# Wrecked in Port/Book III, Chapter XII

Chapter XII.Marian's Resolve.
To have an income of fifteen thousand a year, and to be her own mistress, would, one would have imagined, have placed Marian Creswell on the pinnacle of worldly success, and rendered her perfectly happy. In the wildest day-dreams of her youth she had never thought of attaining such an income, and such a position as that income afforded her. The pleasures of that position she had only just begun to appreciate; for the life at Woolgreaves, though with its domestic comforts, its carriages and horses and attentive servants, infinitely superior to the life in the Helmingham school-house, had no flavour of the outside world. Her place in her particnlar sphere was very much elevated, but that sphere was as circumscribed as ever. It was not until after her husband's death that Marian felt she had really come into her kingdom. The industrious gentlemen who publish in the newspapers extracts from the last wills and testaments of rich or distinguished persons, thereby planting a weekly dagger in the bosoms of the impecunious, who are led by a strange kind of fascination to read of the enormous sums gathered and bequeathed, had of course not overlooked the testamentary disposition of Mr. Creswell, "of Woolgreaves, and Charleycourt Mills, Brocksopp, cotton-spinner and mill-owner," but had nobly placed him at the head of one of their weekly lists. So that when Mrs. Creswell "and suite," as they were good enough to describe her servants in the local papers, arrived at the great hotel at Turnbridge Wells, the functionaries of that magnificent establishment—great creatures accustomed to associate with the salt of the earth, and having a proper contempt, which they do not suffer themselves to disguise, for the ordinary traveller—were fain to smile on her, and to give her such a welcome as only the knowledge of the extent to which they intended mulcting her in the bill could possibly have extorted from them. The same kindly feeling towards her animated all the sojourners in that pleasant watering-place. No sooner her name appeared in the Strangers' List, no sooner had it been buzzed about that she was the Mrs. Creswell, whose husband had recently died, leaving her so wonderfully well off, than she became an object of intense popular interest.
Two ladies of title—the widow of a viscount (Irish), and the wife of a baronet (English), insolvent, and at that moment in exile in the island of Coll, there hiding from his creditors—left cards on her, and earnestly desired the pleasure of her acquaintance. The roistering youth of the place, the East India colonels, the gay dogs superannuated from the government offices, the retired business men, who, in the fallow leisure of their lives, did what they would—all looked en her with longing eyes, and set their wits to work on all sorts of schemes to compass knowing her. Over laymen the clergy have a great advantage, their mission is in itself sufficient introduction, and lists of all the local charities, district churches to be erected, parsonages to be repaired, and schools to be established, had been presented by those interested in them to the rich widow in person before she had been forty-eight hours in the place.
It was very pleasant, this popularity, this being sought after and courted and ​made much of, and Marian enjoyed it thoroughly. Unquestionably, she had never enjoyed anything so much in her previous life, and her enjoyment had no alloy. For although just before her husband's death, and for some little time after, she had had certain twinges of conscience as to the part she had acted in leaving him ignorant of all her relations with Walter Joyce when she married him, that feeling had soon died away. Before leaving home she had had a keen experience of absolute enjoyment in signing cheques with her own name, and in being consulted by Mr. Teesdale as to some business of her estate, and this feeling increased very much during her stay at Tunbridge Wells. Nevertheless, she did not remain there very long; she was pleased at being told that her duties required her at home, and she was by no means one to shirk such duties as the management of an enormous property involved.
So Marian Creswell went back to Woolgreaves, and busied herself in learning the details of her inheritance, in receiving from Mr. Teesdale an account of his past stewardship, and listening to his propositions for the future. It was very pleasant at first; there were so many figures, the amounts involved were so enormous; there were huge parchment deeds to look at, and actual painted maps of her estates. She had imagined that during that period just prior to their marriage, when she made herself useful to Mr. Creswell, she had acquired some notion of his wealth, but she now found she had not heard of a tenth part of it. There was a slate quarry in Wales, a brewery in Leamington, interest in Australian ships, liens on Indian railways, and house property in London. There seemed no end to the wealth, and for the first few weeks, looking at the details of it with her own eyes, or listening to the account of it in Mr. Teesdale's sonorous voice, afforded her real pleasure. Then gradually, and almost imperceptibly, came back upon her that feeling which had overwhelmed her in her husband's lifetime, of which she had gotten rid for some little space, but which now returned with fifty-fold force, "What is the good of it all?"
