Mr. Benthall's neat cob was not standing in a loose box in the Woolgreaves stable, as was its usual wont when its master had paid a visit to that hospitable mansion. On this occasion the schoolmaster had walked over from Helmingham, and, though by nature an indolent man, Mr. Benthall was exceedingly pleased at the prospect of the walk before him on emerging from Woolgreaves after his interview in the library with Mrs. Creswell. He felt that he required a vent for the excitement under which he was labouring, a vent which could only be found in sharp and prolonged exercise. The truth was that he was very much excited and very angry indeed. "It is a very charitable way of looking at it--a more than charitable way," he muttered to himself as he strode over the ground, "to fancy that Mrs. Creswell was ignorant of what she was doing; did not know that she was offering me a bribe to vote for her husband, and to influence the farmers on this estate to do the same. She knew it well enough; she is by far too clever a woman not to understand all about it. And if she would try that game on with us, who hold a comparatively superior position, what won't she do with those lower on the electoral roll? Clever woman too, thorough woman of the world. I wonder at her forgetting herself, and showing her hand so completely. How admirably she emphasised the 'any of the inmates' in that sentence when she gave me my congé! it was really remarkably well done! When I tell Gertrude this, it will show her the real facts at once. She has had a firm impression that, up to the present time, 'madam,' as she calls Mrs. Creswell, has had no idea as to the state of the case between us; but I don't think even incredulous Gertrude would have much doubt of it if she had been present, and caught the expression of Mrs. Creswell's face as she forbade my communication with 'any' of the inmates of her house. Neither look nor tone admitted of the smallest ambiguity, and I took care to appreciate both. Something must be done to circumvent our young friend the hostess of Woolgreaves."
Thus soliloquised the Reverend George Benthall as he strode across the bleak barren fields, chopping away with his stick at the thin naked hedges as he passed them, pushing his hat back from his brow, and uttering many sounds which were at least impatient, not to say unclerical, as he progressed. After his dinner, feeling that this was an exceptional kind of evening, and one which must be exceptionally treated, he went down to his cellar, brought therefrom a bottle of excellent Burgundy, lit up, his favourite pipe, placed his feet on the fender, and prepared himself for a careful review of the occurrences of the day. On the whole, he was satisfied. It may seem strange that a man, indolent, uncaring about most things, and certainly desirous of the opportunity for the acquisition of worldly goods, should have refused the chance of such a position as Marian hinted he might aspire to--a position which her own keen natural instinct and worldly knowledge suggested to her as the very one which he would most covet--but it must be remembered that Mr. Benthall was a man of birth and family, bound to indorse the family politics in his own person, and likely to shrink from the merest suggestion of a bribe as the highest insult and, indignity that could possibly be offered him. One of Marian's hints went home; when she told him that all acquaintance between him and any member of the Woolgreaves household must cease, the bolt penetrated. The easy attention which Mr. Benthall had just paid to the rather odd, but decidedly amusing, niece of rich Squire Creswell had developed into a great liking, which had grown into a passion deeper and stronger than this calm, placid--well, not to disguise the fact, selfish--clergyman had ever imagined he could have experienced; and although in his homeward walk he was pleased to smile in his complimentary fashion at Mrs. Creswell's skill in aiming the arrow, when he turned the whole matter over in his mind after dinner, he was compelled to allow that it was exceedingly unpleasant, and that he did not see how affairs between himself and Gertrude were to be carried out to a happy issue without bringing matters to a crisis. For this crisis long-headed and calculating Mr. Benthall had been for some time prepared--that is to say, he had long entertained the idea that after a time Mrs. Creswell, getting tired of the alternations in the state of armed neutrality or actual warfare, in one or other of which she always lived with the young ladies, and feeling towards them as Haman felt towards Mordecai, with the aggravation of their all being women, would certainly do her best towards getting them removed from Woolgreaves; and doing her best meant, when Mr. Creswell was the person to be acted upon, the accomplishment of her designs. But Mr. Benthall felt tolerably certain, from his knowledge of Mr. Creswell, and the conversation in some degree bearing on the subject which they had had together, that though the old gentleman would not be able to withstand, nor indeed would for a moment attempt to fight against the pressure which would be put upon him by his wife for the accomplishment of her purpose, even though that preference were to the disadvantage of his blood relations, that result once achieved, he would do everything in his power to insure the girls' future comfort, and would not abate one jot of the liberal pecuniary allowance which he had always intended for them on the occasion of their marriage. It was very comforting to Mr. Benthall, after due deliberation, to come to this conclusion; for though he was very much attached to Gertrude Creswell, and though of late he had begun to think she was so indispensable to his future happiness that he could almost have married her without any dowry, yet it was pleasant to think that--well, that she would not only make him a charming wife, but bring a very handsome increase to his income--when the storm arrived.
