BECOMING INDISPENSABLE.
"Master will be glad to see you, miss, in the library, if you please."
"Very good, Wilson. Is Mr. Creswell alone?"
"Mr. Radford, the agent from Brocksopp, have been with him for the
last half-hour, miss; but he's on the point to go. I saw him getting
on his gloves as I left the room."
"Very good; tell Mr. Creswell I will be with him at once."
The servant retired, closing the door behind her, and Marian was left
alone with her mother. They were in what they had become accustomed to
call "their own" sitting-room, with its bright chintz furniture and
tasteful appointments, as Marian had described them in her letter to
Walter. It was tolerably early morning, just after ten o'clock, and
the sun lit up the garden and the grass-plot, from which the slight
frost had not yet disappeared, though the snowdrops and the crocuses
were already showing their heads in the flower-borders, while the
ditch-banks of the neighbourhood were thick with promised crops of
violets and primroses. Mrs. Ashurst, whose infirmities seemed greatly
to have increased within the past six months, was sitting by the fire
with her face turned towards the window, enjoying the brightness of
the morning; but her back was turned to the door, and she had not
caught the servant's message.
"What was that Martha said, my dear?" she asked. "My hearing's getting
worse, I think. I miss almost everything that's said now."
"You had your back towards her, dear mother; and you were too
pleasantly occupied looking at the bright weather outside, and
thinking that we should soon be able to get you out for a turn up and
down the long walk, in the sun. Martha came to say that Mr. Creswell
wanted to see me in the library."
"Again, Marian? Why, you were with him for hours--when was it?--the
day before yesterday."
"Yes, mother; you're quite right. I was there, helping him with his
accounts. But there was some information which had to be supplied
before we could finish them. I suppose he has obtained that now, and
we can go on with our work."
"You're a clever child, my dear," said the old lady, fondly stroking
her daughter's shining hair.
"There's more use than cleverness in what I'm doing for Mr. Creswell,
darling mother. Don't you remember how I used to make out the
boarders' bills for poor papa, and the 'general running account' to be
submitted half-yearly to the governors? These are larger and more
intricate matters, of course, dealing as they do with the amount and
sources of Mr. Creswell's income; but I think I have mastered the
method of dealing with them, and Mr. Creswell, I imagine, thinks so
too."
"It must be a very large income, my dear, to keep up all this place,
and----"
"Large! You have no conception of it, mother. I had no conception of
it, nor of how it came in, and grew, and is for ever growing, until it
was before me in black and white. Original funds, speculations,
mortgages, investments in this and that, in ships and wharves and
breweries, in foreign railroads, and---- Ah! good heavens, it's enough
to turn one's brain to think of."
And the girl pressed her forehead with her hands, and stood
motionless.
"Yes, my dear," said the old lady, stretching out her hand, and,
drawing her daughter gently towards her. "I've thought more than once
that this house with its surroundings was scarcely the best school for
a young girl who had to face poverty, and battle for her livelihood.
And, indeed, I'm far from thinking that, even so far as I'm concerned,
it was wise that we should originally have come here, or that we
should have stayed so long. I wish you would propose about Mrs.
Swainson's lodgings again, Marian, for----"
"For Heaven's sake, don't mention Mrs. Swainson's horrid lodgings
again, mother. Are you tired of your visit here?"
"No, my dear, not in the least; I'm very happy, as happy as I ever
expect to be again in this world; but I know there's such a thing as
outstaying your welcome, and----"
"Who has been putting such ideas into your head? Not those horrible
girls! They have nothing to do with the arrangements of the house,
they--there, I always lose my head when I think or speak of them!"
"You do indeed, Marian; I cannot imagine how it is that you and Maude
and Gertrude don't get on together. You always seem to blaze up like I
don't know what, especially you and Maude! No, my dear, the young
ladies have always hoped we should stay on, but that of course is
impossible, and----"
"Perhaps not impossible, mother!"
"Why not, my dear? Do you think that---- Oh no, thank you! I guess
what you mean; I'm an old woman, I know, but I've still my faculties
left, and I can see through a millstone as well as most people of my
age, and though I'm not apt to be--I forget the word, but you know
what I mean--I declare once for all I won't do it!"
"Won't do what, mother? I declare I have no notion what you mean."
