CHAPTER XXXII.

AN INCOMPLETE VICTORY.

Mr. Benthall's neat cob was not standing in a loose box in the

Woolgreaves stable, as was its usual wont when its master had paid a

visit to that hospitable mansion. On this occasion the schoolmaster

had walked over from Helmingham, and, though by nature an indolent

man, Mr. Benthall was exceedingly pleased at the prospect of the walk

before him on emerging from Woolgreaves after his interview in the

library with Mrs. Creswell. He felt that he required a vent for the

excitement under which he was labouring, a vent which could only be

found in sharp and prolonged exercise. The truth was that he was very

much excited and very angry indeed. "It is a very charitable way of

looking at it--a more than charitable way," he muttered to himself as

he strode over the ground, "to fancy that Mrs. Creswell was ignorant

of what she was doing; did not know that she was offering me a bribe

to vote for her husband, and to influence the farmers on this estate

to do the same. She knew it well enough; she is by far too clever a

woman not to understand all about it. And if she would try that game

on with us, who hold a comparatively superior position, what won't she

do with those lower on the electoral roll? Clever woman too, thorough

woman of the world. I wonder at her forgetting herself, and showing

her hand so completely. How admirably she emphasised the 'any of the

inmates' in that sentence when she gave me my congé! it was really

remarkably well done! When I tell Gertrude this, it will show her the

real facts at once. She has had a firm impression that, up to the

present time, 'madam,' as she calls Mrs. Creswell, has had no idea as

to the state of the case between us; but I don't think even

incredulous Gertrude would have much doubt of it if she had been

present, and caught the expression of Mrs. Creswell's face as she

forbade my communication with 'any' of the inmates of her house.

Neither look nor tone admitted of the smallest ambiguity, and I took

care to appreciate both. Something must be done to circumvent our

young friend the hostess of Woolgreaves."

Thus soliloquised the Reverend George Benthall as he strode across the

bleak barren fields, chopping away with his stick at the thin naked

hedges as he passed them, pushing his hat back from his brow, and

uttering many sounds which were at least impatient, not to say

unclerical, as he progressed. After his dinner, feeling that this was

an exceptional kind of evening, and one which must be exceptionally

treated, he went down to his cellar, brought therefrom a bottle of

excellent Burgundy, lit up, his favourite pipe, placed his feet on the

fender, and prepared himself for a careful review of the occurrences

of the day. On the whole, he was satisfied. It may seem strange that a

man, indolent, uncaring about most things, and certainly desirous of

the opportunity for the acquisition of worldly goods, should have

refused the chance of such a position as Marian hinted he might aspire

to--a position which her own keen natural instinct and worldly

knowledge suggested to her as the very one which he would most

covet--but it must be remembered that Mr. Benthall was a man of birth

and family, bound to indorse the family politics in his own person,

and likely to shrink from the merest suggestion of a bribe as the

highest insult and, indignity that could possibly be offered him. One

of Marian's hints went home; when she told him that all acquaintance

between him and any member of the Woolgreaves household must cease,

the bolt penetrated. The easy attention which Mr. Benthall had just

paid to the rather odd, but decidedly amusing, niece of rich Squire

Creswell had developed into a great liking, which had grown into a

passion deeper and stronger than this calm, placid--well, not to

disguise the fact, selfish--clergyman had ever imagined he could have

experienced; and although in his homeward walk he was pleased to smile

in his complimentary fashion at Mrs. Creswell's skill in aiming the

arrow, when he turned the whole matter over in his mind after dinner,

he was compelled to allow that it was exceedingly unpleasant, and that

he did not see how affairs between himself and Gertrude were to be

carried out to a happy issue without bringing matters to a crisis. For

this crisis long-headed and calculating Mr. Benthall had been for some

time prepared--that is to say, he had long entertained the idea that

after a time Mrs. Creswell, getting tired of the alternations in the

state of armed neutrality or actual warfare, in one or other of which

she always lived with the young ladies, and feeling towards them as

Haman felt towards Mordecai, with the aggravation of their all being

women, would certainly do her best towards getting them removed from

Woolgreaves; and doing her best meant, when Mr. Creswell was the

person to be acted upon, the accomplishment of her designs. But Mr.

Benthall felt tolerably certain, from his knowledge of Mr. Creswell,

and the conversation in some degree bearing on the subject which they

had had together, that though the old gentleman would not be able to

withstand, nor indeed would for a moment attempt to fight against the

pressure which would be put upon him by his wife for the

accomplishment of her purpose, even though that preference were to the

disadvantage of his blood relations, that result once achieved, he

would do everything in his power to insure the girls' future comfort,

and would not abate one jot of the liberal pecuniary allowance which

he had always intended for them on the occasion of their marriage. It

was very comforting to Mr. Benthall, after due deliberation, to come

to this conclusion; for though he was very much attached to Gertrude

Creswell, and though of late he had begun to think she was so

indispensable to his future happiness that he could almost have

married her without any dowry, yet it was pleasant to think

that--well, that she would not only make him a charming wife, but

bring a very handsome increase to his income--when the storm arrived.

The storm arrived sooner than Mr. Benthall anticipated: it must have

been brewing while he was seated with his feet on the fender, enjoying

that special bottle of Burgundy and that favourite pipe. As he sat at

his breakfast he received a note from Gertrude, which said, "There has

been the most terrible fuss here this evening! I don't know what you

and madam can have fought about during that dreadfully solemn

interview in the library to which she invited you, _but she is furious

against you!_ She and uncle were closeted together for nearly an hour

after he came in from Brocksopp; and when, they joined us in the

dining-room his eyes were quite red, and I'm sure he had been crying.

Poor old darling! isn't it a shame for that--never mind. After dinner,

just as we were about to run off as usual, madam said she wanted to

speak to us, and marched us off to the drawing-room. When we got there

she harangued us, and told us it was only right we should know that

you had behaved in a most treacherous and unfriendly manner towards

uncle, and that your conduct had been so base that she had been

compelled to forbid you the house. I was going to speak at this, but

Maude dashed in, and said she did not believe a word of it, and that

it was all madam's concoction, and that you were a gentleman, and I

don't know what--you understand, all sorts of nice things about you!

And then madam said you had thrown over uncle, to whom you owed such a

debt of gratitude--what for, goodness knows!--and were going to vote

for uncle's opponent, Mr. Joyce, who---- But then I dashed in, and I

said that, considering what people said about her and Mr. Joyce, and

the engagement that had existed between them, she ought not to say

anything against him. And Maude tried to stop me; but my blood was up,

and I would go on, and, I said all kinds of things; and madam grew

very pale, and said that, though she was disposed to make every

allowance for me, considering the infatuation I was labouring

under--that's what she said, infatuation I was labouring under--she

could not put up with being insulted in her own house, and she should

appeal to uncle. So she went away, and presently she and uncle came

back together, and he said he was deeply grieved and all that--poor

old dear, he looked awful--but he could not have his wife treated with

disrespect--disrespect, indeed!--and he thought that the best thing

that could be done would be for us to go away for a time, at least;

only for a time, the dear old man said, trying to look cheerful; for

if he succeeded in this election he and Mrs. Creswell would

necessarily be for several months in London, during which we could

come back to Woolgreaves; but for a time, and if we would only settle

where we would go, Parker, our maid, who is a most staid and

respectable person, would go with us, and all could be arranged. I

think Maude was going to fly out again; but a look at the dear old

man's woebegone face stopped her, and she was silent. So it's decided

we're to go somewhere out of this. But is it not an awful nuisance,

George? What shall we do? Where shall we go? It will be a relief to

get rid of madam for a time, and out of the reach of her eyes and her

tongue; but doesn't it seem very horrible altogether?"

"Horrible altogether! It does, indeed, seem very horrible altogether,"

said Mr. Benthall to himself, as he finished reading this epistle, and

laid it down on the breakfast-table before him. "What on earth is to

be done? This old man seems perfectly besotted, while this very

strong-minded young woman, his wife, has completely gleaned the brains

out of his head and the kindliness out of his heart. What can he be

thinking about, to imagine that these two girls are to take some

lodging and form some course for themselves? Why, the thing is

monstrous and impossible! They would have to live in seclusion; it

would be impossible for any man ever to call upon them; and oh, it

won't do at all, won't do at all! But what's to be done? I can't

interfere in the matter, and I know no one with whom I could consult.

Yes, by George! Joyce, our candidate, Mr. Joyce; he's a clear-headed

fellow, and one who, I should think, if Mrs. Covey's story be correct,

would not object to put a spoke in Mrs. Creswell's wheel. I'll go and

see him. Perhaps he can help me in this fix."

No sooner said than done. The young gentlemen on the foundation and

the head-master's boarders had that morning to make shift with the

teaching of the ushers, while the neat cob was taken from his stable

at an unwonted hour, and cantered down to Brocksopp. Mr. Joyce was not

at his head-quarters, he was out canvassing; so the cob was put up,

and Mr. Benthall started on a search-expedition through the town.

