# Wrecked in Port/Book II, Chapter XII

Chapter XII.Poor Papa's Successor.
It has been seen that Mr. Creswell's marriage with Marian Ashurst was sufficiently popular amongst the farmer class at Helmingham, but it was by no means so warmly received in other grades of society. Up at the Park, for instance, the people could scarcely restrain their indignation. Sir Thomas Churchill had always been accustomed to speak of "my neighbour, Mr. Creswell," as a "highly respectable man, sprung, as he himself does not scruple to own, from the people," chirrupped the old Sir Thomas, whose great-grandfather had been a tanner in Brocksopp, "but eminently sound in all his views, and a credit to the—ahem—commercial classes of the community." They sat together on the magistrates' bench, met on committees of charitable associations, and such like, and twice a year solemnly had each other to dinner to meet a certain number of other county people on nights when there was a moon, or, at least, when the calendar showed that there ought to have been one. In the same spirit old Lady Churchill, kindliest of silly old women, had been in the habit of pitying Marian Ashurst. "That charmin' girl, so modest and quiet; none of your fly-away nonsense about her, and clever, ain't she? I don't know about these things myself, but they tell me so, and to have to go into lodgin's, and all that; father a clergyman of the Church of England too!"—staunch old lady, never moving about without the Honourable Miss Grimstone's Church-service, in two volumes, in her trunk—"it really does seem too bad!" But when the news of the forthcoming marriage began to be buzzed about, and penetrated to the Park, Sir Thomas did not scruple to stigmatise his neighbour as an old fool, while my lady had no better opinion of Miss Ashurst than that she was a "forward minx." What could have so disturbed these exemplary people? Not, surely, the low passions of envy and jealousy? Sir Thomas Churchill, a notorious roué in his day, who had married the plainest-headed woman in the county for her money, all the available capital of which he had spent, could not possibly be envious of the fresh young bride, whom his old acquaintance was bringing home? And Lady Churchill, to whom the village gossips talked incessantly of the intended redecoration of Woolgreaves, the equipages and horses which were ordered, the establishment which was about to be kept up, the position in parliament which has to be fought for, and, above all, the worship with which the elderly bridegroom regarded the juvenile bride-elect—these rumours did not influence her in the bitter depreciation with which she henceforth spoke of the late schoolmaster's daughter? Of course not! The utterances of the baronet and his lady were prompted by a deep regard to the welfare of both parties, and a wholesome regret that they had been prompted to take a step which could not be for the future happiness of either, of course.
Mr. Benthall, who, it will be recollected, had succeeded the late Mr. Ashurst at the Helmingham school, and was comparatively new to the neighbourhood, took but little interest in the matter, so far as Miss Ashurst was concerned. He had a bowing acquaintance with her, but he had neither had the wish nor the opportunity of getting on more familiar terms. Had she married ​any one else but Mr. Creswell, it would not have mattered one jot to the Rev. George Benthall; but, as it happened, Mr. Benthall had a certain amount of interest in the doings of the household at Woolgreaves, and the marriage of the chief of that household promieed to be an important event in Mr. Benthall's life.
You could scarcely have found a greater difference between any two men than between James Ashurst and his successor. When James Ashurst received his appointment as head-master at Helmingham, he looked upon that appointment as the culmination of his career. Mr. Benthall regarded the head-mastership as merely a stepping-stone to something better. Mr. Ashurst threw his whole soul into his work. Mr. Benthall was content to get people to think that he was very hard-working and very much interested in his duties, whereas he really cared nothing about them, and slipped through them in the most dilettante fashion. He did not like work; he never had liked it. At Oxford he had taken no honours, made no name, and when he was nominated to Helmingham, every one wondered at the selection, except those who happened to know that the fortunate man was godson to one of the two peers who were life-governors of the school. Mr. Benthall found the Helmingham school in excellent order. The number of scholars never had been so large, the social status of the class which furnished them was undeniably good, the discipline had been brought to perfection, and the school had an excellent name in the county. It had taken James Ashurst years to effect this, but once achieved there was no necessity for any further striving. Mr. Benthall was a keen man of the world, he found the machine in full swing, he calculated that the impetus which had been given to it would keep it in full swing for two or three years, without the necessity for the smallest exertion on his part, and during these two or three years he would occupy himself in looking out for something better. What that something better was to be he had not definitely determined. Not another head-mastership, he had made up his mind on that point; he never had been particularly partial to boys, and now he hated them. He did not like parochial duty, he did not like anything that gave him any trouble. He did like croquet-playing and parsonical flirtation, cricket and horse exercise. He liked money, and all that money brings, and after every consideration, he thought the best and easiest plan to acquire it would be to marry an heiress.
