Chapter IV

Henry was now in the habit of having letters. During his prosperous days he had visited many shops of various kinds, not running up large bills, but buying some article he fancied, with a promise to call and pay. How the whole mercantile body in England could have heard that the little prosperity he had enjoyed was now departed, it would be hard to say, but such appeared to be the case; for although he had never been troubled before, little bills from divers parts of London and England were now suddenly sent in.

It gave him a feeling of desperation when, morning after morning, these little bills appeared upon his table; and yet, notwithstanding the desperation it caused, he would not draw a small balance which remained from his last quarter, and which would have been sufficient to set this particular annoyance at rest. Not one penny of _that_ money would he touch, as he observed to himself again and again, grinding his teeth as he said it.

He had been persuaded at this moment by a young man, one of the least idle of his associates, to dine and sleep at his father’s villa at Hampstead. It was the first diversion Henry had taken, and he was persuaded to it only because the whirl of his brain frightened him. He had attempted to take some lessons in arithmetic, and partly from the agitation and nervousness into which the attempt cast him, and still more because his pre-occupied mind refused to clear itself of its imaginings, and give itself to its subject, he had disgraced himself. This would not have mattered could he have taken it good-humouredly; his teacher was probably accustomed to the sight of failure, but Henry could not take it calmly. He saw contempt, as he fancied, in the face of his instructor; he heard words of condemnation and contempt, and he quarrelled with him.

It was after the despair caused by this last occurrence that Henry had accepted the invitation to the house of his friend. Another day of thought upon his prospects would, he felt, make him mad in good earnest, and he went. It was the home of a rich merchant with a large family. There were games, and there was music, and singing, and all that Henry had formerly most enjoyed. But he could enjoy nothing now.

“I thought you said he was such a capital fellow,” said one of the girls to her brother.

“So he is, but he is out of sorts. Don’t notice him. The change will do him good.”

It was an amiable family, and the handsome young man out of sorts became a subject of interest with the young ladies. They did not notice his depression, but they tried hard to please, and so far succeeded that Henry returned to London in a saner state of mind. For more than a month he had listened unceasingly to his father’s cold words, his mother’s complaints, his sister’s sharp remarks, and his own despairing cogitations. It was no wonder that his poor brain had lost its tranquillity. The fresh air, the change, and the kindness he had received, all combined to allay the inward fever, and, to his surprise, he whistled as he walked along the streets. But the sound of the whistle brought him back to himself. “What’s the use?” he said, gloomily, and the black dog sprang on his shoulders again. He banged the door of the house as he entered with his wonted impatient movement, and strode up to his room without vouchsafing an inquiry after the health of his family.

“You will find some letters in your room, sir,” said the housemaid, as he passed her on the stairs.

“Hang them!” was his gracious reply.

There were five letters on his table. He knew the look of them and their contents well; nevertheless, in gloomy disgust he opened them. One was a small bill of five and sixpence for a pot of pomatum; another was of ten shillings for a “waterfall.” But there was a more serious one, a few words to remind him that he had never paid for a gun purchased the year before, a matter of twenty or thirty pounds.

Henry groaned aloud. Not that this addition made any very great difference in the amount of debt that hampered him. But there was something in it which at that moment completely overset him. He dropped the bill and groaned. It was then that his eye fell on Nora’s letter, which was the last in the heap. He was not very well acquainted with her handwriting, but by some intuition he recognized it, and he shuddered as he took it up. It was opened, however, and read. But his mind, overset and excited, could not calmly understand its contents.

“She is determined to trample upon me!” he cried passionately; “and I will _not_ be trampled on. Thus I treat her and her offers,” and he threw the letter on the ground, and put his foot upon it with a stamp.

Thus he stood, when there came a little, sharp tap at the door, and without waiting permission to enter, Letitia opened it.

“You intended to escape me,” she said, with a laugh, “but you won’t. I heard your very dignified slam, and should know it among a thousand noises, and I came up to see what is the matter now.”

She walked a few steps towards him, and then exclaimed,

“Why, what _is_ the matter now? Goodness gracious me! you look as fierce as crooked-backed Richard in the play last night.”

“I didn’t tell you to come in here,” Henry replied. “I am very busy, and I don’t want you.”

“Not very busy, I think. Dancing on a piece of paper,” for her quick eye had seen it at once.

“Not dancing on a bit of paper,” he said passionately; for, like a child, he could be played upon to any extent. “Trampling on it, if you will.”

“All the same. From the fierceness of your face, I did not suppose it was a graceful dance. Well, what is it? One of your precious bills? How childish! I would not vex myself about a bill.”

“It is _not_ a bill!” in a very loud voice.

Letitia was perfectly aware of that; but she paused a moment to examine his face before she said--

“I guess it. You have received an offer of marriage from Miss Smythe, or Smith, or whatever she chooses to be.”

“Have done with your folly!”

“Let me see how she words it,” and she stooped and endeavoured to pull the letter from under his foot. “It is an awkward thing for a lady to do; but I have no doubt she does it well.”

