# Wrecked in Port/Book II, Chapter V

Chapter V.Becoming Indispensable.
"Master will be glad to see you, miss, in the library, if you please."
"Very good, Wilson. Is Mr. Creswell alone?"
"Mr. Radford, the agent from Brocksopp, have been with him for the last half hour, miss: but he's on the point to go. I saw him getting on his gloves as I left the room."
"Very good; tell Mr. Creswell I will be with him at once."
The servant retired, closing the door behind her, and Marian was left alone with her mother. They were in what they had become accustomed to call "their own" sitting-room, with its bright chintz furniture and tasteful appointments, as Marian had described them in her letter to Walter. It was tolerably early morning, just after ten o'clock, and the sun lit up the garden and the grass plot, from which the slight frost had not yet disappeared, though the snowdrops and the crocuses were already showing their heads in the flower borders, while the ditch-banks of the neighbourhood were thick with promised crops of violets and primroses. Mrs. Ashurst, whose infirmities seemed greatly to have increased within the past six months, was sitting by the fire with her face turned towards the window, enjoying the brightness of the morning; but her back was turned to the door, and she had not caught the servant's message.
"What was that Martha said, my dear?" she asked. "My hearing's getting worse, I think. I miss almost everything that's said now."
"You had your back towards her, dear mother; and you were too pleasantly occupied looking at the bright weather outside, and thinking that we should soon be able to get you out for a turn up and down the long walk, in the sun. Martha came to say that Mr. Creswell wanted to see me in the library."
"Again, Marian? Why you were with him for hours—when was it—the day before yesterday."
"Yes, mother; you're quite right; I was there, helping him with his accounts. But there was some information which had to be supplied, before we could finish them. I suppose he has obtained that now, and we can go on with our work."
"You're a clever child, my dear," said the old lady, fondly stroking her daughter's shining hair.
"There's more use than cleverness in what I'm doing for Mr. Creswell, darling mother. Don't you remember how I used to make out the boarders' bills for poor papa, and the 'general running account' to be submitted half yearly to the governors? These are larger and more intricate matters, of course, dealing as they do with the amount and sources of Mr. Creswell's income; but I think I have mastered the method of dealing with them, and Mr. Creswell, I imagine, thinks so too."
"It must be a very large income, my dear, to keep up all this place, and——"
"Large! You have no conception of it, mother. I had no conception of it, nor of how it came in, and grew, and is for ever growing, until it was before me in black and white. Original funds, speculations, mortgages, investments in this and that, in ships and wharves and breweries, in foreign railroads and——Ah! good heavens, it's enough to turn one's brain to think of!" ​And the girl pressed her forehead with her hands and stood motionless.
"Yes, my dear," said the old lady, stretching out her hand, and drawing her daughter gently towards her. "I've thought more than once, that this house with its surroundings was scarcely the best school for a young girl who had to face poverty, and battle for her livelihood. And, indeed, I'm far from thinking that, even so far as I'm concerned, was it wise that we should originally have come here, or that we should have stayed so long. I wish you would propose about Mrs. Swainson's lodgings again, Marian, for——"
"For Heaven's sake don't mention Mrs. Swainson's horrid lodgings again, mother. Are you tired of your visit here?"
"No, my dear, not in the least; I'm very happy, as happy as I ever expect to be again in this world, but I know there's such a thing as outstaying your welcome, and——"
"Who has been putting such ideas into your head? Not those horrible girls! They have nothing to do with the arrangements of the house, they—there, I always lose my head when I think or speak of them!"
"You do indeed, Marian; I cannot imagine how it is that you and Maud and Gertrude don't get on together. You always seem to blaze up like I don't know what, especially you and Maud! No, my dear, the young ladies have always hoped we should stay on, but that of course is impossible, and——"
"Perhaps not impossible, mother!"
"Why not, my dear? Do you think that?—oh no, thank you! I guess what you mean; I'm an old woman, I know, but I've still my faculties left, and I can see through a millstone as well as most people of my age, and though I'm not apt to be—I forget the word, but you know what I mean—I declare once for all I won't do it!"
"Won't do what, mother! I declare I have no notion what you mean."
