Wrecked in Port/Book I, Chapter XII

by Edmund Hodgson Yates

Chapter XII.A Removal.

Some few minutes passed before Marian felt sufficiently recovered to move. The attack had been so unexpected and so brutal that she would have been perfectly paralysed by it even if the words which the boy had used had been the outpourings of mere random savagery, instead of, as they evidently were, the result of premeditated and planned insult—insult grounded on hate, and hate springing from fear. Marian's quick intelligence made that plain to her in a moment. The boy feared her, feared that she might obtain an ascendancy over his father, and get the old gentleman to advance money to Mrs. Ashurst, money that ought not to go out of the family, and should be his at his father's death, or perhaps fancied she was scheming to quarter herself at Woolgreaves, and——. Good Heavens, could he have thought that! Why the idea had never crossed her mind. She dismissed it at once, not without a half smile at the notion of the retribution she could inflict, at the thought that the boy had suggested to her what might be such a punishment for himself as she had never dreamed of.

She walked on quickly, communing with herself. So, they had found her out, had they? Tom's blurted warning was the first intimation she had had that what she knew to be the guiding purpose of her life, the worship of, love for, intended acquisition of money, was suspected by any, known to any one else. No syllable on the subject, either jestingly or reproachfully, had ever been breathed to her before. It was not likely that she would have heard of it. Her father had considered her to be perfect, her mother had set down all her small economies, scrapings, and hoardings which were practised in the household, to Marian's "wonderful management;" and however the feminine portion of the Whicher and Croker families might talk among themselves, their respect for the schoolmaster and their dread of Marian's powers of retort always effectually prevented them from dropping any hints at the schoolhouse. So Marian heard it now for the first time. Yet there was nothing in it to be ashamed of, she thought; if her poor father had been guided by this sentiment his life might have been perhaps preserved, and certainly an immense amount of misery would have been spared to them all. Love of money, a desire to acquire wealth, who should reproach her for that? Not Mr. Creswell, of whose good opinion she seemed to think first, for had not his whole life been passed in the practice, and was not his present position the result, the example to which she could point in defence of her creed? Not Maud or Gertrude Creswell, who if they had possessed the smallest spark of independence would have been earning their bread as companions or governesses. Not the people of the village, who——. Yes, by Tom's account, they did talk of her, but what then? What the people in the village thought or said about her had never been of the smallest interest to Marian Ashurst when she lived among them, and was brought into daily communion with them; it was therefore not likely that she would take much heed of it now, as she had made up her mind that she and her mother must go and live in another place, far away from all old scenes and associations, when they left Woolgreaves.

When they left Woolgreaves! Hitherto she had not bestowed much thought upon that necessarily closely approaching event, but now she turned her attention to it. Under ordinary circumstances even, if things had gone on pleasantly as heretofore, if their stay had been made as comfortable to them, the attention of Mr. Creswell and his nieces had been as great, and the general desire for them to remain as obvious, they would have had in common decency to propose some date for the expiration of their visit. And now that Tom, who had hitherto been only a negative nuisance, had developed into a positive enemy, it was doubly necessary that they should take precaution not to outstay their welcome. Yes, they must go! Give up all the comforts and luxury, the fine airy rooms, the bedroom fires, the carriage drives, the good living, the wine, and attention, all of which combined had done Mrs. Ashurst so much good, and rendered her stronger and sounder than she had been for years—all these must be given up. And they must go away to poky stivy lodgings, with dirt and discomfort of every kind. With wretched cooking, which would turn her mother sick, and the attendance of a miserable maid-of-all-work, who would not understand any of their ways, and the perpetual presence of penury and want making itself felt every hour of their lives. The picture was so horrible, so repugnant to Marian, that she determined not to let it engross her thoughts in anticipation; it would be quite sufficient to cope with when it came, and she should require all her energies fresh and untaxed for the encounter. So she walked briskly on, and as she had now reached the village her attention was quickly absorbed by the greetings which she received, and the talk in which she had to take part.

