CLOUDING OVER.
Gertrude Creswell was not wrong in her supposition that Mr. Benthall
intended asking her to become his wife. It is not often that mistakes
are made in such matters, despite all we read of disappointed maidens
and blighted hopes. Life is so very practical in this portion of the
nineteenth century, that, except in very rare cases, even love-affairs
scarcely care to avail themselves of a halo of romance, of that veil
of mystery and secrecy which used to be half the charm of the affair.
"The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love" are now never seen, in
anything like good society, where the intention of two young persons
to marry as soon as--sometimes before--they have met, and the
"understanding" between them is fully recognised by all their friends;
while as to the "matron's glance which would such looks reprove," it
is entirely obsolete, and never brought into play, save when the
bashful virgins bend their sidelong looks of love on good-looking
young paupers in the government offices or the army--a proceeding
which it is but fair to say the bashful virgins "of the period" very
rarely indulge in. Gertrude Creswell was as unlike a "girl of the
period," in the present delightful acceptation of that phrase, as can
well be imagined; that is to say, she was modest, frank, simple,
honest, and without guile; but she was a woman, and she knew perfectly
that she had engaged George Benthall's attention, and become the
object of his affection, although she had had no previous experience
in the matter. They had lived such quiet lives, these young ladies,
and had slid so tranquilly from the frilled-trouser-wearing and
_les-graces_-playing period of childhood, to the long skirts, croquet,
and flirtation of marriageable age, that they had hardly thought of
that largest component part of a girl's day-dream, settling in life.
There was with them no trace of that direct and unmistakable line of
demarcation known as "coming out"--that mountain-ridge between the
cold dreary Switzerland of lessons, governesses, midday dinner,
back-board, piano practice, and early bed, and the lovely glowing
Italy of balls, bouquets, cavaliers, croquet, Park, Row, crush-room,
country-house, French novel, and cotillon at five a.m. So Gertrude had
never had a love-affair of any kind before; but she was very quiet
about it, and restrained her natural tendency to gush, principally for
Maude's sake. She thought it might seem unkind in her to make a fuss,
as she described it, about her having a lover before Maude, who was as
yet unsuited with that commodity. It puzzled Gertrude immensely, this
fact of her having proved attractive to any one while Maude was by;
she was accustomed to think so much of her elder sister, on whom she
had endeavoured to model herself to the best of her ability, that she
could not understand any one taking notice of her while her sister was
present. Throughout her life, with her father, with her mother, and
now with her uncle, Gertrude Creswell had always played the inferior
part to her sister; she was always the humble confidante in white
muslin to Maude in Tilburina's white satin, and in looks, manner,
ability, or disposition, was not imagined to be able to stand any
comparison with the elder girl.
But Mr. Benthall, preferring Gertrude, had given long and serious
thought as to his future. He had taken the trouble to do something
which he knew he ought to have done long since, but which he had
always resolutely shirked--to look into the actual condition of his
school, and more especially of his boarders; and after careful
examination, he confessed to himself, as he smoked a costly
cigar, pacing slowly up and down the lane, which was ablaze with
apple-blossom--it would never have done to have been caught in the
wildly dissipated act of smoking by any of the boys, or, indeed, by a
good many of the villagers--he confessed to himself that he wanted a
companion, and his establishment wanted a head, and that Mrs. Covey,
excellent in her way, was scarcely a proper representative of the
female element in the household of the head-master of Helmingham
school. Thus minded, Mr. Benthall rode over to Woolgreaves, was
received by a benevolent grin from the stable-helper, to whom he
confided his horse (confound those fellows, with what an extraordinary
facility they blunder on to the right scent in these matters!), went
into the house, paid his suit to the two young ladies, had but a few
words with Miss Maude, whose services, in consequence of an
unfavourable turn of Mrs. Ashurst's illness, were required upstairs,
and a prolonged interview of a very satisfactory kind with Miss
Gertrude. With a portion only of this interview have we to do; the
remaining portion can be much "more easily imagined than described,"
at least, by those to whom the circumstances of the position have
been, or actually are, familiar--perhaps no inconsiderable proportion
of the world.
"By the way," said Mr. Benthall, as, after a third ridiculous attempt
at pretending he was going, he had again settled himself in his chair,
but had not thought it necessary to give up Miss Gertrude's hand,
which he had taken in his own when he had last risen to say adieu--"by
the way, Miss--well, Gertrude--what was that you were saying last time
I was here about Mrs. Creswell?"
"What I was saying about Mrs. Creswell? I don't exactly know, but it
wouldn't be very difficult to guess! I hate her!" said Gertrude
roundly.
"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Benthall, "I think I managed to gather that from
the general tone of your conversation; but what were you saying
specifically?"
