So George Benthall and Gertrude Creswell were married at St. James's

Church in Piccadilly, by the Reverend John Bontein, a High-Church

rector of a Worcestershire parish, and an old college chum of the

bridegroom's. A very quiet wedding, with Maude as the sole bridesmaid,

and Joyce as best man, and Lady Caroline, and, oddly enough, Lord

Hetherington, who had just come up to town from Westhope, and, calling

at his sister's, had learned what was going to take place, and thought

he should like to see it, don't you know? Had never been at any

wedding except his own, and didn't recollect much about that, except

that--curious thing, never should forget it--when he went into the

vestry to sign his name, or something of that kind, saw surplice

hanging up behind the door--thought it was ghost, or something of that

kind--give you his word! So the little earl arrived the next morning

at eleven at the church, and took his place in a pew near the altar,

and propped his ear up with his hand to listen to the marriage

service, at which he seemed to be much affected. When the ceremony was

over, he joined the party in the vestry, insisted on bestowing a

formal salute upon the bride--Lady Hetherington, he knew, was safely

moored at Westhope--and, as some recompense for the infliction, he

clasped on Gertrude's arm a very handsome bracelet, as his bridal

gift. No bells, no bishop, no fashionable journal's chronicler,

minutely noting down all that took place, and chronicling the names of

"distinguished persons present." Pew-opener and beadle hearing "my

lord" and "her ladyship" mentioned, seeing broughams, and cockades,

and other signs of aristocracy with which they are familiar, are

unable to reconcile the presence of these with absence of outward and

visible signs in which great ones of this earth delight; and conclude

either that it is a runaway match winked at by a portion only of the

family, or some such low affair as the union of the tutor with the

governess, kindly patronised by their employers. A happy wedding,

though--happier far than most which are made up in that same

temple--love-match founded on long knowledge of each other, not

hurried, not forced, not mercenary; no question of love in a

cottage either, and the flight of Amor through the window concurrently

with the entrance of the wicked man of the drama--one Turpis

Egestas--through the door.

Such a marriage promised to prove a happy one. In its early days, of

course, everything was rose-coloured--those days when Maude went down

to stay with George and Gertrude at the school, and when, a little

later, Walter Joyce ran down for the Easter holidays to his old

quarters. He was glad of the chance of seeing them once again, he

said, and determined to avail himself of it; and then George Benthall

looked in his face and smiled knowingly. Walter returned the grin, and

added: "For it's a chance that may not happen to me again." And when

his friend looked rather blank at this, and asked him what he meant,

Joyce laughed again, and finally told him that Lord Hetherington had

just had a piece of patronage fall to his share--the rectory of

Newmanton-by-Perringden, a lovely place in the Isle of Wight, where

the stipend was not sufficiently great to allow a man with a large

family to live on it, but the exact place for a parson with a little

money of his own. And Lord Hetherington had inquired of Joyce whether

his friend, that remarkably pleasant fellow,--bless my soul, forget my

own name next! him we saw married, don't you know?--whether he was not

exactly the sort of fellow for this place, and would he like it?

Walter thought that he was and he would; and Lord Hetherington,

knowing Joyce was going down to see his friend, bid him inquire, and

if all were straight, assure Mr. Benthall that the living was his.

And this was how Walter Joyce executed his commission, and this was

how George Benthall heard this most acceptable news.

"By the way, what made you grin, Benthall, when I said I had come down

here for my holiday to look at my old quarters?" asked Walter.

"Because I thought there might be yet another reason which you had not

stated. Anxiety to see some one here!"

"Anxiety is the wrong word. Strong wish to see you and your wife

again, and----"

"My wife and I are out of the affair! Come, confess!"

"I give you my honour I don't know what you mean."

"Likely enough; but I'm older than you, and, parson though I am, I

declare I think I've seen more of the world. Shall I tell you what

brought you down here? I shall!--then I will!--to see Maude Creswell."

"Maude Creswell! What on earth should I--what--why--I mean--what, is

Miss Creswell gone?"

"Simply the woman who thinks more about you than any other creature on

earth. Simply the girl who is raving--head over ears in love with you.

Don't pretend you don't know it. Natural instinct is too strong to

allow any doubt upon that point."

"I swear you surprise me beyond belief! I swear that---- Do you mean

this, Benthall?"

"As a gentleman and a Christian, I've told you what I believe; and as

a man of the world, I tell you what I think, whether wittingly or

unwittingly, you are very far gone in returning the young lady's

sentiments!"

"I--that is--there's no doubt she is a girl of very superior mind,

and--by Jove, Benthall, you've given a most singular twist to my

holiday!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

LADY CAROLINE ADVISES ON A DELICATE SUBJECT.

The communication which Mr. Benthall, in his bluff offhand manner, had

made to Walter Joyce, had surprised the latter very much and

embarrassed him not a little. Ever since the receipt of Marian

Ashurst's letter announcing her intention of marrying Mr.

Creswell--ever since the subsequent interview with Lady Caroline, in

which she counselled him to discharge the subject from his mind, to

encourage new hopes, and to cultivate aspirations of a different

kind--Joyce had lived absolutely free from any influence of "the cruel

madness of love, the poison of honey flowers, and all the measureless

ill." All his thoughts had been given up to labour and ambition, and,

with the exception of his deep-rooted and genuine regard for Lady

Caroline, and his friendly liking for the Creswell girls, he

entertained no feeling for any woman living, unless a suspicion of and

an aversion to Marian Creswell might be so taken into account. Had he

this special partiality for Maude Creswell, of which Benthall had

spoken so plainly? He set to work to catechise himself, to look back

through the events of the past few months, noting what he remembered

of their relations to each other.

Yes, he had seen a great deal of Maude; he remembered very frequent

occasions on which they had been thrown together. He had not noticed

it at the time; it seemed to come naturally enough. Gertrude, of

course, was engaged with Benthall when he was in town--in writing to

him or thinking of him when he was away--and Lady Caroline had to

go through all the hard work which fell upon a great lady in

society--work the amount of which can only be appreciated by those who

have performed it or seen it performed. So that, as Joyce then

recollected, he and Maude had been thrown a great deal together, and,

as he further recollected, they had had a great many discussions on

topics very far removed from the mere ordinary frivolity of society

talk; and he had noticed that she seemed to have clear ideas which she

understood how to express. What an odd thing, that--what Benthall

said--had never struck him before! It must have been patent to other

people, though; and that put the matter, unpleasantly, in rather a

ridiculous light. After all, though, what was there ridiculous in it?

Maude was a very handsome girl, a clever girl, and an unmistakable

lady. What a pretty, slight, girlish figure she had!--such a graceful

outline!--her head was well posed upon her neck! And Joyce smiled as

he found himself drawing lines in the air with the paper-knife which

he had been idly tossing in his hand.

And he had Benthall's assurance that the girl cared for him--that was

something. Benthall was a man careful in the extreme as to what he

said, and he would not have made such a statement where a girl was

concerned, and that girl his own sister-in-law, unless he was

tolerably certain of being right. His own sister-in-law; he had it

then, of course, from Gertrude, who was Maude's second self, and would

know all about it. It was satisfactory to know that there was a woman

in the world who cared for him, and though without the smallest

particle of vanity he accepted the belief very readily, for his

rejection by Marian Ashurst and the indignity which he had suffered at

her hands had by no means rendered him generally cynical or suspicious

of the sex. Marian Ashurst! what an age ago it seemed since the days

when the mention of that name would have sent the blood flowing in his

cheek, and his heart thumping audibly, and now here he was staying in

the old house where all the love scenes had taken place, walking round

the garden where all the soft words had been spoken, all the vows made

which she had thrown to the winds when the last parting, with what he

then and for so long afterwards thought its never-to-be-forgotten

agony, had occurred, and he had not felt one single extra

palpitation. Mrs. Creswell was staying away from Woolgreaves just

then, at some inland watering-place, for the benefit of her health,

which it was said had suffered somewhat from her constant attendance

on her husband, or Joyce might have met her. Such a meeting would not

have caused him an emotion. When he had encountered her in the lane,

during the canvassing time, there was yet lingering within his breast

a remembrance of the great wrong she had done him, and that was fanned

into additional fury by the nature of her request and the insolence

with which she made it. But all those feelings had died out now, and

were he then, he thought, to come across Marian Creswell's path, she

would be to him as the merest stranger, and no more.

