DURING THE INTERVAL.
Saturday morning, the day after that on which Joyce had sent off the
eventful letter to Marian. Twelve o'clock, and no appearance as yet of
Lady Caroline Mansergh, who had sent word that she had a slight
headache, and would take her breakfast in her room. Lady Hetherington
hated people having breakfast in their rooms: it did not, of course,
inconvenience her in the least; she herself was never particularly
lively in the morning, and spoke very little, and disliked being
spoken to, so that it was not the loss of companionship that she
regretted; it was merely what people called a "fad" of hers, that the
household generally should assemble at the breakfast-table, and she
was annoyed when anything occurred to prevent it.
Her ladyship was generally out of temper that morning, several things
having conspired to disturb her equanimity. They were about to move
the establishment to London, which was always a sore trial for her at
the best of times; but now that they were going up before Easter, it
was specially hard to bear. She had told Lord Hetherington, as she
pathetically narrated both orally and by letter to all her friends,
that it was useless their going to Hetherington House at that time of
the year, when they would find no one in town but members' wives who
had come up for the session, and the wretched people who live there
all their lives; there wouldn't be a soul they knew, and the draughts
at Hetherington House were perfectly awful; and yet Lord Hetherington
would go. She could not imagine what had come to him. The last
morning's post had brought her a letter from her milliner, asking for
money; and even the greatest ladies sometimes not merely dislike being
asked for money, but have difficulty in finding it; and the countess's
stock of ready cash happened to be very low at that moment. And the
new housekeeper who had come from Lady Rundell Glasse's, and who was
so highly recommended, had turned out a complete failure, and must be
got rid of before they go to town; and old Mrs. Mason, the town
housekeeper, must be telegraphed to to look out for some one else; and
altogether her ladyship was thoroughly upset, and, wanting some one to
vent her ill-humour on, and having lost her judgment as well as her
temper, thought she would find that some one in Lady Caroline. So,
when twelve o'clock arrived, and her sister-in-law had not put in an
appearance, the countess went to her room, entered upon her knock, and
found Lady Caroline buried in a huge chair in front of the fire
reading a book, while her maid was combing her hair. There was
scarcely anything which Lady Caroline liked better than having her
hair combed--not dressed, that she hated--but quietly combed and
brushed alternately. She almost purred under the sensation, like a cat
whose fur is smoothed the right way; it was pleasant, it was
refreshing, it soothed her, and put her on good terms with the world;
so that when she looked up and saw Lady Hetherington, to whom she was
not very partial, she received her with a smile, and expressed her
delight at the visit.
"It is really immensely good of you to come and see me, Margaret,
especially when I know you're not fond of taking trouble in a general
way," she said, putting her book on to her lap and looking up
languidly.
"They told me you were ill, or I don't know that I should have come,"
retorted Lady Hetherington with some asperity.
"Ah, that was quite right of them; I told them to say that.--You can
go, Phillips"--to the maid--"I'll ring when I want you.--I don't
suppose there's any harm in sending mendacious messages by the
servants; do you? It would be far more demoralising to them if one
were to tell the truth and say one was lazy, and that kind of thing,
because it would provoke their contempt instead of their pity, and
fill them with horrible revolutionary ideas that there was no reason
why they shouldn't be lazy as well as we, and all sorts of dreadful
things."
"If I had thought it was mere laziness that kept you to your room this
morning, Caroline, I think my dislike 'of taking trouble in a general
way' would have influenced me in this particular instance, and saved
you the bore of my interrupting you."
"That's where you're so ungenerous, Margaret. Not the smallest bore in
the world; the stupidity of this book, and Phillips's action with the
hair-brush combined, were sending me off to sleep, and you interfered
at an opportune moment to rescue me. How is West this morning?"
"Very much as he was last night. Intent on distinguishing himself on
this--what do you call it?--irrigation scheme."
"Oh dear, still harping on those channels and pipes, and all the rest
of it! Poor Mr. Joyce! there is plenty of work in store for him, poor
fellow."
"Dreadful, will it not be, for that charming young man to be compelled
to work to earn his wages?" said Lady Hetherington with a sneer.
Lady Caroline looked up, half astonished, half defiant. "Salary, not
wages, Margaret," she said, after a moment's pause.
"Salary, then," said her ladyship shortly; "it's all the same thing."
