# Wrecked in Port/Book III, Chapter XI

Chapter XI.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 chaperon 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, Wolfe Tone, and that kind of thing. Never live to see him in the Carlton. No, of coarse 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 up-stairs. 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 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 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 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 I 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, the skill and courage with which ho 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 Maud 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— 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 further 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 pulled it out of his pocket, and looked at it again, so clear and concise and positive. An 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 Maud 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 Maud 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 Maud 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.
Maud 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're 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 hard working fellow, had he had no other motive; but he had another: he was in love with the schoolmaster's daughter, and she returned his 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 who 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; thought 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. But 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 fall 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, Maud, 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 Maud'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!"