The storm arrived sooner than Mr. Benthall anticipated: it must have been brewing while he was seated with his feet on the fender, enjoying that special bottle of Burgundy and that favourite pipe. As he sat at his breakfast he received a note from Gertrude, which said, "There has been the most terrible fuss here this evening! I don't know what you and madam can have fought about during that dreadfully solemn interview in the library to which she invited you,but she is furious against you!She and uncle were closeted together for nearly an hour after he came in from Brocksopp; and when, they joined us in the dining-room his eyes were quite red, and I'm sure he had been crying. Poor old darling! isn't it a shame for that--never mind. After dinner, just as we were about to run off as usual, madam said she wanted to speak to us, and marched us off to the drawing-room. When we got there she harangued us, and told us it was only right we should know that you had behaved in a most treacherous and unfriendly manner towards uncle, and that your conduct had been so base that she had been compelled to forbid you the house. I was going to speak at this, but Maude dashed in, and said she did not believe a word of it, and that it was all madam's concoction, and that you were a gentleman, and I don't know what--you understand, all sorts of nice things about you! And then madam said you had thrown over uncle, to whom you owed such a debt of gratitude--what for, goodness knows!--and were going to vote for uncle's opponent, Mr. Joyce, who---- But then I dashed in, and I said that, considering what people said about her and Mr. Joyce, and the engagement that had existed between them, she ought not to say anything against him. And Maude tried to stop me; but my blood was up, and I would go on, and, I said all kinds of things; and madam grew very pale, and said that, though she was disposed to make every allowance for me, considering the infatuation I was labouring under--that's what she said, infatuation I was labouring under--she could not put up with being insulted in her own house, and she should appeal to uncle. So she went away, and presently she and uncle came back together, and he said he was deeply grieved and all that--poor old dear, he looked awful--but he could not have his wife treated with disrespect--disrespect, indeed!--and he thought that the best thing that could be done would be for us to go away for a time, at least; only for a time, the dear old man said, trying to look cheerful; for if he succeeded in this election he and Mrs. Creswell would necessarily be for several months in London, during which we could come back to Woolgreaves; but for a time, and if we would only settle where we would go, Parker, our maid, who is a most staid and respectable person, would go with us, and all could be arranged. I think Maude was going to fly out again; but a look at the dear old man's woebegone face stopped her, and she was silent. So it's decided we're to go somewhere out of this. But is it not an awful nuisance, George? What shall we do? Where shall we go? It will be a relief to get rid of madam for a time, and out of the reach of her eyes and her tongue; but doesn't it seem very horrible altogether?"
"Horrible altogether! It does, indeed, seem very horrible altogether," said Mr. Benthall to himself, as he finished reading this epistle, and laid it down on the breakfast-table before him. "What on earth is to be done? This old man seems perfectly besotted, while this very strong-minded young woman, his wife, has completely gleaned the brains out of his head and the kindliness out of his heart. What can he be thinking about, to imagine that these two girls are to take some lodging and form some course for themselves? Why, the thing is monstrous and impossible! They would have to live in seclusion; it would be impossible for any man ever to call upon them; and oh, it won't do at all, won't do at all! But what's to be done? I can't interfere in the matter, and I know no one with whom I could consult. Yes, by George! Joyce, our candidate, Mr. Joyce; he's a clear-headed fellow, and one who, I should think, if Mrs. Covey's story be correct, would not object to put a spoke in Mrs. Creswell's wheel. I'll go and see him. Perhaps he can help me in this fix."
No sooner said than done. The young gentlemen on the foundation and the head-master's boarders had that morning to make shift with the teaching of the ushers, while the neat cob was taken from his stable at an unwonted hour, and cantered down to Brocksopp. Mr. Joyce was not at his head-quarters, he was out canvassing; so the cob was put up, and Mr. Benthall started on a search-expedition through the town. After some little time he came up with the Liberal candidate, with whom he had already struck up a pleasant acquaintance, and begged a few minutes of his time. The request was granted. They adjourned to Joyce's private sitting-room at the inn, and there Mr. Benthall laid the whole story before him, showing in detail Marian's machinations against the girls, and pointing out the final piece of strategy by which she had induced her husband to give them the rout, and tell them they could no longer be inmates of his house. Joyce was very much astonished; for although the film had gradually been withdrawn from his eyes since the day of the receipt of Marian's letter, he had no idea of the depth of her degradation. That she could endeavour to win him from the tournament now he stood a good chance of victory; that she would even endeavour to bribe a man like Benthall, who was sufficiently venal, Walter thought, who had his price, like most men, but who had not been properly "got at," he could understand; but that she could endeavour to attempt to wreak her vengeance on two unoffending girls, simply because they were remotely connected with one of the causes of her annoyance, was beyond his comprehension. He saw, however, at once, that the young ladies were delicately situated; and, partly from an innate feeling of gallantry, partly with a desire to oblige Benthall, who had proved himself very loyal in the cause, and not without a desire to thwart what was evidently a pet scheme with Mrs. Creswell, he took up the question with alacrity.