If he were to marry, he knew of no one more likely to suit him in all

ways than Maude. Pretty to look at, clever to talk to, sufficiently

accustomed to him and his ways of life, she would make him a far

better wife than nine-tenths of the young ladies he was accustomed to

meet in such little society as he could spare the time to cultivate.

Why should he marry at all? He answered the question almost as soon as

he asked it. His life wanted brightening, wanted refining, was at

present too narrow and confined; all his hopes, thoughts, and

aspirations were centred on himself. He was all wrong. There should be

some one who--the chambers were confoundedly dreary too, when he came

home to them from the office or the House; he should travel somewhere

abroad when the House rose, he thought, and it would be dull work

moving about by himself, and--

What pretty earnest eyes Maude had, and shining hair, and delicate

"bred"-looking hands! She certainly was wonderfully nice, and if, as

Benthall avowed, she really eared for him, he---- Who was this coming

to break in on his pleasant day-dream? Oh, Gertrude.

"I was wondering where you were, Mr. Joyce! You said you wanted your

holiday, and you seem to be passing it in slumber!"

"Nothing so commonplace, Mrs. Benthall."

"One moment, why do you call me Mrs. Benthall? What has made you so

formal and ridiculous all of a sudden? You used to call me Gertrude,

in London?"

"Yes, but then you were an unmarried girl; now you are a wedded woman,

and there's a certain amount of respect due to matronhood."

"What nonsense! Do call me Gertrude again, please; Mrs. Benthall

sounds so horrid! I should like the boarders here in the house to call

me Gertrude, only George says it wouldn't be proper! And so you

weren't asleep?"

"Not the least bit! Although I'm ready to allow I was dreaming."

"Dreaming!--what about?"

"About the old days which I spent in this place--and their

association!"

"Oh yes, I know--I mean to say----"

"No, no, Gertrude, say what you had on your lips, then! No

prevarication, and no hesitation--what was it?"

"No, really, nothing--it is only----"

"I insist!"

"Well, what I mean to say is--of course, people will talk in a

village, you know--and we've heard about your engagement, you know,

and how it was broken off, and how badly you were treated, and--oh,

how silly I was to say a word about it! I'm sure George would be

horribly cross if he knew!"

"And did you imagine I was grizzling over my past, cursing the day

when I first saw the faithless fair, and indulging in other poetic

rhapsodies! My dear Gertrude, it's not a pleasant thing being jilted;

but one lives to get over it and forget all about it, even to forgive

her whom I believe it is correct to call the false one!"

"Yes, I dare say! In fact, George and Maude both said you didn't think

anything about it now, and----"

"Maude! did she know of it too?"

"Oh yes, we all knew of it! The old woman who had been housekeeper,

or cook, or something here in the old Ashurst's time, told George,

and----"

"What did Maude say about it?" interrupted Joyce.

"She said--I forget what! No! I recollect she said that--that Mrs.

Creswell was just the sort of woman that would fail to appreciate

you!"

"That may be taken in two senses--as a compliment or otherwise," said

Joyce, laughing.

"I'm sure Maude means it nicely," said Gertrude earnestly. Then added,

"By the way, I wanted to talk to you about Maude, Mr. Joyce."

"About Maude!" said Walter. Then thought to himself, "Is it possible

that the seeds of match-making are already developing themselves in

this three months' old matron?"

"Yes. I don't think George mentioned it to you, but he had a talk with

Maude, just before our marriage, about her future. George, of course,

told her that our house would be her home, her permanent home I mean;

and he gave her the kindest message from Lady Caroline, who bargained

that at least a portion of the year should be spent with her."

"What did your sister say to that?"

"Well, she was much obliged and all that; but she did not seem

inclined to settle down. She has some horrible notions about duty and

that sort of thing, and thinks her money has been given to her to do

good with; and George is afraid she would get what he calls 'let i'

by some of those dreadful hypocritical people, and we want you to talk

to her and reason her out of it."

"I? Why I, my dear Gertrude?"

"Because she believes in you so much more than in anybody else, and is

so much more likely to do what you advise her."

"She pays me a great compliment," said Joyce, rising, "and I'll see

what's to be done. The first thing, I think, is to consult Lady

Caroline, who would be sure to give good advice. I shall see her

to-morrow, and I'll----"

"See Lady Caroline to-morrow! I thought you were not going back till

Saturday?"

"I've just thought of some special business about which I must see

Lady Caroline at once, and I'll mention this at the same time. Now,

let us find George. Come for a turn."

They found George and went for their turn, and when their turn was

over, and Gertrude was alone with her husband, she told him the

conversation which she had had with Walter Joyce. The schoolmaster

laughed heartily.

"'Pon my word, Gerty," he said, "match-making appears to be your

forte, born and bred in you! I never believed in the reality of those

old dowagers in Mrs. Trollope's novels, until I saw you."

"Well, I declare, George, you are complimentary! old dowagers, indeed!

But, seriously, I wish Walter wasn't going to Lady Caroline!"

"Why, what on earth has that to do with it?"

"Well, I mean speaking in Maude's interest!"

"Why, one would think that Lady Caroline was in love with Walter Joyce

herself!"

"Exactly!"

"Why--why--you don't think so, my dear?"

"I'm sure so, my dear!"

And, as response, the Reverend George Benthall whistled in a loud and

unclerical manner.

When Walter Joyce arrived in Chesterfield Street, he found Lady

Caroline was absent--passing the holidays with Lord and Lady

Hetherington at Westhope--and, after a little hesitation, he

determined to go down there and see her. He had not seen anything of

the Hetheringtons since his election: his lordship was occupied with

some new fad which kept him in the country, and her ladyship did not

care to come to town until after Easter. Lord Hetherington had viewed

the progress of his ex-secretary with great satisfaction. His

recollections of Joyce were all pleasant; the young man had done his

work carefully and cleverly, had always been gentlemanly and

unobtrusive, and had behaved deuced well--point of fact, deuced

well--brave, and all that kind of thing--in that matter of saving

Car'line on the ice. Her ladyship's feelings were very different. She

disliked self-made people more than any others, and those who were

reckoned clever were specially obnoxious to her. She had heard much, a

great deal too much, of Joyce from Mr. Gould, who, in his occasional

visits, delighted in dilating on his recent foeman's abilities,

eloquence, and pluck, partly because he respected such qualities

wherever he met with them, but principally because he knew that such

comments were very aggravating to Lady Hetherington (no great

favourite of his); and she was not more favourably disposed towards

him, because he had adopted political principles diametrically opposed

to those which she believed. But what actuated her most in her

ill-feeling towards Mr. Joyce was a fear that, now that he had

obtained

a certain position, he might aspire to Lady Caroline Mansergh, who, as

Lady Hetherington always suspected, would be by no means indisposed to

accept him. Hitherto the difference in their social status had

rendered any such proceeding thoroughly unlikely. A tutor, or a--what

did they call it?--reporter to a newspaper, could scarcely have the

impertinence to propose for an earl's sister; but, as a member of

Parliament, the man enjoyed a position in society, and nothing could

be said against him on that score. There was Lady Violet Magnier,

Lord Haughtonforest's daughter. Well, Mr. Magnier sold ribbons, and

pocket-handkerchiefs and things, in the City; but then he was member

for some place, and was very rich, and it was looked upon as a very

good match for Lady Violet. Mr. Joyce was just the man to assert

himself in a highly disagreeable manner; he always held views about

the supremacy of intellect, and that kind of rubbish; and the more he

kept away from them, the less chance he would have of exercising any

influence over Lady Caroline Mansergh.

It may be imagined, then, that her ladyship was not best pleased when

her sister-in-law informed her that she had had a telegram from Walter

Joyce, asking whether he might come down to Westhope to see her on

special business, and that she "supposed Margaret had no objection."

Margaret had strong objections, but did not think it politic to say so

just then, so merely intimated that she would be happy to see Mr.

Joyce whenever he chose to come.

The tone in which this intimation was conveyed was so little pleasing

to Lady Caroline, that she took care to impress on her sister-in-law

the fact that Joyce's visit was to her, Lady Caroline, and that she

had merely mentioned his coming as a matter of politeness to her

hostess, which did not tend to increase Lady Hetherington's regard for

Walter Joyce.