After some little time he came up with the Liberal candidate, with

whom he had already struck up a pleasant acquaintance, and begged a

few minutes of his time. The request was granted. They adjourned to

Joyce's private sitting-room at the inn, and there Mr. Benthall laid

the whole story before him, showing in detail Marian's machinations

against the girls, and pointing out the final piece of strategy by

which she had induced her husband to give them the rout, and tell them

they could no longer be inmates of his house. Joyce was very much

astonished; for although the film had gradually been withdrawn from

his eyes since the day of the receipt of Marian's letter, he had no

idea of the depth of her degradation. That she could endeavour to win

him from the tournament now he stood a good chance of victory; that

she would even endeavour to bribe a man like Benthall, who was

sufficiently venal, Walter thought, who had his price, like most men,

but who had not been properly "got at," he could understand; but that

she could endeavour to attempt to wreak her vengeance on two

unoffending girls, simply because they were remotely connected with

one of the causes of her annoyance, was beyond his comprehension. He

saw, however, at once, that the young ladies were delicately situated;

and, partly from an innate feeling of gallantry, partly with a desire

to oblige Benthall, who had proved himself very loyal in the cause,

and not without a desire to thwart what was evidently a pet scheme

with Mrs. Creswell, he took up the question with alacrity.

"You're quite right," he said, after a little consideration, "in

saying that it would be impossible that these two young ladies could

go away and live by themselves, or rather with their maid. I know

nothing of them, beyond seeing them a long time ago. I should not even

recognise them were we to meet now; but it is evident that by birth

and education they are ladies, and they must not be thrown on the

world, to rough it in the manner proposed by their weak uncle, at the

instigation of his charming wife. The question is, what is to be done

with them? Neither you nor I, even if we had the power and will, dare

offer them any hospitality, miserable bachelors as we are. The laws of

etiquette forbid that; and we should have Mrs. Grundy, egged on by

Mrs. Creswell, calling us over the coals, and bringing us to book very

speedily. It is clear that in their position the best thing for them

would be to be received by some lady relative of their own, or in

default of that, by some one whose name and character would be a

complete answer to anything which our friends Mrs. Grundy or Mrs.

Creswell might choose to say about them. Have they no such female

relations? No! I fear then that, for their own sakes, the best thing

we can do is not to interfere in the matter. It is very hard for you,

I can see clearly, as you will be undoubtedly deterred from paying any

visits to Miss Gertrude until---- Stay, I've an idea: it's come upon

me so suddenly that it has almost taken my breath away, and I don't

know whether I dare attempt to carry it out. Wait, and let me think it

over."

The idea that had occurred to Joyce was, to lay the state of affairs

before Lady Caroline Mansergh, and ask her advice and assistance in

the matter. He felt certain that she would act with promptitude, and

at the same time with great discretion. Her knowledge of the world

would tell her exactly what was best to be done under the

circumstances; while the high position which she held in society, and

that not alone by reason of her rank, would effectually silence any

malicious whisperings and ethical comments which would inevitably be

made on the proceedings of a less-favoured personage. The question

was, dare he ask her to interfere in the matter? He had no claim on

her, he knew; but she had always shown him such great favour, that he

thought he might urge his request without offence. Even in the last

letter which he had received from her, just before he started on his

election campaign, she reminded him of his promise to allow her to be

of service to him in any possible way, said never to permit any idea

of the magnitude or difficulty of the task to be undertaken to

influence him against asking her to do it. Yes, he felt sure that Lady

Caroline would be of material assistance to him in this emergency; the

only question was, was he not wasting his resources? These young

ladies were nothing to him; to him it was a matter of no moment

whether they remained at Woolgreaves or were hunted out to genteel

lodgings. Stay, though. To get rid of them from their uncle's house,

to remove them from her presence, in which they were constantly

reminding her of bygone times, had, according to Mr. Benthall's story,

been Marian Creswell's fixed intention from the moment of her

marriage. Were they to leave now, outcast and humbled, she would have

gained a perfect victory; whereas if they were received under the

chaperonage of a person in the position of Lady Caroline Mansergh, it

would be anything but a degradation of station for the young ladies,

and a decided blow for Mrs. Creswell. That thought decided him; he

would invoke Lady Caroline's aid at once.

"Well," said he, after a few minutes' pause, when he had come to this

determination, "you have waited, and I have thought it over----"

"And the result is----?" asked Mr. Benthall.

"That I shall be bold, and act upon the idea which has just occurred

to me, and which is briefly this: There is in London a lady of rank

and social position, who is good enough to be my friend, and who, I

feel certain, will, if I ask her to do so, interest herself in the

fortunes of these two young ladies, and advise us what is best to be

done for them under present circumstances. It is plain that after what

has occurred they can stay no longer at Woolgreaves."

"Perfectly plain. Maude would not listen to such a thing for a moment,

and Gertrude always thinks with her sister."

"That's plucky in Miss Maude; and pluck is not a bad quality to be

possessed of when you are thrown out into the world on your own

resources, as some of us know from experience. Then they must leave as

soon as possible. Lady Caroline Mansergh, the lady of whom I have just

spoken, will doubtless be able to suggest some place where they can be

received, and where they would have the advantage of her occasional

surveillance."

"Nothing could possibly be better," cried Mr. Benthall, in great glee.

"I cannot tell you, Mr. Joyce, how much I am obliged to you for your

disinterested co-operation in this matter."

"Perhaps my co-operation is not so disinterested as you imagine," said

Joyce, with a grave smile. "Perhaps--but that's nothing now."

"Will you write to Lady Caroline Mansergh at once? Time presses, you

know."

"Better than that, I will go up to London and see her. There will

necessarily be a lull in the canvassing here for the next two or three

days, and I shall be able to explain far more clearly than by letter.

Besides, I shall take the opportunity of seeing our friends Potter and

Fyfe, and hearing the best news from head-quarters."

"That is merely an excuse," said Mr. Benthall; "I am sure you are

undertaking this journey solely with the view of serving these young

ladies and me."

"And myself, my good friend," replied Joyce; "and myself, I assure

you."

Lady Caroline Mansergh had a very charming little house in

Chesterfield Street, Mayfair, thoroughly homeish and remarkably

comfortable. Since she had been left a widow she had frequently passed

the winter, as well as the season, in London, and her residence was

accordingly arranged with a due regard to the miseries of our

delightful climate. Her ladyship was in town, Joyce was glad to find;

and after he had sent up his name, he was shown into a very cosy

drawing-room, with a large fire blazing on the hearth, and all the

draughts carefully excluded by means of portières and thick hanging

curtains. He had merely time to notice that the room was eminently one

to be lived in, and not kept merely for show--one that was lived in,

moreover, as the sign of a woman's hand, everywhere recognisable, in

the management of the flowers and the books, in the work-basket and

the feminine writing arrangements, so different, somehow, from a man's

desk and its appurtenances, plainly showed--when the door opened, and

Lady Caroline entered the room.

She was looking splendidly handsome. In all the work and worry of his

recent life, Joyce had lost all except a kind or general remembrance

of her face and figure, and he was almost betrayed into an exclamation

of astonishment as he saw her advancing towards him. There must have

been something of this feeling in the expression of his face, for Lady

Caroline's cheeks flushed for an instant, and the voice in which she

bade him welcome, and expressed her pleasure of seeing him, was rather

unsteady in its tone.

"I imagined you were at Brocksopp," she said, after a minute; "indeed

I have some idea that quite recently I saw a report in the paper of

some speech of yours, as having been delivered there."

"Perfectly correct: I only came up last night."

"And how goes the great cause? No, seriously, how are you progressing;

what are the chances of success? You know how interested I am about

it!"

"We are progressing admirably, and if we can only hold out as we are

doing, there is very little doubt of our triumph!"

"And you will enter upon the career which I suggested to you, Mr.

Joyce, and you will work in it as you have worked in everything else

which you have undertaken, with zeal, energy, and success!" said Lady

Caroline, with flashing eyes. "But what has brought you to London at

this particular time?"

"You, Lady Caroline!"

"I?" and the flush again overspread her face.

"You. I wanted your advice and assistance."

"Ah! I recollect you said just now, 'if we could only hold out as we

are doing.' How foolish of me not at once to---- Mr. Joyce, you--you

want money to pursue this election, and you have shown your friendship

for me by----"

"No, indeed, Lady Caroline, though there is no one in the world to

whom I would so gladly be under an obligation. No; this is a matter of

a very different kind;" and he briefly explained to her the state of

affairs at Woolgreaves, and the position of Maude and Gertrude

Creswell.

After he had concluded there was a momentary pause, and then Lady

Caroline said, "And you do not know either of these young ladies, Mr.

Joyce?"

"I do not. I have scarcely seen them since they were children."

"And it is for the sake of revenge on her that he is taking all this

trouble!" thought Lady Caroline to herself; "that woman threw away a

priceless treasure; the man who can hate like this must have a great

capacity for loving." Then she said aloud, "I am very glad you came to

me, Mr. Joyce, as this is plainly a case where prompt action is

needed. When do you return to Brocksopp?"

"To-night."

"Will you be the bearer of a note from me to Miss Creswell? I shall be

delighted to have her and her sister here, in this house, as my

guests, as long as it may suit them to remain."

"Lady Caroline, how can I thank you?"

"By asking me to do some service for you yourself, Mr. Joyce. This is

merely general philanthropy."

Marian Creswell was in great exultation, for several reasons. Mr.