What indeed? She sat in the midst of her possessions more lonely than the poorest cotter on any of her estates, less cared for than the worn-out miner, for whom, after his day's toil, his wife prepared the evening meal, and his children huddled at his knee. Formerly her husband had been there, with his kindly face and his soft voice, and she had known that, notwithstanding all difference of age and temperament between them, so long as he lived there was one to love her with a devotion which is the lot of few in this world. Now he was gone, and she was alone. Alone! It was a maddening thought to a woman of Marian's condition, without the consolation of religion, without the patience calmly to accept her fate, without the power of bowing to the inevitable. Where money was concerned she could hardly bring herself to recognise the inevitable, could scarcely understand that people of her wealth should, against their own will, be left alone in this world, and that love, friendship, and all their sweet associations, could not be bought.
Love and friendship! Of the latter she could scarcely be said to have had any experience; for Marian Ashurst was not a girl who made friends, and Mrs. Creswell found no one equal to being admitted to such a bond; and as to the former, though she had enjoyed it once, she had almost forgotten all about it. It came back to her, however, as she thought over it; all the sweet words, the soft endearing epithets, and the loving looks came back to her; all the fond memory of that time when, for a period, the demon of avarice was stilled, the gnawing desire for money, and what money in her idea might bring, was quenched; when she was honestly proud of her lover, happy in the present, and expectant of the future. She recollected the poor dresses and the cheap trinkets which she had in those days; the wretched little presents which she and Walter had exchanged, and the pleasure she experienced at receiving them at his hands. She remembered the locket, with her portrait, which she had given him, and wondered what had become of it. He had it, doubtless, still, for he had never returned it to her, not even in that first wild access of rage which he may have felt at the receipt of the letter announcing her intended marriage, nor since, when he had cooled down into comparative carelessness. Surely that argued something in her favour? Surely that showed that he had yet some lingering regard for her? In all that had been told her of him, and specially during the election time she had heard much, no mention had ever been made of any woman to whom he was paying attention. She had thought of that before; she remembered it delightedly now. Could it be that in the secret ​recesses of his heart there glimmered yet, unquenched, a spark of love for her, the idol of his youth? It was not unlikely, she thought; he was very romantic, as she remembered him, just the sort of man in whom commerce with the world would be insufficient to blot out early impressions, to efface cherished ideals.
Could it be possible that the great crisis in her life was yet to come? That the opportunity was yet to be given her of having wealth and position, and, to share them with her, a husband whom she could love, and of whom she could be proud? Her happiness seemed almost too great; and yet it was there on the cards before her. Forgetting all she had done, and shutting her eyes to the fact that she herself had made an enormous gulf between them, she blindly argued to herself that it was impossible such love as Walter Joyce's for her could ever be wholly eradicated, that some spark of its former fire must yet remain in its ashes, and needed but tact and opportunity on her part to fan it again into a flame. What would not life be, then, were that accomplished? She had been pleased with the notion of entering society as Mr. Creswell's wife (poor, prosaic Mr. Creswell!), but as the wife of Walter Joyce, who was, according to Mr. Gould, one of the most rising men of the day, and who would have her fortune at his back to further his schemes and advance his interests, what might not be done! Marian glowed with delight at this ecstatic day-dream; sat cherishing it for hours, thinking over all kinds of combinations; finally put it aside with the full determination to take some steps towards seeing Walter Joyce at once.
