiment as jealousy in the minds of
perfectly constituted members of the upper classes. Not that Walter
Joyce would have noticed the display of any such passion as jealousy,
or, as Lady Caroline thought rather ruefully, could allow any
such feeling to be excited in him. In all her experience--and
it had been large and vast--she had never come across a man so
completely---- Well, she could scarcely find a term for it. It was not
apathetic; because he was bright and intelligent and earnest. Perhaps
confiding was the best word to use so far as his relations with Marian
were concerned, though, as Lady Caroline felt, those relations were a
little dashed with recent doubt; and as for his feelings with regard
to herself, skilled mistress as she was in the art of such wordy
warfare, Lady Caroline could never trap him into an ambuscade, or
force him into anything like an acknowledgment of a liking for her. It
was not for the want of trying to evoke it, not for lack of given
opportunity on her part, that this avowal never was made. Fortune
favoured her, notably on one occasion; and if Walter Joyce had ever
contemplated anything beyond a feeling of pleasant friendship for Lady
Caroline Mansergh, he would have availed himself of that occasion for
expressing it. Thus it came about. Lady Caroline was sitting half
buried in a big soft easy-chair before the library fire, presumably
enjoying _Othello_, but really watching her brother's secretary, who
was busily transcribing from a big black-letter volume before him some
of the glorious deeds of her remote ancestry. Raising his eyes after
one of his pen-dips, Joyce met Lady Caroline's glance fixed straight
upon him, and said--
"Thinking of Iago's subtlety, Lady Caroline, or Desdemona's innate
weakness? The former, I should say, judging from your expression."
"My expression must be very poor, then, Mr. Joyce, or your powers of
reading expression must be extremely limited. I was thinking of
something totally different."
"May one ask of what?"
He had had a long day at the chronicles of the West family, and a
little relief was absolutely necessary.
"Oh dear, yes; my thoughts were certainly not to be marked
'confidential' or even 'private.' I was thinking about our going back
to town."
"Oh, indeed! Is that imminent?"
"I should say certainly. Parliament meets within a fortnight, and
West, I mean Lord Hetherington, never misses that. Lady Hetherington
won't let him go alone, and once in Beaufort Square, I suppose they'll
stop on."
"I suppose so. This house will seem wonderfully different when you
have all left it."
"Naturally. Deserted houses must be different to those filled with
company, though their actual appearance is of course only known to the
housekeeper who is left in them, and housekeepers seldom give their
impressions to the world."
"If you are interested in the subject, perhaps you will permit me to
give you a faithful photograph of Westhope in its dismantled state."
"Evolved from your inner graciousness, like the German's idea of the
camel?"
"On the contrary, drawn in the minutest detail from personal
observation. The exact position of the pen which Lord Hetherington
threw down after signing his last cheque for Mr. Deacon, the steward,
the state of the withering hothouse flowers left by her ladyship on
her table in the drawing-room, the vacant chair in the library once
filled by----"
"Thanks, that's enough! I won't trouble you to be poetical, Mr. Joyce;
that will be wanted one day at Helmingham, I suppose, and it's never
wise to be extravagant with one's ideas. But you don't mean to say you
think you will be left behind here, at Westhope, when the family
returns to town?"
"Assuredly, Lady Caroline! How else should I be able to make any
progress with my work?"
"I think you will find," said Lady Caroline, with a smile, "that the
history of our family, wonderfully interesting as it doubtless is, and
anxiously expected by the literary world, as it necessarily must be,
will have to remain in abeyance for a little time. The fact is, that
Lord Hetherington has been recently much struck with the levelling and
democratic spirit of the age, and has determined, so far as he is
able, to stem the torrent. He will need a certain amount of assistance
before bringing the matter before the House of Lords, and for that
assistance I know he looks to you!"
He was a trying man, this Mr. Joyce. There was a scarcely suppressed
gleam of fun in Lady Caroline's usually earnest eyes that ought to
have
conveyed to any man acquainted with the circumstances of the position
the fact that this new combination had been suggested by her, and by
her alone, and that she perfectly appreciated not merely its
serviceable but its ludicrous side. Walter Joyce appreciated neither.
He should of course be ready to give his services in whatever way they
might be required, he said, adding with clumsy candour that he had
been almost looking forward to the time of the family's departure for
the additional facilities which would be afforded him in getting on
with his work.
This was too much for Lady Caroline. A flush passed across her cheek,
as she said--
"It has been Lady Hetherington's accidental, and by no means wilful
error, Mr. Joyce, that your time has been already so much intruded on.
We have, unfortunately for us no doubt, been unaccustomed to the ways
of recluses, and have preposterously imagined that a little society
might be more agreeable to them than----"
But here she stopped, catching sight of the troubled expression on his
face, of his downcast eyes and twitching lips. There was silence for a
moment, but he soon mastered his emotion.
