BAFFLED.
Marian remained standing where Walter Joyce had left her, gazing after
his retreating figure until it had passed out of sight. At first so
little did she comprehend the full meaning of the curt sentence in
which he had conveyed to her his abrupt rejection of the bribe which
she had proposed to him, his perfect appreciation of the snare which
she had prepared for him, that she had some sort of an idea that he
would hesitate on his career, stop, turn back, and finally consent, if
not to an immediate concession to her views, at all events to some
further discussion, with a view to future settlement. But after his
parting bow he strode unrelentingly onward, and it was not until he
had reached the end of the newly made road, and, dropping down into
the meadows leading to Helmingham, had entirely disappeared, that
Marian realised how completely she had been foiled, was able to
understand, to estimate, and, in estimating, to wince under, the
bitter scorn with which her suggestion had been received, the scathing
terms in which that scorn had been conveyed. A money value for
anything to be desired--that was the only way in which he could make
it clear to her understanding or appreciation--was not that what he
had said? A money value Marian Creswell was not of those who
sedulously hide their own failings from themselves, shrink at the very
thought of them, make cupboard-skeletons of them, to be always kept
under turned key. Too sensible for this, she knew that this treatment
only enhanced the importance of the skeleton, without at all
benefiting its possessor, felt that much the better plan was to take
it out and subject it to examination, observe its form and its
articulation, dust its bones, see that its joints swung easily, and
replace it in its cupboard-home. But all these rites were, of course,
performed in private, and the world was to be kept in strict ignorance
of the existence of the skeleton. And now Walter Joyce knew of it; a
money value, her sole standard of appreciation. Odd as it may seem,
Marian had never taken the trouble to imagine to herself to what
motive Walter would ascribe her rejection of him, her preference of
Mr. Creswell. True, she had herself spoken in her last letter of the
impossibility of her enjoying life without wealth and the luxuries
which wealth commands, but she had argued to herself that he would
scarcely have believed that, principally, perhaps, from the fact of
her having advanced the statement so boldly, and now she found him
throwing the argument in her teeth. And if Walter knew and understood
this to be the dominant passion of her soul, the great motive power of
her life, the knowledge was surely not confined to him--others would
know it too. In gaining her position as Mr. Creswell's wife, her
success, her elation, had been so great as completely to absorb her
thoughts, and what people might say as to the manner in which that
success had been obtained, or the reasons for which the position had
been sought, had never troubled her for one instant. Now, however, she
saw at once that her designs had been suspected, and doubtless talked
of, sneered at, and jested over, and her heart beat with extra speed,
and the blood suffused her cheeks, as she thought of how she had
probably been the subject of alehouse gossip, how the townsfolk and
villagers amongst whom, since the canvassing time, she had recently
been so much, must have all discussed her after she had left their
houses, and all had their passing joke at the young woman who had
married the old man for his money. She stamped her foot in rage upon
the ground as the idea came into her mind; it was too horrible to
think she should have afforded scandal-matter to these low people, it
was so galling to her pride; she almost wished that--and just then the
sharp, clear, silvery tinkle of the little bells sounded on her ear,
and the perfectly-appointed carriage with the iron-gray ponies came
into view, and the next minute she had taken the reins from James, had
received his salute, and, drawing her sealskin cloak closely round
her, was spinning towards her luxurious home, with the feeling that
she could put up with all their talk, and endure all their remarks, so
long as she enjoyed the material comforts which money, had undoubtedly
brought her.
Marian started on her return drive in a pleasant frame of mind, but
the glow of satisfaction had passed away long before she reached home,
and had been succeeded by very different feelings. She no longer cared
what the neighbouring people might say about her; she had quite got
over that, and was pondering, with gradually increasing fury, over the
manner in which Walter Joyce had received her proposition, and the
light and airy scorn, never for one moment striven to be concealed,
with which he had tossed it aside. She bit her lip in anger and
vexation as she thought of her tremendous folly in so speedily
unfolding her plan without previously making herself acquainted with
Joyce's views, and seeing how he was likely to receive the suggestion;
she was furious with herself as she recalled his light laugh and easy
bearing, so different from anything she had previously seen in him,
and--by the way, that was odd; she had not noticed it before, but
undoubtedly he was very much improved in appearance and manner; he had
lost the rustic awkwardness and bashfulness which had previously
rendered him somewhat ungainly, and had acquired confidence and ease.
