POOR PAPA'S SUCCESSOR.
It has been seen that Mr. Creswell's marriage with Marian Ashurst was
sufficiently popular amongst the farmer class at Helmingham, but it
was by no means so warmly received in other grades of society. Up at
the Park, for instance, the people could scarcely restrain their
indignation. Sir Thomas Churchill had always been accustomed to speak
of "my neighbour, Mr. Creswell," as a "highly respectable man, sprung,
as he himself does not scruple to own, from the people," chirrupped
the old Sir Thomas, whose great-grandfather had been a tanner in
Brocksopp,--"but eminently sound in all his views, and a credit to
the--ahem!--commercial classes of the community." They sat together on
the magistrates' bench, met on committees of charitable associations,
and suchlike, and twice a year solemnly had each other to dinner to
meet a certain number of other county people on nights when there was
a moon, or, at least, when the calendar showed that there ought to
have been one. In the same spirit old Lady Churchill, kindliest of
silly old women, had been in the habit of pitying Marian Ashurst.
"That charmin' girl, so modest and quiet; none of your fly-away
nonsense about her, and clever, ain't she? I don't know about
these things myself, but they tell me so; and to have to go into
lodgin's, and all that! father a clergyman of the Church of England
too!"--staunch old lady, never moving about without the Honourable
Miss Grimstone's Church-service, in two volumes, in her trunk--"it
really does seem too bad!" But when the news of the forthcoming
marriage began to be buzzed about, and penetrated to the Park, Sir
Thomas did not scruple to stigmatise his neighbour as an old fool,
while my lady had no better opinion of Miss Ashurst than that she was
a "forward minx." What could have so disturbed these exemplary people?
Not, surely, the low passions of envy and jealousy? Sir Thomas
Churchill, a notorious _roué_ in his day, who had married the
plainest-headed woman in the county for her money, all the available
capital of which he had spent, could not possibly be envious of the
fresh young bride whom his old acquaintance was bringing home? And
Lady Churchill, to whom the village gossips talked incessantly of the
intended redecoration of Woolgreaves, the equipages and horses which
were ordered, the establishment which was about to be kept up, the
position in parliament which was to be fought for, and, above all,
the worship with which the elderly bridegroom regarded the juvenile
bride-elect--these rumours did not influence her in the bitter
depreciation with which she henceforth spoke of the late
schoolmaster's daughter? Of course not! The utterances of the baronet
and his lady were prompted by a deep regard to the welfare of both
parties, and a wholesome regret that they had been prompted to take a
step which could not be for the future happiness of either, of course.
Mr. Benthall, who, it will be recollected, had succeeded the late Mr.
Ashurst at the Helmingham school, and was comparatively new to the
neighbourhood, took but little interest in the matter, so far as Miss
Ashurst was concerned. He had a bowing acquaintance with her, but he
had neither had the wish nor the opportunity of getting on more
familiar terms. Had she married any one else but Mr. Creswell, it
would not have mattered one jot to the Rev. George Benthall; but, as
it happened, Mr. Benthall had a certain amount of interest in the
doings of the household at Woolgreaves, and the marriage of the chief
of that household promised to be an important event in Mr. Benthall's
life.
You could scarcely have found a greater difference between any two men
than between James Ashurst and his successor. When James Ashurst
received his appointment as head-master at Helmingham, he looked upon
that appointment as the culmination of his career. Mr. Benthall
regarded the head-mastership as merely a steppingstone to something
better. Mr. Ashurst threw his whole soul into his work. Mr. Benthall
was content to get people to think that he was very hard-working and
very much interested in his duties, whereas he really cared nothing
about them, and slipped through them in the most dilettante fashion.
He did not like work; he never had liked it. At Oxford he had taken no
honours, made no name, and when he was nominated to Helmingham, every
one wondered at the selection except those who happened to know that
the fortunate man was godson to one of the two peers who were
life-governors of the school. Mr. Benthall found the Helmingham school
in excellent order. The number of scholars never had been so large,
the social status of the class which furnished them was undeniably
good, the discipline had been brought to perfection, and the school
had an excellent name in the county. It had taken James Ashurst years
to effect this, but once achieved, there was no necessity for any
further striving. Mr. Benthall was a keen man of the world, he found
the machine in full swing, he calculated that the impetus which had
been given to it would keep it in full swing for two or three years,
without the necessity for the smallest exertion on his part, and
during these two or three years he would occupy himself in looking out
for something better. What that something better was to be he had not
definitely determined. Not another head-mastership, he had made up his
mind on that point; he never had been particularly partial to boys,
and now he hated them. He did not like parochial duty, he did not like
anything that gave him any trouble. He did like croquet-playing and
parsonical flirtation, cricket and horse exercise. He liked money, and
all that money brings; and, after every consideration, he thought the
best and easiest plan to acquire it would be to marry an heiress.
