Gertrude Creswell was not wrong in her supposition that Mr. Benthall intended asking her to become his wife. It is not often that mistakes are made in such matters, despite all we read of disappointed maidens and blighted hopes. Life is so very practical in this portion of the nineteenth century, that, except in very rare cases, even love-affairs scarcely care to avail themselves of a halo of romance, of that veil of mystery and secrecy which used to be half the charm of the affair. "The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love" are now never seen, in anything like good society, where the intention of two young persons to marry as soon as--sometimes before--they have met, and the "understanding" between them is fully recognised by all their friends; while as to the "matron's glance which would such looks reprove," it is entirely obsolete, and never brought into play, save when the bashful virgins bend their sidelong looks of love on good-looking young paupers in the government offices or the army--a proceeding which it is but fair to say the bashful virgins "of the period" very rarely indulge in. Gertrude Creswell was as unlike a "girl of the period," in the present delightful acceptation of that phrase, as can well be imagined; that is to say, she was modest, frank, simple, honest, and without guile; but she was a woman, and she knew perfectly that she had engaged George Benthall's attention, and become the object of his affection, although she had had no previous experience in the matter. They had lived such quiet lives, these young ladies, and had slid so tranquilly from the frilled-trouser-wearing andles-graces-playing period of childhood, to the long skirts, croquet, and flirtation of marriageable age, that they had hardly thought of that largest component part of a girl's day-dream, settling in life. There was with them no trace of that direct and unmistakable line of demarcation known as "coming out"--that mountain-ridge between the cold dreary Switzerland of lessons, governesses, midday dinner, back-board, piano practice, and early bed, and the lovely glowing Italy of balls, bouquets, cavaliers, croquet, Park, Row, crush-room, country-house, French novel, and cotillon at five a.m. So Gertrude had never had a love-affair of any kind before; but she was very quiet about it, and restrained her natural tendency to gush, principally for Maude's sake. She thought it might seem unkind in her to make a fuss, as she described it, about her having a lover before Maude, who was as yet unsuited with that commodity. It puzzled Gertrude immensely, this fact of her having proved attractive to any one while Maude was by; she was accustomed to think so much of her elder sister, on whom she had endeavoured to model herself to the best of her ability, that she could not understand any one taking notice of her while her sister was present. Throughout her life, with her father, with her mother, and now with her uncle, Gertrude Creswell had always played the inferior part to her sister; she was always the humble confidante in white muslin to Maude in Tilburina's white satin, and in looks, manner, ability, or disposition, was not imagined to be able to stand any comparison with the elder girl.
But Mr. Benthall, preferring Gertrude, had given long and serious thought as to his future. He had taken the trouble to do something which he knew he ought to have done long since, but which he had always resolutely shirked--to look into the actual condition of his school, and more especially of his boarders; and after careful examination, he confessed to himself, as he smoked a costly cigar, pacing slowly up and down the lane, which was ablaze with apple-blossom--it would never have done to have been caught in the wildly dissipated act of smoking by any of the boys, or, indeed, by a good many of the villagers--he confessed to himself that he wanted a companion, and his establishment wanted a head, and that Mrs. Covey, excellent in her way, was scarcely a proper representative of the female element in the household of the head-master of Helmingham school. Thus minded, Mr. Benthall rode over to Woolgreaves, was received by a benevolent grin from the stable-helper, to whom he confided his horse (confound those fellows, with what an extraordinary facility they blunder on to the right scent in these matters!), went into the house, paid his suit to the two young ladies, had but a few words with Miss Maude, whose services, in consequence of an unfavourable turn of Mrs. Ashurst's illness, were required upstairs, and a prolonged interview of a very satisfactory kind with Miss Gertrude. With a portion only of this interview have we to do; the remaining portion can be much "more easily imagined than described," at least, by those to whom the circumstances of the position have been, or actually are, familiar--perhaps no inconsiderable proportion of the world.
"By the way," said Mr. Benthall, as, after a third ridiculous attempt at pretending he was going, he had again settled himself in his chair, but had not thought it necessary to give up Miss Gertrude's hand, which he had taken in his own when he had last risen to say adieu--"by the way, Miss--well, Gertrude--what was that you were saying last time I was here about Mrs. Creswell?"
"What I was saying about Mrs. Creswell? I don't exactly know, but it wouldn't be very difficult to guess! I hate her!" said Gertrude roundly.
"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Benthall, "I think I managed to gather that from the general tone of your conversation; but what were you saying specifically?"
"I don't know what specifically means, I think!" said Gertrude, after a moment's reflection; "but I do know why I hate her!"
"And that is because----"
"Because she pretends to be so awfully superior, and goes in to be so horribly good and demure, and all that kind of thing," said Miss Gertrude, growing very becomingly red with excitement. "She always reminds me of the publican in the parable, who, 'standing afar off'--you know what I mean! I always thought that the publican went in to draw more attention to himself by his mock humility than all the noise and outcry which the Pharisee made, and which any one would have put down to what it was worth; and that's just like Miss A.--I mean Mrs. Creswell--I'm sure I shall call her Miss A. to my dying day, Maude and I are so accustomed to speak of her like that--you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; and this is so shocking, and that is so dreadful, and she is so prim, and so innocent, and so self-sacrificing; and then she steps in and carries off our uncle, for whom all the unmarried girls in the county were angling years ago, and had given up the attempt in despair!"
"But you must have seen all this in her for months, over since she has been in the same house with you. And yet it is only since she achieved her conquest of your uncle that you've been so bitter against her."
"Not at all, George. That's so like a man, always to try and say an unpleasant thing about the want of generosity, and all that. Not at all! I don't mind so much about her marrying uncle; if he's such a silly old thing as to like to marry her, that's his look-out, and not ours. And I've no doubt she'll make him what people call a good wife, awfully respectable, and all that kind of thing. And I don't believe she's ever been in love with anybody else, notwithstanding your stories about that Mr. Joyce. I like your talking about women's gossip, sir; a fine story that was you brought us, and all started by some old woman, wasn't it? But what annoyed me worst was the way in which she wrote about making Maude give up her music-room. I call that regularly cruel, because she knew well enough that Maude was awfully fond of that room, and--and that's what makes me hate her!"
"And Maude seemed to think that that was to be but the beginning of a series of unpleasant measures."
"Well, you know Maude's blood is regularly up in this matter, and of course she is prejudiced to a certain extent, and I don't know--I'm not clever, you know, like she is--how far she's right. But I think plainly enough that Miss A.--I mean Mrs. Creswell--intends to have her own way in everything; and as she doesn't like us, and never did, she'll set much against us, and goodness knows the result!"
