Wrecked in Port: A Novel

by Edmund Yates

"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.