She had heard this before; her husband had mentioned it to her as
having been told him by Mr. Teesdale, who kept the keenest outlook on
Joyce and his doings, and who regarded him as a very dangerous
opponent; she had heard this before, but she had paid but little
attention to it, not thinking that she should so soon have an
opportunity of personally verifying the assertion. She acknowledged it
now; saw that it was exactly the manner which would prove wonderfully
winning among the electors, who were neither to be awed by distant
demeanour nor to be cajoled by excessive familiarity. In Walter
Joyce's pleasant bearing and cheery way there was a something which
seemed to say, "I am of you, and understand you, although I may have
had, perhaps, a few more brains and a little better education;" and
there was nothing that more quickly got to the hearts of the
Brocksoppians than the feeling that they were about to elect one of
themselves. This was a chord which Mr. Creswell could never touch,
although he had every claim to do so, and although Mr. Gould had had
thousands of a little pamphlet struck off and circulated among the
voters--a little pamphlet supposed to be Mr. Creswell's biography,
adorned with woodcuts borrowed from some previous publication, the
first of which represented Mr. Creswell as a cabin-boy, about to
receive the punishment of the "colt" from the mate--he had scarcely
been on board ship during his life--while the last showed him, and
Mrs. Creswell, with short waist, long train, and high ostrich feathers
in her head (supposed to have been originally the _vera_ effigies of
some lady mayoress in George the Third's, time), receiving the cream
of the aristocracy in a gilded saloon. But the people declined to
believe in the biography, which, indeed, did rather more harm than
good, and cast doubt on the real history of Mr. Creswell's
self-manufacture, than which, in its way, nothing could be more
creditable.
Before Marian had reached her home she had revolved all these things
very carefully in her mind, and the result which she arrived at was,
that as it was impossible to purchase peace, and as the fight must now
be fought out at all hazards, the only way--not indeed to insure
success, for that was out of the question, but to stand a good chance
for it--was to pay fresh and unremitting attention to the canvassing,
and, above all, to try personally to enlist the sympathies of the
voters, not leaving it, as in Woolgreaves it had hitherto been done,
to Mr. Teesdale and his emissaries. With all her belief in money,
Marian had a faith in position, which, though lately born, was
springing up apace, and she felt that Squire Creswell might yet win
many a vote which would be given to him out of respect to his status
in the county, if he would only exert himself to obtain it.
Full of this idea, she drove through the lodge-gates at Woolgreaves,
any little qualms or heart-sinkings which she might have recently felt
disappearing entirely as she looked round upon the trim gardens, trim
even in those first days of winter, and upon the long line of
conservatories which had recently risen under her direction, as the
hall-doors opened at her approach, and as she stepped out of her
pony-carriage, the mistress of that handsome mansion, warmed and
flower-scented and luxurious. Her pleasure was a little dashed when
she found that Mr. Creswell had been carried off into Brocksopp by Mr.
Gould, who had come down unexpectedly from London, and that Mr.
Benthall was seated in the drawing-room with Maude and Gertrude,
evidently intending to remain to luncheon, if he were invited. But she
rallied in a moment, and accorded the invitation graciously, and did
the honours of the luncheon table with all proper hospitality. Once or
twice she winced a little at the obvious understanding between
Gertrude and Mr. Benthall; a state of things for which, though to some
extent prepared, she was by no means particularly grateful. It was not
entirely new to her, this flirtation; she had noticed something of it
a while ago, and her husband had made it the subject of one of his
mild little jokes to her; but she had matters of greater import to
attend to just then, and would see how it should be treated when the
election was over.
After luncheon Marian, recollecting the determination she had arrived
at in her homeward drive, was minded to put it in force at once, and
accordingly said to her visitor, "Are you going back to the school,
Mr. Benthall, or do you make holiday this afternoon?"