But the _bien-séances_ were never neglected on account of any personal

feeling; and when Joyce arrived at the station, he recognised the

familiar livery on the platform, and found a carriage in waiting to

convey him to Westhope.

During the drive he occupied himself in thinking over the wondrous

changes which had taken place since his first visit to that

neighbourhood, when, with a wardrobe provided by old Jack Byrne, and a

scanty purse supplied from the same source, he had come down in a

dependent position, not knowing any of those amongst whom his lot in

life was to be passed, and without the least idea as to the kind of

treatment he might expect at their hands. That treatment, he knew,

would have been very different had it not been for Lady Caroline

Mansergh. But for her counsel, too, he would have suffered himself to

have remained completely crushed and vanquished by Marian Ashurst's

conduct, would have subsided into a mere drudge without energy or

hope. Yes, all the good in his life he owed to the friendship, to the

kindly promptings of that sweetest and best of women. He felt that

thoroughly, and yet it never struck him that in asking her to advise

him as to his marriage with some one else, he was committing, to say

the least of it, a solecism. The axiom which declares that the

cleverest men have the smallest amount of common sense, has a broader

foundation than is generally believed.

On his arrival at Westhope, Joyce was informed by the butler that Lord

Hetherington had gone round the Home Farm with the bailiff, and that

her ladyship was out driving, but that they would both be home to

luncheon, when they expected the pleasure of his company; meanwhile

would he walk into the library, where Lady Caroline Mansergh would

join him? He went into the library, and had just looked round the room

and viewed his old associations--glanced at the desk where he had sat

working away for so many hours at a stretch, at the big tomes whence

he had extracted the subject-matter for that great historical work,

still, alas! incomplete--at the line of Shakespearean volumes which

formed Lady Caroline Mansergh's private reading--when the door opened,

and Lady Caroline came in. Country air had not had its usual

beneficial effect, Joyce thought as he looked at her; for her face was

very pale, and her manner nervous and odd. Yet she shook him warmly by

the hand, and bade him be seated in her old cheery tone.

"It is very good of you to let me come down here, breaking in upon the

rest which I have no doubt you want, and boring you with my own

private affairs," said Joyce, seating himself in the window-sill close

by the armchair which Lady Caroline had taken.

"It is not very good of you to talk conventionalities, and to pretend

that you don't know I have a deep interest in all that concerns you,"

replied Lady Caroline.

"I have every reason to know it, and my last words were merely a

foolish utterance of society talk----"

"Which you always declare to despise, and which you know I detest."

"Quite true; think it unspoken and absolve me."

"I do; but if we are to have what you used to call a 'business talk,'

we must have it at once. In half an hour Lord and Lady Hetherington

and the luncheon will arrive simultaneously, and our chance is at

an end. And you did not come from London, I suppose, to discuss

tenant-right, or to listen to Lady Hetherington's diatribes against

servants?"

"No, indeed; with all deference to them, I came to see you, and you

alone, to ask your advice, and to take it, which is quite a different

thing, as I have done before in momentous periods of my life."

"And this is a momentous period?"

"Undoubtedly--as much, if not more so, than any."

Had she any notion of what was coming? Her pale face grew paler; she

pushed back the rippling tresses of her chestnut hair, and her large

eyes were fixed on him in grave attention.

"You alone of any one in the world, man or woman, know the exact story

of my first love. You knew my confidence and trust, you knew how they

were abused. You saw how I suffered at the time, and you cannot be

ignorant of what is absolute fact; that to your advice and

encouragement I owe not merely recovery from that wretched state, but

the position to which I have since attained!"

"Well?"

"That first love fell dead--you know when! Ambition, the passion that

supplied its place, was sufficient for a time to absorb all my

thoughts, hopes, and energies. But, to a certain extent it has been

gratified, and it suffices me no longer. My heart wants some one to

love, and turns to one to whom it owes gratitude, but whom it would

sooner meet with a warmer feeling. Are you not well, Lady Caroline?"

"Quite well, thanks, and--and interested. Pray go on!"

"To go on is difficult. It is so horrible in a man to have to say that

he sees he has awakened interest in a woman, that she shows all

unknowingly to herself, but still sufficiently palpable, that he is

the one person in the world to her, that she rejoices in his presence,

and grieves at his absence; worst of all, that all, this is pointed

out to him by other people----"

Lady Caroline's cheeks flushed as she echoed the words, "Pointed out

to him by other people!"

"Exactly. That's the worst of it. However, all this being so, and my

feelings such as I have described, I presume I shouldn't be repeating

my former error--inviting a repetition of my previous fate--in asking

her to be my wife?"

"I--I should think not." The flush still in her cheeks. "Do I know the

lady?"

"Do you know her? No one knows her so well!" The flush deeper than

ever. "Ah, Lady Caroline, kindest and dearest of friends, why should

I keep you longer in suspense? It is Maude Creswell!"

Her face blanched in an instant. Her grasp tightened rigidly over the

arm of the chair on which it lay, but she gave no other sign of

emotion. Even her voice, though hollow and metallic, never shook as

she repeated the name, "Maude Creswell!"

"Yes. Maude Creswell! You are surprised, I see, but I don't think you

will blame me for my choice! She is eminently ladylike, and clever,

and nice, and----"

"I don't think you could possibly---- What is it, Thomas?"

"Luncheon, my lady."

"Very well. I must get you to go in to luncheon without me, Mr. Joyce;

you will find Lord and Lady Hetherington in the dining-room, and I

will come down directly. We will resume our talk afterwards."

And she left the room, and walked swiftly and not too steadily up the

hall towards the staircase.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

NIGHT AND MORNING.

Both Lord and Lady Hetherington were in the dining-room when Joyce

entered, the former with his brown velveteen suit splashed and

clay-stained, and his thick boots rich with the spoil of many a furrow

(he was bitten with a farming and agricultural mania just then), and

the latter calm and collected as Walter ever remembered her. She

received the visitor with perfect politeness, expressed in a few

well-chosen sentences her pleasure at seeing him again and the

satisfaction with which she had learned of his improved position;

then, after scanning him with rather a searching glance, she turned to

the footman, and asked where was Lady Caroline, and whether she knew

luncheon was ready. Joyce replied for the man. Lady Caroline had heard

the announcement of luncheon, but had asked him to come in by himself,

saying she would follow directly. Her ladyship had gone up to her

room, the footman added; he did not think her ladyship was very well.

The footman was new to Westhope, or he would have known that the

domestics of that establishment were never allowed to think, or at

least were expected to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Lady Hetherington of course ignored the footman's remark entirely, but

addressed herself to Joyce.

"I hope you did not bring down any ill news for Lady Caroline, Mr.

Joyce?"

"Not I, indeed, Lady Hetherington. I merely came to ask her ladyship's

advice on--well, on a matter of business."

"In which she was interested?"

"No, indeed! I was selfish enough to lay before her a matter in which

my own interests were alone concerned."

"Ah!" said Lady Hetherington, with a sigh of relief, "I was afraid it

might be some business in which she would have to involve herself for

other people, and really she is such an extraordinary woman,

constituting herself chaperone to two young women who may be very well

in their way, I dare say, but whom nobody ever heard of, and doing

such odd things, but--however, that's all right."

Her ladyship subsiding, his lordship here had a chance of expressing

his delight at his ex-secretary's advancement, which he did warmly,

but in his own peculiar way. So Joyce had gone into Parliament; right,

quite right, but wrong side, hey, hey? Radicals and those sort of

fellows, hey? Republic and that sort of thing! Like all young men,

make mistakes, hey, but know better soon, and come round. Live to see

him in the Carlton yet. Knew where he picked up those atrocious

doctrines--didn't mind his calling them atrocious, hey, hey?--from

Byrne; strange man, clever man, deuced clever, well read, and all that

kind of thing, but desperate free-thinker. Thistlewood, Wolfestone,

and that kind of thing. Never live to see him in the Carlton. No, of

course not; not the place for him. Recollect the Chronicles? Ah, of

course; deuced interestin', all that stuff that--that I wrote then,

wasn't it? Had not made much progress since. So taken up with farmin'

and that kind of thing; must take him into the park before he left,

and show him some alterations just going to be made, which would be an

immense improvement, immense imp---- Oh, here was Lady Caroline!