But there were no heiresses in those parts, and very few marriageable
girls. Mr. Benthall had met the two young ladies from Woolgreaves at
several garden-parties, and had conceived a special admiration for
Gertrude Creswell. Maude was far too grand, and romantic, and
self-willed for his taste, but there was something in Gertrude's fresh
face and quaint simple manner that was particularly pleasing to him.
But after making careful inquiries, Mr. Benthall discovered that Miss
Gertrude Creswell's chance of wealth was but small, she being entirely
dependent on her uncle, whose affections were known to be entirely
concentrated on his son. She might have a few hundred pounds perhaps,
but a few hundred pounds would not be sufficient to enable Mr.
Benthall to give up the school, and to live idle for the rest of his
life. The notion must be given up, he feared. He was very sorry for
it, for he really liked the girl very much, and he thought she liked
him. It was a bore, a nuisance, but the other thing was impossible!
Then came Tom Creswell's death, and that gave affairs another aspect.
There was no son now to inherit all the accumulated wealth. There were
only the two nieces, between whom the bulk of the property would
doubtless be divided. That was a much more healthy outlook for Mr.
Benthall. If matters eventuated as he imagined, Miss Gertrude would
not merely have a sufficiency, but would be an heiress, and under this
expectation Mr. Benthall, who had not seen much of the young ladies of
Woolgreaves for some time, now took every opportunity of throwing
himself in their way. These opportunities were tolerably frequent, and
Mr. Benthall availed himself of them with such skill and success, that
he had finally made up his mind to propose for Gertrude Creswell's
hand, with the almost certainty of acceptance, when the news came down
to the village that Mr. Creswell was going to be married to Marian
Ashurst. That was a tremendous blow! From what Mr. Benthall had heard
about Miss Ashurst's character in the village, there was little doubt
in his mind that she had deliberately planned this marriage with a
view to the acquisition of fortune and position, and there was no
doubt that she would hold to both. The chance of any inheritance for
the girls was even worse than it would have been if Tom had lived. In
that case a sense of justice would have impelled the old gentleman to
do something for his nieces, but now he would be entirely under the
sway of this money-loving woman, who would take care to keep
everything to herself. It was a confounded nuisance, for in regard to
Gertrude Creswell Mr. Benthall had progressed considerably beyond the
"liking" stage, and was really very much attached to her. What could
be done? It would be impossible for him to marry a portionless girl.
It would be utterly useless for him to ask her uncle to endow her, as
Mr. Creswell would at once refer the question to his new wife, who--as
he, Mr. Benthall, happened to know from one or two little scenes at
which he had been present, and one or two little circumstances of
which he had heard--was by no means lovingly inclined towards the
young ladies who had become her step-nieces. It was horribly
provoking, but Mr. Benthall could not see his way at all.
One evening, some two or three days after Mr. Creswell's marriage, Mr.
Benthall was sitting in his study, when there came a knock at the
door, and a smart housemaid entering told him that Mrs. Covey had come
back, and would be glad to see her master. Mrs. Covey was an old woman
who for many years had lived as cook with the Ashursts, and who, on
their recommendation, had been accepted in a similar capacity by Mr.
Benthall, on his assumption of office. But the old lady had been away
from her work for some few weeks with a sharp attack of illness, which
rendered her unfit for her duties, and she had been staying with a
married daughter some miles on the other side of Brocksopp. A few days
previously she had reported herself as cured, and as about to return
to her place, and in due time she arrived at the schoolhouse. Mr.
Benthall was glad to hear of the old woman's safe return; not that he
cared in the least about her, or any other old woman, but she
understood the place, and did her duty well, and some of the boarders
had given decided evidence of the unpopularity of Mrs. Covey's _locum
tenens_ by leaving their dinners untouched, and making their meals in
furtive snatches from their lockers during school-hours of provisions
purchased at the "tuck-shop." This sort of mutiny annoyed Mr. Benthall
considerably, and consequently he was very glad to have the news of
Mrs. Covey's recovery, and gave orders that she should be sent up to
him at once.
