The step which Mr. Creswell took in asking Marian Ashurst to become his wife was not taken without due care and consideration. As, during a lifetime which had now exceeded half a century, he had been accustomed to ponder over, sift, and weigh the most minor details of even trivial schemes before carrying them out, it was not likely that he would give less attention to a plan, on the successful or unsuccessful result of which his whole hope of future earthly happiness or misery might be based. The plan presented itself to him squarely and from a business-like point of view, like all other plans which he entertained, and had two aspects--as to how it would affect himself, and how it would affect others. He took it under the first aspect and thought it out carefully. His was a loving nature, always desiring something to cherish and cling to. In bygone years he had had his wife, whom he had worshipped with all the warmth of his loving nature. She had been the sharer of his struggles, but it had not been permitted to her to take part in his success; doubtless for the best--for Mr. Creswell, like all men who have been thoroughly successful, and with whom everything has gone straight, had perfect trust and reliance on the dispensations of Providence--she had been removed before his position was acquired. But she had left behind her a son for whom that position was destined, for whom his father slaved for years, adding to his wealth and establishing his name, all the while hoping against hope that the boy might one day learn how to use the former and how to maintain the latter. As the lad grew up, and year by year showed his real nature more and more, so the hope grew fainter and fainter in the father's heart, until it was finally extinguished by Tom's death. And then he had no hope left in the world, or rather he would have had none had it not been for Marian. It seemed as though matters had been providentially arranged, Mr. Creswell thought. The dependent state of Marian and her mother, his power of assisting them, their being domiciled under his roof, which had given him such opportunity of studying Marian's character, and had so entirely reversed his original opinion of her, the assistance and support she had afforded him during that sad period of poor Tom's death,--all seemed predestined and prearranged. He knew her now. It was not like taking a girl with whom his acquaintance had been slight, or even one whom he might have thought he knew intimately, but whom he had only seen on her society-behaviour, or in such guise as she would naturally affect before any one whom she knew to be noticing her with an object. He had seen Marian Ashurst under all circumstances, and in all places. Under the strongest and hardest trials he had always seen her come out brightest and best, and he had had full opportunity of observing the sterling worth of her character. Was the end of all his life of toil and strife to be an unloved and unloving old age? Was the position which he had acquired to benefit no one but himself, and to die out with him? Was the wealth which he had amassed to be filtered away into dirty channels, or left for the benefit of charities? If these questions were to be answered in the negative, where could he find such a helpmate as Marian, where could he dream of looking for such another? His conduct could scarcely be characterised as selfish, he thought, if after the life of work and anxiety which he had passed, he tried to render its latter portion peaceful and happy; and that, he felt, was only to be done by his marriage with Marian.
So much for himself; but how would it affect others? Marian, first? Mr. Creswell was so true and so honourable a man that even in a case like the present, where the interest of his future was at stake, he would not have used an argument in the firm basis of which he did not himself believe. In pleading his cause to Marian, he had somewhat enlarged upon the responsibility laid on her in regard to her mother--responsibility which, he argued, would be considerably lightened, if not entirely removed, by her acceptance of the position which he offered her. He believed this firmly, setting it down as an undoubted gain to Marian, who would also have position, wealth, a home, and a protector. What on the other side--what, as they said in business, per contra--what would she lose? He hoped, nothing. To many girls, to most girls, a husband old enough to be their father would have been in the highest degree objectionable; but Marian was so different to any girls he had ever seen. She was so staid, so decorous, so old-fashioned; her life had been one of such quietude and earnestness; she had always been associated with people so much older than herself. And then she had never had any love-affair! Mr. Creswell thanked Heaven for that. He could not fancy anything worse than playing the part of Auld Robin Gray in the ballad, and being received and accepted for the sake of his money, and, more than that, causing the rejection of a poorer suitor. That would be too dreadful! No. Marian had not been thrown in the way of that kind of thing; her father had neither entertained company nor taken her into society, and there was no one in the village, Mr. Creswell thought with a grave smile, who would have ventured to uplift his eyes towards her. He should not expect from her any romantic worship, any girlish devotion, but, at all events, she would come to him heart-whole, without any remains of previous attachments or bygone passions.
Who else would be affected by this marriage? His nieces. At least, so the world would think and say, but he should take care that the world was wrong. On the contrary, if anybody rather benefited by the step he was about to take, it should be those girls; principally because they were the persons who would be selected for the world's pity, and also because, he could not tell why, he rather disliked them. It was very wrong, he knew, and he had often reasoned with himself, and struggled hard against it, but the result was always the same. They were no companions for him. He had tried very hard to make himself feel interested in them, but, beyond his natural kinsman interest and compassion for their forlorn state of orphanage, without effect. He had examined himself as to the cause of this want of interest, and had explained to himself that they were "frivolous;" by which he meant that they had no notions of business, of money, of responsibility, of the various items which make up the serious side of life. All those qualities which made up the charms of Marian Ashurst were wanting in these girls. In reality they were not in the least frivolous; they were far better educated and informed than most young ladies of their class, and one of them, Maude, had superior natural gifts. But they were not after their uncle's bent, and he could not make them so. That, however, was the exact reason why a man with such a keen sense of honour as Mr. Creswell should treat them with even extra consideration, and should be more than ever cautious that no such proceeding as his marriage should injure them in any possible way. He thought it was due to the girls, as well as advisable for many reasons, that they should be made acquainted with the forthcoming change as speedily as possible; and he took an opportunity of saying so to Marian on the Sunday evening. Marian quite agreed with him. She had never been enthusiastic on the subject of the girls, and she did not pretend to be now.