What did that idiotic footman mean by saying he thought Lady Caroline

was not well? She came in looking radiant, and took her seat at the

table with all her usual composure. Lady Hetherington looked at her in

surprise, and said--

"Anything the matter, Caroline?"

"The matter, Margaret! Nothing in the world. Why?"

"You told Mr. Joyce to come in to luncheon without you, and Thomas

said you had gone upstairs. I feared you had one of your faint

attacks."

"Thanks for your sympathy. No! I knew Mr. Joyce would be leaving

almost directly after luncheon, and I had a letter to write which I

want him to be good enough to take to town for me. So I seized the

only chance I had and ran off to write it."

"Deuced odd that!" said Lord Hetherington; "here's British

post-office, greatest institution in the country. Rowland Hill, and

that kind of thing; take your letters everywhere for a penny--penny,

by Jove, and yet you'll always find women want fellows to make postmen

of themselves, and carry their letters themselves."

"This is a special letter, West," said Lady Caroline. "You don't

understand."

"Oh yes, I do," said his lordship with a chuckle, "women's letters all

special letters, hey, hey? order to the haberdasher for a yard of

ribbon, line to Mitchell's for stalls at the play--all special, hey,

Mr. Joyce, hey?"

When luncheon was over Joyce imagined that Lady Caroline would return

with him to the library and then renew their conversation. He was

accordingly much surprised when she suggested to Lord Hetherington

that he should show Mr. Joyce the alterations which were about to be

made in the park. His lordship was only too glad to be mounted on his

hobby, and away they went, not returning until it was time for Joyce

to start for the station. He did not see Lady Hetherington again, but

his lordship, in great delight at the manner in which his agricultural

discourse had been listened to, was very warm in his adieux, and

expressed his hope that they would meet in town. "Politics always laid

aside at the dinner-table, Mr. Joyce, hey, hey?"

And Lady Caroline, after bidding him farewell, placed a note in his

hand, saying, "This was the letter I spoke of."

He glanced at it and saw it was addressed to himself, and the next

instant the carriage started. Addressed to himself! Did she not say at

luncheon that she had been writing a note which she wanted him to take

to town for her, and--and yet there was the address, Walter Joyce,

Esq., in her bold firm hand. There must be an enclosure which he was

to deliver or to post.

And then he did what he might have done at first--broke open the seal

of the envelope and took out the contents. One sheet of note paper,

with these words--

"I think you will be doing rightly in acting as you propose. Miss

Creswell is handsome, clever, and exceptionally 'thorough.' From what

I have seen of her I should think she would make you an excellent

helpmate, and you know I should not say this were I not tolerably

certain about it. I may not see you again for a few weeks, as I detest

this specially cold spring, and shall probably run away to Torquay, or

perhaps even to Nice, but letters to Chesterfield Street will always

find me, and I shall always have the warmest and deepest interest in

your welfare. Good-bye. C.M."

"She is a woman of extraordinary mental calibre," said Joyce to

himself, as he refolded the note and placed it in his pocket. "She

grasps a subject immediately, thinks it through at once, and writes an

unmistakable opinion in a few terse lines. A wonderful woman! I've no

doubt she had made up her mind, and had written that note before she

came down to luncheon, though she did not give it to me until just

now."

Walter Joyce was wrong. The interval between leaving him and her

arrival in the dining-room had been passed by Lady Caroline on her

bed, where she fell, prone, as the door closed behind her. She lay

there, her face buried in the pillow, her hands tightly clasped behind

her head, her hair escaped from its knot and creeping down her back,

her heart beating wildly. Ah, what minutes of agony and humiliation,

of disappointment and self-contempt! It had come upon her very

suddenly, and had found her unprepared. She had never dared to analyse

her feeling for Joyce; knew of its existence, but did not know or

would not admit to herself what it was. Tried to persuade herself that

it was "interest" in him, but laughed contemptuously at the poor

deceit when she found her heart beating double pace as she read of his

progress at the election, or her cheek flaming and her lip quivering

as she did battle against Lady Hetherington's occasional impertinences

about him. Those were the signs of something more than interest--of

love, real, unmistakable passion. What a future might it not have been

for her? She had respected her first husband for his kindness, his

confidence, his equable temper. She would have respected this man

too--respected him for his talent, his bravery, his skill and courage

with which he had fought the great battle of life; but she would have

loved him too--loved him with that wild passion, with that deep

devotion. For the first time in her life she had learned what it was

to love, and learned it too late. On those few occasions when she had

dared to reveal to herself what was hidden in the inmost recesses of

her soul, she had come to the conclusion that though the happiness for

which she pined would never be realised--and she never concealed from

herself the improbability of that--yet she should always hold the

first position in his thoughts. The bitter disappointment which he had

suffered at Miss Ashurst's hands had, she thought, effectually

extinguished all idea of marriage in his mind. And now he came to

her--to her of all women in the world--to tell her of his loneliness,

his want of some one to sympathise with and be his companion, and to

ask her advice as regarded his selection of Maude Creswell! It was too

hard upon her, too much for her to bear this. A score of schemes

flashed through her brain. Suppose she were to temporise with this

question? A word from her would make Joyce defer taking any steps in

the matter for the present, and in the interval she could easily let

him see how she--the state of her---- Ah, the shame, the wretched

humiliation! Was she bewitched, or was she in sober seriousness--she,

Caroline Mansergh, whose pride as Caroline West was a byword--was she

going to throw herself at the head of a man who had not only never

shown any intention of proposing to her, but had actually come to

consult her about his marriage with another woman It was impossible.

_Noblesse oblige_. Lady Caroline West's pride, dormant and overlaid

with other passions, yet lived in Lady Caroline Mansergh, and asserted

itself in time. She rose from the bed, bathed her face, adjusted her

hair, poured some sal-volatile in a glass with a shaking hand, and

swallowed it through her set teeth, then went down to luncheon, as we

have seen. She expressly avoided any chance of future conversation

with Walter, and the note was written while he was out with Lord

Hetherington.

Of course, Walter Joyce was utterly ignorant of Lady Caroline's

feelings. As she hid them from herself as much as possible, it was

unlikely that she would suffer him to catch the smallest inkling of

them; and it is very questionable whether, had his powers of

divination been infinitely stronger than they were, he would have

understood them. The one spark of romance with which nature had

endowed him had been completely stamped out by Marian Ashurst, and the

rest of his organisation was commonplace naturally, and made more

commonplace by practical experience of the world. He wondered Lady

Caroline had not arranged to have a farther talk with him. She had

left him, or rather they had been interrupted just at the critical

moment, just when he had told her the object of his visit; and it was

odd, to say the least of it, that she did not seek an early

opportunity for letting him know her opinion on the really weighty

question on which he had consulted her. And yet she always knew best;

no doubt she thought it was essential that he should please Lord

Hetherington, who was evidently bent on showing him those alterations,

and, perhaps, she thought, too, that he might like to have her answer

in writing to refer to on occasion. What a capital answer it was! He

palled it out of his pocket, and looked at it again, so clear and

concise and positive. His excellent helpmate. Yes, that was what he

wanted. How exactly she appreciated him! Running to Torquay or Nice?

What a funny thing! He had never heard her complain of being affected

by the cold before, and--however she approved of his intentions in

regard to Maude Creswell--that was the great point. So ruminated

Walter Joyce, the hard-headed and practical, sliding gradually into a

hundred other thoughts of work to be done and schemes to be looked

into, and people to be seen, with which he was so much engaged that,

until he reached London, both Maude and Lady Caroline were fairly

obliterated from his mind.

He slept at his chambers that night, and went down to Helmingham the

next day. There was a station now at the village, and it was here that

Joyce alighted, not merely because it was more convenient than going

to Brocksopp, but because it saved him the annoyance of having to run

the gauntlet of a walk through the midst of his constituency, every

other member of which had a complaint to make or a petition to prefer.

The Helmingham people, of course, were immensely impressed by the

sight of a man who, originally known to them as pursuing the

mysterious profession of a Schoolmaster, had grown into that yet more

inscrutable being, a Member of Parliament; but their wonderment was

simply expressed in gaping and staring. They kept their distance

peasant-like, and never dreamed of button-holing their member, as did

the Brocksoppians. The road that led from the station to the village

skirted the wall of the school-garden. It was a low wall, and looking

over it, Joyce saw Maude Creswell tying up a creeper which was trained

round the study window. Her attitude was pretty, a sunbeam shone on

her hatless head, and the exertion given to her task had brought a

bright colour to her usually pale face. Never before had she looked so

attractive in Joyce's eyes. He dismissed from his mind the interesting

question of compulsory education for factory children, which he had

been revolving therein for the last hour and a half, and quickened his

pace towards the house.