Whatever might have been the nature of Mrs. Covey's illness, it
certainly had not had the effect of toning down her complexion. She
was a singularly red-faced old lady, looking as if constant exposure
to large fires had sent the blood to her cheeks and kept it there, and
she wore a very fierce little black front, with two screwy little
curls just in front of either ear, and in honour of her return and of
her presentation to her master, she had put on a gigantic structure of
net and ribbon which did duty for a cap. She seemed greatly pleased at
the notice which Mr. Benthall took of her, and at the interest he
seemed to show in her recovery, but nothing would induce her to be
seated in his presence, though he repeatedly urged the advisability of
her resting herself after her journey. Finding her obdurate in this
matter, Mr. Benthall let the old lady have her way, and after he had
chatted with her about her illness, and about her family, he thought
he had exhausted the topics of interest between them, and inwardly
wished she would go. But as she evinced no intention of stirring, he
was obliged to cast about for something to say, and oddly enough hit
upon a subject, the discussion of which with this old woman was
destined to have a certain amount of influence on his future life.
"Well, we've had wonderful changes here in Helmingham since you've
been away, Mrs. Covey," he remarked.
"Ah! so I did heer, sir!" said the old woman. "Poor old Muster
Pickering gone to his feaythers, and Mrs. Slater's bad leg brokken out
again, and not likely to heal this time, Anne told me Dr. Osborne
says."
"Ay, ay, but I'm not talking about old Pickering or Mrs. Slater. I
mean the wedding--the great wedding!"
"Ah, well, I've heerd nowt o' that," said Mrs. Covey; adding in a
grumbling undertone, "I'm a stupid owd woman, and they tell me nowt."
"Not heard of it? Well, I wonder at that," said Mr. Benthall, "more
especially as it concerns your young mistress that was--Miss Ashurst,
I mean!"
"What, is she married at last?" asked the old woman.
"She is indeed, and to Mr. Creswell--Squire Creswell of
Woolgreaves---"
"What!" screamed Mrs. Covey, falling backward into the chair, which
was fortunately close behind her. "You don't tell me that!"
"I do indeed! When was it?--last Thursday. The--the happy couple" (and
Mr. Benthall gave a cynical grin as he said the words)--"the happy
couple are away now on their wedding-trip."
"Well, I niver did! I niver did! The old squire to come and marry Miss
Marian! He that was allays so mumchance and so meek, and had a sweet
tooth in 's head after all I thowt it was to talk wi' the poor old
master about book-larnin' and such stuff that he comed here! I'd niver
an idee that he'd an eye for the young gell."
"Only shows how sly these old gentlemen can be when they choose, Mrs.
Covey," said Mr. Benthall, much amused, "if they can deceive such
sharp eyes as yours."
"Dear heart, I've no cause to call mine sharp eyes any longer, I
think," said the old woman, shaking her head, "for I was took in by
both on 'em. I niver thowt Miss Marian would throw t'other one over,
that I niver did."
"What's that you're saying, Mrs. Covey?" asked Mr. Benthall, sharply.
"I was sayin' that I allays thowt Miss Marian would howld by the
t'other one, and----"
"Other one? What other one? I never heard of there being any 'other
one,' as you call it, in regard to Miss Ashurst."
"No! You didn't, I dare say! Nor didn't not no one else!" said the old
lady, with a frightful redundancy of negatives; "but _I_ did."
"And who was this 'other one,' if one may ask, Mrs. Covey?"
"One may ask, and there's only one can answer, and that one's me. Ah,
well, there's no harm in tellin', now that she's married, and all
that, though I niver opened my mouth about it before to livin' soul,
hopin' it would come all right like. Miss Marian were keepin' company
wi' young Joyce!"
"Joyce! Joyce!" repeated Mr. Benthall. "What, young Mr. Joyce, who was
one of Mr. Ashurst's masters here?"
"That very same! ay, and he were Miss Ashurst's master, he were, at
the time I'm speakin' of!" said the old woman.
"Too much kitchen-fire has brought on softening of this old person's
brain!" said Mr. Benthall to himself. "There can't be a shadow of
foundation for what she says, or I should surely have heard of it in
the village!" Then aloud, "What makes you think this, Mrs. Covey?"