Mr. Benthall could not have been described as "goodness," nor was he a particularly far-seeing man, but he thought he knew the result. As he cantered slowly home that afternoon, he thought the matter out, and came to the conclusion that if Mrs. Creswell were the woman she was described, she would tolerate but for a very little time the presence of two persons so obnoxious in the same house with her, and that when that climax arrived, it was the time for the Rev. George Benthall to step in and do himself and everybody else concerned a good turn by taking Gertrude off her uncle's hands.
There was very little doubt that the shelter of the Woolgreaves roof and the luxuries of the Woolgreaves establishment would be required by one of its inmates for but a very short time. Mrs. Ashurst's strength, which had been gradually declining, began to fail her altogether, and it was evident to all that the end was at hand. Dr. Osborne, who was in constant attendance--and the little man never showed to such advantage as under the most trying professional circumstances--shook his head sadly, and confessed that it had now become a question of days. But the old lady was so tranquil, and apparently so happy, that he hesitated to summon her daughter, more especially as the newly married couple were so soon expected home. The girl who attended on the old lady in the capacity of night-nurse had a different experience from Dr. Osborne so far as the tranquillity of the patient was concerned. She knew when she was awake--and considering that she was a full-blooded, heavy, bacon-fed lass, she really deserved much credit for the manner in which she propped her eyelids up with her forefingers, and resorted to sniffing instead of snoring--she knew that Mrs. Ashurst had very disturbed nights, when she lay moaning and groaning and plucking at the bedclothes, and constantly murmuring one phrase; "For my sake! Lord help her! God grant it may turn out right! She did it, I know, for my sake!" Gradually she lost consciousness, and in her wandering state she repeated nothing but this one phrase, "For my sake!" Occasionally she would smile placidly, and look round the room as though in admiration of its comfort and appointments, but then the sad look would come over her face, and she would repeat the melancholy sentence in the saddest of tones. Dr. Osborne, when he eventually came to hear of this, and to witness it, confessed he could not understand it. It was not a case for the College of Surgeons, nor getatable by the Pharmacopoeia; it was what Shakespeare said--he'd heard his girl read it--about not being able to minister to a mind diseased, or something of that sort; and yet, God bless him, Mrs. Ashurst was about the last woman to have anything of the kind. However, he should be deuced glad when little Marian--ah, mustn't call her little Marian now; beg pardon, Mrs. Creswell--funny, wasn't it? couldn't get that into his head! had known 'em all so long, and never thought--nor anybody else, for the matter of that. However, that's neither here nor there. What's that proverb, eh?--"There's no fool like an----" No, no, mustn't say that before him, please. What was he saying? Oh, he should be glad when Mrs. Creswell came home, and took her mother under her own charge.
Mr. and Mrs. Creswell came home two days before they were expected, or rather before they had originally intended. Marian had heard of her mother's illness, and expressed a wish to go to her at once--a wish which of course decided Mr. Creswell's course of action. The tenants and villagers, to whom the news of Mr. Creswell's intended political experiment had been imparted during his absence, had intended to give him a welcome in which they could express their sentiments on flags and mottoes and triumphal arches; and they had already arranged an alliterative sentence, in which "Creswell and Conservatism!" each picked out with gigantic capital letters, were to play conspicuous parts; but Dr. Osborne, who got wind of what was threatened, drove off to Brocksopp in his little pony-chaise, and there took Mr. Teesdale, the agent, into confidence, and revealed to him the real state--hovering between life and death--in which Mrs. Ashurst then lay. On the reception of this information, Mr. Teesdale took upon himself to hint that the intended demonstration had better be postponed for a more convenient season; and accordingly Mr. and Mrs. Creswell, arriving by the train at Brocksopp, and having their carriage to meet them, drove through the streets when the working-people were all engaged at their factories and mills, and made their way home, scarcely exciting any recognition.
The two girls, on the alert at hearing the wheels of the approaching carriage, rushed to the door, and were honoured by being permitted to kiss the cheek of the bride, as she swept past them. No sooner had they kissed their uncle, and were all assembled in the drawing-room, than Marian asked after her mother.
"I'm afraid you will find her very much changed, Mrs. Creswell," said Maude, who, of course, was spokeswoman. "Mrs. Ashurst is very much weaker, and has--has occasional fits of wandering, which----"
"Why was I not informed of this?" asked Marian, in her chilliest tones. "Were you both so much engaged, that you could not manage to let me have a line to tell me of this change in my mother's state?"
"Maude wanted to write and tell you, but Dr. Osborne wouldn't let her," blustered out Gertrude. "She never will say anything for herself, but I'm sure she has been most attentive, Maude has, and I don't think----"
"I'm sorry to interrupt thislobgesang,Gertrude; but I must go up and see my mother at once. Be good enough to open the door." "And she sailed out of the room," Gertrude said, afterwards, "as though she'd been a duchess! In one of those rustling silks, don't you know, as stiff as a board, which look as if they'd stand up by themselves!"
When Marian reached her mother's door, and was just about entering, she stopped short, arrested by a low dull moaning sound which fell upon her ear. She listened with her blood curdling within her and her lips growing cold and rigid. Still it came, that low hollow moan, monotonous, dreadful. Then she opened the door, and, passing swiftly in, saw her mother lying tossing on the bed, plucking furtively at the bedclothes, and moaning as she moved her head wearily in its unrest.
"Mother!" cried Marian--"mother, darling mother don't you know me?" And she flung herself on the bed, and, taking the old woman's head in her arms, softly kissed her lips.
The bright, the momentarily bright, eyes looked at her without seeing her--she knew that--and presently moved away again round the room, as Mrs. Ashurst raised her long lean hand, and, pointing to the wall, said, "Pictures--and books--all fine--all fine!--for my sake!" uttering the last words in a deep hissing whisper.
Marian was too shocked to speak. Shocked, not frightened; she had much natural strength of mind, and had had experience of illness, though not of this character. But she was shocked to see her mother in such a state, and deeply enraged at the fact that the increase of the illness had been kept from her. "Don't you know me?" she repeated; "mother, darling mother, don't you know me? Marian, poor Marian! your daughter Marian!"
"Ah, don't blame her!" said the old woman, in the same whisper. "Poor Marian! poor dear Marian! my Jimmy's pet! She did it for my sake, all for my sake! Carriages and horses and wine for me--wine, rich strong wine for me--all for me, all for my sake, poor Marian! all for my sake!"
"Is she often in this way? Does she often repeat those horrible words?" asked Marian of the servant, of whose presence she then, on raising her head, became for the first time aware.