Joyce had hurried suddenly to London, and a report had been started

that he was about to abandon the contest. That was one cause for her

delight. Another was that the girls had evidently accepted their

defeat in the last contest as final, and she should be rid of them for

ever. She had noticed various preparations for departure, and had seen

heavy boxes lumbering the passages near their rooms, but had carefully

avoided making any inquiries, and had begged her husband to do

likewise.

"They will go," she said, "and it will be for the best. Either they or

I must have gone, and I suppose you would prefer it should be they. It

is their duty to say where they purpose going, and what they purpose

doing. It will be time enough for you to refuse your consent, if the

place of selection be an objectionable one, when they tell us where it

is."

Two days after that conversation Mr. and Mrs. Creswell were sitting

together after luncheon, when Maude entered the room. She took no

notice of Marian, but said to her uncle, "Gertrude and I are going

away to-morrow, uncle, for some time, if not for ever. You won't be

astonished to hear it, I know, but it is our duty to tell you."

"Well, Maude, I--going away--I confess, not entirely news to me," said

Mr. Creswell, hopelessly feeble; "where are you going, child?"

"We have accepted an invitation we have received, uncle."

"An invitation? I did not know you knew any one, Maude. From some of

your old school companions?"

"No, uncle; from Lady Caroline Mansergh--a friend of Mr. Benthall's

and Mr. Joyce's, uncle."

Marian looked up, and the light of triumph faded out of her eyes. It

was but an incomplete victory, after all!

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE SHATTERING OF THE IDOL.

The fact that his nieces had actually left the shelter of his roof,

although, as he had hitherto believed, that result had been brought

about by their own wilfulness and impatience of control, came upon Mr.

Creswell with almost stunning force. True, Marian had mentioned to him

that it was impossible that she and the girls could ever live together

in amity--true, that he himself had on more than one occasion been

witness of painful scenes between them--true, that the girls'

departure had been talked of for a week past as an expected event, and

that the preparations for it lay before his eyes; but he had not

realised the fact; his mind was so taken up with the excitement of the

coming election contest, that he had scarcely noticed the luggage

through which he had occasionally to thread his way, or, if he had

noticed it, had regarded its presence there as merely a piece of

self-assertion on the part of impetuous Maude or silly Gertrude,

determined to show, foolish children as they were, that they were not

to be put down by Marian's threats, but were ready to start

independently whenever such a step might become necessary. That Marian

would ever allow them to take this step, Mr. Creswell never imagined;

he thought there had always been smouldering embers of warfare,

needing but a touch to burst into a blaze, between his wife and his

nieces; he knew that they had never "hit it," as he phrased it; but

his opinion of Marian was so high, and his trust in her so great, that

he could not believe she would be sufficiently affected by these

"women's tiffs" as to visit them with such disproportionate

punishment. Even in the moment of adieu, when Gertrude, making no

attempt to hide her tears, had sobbingly kissed him and clung about

his neck, and Maude, less demonstrative, but not less affectionate,

had prayed God bless him in a broken voice--she passed Mrs. Creswell

with a grave bow, taking no notice of Marian's extended hand--the old

man could scarcely comprehend what was taking place, but looked across

to his wife, hoping she would relent, and with a few affectionate

words wished the girls a pleasant visit to London, but bid them come

back soon to their home.

But Marian never moved a muscle, standing there, calm and statuesque,

until the door had closed upon them and the carriage had rolled away;

and then the first sound that issued from her lips was a sigh of

relief that, so far, her determination had been fulfilled without much

overt opposition; and without any "scene." Not that she was by any

means satisfied with what she had done; she had accomplished so

much of her purpose as consisted in removing the girls from their

uncle's home, but instead of their being reduced in social position

thereby--which, judging other people, as she always did, by her own

standard, she imagined would be the greatest evil she could inflict

upon them--she found her plans had been attended with an exactly

opposite result. The entrance into society, which she had so long

coveted, and which she had hoped to gain by her husband's election,

not merely now seemed dim and remote, owing to the strong possibility

of Mr. Creswell's failure, but would now be open to Maude and

Gertrude, through the introduction of this Lady Caroline Mansergh, of

whose high standing, even amongst her equals, Marian had heard

frequently from Mr. Gould, her one link with the great world. This

was a bitter blow; but it was even worse to think that this

introduction had been obtained for the girls through the medium of

Walter Joyce--the man she had despised and rejected on account of his

poverty and social insignificance, and who now not merely enjoyed

himself, but had apparently the power of dispensing to others,

benefits for which she sighed in vain. Now, for the first time, she

began to appreciate the estimation in which Walter was held by those

whose esteem was worth having. Hitherto she had only thought that the

talent for "writing" which he had unexpectedly developed had made him

useful to a political party, who, availing themselves of his services

in a time of need, gave him the chance Of establishing himself in

life; but so far as position was concerned, he seemed to have already

had, and already to have availed himself of, that chance; for here was

the sister of an earl, a woman of rank and acknowledged position,

eager to show her delight in doing him service! "And that position,"

said Marian to herself, "I might have shared with him! Marriage with

me would not have sapped his brain or lessened any of those wonderful

qualities which have won him such renown. To such a man a career is

always open, and a career means not merely sufficient wealth, but

distinction and fame. And I rejected him--for what?"

These reflections and others of similar import formed a constant

subject for Marian's mental exercitation, and invariably left her a

prey to discontent and something very like remorse. The glamour of

money-possession had faded away; she had grown accustomed to all it

had brought her, and was keenly alive to what it had not brought her,

and, what she had expected of it--pleasant society, agreeable friends,

elevated position. In her own heart she felt herself undervaluing the

power of great riches, and thinking how much better was it to have a

modest competence sufficient for one's wants, sufficient to keep one

from exposure to the shifts and pinches of such poverty as she had

known in her early life, when combined with a position in life which

gave one the chance of holding one's own amongst agreeable people,

rather than to be the Croesus gaped at by wondering yokels, or capped

to by favour-seeking tenants. A few months before, such thoughts would

have been esteemed almost blasphemous by Marian; but she held them

now, and felt half inclined to resent on her husband his ignorant and

passive share in the arrangement which had substituted him for Walter

Joyce.

That was the worst of all. After Maude and Gertrude Creswell left

Woolgreaves, an unseen but constantly present inmate was added to

the household, who sat between husband and wife, and whispered into

their ears alternately. His name was Doubt, and to Mr. Creswell he

said--"What has become of all those fine resolutions which you made on

your brother Tom's death?--resolutions about taking his children under

your roof, and never losing sight of them until they left as happy

brides? Where are they now? Those resolutions have been broken, have

they not? The girls, Tom's daughters--orphan daughters, mind--have

been sent away from what you had taught them to look upon as their

home--sent away on some trivial excuse of temper--and where are

they now? You don't know!--you, the uncle, the self-constituted

guardian--positively don't know where they are! You have had the

address given you, of course, but you cannot imagine the place, for

you have never seen it; you cannot picture to yourself the lady with

whom they are said to be staying, for you never saw her, and, until

your wife explained who she was, you had scarcely even heard of her.

Your wife! Ah! that is a pleasant subject! You've found her all that

you expected, have you not? So clever, clear-headed, bright, and,

withal, so docile and obedient? Yet she it was who quarrelled with

your nieces, and told you that either she or they must leave your

house. She it was who saw them depart with delight, and who never

bated one jot of her satisfaction when she noticed, as she cannot have

failed to notice, your emotion and regret. Look back into the past,

man--think of the woman who was your trusted helpmate in the old days

of your poverty and struggle!--think of her big heart, her indomitable

courage, her loving womanly nature, beaming ever more brightly when

the dark shadows gathered round your lives!--think of her, man,

compare her with this one, and see the difference!"

And to Marian the dim personage said--"You, a young woman, handsome,

clever, and with a lover who worshipped you, have bartered yourself

away to that old man sitting there--for what? A fine house, which no

one comes to see--carriages, in which you ride to a dull country

town to receive the bows of a dozen shopkeepers, and drive home

again--hawbuck servants, who talk against you as they talk against

every one, but always more maliciously against any whom they have

known in a different degree of life--and the title of the squire's

lady! You are calculated to enjoy life which you will never behold,

and to shine in society to which you will never be admitted. You

wanted money, and now you have it, and how much good has it done you?

Would it not have been better to have waited a little--just a

little--not to have been quite so eager to throw away the worshipping

lover, who has done so well, as it has turned out, and who is in every

way but ill replaced by the old gentleman sitting there?"

The promptings of the dim presence worked uncomfortably on both the

occupants of Woolgreaves, but they had the greatest effect on the old

gentleman sitting there. With the departure of the girls, and the

impossibility which attended his efforts to soften his wife's coldness

and do away with the vindictive feeling which she entertained towards

his nieces, Mr. Creswell seemed to enter on a new and totally

different sphere of existence. The bright earnest man of business

became doddering and vague, his cheery look was supplanted by a worn,

haggard, fixed regard; his step, which had been remarkably elastic and

vigorous for a man of his years, became feeble and slow, and he

constantly sat with his hand tightly pressed on his side, as though to

endeavour to ease some gnawing pain. A certain amount of coldness and

estrangement between him and Marian, which ensued immediately after

his nieces' departure, had increased so much as entirely to change the

ordinary current of their lives; the pleasant talk which he used to

originate, and which she would pursue with such brightness and

earnestness as to cause him the greatest delight, had dwindled down

into a few careless inquiries on her part, and meaningless replies

from him; and the evenings, which he had looked forward to with such

pleasure, were now passed in almost unbroken silence.