But there were no heiresses in those parts, and very few marriageable girls. Mr. Benthall had met the two young ladies from Woolgreaves at several garden-parties, and had conceived a special admiration for Gertrude Creswell. Maud was far too grand, and romantic, and self-willed for his taste, but there was something in Gertrude's fresh face and quaint simple manner that was particularly pleasing to him. But after making careful inquiries, Mr. Benthall discovered that Miss Gertrude Creswell's chance of wealth was but small, she being entirely dependent on her uncle, whose affections were known to be entirely concentrated on his son. She might have a few thousand pounds perhaps, but a few thousand pounds would not be sufficient to enable Mr. Benthall to give up the school, and to live idle for the rest of his life. The notion must be given up, he feared. He was very sorry for it, for he really liked the girl very much, and he thought she liked him. It was a bore, a nuisance, but the other thing was impossible!
Then came Tom Creswell's death, and that gave affairs another aspect. There was no son now to inherit all the accumulated wealth. There were only the two nieces, between whom the bulk of the property would doubtless be divided. That was a much more healthy outlook for Mr. Benthall. If matters eventuated as he imagined, Miss Gertrude would not merely have a sufficiency but would be an heiress; and under this expectation Mr. Benthall, who had not seen much of the young ladies of Woolgreaves for some time, now took every opportunity of throwing himself in their way. These opportunities were tolerably frequent, and Mr. Benthall availed himself of them with such skill and success that he had finally made up his mind to propose for Gertrude Creswell's hand, with the almost certainty of acceptance, when the news came down to the village that Mr. Creswell was going to be married to Marian Ashurst. That was a tremendous blow! From what Mr. Benthall had heard about Miss Ashurst's character in the village, there was little doubt in his mind that she had deliberately planned this marriage with a view to the acquisition of fortune and position, and there was no doubt that she would hold to both. The chance of any inheritance for the girls was even worse than it would have been if Tom had ​lived. In that case a sense of justice would have impelled the old gentleman to do something for his nieces, but now he would be entirely under the sway of this money-loving woman, who would take care to keep everything to herself. It was a confounded nuisance, for in regard to Gertrude Creswell Mr. Benthall had progressed considerably beyond the "liking" stage, and was really very much attached to her. What could be done? It would be impossible for him to marry a portionless girl. It would be utterly useless for him to ask her uncle to endow her, as Mr. Creswell would at once refer the question to his new wife, who—as he, Mr. Benthall, happened to know from one or two little scenes at which he had been present, and one or two little circumstances of which he had heard—was by no means lovingly inclined towards the young ladies who had become her step-nieces. It was horribly provoking, but Mr. Benthall could not see his way at all.
One evening, some two or three days after Mr. Creswell's marriage, Mr. Benthall was sitting in his study when there came a knock at the door, and a smart housemaid entering told him that Mrs. Covey had come back and would be glad to see her master. Mrs. Covey was an old woman who for many years had lived as cook with the Ashursts, and who, on their recommendation, had been accepted in a similar capacity by Mr. Benthall, on his assumption of office. But the old lady had been away from her work for some few weeks with a sharp attack of illness, which rendered her unfit for her duties, and she had been staying with a married daughter some miles on the other side of Brocksopp. A few days previously she had reported herself as cured, and as about to return to her place, and in due time she arrived at the school-house. Mr. Benthall was glad to hear of the old woman's safe return, not that he cared in the least about her, or any other old woman, but she understood the place, and did her duty well, and some of the boarders had given decided evidence of the unpopularity of Mrs. Covey's locum tenens by leaving their dinners untouched, and making their meals in furtive snatches from their lockers during school-hours of provisions purchased at the "tuck-shop." This sort of mutiny annoyed Mr. Benthall considerably. and consequently he was very glad to have the news of Mrs. Covey's recovery, and gave orders that she should be sent up to him at once.