"It would only be right that they should know it at once," she said. "I had rather, if you please, that you should tell them. It will come from you better than from me. I suppose I shall get on very well with them."
"Get on very well with them!" repeated Mr. Creswell. "With the girls? Why, of course you will, dearest. What reason could there be why you should not get on with them?"
"Oh, none in the least--of course not! It was a silly remark of mine."
Mr. Creswell knew that she never made silly remarks; one of his avowed boasts about her was, that she never spoke without thinking, and always spoke at the right time. He felt a little uncomfortable, therefore, and dropped the subject, saying, "I will tell them, then, to-morrow morning. Did you speak to Mrs. Ashurst?"
"I did!"
"And she----?"
"And she is almost as happy as her daughter at the thought! Is that sufficient?"
"God bless her!" said Mr. Creswell. "Her comfort shall be our first care! Ah, Marian, you are an angel!" And Marian thought it mattered very little how the young ladies might receive the announcement of their uncle's intended marriage, so long as their uncle held that last expressed opinion.
The next morning, while the young ladies were at their music practice, they received a message that their uncle wished to see them. It was not meant to be a formal message, but it certainly smacked somewhat of formality. Hitherto, whenever their uncle wanted them, he had been in the habit of either coming to their room, or of calling them to him. Maude looked astonished at the solemnity of the phrase "wishes to see you" as the servant delivered it, while Gertrude raised her eyebrows at her sister, and audibly wondered what it meant.
They found their uncle seated in his library, the desk before him as usual heaped with papers and accounts, and plenty of Miss Ashurst's handwriting, so horribly neat and so painfully legible, as Gertrude described it, to be seen everywhere. Mr. Creswell rose as they entered, and received them with all his usual kindness; Maude thought his manner was a little flurried and his face a little pale, but she could not gather from anything she saw the reason of their summons. Gertrude had made up her mind that somebody, she did not know who, had proposed for Maude; but then she could not see why she was required to be present at the announcement.
There was rather an uncomfortable hitch in the proceedings at first, Mr. Creswell obviously finding it difficult to touch upon the topic which he had to treat, and the girls having no topic to touch upon. At length, Maude broke the silence by saying, "You sent for us, uncle. You wished to see us."
"Yes, my dears--yes, girls, I wanted to see you, and I asked the servant to beg you to step here, as I had something special that I wanted to say to you, for you know, my dear children, that since you came to live with me, I have always treated you as if you were my daughters--at least, I hope I have; it has been my wish to do so."
"You always have done so, uncle!" said Maude, decisively.
"Always, uncle!" echoed Gertrude, who was best as chorus.
"That's right, my dears. I'm glad you've found it so, as I intended it. So long as I live you will find that you will be treated in the same way, and I have made such provision for you in my will as I would have made for my own daughters, if it had pleased God to give me any. Having told you this, it's right that I should tell you of something which is going to happen in this house, though it won't make any difference in your position, nor any difference to you at all that I know of, but yet it's right you should be made acquainted with it. I'm--I'm going to be married!"
There was a pause for an instant, and then it was Gertrude spoke.
"To be married!" she said. "You going to be married!--Oh, uncle, I know to whom! I'm sure I can guess!"
"Guess, then, my dear," said Mr. Creswell.
"To dear old Mrs. Ashurst, isn't it?" cried Gertrude. "I'm sure it is! She is the very kindest, sweetest old thing and if she only had better health---- I'm right, uncle, am I not?--it is Mrs. Ashurst?"
"No, my dear," said Mr. Creswell, with hesitating voice and glowing cheeks--"no, my dear, it's not Mrs. Ashurst!"
"Ah, then, it's some one you have met away from Woolgreaves, away from the neighbourhood, some one we don't know!"
"No, indeed!" said Mr. Creswell, "it is some one you know very well, and I hope love very much. It is Marian--Miss Ashurst."
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Gertrude.
"I wish you all happiness, dear uncle," said Maude, rising from her seat, crossing to her uncle, and bending down to kiss him as he sat.
"So do I, dear uncle," said Gertrude, following her sister.
"Thank you, my dears," said Mr. Creswell; "thank you very much. I said before that nothing should make any difference in your position here, nor in my intentions for the future--nor will it. Besides, it isn't as if it were a stranger--you've known Marian so long----"
"Oh yes, we've known Miss Ashurst for some time!" said Maude, with emphasis.
"Exactly!" said Mr. Creswell. "As I say, it isn't as if it were a stranger. Marian has been domiciled with us now for some time, and there is no reason why, so far as you and she are concerned, things should not go on exactly as they have done! At least, I know this to be her wish and mine," he added, after a short pause.