"Oh yes, miss--I mean, mum!--constantly, mum! She never says anything else, mum, but about some things being for her sake, mum. And she haven't said anything else, miss, since she was off her head--I mean, since she was delirrous, mum!"
"Does she always mention my name--Marian?"
"Always, mum, 'Poor Marian'--savin' your presence, and not meanin' a liberty--is what she do say, miss, and always about 'for her sake' it's done, whatever it is, which I don't know."
"How long has she been like this? How long have you been with her?"
"A week last Wednesday, mum, was when I was brought from the laundry to be nurse; and if you find your collars and cuffs iron-moulded, mum, or not properly got up, you'll understand it's not me, Dr. Osbin having had me fetched here as bein' strong for nussin' and a good sitter-up o' nights----"
"Yes, I understand!" said Marian, vacantly; "you won't have to sit up any more; I shall relieve you of that. Just wait here; I shall be back in a few minutes."
Marian hurried downstairs, and in the drawing-room found her husband, the two girls, and Dr. Osborne, who had joined the party. There must have been some peculiar expression in her face, for she had no sooner opened the door than Mr. Creswell, looking up, hurried across the room and took her hand, saying anxiously, "What is the matter, Marian? what is it, my love?"
"Simply that I arrive here to find my mother wandering and imbecile--she whom I left comparatively cheerful, and certainly in the possession of all her senses--that is all, nothing more," said Marian, in a hard low voice, and with a dead-white face and dried bloodless lips. "I thought," she continued, turning to the girls, "that I might have left her safely in your charge. I never asked for your sympathy, God knows; I would not have had it if you had offered it to me; but I thought you seemed to be disposed kindly and affectionately towards her. There was so much gush and display in your attachment, I might have known it had no real foundation."
"You have no right to speak to us in this way, Mrs. Creswell!" cried Maude, making a step in advance and standing very stiff and erect; "you have no right to----"
"Maude," broke in Mr. Creswell, in his coldest tone, "recollect to whom you are speaking, if you please."
"I do recollect, uncle; I am speaking to Mrs. Ashurst's daughter--dear Mrs. Ashurst, whom both Gertrude and I love, and have tried to show we love her, as she would tell you, if she could, poor darling! And it is only because Mrs. Creswell is her daughter that I answer her at all, after her speaking to me in that way. I will tell you now, Mrs. Creswell, what I should not otherwise have mentioned, that Gerty and I have been constant in our attendance on Mrs. Ashurst, and that one or other of us has always slept in the next room, to be within call if we were wanted, and----"
"Why did you take upon yourselves to keep me in ignorance of the change in my mother's mental state, of this fearful wandering and unconsciousness?--that is what I complain of."
"Oh, I must not let them say they took it upon themselves at all," said Dr. Osborne, who had been looking on uncomfortably during this dialogue; "that was my fault entirely; the girls wanted to send for you, but I said no, much better not. I knew you were due home in a few days, and your earlier arrival could not have done the least good to my poor old friend upstairs, and would only have been distressing to you."
"Oh, you accept the responsibility, Dr. Osborne?" said Marian, still in the same hard voice. "Would you have acted in the same way with any ordinary patient, any stranger?"
"Eh?" exclaimed the little doctor, in a very loud key, rubbing his face hard with his pocket-handkerchief. "What do you ask, Marian?--any stranger?"
"Would you have taken upon yourself to keep a daughter from her mother under similar circumstances, supposing they had been strangers to you?"
"No--no, perhaps not," said the little doctor, still wildly astonished.
"It will be perhaps better, then, if henceforth you put us on the footing of strangers!" said Marian.
"Marian!" exclaimed Mr. Creswell.
"I mean what I said," she replied. "Had we been on that footing now, I should have been at my mother's bedside some days since!" And she walked quickly from the room.
Dr. Osborne made two steps towards his hat, seized it, clapped it on his head, and with remarkably unsteady legs was making his way to the door, when Mr. Creswell took him by the arm, begged him not to think of what had just passed, but to remember the shock which Marian had received, the suddenness with which this new phase of her mother's illness had come upon her, etc. The little doctor did not leave the room, as apparently he had intended at first; he sat down on a chair close by, muttering--
"Treat her as a stranger rocked her on my knee brought her through measles! father died in my arms treat her as a stranger!"
Two days afterwards Marian stood by the bed on which lay Mrs. Ashurst, dead. As she reverently arranged the gray hair under the close cap, and kissed the cold lips, she said--
"You did not enjoy the money very long, darling mother! But you died in comfort, at any rate and that was worth the sacrifice--if sacrifice it were!"
It was the autumn of the year, in the spring of which Walter Joyce had returned to London from Westhope. Six months had elapsed since he had read what he had almost imagined to be his death-warrant in Marian's reply to his letter containing the Berlin proposal. It was not his death-warrant; he had survived the shock, and, indeed, had borne the disappointment in a way that he did not think possible when the blow first fell upon him. Under the blessed, soothing influence of time, under the perhaps more effectual influence of active employment, his mind had been weaned from dwelling on that dread blank which, as he at first imagined, was to have been his sole outlook for the future. He was young, and strong, and impressionable; he returned to London inclined to be misanthropical and morose, disposed to believe in the breaking of hearts and the crushing of hopes, and the rather pleasant sensations of despair. But after a very short sojourn in the metropolis, he was compelled to avow to himself the wisdom of Lady Caroline Mansergh's prognostications concerning him, and the absolute truth of everything she had said. A life of moping, of indulgence in preposterous cynicism and self-compassion, was not for him; he was meant for far better things--action in the present, distinction in the future--those were to be his aims, and after a fortnight's indolence and moodiness, he had flung himself into the work that was awaiting him, and begun to labour at it with all his energy and all his brain-power.
Some little time afterwards, when Joyce thought over his mental condition in those first days of his return to London, the cheap cynicism, the pettishness, and the languor which he had suffered to possess him, he wondered why old Jack Byrne, with whom he had taken up his quarters, had not rebuked him for it, and one day, with some considerable confusion, he asked the old man the reason.
"Why didn't I speak to you about it, and pitch into you for it, my boy?" said the old man, with his peculiar soft laugh. "Because it's best to let some things have their run, and come to a stop of their own accord. I saw plainly enough what would be the result of that love business, long ago, when you first told me of it. Why didn't I say so then? Why, you don't imagine I should have attempted to influence you in such a matter, when I had never even seen the lady, and had only general experience to take as my guide? I did give you as many hints as I thought prudent or decent in a letter which I wrote to you, my lad; but you didn't seem to profit by them much, or, indeed, to take any heed of them. You went sailing away straight and smoothly enough until that squall came down upon you and carried away your masts and your rigging, and left you a helpless log tossing on the waters. It was so nice to be a helpless log, wasn't it?--so nice that you thought you would never be anything else. But, God bless you, I knew differently; I'd seen the same case a hundred times before, and I knew if you were left alone you would come all right in time. And now you have come all right, and you're doing your work well, and they think highly of you at theCometoffice."