"You're quite right," he said, after a little consideration, "in saying that it would be impossible that these two young ladies could go away and live by themselves, or rather with their maid. I know nothing of them, beyond seeing them a long time ago. I should not even recognise them were we to meet now; but it is evident that by birth and education they are ladies, and they must not be thrown on the world, to rough it in the manner proposed by their weak uncle, at the instigation of his charming wife. The question is, what is to be done with them? Neither you nor I, even if we had the power and will, dare offer them any hospitality, miserable bachelors as we are. The laws of etiquette forbid that; and we should have Mrs. Grundy, egged on by Mrs. Creswell, calling us over the coals, and bringing us to book very speedily. It is clear that in their position the best thing for them would be to be received by some lady relative of their own, or in default of that, by some one whose name and character would be a complete answer to anything which our friends Mrs. Grundy or Mrs. Creswell might choose to say about them. Have they no such female relations? No! I fear then that, for their own sakes, the best thing we can do is not to interfere in the matter. It is very hard for you, I can see clearly, as you will be undoubtedly deterred from paying any visits to Miss Gertrude until---- Stay, I've an idea: it's come upon me so suddenly that it has almost taken my breath away, and I don't know whether I dare attempt to carry it out. Wait, and let me think it over."
The idea that had occurred to Joyce was, to lay the state of affairs before Lady Caroline Mansergh, and ask her advice and assistance in the matter. He felt certain that she would act with promptitude, and at the same time with great discretion. Her knowledge of the world would tell her exactly what was best to be done under the circumstances; while the high position which she held in society, and that not alone by reason of her rank, would effectually silence any malicious whisperings and ethical comments which would inevitably be made on the proceedings of a less-favoured personage. The question was, dare he ask her to interfere in the matter? He had no claim on her, he knew; but she had always shown him such great favour, that he thought he might urge his request without offence. Even in the last letter which he had received from her, just before he started on his election campaign, she reminded him of his promise to allow her to be of service to him in any possible way, said never to permit any idea of the magnitude or difficulty of the task to be undertaken to influence him against asking her to do it. Yes, he felt sure that Lady Caroline would be of material assistance to him in this emergency; the only question was, was he not wasting his resources? These young ladies were nothing to him; to him it was a matter of no moment whether they remained at Woolgreaves or were hunted out to genteel lodgings. Stay, though. To get rid of them from their uncle's house, to remove them from her presence, in which they were constantly reminding her of bygone times, had, according to Mr. Benthall's story, been Marian Creswell's fixed intention from the moment of her marriage. Were they to leave now, outcast and humbled, she would have gained a perfect victory; whereas if they were received under the chaperonage of a person in the position of Lady Caroline Mansergh, it would be anything but a degradation of station for the young ladies, and a decided blow for Mrs. Creswell. That thought decided him; he would invoke Lady Caroline's aid at once.
"Well," said he, after a few minutes' pause, when he had come to this determination, "you have waited, and I have thought it over----"
"And the result is----?" asked Mr. Benthall.
"That I shall be bold, and act upon the idea which has just occurred to me, and which is briefly this: There is in London a lady of rank and social position, who is good enough to be my friend, and who, I feel certain, will, if I ask her to do so, interest herself in the fortunes of these two young ladies, and advise us what is best to be done for them under present circumstances. It is plain that after what has occurred they can stay no longer at Woolgreaves."
"Perfectly plain. Maude would not listen to such a thing for a moment, and Gertrude always thinks with her sister."
"That's plucky in Miss Maude; and pluck is not a bad quality to be possessed of when you are thrown out into the world on your own resources, as some of us know from experience. Then they must leave as soon as possible. Lady Caroline Mansergh, the lady of whom I have just spoken, will doubtless be able to suggest some place where they can be received, and where they would have the advantage of her occasional surveillance."
"Nothing could possibly be better," cried Mr. Benthall, in great glee. "I cannot tell you, Mr. Joyce, how much I am obliged to you for your disinterested co-operation in this matter."
"Perhaps my co-operation is not so disinterested as you imagine," said Joyce, with a grave smile. "Perhaps--but that's nothing now."
"Will you write to Lady Caroline Mansergh at once? Time presses, you know."
"Better than that, I will go up to London and see her. There will necessarily be a lull in the canvassing here for the next two or three days, and I shall be able to explain far more clearly than by letter. Besides, I shall take the opportunity of seeing our friends Potter and Fyfe, and hearing the best news from head-quarters."
"That is merely an excuse," said Mr. Benthall; "I am sure you are undertaking this journey solely with the view of serving these young ladies and me."