“Have done, I say!” he cried; and he took up the letter and put it in his pocket.

“Come, Henry, don’t be nonsensical. I know it is from Miss Smythe. I looked over your letters this morning, and I saw the Cheltenham post-mark. That is where she lives, is it not?”

“I neither know nor care.”

“Well, if ever a man quarrelled with his bread and butter, it is you. What is in that letter of course I can’t guess, but that it is an offer of something I am sure. I don’t exactly suppose she mentions marriage; but that is the aim and end, depend upon it. From all I hear, she does not find many lovers, notwithstanding her riches, and she is determined to make hay while she can.”

“Letitia, I hate you!” he cried with vehemence.

“Do you? You are not singular in that. I have not many lovers either. But no matter for my affairs. I want to give you advice. Make up to that woman, whether you can like her or not; make her like you, and then profit by it.”

“I believe you are--” he paused.

“Well, what?” laughing.

“A fiend, Letitia.”

“Indeed I am not. I am only advising you for your good. If you could make her like you, and then ill-use her, I own I should be glad. I hate her, and a revenge in that small way, a jilt, an offence to her pomp, would be a brilliant revenge; but I am sorry to say I have no such hope. I know you are in love with her; if not, you are too soft to take any revenge.”

“Go away, and leave me alone!” he cried half passionately, half wearily. The soothing of the previous evening’s refreshment, even while soothing, had unstrung him. While his sister spoke, there was a choking sensation within which seemed as if it must find vent in tears.

“As you please. Only this, Henry--take my advice, and, whatever it may be, accept her offer. I don’t believe in disinterested offers; I think people always have a motive for what they do; above all, I don’t believe in disinterested offers from _her_. I think she has a selfish motive in making up to you, and, as I can think of no other, I suppose that motive to be love. If so, don’t _you_ be a fool and throw your good hands away. Now I have done.”

He made no comment nor answer to what she said, and she closed the door and left him. Then he sat down at the table and put his face in his hands, and sighed as from his heart’s depths. Letitia’s words had not affected him as she intended, but the manner in which they affected him tended to the same result.

She wished him to accept the offer, and she supposed every man would be flattered by the suggestion that he had gained a heart. Of the malice that coloured all her words she made no account. She had a malicious disposition, and her words and thoughts were naturally coloured by it. But while her suggestions of Miss Smythe’s affection for himself passed totally unheeded by Henry’s ears, the maliciousness of her words made him shudder.

He shuddered, not at Letitia, she was nothing to him, but at himself. Why was this innocent being, who had innocently inherited that thing which they desired, to be treated as he had treated her; to be thought of as he thought of her? What had she done, that he should trample on her kindness?

He raised his head and drew her letter from his pocket, and as he read it tears fell from his eyes. It was the contrast of her words, soft, kind, truthful, and touched with gentle reproach, to the words of his sister and his own hard thoughts, which thus affected him. His nerves were unstrung, and for a few moments the tears dropped one by one on the letter, and he was unconscious of it. When he did perceive them, although he dashed them away with a passionate gesture, he still remained gazing on the words before him, and yielding to the softer impulse that was stealing over him.

Henry was the slave of his impulses. He had never learned, had scarcely been taught to control them, and after a short cogitation he yielded to his impulse now. It was on this occasion a good one, a forgiving impulse, one tending to humble himself; and, without consulting anyone, he took up a pen and wrote:--

“MADAM,

“I accept the offer you make me, and will do my best to discharge
the duties you entrust to me faithfully.

“I know well that I am at present unfit for such a charge, but I
will endeavour to make myself fit; and I trust you may not repent
the generous confidence you show in me.

“Your humble servant,
“HENRY DEVEREUX.”

The formal style proceeded from three different sources, of none of which he was exactly conscious. He only knew that so, and so only, did he choose to write; that as a stranger only did he choose to be employed by her.

The three sources were pride, self-defence, and hate. It was a balm to his impotent pride to express himself thus. The style he used was an answer to his sister’s insinuations; and to sever himself from her, to place her in her personal relations far from him, was food to that hate which, in the midst of his penitence and softer feelings, still fretted him, still kept him unquiet and disturbed.

When his letter was written, and the envelope directed, he rose and rang his bell with vehemence. The nurse and a housemaid both flew to answer it. Henry was the only person who was loved or respected in the house. His ways certainly asked for no great respect, and his “Hang them” to the communications made him were not strictly to be called courteous. Still, so it was. Henry was beloved, and in a certain sense respected also. The servants, when they looked in his face, saw the good nature that shone through the faults; and, looking up to that good nature, reverenced it.

He took no great notice of the _empressement_ shown to obey him, but said with peremptoriness,

“Beg my mother to come up and speak to me.”

The door closed, and he stood with the two letters in his hand until his mother came.

“Goodness me, Henry, do you want to startle us quite out of our wits?” she began, gaspingly.

