Mr. Creswell of any partiality for Marian, any, at least, beyond that which a man in his position, and of his age, might be expected to feel for a bright, intelligent girl, with whom he was thrown into frequent contact. And as for Marian, it was the last thing she should have expected of her. If she were to think of marriage, which Mrs. Ashurst never contemplated, she would not have suffered herself to be thrown away on a man so much older than herself, she would have looked for some one whom she could love. No! it was what had first struck her, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she grew! Marian had sacrificed herself on the shrine of filial duty, she had accepted the position of Mr. Creswell's wife in order that her mother might be able to continue in the house where all possible comforts and luxuries were at her command. It was a good motive, a noble affectionate resolve, but it would never turn out well, she was sure of that. There had been a baronet once under James's tuition; what was his name? Attride, Sir Joseph Attride, a young man of rather weak intellect, who had been sent by his friends to be what James called "coached for something," and who had a very large fortune. Why did not Marian take him, or Mr. Lawrence, the miller and churchwarden, who was very rich, and took so much snuff. Either of them would have been much more suited to her than Mr. Creswell. And so the old lady sat, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, but always coming back to her proposition that Marian had sacrificed herself for her mother's sake, throughout the afternoon.
When Marian left her mother she did not take the hint about the luncheon bell—the pretence under which Mrs. Ashurst had asked to be left to herself. She knew that if her absence from the table were remarked, it would be attributed to the fact of her being engaged in attendance on her mother. She knew further that Mr. Creswell would not expect to see her just then, and she calculated on having two or three hours to herself free from all interruption. So she went straight to her own room, turned the key in the lock, sat herself down in a low chair opposite the fire—fires are kept constantly alive in that north-midland county, where coals are cheap, and the clay soil cold and damp—took Walter Joyce's letter from the bosom of her dress, opened, and began to read it. It was a task-work which she had to go through, and she nerved herself as for a task-work. Her face was cold and composed, her lower jaw set and rigid. As she read on the rigidity of her muscles seemed to increase. She uttered no sound, but read carefully every word. A slight expression of scorn crossed her face for a moment at Walter's insisting on the necessity of their good faith towards each other, but the next instant it vanished, and the set rigidity returned—returned but to be equally fleeting, to be swept away in a storm of weeping, in a hurricane of tears, in a wild outburst of genuine womanly feeling, showing itself in heaving bosom, in tear-blistered face, in passionate rocking to and fro, in frenzied claspings of the hands and tossing of the head, and in low moaning cries of, "Oh, my love! my love!" It was the perusal of the end of Joyce's letter that had brought Marian Ashurst into this state; it was the realisation of the joy which, in his utter devotion to her, must have filled his heart as he was enabled to offer to share what he imagined great prosperity with her, that wrung her conscience and showed her treatment of him in its worst light. It was of her alone that he thought when this offer was made to him. He spoke of it simply as a means to an end—that end their marriage and the comfort of her mother, whose burden he also proposed to undertake. He said nothing of what hard work, what hitherto unaccustomed responsibility, it would entail upon him; he thought but of the peace of mind, the freedom from worry, the happiness which he imagined it would bring to her. How noble he was! how selfless and single-minded! This was a man to live and die for and with, indeed! Was it too late? Should she go bravely and tell Mr. Creswell all? He was sensible and kind hearted, would see the position, and appreciate her motives, though the blow would be a heavy one for him. He would let her retract her consent, he wouldImpossible! It might have been possible if she had read the letter before she had told her mother of Mr. Creswell's proposal, but now impossible. Even to her mother she could not lay bare the secrets of her heart, disclose the slavery in which she was held by that one ruling passion under whose control she had broken her own plighted word, and run the risk of breaking one of the truest and noblest hearts that ever beat. No, she could not do that. She was growing calmer now; her tears had ceased to flow, and she was walking about the room, thinking the matter out. No! even suppose—well, this proposal had not been