"Fortunately, my dear Mrs. Creswell," said Mr. Benthall, with a slight
sign of that indolence which the consumption of an excellent luncheon
superinduces in a man of full habit--"fortunately the law has done
that for me! Wednesdays and Saturdays are half-holidays by--well, I
don't know exactly by Act of Parliament, but at all events by
Helmingham rule and system; so, to-day being Saturday, I am absolved
from further work. To my infinite satisfaction, I confess."
"I am glad of that," said Marian; "for it will leave you free to
accept my proposition. I have some business in Brocksopp, and I want
an escort. Will you come?"
"I shall be delighted," replied Mr. Benthall, "though I shall keep up
my unfortunate character for plain speaking by asking you not to
dawdle too long in the shops! I do get so horridly impatient while
ladies are turning over a counterful of goods!"
"My dear Mr. Benthall, pray spare yourself any such dreadful
anticipations! The business that takes me into Brocksopp is of a
widely different character."
"And that is----"
"How can you ask at such a crisis?" said Marian, in a mock heroic
style, for her spirits always rose at the prospect of action. "In what
business should a wife be engaged at such a time but her husband's? My
business of course is--electioneering!"
"Electioneering--you?"
"Well, canvassing; you know perfectly well what I mean!"
"And you want me to go with you?"
"Why not? Mr. Benthall, what on earth is all this questioning about?"
"My dear Mrs. Creswell, do you not know that it is impossible for me
to go with you on the expedition you propose?"
"No, I do not know it! Why is it impossible?"
"Simply because in politics I happen to be diametrically opposed to
Mr. Creswell. My sympathies are strongly Liberal."
"Then, in the present election your intention is to vote against Mr.
Creswell, and for his opponent?"
"Undoubtedly. Is this the first time you have heard this?"
"Most unquestionably! Who should have told me?"
"Mr. Creswell! Directly it was known that he would come forward in the
Conservative interest, I told him my views!"
"He did not mention the circumstance to me," said Marian; then added,
after a moment, "I never asked him about you, to be sure! I had no
idea that there was the least doubt of the way in which you intended
to vote."
There was a dead silence for a few minutes after this, a pause during
which Gertrude Creswell took advantage of Marian's abstraction to
catch Maude's eye, and to shape her mouth into the silent expression
of the word "Row"--delivered three times with great solemnity. At
last Marian looked up and said, with an evidently forced smile, "Well,
then, I must be content to shrug my shoulders, and submit to these
dreadful politics so far dividing us that I must give up all idea of
your accompanying me into Brocksopp, Mr. Benthall; but I shall be
obliged if you will give me five minutes' conversation--I will not
detain you longer--in the library."
Mr. Benthall, muttering that he should be delighted, rose from his
chair and opened the door for his hostess to pass out; before he
followed her he turned round to glance at, the girls, and again
Gertrude's fresh rosy lips pressed themselves together and then opened
fur the silent expression of the word "Row," but he took no notice of
this cabalistic sign beyond nodding his head in a reassuring manner,
and then followed Mrs. Creswell to the library.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Benthall," said Marian, dropping into a
chair at the writing-table, and commencing to sketch vaguely on the
blotting-book with a dry pen; "the news you told me just now has come
upon me quite unexpectedly. I had no idea--looking at your intimacy in
this house--intimacy which, as far as I know, has continued
uninterruptedly to the present moment--no idea that you could have
been going to act against us at so serious a crisis as the present."
Mr. Benthall did not like Mrs. Creswell, but he was a man of the
world, and he could not avoid admiring the delicious insolence of the
tone of voice which lent additional relish to the insolence of the
statement, that he had continued to avail himself of their
hospitality, while intending to requite it with opposition. He merely
said, however, "The fault is not mine, Mrs. Creswell, as I have before
said; immediately on the announcement of the contest, and of Mr.