"And myself, my good friend," replied Joyce; "and myself, I assure you."
Lady Caroline Mansergh had a very charming little house in Chesterfield Street, Mayfair, thoroughly homeish and remarkably comfortable. Since she had been left a widow she had frequently passed the winter, as well as the season, in London, and her residence was accordingly arranged with a due regard to the miseries of our delightful climate. Her ladyship was in town, Joyce was glad to find; and after he had sent up his name, he was shown into a very cosy drawing-room, with a large fire blazing on the hearth, and all the draughts carefully excluded by means of portières and thick hanging curtains. He had merely time to notice that the room was eminently one to be lived in, and not kept merely for show--one that was lived in, moreover, as the sign of a woman's hand, everywhere recognisable, in the management of the flowers and the books, in the work-basket and the feminine writing arrangements, so different, somehow, from a man's desk and its appurtenances, plainly showed--when the door opened, and Lady Caroline entered the room.
She was looking splendidly handsome. In all the work and worry of his recent life, Joyce had lost all except a kind or general remembrance of her face and figure, and he was almost betrayed into an exclamation of astonishment as he saw her advancing towards him. There must have been something of this feeling in the expression of his face, for Lady Caroline's cheeks flushed for an instant, and the voice in which she bade him welcome, and expressed her pleasure of seeing him, was rather unsteady in its tone.
"I imagined you were at Brocksopp," she said, after a minute; "indeed I have some idea that quite recently I saw a report in the paper of some speech of yours, as having been delivered there."
"Perfectly correct: I only came up last night."
"And how goes the great cause? No, seriously, how are you progressing; what are the chances of success? You know how interested I am about it!"
"We are progressing admirably, and if we can only hold out as we are doing, there is very little doubt of our triumph!"
"And you will enter upon the career which I suggested to you, Mr. Joyce, and you will work in it as you have worked in everything else which you have undertaken, with zeal, energy, and success!" said Lady Caroline, with flashing eyes. "But what has brought you to London at this particular time?"
"You, Lady Caroline!"
"I?" and the flush again overspread her face.
"You. I wanted your advice and assistance."
"Ah! I recollect you said just now, 'if we could only hold out as we are doing.' How foolish of me not at once to---- Mr. Joyce, you--you want money to pursue this election, and you have shown your friendship for me by----"
"No, indeed, Lady Caroline, though there is no one in the world to whom I would so gladly be under an obligation. No; this is a matter of a very different kind;" and he briefly explained to her the state of affairs at Woolgreaves, and the position of Maude and Gertrude Creswell.
After he had concluded there was a momentary pause, and then Lady Caroline said, "And you do not know either of these young ladies, Mr. Joyce?"
"I do not. I have scarcely seen them since they were children."
"And it is for the sake of revenge on her that he is taking all this trouble!" thought Lady Caroline to herself; "that woman threw away a priceless treasure; the man who can hate like this must have a great capacity for loving." Then she said aloud, "I am very glad you came to me, Mr. Joyce, as this is plainly a case where prompt action is needed. When do you return to Brocksopp?"
"To-night."
"Will you be the bearer of a note from me to Miss Creswell? I shall be delighted to have her and her sister here, in this house, as my guests, as long as it may suit them to remain."
"Lady Caroline, how can I thank you?"
"By asking me to do some service for you yourself, Mr. Joyce. This is merely general philanthropy."
Marian Creswell was in great exultation, for several reasons. Mr. Joyce had hurried suddenly to London, and a report had been started that he was about to abandon the contest. That was one cause for her delight. Another was that the girls had evidently accepted their defeat in the last contest as final, and she should be rid of them for ever. She had noticed various preparations for departure, and had seen heavy boxes lumbering the passages near their rooms, but had carefully avoided making any inquiries, and had begged her husband to do likewise.
"They will go," she said, "and it will be for the best. Either they or I must have gone, and I suppose you would prefer it should be they. It is their duty to say where they purpose going, and what they purpose doing. It will be time enough for you to refuse your consent, if the place of selection be an objectionable one, when they tell us where it is."
Two days after that conversation Mr. and Mrs. Creswell were sitting together after luncheon, when Maude entered the room. She took no notice of Marian, but said to her uncle, "Gertrude and I are going away to-morrow, uncle, for some time, if not for ever. You won't be astonished to hear it, I know, but it is our duty to tell you."
"Well, Maude, I--going away--I confess, not entirely news to me," said Mr. Creswell, hopelessly feeble; "where are you going, child?"
"We have accepted an invitation we have received, uncle."
"An invitation? I did not know you knew any one, Maude. From some of your old school companions?"
"No, uncle; from Lady Caroline Mansergh--a friend of Mr. Benthall's and Mr. Joyce's, uncle."
Marian looked up, and the light of triumph faded out of her eyes. It was but an incomplete victory, after all!