How lucky it was, she thought, that she had behaved amiably on the announcement of Gertrude Creswell's marriage, and not, as she had felt inclined at first to do, returned a savage, or at best a formal, answer! These people, these Benthalls, were just those through whose agency her designs must be carried out. They were very friendly with Walter, and of course saw something of him; indeed, she had heard that he was expected down to stay at Helmingham, so soon as he could get away from London. If she played her cards well—not too openly at first, but with circumspection—she might make good use of these people; and as they would not be too well off, even with the interest of Gertrude's money, if they had a family (and this sort of people, poor parsons and schoolmasters—James Ashurst's daughter had already learned to speak in that way—always had a large number of children) she might be able, in time, to buy their services and mould them to her will.
It was under the influence of such feelings that Marian had determined on being exceedingly polite to the Benthalls, and she regretted very much that she had been away from home when they called on her. She wrote a note to that effect to Mrs. Benthall, and intimated her intention of returning the visit almost immediately. Mrs. Benthall showed the note to her husband, who read it and lifted his eyebrows, and asked his wife what it meant, and why the widow had suddenly become so remarkably attached to them. Mrs. Benthall professed her inability to answer his question, but remarked that it was a good thing that "that" was all settled between Maud and Walter, before Walter came in madam's way again.
"But he isn't likely to come in her way again," said the Reverend George.
"I don't know that," said Gerty; "this sudden friendship for us looks to me very much as though——"
"You don't mean to say you think Mrs. Creswell intends making a convenience of us?" asked Mr. Benthall.
"I think she did so intend," said Gertrude; "but she——"
"We'll have nothing of that sort!" cried Mr. Benthall, going through that process which is known as "flaring-up;" "we can get on well enough without her, and her presents, and if——"
"Ah, you silly thing," interrupted Gertrude, "don't you see that when Walter marries Maud, there will be an end of any use to which we could be put by Mrs. Creswell, even if we were not going away to the Newmanton living in a very few weeks? You may depend upon it, that as soon as she hears the news—and I will take care to let her know it when she calls here—she will gracefully retire, and during the remainder of our stay in Helmingham we shall see very little more of the rich widow."
On the night of his acceptance by Maud Creswell, Walter wrote a long letter to Lady Caroline. He wrote it in his room, the old room in which he used to sleep in his usher days, when all the household was in bed, after an evening passed by him in earnest conversation with Maud and Gertrude, while Mr. Benthall busied ​himself with an arrangement of affairs consequent upon his giving up the school, which he had decided upon doing at Midsummer. In the course of that long conversation Walter mentioned that he was about to write to Lady Caroline, acquainting her with what had taken place, and also told the girls of his having consulted her previous to the step which he had taken. He thought this information, as showing Lady Caroline's approbation of the match, would be hailed with great delight; and he was surprised to see a look pass between Maud and Gertrude, and to hear the latter say:
"O Walter, you don't mean to say you asked Lady Caroline's advice as to your marrying Maud?"
"Certainly I did; and I am sure Maud will see nothing strange in it. She knows perfectly well that——"
"It is not for Maud's sake that I spoke; but—but, Walter, had you no idea, no suspicion that——"
"That what, my dear Gertrude? Pray finish your sentence."
"That Lady Caroline cared for you herself?"
"Cared for me!"
"Cared for you! loved you! wanted to marry you! Can I find plainer language than that?"
"Good heavens, child, what nonsense are you talking! There is not the remotest foundation for any such belief. Lady Caroline is my kindest and best friend. If there were no social difference between us, I should say she had behaved to me as a sister; but as for anything else—nonsense, Gertrude!"
Gertrude said no more; she merely shrugged her shoulders, and changed the subject. But the effect of that conversation was not lost on Walter Joyce. It showed in the tone of his letter to Lady Caroline written that night, softening it and removing it entirely from the brusque and business-like style of correspondence which he generally indulged in.
The next day he left Helmingham early, having had a stroll with Maud—in which he expressed his wish that the marriage should take place as soon as possible—and a short talk with Gertrude, in which, however, he made no reference to the topic discussed on the previous evening.