The first greetings were from Mr. Benthall. Marian had determined that she would not go down Southwood-lane, which led to the schoolhouse, as she had no desire of encountering either master or boys in her then mood. She had not been near the school since she and her mother left the house, and she had arranged in her mind a little farewell on her part to both when she left the village. And now here was Mr. Benthall advancing straight towards her, and there was no possibility of escape, as she remembered that it was the Saturday half holiday, and that she should probably have to run the gauntlet of a score of friends. Mr. Benthall was a brisk, lively, agreeable man, with cheerfulness and pleasant manners, and plenty of small talk. He was, moreover, a gentleman and a man of the world, and he knew exactly how to pitch the key of his conversation to a young lady the daughter of his predecessor, who might or might not—Mr. Benthall's experience of human nature told him might and probably would—feel somewhat antipathetic towards him. So Mr. Benthall talked of Mrs. Ashurst, and of Mr. Creswell, and of the young ladies, and of Tom. "My friend Trollope's young charge," as Mr. Benthall spoke of him, with a somewhat malicious sparkle in his eye. And the weather was quite cold, was it not? and the frost had set in quite early, had it not? And Miss Ashurst was looking so blooming that Mr. Benthall had no need to ask her how she was, which was, indeed, the reason why he had not done so long since, but must beg her to take charge of his kindest compliments for her mother and the young ladies, and Mr. Creswell. And Mr. Benthall had taken off his well-brushed hat, and had skipped across the road in his well-brushed shapely boots, and Marian was contrasting him with that figure which was ever present to her memory, her father, bowed and shrunken, and slatternly and ill dressed, when she heard her Christian name called aloud, and Dr. Osborne, in his little four-wheeled pony carriage, drew up by her side.

"Well, Princess!" said the cheery old medico; "for since I have made you hear I may as well address you by your title—well, Princess, how goes it?"

"It goes very well, indeed, dear Doctor Osborne," said Marian, returning his hand pressure. "But why Princess?"

"Why Princess! What lower rank could a girl be who lives in a palace, over there I mean, with 'vassals and serfs by her side,' as I've heard my girl sing years ago, and all that kind of thing?"

"But surely only a princess of the Cinderella style, my dear doctor; only enjoying the vassals and the serfs, and what you call 'that kind of thing,' for a very limited time! Twelve o'clock must strike very soon, dear old friend, in our case, and then this princess will go back to the pots and kettles, and cinder-sifting, and a state of life worse than ever she has known before."

"God forbid, my dear!" said the doctor, seriously. "Which way are you going? Back again to Woolgreaves? All right. I'm driving that road, and I'll set you down at the gates. Jump in, child. I wanted a few minutes' talk with you, and this has just happened luckily; we can have it without any interruption."

He stretched out his hand, and helped Marian into the seat by his side, then gave the brisk little pony his head, and they rattled cheerily along.

"Let me see, my dear. What was I saying?" said the doctor, after the silence of a few minutes. "I just remember that I ought to have called in the village to see little Boyd, who's in for measles, I suspect. I must start a memorandum book, my memory is beginning to fail me. What was I saying, my dear?"

"You were saying that you wanted to talk to me—about Woolgreaves, I think it must have been."

"About Woolgreaves—the palace, as I called it—oh, yes, that was it. See here, child; I'm the oldest friend you have in the world, and I hope one of the truest; and I want you to answer my questions frankly, and without reserve, just as if I were your father, you know."

"I will do so," said Marian, after a faint flutter at her heart, caused by the notion of the little doctor, good little soul as he was, comparing himself with her dead father.

"That's right!" said Dr. Osborne. "I knew you almost before you came into the world, and that gives me some right to your confidence. Now, then, are you happy at Woolgreaves?"

Marian hesitated a moment before she replied. "Happier than I thought I could have been—yet!"