"No, dear, it isn't. Salary isn't wages; just as the pin-money which
West allows you isn't hire. You see the difference, dear?"
"I see that you're making a perfect fool of yourself with regard to
this man!" exclaimed Lady Hetherington, thoroughly roused.
"What man?" asked Lady Caroline in all apparent simplicity.
"What man? Why, this Mr. Joyce! And I think, Caroline, that if you
choose to forget your own position, you ought to think of us, and have
some little regard for decency; at all events, so long as you're
staying in our house!"
"All right, dear," said Lady Caroline with perfect coolness. "I'm
sorry that my conduct gives you offence, but the remedy is easy. I'll
tell West how you feel about it at luncheon, and I'll leave your house
before dinner!"
A home-thrust, as Lady Caroline well knew. The only time that Lord
Hetherington during his life had managed to pluck up a spirit was on
the occasion of some real or fancied slight offered by his wife to his
sister. Tail-lashings and roarings, and a display of fangs are
expected from the tiger, if, as the poet finely puts it, "it is his
nature to." But when the mild and inoffensive sheep paws the ground,
and makes ready for an onslaught with his head, it is the more
terrible because it is so unexpected. Lord Hetherington's assertion of
his dignity and his rights on the one occasion in question was so
tremendous that her ladyship never forgot it, and she was extremely
unwilling to go through such another scene. So her manner was
considerably modified, and her voice considerably lowered in tone as
she said----
"No, but really, Caroline, you provoke me into saying things which you
know I don't mean. You are so thoughtless and headstrong----"
"I never was cooler or calmer in my life! You complain of my conduct
in your house. It would be utterly beneath me to defend that conduct,
it requires no defence, so I take the only alternative left, and quit
your house."
"No; but, Caroline, can't you see----"
"I can see this, Lady Hetherington, and I shall mention it once for
all. You have never treated that gentleman, Mr. Joyce, as he ought to
be treated. He is a gentleman, in mind and thought and education, and
he comes here and does for poor dear stupid West what West is totally
unable to do himself, and yet is most anxious to have the credit of.
The position which Mr. Joyce holds is a most delicate one, one which
he fills most delicately, but one which any man with a less acute
sense of honour and right might use to his own advantage, and to bring
ridicule on his employer. Don't fancy I'm hard on dear old West in
saying this; if he's your husband he's my brother, and you can't be
more jealous of his name than I am. But it's best to be plainspoken
about the matter now, it may save some serious difficulties hereafter.
And how do you treat this gentleman? Until I spoke to you some months
since you ignored his presence; although he was domesticated in your
house you scarcely knew his personal appearance. Since then you bow,
and give him an occasional word, but you're not half so polite to him
as you are to the quadrille-bandsman when he is in much request, or to
the Bond Street librarian when stalls for some particular performance
are scarce. I am different; I am sick to death of 'us' and our 'set,'
and our insipid _fade_ ways, and our frightful conventionality and
awful dulness! Our men are even more odious than our women, and that's
saying a good deal; their conversation varies between insolence and
inanity, and as they dare not talk the first to me, they're compelled
to fall back on the second. When I meet this gentleman, I find him
perfectly well-bred, perfectly at his ease, with a modest assurance
which is totally different from the billiard-table swagger of the men
of the day; perfectly respectful, full of talk on interesting topics,
never for an instant pressing himself unduly forward, or forgetting
that he is what he is--a gentleman! I find a charm in his society; I
acknowledge it; I have never sought to disguise it. The fact that he
saved my life at the hazard of his own does not tend to depreciate him
in my eyes. And then, because I like him and have the honesty to say
so, I am bid to 'think of' my relations, and 'have regard for
decency!' A little too much, upon my word!"
People used to admire Lady Caroline's flashing eyes, but her
sister-in-law had never seen them flash so brilliantly before, nor had
her voice, even when singing its best, ever rung so keenly clear. For
once in her life, Lady Hetherington was completely put down and
extinguished; she muttered something about "not having meant
anything," as she made her way to the door, and immediately afterwards
she disappeared.
"That woman is quite too rude!" said Lady Caroline to herself, ringing
the bell as soon as the door closed behind her sister-in-law. "If she
thinks to try her tempers on me, she will find herself horribly
mistaken. One sufferer is quite enough in a family, and poor West must
have the entire monopoly of my lady's airs!--Now, Phillips, please to
go on brushing my hair!"