One day Mr. Gould, the election agent, arrived from London at

Brocksopp, and, without going into the town, ordered the fly which he

engaged at the station to drive him straight to Woolgreaves. On his

arrival there he asked for Mrs. Creswell. The servant, who recognised

him and knew his business--what servant at houses which we are

in the habit of frequenting does not know our business and all about

us, and has his opinion, generally unfavourable, of us and our

affairs?--doubted whether he had heard aright, and replied that his

master had gone to Brocksopp, and would be found either at the mills

or at his committee-rooms. But Mr. Gould renewed his inquiry for Mrs.

Creswell, and was conducted by the wondering domestic to that lady's

boudoir. The London agent, always sparse of compliments, spoke on this

occasion with even more than usual brevity.

"I came to see you to-day, Mrs. Creswell, and not your husband," said

he, "as I think you are more likely to comprehend my views, and to

offer me some advice."

"Regarding the election, Mr. Gould?"

"Regarding the election, of course. I want to put things in a clear

light to you, and, as you're a remarkably clear-headed woman--oh no, I

never flatter, I don't get time enough--you'll be able to turn 'em in

your mind, and think what's best to be done. I should have made the

communication to your husband six months ago, but he's grown nervous

and fidgety lately, and I'd sooner have the advantage of your clear

brain."

"You are very good--do you think Mr. Creswell's looking ill?"

"Well--I was going to say you mustn't be frightened, but that's not

likely--you're too strong-minded, Mrs. Creswell. The fact is, I do see

a great difference in the old--I mean Mr. Creswell--during the last

few weeks, and not only I, but the people too."

"You mean some of the electors?"

"Yes, some of his own people, good staunch friends. They say they

can't get anything out of him now, can't pin him to a question. He

used to be clear and straightforward, and now he wanders away into

something else, and sits mumchance, and doesn't answer any questions

at all."

"And you have come to consult me about this?"

"I've come to say to you that this won't do at all. He is pledged to

go

to the poll, and he must go, cheerily and pleasantly, though there is

no doubt about it that we shall get an awful thrashing."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure so. We were doing very well at first, and Mr. Creswell is

very much respected and all that, and he would have beat that young

What's-his-name--Bokenham--without very much trouble. But this Joyce

is a horse of a different colour. Directly he started the current

seemed to turn. He's a good-looking fellow, and they like that; and a

self-made man, and they like that; and he speaks capitally, tells

'em facts which they can understand, and they like that. He

has done capitally from the first; and now they've got up some

story--Harrington did that, I fancy, young Harrington acting for

Potter and Fyfe, very clever fellow--they've got up some story that

Joyce was jilted some time ago by the girl he was engaged to, who

threw him over because he was poor, or something of that sort, I can't

recollect the details--and that has been a splendid card with the

women; they are insisting on their husbands' voting for him; so that

altogether we're in a bad way."

"Do you think Mr. Creswell will be defeated, Mr. Gould? You'll tell me

honestly, of course."

"It's impossible to say until the day, quite impossible, my dear Mrs.

Creswell; but I'm bound to confess it looks horribly like it. By what

I understand from Mr. Croke, who wrote to me the other day, Mr.

Creswell has given up attending public meetings, and that kind of

thing, and that's foolish, very foolish."

"His health has been anything but good lately, and----"

"I know; and of course his spirits have been down also. But he must

keep them up, and he must go to the poll, even if he's beaten."

"And the chances of that are, you think, strong?"

"Are, I fear, very strong! However, something might yet be done if he

were to do a little house-to-house canvassing in his old bright

spirits. But in any case, Mrs. Creswell, he must stick to his guns,

and we look to you to keep him there!"

"I will do my best," said Marian, and the interview was at an end.

As the door closed behind Mr. Gould, Marian flung herself into an

easy-chair, and the bitter tears of rage welled up into her eyes. So

it was destined that this man was to cross her path to her detriment

for the rest of her life. Oh, what terrible shame and humiliation to

think of him winning the victory from them, more especially after her

interview with him, and the avowal of her intense desire to be

successful in the matter! There could be no doubt about the result.

Mr. Gould was understood, she had heard, to be in general inclined to

take a hopeful view of affairs; but his verdict on the probable issue

of the Brocksopp election was unmistakably dolorous. What a bitter

draught to swallow, what frightful mortification to undergo! What

could be done? It would be impolitic to tell Mr. Creswell of his

agent's fears; and even if he were told of them, he was just the man

who would more than ever insist on fighting until the very last, and

would not imagine that there was any disgrace in being beaten after

gallant combat by an honourable antagonist. And there was no possible

way out of it, unless--great Heaven, what a horrible thought!--unless

he were to die. That would settle it; there would be no defeat for him

then, and she would be left free, rich, and with the power to---- She

must not think of anything so dreadful. The noise of wheels on the

gravel, the carriage at the door, and her husband descending. How

wearily he drags his limbs down the steps, what lassitude there is in

every action, and how wan his cheeks are! He is going towards the

drawing-room on the ground-floor, and she hastens to meet him there.

"What is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Very--very ill; but pleased to see you, to get back home." This with

a touch of the old manner, and in the old voice. "Very ill, Marian;

weak, and down, and depressed. I can't stand it, Marian; I feel I

can't."

"What is it that seems too much for you?"

"All this worry and annoyance, this daily contact with all these

horrible people. I must give it up, Marian; I must give it up!"

"You must give what up, dear?"

"This election. All the worry of it, the preliminary worry, has been

nigh to kill me, and I must have no more of it!"

"Well, but think----"

"I have thought, and I'm determined; that is, if you think so too.

I'll give it up, I'll retire; anything to have done with it!"

"But what will people say----?"

"What people, who have a right to say anything?"

"Your committee, I mean--those who have been working for you so

earnestly and so long."

"I don't care what they say. My health is more important than anything

else--and you ought to think so, Marian!"

He spoke with a nervous irritability such as she had never previously

noticed in him, and looked askance at her from under his gray

eyebrows. He began to think that there might be some foundation of

truth in Gertrude's out-blurted sentiment, that Mrs. Creswell thought

of nothing in comparison with her own self-interest. Certainly her

conduct now seemed to give colour to the assertion, for Marian seemed

annoyed at the idea of his withdrawal from seeking a position by which

she would be benefited, even where his health was concerned.

Mr. Creswell was mistaken. Marian, in her inmost heart, had hailed

this determination of her husband's with the greatest delight, seeing

in it, if it were carried out, an excellent opportunity for escaping

the ignominy of a defeat by Walter Joyce. But after this one

conversation, which she brought to a close by hinting that of course

his wishes should be acted upon, but it would perhaps be better to

leave things as they were, and not come to any definite conclusion for

the present, she did not allude to the subject, but occupied her whole

time in attending to her husband, who needed all her care. Mr.

Creswell was indeed very far from well. He went into town

occasionally, and, at Marian's earnest request, still busied himself a

little about the affairs a the election, but in a very spiritless

manner; and when he came home he would go straight to the library, and

there, ensconced in an easy-chair, sit for hours staring vacantly

before him, the shadow of his former self. At times, too, Marian would

find his eyes fixed on her, watching all her motions, following her

about the room, not with the lingering loving looks of old, but with

an odd furtive glance; and there was a pitiful expression about his

mouth, too, at those times, which was not pleasant to behold. Marian

wondered what her husband was thinking of. It was a good thing that

she did not know; for as he looked at her---and his heart did not

refuse to acknowledge the prettiness, and the grace, and the dignity

which his eyes rested on--the old man was wondering within himself

what could have induced him, at his time of life, to marry again--what

could have induced her, seemingly all sweetness and kindness, to take

an inveterate hatred to those two poor girls, Maude and Gertrude, who

had been turned out of the house, forced to leave the home which they

had every right to consider theirs, and he had been too weak, too much

infatuated with Marian, to prevent the execution of her plans. But

that should not be. He was ill then, but he would soon be better, and

so soon as he found himself a little stronger he would assume his

proper position, and have the girls back again. He had been giving way

too much recently, and must assert himself. He was glad now he had

said nothing about giving up the election to any one save Marian, as

he should certainly go on with it--it would be a little healthy

excitement to him; he had suffered himself to fall into very dull

moping ways, but he would soon be all right. If he could only get rid

of that odd numbing pain in the left arm, he should soon be all right.

Little Dr. Osborne was in the habit of retiring to rest at an early

hour. In the old days, before his "girl" married, he liked to sit up

and hear her warble away at her piano, letting himself be gradually

lulled off to sleep by the music; and in later times, when his

fireside was lonely and when he was not expecting any special work, he

would frequently drive over to Woolgreaves, or to the Churchill's at

the Park, and play a rubber. But since he had quarrelled with Mrs.

Creswell, since her "most disrespectful treatment of him," as he

phrased it, he had never crossed the threshold at Woolgreaves, and the

people at the Park were away wintering in Italy, so that the little

doctor generally finished his modest tumbler of grog at half-past ten

and "turned in" soon after. He was a sound sleeper, his housekeeper

was deaf, and the maid, who slept up in the roof, never heard

anything, not even her own snoring, so that a late visitor had a bad

chance of making his presence known. A few nights after the events

just recorded, however, one of Mr. Creswell's grooms attached his

horse to the doctor's railings and gave himself up to performing on

the bell with such energy and determination, that after two minutes a

window opened and the doctor's voice was heard demanding, "Who's

there?"