"I'm glad of that; that's the best news you could give me. Do they think well of me? Do they think I do my work well, and----"
"Good Lord, what a swallow the lad has for flummery!" grumbled old Byrne. "He'd like me to repeat every word of praise to him. It's wonderful to see how he glows under it--no, not wonderful, when one recollects how young he is. Ah, youth, youth! Do they? Yes, of course they do; you know that well enough. It's deuced lucky you gave up that notion of going to Berlin, Walter, boy."
"Yes," said Joyce, with a sigh, as he remembered all about the proposal; "I'm better here."
"Better here, I should think you were, indeed! A correspondent can't do much in the way of making his mark. He can be serious and well informed, or chatty and nonsensical; he can elect between describing the councils of cabinets or the circumference of crinolines; but in either case his scope is limited, and he can never get much fame for himself. Now in your present position as an essayist and leader-writer of remarkable ability--oh, you needn't pretend to blush, you know I shouldn't say what I didn't think--there is possibly a very bright future in store for you! And to think that years ago you possessed a distaste for politics!"
"It does seem ridiculous," said Walter, smiling. "I am always amused when I remember my very wilful ignorance on such matters. However, the credit of the conversion, if credit there be, is entirely owing to you and O'Connor."
"Not entirely, I'm thinking," said the old man. "I recollect your telling me of a conversation you had with Lady Caroline Mansergh, in which certain hopes were expressed and certain suggestions made, which, I should say, had their effect in influencing your conduct. Am I right, Walter?" And Mr. Byrne looked hard and keenly from under his bushy eyebrows at his young friend.
"Perfectly right!" said Walter, meeting his glance. "I think that the remembrance of Lady Caroline's advice, and the knowledge that she thought I had within me the power of distinguishing myself, were the first inducements to me to shake off that horrible lethargic state into which I had fallen!"
"Well, we must take care that you fulfil all her ladyship's expectations, Walter! What you are doing now must merely be a stepping-stone to something much better. I don't intend to die until I have seen you a leader in the people's cause, my boy! Oh yes, I allow you're soundly with them now, and fight their battles well and effectively with the pen; but I want to live to see you in Parliament, to hear you riddling the plutocrats with your banter, and overwhelming the aristocrats with your scorn!"
"My dear old friend, I fear you pitch the note a little too high," said Joyce, with a laugh. "I don't think you will ever see me among the senators."
"And why not?" asked old Byrne, in a very excited manner--"and why not, pray? Is there any one speaks better at the Club? Is there any one more popular among the leaders of the cause, or with them? If those miserable Tories had not swallowed the leek fifty times in succession, as they have just done, and thereby succeeded in clinging to office for yet a few months, the chiefs of the party, or at least of one section of it--the 'ultras,' as they are good enough to call us--would have relied greatly on your advice and assistance, and when the election comes, as come it must within a very short time, you will see how you will be in requisition. And about your position, Walter? I think we should look to that at once. I think you should lose no time in entering yourself at some Inn of Court, and commence reading for the bar!"
"Don't ask me to make any change in my life at present, old friend!" said Walter. "No!" as he saw the old man with an impatient gesture about to speak--"no, I was not going to plead the want of the money; for, in the first place, I know you would lend it to me, and in the second I am myself making, as you know, an excellent income. But I don't want to undertake anything more just now than what I am actually engaged in. I am quite sufficiently occupied--and I am very happy."
Old Byrne was compelled to be satisfied with this declaration, but he grumbled out that it should only be temporary, and that he intended to see Walter in a very different position before he died.
Walter Joyce said nothing more than the truth when he said that he was very happy. He had fallen into exactly the kind of life which suited him, the pursuance of a congenial occupation amongst companions of similar tastes. There are, I take it, but few of us professional plyers of the pen who do not look back with regret and with something akin to wonder to that halcyon time when we first entered upon authorship; when the mere act of writing was in itself pleasant, when the sight of a proof-sheet was calculated to fill one with infinite delight, when one glowed with delight at praise, or writhed in agony under attack. In after life, when the novelty has entirely worn off, when the Pegasus which ambled, and kicked, and pranced, has settled down into the serviceable hack of ordinary use, often obliged, like other hacks, to go through his work and to put forth his paces at inopportune times and seasons, it seems impossible to believe that this freshness of feeling, this extraordinary enthusiasm, can ever have existed; unless, perchance, you see the reflex of yourself in some one else who is beginning to pursue the sunny verdant end of that path which with you at present has worn down into a very commonplace beaten track, and then you perceive that the illusion was not specially your own, but is common to all who are in that happy glorious season of youth.
Walter Joyce was thoroughly happy. He had pleasant rooms in Staples Inn--a quiet, quaint, old-world place, where the houses with their overhanging eaves and gabled roofs and mullioned windows recall memories of Continental cities and college "quads," and yet are only just shut off from the never-ceasing bustle and riot of Holborn. The furniture of these rooms was not very new, and there was not very much of it; but the sitting-room boasted not merely of two big easy-chairs, but of several rows of bookshelves, which had been well filled, by Jack Byrne's generosity, with books which the old man had himself selected; and in the bedroom there was a bed and a bath, which, in Joyce's opinion, satisfied all reasonable expectations. Here, in the morning, he read or wrote; for he was extending his connection with literature, and found a ready market for his writings in several of the more thoughtful periodicals of the day. In the afternoon he would go down to theCometoffice, and take part in the daily conference of the principal members of the staff. There present would be Mr. Warren, the proprietor of the paper, who did not understand much about journalism, as, indeed, could scarcely be expected of him, seeing that the whole of his previous life had been taken up in attending to the export provision trade, in which he had made his fortune, but who was a capital man of business, looked after the financial affairs of the concern, and limited his interference with the conduct of the paper in listening to what others had to say. There would be Mr. Saltwell, who devoted himself to foreign politics, who was a wonderful linguist, and a skilful theological controversialist, and who, in his tight drab trousers, cut-away coat, and bird's-eye cravat, looked like a racing trainer or a tout; Mr. Gowan, a Scotchman, a veteran journalist of enormous experience, who, as he used to say, had had scores of papers "killed under him;" Mr. Forrest, a slashing writer, but always in extremes, and who was always put on to any subject which it was required should be highly lauded or shamefully abused--it did not matter much to Mr. Forrest, who was a man of the world; and Mr. Ledingham, a man of great learning but very ponderous in style and recondite in subject, whose articles were described by Mr. Shimmer as being "like roast pig, very nice occasionally, but not to be indulged in often with impunity," were also usual attendants at the conference, which was presided over by the recognised editor of theComet, Terence O'Connor.