"Whatever is your wish, uncle, I'm sure Gertrude and I will be delighted to fulfil----"
"Delighted!" interposed Gertrude.
"And I don't think Miss Ashurst will find us give her any trouble."
"Miss Ashurst! Why not speak of her as Marian, my dear?" said Mr. Creswell.
"She has always been Miss Ashurst to me hitherto, and you know I'm not going to marry her, uncle!" said Maude, almost brusquely.
"What do you think of Miss A. now?" said Gertrude, when the girls were back in their room. "I used to laugh about her being superior! But she has shown herself superior to us with a vengeance! Fancy having her for an aunt, and having to ask her permission to do this and that, and go here and there! Oh, my! Why don't you speak, Maude? why don't you say something about all this?"
"Because I can't trust myself to speak," said Maude hurriedly. "Because I'm afraid of blurting out something that were better left unsaid."
"Oh, then, you're not so pleased at the connection! I'm sure by the way in which you wished your uncle happiness, one would have thought that the dearest wish of your heart had been realised. What do you think of Miss A.'s conduct, I mean as regards this matter?"
"Just what I think of it, and have always thought of it as regards every other matter, that it is selfish, base, and deceitful. That woman came here with a predetermined plan of marrying uncle, and chance has helped her to carry it into effect even more quickly than she anticipated. Tom saw that; he told us so, if you recollect. Poor Tom! he was a dull, unpleasant lad, but he was wonderfully shrewd, and he saw through this woman's tactics in a minute, and determined to spoil them. He would have done so, had he lived, and now, I've no doubt that the very fact of his death has been the means of hurrying uncle into taking this step!"
"Do you think Miss A. cares for uncle, Maude?"
"Cares for him--what do you mean?"
"Well, of course, I don't mean to be awfully fond, and all that sort of thing, like lovers, you know, and all that! What do you think she--well, she's fond of him?"
"Ofhim?No! she's fond of his name and his position, his money and his influence! She's fond of Woolgreaves; she has become accustomed to its comforts, and she does not choose to give them up!"
"I don't know that Miss A. is to be particularly pitched into for that, Maude," said Gertrude. "I think, perhaps, we ought to look at home before making any such suggestions! We have become accustomed to the comforts of Woolgreaves, and we--at least I--should be uncommonly sorry to give them up!"
"Well, but we have some claim to them; at all events, we are of uncle's blood, and did not come here designedly, with a view to establish ourselves here, as I'm certain this woman did! And when you talk of our not giving up our present life--look to it!"
"Look, Maude! what do you mean?"
"What do I mean! That we shall have to change our lives very quickly! You don't suppose Marian Ashurst is going to live her life with us as constant reminders to her of what was? You don't suppose that we--that I, at least, am going to waste my life with her as my rock ahead--not I, indeed!"
"Well, Maude," said Gertrude quietly, "I don't suppose anything about anything! I never do. What you propose I shall agree to, and that's all I know, or all I care for!"
It was Marian's wish that the marriage should be delayed for some little time, but Mr. Creswell was of the opposite advice, and thought it would be better to have the ceremony as soon as possible. "Life is very short, Marian," he said, "and I am too old to think of deferring my happiness. I am looking to you as my wife to brighten and soothe the rest of my days, and I am selfish enough to grudge every one of them until you are in that position! It is all very well for young people to have their term of courtship and engagement, and all the rest of it, but you are going to throw yourself away on an old man, dear one"--and he smiled fondly and patted her cheek, "and you must be content to dispense with that, and come to him at once!"
"Content is not the word to express my feelings and wishes in the matter," said Marian; "only I thought that--after Tom's death, so soon, I mean--people might say that it would have been better to have waited till----"
"My dearest child, no waiting would restore my poor boy to me; and I look to you to fill the void in my heart which his loss has made. As for people talking, I have lived too long, child, to pay the slightest heed to what they say. If such gossip moved me one jot, it would rather strengthen my wish to hasten our marriage, as it supplies me with an argument which you evidently have not perceived----"
"And that is----"
"And that is, that you may depend upon it these sticklers for the proprieties and conventionalities, these worshippers of Mrs. Grundy, will be very much interested in our movements, and highly scandalised if, under these fresh circumstances which they have just learned, you remain an inmate of my house. What has been perfectly right and decorous for the last few months would be highly improper for the next few weeks, according to their miserable doctrine. I should not have named this to you, Marian, had not the conversation taken this turn; nor even then, had you been a silly girl and likely to be influenced by such nonsense. However much you might wish to go away and live elsewhere until our marriage, you cannot. Your mother's state of health precludes any possibility of her removal, and therefore the only thing for us to do is to get the marriage over as quickly as possible, and thus effectually silence Mrs. Grundy's disciples."
"Very well," said Marian. "I suppose for the same reason it will be better that the wedding should be here?"
"Here? Why, my dearest Marian, where would you wish it to be?"