"What meks me think it? Why, my own eyesight meks me think it, and
that's the best think I can have i' the matter," replied the old
woman, waxing rather cross at her master's evident incredulity.
"Nobody niver spoke of it, becos' nobody knowed it; but I've sat at
the kitchen-window o' summer nights and seen 'em walkin' roun' the
garden for hours thegither, hand in hand, or him wi' his arms round
her waist, and I know what that means, tho' I may be an old fool!"
"No, no, Mrs. Covey, no one ever thought that for a minute," said Mr.
Benthall, anxious to soothe the old woman's offended dignity, and
really very much interested in the news she had given him. "No doubt
you're quite correct, only, as I had never heard a hint of this
before, I was rather startled at the suddenness of the announcement,
Tell me now, had Mr. Ashurst any notion of what was going on?"
"Wasn't the schoolmaster, poor feckless critter, allays buzzed in th'
heed wi' book-larnin' and troubles o' all sorts? No bittle as iver
flew war blinder, nor deafer, than my poor owd master in matters what
didn't concern him!"
"Nor Mrs. Ashurst?"
"Ah, the poor sickly thing, wi' pains here and aches there, and so
dillicate, and niver 'nuff strength to look after what she ought, let
alone anything else! No! they kept it to themselves, the young pipple,
and nobody knowed nowt about it but me, and they didn't know as I
knew, for the kitchen-window, as you know, is hid wi' fuzz and
creepers, and you can see out wi'out bein' seen! Lor, lor, and so
she's gone and married that owd man! And t'other one's gone for a
sojer, they say, and all that story, as I used to sit i' the kitchen
and make up in my head, will niver be! Lor, lor, what a world it is!"
Mr. Benthall was very much surprised at the information which had come
to him in that odd way. He had never thought much about Marian
Ashurst, but he knew perfectly well that popular opinion in Helmingham
and the neighbourhood held to the fact that she had never had any love
affair. He was disposed to regard her with rather more favour than
before, for if what Mrs. Covey stated of her were true, it showed that
at one time she must have possessed a heart, though she had allowed
herself to ignore its promptings under the overweening influence of
avarice. Mr. Benthall thought a good deal over this story. He wondered
when, how, and under what circumstances Miss Ashurst had broken her
engagement, if such engagement existed, with Joyce. Whether she had
deliberately planned her marriage with old Creswell, and had
consequently abandoned the other design; or whether the old gentleman
had proposed suddenly to her, and the temptation of riches and
position being too great for her to withstand, she had flung her first
lover aside on the spur of the moment, and thereby, perhaps, rendered
herself wretched for life. Or what was it that the old woman said,
about Joyce enlisting as a soldier? Perhaps that step on her lover's
part had been the cause of Miss Ashurst's determination. No! on
reflection, the enlisting, if he ever did enlist, looked like a
desperate act on Joyce's part, done in despair at hearing the news of
Marian's intended marriage! Mr. Benthall did not pin much faith to the
enlisting part of the story. He had heard a good deal about Joyce from
various sources, and he felt confident that he was by no means the
kind of man who would be led to the perpetration of any folly of the
kind. Mr. Benthall was puzzled. With any other two people he could
have understood the hand in hand, and the arm-encircled waist, as
meaning nothing more than a pleasant means of employing the time,
meaning nothing, and to be forgotten by both persons when they might
chance to be separated. But Mr. Joyce and Miss Ashurst were so
essentially earnest and practical, and so utterly unlikely to disport
themselves in the manner described without there had been a sincere
attachment between them, that, taking all this into consideration in
conjunction with the recent marriage, Mr. Benthall came to the
conclusion that either Mrs. Covey must have, unintentionally of
course, deceived herself and him, or that there was something
remarkably peculiar in the conduct of Miss Ashurst, something more
peculiar than pleasant or estimable. He wondered whether Gertrude or
Maude had any suspicions on the matter. They had neither of them ever
spoken to him on the subject, but then Maude generally left him alone
with Gertrude, and when he and Gertrude were together, they had other
things than other people's love-affairs to talk about. He had not been
up to Woolgreaves since the wedding, had not--which was quite a
different matter--seen either of the girls. He would ride over there
the next afternoon, and see how matters progressed.