"Oh yes you have, Marian. You heard what Dr. Osborne, whom I never could abide, but that's neither here nor there, suggested about my becoming Mrs. Caddy, or rather Mrs. Caddy's successor when she went. I'm sure you, who talk of having a spirit and a proper pride, ought to see that I couldn't do that! Your poor father wouldn't rest in his grave if he knew it! You remember he never would let me do anything with the boys' clothes, or hair brushes, or that, always would have a wardrobe woman, and now to think of my becoming a housekeeper——"
"But, mother, there! you shall not worry yourself with that idea any more, and still we won't think just yet of Mrs. Swainson's nasty lodging! Kiss me now, and let me go! I've been keeping Mr. Creswell waiting full ten minutes."
What change had come over Marian Ashurst to cause her to speak in this way to her mother, with flushed cheek, and kindling eye, and elated look? What hope was dawning over the deep of that black, blank, sunless future, which she had seen before her in all its miserable intensity, its unavoidable dead level gloom, when first she arrived on a visit at Wolgreaves? What was the vision which during all that period, but especially since Tom Creswell's death, had haunted her, waking and sleeping, in company and in solitude, had been ever present to her thoughts, and had wrung her heart and disturbed her mental peace more keenly even than the thought of poverty, the desire for wealth? Dare she do it? She could, she had but little doubt of that, but little doubt of Mr. Creswell's daily increasing dependence on her, and regard for her. There was no one else in the world now, in whom he seemed to take the slightest interest. He had been deeply grieved at his son's death, laid up for weeks afterwards, one would have thought that life for him had lost all its zest and flavour, but lately in going through his business details with Marian, he had referred to the dead lad almost calmly, and had spoken of him, almost as he used to speak of him in the days, when his brusquerie and bad style, and consequent unpopularity, were gall and wormwood to his father's heart. She was thoroughly and entirely essential to him. He had told her so. He had said plainly enough that with no one else, no paid hirelings, no clerk, however trustworthy or confidentially employed, could he have gone through the private accounts, which showed the sources of his revenue and its investment, and which had dropped into almost hopeless confusion and arrear; from which they were only rescued by her quick apprehension, clear business knowledge, and indefatigable industry. He sat by in mute wonder, as she seized upon each point as it was laid before her, and stopped him in the midst of his verbose and clumsy explanation, to show how clearly she comprehended him, and how lightly she undertook the unravelment of matters ​which seemed to him almost hopeless in their chaotic disarrangement.
What a wonderful girl she was, Mr. Creswell thought, as he looked at her poring over the items of account as he read them out to her, and marked the sudden manner in which her cheek flushed, and her bosom heaved, and her eye dilated, while that ready pen never ceased in its noiseless course over the paper. How thoroughly natural to be able to throw herself so entirely into the work before her, to take evident interest in what would be to others the driest detail, mere husk and draff of soulless business! He knew nothing of Marian Ashurst, less than nothing. That dry detail, and those soulless figures were to her more interesting than the finest fiction, the most soul-stirring poetry. For they meant something much better than fiction; they meant fact—wealth, position, everything. She remembered, even as she jotted down from Mr. Creswell's loose memoranda or vague recollections of sums invested here or securities lying there, or interest payable at such and such dates—she remembered how, as a child, she had read of Sinbad's visit to the Valley of Diamonds, and how, in one of the few novels she had come across in later life, she had been breathlessly interested in the account of the treasure in Monte Christo's grotto. Those delights were fictional, but the wealth recorded in her own handwriting before her own eyes was real—real, and, if she mistook not, if the golden dreams had not warped her intellect and dazzled her brain, enjoyable by her. Thoroughly enjoyable, not as a miserable dependant permitted to bask in the rays of prosperity, but as the originator of the prosperity itself, the mistress of the fortune—the——. No wonder her cheek flushed; she felt her brain throb and her head whirl; the magnitude of the stakes, the chances of success appalled her. She had never realised them before, and while they were beginning to dawn on her, the desperate effect of her proposed end upon one who had hitherto been loved by her she had steadfastly contrived to ignore.