"I don't know what specifically means, I think!" said Gertrude, after
a moment's reflection; "but I do know why I hate her!"
"And that is because----"
"Because she pretends to be so awfully superior, and goes in to be so
horribly good and demure, and all that kind of thing," said Miss
Gertrude, growing very becomingly red with excitement. "She always
reminds me of the publican in the parable, who, 'standing afar
off'--you know what I mean! I always thought that the publican went in
to draw more attention to himself by his mock humility than all the
noise and outcry which the Pharisee made, and which any one would have
put down to what it was worth; and that's just like Miss A.--I mean
Mrs. Creswell--I'm sure I shall call her Miss A. to my dying day,
Maude and I are so accustomed to speak of her like that--you'd
think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth; and this is so shocking, and
that is so dreadful, and she is so prim, and so innocent, and so
self-sacrificing; and then she steps in and carries off our uncle, for
whom all the unmarried girls in the county were angling years ago, and
had given up the attempt in despair!"
"But you must have seen all this in her for months, over since she has
been in the same house with you. And yet it is only since she achieved
her conquest of your uncle that you've been so bitter against her."
"Not at all, George. That's so like a man, always to try and say an
unpleasant thing about the want of generosity, and all that. Not at
all! I don't mind so much about her marrying uncle; if he's such a
silly old thing as to like to marry her, that's his look-out, and not
ours. And I've no doubt she'll make him what people call a good wife,
awfully respectable, and all that kind of thing. And I don't believe
she's ever been in love with anybody else, notwithstanding your
stories about that Mr. Joyce. I like your talking about women's
gossip, sir; a fine story that was you brought us, and all started by
some old woman, wasn't it? But what annoyed me worst was the way in
which she wrote about making Maude give up her music-room. I call that
regularly cruel, because she knew well enough that Maude was awfully
fond of that room, and--and that's what makes me hate her!"
"And Maude seemed to think that that was to be but the beginning of a
series of unpleasant measures."
"Well, you know Maude's blood is regularly up in this matter, and of
course she is prejudiced to a certain extent, and I don't know--I'm
not clever, you know, like she is--how far she's right. But I think
plainly enough that Miss A.--I mean Mrs. Creswell--intends to have her
own way in everything; and as she doesn't like us, and never did,
she'll set much against us, and goodness knows the result!"
Mr. Benthall could not have been described as "goodness," nor was he a
particularly far-seeing man, but he thought he knew the result. As he
cantered slowly home that afternoon, he thought the matter out, and
came to the conclusion that if Mrs. Creswell were the woman she was
described, she would tolerate but for a very little time the presence
of two persons so obnoxious in the same house with her, and that when
that climax arrived, it was the time for the Rev. George Benthall to
step in and do himself and everybody else concerned a good turn by
taking Gertrude off her uncle's hands.
There was very little doubt that the shelter of the Woolgreaves roof
and the luxuries of the Woolgreaves establishment would be required by
one of its inmates for but a very short time. Mrs. Ashurst's strength,
which had been gradually declining, began to fail her altogether, and
it was evident to all that the end was at hand. Dr. Osborne, who was
in constant attendance--and the little man never showed to such
advantage as under the most trying professional circumstances--shook
his head sadly, and confessed that it had now become a question of
days. But the old lady was so tranquil, and apparently so happy, that
he hesitated to summon her daughter, more especially as the newly
married couple were so soon expected home. The girl who attended on
the old lady in the capacity of night-nurse had a different experience
from Dr. Osborne so far as the tranquillity of the patient was
concerned. She knew when she was awake--and considering that she was a
full-blooded, heavy, bacon-fed lass, she really deserved much credit
for the manner in which she propped her eyelids up with her
forefingers, and resorted to sniffing instead of snoring--she knew
that Mrs. Ashurst had very disturbed nights, when she lay moaning and
groaning and plucking at the bedclothes, and constantly murmuring one
phrase; "For my sake! Lord help her! God grant it may turn out right!
She did it, I know, for my sake!" Gradually she lost consciousness,
and in her wandering state she repeated nothing but this one phrase,
"For my sake!" Occasionally she would smile placidly, and look round
the room as though in admiration of its comfort and appointments, but
then the sad look would come over her face, and she would repeat the
melancholy sentence in the saddest of tones. Dr. Osborne, when he
eventually came to hear of this, and to witness it, confessed he could
not understand it. It was not a case for the College of Surgeons, nor
getatable by the Pharmacopoeia; it was what Shakespeare said--he'd
heard his girl read it--about not being able to minister to a mind
diseased, or something of that sort; and yet, God bless him, Mrs.