"Oh, I should like us to go away to some quiet little place where we were neither of us known, and just walk into the church----"
"And just smuggle through the ceremony and slip away, so that no one should see you were marrying a man old enough to be your father! Is that it, pet? I ought to feel highly complimented, and----"
"Please, not even in joke! No, no; you know what I mean. I cannot explain it, but----"
"I know exactly, darling, but we can't help it. If you wish it, the wedding shall be perfectly quiet, only just ourselves; but it must take place here, and I don't suppose our good neighbours would let it pass off without some demonstration of their regard, whatever we might say to them. By the way, I mentioned it to the girls this morning."
"And what did they say?" Marian asked with, for her, rather unusual eagerness. "Or, rather, what did Maude say; for Gertrude, of course, merely echoed her sister?"
"Poor Gerty!" said Mr. Creswell, smiling; "hitherto she has not displayed much originality. Oh, Maude was very affectionate indeed; came over and kissed me, and wished me all happiness. And, as you say, of course Gertrude did and said ditto. Have they--have they said anything to you?"
"Not a word. I have scarcely seen them since yesterday."
"Ah! They'll take an opportunity of coming to you. I know they are delighted at anything which they think will conduce to my happiness."
"Perhaps they don't think that your marrying me will have that effect," said Marian with a half smile.
"'Please, not even in joke'--it is my turn to say that now," said Mr. Creswell.
It was a perfect godsend to the people of Helmingham, this news; and coming so soon, too--a few months' interval was comparatively nothing in the village--after the excitement caused by young Tom's death. They had never had the remotest idea that Mr. Creswell would ever take to himself a second wife; they had long since given up the idea of speculating upon Marian Ashurst's marriage prospects; and the announcement was almost too much for them to comprehend. Generally, the feeling was one of satisfaction, for the old schoolmaster and Mrs. Ashurst had both been popular in the village, and there had been much commiseration, expressed with more warmth and honesty than good taste, when it was murmured that the widow and Marian would have to give up housekeeping--an overwhelming degradation in the Helmingham mind--and go into lodgings. A little alloy might have existed in the fact that no new element would be brought into their society, no stranger making her first appearance as the "squire's lady," to be stared at on her first Sunday in church, and discussed and talked over after her first round of visits. But this disappointment was made up to Mrs. Croke and Mrs. Whicher, and others of their set, by the triumph and vindication of their own perspicuity and appreciation of character. They appealed to each other, and to a sympathising audience round a tea-table specially spread, directly authentic confirmation of the news of the intended marriage was received, whether they had not always said that, "That girl's heart was set on money!" That it would take some one "wi' pounds an' pounds" to win her, and they had proved right, and she were now going to be made mistress of Woolgreaves, eh? Money enough there, as Mrs. Whicher told Mrs. M'Shaw, to satisfy even her longing for riches. "But it's not all goold that glitters," said the thrifty housewife; "and it's not all sunshine even then. There's givin' up liberty, and suchlike, to who? It 'minds me of the story of a man as cam' to market wi' a cart-load o' cheeses and grindstones. The cheeses was that beautiful that every one wanted they, but no one bought the grindstones; so seein' this, the man, who were from where your husband comes from, Mrs. M'Shaw, the north, he said he wouldn't sell ere a cheese unless they bought a grindstone at the same time; and so he cleared off the lot. I'm thinkin' that wi' Marian Ashurst the money's the cheese, but she can't take that wi'out the old man, the grindstone." Scarcely anything was said about the singularity of the circumstance that a pretty girl like Marian had not had any lovers. Mrs. Croke remarked that once she thought there would be "something between" Marian and "that young Joyce," but she was promptly put down; Mrs. Whicher observing scornfully that a girl with Marian's notions of money wasn't likely to have "taken up wi' an usher;" and Mrs. Baker, little Sam's mother, clearing it would have been an awful thing, if true, as she was given to understand that young Joyce had "leff for a soldier," and the last thing heard of him was that he had actually 'listed.
The wedding-day arrived, to Marian's intense relief. She had been haunted by an odd feeling that Walter Joyce might even come to see her, or at all events might write to her, either to induce her to change her resolution or to upbraid her with her perfidy. But he had made no sign, and there was no chance of his doing so now. She was perfectly calm and composed, and steadily contemplated her future, and had made up her mind as to her intended disposal of various persons so soon as she commenced her new path in life. That would not be just yet; they were going away for a fortnight to the seaside, Mrs. Ashurst being left to the care of the girls, who were delighted at the charge. Maude and Gertrude were to be bridesmaids, and no one else was to be officially present at the ceremony save Dr. Osborne, who, as Marian's oldest friend, was to give her away. The little doctor was in the greatest delight at the match, which he looked upon as being somewhat of his own making, though he thought it the best joke in the world to rally Marian by telling her that "her housekeeper project was a much better one than his. He had only thought Mrs. Ashurst might succeed Mrs. Caddy for a little time; but, by George, little Marian all the time intended to make herself head of the house for life!" The villagers, however, were not to be balked of their ceremonial, The bells were rung, general holiday was made, and Marian Creswell, leaning on her husband's arm, walked from the church on flowers strewn on the path by the girls who a few years before had been her schoolfellows.
