# Wrecked in Port/Book III, Chapter V

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