Maude was in the study when he entered. The flush had left her face,

but returned when she saw him. He advanced and took her hand.

"So soon back!" she cried. "When I came down yesterday, they told me

you had gone to town, and probably would not return; and I was so

horribly vexed!"

"Were you? That's kind of you, indeed!"

"Well, you know--I mean----"

"What you say. I believe that firmly, for you have the credit of being

quite unconventional. No, I merely went to London on business, and

that finished I returned at once. Where is your sister?"

"Out."

"And her husband?"

"How can you ask such a question? With her, of course. They have gone

to pay a visit."

"A visit; where? I--I beg your pardon; how very rude of me to ask such

a question! What a tell-tale face you have, Miss Creswell I saw the

rudeness I had committed by your expression."

"You give me credit for more power than I possess. There was no

rudeness in your asking. They have gone to Woolgreaves."

"To Woolgreaves!"

"Yes. Mrs. Creswell called here two days ago--the day you went to

London; but Gertrude and George were out, So she left a note stating

she was very anxious to see them, and they have gone over there

to-day. They had no notion you would have come down, or they would not

have gone. I am so sorry they are not here."

"I confess I am not."

"Not sorry! That's not polite. Why are you not sorry?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you."

"To me?"

"Yes, to you. I've something to consult you about, in relation to my

recent, visit to town; rather a difficult matter, but I have all faith

in your good judgment."

"I'm afraid you rate my judgment too highly, Mr. Joyce; but at all

events, you may be assured of my answering you honestly, and to the

best of my power."

"That is all I ask. That granted, I can make sure of the rest. And

really it is not such a great matter after all. Only a little advice;

but such advice as only a woman--more than that, only a peculiar kind

of woman--can give."

"Do I fulfil the requirements?"

"Exactly."

"Then proceed at once; and I will promise to answer exactly as I

think."

"Well, then, I have a friend, about my own age, of sufficiently mean

birth, whose father was a man of restricted views and small mind, both

cramped and narrowed by the doctrines of the religious sect to which

he belonged, but whose mother was an angel. Unfortunately the mother

died too soon after the boy's birth to be of much good to him, beyond

leaving him the recollection of her sweet face and voice and

influence--a recollection which he cherishes to this day. After his

wife's death the boy's father became more and more imbued with the

sectarian doctrines, an undue observance of which had already had its

effect in his home, and, dying shortly after, left his son almost

unprovided for, and friendless, save in such friendship as the lad

might have made for himself. This, however, proved sufficient. The

master of the school at which the lad attended took great interest in

him, half-adopted him as it were, and, when the youth was old enough,

took him as his assistant in the school. This would have met my

friend's views sufficiently--for he was a plodding, hardworking

fellow--had he had no other motive; but he had another: he was in love

with the schoolmaster's daughter, and she returned the passion. Am I

wearying you with this rigmarole?"

"You know you are not. Please go on!"

"So they proceeded in their Arcadian simplicity, until the

schoolmaster died, leaving his wife and daughter unprovided for; and

my friend had to go out into the world to seek his fortune--to seek

his bread rather, I should say--bread to be shared, as soon as he had

found enough of it, with his betrothed. But while he was floundering

away, throwing out a grappling-iron here and there, striving to attach

himself to something where bread was to be earned, the young lady had

a slice of cake offered to her, and, as she had always preferred cake

to bread, she accepted it at once, and thought no more of the man who

was hunting so eagerly for penny rolls for her sake. You follow me?"

"Yes, yes! Pray go on!"

"Well, I'm nearly at the end of my story! When my friend found that

the only person in the world which was dear to him had treated him so

basely he thought he should die, and he said he should, but he didn't.

He suffered frightfully; he never attempts to deny that, though there

was an end of all things for him; that life was henceforth a blank,

and all that sort of thing, for which see the circulating library. And

he recovered; he threw himself into the penny-roll hunting with

greater vigour than ever, and he succeeded wonderfully. For a time,

whenever his thoughts turned towards the woman who had treated him so

shamefully, had jilted him so heartlessly, he was full of anger and

hopes for revenge, but that period passed away, and the desire to

improve his position, and to make progress in the work which he had

undertaken, occupied all his attention. Then he found that this was

not sufficient; that his heart yearned for some one to love, for some

one to be loved by: and he found that some one, but he did not ask her

to become his wife!"

"He did not. Why not?"

"Because he was afraid her mind might have been poisoned by some

warped story of his former engagement, some----"

"Could he swear to her that his story--as you have told it to me--is

true?"

"He could, and he would!"

"Then she would not be worthy of his love; if she refused to believe

him!"

"Ah, Maude, dearest and best, is there any need to involve the story

further; have you not known its meaning from the outset? Heart whole

and intact, I offer you my hand, and swear to do my best to make the

rest of our lives happy if you take it. You don't answer. Ah, I don't

want you to. Thanks, dear, a thousand times for giving me a new,

fresh, worthy interest in life!"

"You here, Mr. Joyce? Why, when did you get back?"

"Half an hour since, Gertrude. You did not expect me, I hear!"

"Certainly not, or we shouldn't have gone out. And we did no good

after all."

"No good? How do you mean?"

"Oh, madam was out. However, bother madam. Did you see Lady Caroline?"

"I did."

"And did you settle about Maude's staying with us?"

"No."

"Nor about her going to her ladyship's?"

"No."

"Why, what on earth was the use of your going to town? What have you

settled?"

"That she's to stay with--me."

"With you?"

"With me."

"Why, you don't mean to say that you're going--that she's going----?"

"I do--exactly that."

"Oh, you dear Walter! I am so delighted! Here, George! What did I say

about those three crows we saw as we were driving in the pony-chaise?

They did mean a wedding, after all!"

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARIAN'S RESOLVE.

To have an income of fifteen thousand a year, and to be her own

mistress, would, one would have imagined, have placed Marian Creswell

on the pinnacle of worldly success, and rendered her perfectly happy.

In the wildest day-dreams of her youth she had never thought of

attaining such an income, and such a position as that income afforded

her. The pleasures of that position she had only just begun to

appreciate; for the life at Woolgreaves, though with its domestic

comforts, its carriages and horses and attentive servants, infinitely

superior to the life in the Helmingham schoolhouse, had no flavour of

the outside world. Her place in her particular sphere was very much

elevated, but that sphere was as circumscribed as ever. It was not

until after her husband's death that Marian felt she had really come

into her kingdom. The industrious gentlemen who publish in the

newspapers extracts from the last will and testaments of rich or

distinguished persons--thereby planting a weekly dagger in the bosoms

of the impecunious, who are led by a strange kind of fascination to

read of the enormous sums gathered and bequeathed--had of course not

overlooked the testamentary disposition of Mr. Creswell, "of

Woolgreaves, and Charleycourt Mills, Brocksopp, cotton-spinner and

mill-owner," but had nobly placed him at the head of one of their

weekly lists. So that when Mrs. Creswell "and suite," as they were

good enough to describe her servants in the local papers, arrived at

the great hotel at Tunbridge Wells, the functionaries of that

magnificent establishment--great creatures accustomed to associate

with the salt of the earth, and having a proper contempt, which they

do not suffer themselves to disguise, for the ordinary traveller--were

fain to smile on her, and to give her such a welcome as only the

knowledge of the extent to which they intended mulcting her in

the bill could possibly have extorted from them. The same kindly

feeling towards her animated all the sojourners in that pleasant

watering-place. No sooner had her name appeared in the Strangers'

List, no sooner had it been buzzed about that she was the Mrs.

Creswell, whose husband had recently died, leaving her so wonderfully

well off, than she became an object of intense popular interest.