Meantime, the cause of all this commotion and outbreak between these
two ladies, Walter Joyce, utterly unconscious of the excitement he was
creating, was pursuing the even tenor of his way as calmly as the
novel circumstances of his position would admit. Of course, with the
chance of an entire change in his life hanging over him--a change
involving marriage, residence in a foreign country, and an occupation
which was almost entirely strange to him--it was not possible for him
to apply his mind unreservedly to the work before him. Marian's face
would keep floating before him instead of the lovely countenance of
Eleanor de Sackville, erst maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth, who had
this in common with Marmion's friend, Lady Heron, that fame "whispered
light tales" of her. Instead of Westhope, as it was in the old days,
with its fosse, drawbridge, portcullis, ramparts, and all the
mediaevalisms which it is in duty bound to have, Walter's fancy was
endeavouring to realise to itself the modern city of Berlin, on the
river Spree, while his brain was busied in conjecturing the nature of
his forthcoming duties, and in wondering whether he possessed the
requisite ability for executing them. Yes! he could get through them,
and not merely that, but do them well, do anything well with Marian by
his side. Brightened in every possible way by the prospect before him,
better even in health and certainly in spirits, he looked back with
wonder on his past few months' career; he could not understand how he
had been so calm, so unexpectant, so unimpassioned. He could not
understand how the only real hopes and fears of his life, those with
which Marian was connected, had fallen into a kind of quiescent state,
which he had borne with and accepted. He could not understand that
now, when the hopes had been aroused and sent springing within him,
and the fears had been banished, at least for a while. For a
while?--for ever! The mere existence of any fear was an injustice to
Marian. She had been true and steadfast, and good and loving. She had
proved it nobly enough. The one weakness which formed part of her
character, an inability to contend with poverty--a venial failing
enough, Walter Joyce thought, especially in a girl who must have
known, more particularly in one notable instance, the sad results of
the want of means--would never now be tried. There would be no need
for her to struggle, no necessity for pinching and screwing.
Accustomed since his childhood to live on the poorest pittance,
Joyce looked at the salary now offered to him as real wealth,
position-giving, and commanding all comforts, if not luxuries. The
thought of this, and the knowledge that she would be able to take her
mother with her to share her new home, would give Marian the greatest
pleasure. He pictured her in that new home, bright, sunny, and
cheerful; the look of care and anxiety, the two deep brow-lines which
her face had worn during the last year of their residence at
Helmingham quite obliterated; the old, cheerful, ringing tone restored
to her voice, and the earnest, steadfast, loving gaze in her quiet
eyes; and the thought almost unmanned him. He pulled out his
watch-chain, took from it the locket containing Marian's portrait (but
a very poor specimen of photography, taken by an "arteeste" who had
visited Helmingham in a green van on wheels, and who both orally and
in his printed bills laid immense stress on the fact that not merely
the portrait, but a frame and hook to hang it up by, were in certain
cases "given in"), and kissed it tenderly. "In a very little time now,
my darling!" he murmured--"in a very little time we shall be happy."
Pondering on his coming meeting with Marian actively suggested the
thought of the severance of existing ties, and the parting with the
people with whom he was then domesticated. He had been very happy, he
thought, all things considered. He was in a bright pleasant mood, and
thus indisposed to think harshly of anything, even of Lady
Hetherington's occasional fits of temper or insolence. Certainly Lady
Hetherington had always treated him with perfect courtesy, and since
the great day of the ice-accident had evinced towards him a marked
partiality. As for Lady Caroline--he did not know why his cheek should
flush as he thought of her, he felt it flush, but he did not know
why--as for Lady Caroline, she had been a true friend; nothing could,
exceed the kindness which she had shown him from the day of his
arrival among the family, and he should always think of her with
interest and regard. It was clearly his duty to tell Lord Hetherington
of the offer he had received, and of the chance of his leaving his
secretaryship. Or, as Lord Hetherington was scarcely a man of
business, and as Lady Hetherington cared but little about such
matters, and might not be pleased at having them thrust under her
notice, it would be better to mention it to Lady Caroline. She would
be most interested, and, he thought, with the flush again rising in
his face, most annoyed at the news; though he felt sure that it was
plainly a rise in life for him, and his proper course to pursue, and
would eventually give her pleasure. He would not wait for the receipt
of Marian's reply--there was no need for that, his bounding heart told
him--but he would take the first opportunity that offered of telling
Lady Caroline how matters stood, and asking her advice as to how he
should mention the fact to her brother. That opportunity came
speedily. As Joyce was sitting in the library, his desk an island in a
sea of deeds and papers and pedigrees, memorials of bygone Wests, his
pen idly resting in his hand, his eyes looking steadfastly at nothing,
and his brains busy with the future, the door opened, and Lady
Caroline entered. Joyce looked up, and for the third time within an
hour the flush mounted to his face.