Ashurst was about the last woman to have anything of the kind.
However, he should be deuced glad when little Marian--ah, mustn't call
her little Marian now; beg pardon, Mrs. Creswell--funny, wasn't it?
couldn't get that into his head! had known 'em all so long, and never
thought--nor anybody else, for the matter of that. However, that's
neither here nor there. What's that proverb, eh?--"There's no fool
like an----" No, no, mustn't say that before him, please. What was he
saying? Oh, he should be glad when Mrs. Creswell came home, and took
her mother under her own charge.
Mr. and Mrs. Creswell came home two days before they were expected, or
rather before they had originally intended. Marian had heard of her
mother's illness, and expressed a wish to go to her at once--a wish
which of course decided Mr. Creswell's course of action. The tenants
and villagers, to whom the news of Mr. Creswell's intended political
experiment had been imparted during his absence, had intended to give
him a welcome in which they could express their sentiments on flags
and mottoes and triumphal arches; and they had already arranged an
alliterative sentence, in which "Creswell and Conservatism!" each
picked out with gigantic capital letters, were to play conspicuous
parts; but Dr. Osborne, who got wind of what was threatened, drove
off to Brocksopp in his little pony-chaise, and there took Mr.
Teesdale, the agent, into confidence, and revealed to him the real
state--hovering between life and death--in which Mrs. Ashurst then
lay. On the reception of this information, Mr. Teesdale took upon
himself to hint that the intended demonstration had better be
postponed for a more convenient season; and accordingly Mr. and
Mrs. Creswell, arriving by the train at Brocksopp, and having
their carriage to meet them, drove through the streets when the
working-people were all engaged at their factories and mills, and made
their way home, scarcely exciting any recognition.
The two girls, on the alert at hearing the wheels of the approaching
carriage, rushed to the door, and were honoured by being permitted to
kiss the cheek of the bride, as she swept past them. No sooner had
they kissed their uncle, and were all assembled in the drawing-room,
than Marian asked after her mother.
"I'm afraid you will find her very much changed, Mrs. Creswell," said
Maude, who, of course, was spokeswoman. "Mrs. Ashurst is very much
weaker, and has--has occasional fits of wandering, which----"
"Why was I not informed of this?" asked Marian, in her chilliest
tones. "Were you both so much engaged, that you could not manage to
let me have a line to tell me of this change in my mother's state?"
"Maude wanted to write and tell you, but Dr. Osborne wouldn't let
her," blustered out Gertrude. "She never will say anything for
herself, but I'm sure she has been most attentive, Maude has, and I
don't think----"
"I'm sorry to interrupt this _lobgesang_, Gertrude; but I must go up
and see my mother at once. Be good enough to open the door." "And she
sailed out of the room," Gertrude said, afterwards, "as though she'd
been a duchess! In one of those rustling silks, don't you know, as
stiff as a board, which look as if they'd stand up by themselves!"
When Marian reached her mother's door, and was just about entering,
she stopped short, arrested by a low dull moaning sound which fell
upon her ear. She listened with her blood curdling within her and her
lips growing cold and rigid. Still it came, that low hollow moan,
monotonous, dreadful. Then she opened the door, and, passing swiftly
in, saw her mother lying tossing on the bed, plucking furtively at the
bedclothes, and moaning as she moved her head wearily in its unrest.
"Mother!" cried Marian--"mother, darling mother don't you know me?"
And she flung herself on the bed, and, taking the old woman's head in
her arms, softly kissed her lips.
The bright, the momentarily bright, eyes looked at her without seeing
her--she knew that--and presently moved away again round the room, as
Mrs. Ashurst raised her long lean hand, and, pointing to the wall,
said, "Pictures--and books--all fine--all fine!--for my sake!"
uttering the last words in a deep hissing whisper.
Marian was too shocked to speak. Shocked, not frightened; she had much
natural strength of mind, and had had experience of illness, though
not of this character. But she was shocked to see her mother in such a
state, and deeply enraged at the fact that the increase of the illness
had been kept from her. "Don't you know me?" she repeated; "mother,
darling mother, don't you know me? Marian, poor Marian! your daughter
Marian!"
"Ah, don't blame her!" said the old woman, in the same whisper. "Poor
Marian! poor dear Marian! my Jimmy's pet! She did it for my sake, all
for my sake! Carriages and horses and wine for me--wine, rich strong
wine for me--all for me, all for my sake, poor Marian! all for my
sake!"
"Is she often in this way? Does she often repeat those horrible
words?" asked Marian of the servant, of whose presence she then, on
raising her head, became for the first time aware.
