WEDNESDAY'S POST.
Lord Hetherington was a powerful man, who had great influence in most
things, but he could not get his letters delivered at Westhope before
eleven o'clock. Not that he had not tried. He had, as he expressed it,
"put on all kinds of screws," but he could not manage it, and if he
had had to wait for the regular delivery by the walking postman, it
would have been much later. A groom, however, always attended at the
nearest post-town on the arrival of the London mail, and rode over
with the Westhope letter-bag, which was unlocked by the butler, and
its contents distributed. There was never much curiosity or anxiety
about letters exhibited at Westhope, at least, amongst the members of
the family. Of course young visitors had occasional faint flutterings
of interest about a certain portion of their correspondence, but they
were too true to the teachings of their order to allow any vulgar
signs of excitement to be visible; while the letters received by Lord
and Lady Hetherington were too uniformly dull to arouse the smallest
spark of emotion in the breast of any one, no matter how excitably
inclined. Lady Caroline Mansergh's correspondence was of a different
kind. A clever woman herself, she was in the habit of writing to, and
receiving letters from, clever people; but they simply contained
gossip and small-talk, which might be read at any time, and which,
while pleasant and amusing when taken in due course, did not invite
any special eagerness for its acquisition. In a general way, Lady
Caroline was quite content to have her letters brought to her in
whatever room she might happen to be, but on this Wednesday morning
she was seated at the window as the postbag-bearing groom came riding
up the avenue, and a few minutes afterwards she stepped out into the
hall, where the butler had the letters out on the table before him,
and ran her eye over them.
There it was, that plain, square letter, addressed to him in the firm,
plain hand, and bearing the Brocksopp postmark! There it was, his
life-verdict, for good or ill. Nothing to be judged of it by its
appearance--firm, square, and practical; no ridiculous tremors
occasioned by hope or fear could have had anything to do with such a
sensible-looking document. What was in it? She would have given
anything to know! Not that she seemed to be in the least anxious about
it. She had asked where he was, and had been told that he was at work
in the library. He was so confident of what Miss Ashurst's answer
would be, that he awaited its arrival in the most perfect calmness.
Would he be undeceived? Lady Caroline thought not just yet. If the
young woman were, as Lady Caroline suspected, playing a double game,
she would probably find some excuse for not at once linking her lot
with Walter Joyce's--her mother's ill-health seemed expressly suited
for the purpose--and would suggest that he should go out first to
Berlin, and see how he liked his new employment, returning later in
the year, when, if all things seemed convenient, they could be
married. She was evidently a clever girl, and these were probably the
tactics she would pursue. Lady Caroline wondered whether she was right
in her conjecture, and there was the letter, a glance at which would
solve her doubts, lying before her! What a ridiculous thing that
people were not allowed to read each other's letters! Her ladyship
told the butler to see that that letter was sent at once to Mr. Joyce,
who was in the library expecting it.
The Westhope household was eminently well drilled, and the footman who
handed the letter on the salver to Mr. Joyce was as respectful as
though the secretary were my lord himself. He had heard Lady
Caroline's remark to the butler, and had turned the missive over and
scrutinised it as he carried it along the passages. The handwriting of
the address, though firm, was unmistakably feminine, and the footman,
a man of the world, coupling this fact with what he had heard, arrived
at the conclusion that the letter was from Mr. Joyce's "young woman."
He walked up to Joyce, who was busily engaged in writing, croaked out,
"A letter, sir," in the tone usually adopted by him to offer to dinner
guests their choice between hock and champagne, and watched the
secretary's manner. Joyce took the letter from the salver, muttered
his thanks, and turned back to his work. The footman bowed and left
the room, with the idea, as he afterwards remarked to the butler, that
if his suppositions were correct, the secretary was not "a fellow of
much warmth of feelin'; looked at it and put it down by his arm as
though it was a bill, he did!"
But when the door had shut behind the retreating figure of the Mercury
in plush, Walter Joyce threw down his pen and took up the letter, and
pressed it to his lips. Then he opened it, not eagerly indeed, but
with a bright light in his eyes, and a happy smile upon his lips. And
then he read it.