If she dared to do it? Why should she not dare; what was it to dare after all? Was she to lose her chance in life, and such a chance, simply because as a girl she had agreed to a foolish contract, which, as it seemed, it was impossible could ever be fulfilled? Was her youth to be sacrificed to a preposterous engagement, which, if it was ratified at all, could only be ratified in grim middle age, when all power of enjoying life would have fled, even if the hope of anything to enjoy were then vouchsafed her? She knew well that people would be ready enough to bring accusations against her, but of what could they accuse her? Of selfishness? but it would not be merely for her own self-advancement, that she would take advantage of the opportunity that offered for bettering her position in life. Her mother was thoroughly dependent upon her, and the past few months had made a wonderful difference in her mother's physical condition. With plenty of comfort and attention, with a command of certain luxuries and the power of remaining perfectly quiescent, knowing that there was not the smallest occasion for mental disquietude, Mrs. Ashurst' s life might last for some time, but the smallest mental worry would probably be fatal. This Dr. Osborne had said, and it behoved Marian to think of her mother before any one else in the world.
And yet—and yet? Was it all to be forgotten and stamped out, that one halcyon time of her existence, that one period in which she had ceased to think of the struggle for living, and to love life for being as it was? Was that one green oasis where she had rested so pleasantly, forgetful of the annoyances past, not caring for the dangers to come, as she lay beside the bubbling fountain of Hope, and drank of its pure waters, was that to be swallowed up in the world's Simoom, and to vanish with every trace obliterated? Or was it but a mere mirage, unsubstantial and unreal? As she battled with herself she pressed her eyes tightly with her hands, and endeavoured to recall those scenes of her life. She would see her lover, modest, earnest, hopeful, delighted at his so-far success, sanguine as to that which was to come. She would remember the cheery manner in which he would meet her doubts, the calm self-reliance, never degenerating into bravado, with which he spoke of their future as perfected by his efforts. Reminiscences, looks, tones, each had their effect upon her. Then she would think of that future, even when painted as glowingly as in Walter's fervent expectation. And what was it? Genteel poverty, at its best. The coming together of two hearts in a cheap lodging, with a necessity for watching the outlay of every sixpence, and a short career of starved gentility as the crowning result of a long life of labour and waiting. And to give up all she had in prospect, all she had in command, she might ​almost say, for this——Poor Walter, poor Walter, what would he do! All his whole life was bound up in her, in her his every thought centred. How would he—wait though! She was not so sure of what she was saying! Who was this—Lady Caroline Somebody, of whom he wrote so strongly? Two or three times he had mentioned her in his letters. Marian recollected having smiled at Walter's first description of this great lady, who, though he tried to disguise it, had evidently been struck with him; but now she seized on the idea with quite a different object in view. Suppose she should carry out what she had in her mind, it would be expedient for her to show to the world—to such portion of the world as chose to be inquisitive or indignant about her proceedings—that all shame, so far as breaking off the original engagement was concerned, did not rest with her, that Walter himself had not kept faith with—— She broke off the thread of her thought abruptly, she could not battle with herself, she knew how vain and ridiculous the accusation would be, how the object of it would shake it from him with scorn; but it had a certain semblance of truth and likelihood, and it would do to bring forward, in case any such defence were ever needed.
"Well, missy," said Mr. Creswell, looking up from the papers on which he was engaged, "you see I've been compelled to send for my assistant; I couldn't get on without her."
"Your assistant is only too glad to come when she finds she can be of use to you, sir. Has the pass-book come from the bank, and did you get those returns you asked for from the Wharfdale Company?"
"What a memory you have, child! I declare I had forgotten what had stopped our work the other morning. I remembered only that you would have gone on until you dropped, but for want of material. Yes, they are both here."
"I see! and the totals both approximate to the sums you mentioned. There will be no difficulty now in preparing the rough balance-sheet. Shall I begin that at once?"
"No, no, missy! that is too large an undertaking for you. I'll have that done down at the office. I'm only too thankful to you for the assistance you've rendered me in getting the items into order, and in checking matters which I could not possibly have submitted to an uninterested person, and which I'm—well, I'm afraid I must say it—too old to go into myself!"