"Ah, that's right and straightforward. Mind, in all these questions I'm alluding to you, not to your mother. I know her, charming lady, affectionate, and all that; but clinging and unreasoning, likes to lie where she falls, and so on, whereas you've got a head on your shoulders, finely developed and—so on. Now, are they all kind to you at Woolgreaves? Old gentleman kind?"

"Most kind!"

"Of course he is. Never was a man so full of heart as he is! If he had only been at home when your poor father—ah, well! That's no matter now."

"What's that you said, Dr. Osborne—that about my father?"

"Stupid old fool to go blundering into such a subject! Why couldn't I have let it alone! 'Let the dead past bury its dead.' What's that I've heard my girl sing," the old gentleman muttered to himself. Then aloud—"Nothing, my dear! I was only thinking that if Mr. Creswell had been at home just at the time I dare say we might have made some arrangement, and had Godby down from St. Vitus, and then——"

"And then my father need not have died for the want of a hundred and thirty guineas! Oh, don't think I forget!" and there came into the girl's face the hard stony rigid look which Dr. Osborne remembered there so well on the night of her father's death, six months before.

"Well!" said the little doctor, laying the whip across his knees and blowing his nose so loudly that the pony shied at the noise—"well, well, dear, Mr. Creswell's absence at that particular time was, to say the least of it, unfortunate; we may say that! Now, what about the girls; are they kind?"

"Very, in their way!"

"Good!" said the little doctor, bringing his hand down with a ringing slap on the chaise apron, "I like that! dry, deuced dry! Like your poor father, that! 'In their way.' Ha, ha! I understand! Their way is not much yours?"

"They are very good tempered and polite, and press one to eat and drink a great deal, and hand chairs and footstools, and always sing when they are asked. And," added Marian, after a moment's pause, and under a fear that she had been unduly cynical, "and they are most attentive and affectionate to mamma."

"I'm delighted to hear that, for that's just as it should be, just as one would have wished it to turn out. Oh, yes; quite ladies, with all the feelings and perceptions of ladies, and talking to your mother nicely, and so on. Not too bright—not to be compared with you, or my girl. Ah, there would have been a companion for you, my dear; all soul, and such an arm for the harp, but married to the coastguard in Dorsetshire!—but still nice girls. Well, I'm glad you give me this account, my dear, for it suits exactly the suggestion I was about to make. But before I made it I wanted to be quite sure of your position at Woolgreaves, and to know for certain that you were liked by all the family."

"You are not certain of that yet, doctor! There is one of the family about whom you have made no inquiry."

"One of the family—at Woolgreaves? Oh, by Jove, Tom, Master Tom! I recollect now—a most important personage in his own esteem, and really some one to be thought of in such a matter as this. And how does Master Tom behave to you?"

"Like a——, like a scoundrel!" cried Marian, her eyes flashing, and all the colour ablaze in her cheeks. "He has been ever since we have been there, either rude and rough, or sulky and unpleasant; but to-day, just before I saw you, not an hour ago, he met me in the fields, and insulted me in the grossest manner, talked about our poverty, and hinted that—hinted——" and the remainder of the sentence was lost in a burst of tears.

"Happy hit of mine, that!" muttered the doctor to himself. "I seem to be distinguishing myself to-day! Young ruffian that Tom. He shall have a pretty dose next time I'm sent for to him, I'll take care. Come, my dear, then, you must not mind; he's only a boy—a rude beastly boy with no manners, and no heart either, and not much chest or stomach for the matter of that. You must not mind him. It's a pity he's not nice to you, because he has a certain power in that house; and if he were to pronounce himself as decidedly in opposition to the little scheme I had in my mind, and about which I was going to talk to you, it is very probable it might fall to the ground. But there are various ways of getting over objectionable boys. Lord bless me, in my time I've taken boys into the surgery, and brought them round by a handful of acidulated drops, and have tamed the most refractory by a Tolu-lozenge."

