Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/253

Charles Dickens] indeed. In their last parting walk round the garden of the old school-house at Helmingham, she had hinted something of this, and he thought he had silenced her on the point; but her want of hope, her abnegation of interest, was now much more pronounced; and against such a feeling he inveighed with all the strength and power of his honest soul. If she gave in, what was to become of them, whose present discomforts were only made bearable by anticipation of the time when he would have her to share his lot?

"And after all, Marian," he had said in conclusion, "what does it all mean? This money for which you wish so much—I find the word studding every few lines of your letter—this splendour, luxury, comfort—call it by what name you will, what does it all mean? Who benefits by it? Not the old gentleman, who has passed his life in slaving for the acquisition of wealth! As I understand from you, his wife is dead, and his son almost estranged from him. Is this the end of it? If you could see his inmost heart, is he not pining for the woman who stood by his side during the conflict? and does he not feel the triumph empty and hollow without her to share it with him? Would he not sooner have his son's love, and trust, and confidence, than the conservatory, and the carriages, and the splendour on which you dwell so rapturously? If you could know all, you would learn that the happiest time of his life was when he was striving, in company with her he loved, and that the end now attained, however grand it may be, however above his original anticipations, is but poor and vain, now she is not there to share it with him. Oh, Marian, my heart's darling, think of this, and be assured of its truth! So long as we love each other, so long as the sincerity of that love gives us confidence in each other, all will be well, and it will be impossible to shut out hope. It is only when a shadow crosses that love, a catastrophe which seems impossible, but which we should pray God to avert, that hope can in the smallest degree diminish. Marian, my love, my life, think of this as I place it before you! We are both young, both gifted with health, and strength, and powers of endurance. If we fight the battle side by side, if we are not led away by envy and induced to fix the standard of our desires too high, we shall, we must succeed in attaining what we have so often hopefully discussed—the happiness of being all in all to each other, and leading our lives together, 'for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.' I confess I can imagine no greater bliss—can you?"

He had had no answer to this letter, but that had not troubled him much. He knew that Marian was not fond of correspondence, that in her last letter she had given a full account of her new life, and that she could have but little to say; and he was further aware that a certain feeling of pride would prevent her from too readily endorsing his comments on her views; that she agreed with those comments, or that they would commend themselves to her natural sound sense on reflection, he had no doubt; and he was content to await calmly the issue of events.

The party assembled were waiting the announcement of dinner in the library, and when Joyce entered the room Lord Hetherington left the rug where he had been standing with two other gentlemen, and, advancing towards his secretary, took his hand, and said: "I am glad her ladyship has persuaded you to come out of seclusion, Mr. Joyce! Too much—what is it?—books, and work, and that kind of thing, is—is—the deuce, in point of fact!" And then his lordship went back to the rug, and Joyce having received a sufficiently distant bow from Lady Hetherington, retreated into a darkish corner of the room, into which the flickering firelight did not penetrate, and looked around him.

Lady Hetherington looked splendidly handsome, he thought. She was dressed in maroon-coloured velvet, lit up wonderfully in the firelight, which showed her classically-shaped head, and head-dress of velvet and black lace. Joyce had read much of Juno-looking women, but he had never realised the idea until he gazed upon that calm, majestic, imperious face, so clearly cold in outline, those large, solemnly-radiant eyes, that splendidly-moulded figure. The man who was bending over her chair as he addressed her, not deferentially, as Joyce felt that—not from her rank, but rather from her splendid beauty—she should be addressed, but on the contrary, rather flippantly, had a palpable curly wig, shaved cheeks, waxed moustache, and small white hands, which he rubbed gently together in front of him. He was Colonel Tapp, a Crimean hero, a very Paladin in war, but who had been worn by time, not into slovenry, but