The fact that his nieces had actually left the shelter of his roof, although, as he had hitherto believed, that result had been brought about by their own wilfulness and impatience of control, came upon Mr. Creswell with almost stunning force. True, Marian had mentioned to him that it was impossible that she and the girls could ever live together in amity--true, that he himself had on more than one occasion been witness of painful scenes between them--true, that the girls' departure had been talked of for a week past as an expected event, and that the preparations for it lay before his eyes; but he had not realised the fact; his mind was so taken up with the excitement of the coming election contest, that he had scarcely noticed the luggage through which he had occasionally to thread his way, or, if he had noticed it, had regarded its presence there as merely a piece of self-assertion on the part of impetuous Maude or silly Gertrude, determined to show, foolish children as they were, that they were not to be put down by Marian's threats, but were ready to start independently whenever such a step might become necessary. That Marian would ever allow them to take this step, Mr. Creswell never imagined; he thought there had always been smouldering embers of warfare, needing but a touch to burst into a blaze, between his wife and his nieces; he knew that they had never "hit it," as he phrased it; but his opinion of Marian was so high, and his trust in her so great, that he could not believe she would be sufficiently affected by these "women's tiffs" as to visit them with such disproportionate punishment. Even in the moment of adieu, when Gertrude, making no attempt to hide her tears, had sobbingly kissed him and clung about his neck, and Maude, less demonstrative, but not less affectionate, had prayed God bless him in a broken voice--she passed Mrs. Creswell with a grave bow, taking no notice of Marian's extended hand--the old man could scarcely comprehend what was taking place, but looked across to his wife, hoping she would relent, and with a few affectionate words wished the girls a pleasant visit to London, but bid them come back soon to their home.
But Marian never moved a muscle, standing there, calm and statuesque, until the door had closed upon them and the carriage had rolled away; and then the first sound that issued from her lips was a sigh of relief that, so far, her determination had been fulfilled without much overt opposition; and without any "scene." Not that she was by any means satisfied with what she had done; she had accomplished so much of her purpose as consisted in removing the girls from their uncle's home, but instead of their being reduced in social position thereby--which, judging other people, as she always did, by her own standard, she imagined would be the greatest evil she could inflict upon them--she found her plans had been attended with an exactly opposite result. The entrance into society, which she had so long coveted, and which she had hoped to gain by her husband's election, not merely now seemed dim and remote, owing to the strong possibility of Mr. Creswell's failure, but would now be open to Maude and Gertrude, through the introduction of this Lady Caroline Mansergh, of whose high standing, even amongst her equals, Marian had heard frequently from Mr. Gould, her one link with the great world. This was a bitter blow; but it was even worse to think that this introduction had been obtained for the girls through the medium of Walter Joyce--the man she had despised and rejected on account of his poverty and social insignificance, and who now not merely enjoyed himself, but had apparently the power of dispensing to others, benefits for which she sighed in vain. Now, for the first time, she began to appreciate the estimation in which Walter was held by those whose esteem was worth having. Hitherto she had only thought that the talent for "writing" which he had unexpectedly developed had made him useful to a political party, who, availing themselves of his services in a time of need, gave him the chance Of establishing himself in life; but so far as position was concerned, he seemed to have already had, and already to have availed himself of, that chance; for here was the sister of an earl, a woman of rank and acknowledged position, eager to show her delight in doing him service! "And that position," said Marian to herself, "I might have shared with him! Marriage with me would not have sapped his brain or lessened any of those wonderful qualities which have won him such renown. To such a man a career is always open, and a career means not merely sufficient wealth, but distinction and fame. And I rejected him--for what?"
These reflections and others of similar import formed a constant subject for Marian's mental exercitation, and invariably left her a prey to discontent and something very like remorse. The glamour of money-possession had faded away; she had grown accustomed to all it had brought her, and was keenly alive to what it had not brought her, and, what she had expected of it--pleasant society, agreeable friends, elevated position. In her own heart she felt herself undervaluing the power of great riches, and thinking how much better was it to have a modest competence sufficient for one's wants, sufficient to keep one from exposure to the shifts and pinches of such poverty as she had known in her early life, when combined with a position in life which gave one the chance of holding one's own amongst agreeable people, rather than to be the Croesus gaped at by wondering yokels, or capped to by favour-seeking tenants. A few months before, such thoughts would have been esteemed almost blasphemous by Marian; but she held them now, and felt half inclined to resent on her husband his ignorant and passive share in the arrangement which had substituted him for Walter Joyce.