He started at the first line, astonished at the cold tone in which
Marian addressed him, but after that he read the letter straight
through, without evincing any outward sign of emotion. When he had
finished it he paused, and shook his head quickly, as one who has
received some stunning blow, and passed his hand rapidly across his
brow, then set to work to read the letter again. He had been through
it hurriedly before, but this time he read every word, then he pushed
the paper from him, and flung himself forward on the desk, burying his
face in his hands. Thus he remained during some ten minutes; when he
raised himself, his face was very white save round the eyes, where the
skin was flushed and strained, and his hands trembled very much. He
reeled, too, a little when he first stood up, but he soon conquered
that, and began silently pacing the room to and fro. Some time
afterwards, when asked to explain what he had felt at that crisis in
his life, Joyce declared he could not tell. Not anger against Marian,
certainly, no vindictive rage against her who had treated him so
basely. His life was spoiled, he felt that; it had never been very
brilliant, or very much worth having, but the one ray which had
illumined it had been suddenly extinguished, and the future was in
utter darkness. He was in the condition of a man who has been stunned,
or has fainted, and to whom the recollection of the events immediately
engrossing his attention when, as it were, he was last in life, came
but slowly. He had but a confused idea of the contents of Marian's
letter. Its general tenor of course he knew, but he had to think over
the details. The letter was there, lying before him on the desk where
he had thrown it, but he seemed to have an odd but invincible
repugnance to reading it again. After a somewhat laborious process of
thought he remembered it all. She was going to be married to Mr.
Creswell--that was it. She could not face a life of poverty, she said;
the comforts and luxuries which she had enjoyed for the last few
months had become necessary to her happiness, and she had chosen
between him and them. She did not pretend to care for the man she was
about to marry; she merely intended to make use of him as the means to
an end. Poor Marian! that was a bad state for her to be in--poor
Marian! She had jilted him, but she had sacrificed herself: he did not
know which was the more forlorn out-look.
Yes, it was all over for him! Nothing mattered much now! Copy out
anecdotes from the family chronicles, hunt up antiquities and
statistics for those speeches with which Lord Hetherington intended to
astonish the world in the forthcoming session, settle down as
librarian and secretary for as long as this noble family would have
him, and when they kicked him out, live by literary hack work until he
found another noble family ready to receive him in the old capacity
for a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Why not? He smiled grimly to
himself as he thought of the Berlin proposition, and how astonished
old Byrne would be when he wrote to decline it--for he should decline
it at once. He had thought about it so often and so much, he had
allowed his imagination to feast him with such pictures of himself
established there with Marian by his side, that he felt utterly unable
to face the dark blank reality, heartbroken and alone. Besides, what
motive had he for work now? Experience had taught him that he could
always find sufficient press-work in London to keep body and soul
together, and what more did he want! What more did---- Was it all
real, or was he dreaming? Marian! was it all over between him and her?
was she no longer his Marian? was he never to see her, to touch her
hand, to hold her in his arms, to live in the light of those loving
eyes again? He thought of their last conversation and their parting,
he thought of his last letter to her, so full of hope and love; so
tender of the past, so full of the future; and there, to that, was the
reply lying before him announcing her marriage. Her marriage?--her
sale! She had bartered herself away for fine houses, horses,
carriages, dresses; she, daughter of James Ashurst, who had loved her
as the apple of his eye, and would as soon have thought of her
renouncing her religion as of her breaking her plighted word.
It was odd he could not explain it; but his thoughts ran more upon her
than upon himself. He found himself picturing her as the squire's
lady, taking up her position in society, seated at the head of her
table, receiving her guests, at church in the pew which he recollected
so well. He recollected the back of her head, and the kneeling figure
as he had noticed it Sunday after Sunday when he sat amongst the boys
in the school pew immediately behind her, recollected the little grave
bow she would give him as she passed to her seat, and the warm
hand-pressure with which she always met him after morning service. His
love had lived on that warm hand-pressure for days; hers, it seems,
was not so easily nourished. He wondered at himself for the way in
which he found himself thinking of her. Had the mere notion of such
treatment ever entered his mind, he should have been raving; now when
the actual fact had occurred, he was quiet. He ran through the whole
matter in his mind again, pointed out to himself the deception that
she had practised on him, the gross breach of faith of which she had
been guilty, showed himself plainly how her desertion of him had
sprung from the basest motives, not from lack of love for him, not
from overweening fancy for another--those were human motives and might
be pardoned her--but from mere avarice and mammon-worship. And, after
cogitating over all this, he felt that he pitied rather than hated
her, and that as to himself he had not the remotest care what became
of him.