Creswell's coming forward as the Conservative candidate, I went
straight to him and told him I was not a free agent in the matter. I
labour under the misfortune--and it is one for which I know I shall
receive no sympathy in this part of the country, for people, however
good-hearted they may be, cannot pity where they cannot understand--I
labour under the misfortune of coming of an old family, having had
people before me who for years and years have held to Liberal opinions
in fair weather and foul weather, now profiting by it, now losing most
confoundedly, but never veering a hair's breadth for an instant. In
those opinions I was brought up, and in those opinions I shall die;
they may be wrong, I don't say they are not; I've not much time, or
opportunity, or inclination, for the matter of that, for going very
deeply into the question. I've taken it for granted, on the strength
of the recommendation of wiser heads than mine; more than all, on the
fact of their being the family opinions, held by the family time out
of mind. I'm excessively sorry that in this instance those opinions
clash with those held by a gentleman who is so thoroughly deserving
of all respect as Mr. Creswell, and from whom I have received so
many proofs of friendship and kindness. Just now it is especially
provoking for me to be thrown into antagonism to him in any way,
because--however, that's neither here nor there. I dare say I shall
have to run counter to several of my friends hereabouts, but there is
no one the opposition to whom will concern me so much as Mr. Creswell.
However, as I've said before, it is a question of sticking to the
family principles, and in one sense to the family honour, and--so
there's nothing else to be done."
Marian sat quietly for a minute, before she said, "Not having had the
honour of belonging to an old family so extensively stocked with
traditions, not even having married into one, I am perhaps scarcely
able to understand your position, Mr. Benthall. But it occurs to me
that 'progress' is a word which I have heard not unfrequently
mentioned in connection with the principles for the support of which
you seemed prepared to go to the stake, and it seems to me an
impossible word to be used by those who maintain a set of political
opinions simply because they received them from their ancestors."
"Oh, of course it is not merely that! Of course I myself hold and
believe in them!"
"Sufficiently to let that belief influence your actions at a rather
important period of your life? See here, Mr. Benthall; it happens to
be my wish, my very strong wish, that my husband should be returned
for Brocksopp at this election. I do not hide from myself that his
return is by no means certain, that it is necessary that every vote
should be secured. Now, there are certain farmers, holding land in
connection with the charity under which the school was founded--there
is no intended harm in my use of the word, for my father was paid out
of it as well as you, remember--farmers who, holding the charity land,
look to the master of the school, with an odd kind of loyalty, as
their head, and, in such matters as an election, would, I imagine,
come to him for advice how to act. Am I right?"
"Perfectly right."
"You know this by experience? They have been to you?"
"Some of them waited on me at the schoolhouse
several days ago!"
"And you made them pledge themselves to support Mr.--Mr. Joyce?"
"No, Mrs. Creswell, I am a schoolmaster and a clergyman, _not_ an
electioneering agent. I explained to them to the best of my power the
views taken by each party on the great question of the day, and, when
asked a direct question as to how I should myself vote, I answered
it--that was all."
"All, indeed! It is sufficient to show me that these unthinking people
will follow you to the polling-booth like sheep! However, to return to
what I was about to say when I thought of these farmers; is your
belief in your attachment to these principles so strong as to allow
them to influence your actions at what may be an important period of
your life? I know the Helmingham school-salary, Mr. Benthall; I know
the life--Heaven knows I ought, after all the years of its weariness
and its drudgery which I witnessed. You are scarcely in your proper
place, I think! I can picture you to myself in a pleasant rectory in a
southern or western county, with a charming wife by your side!"
"A most delightful idea, Mrs. Creswell, but one impossible of
realisation in my case, I am afraid!"
"By no means so impossible as you seem to imagine. I have only to say
one word to my husband, and----"
"My dear Mrs. Creswell," said Mr. Benthall, rising, and laying his
hand lightly on her arm, "pray excuse my interrupting you; but I am
sure you don't know what you are saying or doing! Ladies have no idea
of this kind of thing; they don't understand it, and we cannot
explain. I can only say that if any man had--well, I should not have
hesitated a moment in knocking him down!" And Mr. Benthall, whose
manner was disturbed, whose voice trembled, and whose face was very
much flushed, was making rapidly to the door, when Marian called him
back.
"I am sorry," she said, very calmly, "that our last interview should
have been so disagreeable. You will understand that, under present
circumstances, your visits here, and your acquaintance with any of the
inmates of this house, must cease."
Mr. Benthall looked as though about to speak, but he merely bowed and
left the room. When the door closed behind him, Marian sank down into
her chair, and burst into a flood of bitter tears. It was the second
repulse she had met with that day, and she had not been accustomed to
repulses, of late.