Mr. O'Connor was the type of a class of journalists which yet exists, indeed, but is not nearly so numerous as it was a few years ago. Your newspaper editor of to-day dines with the duke and looks in at the countess's reception; his own reporter includes him amongst the distinguished company which he, the reporter, "observes" at select reunions; he rides in the Park, and drives down to his office from the House of Commons, where he has been the centre of an admiring circle of members, in his brougham. Shades of the great men of bygone days--of White and Berry, of Kew and Captain Shandon--think of that Terence O'Connor was of the old school. He had made journalism his profession since he left Trinity, and had only won his position by hard labour and untiring perseverance, had written in and edited various provincial newspapers, had served his time as sub and hack on the London press, and had eventually risen to the editorial chair which he filled so admirably. A man of vast learning, with the simplicity of a child, of keen common sense tempered with great amicability, an admirable writer, an ardent politician, wielding great power with never-failing impartiality, Terence O'Connor passed his life in a world in which he was exceptionally influential, and to which he was comparatively unknown. His neighbours at Clapham had no idea that the slim gray-haired gentleman whom they saw pottering about in his garden on summer afternoons, or lying on the grass under the shade of a big tree playing with his children, was the lightning-compeller and the thunder-creator of theComet.Though most earnest while engaged in his work, it was his greatest delight to leave every trace of it behind him at his office, and to be entirely free from its influence when at home with his wife and children. Occasionally, of course, the few old friends who dined with him would start a political or literary discussion, in which he would bear his part; but he was never happy until the conversation found its way back into the ordinary social channels, or until a demand was made for music, of which he was passionately fond. It was a lucky thing for Walter Joyce to make the acquaintance and to win the regard of such a man as Terence O'Connor, who had a wonderfully quick eye for character, and who, having noticed Walter's readiness of appreciation and bright incisive style in the few articles which he wrote on the occasion of his first introduction by Mr. Byrne, suggested that the post at Berlin should be offered to him. The more they were thrown together the better they liked each other. Walter had the greatest admiration for O'Connor's talent and power of work; while the elder man looked kindly on his young friend's eagerness and enthusiasm, his desire for distinction, and his delight at laudation, perhaps as somewhat reflecting his own feelings before he had become settled down to the mill-horse grind--ah, how many years ago!
After the conference had broken up, Joyce, to whom, perhaps, a subject had been given to treat, would go back to his chambers and work at it for two or three hours, or he would remain at the office discussing the matter in detail with Terence O'Connor, and taking his friend's advice as to the manner of treatment. Or, if he were free, he would lounge in the Park, and stare at the equipages, and the toilettes, and the London panorama of luxury there constantly going by, all new to the country-bred young man, to whom, until he went to Lord Hetherington's, the old rumbling chariot of Sir Thomas Churchill, with its worsted-epauletted coachman and footman, was a miracle of comfort and a triumph of taste. Or he would ramble out with Shimmer, or Forrest, or some other of his colleagues, to the suburbs, over the breezy heights of Hampstead, or through the green Willesden lanes, and get the city dust and smoke blown out of them. When he was not on duty at the office at night, Walter would sometimes take the newspaper admission and visit the theatre; but he had little taste for the drama, or rather, perhaps, for such dramatic representations as were then in vogue, and it pleased him much more to attend the meetings of the Forum, a club constituted for the purpose of discussing the principal political and social questions of the day, and composed of young barristers and newspaper writers, with a sprinkling of public-office men, who met in the large room of a tavern situated in one of the quiet streets leading from Fleet Street to the river. The leaders of the different political parties, and others whose deeds or works had given them celebrity or notoriety, were happy in their ignorance of the existence of the Forum, or they must have been rendered uncomfortable by finding themselves the objects of so much wild denunciation. The members of the Forum were not in the habit of concealing their opinions, or of moderating the language in which those opinions were expressed; and the debate in which the then holders of office were not denounced as effete and useless nincompoops, bound by degrading ties of subserviency to a policy which, while originally dangerous, was now degrading, or in which the leaders of the Opposition were not stigmatised as base-bred ruffians, linked together by the common bond of ignorance with the common hope of rapine--was considered dull and spiritless indeed. As Mr. Byrne had intimated, Walter Joyce was one of the most prominent members of this debating club; he had a clear resonant voice, capable of excellent modulation, and spoke with fluency. His speeches, which were tinged with a far more pronounced radicalism--the effect of the teaching of Jack Byrne--than had previously been promulgated at the meetings of the Forum, soon became widely talked of among the members and their friends, and Walter's rising was eagerly looked forward to, and warmly hailed, not merely for the novelty of his doctrine, but for the boldness and the humour with which he sought to inculcate it. His success was so great that the heads of the Tory party in the club became alarmed, and thought it necessary to send off for Alister Portcullis, who was formerly the great speaker on their side, but who had recently become editor of a provincial paper, to return to town, and oppose Joyce on one or two special subjects of discussion. Portcullis came up to London, and the encounter took place before a room crowded to the ceiling (it was rumoured--and believed by some--that the Premier and the leader of the Opposition were present, with wigs drawn over their eyes and comforters over their noses), and re-echoing to the cheers of the partisans. Walter was understood to have held his own, and, indeed, to have had the best of it; but Portcullis made a very good speech, covering his opponent with sarcasm and invective, and declaiming against the cause which he represented with a whirlwind of fury which greatly incensed old Jack Byrne, who happened to be sitting immediately beneath him.
Political feeling ran very high just at that time, and the result of the forthcoming election was looked forward to with the greatest confidence by the Radicals. The organisation of the party was very complete. A central committee, of which Mr. Byrne and Terence O'Connor were members, had its sittings in London, and was in daily communication with the various local committees of the principal provincial towns, and most of the intending candidates had been despatched to make a tour of the neighbourhood which they proposed to represent, with the view of ascertaining the feelings of the electors, and ingratiating themselves with them.