A knock at the door, and before he could answer Lady Caroline had
entered the room. Joyce was rather pleased than otherwise at the
interruption. He had taken her ladyship so far into his confidence
that it was impossible to hide from her this last act in the drama,
and it was infinitely pleasanter that the explanation should come
about here--accidentally, as it were--than that he should have to seek
her with his story.
"Good morning, Mr. Joyce."
"Good morning, Lady Caroline."
"Mr. Joyce, a triumphal procession, consisting of Lady Hetherington
and the new housekeeper, is marching round the house, settling what's
to be done in each room between this and the autumn. I confess I have
not sufficient strength of mind to be present at those solemn rites,
and as this is the only room in the house in which no change ever
takes place--save the increase of dust, and lately the acquisition of
a _bonâ-fide_ student--I have taken refuge here, and have brought the
_Times_ in order that I may be sure not to disturb you by chattering."
"You will not disturb me in the least, I assure you."
"Why, what a dreadfully hollow voice! and--Mr. Joyce," continued Lady
Caroline, changing her tone, "how very unwell you look--so strangely
pale and drawn! Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing in the least!" he replied. "You have been good
enough to let me talk to you about myself and my hopes and
aspirations, Lady Caroline Mansergh. You have probably forgotten"--ah,
man, devoid of the merest accidence of worldly grammar!--"you have
probably forgotten that this is the morning on which I was to expect
my answer from Miss Ashurst. It has come! It is here!" and he stooped
forward, picked from the table the letter, and handed it to her.
Lady Caroline seemed rather surprised at this mode of proceeding. She
took the letter from Walter's hand, but held it unopened before her,
and said--
"You wish me to read it?"
"If you please," he replied. "There is no other way by which you could
exactly comprehend the situation, and I wish you to be made aware of
it--and--and to advise me in it."
Lady Caroline blushed slightly as she heard these last words, but she
said nothing--merely bowed and opened the letter. As she read it, the
flush which had died away returned more brightly than before, her eyes
could not be seen under their downcast lids, but the brows were knit,
the nostrils trembled, and the mouth grew hard and rigid. She read the
letter through twice; then she looked up, and her voice shook as she
said--
"That is a wicked and base letter, very heartless and very base!"
"Lady Caroline!" interrupted Joyce appealingly.
"What! do you seek to defend it?--no, not to defend it, for in your
own heart you must know I am right in my condemnation of it, but to
plead for it. You don't like to hear me speak harshly of it--that's so
like a man I tell you that it is a heartless and an unwomanly letter!
'Deepens the pain with which she writes,' indeed! 'Deepens the pain!'
and what about yours? It is her nature to love money and comforts, and
luxuries, and to shrink from privations. Her nature! What was she bred
to, this duchess?"
In his misery at hearing Marian thus spoken of, since the blow had
fallen upon him he had never been so miserable as then, when she was
attacked, and he saw the impossibility of defending her. Joyce could
not help remarking that he had never noticed Lady Caroline's beauty so
much as at that moment, when her eyes were flashing and her ripe lips
curling with contempt. But he was silent, and she proceeded--
"She says you are better without her, and, though of course you doubt
it, I am mightily disposed to agree with her! I--Mr. Joyce!" said her
ladyship, suddenly softening her tone, "believe me, I feel earnestly
and deeply for you under this blow! I fear it is none the less severe
because you don't show how much you suffer. This--this young lady's
decision will of course materially affect the future which you had
plotted out for yourself, and of which we spoke the last time we were
here together?"
"Oh yes, of course. Now I shall--by the way, Lady Caroline, I
recollect now--it scarcely impressed me then--that during that
conversation you seemed to have some doubts as to what Marian--as to
what might be the reply to the letter which I told you I had written?"
"I certainly had."
"And you endeavoured to wean me from the miserable self-conceit under
which I was labouring, and failed. I recollect your hints now. Tell
me, Lady Caroline, why was I so blind? What made you suspect?"