"Since you praise me, I have a right to claim a reward, and I demand to be allowed to carry out my work to the end. I shall be proud of it, proud to think that, when next these accounts are gone through, you will be able to look at mine, and see that they do no discredit to your bookkeeping pupil."
There was a slight change in Mr. Creswell's voice as he said, "My child, I don't suppose this task will occur again in my lifetime. It would have stood over well until my poor boy came of age, had it pleased God to spare him. I have only done it now from a renewal of the old stocktaking habit, a desire to see how my worldly affairs stood before——" But the voice broke, and the sentence was left unfinished.
"But surely, sir, it must be a source of pride, and of pleasure too, to you, being, as you have often pointed out to me, the architect of your own fortunes, to have this convincing proof of their stability, and your success?"
"Success! my dear child! pride! pleasure! Ah, missy, a man must have lived but a small life, if towards the end of it, he looks for pride and pleasure in the amount of his balance at his bankers, or for his success in having heaped up more money than his fellows!"
"No! not in that entirely, of course! but in having carried out the main idea of his life and——"
"The main idea of my life! that was in existence but a very little while, missy! The main idea of my life was to make my poor Bessy a good husband, and afterwards—when the boy was born—to leave him a good and honoured name. Both those hopes are extinguished now, Marian. The first went years ago, the last—you know when. And this," pointing with his pen to the bank book in front of him—"this has no power to fill their place."
Both were silent for some minutes, then Marian said, "You have shown me how silly I was to speak as I spoke just now."
"My child, you spoke as a child. As one who has never known—who, please God, never will know, the vanity of such resources as those in time of trouble."
"I spoke as one who has known sorrow, Mr. Creswell, but who also has known, and who never can too gratefully acknowledge, the kindness of friends who were willing and able to help her. I think, I am sure, it will be a source of satisfaction to you to remember that your position enabled you ​to soften, very much to soften, the severity of the blow which so recently fell upon my mother and myself."
"There, indeed, you show me some use in what you are pleased to call my 'position.' It is long since I have experienced such gratification as in being enabled to show some neighbourly civility, to the wife and daughter of my old friend. Even if you had been personally very different to what you are, I should have been pleased to do it in remembrance of him; but your mother is the gentlest and the most amiable creature in the world, while as for you——"
He paused for an instant, and her heart beat high. Only for an instant; she resumed her normal respiration as he laid his hand softly on her head, and said: "If I had had a daughter, child, I could have wished her not one whit different from you." She was quite calm again, as she said: "I am so pleased to hear you say that, sir; for as you know, there are but few to give me that affection which you truly describe as being the only thing worth living for. And I am so glad that I have been able to be of use to you, and to have shown you, in a very poor way indeed, how grateful I am to you for all your kindness to us, before we leave you."
"Leave me, Marian? What are you talking of child?"
"The fact," she replied, with a sad smile—"the dire hard fact. We must go, sooner or later; and it is the best for me—for us, I mean—that now it should be sooner. We have remained here longer than we intended, many weeks longer, owing to—to circumstances; and we have been, oh, so happy! Now we must go, and it will be better for us to look the fact in the face, and settle down in Mrs. Swainson's lodgings, and begin our new life."
Mr. Creswell's face had grown very white, and his hands were plucking nervously at his chin. Suddenly a light seemed to break in upon him, and he said: "You won't go until you've finished the balance sheet? Promise me that."
"No," said Marian, looking him straight in the face, "I'll finish that—I promise you."
"Very good. Now leave me, my dear. This unexpected news has rather upset me. I must be alone for a little. Good-bye! God bless you!" And he bent, and for the first time in his life kissed her forehead. "You—you won't forget your promise?"
"You may depend on me," said Marian, as she left the room.
Outside the door, in the bay window where she had held her colloquy with Dr. Osborne on the night of Tom's death, were Maud and Gertrude, seated on the ottoman, one at work, the other reading. Neither of them spoke as Marian passed; but she thought she saw a significant look pass between them, and as she descended the stairs she heard them whispering, and caught Maud's words: "I shouldn't wonder if poor Tom was right about her, after all."