A REMOVAL.
Some few minutes passed before Marian felt sufficiently recovered to
move. The attack had been so unexpected and so brutal that she would
have been perfectly paralysed by it even if the words which the boy
had used had been the outpourings of mere random savagery, instead
of, as they evidently were, the result of premeditated and planned
insult--insult grounded on hate, and hate springing from fear.
Marian's quick intelligence made that plain to her in a moment. The
boy feared her, feared that she might obtain an ascendancy over
his father, and get the old gentleman to advance money to Mrs.
Ashurst--money that ought not to go out of the family, and should be
his at his father's death--or perhaps fancied she was scheming to
quarter herself at Woolgreaves, and---- Good heavens, could he have
thought that! Why, the idea had never crossed her mind. She dismissed
it at once, not without a half smile at the notion of the retribution
she could inflict, at the thought that the boy had suggested to her
what might be such a punishment for himself as she had never dreamed
of.
She walked on quickly, communing with herself. So they had found her
out, had they? Tom's blurted warning was the first intimation she had
had that what she knew to be the guiding purpose of her life, the
worship of, love for, intended acquisition of money, was suspected by
any, known to any one else. No syllable on the subject, either
jestingly or reproachfully, had ever been breathed to her before. It
was not likely that she would have heard of it. Her father had
considered her to be perfect; her mother had set down all her small
economies, scrapings, and hoardings which were practised in the
household to Marian's "wonderful management;" and however the feminine
portion of the Whicher and Croke families might talk among themselves,
their respect for the schoolmaster and their dread of Marian's powers
of retort always effectually prevented them from dropping any hints at
the schoolhouse. So Marian heard it now for the first time. Yet there
was nothing in it to be ashamed of, she thought; if her poor father
had been guided by this sentiment his life might have been perhaps
preserved, and certainly an immense amount of misery would have been
spared to them all. Love of money, a desire to acquire wealth,--who
should reproach her for that? Not Mr. Creswell, of whose good opinion
she seemed to think first, for had not his whole life been passed in
the practice, and was not his present position the result, the example
to which she could point in defence of her creed? Not Maude or
Gertrude Creswell, who if they had possessed the smallest spark of
independence would have been earning their bread as companions or
governesses. Not the people of the village, who---- Yes, by Tom's
account they did talk of her; but what then? What the people in the
village thought or said about her had never been of the smallest
interest to Marian Ashurst when she lived among them, and was brought
into daily communion with them; it was therefore not likely that she
would take much heed of it now, as she had made up her mind that she
and her mother must go and live in another place, far away from all
old scenes and associations, when they left Woolgreaves.
When they left Woolgreaves! Hitherto she had not bestowed much thought
upon that necessarily closely approaching event, but now she turned
her attention to it. Under ordinary circumstances, even if things had
gone on pleasantly as heretofore, if their stay had been made as
comfortable to them, the attention of Mr. Creswell and his nieces had
been as great, and the general desire for them to remain as obvious,
they would have had in common decency to propose some date for the
expiration of their visit. And now that Tom, who had hitherto been
only a negative nuisance, developed into a positive enemy, it was
doubly necessary that they should take precaution not to outstay their
welcome. Yes, they must go! Give up all the comforts and luxury, the
fine airy rooms, the bedroom fires, the carriage drives, the good
living, the wine, and attention, all of which combined had done Mrs.
Ashurst so much good, and rendered her stronger and sounder than she
had been for years--all these must be given up, and they must go away
to poky, stivy lodgings, with dirt and discomfort of every kind; with
wretched cooking which would turn her mother sick, and the attendance
of a miserable maid-of-all-work, who would not understand any of their
ways, and the perpetual presence of penury and want making itself felt
every hour of their lives. The picture was so horrible, so repugnant
to Marian, that she determined not to let it engross her thoughts in
anticipation; it would be quite sufficient to cope with when it came,
and she should require all her energies fresh and untaxed for the
encounter. So she walked briskly on, and as she had now reached the
village her attention was soon quickly absorbed by the greetings which
she received, and the talk in which she had to take part.