That was the worst of all. After Maude and Gertrude Creswell left Woolgreaves, an unseen but constantly present inmate was added to the household, who sat between husband and wife, and whispered into their ears alternately. His name was Doubt, and to Mr. Creswell he said--"What has become of all those fine resolutions which you made on your brother Tom's death?--resolutions about taking his children under your roof, and never losing sight of them until they left as happy brides? Where are they now? Those resolutions have been broken, have they not? The girls, Tom's daughters--orphan daughters, mind--have been sent away from what you had taught them to look upon as their home--sent away on some trivial excuse of temper--and where are they now? You don't know!--you, the uncle, the self-constituted guardian--positively don't know where they are! You have had the address given you, of course, but you cannot imagine the place, for you have never seen it; you cannot picture to yourself the lady with whom they are said to be staying, for you never saw her, and, until your wife explained who she was, you had scarcely even heard of her. Your wife! Ah! that is a pleasant subject! You've found her all that you expected, have you not? So clever, clear-headed, bright, and, withal, so docile and obedient? Yet she it was who quarrelled with your nieces, and told you that either she or they must leave your house. She it was who saw them depart with delight, and who never bated one jot of her satisfaction when she noticed, as she cannot have failed to notice, your emotion and regret. Look back into the past, man--think of the woman who was your trusted helpmate in the old days of your poverty and struggle!--think of her big heart, her indomitable courage, her loving womanly nature, beaming ever more brightly when the dark shadows gathered round your lives!--think of her, man, compare her with this one, and see the difference!"
And to Marian the dim personage said--"You, a young woman, handsome, clever, and with a lover who worshipped you, have bartered yourself away to that old man sitting there--for what? A fine house, which no one comes to see--carriages, in which you ride to a dull country town to receive the bows of a dozen shopkeepers, and drive home again--hawbuck servants, who talk against you as they talk against every one, but always more maliciously against any whom they have known in a different degree of life--and the title of the squire's lady! You are calculated to enjoy life which you will never behold, and to shine in society to which you will never be admitted. You wanted money, and now you have it, and how much good has it done you? Would it not have been better to have waited a little--just a little--not to have been quite so eager to throw away the worshipping lover, who has done so well, as it has turned out, and who is in every way but ill replaced by the old gentleman sitting there?"
The promptings of the dim presence worked uncomfortably on both the occupants of Woolgreaves, but they had the greatest effect on the old gentleman sitting there. With the departure of the girls, and the impossibility which attended his efforts to soften his wife's coldness and do away with the vindictive feeling which she entertained towards his nieces, Mr. Creswell seemed to enter on a new and totally different sphere of existence. The bright earnest man of business became doddering and vague, his cheery look was supplanted by a worn, haggard, fixed regard; his step, which had been remarkably elastic and vigorous for a man of his years, became feeble and slow, and he constantly sat with his hand tightly pressed on his side, as though to endeavour to ease some gnawing pain. A certain amount of coldness and estrangement between him and Marian, which ensued immediately after his nieces' departure, had increased so much as entirely to change the ordinary current of their lives; the pleasant talk which he used to originate, and which she would pursue with such brightness and earnestness as to cause him the greatest delight, had dwindled down into a few careless inquiries on her part, and meaningless replies from him; and the evenings, which he had looked forward to with such pleasure, were now passed in almost unbroken silence.
One day Mr. Gould, the election agent, arrived from London at Brocksopp, and, without going into the town, ordered the fly which he engaged at the station to drive him straight to Woolgreaves. On his arrival there he asked for Mrs. Creswell. The servant, who recognised him and knew his business--what servant at houses which we are in the habit of frequenting does not know our business and all about us, and has his opinion, generally unfavourable, of us and our affairs?--doubted whether he had heard aright, and replied that his master had gone to Brocksopp, and would be found either at the mills or at his committee-rooms. But Mr. Gould renewed his inquiry for Mrs. Creswell, and was conducted by the wondering domestic to that lady's boudoir. The London agent, always sparse of compliments, spoke on this occasion with even more than usual brevity.
"I came to see you to-day, Mrs. Creswell, and not your husband," said he, "as I think you are more likely to comprehend my views, and to offer me some advice."
"Regarding the election, Mr. Gould?"
"Regarding the election, of course. I want to put things in a clear light to you, and, as you're a remarkably clear-headed woman--oh no, I never flatter, I don't get time enough--you'll be able to turn 'em in your mind, and think what's best to be done. I should have made the communication to your husband six months ago, but he's grown nervous and fidgety lately, and I'd sooner have the advantage of your clear brain."
"You are very good--do you think Mr. Creswell's looking ill?"
"Well--I was going to say you mustn't be frightened, but that's not likely--you're too strong-minded, Mrs. Creswell. The fact is, I do see a great difference in the old--I mean Mr. Creswell--during the last few weeks, and not only I, but the people too."
"You mean some of the electors?"
"Yes, some of his own people, good staunch friends. They say they can't get anything out of him now, can't pin him to a question. He used to be clear and straightforward, and now he wanders away into something else, and sits mumchance, and doesn't answer any questions at all."