"I see plainly that I have blundered, as was not unnatural that I
should, through the lack of power of expressing myself clearly.
Believe me, Lady Caroline, that I am infinitely indebted to Lord and
Lady Hetherington, and to you especially. Yes, indeed, for I know
where the indebtedness lies--more especially to you for all the
kindness you have shown me, and the notice you have taken of me. And
I--I intended----"
"Will you prove the truth of your protestations by never saying
another word on the subject? The give-and-take principle has been
carried out in our society as much as the most ardent democrat,
say yourself, Mr. Joyce, could have desired. I am sure you are too
good-natured to mourn over the hours torn from your great work and
frittered away in frivolous conversation when you know that you have
helped Lady Hetherington and myself to undergo an appalling amount of
country people, and that while the dead Wests may grieve over the
delay in the publication of their valour and virtue, the living Wests
are grateful for assistance rendered them in their conflict with the
bores. However, all that is nearly at an end. When the family is at
Hetherington House, I have no doubt you will be enabled to enjoy the
strictest seclusion. Meantime, there is only one festivity that I know
of which is likely to cause us to ask you to tear yourself away from
your chronicles."
"And that is?"
"A skating-party. Consequently dependent on the state of the weather.
So that if you are still hermitically inclined, you had better pray
for a thaw. If the frost holds like this, we are anticipating a very
pleasant afternoon to-morrow: the people from the barracks and some
others are coming over, the men report the ice in capital order, and
there's to be luncheon and that kind of thing. But perhaps, after all,
you don't skate, Mr. Joyce?"
"Oh yes, indeed--and you?"
"Nothing in the world I'm so fond of, or, if I may say so, that
I do so well. We wintered one year in Vienna; there was a piece of
water privately enclosed called the Schwann Spiegel, where the
Emperor--never mind!"
The next day was very bright and very pleasant. Whether Walter Joyce
had prayed for a thaw or not, it is certain that the frost of the
previous night had been very mild as compared with its immediate
predecessors; the wind had shifted round to the south-west, the sun
had actual warmth, and weatherwise people assumed to notice a certain
dun effect of the atmosphere, and therefrom to presage snow. The
notion of the skating-party about to take place had been received with
immense delight at the barracks at Brocksopp, and at the various
houses to which invitations had been forwarded. To exhibit themselves
in becoming costume a little removed from ordinary every-day dress was
in itself a delight to the younger members of society; while the
elders, independently of their gratification in being brought
personally into contact with the Lord-Lieutenant of the county, knew
the capabilities of the Westhope cellar and kitchen, and recognised
the fact that luncheon under such auspices meant something more than
sandwiches and cheap sherry. The gathering was held on a large sheet
of water which was a pond, but which, being situate in the Westhope
domain, profited by the generally aristocratic nature of its
surroundings and was called a lake, lying about half a mile from the
house. A large tent had been pitched on the bank, and as of course it
was impossible to have any regular sit-down luncheon, refreshments
were perpetually going on, "snacks" were indulged in between the
performance of wild evolutions given out to be quadrilles, and gone
through to the music of the military band, which, with very blue
cheeks and very stiff fingers, was playing on the bank, and the
consumption of liquids, from champagne in tumblers to curaçoa in
wine-glasses, was tremendous.
The party from Westhope had driven down in a break, in which a seat
had been offered to Walter Joyce by Lady Hetherington herself, who had
condescended to visit the library for the express purpose. It
happened, however, that the secretary was specially engaged on an
important letter, which it was necessary should be despatched that
day, so that he was compelled to ask to be allowed to find his own way
to the lake. When he arrived, there was already a large gathering, the
bank was lined with spectators, and there was a tolerably large number
of skaters. Lord Hetherington, wrapped in an enormous fur coat, with a
hood hanging half-way down his back, was standing looking on with a
somewhat melancholy expression. It had just occurred to him that
skating was a pleasant pastime, that to skate well was a thing of
which a man might reasonably be proud; at the same time he realised
the fact that it was a thing impossible to be done by proxy--he could
not get any man to skate for him and give him the credit of it.
Colonel Tapp, cleaner shaved and waxier moustached than ever, stood by
his lordship. The colonel did not skate--not that he could not; in his
youth he had been a proficient in the art, but he was not in his youth
now, and was so strapped, and busked, and laced into his various
garments, outer and inner, that he feared if by mischance he fell it
might either be impossible for him to get up at all, or something
might give way and cause him to be raised in a limp and unpresentable
condition. Mr. Biscoe had no such qualms, and was buckling on his
skates with all his characteristic impetuosity--old-fashioned skates,
cumbrous with woodwork, and with curly tops, very different from the
light and elegant trifles in which handsome little Mr. Boyd was
performing all sorts of figures before the countess and a group of
ladies gathered together on the bank, and trying to look as if they
were interested and amused.