The first greetings were from Mr. Benthall. Marian had determined that
she would not go down Southwood Lane, which led to the schoolhouse, as
she had no desire of encountering either master or boys in her then
mood. She had not been near the school since she and her mother left
the house, and she had arranged in her mind a little farewell on her
part to both when she left the village. And now here was Mr. Benthall
advancing straight towards her, and there was no possibility of
escape, as she remembered that it was the Saturday half-holiday, and
that she should probably have to run the gauntlet of a score of
friends. Mr. Benthall was a brisk, lively, agreeable man, with
cheerfulness and pleasant manners, and plenty of small talk. He was,
moreover, a gentleman and a man of the world, and he knew exactly how
to pitch the key of his conversation to a young lady, the daughter of
his predecessor, who might or might not--Mr. Benthall's experience of
human nature told him might, and probably would--feel somewhat
antipathetic towards him. So Mr. Benthall talked of Mrs. Ashurst, and
of Mr. Creswell, and of the young ladies, and of Tom. "My friend
Trollope's young charge," as Mr. Benthall spoke of him, with a
somewhat malicious sparkle in his eye. And the weather was quite cold,
was it not? and the frost had set in quite early, had it not? And Miss
Ashurst was looking so blooming that Mr. Benthall had no need to ask
her how she was, which was, indeed, the reason why he had not done so
long since, but must beg her to take charge of his kindest compliments
for her mother and the young ladies and Mr. Creswell. And Mr. Benthall
had taken off his well-brushed hat, and had skipped across the road in
his well-brushed, shapely boots, and Marian was contrasting him with
that figure which was ever present to her memory--her father, bowed,
and shrunken, and slatternly, and ill-dressed--when she heard her
Christian name called aloud, and Dr. Osborne, in his little
four-wheeled pony-carriage, drew up by her side.
"Well, Princess!" said the cheery old medico; "for since I have made
you hear I may as well address you by your title--well, Princess, how
goes it?"
"It goes very well indeed, dear Dr. Osborne," said Marian, returning
his hand-pressure. "But why Princess?"
"Why Princess! What lower rank could a girl be who lives in a palace,
over there, I mean, with 'vassals and slaves by her side,' as I've
heard my girl sing years ago, and all that kind of thing?"
"But surely only a princess of the Cinderella style, my dear doctor;
only enjoying the vassals and the slaves, and what you call 'that kind
of thing,' for a very limited time. Twelve o'clock must strike very
soon, dear old friend, in our case, and then this princess will go
back to the pots and kettles, and cinder-sifting, and a state of life
worse than ever she has known before."
"God forbid, my dear!" said the doctor seriously. "Which way are you
going--back again to Woolgreaves? All right. I'm driving that road,
and I'll set you down at the gates. Jump in, child. I wanted a few
minutes' talk with you, and this has just happened luckily; we can
have it without any interruption."
He stretched out his hand and helped Marian into the seat by his side;
then gave the brisk little pony his head, and they rattled cheerily
along.
"Let me see, my dear, what was I saying?" said the doctor, after the
silence of a few minutes. "By the way, I think I ought to have called
in the village to see little Pickering, who's in for measles, I
suspect. I must start a memorandum-book, my memory is beginning to
fail me. What was I saying, my dear?"
"You were saying that you wanted to talk to me--about Woolgreaves, I
think it must have been."
"About Woolgreaves--the palace, as I called it--oh yes, that was it.
See here, child; I'm the oldest friend you have in the world, and I
hope one of the truest; and I want you to answer my questions
frankly, and without reserve, just as if I were your father, you
know."
"I will do so," said Marian, after a faint flutter at her heart,
caused by the notion of the little doctor, good little soul as he was,
comparing himself with her dead father.
"That's right," said Dr. Osborne. "I knew you almost before you came
into the world, and that gives me some right to your confidence. Now,
then, are you happy at Woolgreaves?"
Marian hesitated a moment before she replied: "Happier than I thought
I could have been--yet."