Whatever might have been the nature of Mrs. Covey's illness, it certainly had not had the effect of toning down her complexion. She was a singularly red-faced old lady, looking as if constant exposure to large fires had sent the blood to her cheeks and kept it there, and she wore a very fierce little black front with two screwy little curls just in front of either ear, and in honour of her return and of her presentation to her master, she had put on a gigantic structure of net and ribbon which did duty for a cap. She seemed greatly pleased at the notice which Mr. Benthall took of her, and at the interest he seemed to show in her recovery, but nothing would induce her to be seated in his presence, though he repeatedly urged the advisability of her resting herself after her journey. Finding her obdurate in this matter, Mr. Benthall let the old lady have her way, and after he had chatted with her about her illness, and about her family, he thought he had exhausted the topics of interest between them, and inwardly wished she would go. But as she evinced no intention of stirring, he was obliged to cast about for something to say, and oddly enough hit upon a subject, the discussion of which with this old woman, was destined to have a certain amount of influence on his future life.
"Well, we've had wonderful changes here in Helmingham since you've been away, Mrs. Covey," he remarked.
"Ah! so I did heer, sir!" said the old woman. "Poor old Muster Pickering gone to his feaythers, and Mrs. Slatter's bad leg brokken out again, and not likely to heal this time, Anne told me Dr. Osborne says."
"Ay, ay, but I'm not talking about old Pickering or Mrs. Slatter. I mean the wedding—the great wedding!"
"Ah, well, I've heerd nowt o' that," said Mrs. Covey, adding, in a grumbling undertone, "I'm a stupid owd woman, and they tell me nowt."
"Not heard of it? Well, I wonder at that!" said Mr. Benthall, "more especially as it concerns your young mistress that was—Miss Ashurst, I mean!"
"What, is she married at last?" asked the old woman.
"She is indeed, and to Mr. Creswell—Squire Creswell of Woolgreaves——"
"What!" screamed Mrs. Covey, falling backward into the chair, which was fortunately close behind her. "You don't tell me that!"
"I do indeed! When was it?—last ​Thursday. The—the happy couple"—(and Mr. Benthall gave a cynical grin as he said the words)—"the happy couple are away now on their wedding trip."
"Well, I niver did! I niver did! The old squire to come and marry Miss Marian! He that was allays so mumchance and so meek, and had a sweet tooth in 's head after all! I thowt it was to talk wi' the poor old master about book-larnin' and such stuff that he comed here! I'd niver an idee that he'd an eye for the young gell."
"Only shows how sly these old gentlemen can be when they choose, Mrs. Covey," said Mr. Benthall, much amused, "if they can deceive such sharp eyes as yours."
"Dear heart, I've no cause to call mine sharp eyes any longer, I think," said the old woman, shaking her head, "for I was took in by both on 'em. I niver thowt Miss Marian would throw t'other one over, that I niver did."
"What's that you're saying, Mrs. Covey?" asked Mr. Benthall, sharply.
"I was sayin' that I allays thowt Miss Marian would howld by the t'other one, and——"
"Other one? What other one? I never heard of there being any 'other one,' as you call it, in regard to Miss Ashurst."
"No! You didn't, I dare say! Nor didn't not no one else!" said the old lady, with a frightful redundancy of negatives; "but I did."
"And who was this 'other one,' if one may ask, Mrs. Covey?"
"One may ask, and there's only one can answer, and that one's me. Ah, well, there's no harm in tellin', now that she's married and all that, though I niver opened my mouth about it before to livin' soul, hopin' it would come all right like. Miss Marian were keepin' company wi' young Joyce!"
"Joyce! Joyce!" repeated Mr. Benthall. "What, young Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters here?"
"That very same! ay, and he were Miss Ashurst's master, he were, at the time I'm speakin' of!" said the old woman.
"Too much kitchen fire has brought on softening of this old person's brain!" said Mr. Benthall to himself. "There can't be a shadow of foundation for what she says, or I should surely have heard of it in the village!" Then, aloud, "What makes you think this, Mrs. Covey?"