"And you have come to consult me about this?"
"I've come to say to you that this won't do at all. He is pledged to go to the poll, and he must go, cheerily and pleasantly, though there is no doubt about it that we shall get an awful thrashing."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure so. We were doing very well at first, and Mr. Creswell is very much respected and all that, and he would have beat that young What's-his-name--Bokenham--without very much trouble. But this Joyce is a horse of a different colour. Directly he started the current seemed to turn. He's a good-looking fellow, and they like that; and a self-made man, and they like that; and he speaks capitally, tells 'em facts which they can understand, and they like that. He has done capitally from the first; and now they've got up some story--Harrington did that, I fancy, young Harrington acting for Potter and Fyfe, very clever fellow--they've got up some story that Joyce was jilted some time ago by the girl he was engaged to, who threw him over because he was poor, or something of that sort, I can't recollect the details--and that has been a splendid card with the women; they are insisting on their husbands' voting for him; so that altogether we're in a bad way."
"Do you think Mr. Creswell will be defeated, Mr. Gould? You'll tell me honestly, of course."
"It's impossible to say until the day, quite impossible, my dear Mrs. Creswell; but I'm bound to confess it looks horribly like it. By what I understand from Mr. Croke, who wrote to me the other day, Mr. Creswell has given up attending public meetings, and that kind of thing, and that's foolish, very foolish."
"His health has been anything but good lately, and----"
"I know; and of course his spirits have been down also. But he must keep them up, and he must go to the poll, even if he's beaten."
"And the chances of that are, you think, strong?"
"Are, I fear, very strong! However, something might yet be done if he were to do a little house-to-house canvassing in his old bright spirits. But in any case, Mrs. Creswell, he must stick to his guns, and we look to you to keep him there!"
"I will do my best," said Marian, and the interview was at an end.
As the door closed behind Mr. Gould, Marian flung herself into an easy-chair, and the bitter tears of rage welled up into her eyes. So it was destined that this man was to cross her path to her detriment for the rest of her life. Oh, what terrible shame and humiliation to think of him winning the victory from them, more especially after her interview with him, and the avowal of her intense desire to be successful in the matter! There could be no doubt about the result. Mr. Gould was understood, she had heard, to be in general inclined to take a hopeful view of affairs; but his verdict on the probable issue of the Brocksopp election was unmistakably dolorous. What a bitter draught to swallow, what frightful mortification to undergo! What could be done? It would be impolitic to tell Mr. Creswell of his agent's fears; and even if he were told of them, he was just the man who would more than ever insist on fighting until the very last, and would not imagine that there was any disgrace in being beaten after gallant combat by an honourable antagonist. And there was no possible way out of it, unless--great Heaven, what a horrible thought!--unless he were to die. That would settle it; there would be no defeat for him then, and she would be left free, rich, and with the power to---- She must not think of anything so dreadful. The noise of wheels on the gravel, the carriage at the door, and her husband descending. How wearily he drags his limbs down the steps, what lassitude there is in every action, and how wan his cheeks are! He is going towards the drawing-room on the ground-floor, and she hastens to meet him there.
"What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"Very--very ill; but pleased to see you, to get back home." This with a touch of the old manner, and in the old voice. "Very ill, Marian; weak, and down, and depressed. I can't stand it, Marian; I feel I can't."
"What is it that seems too much for you?"
"All this worry and annoyance, this daily contact with all these horrible people. I must give it up, Marian; I must give it up!"
"You must give what up, dear?"
"This election. All the worry of it, the preliminary worry, has been nigh to kill me, and I must have no more of it!"
"Well, but think----"
"I have thought, and I'm determined; that is, if you think so too. I'll give it up, I'll retire; anything to have done with it!"
"But what will people say----?"
"What people, who have a right to say anything?"
"Your committee, I mean--those who have been working for you so earnestly and so long."
"I don't care what they say. My health is more important than anything else--and you ought to think so, Marian!"
He spoke with a nervous irritability such as she had never previously noticed in him, and looked askance at her from under his gray eyebrows. He began to think that there might be some foundation of truth in Gertrude's out-blurted sentiment, that Mrs. Creswell thought of nothing in comparison with her own self-interest. Certainly her conduct now seemed to give colour to the assertion, for Marian seemed annoyed at the idea of his withdrawal from seeking a position by which she would be benefited, even where his health was concerned.