"Ah, that's right, and straightforward. Mind, in all these questions
I'm alluding to you, not to your mother. I know her--charming lady,
affectionate, and all that, but clinging and unreasoning, likes to lie
where she falls, and so on; whereas you've got a head on your
shoulders, finely developed and--so on. Now, are they all kind to you
at Woolgreaves? Old gentleman kind?"
"Most kind!"
"Of course he is. Never was a man so full of heart as he is. If he had
only been at home when your poor father--ah, well, that's no matter
now."
"What's that you said, Dr. Osborne--that about my father?"
"Stupid old fool to go blundering into such a subject! Why couldn't I
have let it alone? 'Let the dead past bury its dead.' What's that I've
heard my girl sing?" the old gentleman muttered to himself. Then
aloud, "Nothing, my dear. I was only thinking that if Mr. Creswell had
been at home just at the time I dare say we might have made some
arrangement, and had Godby down from St. Vitus, and then----"
"And then my father need not have died for the want of a hundred and
thirty guineas! Oh, don't think I forget." And there came into the
girl's face the hard, stony, rigid look which Dr. Osborne remembered
there so well on the night of her father's death, six months before.
"Well," said the little doctor, laying the whip across his knee and
blowing his nose so loudly that the pony shied at the noise--"well,
well, dear, Mr. Creswell's absence at that particular time was, to say
the least of it, unfortunate; we may say that. Now, what about the
girls; are they kind?"
"Very, in their way."
"Good!" said the little doctor, bringing his hand down with a ringing
slap on the chaise-apron, "I like that! Dry--deuced dry. Like your
poor father, that. 'In their way.' Ha, ha I understand. Their way is
not much yours?"
"They are very good-tempered and polite, and press one to eat and
drink a great deal, and hand chairs and footstools, and always sing
when they are asked. And," added Marian, after a moment's pause, and
under a fear that she had been unduly cynical, "and they are most
attentive and affectionate to mamma."
"I am delighted to hear that, for that's just as it should be, just as
one would have wished it to turn out. Oh yes, quite ladies, with all
the feelings and perceptions of ladies, and talking to your mother
nicely, and so on. Not too bright--not to be compared with you or my
girl. Ah, there would have been a companion for you, my dear; all
soul, and such an arm for the harp, but married to the coastguard in
Dorsetshire!--but still nice girls. Well, I'm glad you give me this
account, my dear, for it suits exactly the suggestion I was about to
make. But before I made it I wanted to be quite sure of your position
at Woolgreaves, and to know for certain that you were liked by all the
family."
"You are not certain of that yet, doctor. There is one of the family
about whom you have made no inquiry."
"One of the family--at Woolgreaves? Oh, by Jove, Tom--Master Tom! I
recollect now--a most important personage in his own esteem, and
really some one to be thought of in such a matter as this. And how
does Master Tom behave to you?"
"Like a--like a scoundrel!" cried Marian, her eyes flashing, and all
the colour ablaze in her cheeks: "He has been, ever since we have been
there, either rude and rough, or sulky and unpleasant; but to-day,
just before I saw you, not an hour ago, he met me in the fields, and
insulted me in the grossest manner; talked about our poverty, and
hinted that--hinted----" and the remainder of the sentence was lost in
a burst of tears.
"Happy hit of mine, that," muttered the doctor to himself. "I seem to
be distinguishing myself to-day. Young ruffian, that Tom. He shall
have a pretty dose next time I'm sent for to him, I'll take
care.--Come, my dear, then, you must not mind; he's only a boy--a rude
beastly boy, with no manners, and no heart either, and not much chest
or stomach, for the matter of that. You must not mind him. It's a pity
he's not nice to you, because he has a certain power in that house;
and if he were to pronounce himself as decidedly in opposition to the
little scheme I had in my mind, and about which I was going to talk to
you, it is very probable it might fall to the ground. But there are
various ways of getting over objectionable boys. Lord bless me! in my
time I've taken boys into the surgery, and brought them round by a
handful of acidulated drops, and have tamed the most refractory by a
Tolu lozenge."
"I scarcely think that Tom Creswell is to be bought over on such easy
terms," said Marian, with a faint and weary smile. "But, doctor, what
was the suggestion you were about to make?"