"I scarcely think that Tom Creswell is to be bought over on such easy terms," said Marian, with a faint and weary smile. "But, doctor, what was the suggestion you were about to make?"

"Simply this, my dear. That instead of your removing into Mrs. Swainson's lodgings, which are by no means suited for you, and where I should be very sorry to see you, or into any lodging at all, you should—when I say you I mean, of course, you and Mrs. Ashurst—should remain at Woolgreaves."

"Remain at Woolgreaves? For how long?"

"Well, as romantic or thoughtless people say, 'for ever;' at all events until the condition of each of you is changed—by different means, let us hope."

"And under what conditions is this scheme to be realised? I suppose Mr. Creswell would scarcely take us in as boarders at Woolgreaves, doctor?"

"No, my dear child, no. You are pleased to be satirical, but I am in earnest. That the labourer is worthy of his hire is a principle that has been recognised for centuries, and you shall labour, and for hire. See here, this is how the thought first came into my head. Mrs. Caddy, the housekeeper at Woolgreaves, a very worthy woman, has been ailing of late, and came to consult me last week. Our climate don't do for her. She's a little touched in the chest, and must get away further south for the winter. I told her so, plainly, and she didn't seem at all uncomfortable about it. Her friends live in Devonshire, and she's saved a good bit of money, I should think, since she's been in Mr. Creswell's service. All that seemed to worry her was what they would do at Woolgreaves without her. She harped upon this several times, and at last a ray of light seemed to break upon her as she asked why her place should not be taken by 't' young girl, schoolmaster's daughter'!"

"Dear me! Mrs. Caddy's place taken by me?"

"By you! it was an irreverent way to speak of you, Marian my dear, I'll admit, but there was no irreverence intended. Mrs. Caddy once set going, launched out into an interminable list of your special virtues. There never was a girl who 'cottoned' so completely to her style of pickling and preserving, there never was a girl who so intuitively grasped the great secret of making cherry-brandy, or who so quickly perceived the short-comings of the still-room maid in the matter. And this talk of the worthy woman's gave me an idea."

"The same idea as Mrs. Caddy's?"

"The same, with a difference. Mrs. Caddy's was preposterous, mine is possible. And mine is this. When Mrs. Caddy goes, let it be understood that Mrs. Ashurst has consented to superintend the Woolgreaves household. There would be nothing derogatory in the position; all with whom she would be brought in contact would take care of that, and though she would not have the least qualification for the post, poor woman!—no affront to you, my dear, but she wouldn't—you would be able to keep all smooth, and take care that everything went straight."

"But even such an establishment as Woolgreaves would not require two housekeepers, doctor?

"Of course it would not," said the old gentleman, pleased to see by Marian's brightening face that the proposition was not disagreeable to her. "Of course it would not. Mrs. Ashurst would be the responsible housekeeper, while your position as companion to the young ladies could be very easily defined, and would be very readily understood. Do you like the plan?"

All the details of the proposition rushed through her mind before she spoke. Home comforts, luxury, good living, warmth, care, attention, money, or at least the command if not the possession of money, that is what it meant, instead of a wretched lodging, a starveling income, penury, and perhaps, so far as certain necessaries for her mother were concerned, want. What would they sacrifice? not freedom, they had never had it, and if their lives were still to be passed in drudgery it would, at all events, be better to be the drudge of a kind old man and two insignificant girls, than of a set of racketty schoolboys, as they had hitherto been. Position? no sacrifice there; the respect always paid to them was paid to them as James Ashurst's wife and daughter, and that respect they would still continue to receive. All in the village knew them, the state of their finances, the necessity of their availing themselves of any opportunity for bettering their condition which might present itself; and out of the village they had but few acquaintances, and none for whose opinion they had the least care. So Marian, with beaming eyes and heightened colour, said,

"Yes, dear old friend, frankly I do like the plan. If it were carried out an immense load of anxiety would be removed from my mind, respecting mamma's immediate future you know, and it would suit our circumstances in various ways. Is it possible? How can it be brought about?"