"Sam, from Woolgreaves, doctor, wi' a note."

"From Woolgreaves!--a note! What's the matter?"

"Squire's bad, had a fit, I heerd housekeeper say, and madam she have

wrote this note for you! Come down, doctor; it's marked 'mediate,

madam said. Do come down!"

"Eh?--what--Woolgreaves--had a fit--Mrs. Creswell--I'm coming!" and

the window was shut, and in a few minutes Sam was shivering in the

hall, while the doctor read the note by the gaslight in his surgery.

"Hum!--'No doubt you'll be surprised'--should think so, indeed--'has

been long ill'--thought so when I saw him in the Corn Exchange on

Saturday--'just now had some kind of frightful seizure'--poor dear old

friend--'calls for you--insists on seeing you--for God's sake

come'--dear me, dear me!" And the doctor wiped his honest old eyes on

the back of his tattered old dressing-gown, and poured out a glass of

brandy for Sam, and another for himself, and gave the groom the key of

the stable, and bade him harness the pony, for he should be ready in

five minutes.

The house was all aroused, lights were gleaming in the windows, as the

doctor drove up the avenue, and Marian was standing in the hall when

he entered. She stepped forward to meet him, but there was something

in the old man's look which stopped her from putting out her hand as

she had intended, so they merely bowed gravely, and she led the way to

her husband's room, where she left him.

Half an hour elapsed before Dr. Osborne reappeared. His face was very

grave and his eyes were red. This time it was he who made the advance.

A year ago he would have put his arm round Marian's neck and kissed

her on the forehead. Those days were past, but he took her hand, and

in reply to her hurried question, "What do you think of him?" said, "I

think, Mrs. Creswell, that my old friend is very ill. It would be

useless to disguise it--very ill indeed. His life is an important one,

and you may think it necessary to have another opinion"--this a little

pompously said, and met with a gesture of dissent from Marian--"but in

mine, no time must be lost in removing him, I should say, abroad, far

away from any chance of fatigue or excitement."

"But, Dr. Osborne--the--the election!"

"To go through the election, Mrs. Creswell, would kill him at once! He

would never survive the nomination day!"

"It will be a dreadful blow to him," said Marian. But she thought to

herself, "Here is the chance of our escape from the humiliation of

defeat by Walter Joyce! A means of evoking sympathy instead of

contempt!"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

TOO LATE.

Dr. Osborne's opinion of Mr. Creswell's serious state, and the

absolute necessity for the old gentleman's immediate withdrawal from

everything calculated to cause worry or excitement, consequently from

the election, was soon promulgated through Brocksopp, and caused the

greatest consternation amongst the supporters of the Tory policy. Mr.

Teesdale was summoned at once to Woolgreaves, and there had a long

interview with Mrs. Creswell, who convinced him--he had been somewhat

incredulous at first, being a wary man of the world, and holding the

principle that doubt and disbelief were on the whole the safest and

most remunerative doctrines--that it was physically impossible for her

husband to continue the contest. The interview took place in the

large, carpeted, and furnished bow-window recess on the landing

immediately outside the door of Mr. Creswell's room, and, as Mr.

Teesdale afterwards remarked in conversation with Mr. Gould, whom he

summoned by telegraph from London, there was no question of any

malingering or shamming on the old gentleman's part, as he could be

heard groaning, poor old boy, in a very lamentable manner, and Dr.

Osborne, who called at the time, said his patient was by no means out

of the wood yet. Mr. Teesdale's talk, professional as it was, was

tinged with more sympathy and respect for the sufferer than were Mr.

Gould's remarks. Mr. Teesdale had other relations in business with Mr.

Creswell; he was his land agent and general business representative,

had known him intimately for years, and had experienced innumerable

kindnesses at his hands; whereas, Mr. Gould had simply made Mr.

Creswell's acquaintance in his capacity of Conservative candidates'

dry-nurse, and Mr. Creswell was to him merely an errant and peccant

ninepin, which, from fate or its own shortcomings, it was impossible

for him, skilful "setter-up" though he were, to put properly on end.

He saw this after five minutes' conversation with his local

representative, Mr. Teesdale, and saw that there was an end of his

chance, so far as Brocksopp was concerned. "It won't do here,

Teesdale," he said; "this finishes our business It hasn't looked very

promising throughout, but if this old character had gone to the poll,

and specially if he had said one or two things you could have crammed

him with on the nomination day, we might have pulled through! You see

he's so eminently respectable, and though he, of course, is not to be

compared with this young chap that Potter and Fyfe's people have got

hold of--and where they dug him up astonishes me! Newspaper office,

eh? 'Gad, we haven't got much of that sort of stuff in the newspaper

offices of our party-I'm not sure that we couldn't have got him in.

They'd have had the show of hands and the hurraying and all that; but

we know how much that's worth, and what with Sir George Neal's people

and our own, we could have run him deuced close, even if we didn't

win. Nuisance it is, too, for he's kept us from running anybody else.

There was young Clare, Sir Willis Clare's eldest son, was up in Pall

Mall the other day, ready to go in for anything, and with rather a

hankering for this place, which his father sat for once; but I said we

were booked, and now--confound it!"

Mr. Teesdale was scarcely less upset. He talked vaguely of getting Mr.

Creswell's consent, so soon, as he was sufficiently recovered to be

able to entertain the topic, to the substitution of some good

Conservative candidate in his place; but Mr. Gould treated this

proposition with a scornful laugh, and told him that they would have

had to do all they knew to pull Mr. Creswell through, and that to

attempt to run anybody else at that late period would be madness. So a

private meeting of the principal supporters of the party was held at

the Lion, and Mr. Gould--who had run up to London in the interim, and

had an interview with the chief wire-pullers--announced that in

consequence of Mr. Creswell's unfortunate illness, it had been decided

to withdraw him from the candidature, and, as there was no prospect of

success for any one else who might be started in the same interest, to

refrain from contesting the borough at this election. This

announcement was received in dead silence, broken by Mr. Croke's frank

and outspoken denunciation of the cowardice, the "trem'lousness," the

"not to put too foin p'int upon it, the funk" which seemed to have

seized upon some as "owt t' knaw better." The meeting was held in the

evening, most of the company present had steaming glasses of grog

before them, and Mr. Croke's outspoken oratory elicited a vast amount

of applause and knocking on the tables with the stalwart feet of the

tumblers. A young farmer of the neighbourhood, popular from his

openhandedness and, his skill in rifle-shooting--he was champion

badge-holder in the local volunteers--rose and suggested that any such

abject surrender as that proposed was ill-advised and inexpedient, and

sat down, after finishing a long rambling speech, the purport of which

was that some one should be put forward to fill the gap created by Mr.

Creswell's lamented but unavoidable illness. That the gap should be

filled, seemed to be a popular idea; but each of the ten or twelve

speakers who subsequently addressed the meeting had different people

for the post: and it was not until Mr. Teesdale pointed out the utter

futility of attempting to begin the fight anew under a fresh banner,

confessing that they would have had very great difficulty in bringing

matters to a successful issue even with all the prestige of Mr.

Creswell's name and position, that it seemed to dawn upon the meeting

that their chance was hopeless. This had been told them at the outset

by Mr. Gould; but he was from London, and, consequently, in the ideas

of the farmers present, steeped in duplicity of every kind, and

labouring under an impossibility of truth-speaking. Mr. Teesdale had

infinitely more weight with his audience. They knew him as a man whose

word was to be relied on, and the impossibility of doing anything

beyond swallowing the bitter pill was acknowledged among them from

that moment. True, that the pill was so bitter as to require the

consumption of an extraordinary amount of brandy-and-water to get it

down, a fact which helped to console old Tilley, the landlord, for the

shock to his political principles. It is to be noted, also, that after

the withdrawal of Messrs. Gould and Teesdale, the meeting gave itself

up to harmony of a lugubrious character, and dismal ditties, mixed

with fierce denunciations of democrats and reformers, were borne away

on the still night air.

So, within a day or two, the walls of Brocksopp were covered with

placards signed in Mr. Creswell's name, setting forth the sad cause

which prevented him from further exertion in the interests of freedom

and purity of election, lamenting the impossibility of being able

conscientiously to recommend a proper candidate to the constituency at

so short a notice, but bidding the electors not to despair so long as

there remained to them a House of Lords and an omniscient aristocracy.

This document, which was the production of Mr. Teesdale (Mr. Gould had

been called away to superintend certain other strongholds where the

fortifications showed signs of crumbling), was supplemented by the

copy of a medical certificate from Dr. Osborne, which stated that Mr.

Creswell's condition was such as to imperatively demand the utmost

quietude, and that any such excitement as that to be caused by

entering on an election contest would probably cost him his life.

The news was already known at the enemy's headquarters. On the morning

after the meeting at the Lion, Mr. Harrington, who had been duly

informed of all that had taken place by a spy in whom he could place

implicit confidence, walked over to Shuttleworth, the nearest

telegraphic station, and thence despatched the following enigmatic

message to his firm: "Brocksopp Stakes. Old Horse broken down in

training. Our Colt will walk over." It happened that Mr. Potter was

alone when this telegram arrived, and to him it was utterly

unintelligible; but Mr. Fyfe, who came in shortly afterwards, and who

was acquainted with and tolerant of the vagaries of his clerk's

intellect, soon guessed at the situation, and explained it to his

partner.