"My dear Mr. Joyce, you were blind because you were in love! I
suspected because, being merely a looker-on--an interested one, I
acknowledge, for I had a great interest in your welfare, but still
merely a looker-on, and therefore, according to the old proverb,
seeing most of the game--I could not help noticing that the peculiar
position of affairs, and the length of time you remained without any
news of your _fiancée_ afforded grave grounds of suspicion."
"Yes," said poor Walter; "as you say, I am blind. I never noticed
that."
"Now, Mr. Joyce," said Lady Caroline, "the question is not with the
past, but with the future. What do you intend doing?"
"I have scarcely thought. It matters very little."
"Pardon my saying that it matters very much. Do you think of taking up
this appointment for the newspaper that you spoke of--this
correspondentship in Berlin?"
"No; I think not. I really don't know--I thought of remaining as I
am."
"What! pass the rest of your life in writing Lord Hetherington's
letters, and cramming him for speeches which he will never deliver?"
"It is an honest and an easy way of earning a living, at all events."
"Of earning a living? And are you going to content yourself with
'earning your living,' Mr. Joyce?"
"Oh, Lady Caroline, why should I do anything else? The desire for
making money has gone from me altogether with the receipt and perusal
of that letter. She was the spur that urged me on; my dreams of fame
and wealth and position were for her, not for myself; and now----"
"And now you are going to abandon it all--do you mean to tell me that?
That you, a young man possessing intellect, and energy, and industry,
with a career before you, are about to abandon that career, and to
condemn yourself to vegetation--sheer and simple vegetation, mind, not
life--merely because you have been grossly deceived by a woman, who,
your common sense ought to have told you, has been playing you false
for months, and who, as she herself confesses, has all her life rated
the worthiness of people as to what they were worth in money? You are
clearly not in your right mind, Mr. Joyce. I am surprised at you!"
"What would you have me do, Lady Caroline? You sneer at the notion of
my remaining with Lord Hetherington. Surely you would not have me go
to Berlin?"
"I never sneer at anything, my dear Mr. Joyce; sneering shows very bad
breeding. I say distinctly that I think you would be mad to fritter
away your days in your present position. Nor do I think, under
circumstances, you ought to go to Berlin. It would have done very well
as a stepping-stone had things turned out differently; but now you
would be always drawing odious comparisons between your solitary lot
and the 'what might have been,' as Owen Meredith so sweetly puts it."
"Where, then, shall I go?"
"To London. Where else should any one go with a desire to make a mark
in the world, and energy and determination to aid him in accomplishing
his purpose? And this is your case. Ah, you may shake your head, but I
tell you it is. You think differently just now, but when once you are
there, 'in among the throngs of men,' you will acknowledge it. Why,
when you were there, at the outset of your career, utterly friendless
and alone, as you have told me, you found friends and work; and now
that you are known, and by a certain few appreciated, do you think it
will be otherwise?"
"You are marvellously inspiriting, Lady Caroline, and I can never be
sufficiently grateful for the advice you have given me--better still,
for the manner in which you have given it. But suppose I do go to
London, what--in the cant phrase of the day--what am I to 'go in
for'?"
"Newspaper-writing--what do they call it?--journalism, at first; the
profession in which you were doing so well when you came here. That,
if I mistake not, will in due course lead to something else, about
which we will talk at some future time."
"That is just what I was coming to, Lady Caroline. You will allow me
to see you sometimes?"
"I shall be always deeply interested in your welfare, Mr. Joyce, and
anxious to know how you progress. Oh yes; I hope both to see and hear
a great deal of you. Besides, Lord Hetherington may feel inclined to
take up the chronicles again; he is rather off them just now, I know;
and then you can give your successor some very valuable hints."
When Lady Caroline Mansergh was alone in her own room after this
conversation, she reflected long and deeply upon the effect which the
receipt of that letter would probably produce upon Walter Joyce, and
was sufficiently interested to analyse her own feelings in regard to
it. Was she sorry or glad that the intended match had been broken off,
and that Joyce was now, so far as his heart was concerned, a free man?