Among these touring candidates was young Mr. Bokenham, who aspired to represent the constituency of Brocksopp. Young Bokenham had been selected by the central committee principally because his father was a very influential manufacturer, and because he himself, though not specially clever or deeply versed in politics, was recommended as fluent, of good appearance, and eminently docile and lead able. The reports which during and after his visit came up from the local to the central committee by no means bore out the recommendation. The fact was that young Mr. Bokenham, who had at a very early age been sent to Eton, who had been a gentleman commoner of Christchurch, and who had always had his own way and the command of large sums of money to enable him to do as he pleased, had become, as is very often the case under the influence of such surroundings, a perfect type of the parvenu and the plutocrat, and had, if anything, rather an antipathy for that cause of which he was about to offer himself as one of the representatives. To announce this would, however, he was aware, be simply to renounce the very large fortune which would accrue to him at his father's death, and which the old man, who had been a staunch Radical from his earliest days, and who gloried in being a self-made man, would certainly have dispersed through a thousand charitable channels rather than allow one penny of it to be touched by his politically renegade son. Moreover, young Bokenham pined for the distinction of parliament membership, which he knew, for the present at least, was only to be obtained by holding to his father's political principles; and so ho professed to be in earnest in the matter, and went down to Brocksopp and called on the principal people of the place, and convened a few meetings and delivered a few speeches. But the Brocksopp folk were very badly impressed. They utterly failed to recognise young Tommy Bokenham, as they had always spoken of him among themselves during all the years of his absence, in the bearded, natty-booted, delicately gloved gentleman, who minced his words and used a perfumed handkerchief, and talked about the chah-tah of our lib-ah-ties. His manner was unpleasant and offensive, and his matter was not half sufficiently peppered to suit the tastes of the Brocksopp Radicals, who could not be too frequently reminded that they were the salt of the earth, and that the horny hand of labour was what their intending representative was always wishing to clasp. Young Mr. Bokenham, no longer Tommy after he had once been seen, objected to the horny hand of labour, disliked the smell of factories, and the manner and appearance of the working-classes altogether. He could not drink much at the public-houses, and the smell of the strong shag tobacco made him ill, and in fact his first tour for canvassing was a woful and egregious failure, and was so reported to the central committee in London by their Brocksopp agents.
On this report the committee met, and had a long and earnest consultation. Brocksopp was an important place, and one which it was most desirable to secure. No other candidate possessing such wealth or such local influence as young Bokenham could be found, and it was therefore imperative that he should be carried through. It was, however, necessary that his mistakes should be pointed out to him, and he should be thoroughly well schooled and advised as to his future proceedings. He was accordingly invited to attend the next meeting of the committee, which he did, and received a three-hours' drilling with great composure. He promised to adopt all the suggestions which were made, and to carry out all the plans which were proposed. Walter Joyce, who happened to be present, was much amused at Mr. Bokenham's great amiability and power of acquiescence, and was about saying so to Mr. Byrne, who was seated next him, when he was startled by hearing the candidate say, in answer to a question from one of the committee as to whether any one was in the field on the Tory side--
"Oh yes; an old gentleman named Creswell, a retired manufacturer of great wealth and position in those parts."
"Is he likely to make a strong fight?"
"Well, ya-as!" drawled young Bokenham. "Old boy's not supposed to care particularly about it himself, don't you know; but he's lately married a young wife--doosid pretty woman, and all that kind of thing--and they say she's set her heart on becoming the memberess."
"Do you hear that?" whispered Byrne to Joyce.
"I do," replied Walter. "This man is a fool; but he must be got in, and Mr. Creswell must be kept out, at all hazards."
And Jack Byrne grinned.
The intention, one of the first which Marian Creswell had expressed after her marriage, and one which had so incensed Gertrude, of converting the girls' music-room into a boudoir, had long since been carried out. Almost immediately after he had returned from his wedding trip, Mr. Creswell had sent to London for decorators and upholsterers. An army of foreign artists, much given to beard and pantomimical gesture, to humming scraps of operas over their work, and to furtively smoking cigarettes in the shrubberies whenever they could evade the stern eye of the overseer, had arrived upon the scene; and when they returned to town they left the music-room, which had been a bleak, gaunt, cheerless apartment enough, a miracle of brightness and cosiness, elegance and comfort. Everybody was astonished at the change, and the young ladies themselves were compelled to confess that the boudoir, as it then appeared, was perfectly charming, and that really, perhaps, after all, Mrs. Creswell might have been actuated, apart from mere malevolence and spite, by some sense and appreciation of the capabilities of the room in the selection she had made. There was a good deal of actual truth in this judgment; Marian had determined to take the earliest opportunity of asserting herself against the girls and letting them know the superiority of her position; she had also intended, if ever she were able, to gratify the wish to have a room of her own, where she might be absolute mistress, surrounded by her books, pictures, and other belongings; and by the acquisition of the music-room she was able to accomplish both these intentions. Moreover, the windows of the music-room looked out towards Helmingham. Half-way towards the dim distance stood the old schoolhouse, where she had been born, where all her childhood had been spent, and where she had been comparatively innocent and unworldly; for though the worship of wealth had probably been innate in her, and had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength, she had not then sacrificed others to her own avarice, nor forfeited her self-respect for the gratification of her overwhelming passion. In a person differently constituted, the constant contemplation of such views might have had an irritating or a depressing effect, but Marian's strength of mind rendered her independent of any such feeling. She never thought with regret of the step she had taken; she never had the remotest twinge of conscience as to the manner in which she had behaved to Walter Joyce; she was frequently in the habit of passing all the circumstances in review in her mind, and invariably came to the conclusion that she had acted wisely, and that, were she placed in a similar position again, she should do exactly the same. No; she was able to think over all the passages of her first and only love--that love which she bad deliberately cast from the pedestal of her heart, and trampled under foot--without an extra pulsation of excitement or regret. She would pass hour after hour in gazing from her window on distant places where, far removed from the chance of intrusion by the prying villagers--who, however, were profoundly ignorant of what was going on--she would have stolen interviews with her lover, listening to his fond words, and experiencing a kind of pleasure such as she had hitherto thought nothing but the acquisition of money could create. Very tranquilly she thought of the bygone time, and looked across the landscape at the well-known places. She had slipped so easily into her present position, and settled herself so firmly there, that she could scarcely believe there had been a time when she had been poor and dependent, when she had been unable to exercise her every whim and fancy, and when she had been without an elderly gray-haired gentleman in constant attendance upon her, and eager to anticipate her very slightest wish.
One afternoon, about eight months after her mother's death, Marian was sitting at the window of her boudoir, gazing vacantly at the landscape before her. She did not see the trees, erst so glorious in their russet garments, now half-stripped and shivering in the bitter autumnal wind that came booming over the distant hills, and moaned wearily over the plain; she did not see the little stream that lately flashed so merrily in the summer sunlight, but had now become a brown and swollen foaming torrent, roaring where it had softly sung, and bursting over its broad banks instead of coyly slipping through its pebbly shallows; she did not see the birds now skimming over the surface of the ground, now rising, but with no lofty flight, the harbingers of coming storm; she did not see the dun clouds banking up to windward; nor did she note any of the outward characteristics of the scene. She was dull and bored, and it was a relief when she heard the handle of the door turned, and, looking round, saw her husband in the room.