"Oh yes, you have, Marian. You heard what Dr. Osborne, whom I never
could abide, but that's neither here nor there, suggested about my
becoming Mrs. Caddy, or rather Mrs. Caddy's successor, when she went.
I'm sure you, who talk of having a spirit and a proper pride, ought to
see that I couldn't do that! Your poor father wouldn't rest in his
grave if he knew it! You remember he never would let me do anything
with the boys' clothes, or hair-brushes, or that--always would have a
wardrobe woman; and now to think of my becoming a housekeeper----"
"But, mother--there! you shall not worry yourself with that idea any
more, and still we won't think just yet of Mrs. Swainson's nasty
lodging! Kiss me now, and let me go! I've been keeping Mr. Creswell
waiting full ten minutes."
What change had come over Marian Ashurst to cause her to speak in this
way to her mother with flushed cheek, and kindling eye, and elated
look? What hope was dawning over the deep of that black blank sunless
future, which she had seen before her in all its miserable intensity,
its unavoidable dead level gloom, when first she arrived on a visit at
Woolgreaves? What was the vision which during all that period, but
especially since Tom Creswell's death, had haunted her waking and
sleeping, in company and in solitude, had been ever present to her
thoughts, and had wrung her heart and disturbed her mental peace more
keenly even than the thought of poverty, the desire for wealth? Dare
she do it? She could, she had but little doubt of that, but little
doubt of Mr. Creswell's daily increasing dependence on her and regard
for her. There was no one else in the world now in whom he seemed to
take the slightest interest. He had been deeply grieved at his son's
death, laid up for weeks afterwards--one would have thought that life
for him had lost all its zest and flavour; but lately, in going
through his business details with Marian, he had referred to the dead
lad almost calmly, and had spoken of him almost as he used to speak of
him in the days when his _brusquerie_ and bad style and consequent
unpopularity were gall and wormwood to his father's heart. She was
thoroughly and entirely essential to him. He had told her so. He had
said plainly enough that with no one else, no paid hirelings, no
clerk, however trustworthy or confidentially employed, could he have
gone through the private accounts, which showed the sources of his
revenue and its investment, and which had dropped into almost hopeless
confusion and arrear, from which they were only rescued by her quick
apprehension, clear business knowledge, and indefatigable industry. He
sat by in mute wonder, as she seized upon each point as it was laid
before her, and stopped him in the midst of his verbose and clumsy
explanation, to show how clearly she comprehended him, and how lightly
she undertook the unravelment of matters which seemed to him almost
hopeless in their chaotic disarrangement.
What a wonderful girl she was, Mr. Creswell thought, as he looked at
her poring over the items of account as he read them out to her, and
marked the sudden manner in which her cheek flushed and her bosom
heaved and her eye dilated, while that ready pen never ceased in its
noiseless course over the paper. How thoroughly natural to be able to
throw herself so entirely into the work before her, to take evident
interest in what would be to others the driest detail, mere husk and
draff of soulless business! He knew nothing of Marian Ashurst, less
than nothing. That dry detail and those soulless figures were to her
more interesting than the finest fiction, the most soul-stirring
poetry. For they meant something much better than fiction; they meant
fact--wealth, position, everything. She remembered, even as she jotted
down from Mr. Creswell's loose memoranda or vague recollections of
sums invested here or securities lying there, or interest payable at
such and such dates--she remembered how, as a child, she had read of
Sinbad's visit to the Valley of Diamonds, and how, in one of the few
novels she had come across in later life, she had been breathlessly
interested in the account of the treasure in Monte Christo's grotto.
Those delights were fictional, but the wealth recorded in her own
handwriting before her own eyes was real--real, and, if she mistook
not, if the golden dreams had not warped her intellect and dazzled her
brain, enjoyable by her. Thoroughly enjoyable, not as a miserable
dependent permitted to bask in the rays of prosperity, but as the
originator of the prosperity itself, the mistress of the
fortune--the---- No wonder her cheek flushed; she felt her brain throb
and her head whirl; the magnitude of the stakes, the chances of
success appalled her. She had never realised them before, and, while
they were beginning to dawn on her, the desperate effect of her
proposed end upon one who had hitherto been loved by her she had
steadfastly contrived to ignore.