"Simply this, my dear: That instead of your removing into Mrs.
Swainson's lodgings, which are by no means suited for you, and where I
should be very sorry to see you, or into any lodging at all,
you should--when I say you, I mean, of course, you and Mrs.
Ashurst--should remain at Woolgreaves."
"Remain at Woolgreaves? For how long?"
"Well, as romantic or thoughtless people say, 'for ever;' at all
events, until the condition of each of you is changed--by different
means, let us hope."
"And under what conditions is this scheme to be realised? I suppose
Mr. Creswell would scarcely take us in as boarders at Woolgreaves,
doctor?"
"No, my dear child, no. You are pleased to be satirical, but I am in
earnest. That the labourer is worthy of his hire is a principle that
has been recognised for centuries; and you shall labour, and for hire.
See here, this is how the thought first came into my head. Mrs. Caddy,
the housekeeper at Woolgreaves, a very worthy woman, has been ailing
of late, and came to consult me last week. Our climate don't do for
her. She's a little touched in the chest, and must get away further
south for the winter. I told her so plainly, and she didn't seem at
all uncomfortable about it. Her friends live in Devonshire, and she's
saved a good bit of money, I should think, since she's been in Mr.
Creswell's service. All that seemed to worry her was what they would
do at Woolgreaves without her. She harped upon this several times, and
at last a ray of light seemed to break upon her as she asked why her
place should not be taken by 't' young girl, schoolmaster's
daughter?'"
"Dear me! Mrs. Caddy's place taken by me?"
"By you. It was an irreverent way to speak of you, Marian my dear,
I'll admit, but there was no irreverence intended. Mrs. Caddy, once
set going, launched out into an interminable list of your special
virtues. There never was a girl who 'cottoned' so completely to her
style of pickling and preserving; there never was a girl who so
intuitively grasped the great secret of making cherry-brandy, or who
so quickly perceived the shortcomings of the still-room maid in the
matter. And this talk of the worthy woman's gave me an idea."
"The same idea as Mrs. Caddy's?"
"The same, with a difference. Mrs. Caddy's was preposterous, mine is
possible. And mine is this: When Mrs. Caddy goes, let it be understood
that Mrs. Ashurst has consented to superintend the Woolgreaves
household. There would be nothing derogatory in the position; all with
whom she would be brought in contact would take care of that; and
though she would not have the least qualification for the post, poor
woman--no affront to you, my dear, but she wouldn't--you would be able
to keep all smooth, and take care that everything went straight."
"But even such an establishment as Woolgreaves would not require two
housekeepers, doctor?"
"Of course it would not," said the old gentleman, pleased to see by
Marian's brightening face that the proposition was not so disagreeable
to her. "Of course it would not. Mrs. Ashurst would be the responsible
housekeeper, while your position as companion to the young ladies
could be very easily defined, and would be very readily understood. Do
you like the plan?"
All the details of the proposition rushed through her mind before she
spoke. Home-comforts, luxury, good living, warmth, care, attention,
money, or at least the command if not the possession of money, that is
what it meant, instead of a wretched lodging, a starveling income,
penury, and perhaps, so far as certain necessaries for her mother were
concerned, want. What would they sacrifice? Not freedom--they had
never had it; and if their lives were still to be passed in drudgery,
it would, at all events, be better to be the drudge of a kind old man
and two insignificant girls, than of a set of rackety schoolboys, as
they had hitherto been. Position? No sacrifice there; the respect
always paid to them was paid to them as James Ashurst's wife and
daughter, and that respect they would still continue to receive. All
in the village knew them, the state of their finances, the necessity
of their availing themselves of any opportunity for bettering their
condition which might present itself; and out of the village they had
but few acquaintances, and none for whose opinion they had the least
care. So Marian, with beaming eyes and heightened colour, said--
"Yes, dear old friend, frankly, I _do_ like the plan. If it were
carried out an immense load of anxiety would be removed from my mind
respecting mamma's immediate future, you know, and it would suit our
circumstances in various ways. Is it possible? How can it be brought
about?"