That he was free she was certain; that he would never return to the
old allegiance she was positive. Lady Caroline in her worldly
experience had frequently come across cases of the kind, where the
tender regret which at first forbade any harsh mention, scarcely any
harsh thought of the false one, had in a very short time given place
to a feeling of mortified vanity and baffled desire, which prompted
the frankest outpourings, and made itself heard in the bitterest
objurgations. The question was, how it affected her. On the whole, she
thought that she was pleased at the result. She did not attempt to
hide from herself that she had a certain regard for this young man,
though of the nature of that regard she had scarcely troubled herself
to inquire. One thing she knew, that it was very different from what
she had at first intended it should be, from what in the early days of
their acquaintance she had allowed it to be. Of course, with such a
man, flirtation, in its ordinary sense, was out of the question; she
would as soon have thought of flirting with the Great Pyramid as with
Walter Joyce. In its place there had existed a kind of friendly
interest; but Lady Caroline was fully cognisant that, on her side,
that friendly interest had been deepening and strengthening, until,
after a little self-examination, she felt forced to confess to herself
that it would bear another name. Then came the question, And if it
did, what matter? She had never particularly set herself up as a
strict observant of the conventionalities or the fetish worship of
society; on the contrary, her conduct in that respect had been rather
iconoclastic. There need be no surprise, therefore, on the part of the
world if she chose to marry out of what was supposed to be her "set"
and station in society; and if there had been, she was quite
strong-minded enough to laugh at it. But to a woman of Lady Caroline's
refinement it was necessary that her husband should be a gentleman,
and it was necessary for her pride that, if not her equal in rank, he
should not merely be her superior in talent, but should be admitted to
be so. Under the fresh disposition of circumstances she saw no reason
why this should not be. Walter Joyce would go to London, would there
resume his newspaper occupations, and would probably, as she guessed
from occasional hints he had recently let fall, turn his attention
more to politics than he had hitherto done. He must be clever, she
thought. She knew him to be clever, in a woman's notion of cleverness,
which was so different to a man's; but he must surely be clever in a
man's way too, or they would never have offered him this Berlin
appointment, which, according to her notions, required not merely a
bright literary style, but, in a far greater degree, the faculty
of observation and knowledge of the world. His experience had been
very small, but his natural ability and natural keenness must be
great. Granted his possession of these gifts, pushed as he would
be by her influence--for she intended to give him some excellent
introductions--there was little doubt of his success in life, and of
his speedily achieving a position which would warrant her in accepting
him. In accepting him? Lady Caroline laughed outright, rather a hard
bitter laugh, as this idea crossed her mind, at the remembrance that
Walter Joyce had never said the slightest word, or shown the smallest
sign, that he cared for her as--as she wished to be cared for by him,
much less that he ever aspired to her hand. However, let that pass!
What was to be, would be, and there was plenty of time to think of
such things. Meanwhile, it was decidedly satisfactory that the
engagement was broken off between him and that girl, whom Lady
Caroline had been accustomed to regard as a simple country wench, a
bread-and-butter miss, but who certainly had done her jilting with a
coolness and _aplomb_ worthy of a London beauty in her third season.
She would have been a drag on Walter's life; for, although ambitious
to a degree, and always wanting to rise beyond her sphere, she would
have induced him to persevere at his work, and have encouraged him to
great efforts; yet, according to Lady Caroline's idea, fame could not
be achieved when a man was surrounded by babies requiring to be fed,
and other domestic drawbacks, and had not merely himself but a large
family to drag up the hill of difficulty, ere eminence was attained.
Now Walter would be really free, even from mental ties, Lady Caroline
thought, with a half sigh, and if he were ever to do anything worthy
of himself, the beginning at least should be now.
The conversation with Lady Caroline Mansergh had not merely the effect
of diverting Walter Joyce's thoughts from the contemplation of his own
unhappiness for the time being, but rousing within him certain
aspirations which he had scarcely ever previously entertained, and
which, when they had occasionally arisen in his mind, he had
successfully endeavoured to stifle and ignore. No doubt the advice
which Lady Caroline had given him was most excellent, and should be
followed. There was a future before him, and a brilliant one! He would
prove to Marian (already his feelings towards her were beginning to
change)--he would prove to Marian that his life was not made utterly
blank on account of her cruel treatment; on the contrary, he would try
and achieve some end and position, such as he would never have aspired
to if he had remained in the calm jog-trot road of life he had planned
for himself. He would go to London, to old Byrne, and see whether
instead of being sent to Berlin he could not be received on the
staff of the paper in London; and he would turn his attention to
politics--old Byrne would be of immense use to him there--and he would
study and work night and day. Anything to get on, anything to become
distinguished, to make a name!
