Wrecked in Port: A Novel

by Edmund Yates

"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?"