The interest which Walter Joyce had awakened in Lady Caroline Mansergh on the night of the dinner-party by no means died out, or even waned. Flirtation is certainly not an exceptional amusement in the dead level of dreary occupations which a country-house life affords, but this word-pastime was certainly not flirtation. The notion of flirting with her brother's secretary, which would have been exceedingly comic to the rest of the world, and afforded a vast deal of amusement to the kindly noodle portion of the Westhope society, did not strike Lady Caroline at all in a ridiculous light; but to flirt with Walter Joyce she knew would be impossible. The sighing and looking, the giving and taking, the fetching and carrying, and all the poodle tricks which are played by the best style of male flirts, in the best style of society, she knew would be impossible to him; and though she had had long practice in the art, and had derived no little amusement from it, she felt it would be repulsive to her to try her hand on such a subject. If not a desire for flirtation, what was it that irresistibly impelled her to seek this man's society; that made her start and thrill at the unexpected sound of his voice; that enabled her to picture to herself so vividly certain expressions in his eyes, gestures of his hands, to recall phrases of his conversation? Was it real passion? Had love come to her at last? Was this the man with whom her fate was to be for ever bound up? Lady Caroline half smiled as she contemplated this tremendous possibility. It was too wild, too romantic, this story of the Lord of Burleigh with the sexes reversed, and with herself for heroine; the man was different from those with whom her life had been passed, had brains and courage to use them, did not think the society thoughts nor speak the society language, and was not conformable in any way to the society pattern. That was what it meant. That was the source of the strange interest she felt in him--interest which was friendly and appreciative, but nothing further.
Nothing further. That was why she had manoeuvred, carefully, skilfully, and with perfect feminine tact, never ceasing until the object was accomplished, that it was understood that Mr. Joyce joined the family circle always after dinner, whether there were visitors or not; that was why she invariably found opportunities to have him seated by her side, or standing by her turning over the pages of her music, while Lord Hetherington, with a dexterity only acquired by long practice, held up the newspaper before him, being at the time sound asleep, and her ladyship, scorning concealment, slumbered placidly in the garish light of the moderator lamp.
Nothing further. That was why Lady Caroline had suddenly taken to pedestrian exercise, wanted an escort occasionally to the village, and hated the idea of being followed about in the country by a footman; found she had quite forgotten that charming Shakespeare, and determined to read his dear plays again, and would not trouble Mr. Joyce to send those heavy big volumes from the library, but would come in and read them there occasionally, if he was quite sure she did not disturb him. The jealous tortures endured by the valiant Othello, which Lady Caroline selected for her first Shakespearian reading, apparently did not interest her very much. The great family history of the Wests, derived from ancient chronicles and documents, upon which Lord Hetherington's secretary was engaged, made but little progress on the occasions of her ladyship's visits. There were the longest and the pleasantest talks. In Caroline Mansergh's hands Joyce was as pliable as potter's clay. In less than a week after the dinner-party he had told her the history of his life, made her acquainted with his hopes and fears, his wishes and aspirations. Of course she heard about his engagement to Marian; equally of course that was the part of the story in which she felt and shared the greatest interest. Very quickly she knew it all. Under her skilful questioning, Joyce not merely told her what had actually occurred, but opened to her the secret chambers of his heart, and displayed to her penetrating sense feelings with the existence of which he himself was scarcely acquainted. The odd uncomfortable sensation which first came over him in his last walk with Marian round the school garden, when she spoke of how it might have been better if they had never met, and how poorly armed he was for the great conflict of life, the renewal of the sting with its bitterness increased fifty-fold at the receipt of her letter dilating on the luxury of Woolgreaves, and her dread of the poverty which they would have to encounter, the last hint given to him in the worldly advice contained in Jack Byrne's letter--all these were submitted to Lady Caroline's keen powers of dissection, without Walter's being in the least aware how much of his inner life he had made patent to her. A look, a nod, a word here or there, begat, increased, and developed his assurance of sympathy; and he could have talked till all eternity on the subject dearest to his heart.