"What an incongruous time for such a letter to arrive!" said Mr. Creswell to Marian, as they were waiting for the carriage to drive to the railway, handing her a paper. She took it and read:
"DEAR SIR,
General E. will be about six weeks hence. Please be prepared. We calculate on you for B.
"Yours truly,
"J. GOULD."
"I can't understand it," said Marian. "Who is General E., and where will he be about six weeks hence? Why are you to be prepared, and what is B. that they calculate on you for?"
"General E.," said Mr. Creswell, laughing, "is the general election, and B. is Brocksopp, for which borough I've promised to stand. However, there's enough of that now. My darling, I hope you will never regret this day."
"I am certain I shall not," she replied, quite calmly.
It is a conventional, but by no means a correct, notion, that at the time of a social separation those who are left behind have so very much the worst of it. People imagine that those who remain must necessarily be so dull after the departure of their friends; though very frequently those departing are the very persons who have imported gloom and misery into the household, who have sat like social old men and women of the sea on the necks of the jovial Sindbads, who have been skeletons at the feast, and wet blankets, and bottle-stoppers, and kill-joys, and mirth-quenchers, and story-balkers. It is by no means an uncommon occurrence, that there has been no such pleasant music for weeks, in the ears of those remaining in the house, as the noise of the wheels of the carriage speeding the parting guest.
The people of Helmingham village, when they saw the carriage containing Mr. Creswell and his bride spinning away to the station, after indulging in a fresh theme of talk expressive of their surprise at all that had happened, and their delight at the cleverness of the schoolmaster's daughter, who had, as they politely expressed it, "carried her pigs to such a good market," began to discuss the situation at Woolgreaves; and as it had been universally agreed that the day should be made a general holiday, the new-married folk, and their kith and kin, their past and future, were served up as topics of conversation, not merely at the various village tea-tables, but in the commercial room of the Lion at Brocksopp, which, there being no commercial gentlemen staying in the house, had been yielded up to the tenantry on the estate, who were given to understand that Mr. Teesdale, Mr. Creswell's agent, would attend to the bill. It was long since the Lion had done such a roaring trade, for the commercial gents, by whom the house was chiefly frequented, though convivial souls, were apt to be convivial on small orders, "fours" of rum and "sixes" of brandy; and it was only on exceptional occasions that old Mr. Mulock, who "travelled in hardware," would suffer himself to be fined a crown bowl of punch for having committed the uncommercial atrocity of smoking in the commercial room before seven o'clock, or young Mr. Cunynghame, who represented his own firm in Scotch goods--a very pushing young gentleman, and a wonderful fellow to get on--would "stand champagne round" when he had received a specially remunerative order. But now Miss Parkhurst, in the bar, had not a second to herself, the demand for her strong mahogany-coloured brandy-and-water was so great; steaming jorums of "hot with" here, huge goblets of "cold without" there; the fascinating Hebe of the Lion had not dispensed so much drink at one time since the day when old Major Barth was returned in the Conservative interest for Brocksopp--and the major, it is allowed, was not merely a hard drinker himself, but the cause of hard drinking in others; while as for old Tilley, the jolly landlord, he was so overwhelmed with the exertion of punch-compounding, that he took off the short-tailed snuff-coloured coat which he usually wore, and went to work in his shirt-sleeves, slicing lemons, mixing, strengthening, sweetening--ay, and tasting too--until his pleasant face, always round and red, assumed a greater rotundity and an extra glow, and his little, short, fat body ached again with fatigue.
But, as is very often the case in better society than that with which we are now engaged, the amount of conversation indulged in had not been in equal ratio with the amount of liquor consumed. They were very quiet drinkers in those parts, and on great occasions sat round the council fire as silently and gravely as a set of aboriginal Indians. They had touched lightly on the subject of the wedding, but only as men who knew that they had an interminable subject at hand, ready to fall back upon whenever they felt disposed, and from that they had jumped at a tangent to discussing the chances of the lambing season, where they were far more at home, and much more practical in what they had to say. The fertility of Farmer Gardner's ewes, or the carelessness of Tom Howson, Farmer Jeffrey's shepherd, were topics which went home to every man present; on which each had a distinct opinion, which he delivered with far greater force and emphasis than when called upon to pronounce upon an analysis of the guiding motives of the human heart in connection with the choice of a husband. Indeed, so much had to be said upon the subject of these "yows," that the conversation began to become rather tiresome to some members of the company, who were also tenants of the bridegroom's, but whose business connections were rather with commerce than agriculture or stock-purchase. These gentry, who would have sat interested for that indefinite period known as "a blue moon," had the talk been of markets, and prices, and "quotations," at length thought it time to vary the intellectual repast, and one of them suggested that somebody should sing a song. In itself not a bad proposition, but one always hard to be properly carried out. A dead silence fell upon the company at once, broken by Farmer Whicher, who declared he had often heard neighbour Croke "wobble like a lavrock," and moved that neighbour