"You are as prompt as ever, Marian!" said the doctor, smiling; "I never saw a girl retain so many of her childish characteristics!" Marian winced a little as he said this, remembering Tom's remarks that morning on her childish character as depicted by Mesdames Whicher and Croker. "Yes, I think it is perfectly feasible, and it can be brought about by me. Mr. Creswell, having known me for many years, and believing that I never advise him but for his good, is always ready to listen to any advice I give him, and if I judge rightly, will be already predisposed to agree with this proposition, and to take it as though you and your mamma were conferring a favour on him rather than——. Dear me, look at this foolish fellow, coming towards us at full gallop! The man must be drunk! Hallo, sir, hi! hallo! Why it's one of the Woolgreaves grooms, isn't it? I think I know the man's appearance. Hallo, sir, hi! what is it?" And the little doctor pulled the chaise close into the left bank, and stood up, waving his whip, and shouting lustily.

The horseman, who was urging his horse to yet greater speed, paid no attention to the shouts, and contented himself by rising in his stirrups and waving his hand as though bespeaking a clear way, until he came close upon the chaise, when he apparently recognised its occupants, and strove to pull up his horse. With some difficulty, and not until he had shot past them, he succeeded, then turning back, he cried out, "Doctor Osborne, I was going for you, sir! for God's sake, drive up to the house at once—you're wanted, awful bad!"

"What is it?" asked the doctor. "Quiet my child, don't be alarmed, don't shake so! There is nothing happened to your master?"

"No, sir, Master Tom!"

"What of him—taken ill?"

"No sir—chucked off the chesnut mare, and took up for dead in the Five Acres! Ben Pennington was bird-scarin' close by, and he see the accident and hollerd out, and gave the alarm. And some of the farm men came and got a hurdle, and put Master Tom on it, and carried him up to the house. Master see 'em coming, and ran out and would have fell down when he see who it was, but they caught hold of him, and they say he's like a madman now, and Miss Maud, she told me to come after you. Make haste, sir, please! Hadn't you better jump on this mare, sir, she'll carry you quicker nor that cob of your'n, and I'll drive Miss Ashurst home."

"Not for any money," said the doctor; "get on that horse, indeed! There'd be another accident, and no one to be of any assistance. I shall be up at the house in a very few minutes; ride on and say I'm coming. Lord, my dear, fancy such an interruption to our conversation—such a bombshell bursting over the castle we were building in the air!"

"The doctor wishes to speak to you, miss, outside master's door," said Mrs. Caddy, in that hissing whisper which servants always assume in a house of sickness. "He didn't say anything about Master Tom, but his face is as white as white, and——"

"Thanks, Mrs. Caddy; I'd better go at once," and Marian left the dining-room, where she had been doing her best to calm her mother's agitation, which expressed itself in sparse tears, and head shakings, and deep-drawn sighs, and flutterings of her feeble hands, and ascended the stairs. As she gained the landing, the little doctor, who had evidently been on the watch, came out of a bedroom, shutting the door cautiously behind him, and, hastening to her, took her hand and led her into the recess of a bay window, round which was a luxurious ottoman. When they had seated themselves, Marian broke silence. "You have examined him, doctor? You know the worst?"

"I say nothing about the worst, my dear, as I just told our old friend; that is not for us to say. Poor boy, he is in a very bad way, there's no disguising that. It's a case of fracture of the skull, with compression of the brain—a very bad case indeed!"

"Does he know what has happened? Has he given any explanation of the accident?"

