Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/228

 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