His decision once taken, Joyce lost no time in communicating it to
Lord Hetherington. He said that circumstances of great family
importance necessitated his immediate return to London, and would
require all the attention he could bestow on them for many months to
come. Lord Hetherington was a little taken aback by the suddenness of
the announcement, but as he had always had a kindly feeling towards
Joyce, and since the day of the ice-accident he had regarded him with
especial favour, he put the best face he could on the occasion, and
expressed his great regret at his secretary's intended departure. His
lordship begged that when Mr. Joyce had any leisure time at his
disposal he would call upon him at Hetherington House, where they
would be always glad to see him; and Joyce trusted that if ever his
lordship thought that he (Joyce) could be useful to him in any way,
more especially as connected with the chronicles, with which he was so
familiar, he would do him the honour to send for him, through Mr.
Byrne, who would always know his address. And thus they parted, after
the interview, with mutual expressions of goodwill.
This was a little excitement for Lord Hetherington, who at once
started off, so soon as Joyce had left him, to tell her ladyship the
news.
Lady Hetherington was far more interested in the fact that the
secretary had given warning, as she persisted in calling it, than her
husband had anticipated. She had always, except when temporarily
aroused on the occasion of the accident, been so determined to ignore
Mr. Joyce's existence, or had treated him with such marked coldness
when compelled to acknowledge it, that his lordship was quite
astonished to see how interested she showed herself, how she persisted
in cross-questioning him as to what Joyce had stated to be the cause
of his leaving, and as to whether he had mentioned it to any other
person in the house. On being assured by her husband that he had come
straight to her boudoir after parting with the secretary, Lady
Hetherington seemed pleased, and strictly enjoined the little lord not
to mention it to any one.
They were a very small party at dinner that day, only Mr. Biscoe being
present in addition to the members of the family. The conversation was
not very brisk, the countess being full of the coming London season, a
topic on which Mr. Biscoe, who hated town, and never went near it when
he could help it, could scarcely expect to be enthusiastic, Lord
Hetherington being always silent, and Lady Caroline on this occasion
preoccupied. But when the cloth was removed, and the servants had left
the room, Lady Hetherington, in the interval of playing with a few
grapes, looked across at her sister-in-law, and said--
"By the way, Caroline, Lord Hetherington's secretary has given
warning!"
"You mean that Mr. Joyce is going away, is that it? I thought so, but
you have such a curious way of putting things, Margaret!"
"How should I have put it? I meant exactly what I said!"
"Oh, of course, if you choose to import the phraseology of the
servants'-hall into your conversation, you are at perfect liberty to
do so."
"Anyhow, the fact remains the same. We are to be bereaved of the great
secretary! Weren't you astonished when I told you?"
"Not the least in the world!"
"Because you had heard it before?"
"Exactly!"
"From Lord Hetherington?"
"Oh no!" laughed Lady Caroline; "don't scold poor dear West on the
idea that he had anticipated you! I heard it from Mr. Joyce himself."
"Oh, of course you did!" said Lady Hetherington, slightly tossing her
head. "Well, of course you're very much grieved. He was such a
favourite of yours."
"Just because I like Mr. Joyce very much, or, as you phrase it,
because he is a favourite of mine, I'm very pleased to think that he's
going away. A man of his abilities is lost in his present position."
"I quite agree with you, Lady Caroline," said Mr. Biscoe. "Sound
scholar, Mr. Joyce, clear head, well grounded, and quick at picking
up--good fellow, too!"
"I'm sure," said Lord Hetherington, "I've grown so accustomed to him,
I shall feel like--what's-his-name--fish out of water without him."
"I dare say we shall manage to exist when Mr. Joyce has left us," said
the countess; "we scrambled on somehow before, and I really don't see
the enormous improvement since he came."
Nobody commented on this, and the conversation dropped. Lady
Hetherington was cross and disappointed. She expected to have found
her sister-in-law very much annoyed at the fact of Mr. Joyce's
departure, whereas, in place of visible grief or annoyance, there was
a certain air of satisfaction about Lady Caroline which was dreadfully
annoying to the countess.
Two days after, Joyce left for London, Marian's letter, on Lady
Caroline's advice, and in accordance with his own feelings, remaining
without notice.