So it fell out that the election for Brocksopp, which had attracted

attention even amongst great people in the political world, and which

was looked forward to with intense interest in the neighbourhood,

passed off in the quietest and tamest manner. The mere fact of the

knowledge that there was to be no opposition, no contest, robbed the

nomination day of all its interest to hundreds of farmers in outlying

places, who did not care to give up a day's work when there was to be

no "scrimmage" as a requital for their sacrifice of time; and the

affair was consequently thoroughly orderly and commonplace. There were

comparatively few persons present, and five minutes after Joyce's

speech, in which he returned thanks for the honour done to him, and

alluded with much nice feeling to his late opponent's illness, had

concluded, the market-square was deserted, and the clumsy hustings

remained the sole memorial of the event to which so many had looked

forward for so long.

Jack Byrne was horribly disgusted at the tame manner in which the

victory had been won. The old man's life had been passed in the arena:

he was never as happy as when he or some of his chosen friends were on

the verge of conflict; and to see the sponge thrown up when the boy

whom he had trained with so much care, and on whom he placed every

dependence, was about to meet with, a foeman worthy of his steel, who

would take an immense deal of beating, and whom it would be a signal

honour to vanquish, annoyed the old free lance beyond measure. It was

only by constantly repeating to himself that his boy, his Walter, whom

he had picked up starving and friendless at Bliffkins's coffee-house,

was now a member of Parliament, with the opportunity of uttering in

the British senate those doctrines which he had so often thundered

forth amidst the vociferous applause of the club, those opinions with

which he, old Jack Byrne, had indoctrinated him, that he was able to

perceive that, although without any grand blaze of triumph, a great

result had been achieved. Mr. Harrington, too, was by no means pleased

that all his jockeyship should have been thrown away on so tame an

event. He admitted as much to Mr. South, the local agent, who was

mildly rejoicing in the bloodless victory, and who was grateful for

the accident by which success had been secured. Mr. Harrington

entirely dissented from this view of the case. "I call it hard," he

said, "deuced hard, that when I had reduced the thing to a moral, when

I had made all arrangements for a waiting race, letting the other side

go ahead, as I knew they would, making the running like mad, and

getting pumped before the distance; we waiting on them quietly, and

then just at the last coming with a rush, and beating them on the

post,--I say it is deuced hard when a fellow has given all his time

and brains to arranging this; to find he's reduced to a mere w.o. To

be sure, as you say, one collars the stakes all the same, but still it

ain't sport!"

There was one person, however, to whom the knowledge that the election

had gone off flatly was delightful--Marian Creswell. As she had stood

that night in her dressing-gown, with her dishevelled hair hanging

over her shoulders, listening to Dr. Osborne's verdict on her

husband's state, she had seen in his strongly pronounced opinion a

safe, plausible, and immediate chance of escape from that most dreaded

defeat by Walter Joyce at the election; and though she had apparently

received the decision with deepest regret, she was inwardly delighted.

At all events, there would be no absolute victory. Walter Joyce could

not go away and tell his friends in the great world in London that he

had defeated his adversary. No one could say what might have been the

issue of the contest had Mr. Creswell's health not given way; and

Marian was perfectly confident that Walter's chivalrous nature would

prevent his ever mentioning to any one the interview which had taken

place between him and her, or what passed thereat. On the whole, it

was the best thing that could have happened for her. She had for some

time foreseen that there was no chance of establishing herself in

society through the election as she had once hoped; and anything would

be better than that she should suffer defeat--absolute defeat--in a

matter which she had so nearly at heart.

Anything? her husband's illness, dangerous illness, for instance? Yes,

anything. She had never pretended to herself that she had loved Mr.

Creswell. She had done her duty by him strictly, even to casting out

all thoughts, all remembrance, of the lover of her youth; and it is an

odd and not a very gratifying sign of the weakness of the human heart

to think that Marian had frequently taken credit to herself for the

sense of wifely duty which had induced her to eliminate all memories

of early days, and all recollections of Walter Joyce, from her mind.

Her husband was very much her senior; she could not have hoped that he

would live very long, and if he were to be removed---- There was,

however, no question of that at present. Within a few days of the

attack to which Dr. Osborne had been called, Mr. Creswell had

recovered consciousness, and gradually had so far mended as to be able

to take interest in what was passing round him. One of his first

expressed wishes was to see Mr. Benthall, and when that gentleman, who

was very much touched by the sight of the old man's altered

expression, and wandering eyes, and strange twitching face, was left

alone with him, he asked hurriedly, but earnestly, for news of the

girls, his nieces, and seemed much relieved when he heard they were

well and happy. To Marian her husband's manner was wonderfully

altered. He was kind always, occasionally affectionate, but he seemed

to have lost all that utter trust, that reliant worship, which had so

characterised his attentions to her in the early days of their

marriage. Of the election he spoke freely, expressing his sorrow for

the disappointment which his friends would suffer owing to his forced

defection, and his pleasure that, since a representative of opposite

politics must necessarily be chosen, the town would have the advantage

of returning a man with the high character which he had heard on all

sides ascribed to Mr. Joyce. When, on the evening of the nomination

day, Mr. Teesdale waited on his chief, and detailed to him all that

had taken place, dwelling on the mention which Joyce had made of his

absent opponent, and the high opinion which he had expressed of him,

the old gentleman was very much moved, and sank back on his pillows

perfectly overcome. Marian by no means appreciated Mr. Teesdale that

evening, and got rid of him as soon as possible. She was much pained

at the display of what she considered her husband's weakness, and

determined on following Dr. Osborne's advice as to removing him as

soon as he was able to travel. It was noted just at that time that

Mrs. Creswell spoke far more favourably of her husband's state of

health than she had done for some time previously, and betrayed an

unmistakable desire to get him away from Brocksopp neighbourhood and

influences without delay.

When Dr. Osborne was consulted on the matter, he said that as the

election, which was the greatest risk of excitement for his patient,

had now passed by, it would depend greatly on Mr. Creswell's own

feelings and wishes as to whether he should leave his home. A change

would most probably be beneficial; but the doctor knew that his old

friend had always been wedded to his home, and had a great aversion to

being away from it when no absolute necessity for his absence existed.

However, Mr. Creswell, when appealed to, seemed to have lost any vivid

interest in this as in all other matters of his life. He answered,

mechanically, that he would do just as they thought best, that he had

no feeling one way or the other about it, only let them decide. He

said this in the wearied tone which had now become habitual to him;

and he looked at them with dim, lustreless eyes, out of which all

expression seemed to have faded. Dr. Osborne tried to rouse him, but

with such little success that he began to think Mr. Creswell's malady

must have made rapid progress; and he took an early opportunity of

submitting him to another examination.

Marian was not aware of this. She met the doctor coming out of her

husband's room. They were on semi-friendly terms now, and she said to

him--

"I was coming to you, doctor, this afternoon. I have just settled to

take Mr. Creswell away for a few weeks, but of course I wanted you to

see him before he went. And now you have seen him?"

"Yes; I have just left him."

"And what do you say?"

"I say that he must not be moved, Mrs. Creswell; that he must remain

here at home, with every comfort that he may require, and that he must

be carefully watched and tended by us all."

"Do you find him changed--for the worse? I thought myself that I had

noticed during the last few days---- Do you apprehend any immediate

danger?"

"He is very much changed for the worse; the disease has made great

progress, and if he were suddenly disturbed or excited I would not

answer for the consequences."

"I did right, then, in refusing Mr. Teesdale access to him, yesterday.

There is some disputed election account, and Mr. Teesdale was most

urgent to see Mr. Creswell, but I thought it better to prevent him."

"You aid perfectly right; he must be denied to everybody save those

immediately around him, and all matters of business and anything

likely to excite or worry him in the least must be studiously kept

from him."

They were descending the stairs as the doctor spoke, and in the hall

they found Mr. Teesdale, who had just ridden up in hot haste, and was

parleying with one of the servants. He took off his hat when he saw

Mrs. Creswell and the doctor, and was about to speak, but Marian was

before him--"I hope you are not again wishing to see my husband, Mr.

Teesdale, as I shall be compelled again to refuse you! Dr. Osborne

here will tell you that I am acting in accordance with his strict

orders." And the doctor then repeated to the agent all that he had

just said to Marian.

"It's an uncommonly vexatious thing," said Mr. Teesdale, when the

doctor had concluded: "of course it can't be helped, and whatever you

say must be attended to, but it's horribly annoying."

"What is it?" asked Dr. Osborne.

"A matter of Ramsay's, that truculent brute of a fellow who holds the

White Farm down Helmingham way. He's made a claim that I know the

chief wouldn't acknowledge, and that consequently I daren't pay;

though, knowing the fellow as I do, I'm not sure it wouldn't be safest

and best in the long run."

"Wiry don't you act on your own responsibility, then?"

"Not I The chief had a throw-up with this man before, and declared he

would never give in to him again. He's an ill-conditioned scoundrel,

and vows all kind of vengeance if he isn't paid."