Accordingly the next day, while Maude and Gertrude were walking in the
garden and discussing Mrs. Creswell's newly arrived letter, or rather
while Maude was commenting on it, and Gertrude, as usual, was
chorusing her assent to all her sister said, they saw Mr. Benthall, at
the far end of a long turf walk, making towards them. Immediately on
recognising the visitor Maude stopped talking, and looked suddenly
round at Gertrude, who, of course, blushed a very lively crimson, and
said, "Oh, Maud, I wish you wouldn't!"
"Wish I wouldn't what, Gertrude?"
"Make me so hot and uncomfortable!"
"My dear, _I_ don't make you hot and uncomfortable! We have been
talking together for the last half-hour perfectly quietly, when
suddenly--why, of course, it's impossible for me to say--you blush to
the roots of your hair, and accuse me of being the cause!"
"No; but, Maude, you don't mind his coming?"
"No indeed, Gertrude, I like _him_, if you mean Mr. Benthall, as of
course you do, very much; and if you and he are both really in
earnest, I think that you would. Here he is!"
"Good day, ladies!" said Mr. Benthall, advancing with a bow. "I
haven't seen you since you were left deserted and forlorn, so I
thought I would come over and ask what news of the happy couple."
"They will be back at the end of the week; we heard from Mrs. Creswell
this morning."
"Ah, ha, from the blushing bride! And how is the blushing bride, and
what does she say?"
"She makes herself rather more odious and disagreeable than ever!"
said Gertrude. "Oh, I don't mind, Maude! Geo--Mr. Benthall knows
precisely what I feel about Miss Ashurst and her 'superior' ways and
manners and nonsense!"
"What has she done now?"
"Oh, she has--no, Maude, I will speak! She has written to say that
Maude must give up her music-room, you know, where she always sits and
practises, and where she's happier than anywhere else in the house,
because my lady wants it for a boudoir, or something, where she can
show off her 'superiority,' I suppose."
"Of course," said Maude, "Mrs. Creswell has a perfect right to----"
"Oh, bother!" said Gertrude; "of course it's perfectly disgusting!
Don't you think so, Mr. Benthall?"
"That's a home question," said Mr. Benthall, with a laugh; "but it is
scarcely in good taste of Mrs. Creswell so soon to----"
"I should think not, indeed!" interrupted Gertrude. "Oh, I see plainly
what it will be. We shall lead nice lives with that awful woman!"
"I don't think you'll find, as I've told you before, that that 'awful
woman,' as you call her, will trouble herself with our companionship
for long," said Maude; "and I cannot say that when she once comes into
the house as mistress I should feel the least desire to remain here."
"And she'll do anything with poor uncle," said Gertrude; "he dotes on
her."
"Naturally," said Mr. Benthall; "and she is very much attached to
him?"
This question was rather addressed to Maude, and she answered it by
saying quietly, "I suppose so."
"Oh, nonsense, Maude!" said Gertrude; "uncle's an old dear--kindest,
nicest old thing in the world, but not for a girl to like in--well, in
that sort of way, don't you know! Not the sort of man to be a girl's
first love, I mean!"
"Are you sure that your uncle is Miss Ashurst's first love?"
"We never heard of any other. What is it, George--Mr. Benthall, I
mean? You've found out something! Oh, do tell us!"
"Did you know anything of a Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's
masters?"
"Certainly--a small, slim, good-looking young man," said Maude.
"Good looking, oh?" said Mr. Benthall.
"Should not you say so, Gertrude?"
"Well, I don't know," said Gertrude; "he was too short, I think, and
too dark. I like a--I mean----" And Gertrude broke down, and flew the
flag of distress in her face again.
"What of Mr. Joyce, in connection with the subject on which we were
talking, Mr. Benthall?" asked Maude.
And then Mr. Benthall told them all he had heard from Mrs. Covey.
Gertrude went alone with Mr. Benthall to the gate, and they were a
very long time saying their adieux. When she came back to the house,
she found her sister in the hall.
"You found the gate very difficult to open, Gerty!" said Maude, with
her grave smile.
"Yes, dear, very difficult! Do you know, dear,--he hasn't said
anything, but I think Mr. Benthall is going to ask me to be his wife!"
"Well, Gerty, and what then?"
"Then I shall have a home to offer you, my darling! a home where we
can be together, and needn't be under the rule of that beautiful,
superior creature!"