Croke be at once called upon. Called upon Mr. Croke was unanimously, but being a man of uncertain temper he nearly spoiled the harmony of the evening by declaring flatly that he would be "darnged" if he would. A bookkeeper in one of the Brocksopp mills, a young man of literary tendencies, who had erected severalin memoriamtombstones to his own genius in theBrocksopp Banner and County Chronicle,then proposed that Mr. M'Shaw, who, as the speaker remarked, "came from the land which produced the inspired exciseman," would favour them with a Scotch ballad. But Mr. M'Shaw declined the compliment. A thrifty man, with a large family, Alick M'Shaw always kept himself in check in every way where expense was concerned, and now for the first time for years he found himself in the position of being able to consume a large quantity of whisky, without being called upon to pay for it. He knew that the time taken up in singing the ballad would be so much time wasted, during which he must perforce leave off drinking; and so, though he had a pretty tenor voice, and sang very fairly, he pleaded a cold and made his excuse. Finally, everybody having been tried, and everybody having in more or less cantankerous manner refused, it fell upon Farmer Whicher to sing that ditty for which he was well known for a score of miles round, which he had sung for nearly a third of a century at various harvest-homes, shearing-feasts, and other country merry-makings, and which never failed--it being a supposed joyous and bacchanalian chant--in crushing the spirits and subduing the souls of those who listened to it. It was a performance which never varied the smallest iota in its details. The intending singer first laid down his pipe, carefully knocking out the ashes, and placing it by his right hand to act on emergency as a conductor's bâton; then, assuming a most dismal expression of countenance, he glared round into the faces of those surrounding him to sue for pity, or to see if there were any chance of a reprieve, and finding neither, he would clear his throat, which was in itself an operation of some magnitude, and commence the song as a solemn recitation; but the chorus, which was duly sung by all present, each man using the most doleful tune with which he was best acquainted, ran thus:
"Then push, push, push the bowl about, And push the bowl to me-ee-- The longer we sits here, and drinks, The merr-i-er we shall be!"
It is doubtful to what extent this doleful dirge might have been protracted, for the number of verses is beyond human reckoning, and the more frequently the choruses were repeated the more they are prolonged; but Mr. Teesdale, the agent, a shrewd man of business, saw his opportunity for making a cast, and accordingly, at the end of the ninth stanza, he banged the table with such energy that his cue was taken by the more knowing ones, and the harmony was abandoned as Mr. Teesdale went on to say----
"Capital, bravo, excellent! Always look to you, Whicher, to sing us a good song! First time I heard you sing that was years ago, when our old friend Hardy gave us a supper on the occasion of opening his dancing-school! Poor Hardy, not well, eh? or he'd have been here among us. Push the bowl about, eh? Ah, we're likely to have plenty of that sort of fun soon, if I'm correctly informed!"
"What's that, Muster Teesdale?" asked Farmer Adams. "Somebody going to be married, eh?"
"No, no, one at a time, Adams, one at a time!"
"What's comin' off then, Muster Teesdale?"
"Well, it's expected that in about a couple of months' time there'll be a general election, Mr. Adams, and you know what that means! I wasn't far out when I said that the bowl would be pushed about at such a time as that, was I?"
"That 'ee warn't, Muster Teesdale, that 'ee warn't! Not that we hold much wi' 'lections about here!"
"That's 'cos there's no proper spirit of opp'sition," said Mr. Croke, who was accustomed to speak very loudly and freely on political matters, and who was delighted at seeing the conversation taking this turn; "that's 'cos there's no proper spirit of opp'sition," he repeated, looking round him, partly in triumph, partly to see if any antagonist were making ready net and spear. "They Tories is 'lowed to walk over the course and du just as pleases 'em!"
"What sort of opp'sition could you expect, Muster Croke?" said Farmer Spalding, puffing at his long churchwarden. "What good could Lib'rals do in a borough like this here Brocksopp, for instance, where its factories, and works, and mills, and suchlike, are held by rich folk as ought to be Lib'rals and is Tories?"
"Why ought they?" asked Mr. Croke; and while his interlocutor was gathering up his answer, old Croke added, "I'm all for argeyment! I'm a Tory mysel', as all my house have been, but I like to see a opp'sition in everything, and a proper fight, not one-sided 'lections, such as we have seen! Well, Muster Spalding, and why should our rich party folk be Lib'rals and not Tories?"
"Because," said Mr. Spalding, fanning away the smoke from before him, and speaking with great deliberation--"because they sprung from the people, and therefore their symp'ties should be wi' those of whom they were afore they became rich."
"Like enough, like enough, neighbour Spalding. That's what's called mo-rality, that is; but it's not common sense! Common sense is, that it's lucky they grew rich; they becam' Tories, which is the same thing as meaning they wanted their money taken care of."
"Ay, ay, that's it, Croke!" said Farmer Adams. "You've just hit the way to put un! Lib'rals when they've got nothing and want everything, Tories when they've got something and want to take care of it."
"Well, but what's Tories goin' to do this time?" asked Mr. Moule, a maltster in the town. "Our presen' member, Sir George Neal, won't stand again! Told me so his own self last time he was in town for quarter sessions--says he's too old. My 'pinion is his wife won't let un. He's a rum un, is Sir George, and when he gets up to London by himself, he goes it, theydusay!"