"You are as prompt as ever, Marian," said the doctor, smiling. "I
never saw a girl retain so many of her childish characteristics."
Marion winced a little as he said this, remembering Tom's remarks that
afternoon on her childish character as depicted by Mesdames Whicher
and Croke. "Yes, I think it is perfectly feasible, and it can be
brought about by me. Mr. Creswell, having known me for many years, and
believing that I never advise him but for his good, is always ready to
listen to any advice I give him, and if I judge rightly, will be
already predisposed to agree with this proposition, and to take it as
though you and your mamma were conferring a favour on him rather
than---- Dear me, look at this foolish fellow coming towards us at
full gallop! The man must be drunk.--Hallo, sir; hi, hallo!--Why, it's
one of the Woolgreaves grooms, isn't it? I think I know the man's
appearance.--Hallo, sir, hi! what is it?" and the little doctor pulled
the chaise close into the left bank, and stood up, waving his whip,
and shouting lustily.
The horseman, who was urging his horse to yet faster speed, paid no
attention to the shouts, and contented himself by rising in his
stirrups and waving his hand as though bespeaking a clear way, until
he came close upon the chaise, when he apparently recognised its
occupants, and strove to pull up his horse. With some difficulty, and
not until he had shot past them, he succeeded; then turning back, he
cried out--
"Dr. Osborne, I was going for you, sir. For God's sake, drive up to
the house at once--you're wanted awful bad!"
"What is it?" asked the doctor.--"Quiet, my child, don't be alarmed;
don't shake so.--There is nothing happened to your master?"
"No, sir; Master Tom."
"What of him--taken ill?"
"No, sir--chucked off the chestnut mare, and took up for dead in the
Five Acres. Ben Pennington was bird-scarin' close by, and he see the
accident and hollered out, and gave the alarm. And some of the
farm-men came and got a hurdle, and put Master Tom on it and carried
him up to the house. Master see 'em coming, and ran out, and would
have fell down when he see who it was, but they caught hold of him;
and they say he's like a madman now, and Miss Maude, she told me to
come after you. Make haste, sir, please. Hadn't you better jump on
this mare, sir? she'll carry you quicker nor that cob of yourn, and
I'll drive Miss Ashurst home."
"Not for any money," said the doctor; "get on that horse, indeed!
There'd be another accident, and no one to be of any assistance. I
shall be up at the house in a very few minutes; ride on and say I'm
coming.--Lord, my dear, fancy such an interruption to our
conversation--such a bombshell bursting over the castle we were
building in the air!"
"The doctor wishes to speak to you, miss, outside master's door," said
Mrs. Caddy, in that hissing whisper which servants always assume in a
house of sickness. "He didn't say anything about Master Tom, but his
face is as white as white, and----"
"Thanks, Mrs. Caddy; I'd better go at once;" and Marian left the
dining-room, where she had been doing her best to calm her mother's
agitation, which expressed itself in sparse tears, and head-shakings,
and deep-drawn sighs, and flutterings of her feeble hands, and
ascended the stairs. As she gained the landing, the little doctor, who
had evidently been on the watch, came out of a bedroom, shutting the
door cautiously behind him, and hastening to her, took her hand and
led her into the recess of a bay-window, round which was a luxurious
ottoman.
When they had seated themselves, Marian broke silence.
"You have examined him, doctor? You know the worst?"
"I say nothing about the worst, my dear, as I just told our old
friend; that is not for us to say. Poor boy! he is in a very bad way,
there's no disguising that. It's a case of fracture of the skull, with
compression of the brain--a very bad case indeed!"
"Does he know what has happened? Has he given any explanation of the
accident?"
"None. He is insensible, and likely to remain so for some time. Now,
my dear, you're the handiest person in the house, and the one with
your wits most about you. This poor lad will have to be trepanned--ah!
you don't understand what that is; how should you?--I mean, will have
to be operated upon before he gets any relief. Under the
circumstances, I don't choose to take the responsibility of that
operation on myself, and, with Mr. Creswell's consent, I've
telegraphed to London for one of our first surgeons to come down and
operate. He will bring a professional nurse with him, but they cannot
arrive until the mail at two in the morning, and as I must go down to
the surgery for two or three little matters, and see some of my
patients tucked up for the night, I intend leaving you in charge of
that room. You have nothing to do but to keep everybody else--except,
of course, Mr. Creswell--out of the room. You must not be frightened
at Tom's heavy breathing, or any little restlessness he may show.