Two ladies of title--the widow of a viscount (Irish), and the wife of

a baronet (English), insolvent, and at that moment in exile in the

island of Coll, there hiding from his creditors--left cards on her,

and earnestly desired the pleasure of her acquaintance. The roistering

youth of the place, the East India colonels, the gay dogs

superannuated from the government offices, the retired business-men,

who, in the fallow leisure of their lives, did what they would,--all

looked on her with longing eyes, and set their wits to work on all

sorts of schemes to compass knowing her. Over the laity the clergy

have a great advantage--their mission is in itself sufficient

introduction--and lists of all the local charities, district churches

to be erected, parsonages to be repaired, and schools to be

established, had been presented by those interested in them to the

rich widow in person before she had been forty-eight hours in the

place.

It was very pleasant, this popularity, this being sought after and

courted and made much of, and Marian enjoyed it thoroughly.

Unquestionably, she had never enjoyed anything so much in her previous

life, and her enjoyment had no alloy. For although just before her

husband's death, and for some little time after, she had had certain

twinges of conscience as to the part she had acted in leaving him

ignorant of all her relations with Walter Joyce when she married him,

that feeling had soon died away. Before leaving home she had had a

keen experience of absolute enjoyment in signing cheques with her own

name, and in being consulted by Mr. Teesdale as to some business of

her estate, and this feeling increased very much during her stay at

Tunbridge Wells. Nevertheless, she did not remain there very long; she

was pleased at being told that her duties required her at home, and

she was by no means one to shirk such duties as the management of an

enormous property involved.

So Marian Creswell went back to Woolgreaves, and busied herself in

learning the details of her inheritance, in receiving from Mr.

Teesdale an account of his past stewardship, and listening to his

propositions for the future. It was very pleasant at first; there were

so many figures, the amounts involved were so enormous, there were

huge parchment deeds to look at, and actual painted maps of her

estates. She had imagined that during that period just prior to their

marriage, when she made herself useful to Mr. Creswell, she had

acquired some notion of his wealth, but she now found she had not

heard of a tenth part of it. There was a slate quarry in Wales, a

brewery in Leamington, interest in Australian ships, liens on Indian

railways, and house property in London. There seemed no end to the

wealth, and for the first few weeks, looking at the details of it with

het own eyes, or listening to the account of it in Mr. Teesdale's

sonorous voice, afforded her real pleasure. Then gradually, and almost

imperceptibly, came back upon her that feeling which had overwhelmed

her in her husband's lifetime, of which she had gotten rid for some

little space, but which now returned with fifty-fold free-questioning,

"What is the good of it all?"

What indeed? She sat in the midst of her possessions more lonely than

the poorest cotter on any of her estates,--less cared for than the

worn-out miner, for whom, after his day's toil, his wife prepared the

evening meal, and his children huddled at his knee. Formerly her

husband had been there, with his kindly face and his soft voice, and

she had known that, notwithstanding all difference of age and

temperament between them, so long as he lived there was one to love

her with a devotion which is the lot of few in this world. Now he was

gone, and she was alone. Alone! It was a maddening thought to a woman

of Marian's condition, without the consolation of religion, without

the patience calmly to accept her fate, without the power of bowing to

the inevitable. Where money was concerned she could scarcely bring

herself to recognise the inevitable, could scarcely understand that

people of her wealth should, against their own will, be left alone in

this world, and that love, friendship, and all their sweet

associations, could not be bought.

Love and friendship! Of the latter she could scarcely be said to have

had any experience; for Marian Ashurst was not a girl who made

friends, and Mrs. Creswell found no one equal to being admitted to

such a bond; and as to the former, though she had enjoyed it once, she

had almost forgotten all about it. It came back to her, however, as

she thought over it; all the sweet words, the soft endearing epithets,

and the loving looks came back to her, all the fond memory of that

time when, for a period, the demon of avarice was stilled, the gnawing

desire for money, and what money in her idea might bring, was

quenched; when she was honestly proud of her lover, happy in the

present, and expectant of the future. She recollected the poor dresses

and the cheap trinkets which she had in those days; the wretched

little presents which she and Walter had exchanged, and the pleasure

she experienced at receiving them at his hands. She remembered the

locket, with her portrait, which she had given him, and wondered what

had become of it. He had it, doubtless, yet, for he had never returned

it to her, not even in that first wild access of rage which he may

have felt at the receipt of the letter announcing her intended

marriage, nor since, when he had cooled down into comparative

carelessness. Surely that argued something in her favour? Surely that

showed that he had yet some lingering regard for her? In all that had

been told her of him--and specially during the election time she had

heard much--no mention had ever been made of any woman to whom he was

paying attention. She had thought of that before; she remembered it

delightedly now. Could it be that in the secret recesses of his heart

there glimmered yet, unquenched, a spark of love for her, the idol of

his youth? It was not unlikely, she thought; he was very romantic, as

she remembered him--just the sort of man in whom commerce with the

world would be insufficient to blot out early impressions, to efface

cherished ideals.

Could it be possible that the great crisis in her life was yet to

come? That the opportunity was yet to be given her of having wealth

and position, and, to share them with her, a husband whom she could

love, and of whom she could be proud? Her happiness seemed almost too

great; and yet it was there on the cards before her. Forgetting all

she had done, and shutting her eyes to the fact that she herself had

made an enormous gulf between them, she blindly argued to herself that

it was impossible such love as Walter Joyce's for her could ever be

wholly eradicated, that some spark of its former fire must yet remain

in its ashes, and needed but tact and opportunity on her part to fan

it again into aflame. What would not life be, then, were that

accomplished? She had been pleased with the notion of entering society

as Mr. Creswell's wife (poor prosaic Mr. Creswell!), but as the wife

of Walter Joyce, who was, according to Mr. Gould, one of the most

rising men of the day, and who would have her fortune at his back to

further his schemes and advance his interests, what might not be done!

Marian glowed with delight at this ecstatic day-dream; sat cherishing

it for hours, thinking over all kinds of combinations; finally put it

aside with the full determination to take some steps towards seeing

Walter Joyce at once.

How lucky it was, she thought, that she had behaved amiably on the

announcement of Gertrude Creswell's marriage, and not, as she had felt

inclined at first to do, returned a savage, or at best a formal,

answer! These people, these Benthalls, were just those through whose

agency her designs must be carried out. They were very friendly with

Walter, and of course saw something of him; indeed, she had heard that

he was expected down to stay at Helmingham, so soon as he could get

away from London. If she played her cards well--not too openly at

first, but with circumspection--she might make good use of these

people; and as they would not be too well off, even with the interest

of Gertrude's money, if they had a family (and these sort of people,

poor parsons and schoolmasters--James Ashurst's daughter had already

learned to speak in that way--always had a large number of children),

she might be able, in time, to buy their services and mould them to

her will.

It was under the influence of these feelings that Marian had

determined on being exceedingly polite to the Benthalls, and she

regretted very much that she had been away from home at the time when

they called on her. She wrote a note to that effect to Mrs. Benthall,

and intimated her intention of returning the visit almost immediately.

Mrs. Benthall showed the note to her husband, who read it and lifted

his eyebrows, and asked his wife what it meant, and why the widow had

suddenly become so remarkably attached to them. Mrs. Benthall

professed her inability to answer his question, but remarked that it

was a good thing that "that" was all settled between Maude and Walter,

before Walter came in madam's way again.

"But he isn't likely to come in her way again," said the Reverend

George.

"I don't know that," said Gerty; "this sudden friendship for us looks

to me very much as though----"

"You don't mean to say you think Mrs. Creswell intends making a

convenience of us?" asked Mr. Benthall.

"I think she did so intend," said Gertrude; "but she----"

"We'll have nothing of that sort!" cried Mr. Benthall, going through

that process which is known as "flaring up;" "we can get on well

enough without her and her presents, and if----"

"Ah, you silly thing," interrupted Gertrude, "don't you see that when

Walter marries Maude, there will be an end of any use to which we

could be put by Mrs. Creswell, even if we were not going away to the

Newmanton living in a very few weeks? You may depend upon it, that as

soon as she hears the news--and I will take care to let her know it

when she calls here--she will gracefully retire, and during the

remainder of our stay in Helmingham we shall see very little more of

the rich widow."