It was a lucky thing that Mr. Joyce had started by an early train; for the Benthalls had scarcely finished their luncheon, before there was a violent ringing at the gate-bell—there was no servant in the county who, for his size, could make more noise than Marian's tiger—and Mrs. Creswell was announced. She had driven the ponies slowly over from Woolgreaves, and had been enjoying the bows and adulation of the villagers as she came along. Though of course she had driven through the village scores of times, she had never been to the schoolhouse since she left it with her mother on their memorable visit to Woolgreaves, that visit which resulted in her marriage.
Mrs. Creswell was not an emotional woman; but her heart beat rather faster than was its placid wont as she crossed the threshold of the gate, and stepped at once into the garden, where so many of the scenes of her early history had been passed. There was the lawn, as untidy as in her poor father's days, bordered by the big elm-trees, under whose shadow she had walked in the dull summer evenings, as the hum from the dormitories settled down into silence and slumber; and her lover was free to join her there, and to walk with her until their frugal supper was announced. There were the queer star- and pear-shaped flower-beds, the Virginia-creeper waving in feathery elegance along the high wall, the other side of which was put to far more practical purposes: bore stucco instead of climbers, and re-echoed to the balls of the fives players. There were the narrow walks, the old paintless gate-bell, that lived behind iron bars, the hideous stone pine-apples on either side of the door, just as she remembered them.
In the drawing-room, too, where she was received by Mrs. Benthall, with the exception of a smell of stale tobacco, there was no difference: the old paper on the walls, the old furniture, the old dreary out-look.
After the first round of visiting-talk, Marian asked Gertrude how she liked her new home.
Gerty was, if anything, frank.
"Well, I like it pretty well," she said. "Of course it's all new to me, and the boys are great fun."
"Are they?" said Marian, with an odd smile; "they must have changed a great deal. I know I didn't think them 'great fun' in my day."
​"It's very quiet; but you mustn't let it bore you, as you call it."
"O, that won't matter much, because it will only be for so short a time."
"So short a time! Are you going to leave Helmingham?"
"O yes; haven't you heard? George has got a living, such a jolly place, they say, in the Isle of Wight, Newmanton they call it; and we give up here at Midsummer."
"I congratulate you, my dear Gertrude, as much as I bewail my own misfortune. I was looking forward with such pleasure to having you within reachable distance in this horribly unneighbourly neighbourhood, and now you dash all my hopes! Whence did Mr. Benthall get this singular piece of good fortune?"
"George got the presentation from Lord Hetherington, who is a friend of Wal— I mean of a great friend of ours. And Lord Hetherington had seen George in London, and had taken a fancy to him, as so many people do; and he begged his friend to offer this living to George."
"That is very delightful indeed; I must congratulate you, though I must say I deserve a medal for my unselfishness in doing so. It will be charming for your sister, too; she never liked this part of the country much, I think; and of course she will live with you?"
"No, not live with us; we shall see her whenever she can get away from London, I hope."
"From London! ah, I forgot. Of course she will make your friend Lady—Man—Lady Mansergh's her head-quarters?"
"No; you are not right yet, Mrs. Creswell," said Gertrude, smiling in great delight, and showing all her teeth. "The fact is, Maud is going to be married, and after her marriage she will live the greater part of the year in London."
"To be married! indeed!" said Marian—she always hated Maud much more than Gertrude. "May one ask to whom?"
"Oh, certainly; every one will know it now;—to the new member here, Mr. Joyce."
"Indeed!" said Marian, quite calmly (trust her for that). "I should think they would be excellently matched! My dear Gertrude, how on earth do you get these flowers to grow in a room? Mine are all blighted, the merest brown horrors."
"Would he prefer that pale spiritless girl—not spiritless, but missish, knowing nothing of the world and its ways—to a woman who could stand by his side in an emergency, and help him throughout his life? Am I to be for ever finding one or other of these doll-children in my way? Shall I give up this last, greatest hope, simply because of this preposterous obstacle? Invention too, perhaps, of the other girl's, to annoy me. Walter is not that style of man—last person on earth to fancy a bread-and-butter miss, who—— We will see who shall win this time. This is an excitement which I certainly had not expected."
And the ponies never went so fast before.