"I'm very sorry to disturb you, Mr. Joyce," said her ladyship, "but I
have two or three notes for to-night's post, and the house is so upset
with this coming departure for London, that there's not a quiet place
where one can write a line but here. I'll sit down at West's
writing-table and be as mute as a mouse."
"There's no occasion for silence, Lady Caroline," replied Joyce. "I am
not specially busy just now, and indeed I was going to ask the favour
of a little conversation with you."
"Conversation with me?" And Lady Caroline's voice, unconsciously
perhaps, became a little harder, her manner a little less familiar as
she spoke.
"With you, if you please. I have some news to tell, and some advice to
ask."
"I'm sure I shall be delighted to hear the first and to give the
second--that is, if advice from me would be of any use to you, which I
very much doubt." Neither voice nor manner were in the least relaxed,
and Lady Caroline's face was very pale, and rather hard and stern.
"However," she added, after a moment's pause, finding he did not
speak, and in a different tone, "under present circumstances I ought
to feel very little compunction in disturbing you, for you go to town
on Wednesday, and you know you prophesied for yourself the strictest
seclusion when once you arrived at Hetherington House."
"That is the very matter on which I wanted to speak to you, Lady
Caroline!"
"Indeed!" said Lady Caroline, with a rather disappointed air.
"I don't suppose that I shall ever set foot inside Hetherington
House."
"Why, you don't mean to say you have gone back to that originally
preposterous notion of remaining here after we have all gone? Do you
remember the man who was going to play Othello and blacked himself all
over, Mr. Joyce? There is such a thing as overdoing one's devotion to
one's duty; or rather, what one imagines one's duty."
"No, I certainly do not intend to remain at Westhope."
"You are pleased to speak in enigmas to-day, Mr. Joyce, and as I am
horridly stupid at such things, and never guessed one of them in my
life, I must be content to wait until you are further pleased to
explain." There was an impertinence about her ladyship sometimes in
look and tone which became her immensely, and was extraordinarily
provoking.
"Seriously, then, Lady Caroline, I am thinking of leaving my present
occupation----"
"Of leaving us--I mean Lord Hetherington?" interrupted Lady Caroline.
"Yes. Not that I am not, as I ought to be, thoroughly grateful to his
lordship and to everybody of his family for their kindness and
consideration to me, but the fact is that I have received an offer of
employment which, perhaps, will suit me better, and----"
"You would be very foolish not to avail yourself of it, then, Mr.
Joyce," again interrupted Lady Caroline, the chilling tone coming back
to her voice and the stern look to her face.
"Will you kindly hear me out?" said Joyce. "I am not exaggerating when
I say that I am so grateful for all the kindness which I have received
in this house, that nothing would tempt me to leave it that did not
give me the chance of being enabled to gratify the one wish of my
life. The offer which has been made to me will, I think, do this. You
have been good enough, Lady Caroline, to admit me to sufficient
intimacy to talk of my private affairs, and when I mention the one
wish of my life, you will know that I mean my marriage with Miss
Ashurst."
"Certainly," said Lady Caroline, full of attention; "and the
proposition which is under your consideration--or, rather, which I
suppose you have accepted--will enable you to carry out this plan?"
"It will. There shall be no disguise with you. I am offered the post
of Berlin correspondent to a London newspaper. The salary would not be
considered large by you, or any one of your--you know what I mean," he
said, in answer to an impatient movement of her head. "But it is
sufficient to enable me to offer Marian the comforts which she ought
to have, and to receive her mother to live with us."
"That will be very nice--very nice indeed," said Lady Caroline
reflectively. "I'm sure I congratulate you very heartily, Mr.
Joyce--very heartily. I think you said, when that man--what's his
name?--Lord Hetherington's agent--said something about a boy whom you
knew being killed--I think you said you had not heard from Miss
Ashurst for some time."
"Yee; I did say so."
"Have you heard since?"