If she dared to do it? Why should she not dare; what was it to dare,
after all? Was she to lose her chance in life, and such a chance,
simply because as a girl she had agreed to a foolish contract, which,
as it seemed, it was impossible could ever be fulfilled? Was her youth
to be sacrificed to a preposterous engagement, which, if it was
ratified at all, could only be ratified in grim middle age, when all
power of enjoying life would have fled, even if the hope of anything
to enjoy were then vouchsafed her? She knew too well that people would
be ready enough to bring accusations against her, but of what could
they accuse her? Of selfishness? but it would not be merely for her
own self-advancement that she would take advantage of the opportunity
that offered for bettering her position in life. Her mother was
thoroughly dependent upon her, and the past few months had made a
wonderful difference in her mother's physical condition. With plenty
of comfort and attention, with a command of certain luxuries and the
power of remaining perfectly quiescent, knowing that there was not the
smallest occasion for mental disquietude, Mrs. Ashurst's life might
last for some time, but the smallest mental worry would probably be
fatal. This Dr. Osborne had said, and it behoved Marian to think of
her mother before any one else in the world.
And yet--and yet? Was it all to be forgotten and stamped out, that one
halcyon time of her existence, that one period in which she had ceased
to think of the struggle for living, and to love life for being as it
was? Was that one green oasis where she had rested so pleasantly,
forgetful of the annoyances past, not caring for the dangers to come,
as she lay beside the bubbling fountain of Hope, and drank of its pure
waters--was that to be swallowed up in the world's simoom, and to
vanish with every trace obliterated? Or was it but a mere mirage,
unsubstantial and unreal? As she battled with herself she pressed her
eyes tightly with her hands, and endeavoured to recall those scenes of
her life. She would see her lover, modest, earnest, hopeful, delighted
at his so-far success, sanguine as to that which was to come. She
would remember the cheery manner in which he would meet her doubts,
the calm self-reliance, never degenerating into bravado, with which he
spoke of their future as perfected by his efforts. Reminiscences,
looks, tones, each had their effect upon her. Then she would think of
that future, even when painted as glowingly as in Walter's fervent
expectation. And what was it? Genteel poverty at its best. The coming
together of two hearts in a cheap lodging, with a necessity for
watching the outlay of every sixpence, and a short career of starved
gentility as the coming result of a long life of labour and waiting.
And to give up all she had in prospect, all she had in command, she
might almost say, for this---- Poor Walter, poor Walter what would he
do? All his whole life was bound up in her, in her his every thought
centred. How would he---- Wait, though! She was not so sure of what
she was saying. Who was this Lady Caroline Somebody of whom he wrote
so strongly? Two or three times he had mentioned her in his letters.
Marian recollected having smiled at Walter's first description of this
great lady, who, though he tried to disguise it, had evidently been
struck with him; but now she seized on the idea with quite a different
object in view. Suppose she should carry out what she had in her
mind, it would be expedient for her to show to the world--to such
portion of the world as chose to be inquisitive or indignant about her
proceedings--that all shame, so far as breaking off the original
engagement was concerned, did not rest with her, that Walter himself
had not kept faith with---- She broke off the thread of her thought
abruptly, she could not battle with herself, she knew how vain and
ridiculous the accusation would be, how the object of it would shake
it from him with scorn; but it had a certain semblance of truth and
likelihood, and it would do to bring forward, in case any such defence
was ever needed.
"Well, missy," said Mr. Creswell, looking up from the papers on which
he was engaged, "you see I've been compelled to send for my assistant;
I couldn't get on without her."
"Your assistant is only too glad to come when she finds she can be of
use to you, sir. Has the pass-book come from the bank, and did you get
those returns you asked for from the Wharfdale Company?"
"What a memory you have, child! I declare I had forgotten what had
stopped our work the other morning. I remembered only that you would
have gone on until you dropped, but for want of material. Yes, they
are both here."
"I see; and the totals both approximate to the sums you mentioned.
There will be no difficulty now in preparing the rough balance-sheet.
Shall I begin that at once?"
"No, no, missy; that is too large an undertaking for you. I'll have
that done down at the office. I'm only too thankful to you for the
assistance you've rendered me in getting the items into order, and in
checking matters which I could not possibly have submitted to an
uninterested person, and which I'm--well, I'm afraid I must say
it--too old to go into myself!"