On the night of his acceptance by Maude Creswell, Walter wrote a long

letter to Lady Caroline. He wrote it in his room--the old room in

which he used to sleep in his usher-days: he had bargained to have

that when he came down--when all the household was in bed, after an

evening passed by him in earnest conversation with Maude and Gertrude,

while Mr. Benthall busied himself with an arrangement of affairs

consequent upon his giving up the school, which he had decided upon

doing at midsummer. In the course of that long conversation Walter

mentioned that he was about to write to Lady Caroline, acquainting her

with what had taken place, and also told the girls of his having

consulted her previous to the step which he had taken. He thought this

information, as showing Lady Caroline's approbation of the match,

would be hailed with great delight; and he was surprised to see a look

pass between Maude and Gertrude, and to hear the latter say--

"Oh, Walter, you don't mean to say you asked Lady Caroline's advice as

to your marrying Maude!"

"Certainly I did; and I'm sure Maude will see nothing strange in it.

She knows perfectly well that----"

"It is not for Maude's sake that I spoke; but--but, Walter, had you no

idea, no suspicion that----"

"That what, my dear Gertrude? Pray finish your sentence."

"That Lady Caroline cared for you herself?"

"Cared for me!"

"Cared for you loved you! wanted to marry you! Can I find plainer

language than that?"

"Good heavens, child, what nonsense are you talking! There is not the

remotest foundation for any such belief. Lady Caroline is my kindest

and best friend. If there were no social difference between us, I

should say she had behaved to me as a sister; but as for anything

else--nonsense, Gertrude!"

Gertrude said no more; she merely shrugged her shoulders and changed

the subject. But the effect of that conversation was not lost on

Walter Joyce. It showed in the tone of his letter to Lady Caroline

written that night, softening it and removing it entirely from the

brusque and business-like style of correspondence which he generally

indulged in.

The next day he left Helmingham early, having had a stroll with

Maude,--in which he expressed his wish that the marriage should take

place as soon as possible,--and a short talk with Gertrude, in which,

however, he made no reference to the topic discussed on the previous

evening.

It was a lucky thing that Mr. Joyce had started by an early train; for

the Benthalls had scarcely finished their luncheon, before there was a

violent ringing at the gate-bell,--there was no servant in the county

who, for his size, could make more noise than Marian's tiger,--and

Mrs. Creswell was announced. She had driven the ponies slowly over

from Woolgreaves, and had been enjoying the bows and adulation of the

villagers as she came along. Though of course she had driven through

the village scores of times, she had never been to the schoolhouse

since she left it with her mother on their memorable visit to

Woolgreaves, that visit which resulted in her marriage.

She was not an emotional woman, Mrs. Creswell; but her heart beat

rather faster than its placid wont as she crossed the threshold of the

gate, and stepped at once into the garden, where so many of the scenes

of her early history had been passed. There was the lawn, as untidy as

in her poor father's days, bordered by the big elm-trees, under whose

shadow she had walked in the dull summer evenings, as the hum from the

dormitories settled down into silence and slumber; and her lover was

free to join her there, and to walk with her until their frugal supper

was announced. There were the queer star and pear-shaped flower-beds,

the virginia-creeper waving in feathery elegance along the high wall,

the other side of which was put to far more practical purposes--bore

stucco instead of climbers, and re-echoed to the balls of the

fives-players. There were the narrow walks, the old paintless

gate-bell, that lived behind iron bars, the hideous stone pine-apples

on either side of the door, just as she remembered them.

In the drawing-room, too, where she was received by Mrs. Benthall,

with the exception of a smell of stale tobacco, there was no

difference: the old paper on the walls, the old furniture, the old

dreary outlook.

After the first round of visiting talk, Marian asked Gertrude how she

liked her new home.

Gerty was, if anything, frank.

"Well, I like it pretty well," she said. "Of course it's all new to

me, and the boys are great fun."

"Are they?" said Marian, with an odd smile; "they must have changed a

great deal. I know I didn't think them 'great fun' in my day."

"Well, I mean for a little time. Of course they'd bore one awfully

very soon, and I think this place would bore one frightfully after a

time, so dull and grim, isn't it?"

"It's very quiet; but you mustn't let it bore you, as you call it."

"Oh, that won't matter much, because it will only be for so short a

time."

"So short a time! Are you going to leave Helmingham?"

"Oh yes; haven't you heard? George has got a living--such a jolly

place, they say--in the Isle of Wight; Newmanton they call it; and we

give up here at midsummer."

"I congratulate you, my dear Gertrude, as much as I bewail my own

misfortune. I was looking forward with such pleasure to having you

within reachable distance in this horribly unneighbourly

neighbourhood, and now you dash all my hopes! Whence did Mr. Benthall

get this singular piece of good fortune?"

"George got the presentation from Lord Hetherington, who is a great

friend of Wal--I mean of a great friend of ours. And Lord Hetherington

had seen George in London, and had taken a fancy to him, as so many

people do; and he begged his friend to offer this living to George."

"That is very delightful indeed; I must congratulate you, though I

must say I deserve a medal for my selflessness in doing so. It will be

charming for your sister, too; she never liked this part of the

country much, I think; and of course she will live with you?"

"No, not live with us; we shall see her whenever she can get away from

London, I hope."

"From London! ah, I forgot. Of course she will make your friend

Lady--Man--Lady Mansergh's her headquarters?"

"No; you are not right yet, Mrs. Creswell," said Gertrude, smiling in

great delight, and showing all her teeth. "The fact is, Maude is going

to be married, and after her marriage she will live the greater part

of the year in London."

"To be married! indeed!" said Marian--she always hated Maude much

worse than Gertrude. "May one ask to whom?"

"Oh, certainly; every one will know it now,--to the new member here,

Mr. Joyce."

"Indeed!" said Marian quite calmly (trust her for that!). "I should

think they would be excellently matched!--My dear Gertrude, how on

earth do you get these flowers to grow in a room? Mine are all

blighted, the merest brown horrors."

"Would he prefer that pale spiritless girl--not spiritless, but

missish, knowing nothing of the world and its ways--to a woman who

could stand by his side in an emergency, and help him throughout his

life? Am I to be for ever finding one or other of these doll-children

in my way? Shall I give up this last new greatest hope simply because

of this preposterous obstacle? Invention too, perhaps, of the other

girl's, to annoy me. Walter is not that style of man--last person on

earth to fancy a bread-and-butter miss, who---- We will see who shall

win in this round. This is an excitement which I certainly had not

expected."

And the ponies never went so fast before.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE RESULT.

The second day after Mrs. Creswell's visit to Helmingham, Walter Joyce

was sitting in his chambers hard at work. The approaching change in

his condition had affected him very little indeed. He had laughed to

himself to think how little. He would have laughed more had he not at

the same time reflected that it is not a particularly good sign for a

man to be so much overwhelmed by business or so generally careless as

to what becomes of him, as to look upon his marriage with very little

elation, to prepare for it in a very matter-of-fact and unromantic

way. That no man can serve two masters we know on the best authority;

and there are two who certainly will not brook being served at the

same time by the one worshipper, love and ambition. Joyce had been

courting the latter deity for many months with unexampled assiduity,

and with very excellent success, and, in reality, had never swerved in

his allegiance. He was afraid he had; he induced himself to believe

that that desire for some one to share his life with him was really

legitimate love-prompting, whereas it was much more likely a mere

wish, springing from vanity, to have some one always at hand with the

censer, some one to play the part of the stage-confidante, and receive

all his outpourings while at the same time she was loud in his

praises. The love which he felt for Maude Creswell differed as much

from the passion with which, in the bygone years, Marian Ashurst had

inspired him, as the thick brown turgid Rhine stream which flows past

Emmerich differs from the bright, limpid, diamond-sprayed water which

flashes down at Schaffhausen; but there was "body" in it, as there is

in the Rhine stream at Emmerich, sufficient to keep him straight from

any of the insidious attacks of ambition, as he soon had occasion to

prove.

Not that the news which Gertrude Benthall had confided to him in

regard to Lady Caroline Mansergh had touched him one whit. In the

first place, he thought Gertrude had deceived herself, or, at all

events, had misconstrued the feelings by which Lady Caroline was

actuated towards him; and in the second--supposing the girl was right,

and all was as she believed--it would not have had the smallest

influence in altering anything he had done. He was not a brilliant

man, Walter Joyce, clever in his way, but lacking in _savoir faire_;

but he had a rough odd kind of common sense which stood him in better

stead than mere worldly experience, and that showed him that in his

true position the very worst thing he could have done for himself

would have been to go in for a great alliance. Such a proceeding would

have alienated the affections and the confidence of all those people

who had made him what he was, or rather who had seen him struggle up

to the position he enjoyed, and given him a helping hand at the last.