"What meks me think it? Why, my own eyesight meks me think it, and that's the best think I can have i' the matter," replied the old woman, waxing rather cross at her master's evident incredulity. "Nobody niver spoke of it, becos' nobody knowed it, but I've sat at the kitchen window o' summer nights and seen 'em walkin' roun' the garden for hours thegither, hand-in-hand, or him wi' his arms round her waist, and I know what that means, tho' I may be an old fool!"
"No, no, Mrs. Covey, no one ever thought that for a minute," said Mr. Benthall, anxious to soothe the old woman's offended dignity, and really very much interested in the news she had given him. "No doubt you're quite correct, only, as I had never heard a hint of this before, I was rather startled at the suddenness of the announcement. Tell me now, had Mr. Ashurst any notion of what was going on?"
"Wasn't the schoolmaster, poor feckless critter, allays buzzed in th' heed wi' book-larnin' and troubles o' all sorts? No bittle as iver flew war blinder, nor deafer, than my poor owd master in matters what didn't concern him!"
"Nor Mrs. Ashurst?"
"Ah, the poor sickly thing, wi' pains here and aches there, and so dillicate, and niver 'nuff strength to look after what she ought, let alone anything else! No! they kept it to themselves, the young pipple, and nobody knowed nowt about it but me, and they didn't know as I knew, for the kitchen window, as you know, is hid wi' fuzz and creepers, and you can see out wi'out bein' seen! Lor, lor, and so she's gone and married that owd man! And t'other one's gone for sojer, they say, and all that story, as I used to sit i' the kitchen and make up in my head, will never be! Lor, lor, what a world it is!"
Mr. Benthall was very much surprised at the information which had come to him in that odd way. He had never thought much about Marian Ashurst, but he knew perfectly well that popular opinion in Helmingham and the neighbourhood held to the fact that she had never had any love-affair. He was disposed to regard her with rather more favour than before, for if what Mrs. Covey stated of her were true, it showed that at one time she must have possessed a heart, though she had allowed herself to ignore its promptings under the overweening influence of avarice. Mr. Benthall thought a good deal over this story. He wondered when, how, and under what circumstances Miss Ashurst had broken her ​engagement, if such engagement existed, with Joyce. Whether she had deliberately planned her marriage with old Creswell, and had consequently abandoned the other design, or whether the old gentleman had proposed suddenly to her, and the temptation of riches and position being too great for her to withstand, she had flung her first lover aside on the spur of the moment, and thereby, perhaps, rendered herself wretched for life. Or what was it that the old woman said, about Joyce enlisting as a soldier? Perhaps that step on her lover's part had been the cause of Miss Ashurst's determination. No! on reflection, the enlisting, if he ever did enlist, looked like a desperate act on Joyce's part, done in despair at hearing the news of Marian's intended marriage! Mr. Benthall did not pin much faith to the enlisting part of the story. He had heard a good deal about Joyce from various sources, and he felt confident that he was by no means the kind of man who would be led to the perpetration of any folly of the kind. Mr. Benthall was puzzled. With any other two people he could have understood the hand-in-hand, and the arm-encircled waist, as meaning nothing more than a pleasant means of employing the time, meaning nothing, and to be forgotten by both persons when they might chance to be separated. But Mr. Joyce and Miss Ashurst were so essentially earnest and practical, and so utterly unlikely to disport themselves in the manner described without there had been a sincere attachment between them, that, taking all this into consideration in conjunction with the recent marriage, Mr. Benthall came to the conclusion that either Mrs. Covey must have, unintentionally of course, deceived herself and him, or that there was something remarkably peculiar in the conduct of Miss Ashurst, something more peculiar than pleasant or estimable. He wondered whether Gertrude or Maud had any suspicions on the matter. They had neither of them ever spoken to him on the subject, but then Maud generally left him alone with Gertrude, and when he and Gertrude were together, they had other things than other people's love-affairs to talk about. He had not been up to Woolgreaves since the wedding, had not—which was quite a different matter—seen either of the girls. He would ride over there the next afternoon, and see how matters progressed.