There was nothing of palpable uxoriousness--that most unpleasant of displayed qualities, especially in elderly people--in the manner in which Mr. Creswell advanced and, bending over his wife, took her face in his hands and kissed her cheek; nor in the way in which he sat down beside her and passed his hands over her shining hair; nor in the words of tenderness with which he addressed her. All was relieved by a touch of dignity, by an evidence of earnest sincerity, and the veriest cynic and scoffer at the domesticity and what Charles Lamb called the "behaviour of married people," would have found nothing to ridicule in the undisguised love and admiration of the old man for his young wife, so quietly were they exhibited.
"What made you fly away in that hurry from the library just now, darling?" said he. "You just peeped in, and were off again, never heeding my calling to you to remain."
"I had no notion you were engaged, or that anybody was here!" said Marian.
"I am never engaged when you want me, and there is never anybody here whose business is of equal importance with your pleasure."
"When did you cultivate the art of saying pretty things?" asked Marian, smiling. "Is it a recent acquisition, or one of old standing, which had only rusted from disuse?"
"I never had occasion to try whether I possessed the power until you came to me," said Mr. Creswell, with an old-fashioned bow. "There, oddly enough, I was talking about speaking in public, and the trick of pleasing people by public speaking, to those two men when you looked into the room."
"Indeed. Who were your visitors?"
"I thought you would have recognised old Croke, of Brocksopp; he seemed a little hurt at your running away without speaking to him; but I put him right. The other gentleman has corresponded with you, but never seen you before--Mr. Gould, of London. You wrote to him just after poor Tom's death, you recollect, about that sale."
"I recollect perfectly," said Marian. (She remembered In an instant Joyce's allusion to the man in his first memorable letter.) "But what brought him here at this time? There is no question of the sale now?"
"No, dearest; but Mr. Gould has a very large practice as a parliamentary agent and lawyer, and he has come down here about the election."
"The election? I thought that was all put off!"
"Put off?" repeated Mr. Creswell. "Indefinitely? For ever?"
"I'm sure you told me so."
"Now, that is so like a woman The idea of an election being quietly put aside in that way! No, child, no; it was postponed merely; it is expected to come off very shortly."
"And what have these two men to do with it?"
"These two men, as you call them, have a great deal to do with it. Mr. Croke is a leading man amongst the Conservative party--that is my party, you understand, child--in Brocksopp, and Mr. Gould is to be my London agent, having Mr. Teesdale, whom you know, as his lieutenant, on the spot."
"You speak of 'my party,' and 'my agent,' as though you had fully made up your mind to go in for the election. Is it so?"
"I had promised to do so," said Mr. Creswell, again with the old-fashioned bow, "before you did me the honour to accept the position which you so worthily fill; and I fear, even had you objected, that I should scarcely have been able to retract. But when I mentioned it to you, you said nothing to lead me to believe that you did object."
"Nor do I in the very smallest degree. On the contrary, I think it most advisable and most important. What are your chances of success?"
"Well, on the whole, good; though it struck me that our friends who have just gone were a little too sanguine, and--at least, so far as Mr. Croke was concerned--a little too much disposed to underrate the strength of the enemy."
"The enemy? Ah!--I forgot. Who is our opponent?" Mr. Creswell heard the change in the pronoun, and was delighted.
"A certain young Mr. Bokenham, son of an old friend and contemporary of mine, who was launched in life about the same time that I was, and seemed to progress step by step with me. I am the younger man by some years, I believe; but," continued the old gentleman, with an odd, half-sheepish look, "it seems curious to find myself running a tilt with Tommy Bokenham, who was not born when I was a grown man!"
"The position is one with which age has very little to do," said Marian, with a slight hardening of her voice. "No, if anything, I should imagine that a man of experience and knowledge of the world had a better chance than a young and necessarily unformed man, such as Mr. Bokenham. You say that your friends seemed confident?"
"A little too confident. Old Croke is a Tory to the backbone, and will not believe in the possibility of a Liberal being returned for the borough; and Mr. Gould seems to depend very much on the local reports which he has had from men of the Croke stamp, and which are all of the most roseate hue."
"Over-certainty is the almost infallible precursor of failure. And we must not fail in this matter. Don't you think you yourself had better look into it more closely than you have done?"
"My darling one, you give me an interest in the matter which previously it never possessed to me! I will turn my attention to it at once, go into the details as a matter of business, and take care that, if winning is possible, we shall win. No trouble or expense shall be spared about it, child, you may depend; though what has given you this sudden start I cannot imagine. I should have thought that the ambition of being a member's wife was one which had never entered your head."
"My head is always ready to serve as a receptacle for schemes for my husband's advancement, whether they be of my own, or his, or other people's prompting," said Marian, demurely. And the old gentleman bent over her again, and kissed her on the forehead.
What was this sudden interest in these election proceedings on Marian's part, and whence did it arise? Was it mere verbiage, pleasant talk to flatter her husband, showing feigned excitement about his prospects to hide the real carelessness and insouciance which she could not choose but feel? Was she tired of his perpetual presence in waiting upon her, and did she long to be rid of her patient slave, untiring both in eye and ear in attention to her wants, almost before they were expressed? There are many women who weary very speedily of suit and service perpetually paid them, who sicken of compliments and attentions, as the pastry-cooks' boys are said to do, after the unrestricted gratification of their tart-appetites, in the early days of their apprenticeship. Did she talk at random with the mere idea of making things pleasant to her husband, and with the knowledge that the mere fact of any expression of interest on her part in any action of his would be more than appreciated? Not one whit. Marian never talked at random, and knew her power sufficiently to be aware that there was no need for the expression of any forced feeling where Mr. Creswell was concerned. The fact was--and it was not the first time she had acknowledged it to herself, though she had never before seen her way clearly to effect any alteration--the fact was that she was bored out of her life. The golden apples of the Hesperides, gained after so much trouble, so much lulling of the dragon of conscience, had a smack of the Dead Sea fruit in them, after all! The money had been obtained, and the position had been compassed, it was true; but what were they? What good had she gathered from the money, beyond the fact of the mere material comforts of house, and dress, and equipage? What was the position, but that of wife of the leading man in the very narrow circle in which she had always lived? She was the centre of the circle, truly; but the circle itself had not enlarged. The elegant carriage, and the champing horses, and the obsequious servants, were gratifying in their way; but there was but little satisfaction in thinking that the sight of her enjoyment of them was confined to Jack Forman, sunning himself at the ale-house door, and vacantly doffing his cap as homage to her as she swept by, or to the villagers amongst whom she had been reared, who ran to their doors as they heard the rumbling of the wheels, and returned to their back parlours, envying her her state, it is true, but congratulating themselves with the recollection of the ultimate fate of Dives in the parable, and assuring each other that the difference of sex would have no material effect on the great result. Dull, cruelly dull, that was all she could make of it, look at it how she would. To people of their social status society in that neighbourhood was infinitely more limited than to those in lower grades. An occasional visit from, and an occasional dinner with, Sir Thomas and Lady Churchill at the Park, or some of the richer and more influential Brocksopp commercial magnates, comprised all their attempts at society. The rector of Helmingham was a studious man, who cared little for heavy dinner-parties, and a proud man, who would accept no hospitality which he could not return in an equal way; and as for Dr. Osborne, he had been remarkably sparing of his visits to Woolgreaves since his passage-of-arms with Mrs. Creswell. When he did call he invariably addressed himself to Mr. Creswell, and did not in the least attempt to conceal that his feelings had been wounded by Marian in a manner which no lapse of time could heal.