"None. He is insensible, and likely to remain so for some time. Now, my dear, you're the handiest person in the house, and the one with your wits most about you. This poor lad will have to be trepanned—ah! you don't understand what that is; how should you?—I mean, will have to be operated upon before he gets any relief. Under the circumstances, I don't choose to take the responsibility of that operation on myself, and, with Mr. Creswell's consent, I've telegraphed to London for one of our first surgeons to come down and operate. He will bring a professional nurse with him, but they cannot arrive until the mail at two in the morning, and as I must go down to the surgery for two or three little matters, and see some of my patients tucked up for the night, I intend leaving you in charge of that room. You have nothing to do but to keep everybody else—except, of course, Mr. Creswell—out of the room. You must not be frightened at Tom's heavy breathing, or any little restlessness he may show. That's all part of the case. Now, my child, be brave, and so good-night for the present."

"Good-night, doctor. Oh, one minute. You said you had telegraphed for a London surgeon. What is his name?"

"What on earth makes you ask that, you inquisitive puss?" said the old gentleman, with a smile. "Have you any choice among London surgeons? His name is Godby—Godby of St. Vitus!"

Godby of St. Vitus. That was the name. She remembered it at once. The man for whom Doctor Osborne had telegraphed to come and see her father, or rather would have sent for, but for the amount of his fee. Good God, what a contrast between that sick room and this! The boy had been carried into his father's bedroom, as nearer and larger than his own; and as Marian looked around on every side, her glance fell on signs of comfort and luxury. The room was very large, lit by a broad bay window, with a splendid view of the surrounding country; the walls were hung with exquisite proof prints in oaken frames, a table in the centre was covered with books and periodicals, while on a smaller table close by the bed was a plate piled with splendid grapes. The bed itself, with fresh, bright chintz curtains hanging over it, and a rich eider down quilt thrown on it, stood in a recess, and on it lay the suffering lad, giving no sign of life save his deep, heavy, stertorous breathing, and occasional restless motion of the limbs. How vividly the other room rose to her memory! She saw the ugly panelled walls, with the cracking, blistering paint, and knew the very spots from which it had been worn off. She saw the old-fashioned, lumbering bedstead, and the moreen curtains tied round each sculptured post. She remembered the roseate flash which the sunlight shed over the face of her dying father, the hopeless expression which remained there when the light had faded away. It was money, only money, that made the very wide difference between the two cases, and money could do anything. Money was fetching this clever surgeon from London, who would probably save the life of this wretched boy. What was the value of a life like this as compared to her father's? But for the want of money that sacred life had been suffered to pass away. Thoughts like these crowded on her brain and worked her up to a pitch of feverish excitement during the early part of the night. She had plenty of time for reflection, for she had become accustomed to the regular heavy breathing of the patient, and no one entered the room save Mr. Creswell, who would sit for an hour together by his boy's bedside, and then, watch in hand, get up and murmur piteously: "Will the night never go. Will the man never come!"

"The man," Mr. Godby, principal surgical lecturer and demonstrator at St. Vitus's Hospital, was coming as fast as the mail train could bring him. Unlike most of his brethren, he was essentially a man of the world, fond of studying all sorts and conditions of men, and with all his enormous practice finding time for society, theatres, music, and literature of all kinds. He was engaged out to dinner that day—to a very pleasant little dinner, where he was to have met a private secretary of a cabinet minister, a newspaper editor, a portrait painter, a Duke, and a clerk in an insurance office, who gave wonderful imitations. The hostess was a French actress, and the cooking would have been perfect. So Mr. Godby shook his head very mournfully over the Helmingham telegram, and had he not held his old friend Osborne in great respect, and wished to do him a service, he would have refused to obey its mandate. As it was, he resigned himself to his fate, and arrived, chilled to the bone, but bright-eyed and ready-witted, at Woolgreaves at two in the morning. He shook his head when he saw the patient, and expressed to Doctor Osborne his doubt of the efficacy of trepanning, but he proposed to operate at once.

"It's all over, mother," said Marian to Mrs. Ashurst, the next morning. "Mr. Godby was right; poor Tom never rallied, and sank at seven this morning."

"God help his poor father!" said the old lady, through her tears; "he has nothing left him now."

"Nothing!" said Marian—then added, half unconsciously—"except his money! except his money!"

End of Book the First.