Mr. Creswell was mistaken. Marian, in her inmost heart, had hailed this determination of her husband's with the greatest delight, seeing in it, if it were carried out, an excellent opportunity for escaping the ignominy of a defeat by Walter Joyce. But after this one conversation, which she brought to a close by hinting that of course his wishes should be acted upon, but it would perhaps be better to leave things as they were, and not come to any definite conclusion for the present, she did not allude to the subject, but occupied her whole time in attending to her husband, who needed all her care. Mr. Creswell was indeed very far from well. He went into town occasionally, and, at Marian's earnest request, still busied himself a little about the affairs a the election, but in a very spiritless manner; and when he came home he would go straight to the library, and there, ensconced in an easy-chair, sit for hours staring vacantly before him, the shadow of his former self. At times, too, Marian would find his eyes fixed on her, watching all her motions, following her about the room, not with the lingering loving looks of old, but with an odd furtive glance; and there was a pitiful expression about his mouth, too, at those times, which was not pleasant to behold. Marian wondered what her husband was thinking of. It was a good thing that she did not know; for as he looked at her---and his heart did not refuse to acknowledge the prettiness, and the grace, and the dignity which his eyes rested on--the old man was wondering within himself what could have induced him, at his time of life, to marry again--what could have induced her, seemingly all sweetness and kindness, to take an inveterate hatred to those two poor girls, Maude and Gertrude, who had been turned out of the house, forced to leave the home which they had every right to consider theirs, and he had been too weak, too much infatuated with Marian, to prevent the execution of her plans. But that should not be. He was ill then, but he would soon be better, and so soon as he found himself a little stronger he would assume his proper position, and have the girls back again. He had been giving way too much recently, and must assert himself. He was glad now he had said nothing about giving up the election to any one save Marian, as he should certainly go on with it--it would be a little healthy excitement to him; he had suffered himself to fall into very dull moping ways, but he would soon be all right. If he could only get rid of that odd numbing pain in the left arm, he should soon be all right.
Little Dr. Osborne was in the habit of retiring to rest at an early hour. In the old days, before his "girl" married, he liked to sit up and hear her warble away at her piano, letting himself be gradually lulled off to sleep by the music; and in later times, when his fireside was lonely and when he was not expecting any special work, he would frequently drive over to Woolgreaves, or to the Churchill's at the Park, and play a rubber. But since he had quarrelled with Mrs. Creswell, since her "most disrespectful treatment of him," as he phrased it, he had never crossed the threshold at Woolgreaves, and the people at the Park were away wintering in Italy, so that the little doctor generally finished his modest tumbler of grog at half-past ten and "turned in" soon after. He was a sound sleeper, his housekeeper was deaf, and the maid, who slept up in the roof, never heard anything, not even her own snoring, so that a late visitor had a bad chance of making his presence known. A few nights after the events just recorded, however, one of Mr. Creswell's grooms attached his horse to the doctor's railings and gave himself up to performing on the bell with such energy and determination, that after two minutes a window opened and the doctor's voice was heard demanding, "Who's there?"
"Sam, from Woolgreaves, doctor, wi' a note."
"From Woolgreaves!--a note! What's the matter?"
"Squire's bad, had a fit, I heerd housekeeper say, and madam she have wrote this note for you! Come down, doctor; it's marked 'mediate, madam said. Do come down!"
"Eh?--what--Woolgreaves--had a fit--Mrs. Creswell--I'm coming!" and the window was shut, and in a few minutes Sam was shivering in the hall, while the doctor read the note by the gaslight in his surgery. "Hum!--'No doubt you'll be surprised'--should think so, indeed--'has been long ill'--thought so when I saw him in the Corn Exchange on Saturday--'just now had some kind of frightful seizure'--poor dear old friend--'calls for you--insists on seeing you--for God's sake come'--dear me, dear me!" And the doctor wiped his honest old eyes on the back of his tattered old dressing-gown, and poured out a glass of brandy for Sam, and another for himself, and gave the groom the key of the stable, and bade him harness the pony, for he should be ready in five minutes.
The house was all aroused, lights were gleaming in the windows, as the doctor drove up the avenue, and Marian was standing in the hall when he entered. She stepped forward to meet him, but there was something in the old man's look which stopped her from putting out her hand as she had intended, so they merely bowed gravely, and she led the way to her husband's room, where she left him.
Half an hour elapsed before Dr. Osborne reappeared. His face was very grave and his eyes were red. This time it was he who made the advance. A year ago he would have put his arm round Marian's neck and kissed her on the forehead. Those days were past, but he took her hand, and in reply to her hurried question, "What do you think of him?" said, "I think, Mrs. Creswell, that my old friend is very ill. It would be useless to disguise it--very ill indeed. His life is an important one, and you may think it necessary to have another opinion"--this a little pompously said, and met with a gesture of dissent from Marian--"but in mine, no time must be lost in removing him, I should say, abroad, far away from any chance of fatigue or excitement."
"But, Dr. Osborne--the--the election!"
"To go through the election, Mrs. Creswell, would kill him at once! He would never survive the nomination day!"
"It will be a dreadful blow to him," said Marian. But she thought to herself, "Here is the chance of our escape from the humiliation of defeat by Walter Joyce! A means of evoking sympathy instead of contempt!"