That's all part of the case. Now, my child, be brave, and so good
night for the present."
"Good night, doctor. Oh, one minute. You said you had telegraphed for
a London surgeon. What is his name?
"What on earth makes you ask that, you inquisitive puss?" said the old
gentleman, with a smile. "Have you any choice among London surgeons?
His name is Godby--Godby of St. Vitus!"
Godby of St. Vitus! That was the name. She remembered it at once. The
man for whom Dr. Osborne had telegraphed to come and see her father,
or rather would have sent for, but for the amount of his fee. Good
God, what a contrast between that sick room and this! The boy had been
carried into his father's bedroom, as nearer and larger than his own;
and as Marian looked around on every side, her glance fell on signs of
comfort and luxury. The room was very large, lit by a broad bay
window, with a splendid view of the surrounding country; the walls
were hung with exquisite proof-prints in oaken frames, a table in the
centre was covered with books and periodicals, while on a smaller
table close by the bed was a plate piled with splendid grapes. The bed
itself, with fresh bright chintz curtains hanging over it, and a rich
eider-down quilt thrown on it, stood in a recess, and on it lay the
suffering lad, giving no sign of life save his deep, heavy, stertorous
breathing, and occasional restless motion of the limbs. How vividly
the other room rose to her memory! She saw the ugly panelled walls,
with the cracking, blistering paint, and knew the very spots from
which it had been worn off. She saw the old-fashioned, lumbering
bedstead, and the moreen curtains tied round each sculptured post. She
remembered the roseate flush which the sunlight shed over the face of
her dying father, the hopeless expression which remained there when
the light had faded away. It was money, only money, that made the very
wide difference between the two cases, and money could do anything.
Money was fetching this clever surgeon from London, who would probably
save the life of this wretched boy. What was the value of a life like
this as compared to her father's? But, for the want of money, that
sacred life had been suffered to pass away. Thoughts like these
crowded on her brain, and worked her up to a pitch of feverish
excitement during the early part of the night. She had plenty of time
for reflection, for she had become accustomed to the regular heavy
breathing of the patient, and no one entered the room save Mr.
Creswell, who would sit for an hour together by his boy's bedside, and
then, watch in hand, get up and murmur piteously: "Will the night
never go! Will the man never come!"
"The man," Mr. Godby, principal surgical lecturer and demonstrator at
St. Vitus's Hospital, was coming as fast as the mail-train could bring
him. Unlike most of his brethren, he was essentially a man of the
world, fond of studying all sorts and conditions of men, and with all
his enormous practice finding time for society, theatres, music, and
literature of all kinds. He was engaged out to dinner that day--to a
very pleasant little dinner, where he was to have met the
private secretary of a Cabinet minister, a newspaper editor, a
portrait-painter, a duke, and a clerk in an insurance office, who gave
wonderful imitations. The hostess was a French actress, and the
cooking would have been perfect. So Mr. Godby shook his head very
mournfully over the Helmingham telegram, and had he not held his old
friend Osborne in great respect, and wished to do him a service, he
would have refused to obey its mandate. As it was, he resigned himself
to his fate, and arrived, chilled to the bone, but bright-eyed and
ready-witted, at Woolgreaves at two in the morning. He shook his head
when he saw the patient, and expressed to Dr. Osborne his doubt of the
efficacy of trepanning, but he proposed to operate at once.
"It's all over, mother," said Marian to Mrs. Ashurst, the next
morning. "Mr. Godby was right; poor Tom never rallied, and sank at
seven this morning."
"God help his poor father!" said the old lady, through her tears; "he
has nothing left him now."
"Nothing!" said Marian; then added, half unconsciously--"except his
money! except his money!"