"Charmin' scene!" said Lord Hetherington, surveying the lake in a
birdlike fashion, with his head on one side. "Quite charmin'! Whenever
I see ice and that kind of thing, always reminds me of some humorous
adventures I once read in a book 'bout man on the ice; Pickwinkle, or
some such name. 'Commonly humorous book, to be sure!" and his lordship
laughed very heartily at his reminiscences.
"You mean Pickwick, my lord," said the colonel. "Ah! hope what
happened to him won't happen to any of our party, specially our fair
friends who are pirouetting away there so prettily. If you recollect
the ice broke and Mr. Pickwick got a ducking. How's the ice, Boyd?" to
the boy who came spinning to the edge at the moment.
"First class, colonel; couldn't be in better form; it's as hard as
nails and as slippery as--as old boots," said Mr. Boyd, after
hesitating an instant for an appropriate simile.
"Ah! but just keep up this end, will you?" said Mr. Biscoe, looking
up, his face purple with the exertion of pulling at a refractory
strap. "I was past here yesterday morning and saw that at the other
end the men had broken up the ice for the deer or the waterfowl, and
consequently what's there is only last night's frost, binding together
the floating bits of yesterday, and likely to be very rotten."
"Better have a board with 'Dangerous' or somethin' of that sort
written on it and stuck up, hadn't we?" suggested Lord Hetherington,
with Serpentine reminiscences.
"Scarcely time to get one prepared, my lord," replied Mr. Biscoe, with
a slight smile. "Here, two of you men take a rope and lay it across
the ice just below that alder tree--that'll warn 'em; and you, Boyd,
tell 'em all to keep above that line. No good having any bother if one
can prevent it." And Mr. Biscoe hobbled down the bank and shot away
across the lake, returning in an instant, and showing that if his
skates were old-fashioned, he could keep pace with any of the young
ones notwithstanding.
"Nice exercise--very," said the colonel, who was getting so cold that
he was almost prepared to risk the chance of a tumble, and "have a
pair on." "I do like to see a woman skating; there's something in it
that's--ah!" and the old colonel kissed the tips of his fingers,
partly to warm them, partly to express his admiration. "Now, who is
that in the brown velvet trimmed with fur?--she seems to know all
about it."
"That's my sister Caroline," said his lordship, looking through his
double glass. "Yes, she skates capitally, don't she? Pretty dress,
too; looks like those people in the pictures outside the polkas, don't
it? Who's---- Oh, Mr. Joyce! How d'ye do, Mr. Joyce? My secretary;
very decent young man, that."
The colonel merely coughed behind his buckskin glove. He did not think
much of secretaries, and shared Jack Cade's opinion in regard to the
professors of the arts of reading and writing. Just then Lady Caroline
approached the bank.
"Colonel, are you inclined to back the service in general and your own
regiment in particular? Mr. Patey and I are going to have a race. Of
course he gives me a long start. Will you bet?"
"Too delighted to have the chance of losing," said the colonel with
old-fashioned gallantry. "And I'll give odds, too--a dozen pairs to
half-a-dozen.--Patey, sustain the credit of the corps in every
particular."
"Depend on me, colonel," said Mr. Patsy, a long-limbed lieutenant of
untiring wind. "Mr. Boyd, take Lady Caroline to her place, and then
start us."
Walter Joyce had heard none of this colloquy. He had joined Mr.
Biscoe, with whom he had formed a great friendship, and was showing
him how to shift from the outer edge of an "eight," and shoot off into
a "spread eagle,"--an intricate movement requiring all your
attention,--when he heard a sharp crack, followed by a loud shout.
Without a word they dashed off to the other end of the lake where the
crowd was greatest. Joyce arrived first. What he saw was a large pool
of water where ice had been; floating on it a small round velvet cap
trimmed with fur. He looked hastily round. She was not there--then he
knew what had occurred.
At that instant his arm was seized by Mr. Biscoe, who whispered--
"Wait, man! They're fetching the rope!"
"Stand back," he cried, "it'd be too late! Let me go!" and the next
instant he was diving beneath the floating fragments of the ice.
"It was as near as a toucher," Mr. Boyd said; and he was right. When
they pulled him in, Joyce's arm, which had been wound round Lady
Caroline, had nearly given way, and the hand with which he had clung
to the ice-edge was all bruised and bleeding. Just as they were lifted
on shore he thought he saw her lips move. He bent his head, and heard
one word--"Walter!"--then he fainted.