"Since you praise me, I have a right to claim a reward, and I demand
to be allowed to carry out my work to the end. I shall be proud of it,
proud to think that, when next these accounts are gone through, you
will be able to look at mine, and see that they do no discredit to
your book-keeping pupil."
There was a slight change in Mr. Creswell's voice as he said--
"My child, I don't suppose this task will occur again, in my lifetime.
It would have stood over well until my poor boy came of age, had it
pleased God to spare him; but I have only done it now from a renewal
of the old stock-taking habit, a desire to see how my worldly affairs
stood before----"
But the voice broke, and the sentence was left unfinished.
"But surely, sir, it must be a source of pride, and of pleasure too,
to you, being, as you have often pointed out to me, the architect of
your own fortunes, to have this convincing proof of their stability
and your success?"
"Success! my dear child; pride! pleasure! Ah, missy, a man must have
lived but a small life, if towards the end of it he looks for pride
and pleasure in the amount of his balance at his bankers', or for his
success in having heaped up more money than his fellows!"
"No; not in that entirely, of course; but in having carried out the
main idea of his life, and----"
"The main idea of my life that was in existence but a very little
while, missy! The main idea of my life was to make my poor Jenny a
good husband, and afterwards--when the boy was born--to leave him a
good and honoured name. Both those hopes are extinguished now, Marian.
The first went years ago, the last--you know when. And this," pointing
with his pen to the bankbook in front of him--"this has no power to
fill their place."
Both were silent for some minutes; then Marian said, "You have shown
me how silly I was to speak as I spoke just now."
"My child, you spoke as a child; as one who has never known--who,
please God, never will know--the vanity of such resources as those in
time of trouble."
"I spoke as one who has known sorrow, Mr. Creswell, but who also has
known, and who never can too gratefully acknowledge, the kindness of
friends who were willing and able to help her. I think, I am sure, it
will be a source of satisfaction to you to remember that your position
enabled you to soften, very much to soften, the severity of the blow
which so recently fell upon my mother and myself."
"There, indeed, you show me some use in what you are pleased to call
my 'position.' It is long since I have experienced such gratification
as in being enabled to show some neighbourly civility to the wife and
daughter of my old friend. Even if you had been personally very
different from what you are, I should have been pleased to do it in
remembrance of him; but your mother is the gentlest and the most
amiable creature in the world, while as for you----"
He paused for an instant, and her heart beat high. Only for an
instant; she resumed her normal respiration as he laid his hand softly
on her head, and said, "If I had had a daughter, child, I could have
wished her not one whit different from you."
She was quite calm again, as she said, "I am so pleased to hear you
say that, sir; for as you know, there are few to give me that
affection which you truly describe as being the only thing worth
living for. And I am so glad that I have been able to be of use to
you, and to have shown you, in a very poor way indeed, how grateful I
am to you for all your kindness to us before we leave you."
"Leave me, Marian? What are you talking of, child?"
"The fact," she replied, with a sad smile--"the dire hated fact. We
must go, sooner or later; and it is the best for me--for us, I
mean--that now it should be sooner. We have remained here longer than
we intended, many weeks longer, owing to--to circumstances; and we
have been, oh, so happy! Now we must go, and it will be better for us
to look the fact in the face, and settle down in Mrs. Swainson's
lodgings, and begin our new life."
Mr. Creswell's face had grown very white, and his hands were plucking
nervously at his chin. Suddenly a light seemed to break in upon him,
and he said, "You won't go until you've finished the balance-sheet?
Promise me that."
"No," said Marian, looking him straight in the face, "I'll finish
that--I promise you."
"Very good. Now leave me, my dear. This unexpected news has rather
upset me. I must be alone for a little. Good-bye! God bless you!" And
he bent, and for the first time in his life kissed her forehead.
"You--you won't forget your promise?"
"You may depend on me," said Marian as she left the room.
Outside the door, in the bay-window where she had held her colloquy
with Dr. Osborne on the night of Tom's death, were Maude and Gertrude,
seated on the ottoman, one at work, the other reading. Neither of them
spoke as Marian passed; but she thought she saw a significant look
pass between them, and as she descended the stairs she heard them
whispering, and caught Maude's words: "I shouldn't wonder if poor Tom
was right about her, after all."