But it was because he had struggled up himself by his own exertions

that they liked him, whereas any effort in his favour by the aid of

money or patronage would have sent them at once into the opposition

ranks. No, Lady Caroline was still the kindest, the dearest, the best

of his friends! He found a letter from her on his return to chambers,

full of warm congratulations, telling him that she was compelled to

follow the medical advice of which she had spoken to him, and to leave

London for a few weeks; but she hoped on her return to welcome him and

his bride to Chesterfield Street, and retain them ever on the very

narrow list of her chiefest intimates. He was engaged on a letter to

Jack Byrne when there came a sharp clear knock at the door; such a

different knock from that usually given by the printer's boy, his most

constant visitor, that he laid down his pen, and called sonorously,

"Come in!"

The handle was turned quietly, the door was opened quickly, and Marian

Creswell came into the room.

Walter did not recognise her at first; her veil was half over her

face, and she was standing with her back to the light. A minute after,

he exclaimed, "Mrs. Creswell!"

"Yes, Mr. Joyce; Mrs. Creswell! You did not expect me."

"I did not, indeed. You are, I confess, one of the last persons I

should have expected to see in these rooms."

"No doubt; that is perfectly natural; but I come on a matter of

business."

"As does every one who favours me with a visit. I cannot imagine any

one coming here for pleasure. Pray be seated; take the 'client's

chair.'"

"You are very bright and genial, Mr. Joyce; as every successful man

is."

"As every man ought to be, Mrs. Creswell; as every tolerably

successful man can afford to be."

"I suppose you wonder how I found your address."

"Not the least in the world. Unfortunately I know too well that it is

in the archives of the _Post-office Directory_. Behold the painful

evidences of the fact!" and he pointed to a table covered with papers.

"Petitions, begging-letters, pamphlets, circulars, all kinds of

unreadable literature."

"Yes; but I don't study the _Post-office Directory_, as a rule."

"No; but you looked at it to-day, because you had an object in view.

Given the object, you will not hesitate to depart in any way from your

usual course, Mrs. Creswell."

"I will not pretend to ignore your sarcasm, nor will I say whether it

is deserved or undeserved, though perhaps my presence here just now

should have induced you to spare me."

"I did not mean to be sarcastic; I simply gave utterance to a thought

that came into my mind. You said you came on a matter of business? I

must be rude enough to remind you that I am very busy just now."

"I will detain you a very short time; but, in the first place, let us

drop this fencing and folly. You know my husband is dead?"

Joyce bowed.

"And that I am left with a large, a very large fortune at my

disposal?"

"I heard so, not merely when I was down at Helmingham the other day,

but here in London. It is common talk."

"You were down in Helmingham the other day? Ah, of course! However,

suppose I had come to you to say----" and she paused.

Joyce looked at her with great composure. "To say!" he repeated.

"I must go through with it," she muttered beneath her breath. "To say

that the memory of old days is always rising in my mind, the sound of

old words and places always ringing in my ears, the remembrance of old

looks almost driving me mad! Suppose I had come to say all this--and

this besides--share that fortune with me!"

"To say that to _me!_"

"To you!"

"It is excessively polite of you, and of course I am very much

flattered, necessarily. But, Mrs. Creswell, there is one thing that

would prevent my accepting your very generous offer."

"And that is--"

"I am engaged to be married."

"I had heard some report of that kind; but, knowing you as I do, I had

set very little store by it. Walter Joyce, I have followed your

fortunes, so far as they have been made public, for many months, and I

have seen how, step by step, you have pushed yourself forward. You

have done well, very well; but there is a future for you far beyond

your present, if you but take advantage of the opportunity which I now

offer you. With the fortune which I ask you to share with me--a

fortune, mind; not a few thousand pounds such as you are anticipating

with Maude Creswell, but with a fortune at your back, and your

talents, you may do anything; there is no position which might not be

open to you."

"You are drawing a tempting picture."

"I am drawing a true one; for in addition to your own brains, you

would have those of a woman to aid you: a woman, mind, who has done

for herself what she proposes to do for you; who has raised herself to

the position she always longed for--a woman with skill to scheme, and

courage to carry out. Do you follow me?"

"Perfectly."

"And you agree?"

"I think not. I'm afraid it's impossible. I know it's not an argument

that will weigh with you at all, or that, perhaps, you will be able to

understand; but, you see, my word is pledged to this young lady."

"Is that all? I should think some means might be found to compensate

the young lady for her loss."

Walter Joyce's face was growing very dark, but Marian did not perceive

it.

"No, it is not all," he said coldly; "the thing would be impossible,

even if that reason did not exist."

She saw that her shaft had missed its mark, but she was determined to

bring him down, so tried another.

"Ah, Walter," she said, "do you answer me like this? In memory of the

dear old days----"

"Stop!" he cried, bringing his hand down heavily on the writing-table

before him, and springing to his feet. "Stop!" he cried, in a voice

very different from the cold polite tone in which he had hitherto

spoken; "don't name those times, or what passed in them, for in your

mouth such allusions would be almost blasphemy. Marian Creswell--and

the mere fact that I have to call you by that name ought to have told

you what would be my answer to your proposition before you came

here--perhaps if I were starving I might take an alms of you, but

under no other circumstance would I touch a farthing of that money

which you pride yourself on having secured. You must have been

strangely forgetful when you talked to me, as you did just now, of

having 'raised yourself to the position you always longed for,' and of

having 'skill to scheme and courage to carry out' what you desire. You

forgot, surely, that in those words you told me--what I knew before,

by the way--that you longed for your present position while you were

my promised wife; and that you were bringing your skill and your

courage to work to obtain it, while I was striving, and hoping, and

slaving for you."

"We had better put an end to this interview," said Marian, attempting

to rise. "Ah, Walter, spare me!"

"Spare you!" he cried in unaltered tones. "Did you spare me while all

this was going on? Did you spare me when"--he opened a drawer at his

side and took out a folded paper---"when you wrote me this cruel

letter, blasting my hopes and driving me to despair, and almost to

madness? Spare you! Who have you spared? Did you spare those girls,

the nieces of the kindly old man whom you married, or, because they

were in your way, did not have them turned out of his house, their

natural home? Did you spare the old man himself when you saw him

fretting against the step which you had compelled him to take? Who

have you spared, whom have you not overridden, in your reckless career

of avarice and ambition?"

She sat cowed and trembling for a moment, then raised her head and

looked at him with flashing eyes.

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Joyce," she said in a very hard voice,

that came clipping out between her tight lips,--"I am much obliged to

you for permitting me to be present at a private rehearsal of one of

your speeches. It was very good, and does you great credit. You have

decidedly improved since I saw you on the platform at Brocksopp. Your

style is perhaps a little turgid, a little bombastic, but that

doubtless is in accordance with the taste of those of whose sentiments

you are the chosen and the popular exponent. I must ask you to see me

to the cab at the door. I am unaccustomed to London, and have no

footman with me. Thanks!" And she walked out of the door which he had

opened for her, and preceded him down the staircase, with a volcano

raging in her breast, but with the most perfect outward composure.

See the curtain now about to drop on this little drama,--comedy of

manners rather,--where nothing or no one has been in extremes; where

the virtuous people have not been wholly virtuous; and where the

wickedest have had far less carmine and tinsel than the author has on

former occasions found a necessity to use. There is no need to "dress"

the characters with military precision in a straight line; for there

is no "tag" to be spoken, no set speech to be delivered; and,

moreover, the characters are all dispersed.

Gertrude and her husband are in their seaside home, happy in each

other and their children. Walter and his wife are vey happy, too, in

their quiet way. He has not made any wonderful position for himself as

yet; but he is doing well, and is well thought of by his party. Dr.

Osborne has retired from practice; but most of the Helmingham and

Brocksopp folk are going on much in their usual way.

And Marian Creswell? The woman with the peaked face and the scanty

hair turning gray, who is seldom at her own house, but appears

suddenly at Brighton, Bath, Cheltenham, or Torquay, and disappears as

suddenly, is Marian Creswell. The chosen quarry of impostors and

sycophants, she has not one single friend in whom to confide, one

creature to care for her. She is alone with her wealth; which is

merely a burden to her, and has not the power of affording her the

smallest gratification.

THE END.

PRINTED AT THE CAXTON PRESS, BECCLES.