"My good friend," said the doctor, "you and I know pretty well that

Mr. Creswell is able to laugh at the threatened vengeance of a person

like this Mr. Ramsay. I must not have my patient disturbed for any

such matters. Carry on the business yourself, Teesdale. I know what

trust Mr. Creswell places in you, and I know how well it is deserved."

"Then I shall tell Mr. Ramsay to go to----"

"Exactly," said the doctor, interrupting. "You could not consign him

to more fitting company."

On the evening of the second day from this colloquy, Marian returned

from a long drive in her pony carriage, during which her thoughts had

been of anything but a cheerful character. She had been suffering from

that horrible sinking of heart which comes sometimes, we know not why,

bringing with it the impression that something, we know not what, save

that it is unpleasant, is impending over us. When she alighted, she

inquired whether Mr. Creswell had rung for anything, and whether Dr.

Osborne had called, and received answers in the negative in both

cases. A letter marked "immediate" had come for master, that was all.

A letter! Where was it? Mr. Barlow, the butler, had taken it up to

master's room, the valet being out. Marian heard of the arrival of

this letter with a strange sense of fear, and hurried up to her

husband's room.

She entered noiselessly and advanced quickly to the bed. Mr. Creswell

was lying back, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes closed,

his face very gray and rigid. She thought at first that he was dead,

and half screamed and called him by his name, but then, without

speaking, without looking, he unclasped his hands, pointed to a folded

paper on the coverlet, and then resumed his former position. The

letter! She took it up and read it eagerly. It was dated from the

White Farm, and signed John Ramsay. It commenced with setting forth

his claims to money which was due to him, and which he knew would have

been paid "had the squire been about," and it proceeded to revile Mr.

Teesdale, and to declare that he was robbing his employer, and

"feathering his own nest." The last paragraph ran thus--

"And you must be sharp and get about again, squire, and look to your

own. You are bamboozled and cheated in every way right under your

nose, in your own house, by your own wife. Why, it's common talk in

the town how you was done in the election by Mrs. C. She had young

Joyce for a sweetheart long before she knew you, when he was a school

usher, and gave him the sack and threw him over when she wanted you

and your money, which she always hankered after, and took on with him

again when she saw him down here, and got that old thief Osborne,

which overcharges the poor for his beastly drugs, to square it and

keep you out of the fun."

As Marian read and re-read this paragraph she turned sick at heart and

thought she should have fainted, but was recalled to herself by a cold

clammy touch on her wrist, and looking down she saw her husband's eyes

open and his lips moving. Standing over him she heard him say--"Is it

true?"

"True! how can you ask me such a question? I swear it is not."

"No, no, not the last part of course but any of it? That young

man--was he fond of you--were you engaged?"

A bright flush suffused her face, but she answered steadily, "We

were."

"And what made you break with him? Why did you quarrel? You don't

answer. Is the letter right? Did you give him up for me? Did you let

my position, my money, weigh more with you than his love and his

heart? Did you do this?"

"And suppose I did--what then?" said Marian, with flashing eyes--"are

you here to plead his cause? Have I not been a dutiful and a proper

wife to you? You yourself have just spoken of this vile slander with

the scorn it deserves Of what then do you complain?"

"Of nothing. I complain of nothing, save perhaps of your ignorance of

me! Ah, good heavens did you know me so little as to think that your

happiness was not my aim, not so much my own? Did you not know that my

love for you was so little selfish, that if I had had the least dream

of your engagement to this young man, I should have taken such delight

in forwarding it and providing for you both? You would have been near

me still, you would have been a daughter to me, and---- Lift me up the

cordial--quick!" and he fell back in a faint.

Dr. Osborne was sent for, and came at once, but it was plain to all

that Mr. Creswell's end was at hand. He had two severe paroxysms of

pain, and then lay perfectly still and tranquil. Marian was sitting by

his bedside, and in the middle of the night she felt his hand plucking

at the sleeve of her gown. She roused herself and looked at him. His

eyes were open, and there was a bright, happy expression on his thin

face. His mind was wandering far away, back to the early days of his

poverty and his struggles, and she who had shared both was with him.

He pulled Marian to him, and she leaned eagerly forward; but it

was not of her he was thinking. "Jenny!" he said, and his tongue

reverted to the old familiar dialect which it had not used for so many

years--"Jenny! coom away, lass! Taim's oop!--that's t' mill bell

ringin'! Thou'rt a brave lass, and we've had hard taim of it; but

we're near t' end now! Kiss me, Jenny! Always good and brave,

lass--always----" And so he died.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

FOR ONCE GERTRUDE TAKES THE LEAD.

The lives of the two girls at Lady Caroline's were so completely

happy, that they were induced to doubt whether they had ever really

lived before. The difference between their rackety, disorderly,

Bohemian existence while their father was alive, the pinched and

poverty-stricken home which they shared with their mother until her

death, and the refined comforts and luxuries which awaited them at

their uncle's, was, of course, very great. But they were too young to

feel it at the time, and they had come to look upon Woolgreaves as

their home, and until Marian Ashurst entered upon it as its mistress,

as an epitome of everything that was charming. Lady Caroline's house

was much smaller than Woolgreaves; her income, probably, was nothing

like their uncle's; and yet about her house and her servants, her

carriage, and everything she had, there was a stamp of refinement and

of good taste, springing from high breeding, such as they had never

witnessed, even under Mrs. Creswell's _régime_; and whatever other

fault the girls found with Mrs. Creswell, they invariably allowed her

the possession of good taste. And Lady Caroline herself was so

different, so immeasurably superior to any woman they had ever seen.

With the exception of Lady Churchill, they had known no one save the

village people and the wives of the principal manufacturers at

Brocksopp, who had been daughters of other principal manufacturers at

Shuttleworth and Combcardingham, and might have been made in one

mould, or punched out of one piece; and Lady Churchill was a stupid

old woman in a brown front, who, as Gertrude knew, said "obleege,"

and "apurn" for apron, and "know-ledge," and nearly drove you mad by

the way in which she stared at you, and rubbed her nose with a

knitting-needle, while you were attempting to find conversation for

her. But, in the girls' eyes, Lady Caroline was perfection; and it

would have been indeed odd had they not thought her so, as, for

reasons best known to herself, she went in more determinedly to make

herself agreeable to them than she had done to any one for some years

previous.

One reason was that she liked the girls, and was agreeably

disappointed in them; had expected to find them provincial

_parvenues_, thrown upon her by their quarrel with a person of similar

position and disposition with themselves, and had found them quiet

lady-like young women, unpretentious, unobtrusive, and thoroughly

grateful to her for the home which she had offered them in their time

of need. From the step which she had taken so chivalrously Lady

Caroline never shrank, but she told the girls plainly, in the presence

of Mr. Joyce, that she thought it highly desirable that the fact of

their being there as her guests should be officially made known to Mr.

Creswell, to whom every consideration was due. As to Mrs. Creswell,

there was no necessity to acknowledge her in the matter; but Mr.

Creswell was not merely their nearest blood relation, but, until

adverse influences had been brought to bear upon him, he had proved

himself their most excellent friend; and even at the last, so far as

Lady Caroline could gather from Gertrude, had made some feeble kind of

fight against their leaving his house. Mr. Joyce and the girls

themselves were also of this opinion, Gertrude jumping at the prospect

of any reconciliation with "dear old uncle," but avowing her

determination to have nothing more to do with "that horrid madam;" and

it was on Maude's suggestion, backed by Walter, that the services of

Mr. Gould were employed for mediatory purposes. This was just before

the election, and Mr. Gould declared it was utterly impossible for him

to attend to anything that did not relate to blue and yellow topics;

but a little later he wrote a very kind letter, announcing Mr.

Creswell's illness, and deploring the strict necessity for keeping

from the old gentleman any subjects of an exciting nature.

The corroboration of this bad news was brought to the little household

in Chesterfield Street by Mr. Benthall, who, about that time, ran up

to London for a week, and, it is needless to say, lost very little

time in presenting himself to Miss Gertrude. The relations between the

Helmingham schoolmaster and Gertrude Creswell were, of course,

perfectly well known to Lady Caroline through Walter Joyce, who had

explained to her ladyship that the causeless exclusion of Mr. Benthall

from Woolgreaves had been the means of bringing about the final

domestic catastrophe, and had led more immediately than anything else

to the departure of the young ladies from their uncle's house. So that

Lady Caroline was predisposed in the clergyman's favour, and the

predisposition was by no means decreased when she made his

acquaintance, and found him to be one of the Shropshire Benthalls,

people of excellent family (a fact which always has immense weight

with other people who can make the same boast), and essentially a man

of the world and of society. A girl like Gertrude Creswell, who,

charming though she was, was clearly nobody, might think herself lucky

in getting a man of family to marry her. Of course, Mrs. Creswell

could not understand that kind of thing, and took a mere pounds,

shillings, and pence view of the question; but Mrs. Creswell had no

real dominion over her husband's nieces, and as that husband was now

too ill to be appealed to, and the girls were staying under her

chaperonage, she should, in the exercise of her discretion, give Mr.

Benthall full opportunity for seeing as much of Gertrude as he chose.