“No, mother--never mind. I want you to read these two letters. There, sit down,” perceiving she was really out of breath. “I beg your pardon.” He pushed her into a chair, and put the letters into her hand; then stood looking at her.

“Now, for goodness sake, Henry, do turn your eyes away! How ever am I to read if you stand staring like that.” Most people would have felt the same.

“Remember, mother,” he said, as he moved away, “that I ask no opinion. I want you to read them, that you may tell my father what I have done. What she says, and what I have said. Don’t hurry yourself. When you have finished, I shall take my letter to the post at once.”

“Do you want me to learn them by heart, then?” she asked, in sincere alarm.

“No, no, only remember them. Get on, mother, pray do.” He spoke coaxingly--he was hardly ever ferocious with her.

It took Mrs. Devereux a considerable time to master the two letters. From maternal affection, she read Henry’s first; and not understanding it in the least, had to turn to the other. “Who is Madam?” she inquired, while she was puzzling over it; but as her son did not answer, she asked no further questions. When Miss Smith’s had been fully mastered, she turned again to Henry’s, and the first comment she made on the correspondence was--

“I don’t see why you put ‘your humble servant’; you are quite as good as she is. In point of family a great deal better, as I have often told you.”

“Never mind, mother. I put what I thought best. I do not want any opinion; I only want you to know what I do, and to tell my father. Of course,” and he kissed her, “I shall be glad if you are glad.”

Henry’s little tendernesses were the one charm of Mrs. Devereux’s life. He was the only one of her children who ever kissed her, except at stated times; and whenever he kissed her, she felt like a slave at his feet.

“Of course, my dear boy, I am very glad. It seems quite like what people call an opening; and I daresay the work will be nothing so very hard. Odd work it sounds, looking after workmen; but I daresay you will like it better than sitting at a desk.”

She did not feel very clear as to whether he was to make mortar or not: but she felt this would be rather good fun if it were so.

“Oh! yes, I shall like the work. Do you remember the letters, mother?”

“Yes, pretty well. They are very proper letters. I don’t quite like that humble servant, but perhaps I am wrong.”

“That will do, then, mother. And I hope,” he added, and as he spoke he kissed her again, “that I shall never in future worry you as I have done for the last month.”

“I am sure I hope not,” she honestly said, notwithstanding the kiss. “I assure you, my dearest boy, I have hardly slept a wink; for what was to become of you I did not see.”

“No more did I. Now, mother, that will do.” And she obediently disappeared.

She reserved her news till her husband came in, notwithstanding Letitia’s pertinacious efforts to know what that idiot Henry was about. It was not often that she was placed in a position so important. When he came in she made her statement, and considering all things, made it pretty faithfully. She did, indeed, leave both her hearers in great perplexity as to what the proposed office was, some idea of manual work lingering in her head; but still she conveyed a not unfaithful idea of the correspondence; she especially remembered, and reported with emphasis, the beginning and end of each letter.

“How ridiculous of Henry!” was Letitia’s comment. “I would have died sooner than put ‘humble servant’ to her.”

“I did point that out,” replied her mother. “I told him that he was as good as she was in point of family, and a great deal better.”

“That has nothing to do with it, mamma. If the Queen was writing, she might put it to you if she pleased. But I would not have put it to _her_. So that was the mystery! Well, he has taken my advice.”

“You do not speak, my love,” said Mrs. Devereux, looking at her husband. “I hope you do not disapprove of what Henry has done?”

Mr. Devereux was looking fixedly at the fire. On his hard, impassive face no expression was to be seen. Even Letitia did not feel certain of his feeling on the subject.

After a moment Mrs. Devereux repeated a part of her question.

“I do not know,” he then said, turning slowly round, and speaking with that cold calm bitterness which made his voice at times unlike a human voice, “whether I am most disgusted or delighted.”

His wife, even after her many years’ experience, totally blind to his unamiable disposition, gazed at his hard face with amazed curiosity. He answered the gaze.

“I am disgusted with Henry for accepting a servile employment under such a woman; but my disgust is qualified by the delight of knowing that he can do her nothing but mischief.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Devereux, “I think Henry will do his best.”

A sound came from her husband that was more like a laugh than anything that had ever proceeded from him. But such a laugh as it was! It made his wife uncomfortable; it even for a moment repelled Letitia. Nothing more was then said about Henry’s prospects. Later in the evening, when Letitia, who, finding, as was usual, the society of her parents wearisome, retired, Mr. Devereux spoke again.

“You will tell Henry from me that I approve,” he said, suddenly looking up from some papers he was studying.

“Yes, my love. I hoped you would.”

“That is quite enough for him to know. You need not say another word.”

“No, my love.”

“If he can bring himself to receive as pay the money which is his own, it is his affair, not mine. If justice will not give it, let us take it when we can.”

“I sometimes think,” observed his wife, after a moment of intense thought, “that perhaps all the money _is_ hers. In a kind of way, at least,” seeing his darkening face.

“We may think any folly,” was all he coldly observed, and returned to his papers.