"Nansense, Moule! I wunner at a man o' your sense talkin' such stuff," said Farmer Croke. "That's playin' the Lib'ral game, that is!--though I hey understood that Sir George won't come forrerd again."
"And the Lib'rals is going to mek a tre-menjous struggle this time, I've heerd," observed Moule.
"Who are they goin' to bring forrerd, hev you heerd?" asked Mr. Spalding with interest.
"Well, I did hear, but I've a'most forgot," said Mr. Moule, who was of a misty and a muddled nature. "No, now I reck'lect, it was young Bokenham!"
"What, son of old Tom Bokenham of Blott's Mills?" asked Mr. Spalding.
"That same! Old man's terrible rich, they du say; firm was Bokenham and Sculthorpe, but Sculthorpe broke his leg huntin' wi' Squire Peacock's harriers, and has been out of business for some time."
"He's just built two saw-mills in Galabin Street, hasn't he?" asked Mr. Croke.
"He has, and that plant in Harmer's Row is his too. Young Tom, he's lawyer up in London--lawyer they say, tho' I thowt he was a parson, as they told me he lives in a Temple, and he's wonderful clever in speakin' at club-meetin's and suchlike, and they du say that he's not only a Lib'ral, but"--and here Mr. Moule sank his voice to a whisper to give due horror to his revelation--"that he's an out-and-out Rad.!"
"You don't say that!" said Farmer Adams, pushing away his chair with a creak, and gazing with terror at the speaker.
"They du!" said Mr. Moule, delighted and astonished to find himself of so much importance.
"That's a bad job!" said Mr. Croke reflectively; "they carry a main lot o' weight in this borough do they Bokenhams--a main lot of weight!"
And Mr. Croke shook his head with great solemnity.
"Don't be down-hearted, Mr. Croke!" said Mr. Teesdale, who had been a silent and an amused spectator of this scene. "No doubt Tommy Bokenham, who they say is a clever chap, and who'll be well backed by his father's banking account, is a formidable opponent. But I much doubt if our side won't be able to bring forward some one with as good a head on his shoulders and as much brass in his pockets!"
"Where's he to be found, Muster Teesdale? Sir George won't stand, and it would welly nigh break any one else's back in the neighbr'ood, 'less it were young Rideout, and all his money goes in horse-racin'!"
"What should you say," said Mr. Teesdale, becoming very much swollen with importance--"what should you say to Mr. Creswell?"
"Muster Creswell! What, Squire Creswell, your master, Muster Teesdale?" exclaimed Croke, completely astounded.
"Myemployer--Squire Creswell, myemployer!" said Mr. Teesdale, making a mental note to refuse Farmer Croke the very next request he made, no matter what it might be.
"Are you in ayrnest, Muster Teesdale?" asked Spalding. "Is th' old squire comin' forward for Parlyment?"
"He is, indeed, Mr. Spalding," replied Teesdale; "and he'll make the Lion his head-quarters, won't he, Mr. Tilley?" he said to the old landlord, who had just entered bearing a steaming bowl of punch.
"I hope so, sir--I hope so!" said the old man in his cheery voice. "The Lion always was the Blue house. I've seen Sir George Neal, quite dead-beat wi' fatigue and hoarse wi' hollerin', held up at that window by Squire Armstrong on one side, and Charley Rea, him as left here and went away to Chiney or some furrin part, on the other, and screechin' for cheers and Kentish fires and Lord knows what to the mob outside! I ha' got the blue banner somewhere now, that Miss Good, as was barmaid here afore Miss Parkhurst came, 'broidered herself for Sir George at last election."
"Well, there'll be no banners or anything of that kind now, Tilley; that's against the law, that is, but there'll be plenty of fun for all that, and plenty of fighting, for the matter of that, for Mr. Creswell means to win!"
"He really du?" asked Farmer Croke, once more in high spirits.
"He really does! And, what's more, I may tell you, gentlemen, as it's no longer any secret, that Mr. Creswell's candidature is approved by her Majesty's Government, by Sir George Neal, and by the principal county gentlemen, so that there's no likelihood of any split in the Conservative camp! And as for young Mr. Bokenham, of whom our friend Moule here has told us so much, well--even if he is all that our friend Moule has made him out--we must try and beat him even then!"
Poor Mr. Moule! it was lucky he had enjoyed his temporary notoriety, for the sarcasm of the agent speedily relegated him to his old post of butt and dolt.
