lived. In that case a sense of justice would have impelled the old gentleman to do something for his nieces, but now he would be entirely under the sway of this money-loving woman, who would take care to keep everything to herself. It was a confounded nuisance, for in regard to Gertrude Creswell Mr. Benthall had progressed considerably beyond the "liking" stage, and was really very much attached to her. What could be done? It would be impossible for him to marry a portionless girl. It would be utterly useless for him to ask her uncle to endow her, as Mr. Creswell would at once refer the question to his new wife, who—as he, Mr. Benthall, happened to know from one or two little scenes at which he had been present, and one or two little circumstances of which he had heard—was by no means lovingly inclined towards the young ladies who had become her step-nieces. It was horribly provoking, but Mr. Benthall could not see his way at all.
One evening, some two or three days after Mr. Creswell's marriage, Mr. Benthall was sitting in his study when there came a knock at the door, and a smart housemaid entering told him that Mrs. Covey had come back and would be glad to see her master. Mrs. Covey was an old woman who for many years had lived as cook with the Ashursts, and who, on their recommendation, had been accepted in a similar capacity by Mr. Benthall, on his assumption of office. But the old lady had been away from her work for some few weeks with a sharp attack of illness, which rendered her unfit for her duties, and she had been staying with a married daughter some miles on the other side of Brocksopp. A few days previously she had reported herself as cured, and as about to return to her place, and in due time she arrived at the school-house. Mr. Benthall was glad to hear of the old woman's safe return, not that he cared in the least about her, or any other old woman, but she understood the place, and did her duty well, and some of the boarders had given decided evidence of the unpopularity of Mrs. Covey's locum tenens by leaving their dinners untouched, and making their meals in furtive snatches from their lockers during school-hours of provisions purchased at the "tuck-shop." This sort of mutiny annoyed Mr. Benthall considerably. and consequently he was very glad to have the news of Mrs. Covey's recovery, and gave orders that she should be sent up to him at once.
Whatever might have been the nature of Mrs. Covey's illness, it certainly had not had the effect of toning down her complexion. She was a singularly red-faced old lady, looking as if constant exposure to large fires had sent the blood to her cheeks and kept it there, and she wore a very fierce little black front with two screwy little curls just in front of either ear, and in honour of her return and of her presentation to her master, she had put on a gigantic structure of net and ribbon which did duty for a cap. She seemed greatly pleased at the notice which Mr. Benthall took of her, and at the interest he seemed to show in her recovery, but nothing would induce her to be seated in his presence, though he repeatedly urged the advisability of her resting herself after her journey. Finding her obdurate in this matter, Mr. Benthall let the old lady have her way, and after he had chatted with her about her illness, and about her family, he thought he had exhausted the topics of interest between them, and inwardly wished she would go. But as she evinced no intention of stirring, he was obliged to cast about for something to say, and oddly enough hit upon a subject, the discussion of which with this old woman, was destined to have a certain amount of influence on his future life.
"Well, we've had wonderful changes here in Helmingham since you've been away, Mrs. Covey," he remarked.
"Ah! so I did heer, sir!" said the old woman. "Poor old Muster Pickering gone to his feaythers, and Mrs. Slatter's bad leg brokken out again, and not likely to heal this time, Anne told me Dr. Osborne says."
"Ay, ay, but I'm not talking about old Pickering or Mrs. Slatter. I mean the wedding—the great wedding!"
"Ah, well, I've heerd nowt o' that," said Mrs. Covey, adding, in a grumbling undertone, "I'm a stupid owd woman, and they tell me nowt."
"Not heard of it? Well, I wonder at that!" said Mr. Benthall, "more especially as it concerns your young mistress that was—Miss Ashurst, I mean!"
"What, is she married at last?" asked the old woman.
"She is indeed, and to Mr. Creswell—Squire Creswell of Woolgreaves"
"What!" screamed Mrs. Covey, falling backward into the chair, which was fortunately close behind her. "You don't tell me that!"
"I do indeed! When was it?—last