"No, I have not. But I can perfectly understand her silence, and you
would if you knew her. Marian is one of those persons who, on
occasions like this--of illness and death, I mean--are the mainstay of
the place wherever they may happen to be, and have to take the whole
burden of management on to their own shoulders."
"Of course--certainly--no doubt," said Lady Caroline. "And she has not
written since the boy's death?"
"No, not since."
"It must have been a sad blow for the old father to bear. I don't know
why I call him old, though. What age is he?"
"Mr. Creswell? About fifty-five, I should think."
"Ah, poor man! poor man!" said Lady Caroline, with much greater
expression of pity for Mr. Creswell than when she first heard of Tom's
death. "You have written to Miss Ashurst, informing her of this
proposition, you say, Mr. Joyce?"
"Yes, I wrote directly the offer assumed a tangible form."
"And as yet you have not had her reply?"
"No; there has not been time. I only wrote yesterday; she will not get
the letter until to-morrow."
"True, a two days' post from here to--where she is staying. Then you
will look for her answer on Wednesday. Are you entirely depending on
Miss Ashurst's reply?"
"I scarcely understand you, Lady Caroline."
"I mean, you are waiting until you hear from Miss Ashurst before you
send your acceptance of this offer? Exactly so! But--suppose Miss
Ashurst thought it unadvisable for her to leave this place where she
is staying just now----"
"That is an impossible supposition."
"Well, then, put it that her mother's health--which you told me was
ailing--was such as to prevent her from undertaking so long and
serious a journey, and that she thought it her duty to remain by her
mother----"
"'Forsaking all other, and cleaving only unto him,'" quoted Joyce with
gravity.
"Yes, yes, my dear Mr. Joyce, very proper; but not the way of the
world nowadays; besides, I'm sure you would not be selfish enough to
have the old lady left behind amongst strangers. However, grant it
hypothetically--would you still take up this appointment?"
"I cannot possibly say," replied Joyce, after a moment's pause. "The
idea is quite new to me. I have never given it consideration."
"I think I should, under any circumstances, if I were you," said Lady
Caroline earnestly, and looking hard at him. "You have talent, energy,
and patience, the three great requisites for success, and you are, or
I am very much mistaken, intended for a life of action. I do not
advise you to continue in the course now opening to you. Even if you
start for it, it should be made but a steppingstone to a higher and a
nobler career."
"And that is----"
"Politics! Plunged in them you forget all smaller things, forget the
petty disappointments and discouragements which we all have equally to
contend with, whatever may be our lot in life, and wonder that such
trivial matters ever caused you annoyance! Wedded to them, you want no
other tie; ambition takes the place of love, is a thousand times more
absorbing, and in most cases offers a far more satisfactory reward.
You seem to me eminently suited for such a career, and if you were to
take my advice, you will seek an opportunity for embracing it."
"You would not have me throw away the substance for the shadow? You
forget that the chance of my life is now before me!"
"I am by no means so certain that it is the chance of your life, Mr.
Joyce! I am by no means certain that it is for the best that this
offer has been made to you, or that the result will prove as you
imagine. But in any case you should think seriously of entering on a
political career. Your constant cry has been on a matter on which we
have always quarrelled, and a reference to which on your part very
nearly sent me off just now--you will harp upon the difference of
social position. Now, distinction in politics levels all ranks. The
two leaders of political parties in the present day, who really have
_pas_ and precedence over the highest in the land, who are the
dispensers of patronage, and the cynosures of the world, are men
sprung from the people. There is no height to which the successful
politician may not attain."
"Perhaps not," said Joyce. "But I confess I am entirely devoid of
ambition!"
"You think so now, but you will think differently some day, perhaps.
It is a wonderfully useful substitute."
"Would you advise me to speak to Lord Hetherington about my
intentions?"
"I think not just yet, seeing that you scarcely know what your
intentions are. I think I would wait until after Wednesday. Good-bye,
Mr. Joyce; I have gossiped away all my spare time, and my letters must
wait till to-morrow. You will not fail to let me know when you receive
your reply. I shall be most anxious to know."
"This country beauty is playing fast and loose with him," said Lady
Caroline to herself, as the door closed behind her. "She is angling
for a bigger fish, and he is so innocent, or so much in love--the same
thing--as not to perceive it. Poor fellow it will be an awful blow for
him, but it will come, I feel certain."