Lady Caroline did not come to this determination without consulting

Walter Joyce, and Walter did not express his opinion without

consulting Maude Creswell, of whose clear head and calm common sense

he had conceived a high opinion. The joint decision being favourable,

Mr. Benthall had a very happy holiday in London, finding, if such a

thing were possible, his regard for Gertrude increased by the scarcely

hidden admiration which the bright complexion, pretty hair, and trim

figure of the country girl evoked from the passers-by in the public

places to which he escorted her. Indeed, so completely changed by an

honest passion for an honest girl was this, at one time, selfish and

calculating man of the world, that he was most anxious to marry

Gertrude at once, without any question of settlement or reference to

her uncle, declaring that, however Mrs. Creswell might now choose to

sneer at it, the school income had maintained a gentleman and his wife

before, and could be made to do so again.

Mr. Benthall spoke with such earnestness, that Joyce conceived a much

higher opinion of him than he had hitherto entertained, and would have

counselled Lady Caroline to lend her aid to the accomplishment of the

schoolmaster's wish, had it not been for Maude, who pointed out that

in such a case a reference was undoubtedly due to their uncle, no

matter what might be his supposed state of health. If he were really

too ill to have the matter submitted to him, and an answer--which, of

course, would be unfavourable--were to be received from Mrs. Creswell,

they might then act on their own responsibility, with the feeling that

they had done their duty towards the old gentleman, and without the

smallest care as to what his wife might say.

This view of Maude's, expressed to Joyce with much diffidence, at once

convinced him of its soundness, and a little conversation with those

most interested showed them the wisdom of adopting it.

Mr. Benthall wrote a straightforward manly letter to Mr. Creswell,

asking consent to his marriage with Gertrude. The day after its

despatch, Maude the impassible, who was reading the _Times_, gave a

suppressed shriek, and let the paper fall to the ground. Joyce, who

was sitting close by talking to Lady Caroline, picked it up, and read

in it the announcement of Mr. Creswell's death.

Of course this news caused an indefinite postponement of the marriage.

The two girls grieved with deep and heartfelt sorrow for the loss of

the kind old man. All little differences of the past few months were

forgotten. Marian had no part in their thoughts, which were all of the

early days, when, two miserable little orphans, they were received at

Woolgreaves, at once put into the position of daughters of the house,

and where their every wish was studied and gratified.

Gertrude's grief was especially violent, and she raved against the

hard fate which had separated them from their uncle at a time when

they would have so much wished to have been near him to minister to

and nurse him.

Evidence soon came that Mr. Creswell's sense of what was honourable

and right had prevented him from allowing any recent events to

influence his intentions towards his nieces. In his will they were

mentioned as "my dearly loved Maude and Gertrude, daughters of my

deceased brother Thomas, who have been to me as my own daughters

during the greater part of their lives;" and to each of them was left

the sum of ten thousand pounds on their coming of age or marriage.

There were a few legacies to old servants and local charities, five

hundred pounds each to Dr. Osborne and Mr. Teesdale, his two

executors, and "all the rest of my property, real and personal, of

every kind whatsoever, to my beloved wife Marian."

"And my beloved wife Marian will have about fifteen thousand a year,

as near as I can fix it," said Mr. Teesdale, as he left Woolgreaves,

after the reading of the will; "and if the railway people take that

twenty acres off that infernal Jack Ramsay's farm, about a couple of

thou' more!"

It was not to be supposed that Mr. Benthall professed himself

indifferent to the splendid legacy which Gertrude had inherited. As he

had been willing and anxious to take her for herself, and to share

what he had with her, so he was very much pleased to find that their

future would be rendered considerably less anxious, and more

comfortable than they had anticipated, and in his honest open-hearted

way he did not scruple to say so.

The death of their uncle did not make any difference in the course of

the girls' lives. They still remained with Lady Caroline, whose regard

for them seemed to increase daily; and it was understood that they

would continue to inhabit Chesterfield Street until Gertrude was

married, and that after that event Maude would frequently return

there, making it her London home, and visiting it whenever she was not

staying with her sister. So at least Lady Caroline proposed, and

begged Mr. Benthall to make the suggestion to Maude at the first

convenient opportunity. The opportunity occurred very shortly, and

arose from Maude's saying, when they were sitting together one

morning--

"I saw Mr. Joyce yesterday, George, and took occasion to ask his

advice on that matter."

"And what might that matter be, Maude? There are so many matters of

importance on just now, that you must be more definite."

"It is well Gertrude is not here to hear you! In your present

condition there should be only one matter of any importance to you,

and that of course is--"

"Our marriage--to be sure! Well, you asked Joyce--what a wonderful

fellow he is, by the way; his parliamentary business does not seem the

least to have interfered with his writing, and with it all he seems to

find time to come up here two or three times a week."

"He has the highest regard for Lady Caroline, and the greatest respect

for her judgment," said Maude.

"Naturally, so have we all," said Mr. Benthall, with a gradually

spreading smile.

"Yes; but Mr. Joyce consults her in--how ridiculous you are, George!

you're always saying stupid things and forgetting your subject. What

were we talking about?"

"I like that; and you talk about forgetfulness! You were saying that

you had spoken to Mr. Joyce about my marriage, though why you should

have----"

"Don't be tiresome, you know what I mean! He perfectly agrees with you

in thinking there is no necessity for postponing the marriage any

further. Poor uncle has now been dead three months, and you have no

necessity to consider whether Mrs. Creswell might think it too soon

after that event or not!"

"We have no reason to be bound by what she would say, but I think it

would be only right in Gertrude to write and tell her that the wedding

is about to take place."

"That you and Gertrude must settle between you. For my part, I should

not think of---- However, I confess my judgment is not to be relied on

when that person is in question." Then she added in a low voice, and

more as if speaking to herself, "How strange it will seem to be away

from Gerty!"

Benthall heard the remark, and he took Maude's hand as he said, "But

you won't be away from her, dear Maude! We have all of us talked over

your future, and Gertrude and I hope you will make your home with us,

though Lady Caroline insists on claiming you for some portion of the

year."

"You are all of you very good, George," said Maude; "you know how much

I should love to be with you and Gerty, and what gratitude and

affection I have for Lady Caroline. But I don't think the life you

have proposed would exactly suit me."

"Not suit you, Maude?" cried Mr. Benthall in astonishment; "why, what

would you propose to do?"

"I cannot say exactly, though I have some ideas about it which I can't

clearly express. You see I shall never be married, George--don't laugh

at me, please, I'm speaking quite seriously--and there is this large

sum of money which uncle left me, and which I don't think should be

either squandered away or left lying idle!"

"Why, my dear, what on earth do you propose to do with the money?"

asked practical Mr. Benthall.

"To put it to some good use, I hope; to use it and my own time and

services in doing good, in benefiting those who need it----"

"You're not going to give it to the missionaries, or any rubbish of

that kind, I trust," interrupted Mr. Benthall. "Look here, Maude,

depend upon it---- Oh! here's her ladyship, don't say a word about it

before her. Good morning, Lady Caroline! This young lady and I have

been discussing the propriety of writing to Mrs. Creswell announcing

Gertrude's approaching marriage."

"I don't think there can be a doubt as to the propriety of such a

course," said Lady Caroline. "Of course, whatever she might say about

it would not make the slightest difference to us."

"Of course not."

"But I don't think you need fear any disagreeables. Mrs. Creswell is

in a very different position now from that which she held when she

thought fit to behave badly to those young ladies, and their relations

with her are also quite altered. And by all accounts she is quite

sufficient woman of the world to understand and appreciate this."

Lady Caroline was right. In reply to Gertrude's letter announcing her

marriage, came a most affectionate note from Marian to her "dearest

Gertrude," congratulating her most heartily; complimenting her on her

choice of a husband; delighting in the prospect of their living so

near to her; hoping to see much of them; regretting that her recent

bereavement prevented her being present at the ceremony, or having it

take place, as she should so much have wished, at Woolgreaves; and

begging permission to send the enclosed, as her contribution, to aid

in the setting up of the new household; and the enclosure was a cheque

for three hundred pounds.

Mr. Benthall winced a little when he saw the cheque, and Mr. Joyce

gave a very grim smile when his friend informed him of the affair; but

advised Mr. Benthall to pocket the money, which Mr. Benthall did. As

has been said, he did not pretend to despise money; but he was

essentially a gentleman in his notions as to the acceptance of

favours. He had thought several times about that conversation with

Maude, in which she had mentioned the manner in which she had wished

to dispose of her fortune and her future. This had caused Mr. Benthall

some uneasiness; he had no hankering after his future sister-in-law's

fortune; there was nothing he would have liked so much as to see her

happily married; but he did not like the idea of the money being

foolishly invested in useless charity or gotten hold of by

pseudo-philanthropists. A conversation which he had with Gertrude a

few days before their marriage seemed, however, to do away with all

his fears, and render him perfectly easy in his mind on this point. A

short conversation which ended thus--

"And you're sure of it, Gerty?"

"Positive! I've thought so a long time--now I'm sure! And you must be

a great goose, George, not to have noticed it yourself."

"I am not a great goose, and I certainly had some suspicions at one

time; but---- Well, now, that would be highly satisfactory."

"Do you think there is anything remaining from--from the other one,

George?"

"From the other one? You mean from Mrs.---- Not the remotest thought

of her even."

"Well, then, it rests with him entirely. Wouldn't it be nice for them

both?"

"It would, indeed--and for us too. Well, we'll see what can be done."

Enigmatical, but apparently satisfactory.