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 Croke 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 Maude 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, 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 soon 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 Dr. 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 slaves 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 slaves, 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. "By the way, I think I ought to have called in the village to see little Pickering, 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 knee 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 am 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............