Accordingly the next day, while Maud and Gertrude were walking in the garden and discussing Mrs. Creswell's newly-arrived letter, or rather while Maud was commenting on it, and Gertrude, as usual, was chorusing her assent to all her sister said, they saw Mr. Benthall, at the far end of a long turf walk, making towards them. Immediately on recognising the visitor Maud stopped talking, and looked suddenly round at Gertrude, who, of course, blushed a very lively crimson, and said, "Oh, Maud, I wish you wouldn't!"
"Wish I wouldn't what, Gertrude?"
"Make me so hot and uncomfortable!"
"My dear, I don't make you hot and uncomfortable! We have been talking together for the last half-hour perfectly quietly, when suddenly—why, of course it's impossible for me to say—you blush to the roots of your hair, and accuse me of being the cause!"
"No; but, Maud, you don't mind his coming?"
"No indeed, Gertrude, I like him, if you mean Mr. Benthall, as of course you do, very much; and if you and he are both really in earnest, I think that you would——Here he is!"
"Good-day, ladies!" said Mr. Benthall, advancing with a bow. "I haven't seen you since you were left deserted and forlorn, so I thought I would come over and ask what news of the happy couple."
"They will be back at the end of the week; we heard from Mrs. Creswell this morning."
"Ah, ha, from the blushing bride! And how is the blushing bride, and what does she say?"
"She makes herself rather more odious and disagreeable than ever!" said Gertrude. "Oh, I don't mind, Maud! Geo—Mr. Benthall knows precisely what I feel about Miss Ashurst and her 'superior' ways and manners and nonsense!"
"What has she done now?"
"Oh, she has—no, Maud, I will speak! She has written to say that Maud must give up her music-room, you know where she always sits and practises, and where she's happier than anywhere else in the house, because my lady wants it for a boudoir, or something, where she can show off her 'superiority,' I suppose."
"Of course," said Maud, "Mrs. Creswell has a perfect right to——"
"O, bother!" said Gertrude; "of course it's perfectly disgusting! Don't you think so, Mr. Benthall?"
"That's a home question," said Mr. Benthall, with a laugh; "but it is scarcely in good taste of Mrs. Creswell so soon to——"
​"I should think not, indeed!" interrupted Gertrude. "Oh, I see plainly what it will be. We shall lead nice lives with that awful woman!"
"I don't think you'll find, as I've told you before, that that 'awful woman' as you call her, will trouble herself with our companionship for long," said Maud; "and I cannot say that when she once comes into the house as mistress I should feel the least desire to remain here."
"And she'll do anything with poor uncle," said Gertrude; "he dotes on her."
"Naturally," said Mr. Benthall; "and she is very much attached to him?"
This question was rather addressed to Maud, and she answered it by saying quietly, "I suppose so."
"Oh, nonsense, Maud!" said Gertrude; "uncle's an old dear kindest, nicest old thing in the world, but not for a girl to like in—well, in that sort of way, don't you know! Not the sort of man to be a girl's first love, I mean!"
"Are you sure that your uncle is Miss Ashurst's first love?"
"We never heard of any other. What is it, George—Mr. Benthall, I mean? You've found out something! Oh, do tell us!"
"Did you know anything of a Mr. Joyce, who was one of Mr. Ashurst's masters?"
"Certainly—a small, slim, good-looking young man," said Maud.
"Good-looking, eh?" said Mr. Benthall.
"Should not you say so, Gertrude?"
"Well, I don't know," said Gertrude; "he was too short, I think, and too dark. I like a—I mean——" And Gertrude broke down, and flew the flag of distress in her face again.
"What of Mr. Joyce, in connexion with the subject on which we were talking, Mr. Benthall?" asked Maud.
And then Mr. Benthall told them all he had heard from Mrs. Covey.
Gertrude went alone with Mr. Benthall to the gate, and they were a very long time saying their adieux. When she came back to the house she found her sister in the hall.
"You found the gate very difficult to open, Gerty!" said Maud, with her grave smile.
"Yes, dear, very difficult! Do you know, dear,—he hasn't said anything, but I think Mr. Benthall is going to ask me to be his wife!"
"Well, Gerty, and what then?"
"Then I shall have a home to offer you, my darling! a home where we can be together, and needn't be under the rule of that beautiful, superior creature!"