Lady Caroline let him talk, and only starred the dialogue with occasional interjections, always of a sympathising character. When she was alone, she would sit for hours reviewing the conversation just past in the minutest detail, weighing and reweighing sentences and even words which Joyce had spoken, sifting, balancing, ascribing to such and such influences, putting aside such and such theories, bringing all her feminine wits--and in the great points of feminine cleverness, an odd common sense, and an undefinable blundering on to the right, she had no superior--to the solution of the question of Walter Joyce's future so far as Marian Ashurst was concerned. Whatever conclusion she may have arrived at she kept to herself; no one ever had the slightest glimmering of it. Her talks with Walter Joyce were as numerous as ever, her interest in his career no less, her delight in his society by no means impaired; but the name of Miss Ashurst never passed Lady Caroline's lips, and whenever she saw the conversation necessarily veering that way, she invariably struck it out into some new channel. Not that Lady Caroline Mansergh had any jealousy of this "simple maiden in her flower;" she would not have allowed that for an instant, would not have allowed, in her most secret communings with herself, that such a thing could be possible; for she had been properly and rigidly brought up in the Belgravian code of morals, though a little inclined to kick against them now and think for herself; and the Belgravian code of morals holds the cultivation of the bien-séances as the most essential portion of a young lady's curriculum, and the bien-séances effectively ignored the existence of any such low sentiment as jealousy in the minds of perfectly constituted members of the upper classes. Not that Walter Joyce would have noticed the display of any such passion as jealousy, or, as Lady Caroline thought rather ruefully, could allow any such feeling to be excited in him. In all her experience--and it had been large and vast--she had never come across a man so completely---- Well, she could scarcely find a term for it. It was not apathetic; because he was bright and intelligent and earnest. Perhaps confiding was the best word to use so far as his relations with Marian were concerned, though, as Lady Caroline felt, those relations were a little dashed with recent doubt; and as for his feelings with regard to herself, skilled mistress as she was in the art of such wordy warfare, Lady Caroline could never trap him into an ambuscade, or force him into anything like an acknowledgment of a liking for her. It was not for the want of trying to evoke it, not for lack of given opportunity on her part, that this avowal never was made. Fortune favoured her, notably on one occasion; and if Walter Joyce had ever contemplated anything beyond a feeling of pleasant friendship for Lady Caroline Mansergh, he would have availed himself of that occasion for expressing it. Thus it came about. Lady Caroline was sitting half buried in a big soft easy-chair before the library fire, presumably enjoying Othello,but really watching her brother's secretary, who was busily transcribing from a big black-letter volume before him some of the glorious deeds of her remote ancestry. Raising his eyes after one of his pen-dips, Joyce met Lady Caroline's glance fixed straight upon him, and said--
"Thinking of Iago's subtlety, Lady Caroline, or Desdemona's innate weakness? The former, I should say, judging from your expression."
"My expression must be very poor, then, Mr. Joyce, or your powers of reading expression must be extremely limited. I was thinking of something totally different."
"May one ask of what?"
He had had a long day at the chronicles of the West family, and a little relief was absolutely necessary.
"Oh dear, yes; my thoughts were certainly not to be marked 'confidential' or even 'private.' I was thinking about our going back to town."
"Oh, indeed! Is that imminent?"
"I should say certainly. Parliament meets within a fortnight, and West, I mean Lord Hetherington, never misses that. Lady Hetherington won't let him go alone, and once in Beaufort Square, I suppose they'll stop on."
"I suppose so. This house will seem wonderfully different when you have all left it."
"Naturally. Deserted houses must be different to those filled with company, though their actual appearance is of course only known to the housekeeper who is left in them, and housekeepers seldom give their impressions to the world."
"If you are interested in the subject, perhaps you will permit me to give you a faithful photograph of Westhope in its dismantled state."
"Evolved from your inner graciousness, like the German's idea of the camel?"
"On the contrary, drawn in the minutest detail from personal observation. The exact position of the pen which Lord Hetherington threw down after signing his last cheque for Mr. Deacon, the steward, the state of the withering hothouse flowers left by her ladyship on her table in the drawing-room, the vacant chair in the library once filled by----"
"Thanks, that's enough! I won't trouble you to be poetical, Mr. Joyce; that will be wanted one day at Helmingham, I suppose, and it's never wise to be extravagant with one's ideas. But you don't mean to say you think you will be left behind here, at Westhope, when the family returns to town?"
"Assuredly, Lady Caroline! How else should I be able to make any progress with my work?"
"I think you will find," said Lady Caroline, with a smile, "that the history of our family, wonderfully interesting as it doubtless is, and anxiously expected by the literary world, as it necessarily must be, will have to remain in abeyance for a little time. The fact is, that Lord Hetherington has been recently much struck with the levelling and democratic spirit of the age, and has determined, so far as he is able, to stem the torrent. He will need a certain amount of assistance before bringing the matter before the House of Lords, and for that assistance I know he looks to you!"
He was a trying man, this Mr. Joyce. There was a scarcely suppressed gleam of fun in Lady Caroline's usually earnest eyes that ought to have conveyed to any man acquainted with the circumstances of the position the fact that this new combination had been suggested by her, and by her alone, and that she perfectly appreciated not merely its serviceable but its ludicrous side. Walter Joyce appreciated neither. He should of course be ready to give his services in whatever way they might............