"Oh yes, miss--I mean, mum!--constantly, mum! She never says anything
else, mum, but about some things being for her sake, mum. And she
haven't said anything else, miss, since she was off her head--I mean,
since she was delirrous, mum!"
"Does she always mention my name--Marian?"
"Always, mum, 'Poor Marian'--savin' your presence, and not meanin' a
liberty--is what she do say, miss, and always about 'for her sake'
it's
done, whatever it is, which I don't know."
"How long has she been like this? How long have you been with her?"
"A week last Wednesday, mum, was when I was brought from the laundry
to be nurse; and if you find your collars and cuffs iron-moulded, mum,
or not properly got up, you'll understand it's not me, Dr. Osbin
having had me fetched here as bein' strong for nussin' and a good
sitter-up o' nights----"
"Yes, I understand!" said Marian, vacantly; "you won't have to sit up
any more; I shall relieve you of that. Just wait here; I shall be back
in a few minutes."
Marian hurried downstairs, and in the drawing-room found her husband,
the two girls, and Dr. Osborne, who had joined the party. There must
have been some peculiar expression in her face, for she had no sooner
opened the door than Mr. Creswell, looking up, hurried across the room
and took her hand, saying anxiously, "What is the matter, Marian? what
is it, my love?"
"Simply that I arrive here to find my mother wandering and
imbecile--she whom I left comparatively cheerful, and certainly in the
possession of all her senses--that is all, nothing more," said Marian,
in a hard low voice, and with a dead-white face and dried bloodless
lips. "I thought," she continued, turning to the girls, "that I might
have left her safely in your charge. I never asked for your sympathy,
God knows; I would not have had it if you had offered it to me; but I
thought you seemed to be disposed kindly and affectionately towards
her. There was so much gush and display in your attachment, I might
have known it had no real foundation."
"You have no right to speak to us in this way, Mrs. Creswell!" cried
Maude, making a step in advance and standing very stiff and erect;
"you have no right to----"
"Maude," broke in Mr. Creswell, in his coldest tone, "recollect to
whom you are speaking, if you please."
"I do recollect, uncle; I am speaking to Mrs. Ashurst's daughter--dear
Mrs. Ashurst, whom both Gertrude and I love, and have tried to show we
love her, as she would tell you, if she could, poor darling! And it is
only because Mrs. Creswell is her daughter that I answer her at all,
after her speaking to me in that way. I will tell you now, Mrs.
Creswell, what I should not otherwise have mentioned, that Gerty and I
have been constant in our attendance on Mrs. Ashurst, and that one or
other of us has always slept in the next room, to be within call if we
were wanted, and----"
"Why did you take upon yourselves to keep me in ignorance of the
change in my mother's mental state, of this fearful wandering and
unconsciousness?--that is what I complain of."
"Oh, I must not let them say they took it upon themselves at all,"
said Dr. Osborne, who had been looking on uncomfortably during this
dialogue; "that was my fault entirely; the girls wanted to send for
you, but I said no, much better not. I knew you were due home in a few
days, and your earlier arrival could not have done the least good to
my poor old friend upstairs, and would only have been distressing to
you."
"Oh, you accept the responsibility, Dr. Osborne?" said Marian, still
in the same hard voice. "Would you have acted in the same way with any
ordinary patient, any stranger?"
"Eh?" exclaimed the little doctor, in a very loud key, rubbing his
face hard with his pocket-handkerchief. "What do you ask, Marian?--any
stranger?"
"Would you have taken upon yourself to keep a daughter from her mother
under similar circumstances, supposing they had been strangers to
you?"
"No--no, perhaps not," said the little doctor, still wildly
astonished.
"It will be perhaps better, then, if henceforth you put us on the
footing of strangers!" said Marian.
"Marian!" exclaimed Mr. Creswell.
"I mean what I said," she replied. "Had we been on that footing now, I
should have been at my mother's bedside some days since!" And she
walked quickly from the room.
Dr. Osborne made two steps towards his hat, seized it, clapped it on
his head, and with remarkably unsteady legs was making his way to the
door, when Mr. Creswell took him by the arm, begged him not to think
of what had just passed, but to remember the shock which Marian had
received, the suddenness with which this new phase of her mother's
illness had come upon her, etc. The little doctor did not leave the
room, as apparently he had intended at first; he sat down on a chair
close by, muttering--
"Treat her as a stranger rocked her on my knee brought her through
measles! father died in my arms treat her as a stranger!"
Two days afterwards Marian stood by the bed on which lay Mrs. Ashurst,
dead. As she reverently arranged the gray hair under the close cap,
and kissed the cold lips, she said--
"You did not enjoy the money very long, darling mother! But you died
in comfort, at any rate and that was worth the sacrifice--if sacrifice
it were!"