The household at Woolgreaves seemed to get on very well during the absence of its legitimate heads. The young ladies rather gloried in their feeling of independence, in the freedom from the necessity of having to consult any one or to exercise the smallest system of restraint, and they took pleasure in sitting with Mrs. Ashurst and ministering to her small wants. They had always had a kindly feeling towards the old lady, and this had been increased by her helplessness, and by her evident unconsciousness of the manner in which the world was slipping away from her. There is something sad in witnessing the struggle for resignation with which persons, smitten with mortal disease, and conscious of their fate, strive to give up all worldly hopes and cares, and to wean their thoughts and aspirations from those things on which they have hitherto been bent; but there is something infinitely more sad in watching the sick-bed of one who is all unconscious of the fiat that has gone forth, who knows, indeed, that her strength is not what it was, but who has no idea that the hand is already uplifted and the dart already poised. Mrs. Ashurst was in this last-named condition; she had gradually been growing weaker and weaker, but there were times when she plucked up wonderfully, and when she would talk of things present, ay, and of things future, as though she had years of life to run. The girls encouraged her to talk. Dr. Osborne had told them that she must be "roused" as much as possible, and they would sit with her and chatter for hours, the old lady taking no inconsiderable share in the conversation. It was astonishing with what unanimity they had hitherto kept off the subject of the marriage, the very topic which one might have imagined would have been the first they would have discussed; but whenever they came near it, whenever they grew "warm," as children say in the old-fashioned game, they seemed by tacit instinct bound to draw away and leave it untouched. At last one day, after the married couple had been a week absent, Mrs. Ashurst said quietly--
"Maude, my dear, weren't you very much astonished when you heard your uncle was going to marry my Marian?"
"No, dear Mrs. Ashurst. Though I'm not very old, I've lived too long to be astonished at anything, and certainly that did not surprise me!"
"It did me!" said Gertrude, for once venturing on an independent remark.
"And why did it surprise you, Gerty?" asked the old lady, already smiling at the quaint reply which she always expected from Gertrude.
"Because I didn't think uncle was so silly!" Gertrude blurted out. "At least, I don't mean that exactly; don't misunderstand me, dear Mrs. Ashurst, but I never thought that uncle would marry again at all.--Such an idea never entered our heads, did it, Maude?" But Maude declining to play chorus, Gertrude continued: "And if I had thought of such a thing, I should always have set uncle down as marrying some one more his own age, and--and that kind of thing!"
"There is certainly a great disparity of years between them," said Mrs. Ashurst, with a sigh. "I trust that won't work to the disadvantage of my poor dear girl!"
"I don't think you need fear that, dear old friend!" said Maude; and then thinking that her tone of voice might have been hard, she laid her hand on the old lady's shoulder, and added, "Miss Ash--I mean Mrs. Creswell, you know, is wise beyond her years! She has already had the management of a large household, which, as I understand, she conducted excellently; and even did she show a few shortcomings, uncle is the last man to notice them!"
"Yes, my dear, I know; but I didn't mean that! I was selfishly thinking whether Marian had done rightly in accepting a man so much older than herself. She did it for my sake, poor child--she did it for my sake!" And the old lady burst into tears.
"Don't cry, dear!" said Gertrude. "You are not to blame, I'm sure, whatever has happened."
"How can you make yourself so perfectly ridiculous, Gertrude?" said strong-minded Maude. "No one is to blame about anything! And, my dear Mrs. Ashurst, I don't think, if I were you, I should look upon your daughter's present proceeding as such an act of self-sacrifice. Depend upon it she is very well pleased at her new dignity and position." Maude knew that the Creswells were only "new people," but she could not sit by and hear them patronised by a schoolmaster's widow.
"Well, my dear, very likely," said the old lady meekly; "though she might have been a baronet's lady if she had only chosen. I'm sure young Sir Joseph Attride would have proposed to her, with a little more encouragement; and though my poor husband always said he had pudding in his head instead of brains, that wouldn't have been any just cause or impediment. You never heard about Sir Joseph, Maude?"
"No; Miss Ashurst never spoke to us of any of her conquests," said Maude, with something of a sneer.
"Well, ray dear, Marian was never one to say much, you know; but I'm sure she might have done as well as any girl in the county, for the matter of that. There was Sir Joseph, and young Mr. Peacock before he went up to live in London, and a young German who was over here to learn English--Burckhardt his name was, and I think his friends were counts, or something of that kind, in their own country--oh, quite grand, I assure you!"
"I wonder whether uncle knows of all these former rivals?" asked Gertrude.
"No, my dear, of course he doesn't, and of course Marian would not be such a goose as to tell him. I think I'll sleep for a bit now, dears; I'm tired."
They kissed her, and left the room; but before the old lady had dropped off, she said to herself, "I wasn't going to let them crow over me, or think that my Marian couldn't have had her pick and choice of a husband, if she'd been so minded."
Maude and Gertrude were going towards the garden, after leaving Mrs. Ashurst; they saw the postman quitting the door, and the servant came to them with a letter, which she handed to Maude. That young lady opened and read it, but she could scarcely have gone through a few lines, when a particularly stern expression came over her face, her brows were knit, and her lips set tightly together.
"What's the matter, Maude?" asked Gertrude, looking on in wonder. "Who's the letter from?"
"From our new mistress," said the girl; "at least, I expect she intends we should regard her as such--Mrs. Creswell. They are to be at home at the end of next week, and my lady thinks she shall require what is now our music-room for her boudoir. We can have the room at the end of the north passage. Can we, indeed! How very considerate! And it's no use appealing to uncle! He daren't help us, I know! What did I tell you, Gertrude? This woman won't rest until she has crushed us into a state of mere dependence!"