No! the fact was there: the money had been gained, but what it had brought was utterly insufficient to Marian's requirements. The evil passion of ambition, which had always been dormant in her, overpowered by the evil passion of avarice, began, now that the cravings of its sister vice were appeased, to clamour aloud and make itself heard. What good to a savage is the possession of the gem of purest ray serene, when by his comrades a bit of glass or tinsel would be equally prized and appreciated? What good was the possession of wealth among the inhabitants of Helmingham and Brocksopp, by whom the Churchills of the Park were held in far greater honour, as being--a statement which, though religiously believed, was utterly devoid of foundation--of the "real owd stock"? The notion of her husband's election to Parliament gave Marian new hopes and new ideas. Unconsciously throughout her life she had lived upon excitement, and she required it still. In what she had imagined wore merely humdrum days in the bygone times she had had her excitement of plotting and scheming how to make both ends meet, and of dreaming of the possible riches; then she had her love affair, and there had flashed into her mind the great idea of her life, the intention of establishing herself as mistress of Woolgreaves. All these things were now played out; the riches had come, the old love was buried beneath them, the position was attained. But the necessity for excitement remained, and there was a chance for gratifying it. Marian was pining for society. What was the use of her being clever, as she had always been considered, if the candle of her talent were always to be hidden under the Brocksopp bushel? She longed to mix with clever people, amongst whom she would be able to hold her own by her natural gifts, and more than her own by her wealth. To be known in the London world, with the entry into it which her husband's position would secure to her, and then to distinguish herself there, that was the new excitement which Marian Creswell craved, and day by day she recurred to the subject of the election, and discussed its details with her husband, delighting him with the interest which she showed in the scheme, and by the shrewd practical common sense which she brought to bear upon it.
Meanwhile the relations existing between Mrs. Creswell and her recently acquired connections, Maude and Gertrude, had not been placed on any more satisfactory footing. They lived together under an armed truce rather than a state of peace, seeing as little of each other as possible, Marian ignoring the girls in every possible way, except when they were perforce brought under her notice, and the girls studiously acting without reference to any supposed wishes or ideas of Mrs. Creswell's. Mr. Creswell followed his wife's lead exactly; he was so entirely wrapped up in her and her doings that he had no eye nor ear for any one else, and he would probably have been very much astonished if he had been told that a complete estrangement had taken place between him and the other members of his family, and would positively have denied it. Such, however, was the case. The girls, beyond seeing their uncle at meals, were left entirely to their own devices; and it was, under the circumstances, fortunate for their future that their past training had been such as it had been. Gertrude, indeed, was perfectly happy; for although Mr. Benthall had not actually proposed to her, there was a tacit understanding of engagement between them. He occasionally visited at Woolgreaves, and during the summer they had met frequently at various garden-parties in the neighbourhood; and Maude was as quiet and earnest and self-contained as ever, busied in her work, delighting in her music, and, oddly enough, having one thing in common with Mrs. Creswell--an interest in the forthcoming election, of which she had heard from Mr. Benthall, who was a violent politician of the Liberal school.
One day the girls were sitting in the room which had been assigned to them on the establishment of the boudoir, and which was a huge, lofty, and by no means uncomfortable room, rendered additionally bright and cheerful by Gertrude's tasty handiwork and clever arrangement. It was one of those close warm days which come upon us suddenly sometimes, when the autumn has been deepening into winter, and the reign of fires has commenced. The sun had been shining with much of his old summer power, and the girls had been enjoying his warmth, and had let the fire out, and left the door open, and had just suspended their occupations--Maude had been copying music, and Gertrude letter-writing--owing to the want of light, and were chatting previous to the summons of the dressing bell.
"Where is madam this afternoon, Maude?" asked Gertrude, after a little silence.
"Shut up in the library with uncle and Mr. Gould--that man who comes from London about the election. I heard uncle send for her."
"Lor', now, how odd!" said unsophisticated Gertrude; "she seems all of a sudden to have taken great interest in this election thing."
"Naturally enough, Gerty," said Maude. "Mrs. Creswell is one of the most ambitious women in the world, and this 'election thing,' as you call it, is to do her more good, and gain her higher position, than she ever dreamed of until she heard of it."
"What a curious girl you are, Maude! How you do think of things! What makes you think that?"
"Think it--I'm sure of it. I've noticed the difference in her manner, and the way in which she has thrown herself into this question more than any other since her marriage, and brought all her brains--and she has plenty--to uncle's help. Poor dear uncle!"
"Ah, poor dear uncle! Do you think madam really cares for him?"
"Cares for him? Yes, as a stepping-stone for herself, as a means to the end she requires."
"Ah, Maude, how dreadful! But you know what I mean; do you think she loves him--you know?"
"My dear Gerty, Marian Ashurst never loved anybody but one, and--"
"Ah, I know who you mean; that man who kept the school--no, not kept the school, was usher to Mr. Ashurst--Mr.--Joyce: that was it. She was fond of him, wasn't she?"
"She was engaged to him, if the report we heard was true; but as to fond of him--the only person Marian Ashurst ever cared for was--Marian Ashurst!--Who's there?"
A figure glided past the open door, dimly seen in the waning light. But there was no response, and Gertrude's remark of "Only one of the servants" was almost drowned in the clanging summons of the dinner-bell.