Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/349

Charles Dickens] which seemed to him almost hopeless in their chaotic disarrangement.

What a wonderful girl she was, Mr. Creswell thought, as he looked at her poring over the items of account as he read them out to her, and marked the sudden manner in which her cheek flushed, and her bosom heaved, and her eye dilated, while that ready pen never ceased in its noiseless course over the paper. How thoroughly natural to be able to throw herself so entirely into the work before her, to take evident interest in what would be to others the driest detail, mere husk and draff of soulless business! He knew nothing of Marian Ashurst, less than nothing. That dry detail, and those soulless figures were to her more interesting than the finest fiction, the most soul-stirring poetry. For they meant something much better than fiction; they meant fact—wealth, position, everything. She remembered, even as she jotted down from Mr. Creswell's loose memoranda or vague recollections of sums invested here or securities lying there, or interest payable at such and such dates—she remembered how, as a child, she had read of Sinbad's visit to the Valley of Diamonds, and how, in one of the few novels she had come across in later life, she had been breathlessly interested in the account of the treasure in Monte Christo's grotto. Those delights were fictional, but the wealth recorded in her own handwriting before her own eyes was real—real, and, if she mistook not, if the golden dreams had not warped her intellect and dazzled her brain, enjoyable by her. Thoroughly enjoyable, not as a miserable dependant permitted to bask in the rays of prosperity, but as the originator of the prosperity itself, the mistress of the fortune—the. No wonder her cheek flushed; she felt her brain throb and her head whirl; the magnitude of the stakes, the chances of success appalled her. She had never realised them before, and while they were beginning to dawn on her, the desperate effect of her proposed end upon one who had hitherto been loved by her she had steadfastly contrived to ignore.

If she dared to do it? Why should she not dare; what was it to dare after all? Was she to lose her chance in life, and such a chance, simply because as a girl she had agreed to a foolish contract, which, as it seemed, it was impossible could ever be fulfilled? Was her youth to be sacrificed to a preposterous engagement, which, if it was ratified at all, could only be ratified in grim middle age, when all power of enjoying life would have fled, even if the hope of anything to enjoy were then vouchsafed her? She knew well that people would be ready enough to bring accusations against her, but of what could they accuse her? Of selfishness? but it would not be merely for her own self-advancement, that she would take advantage of the opportunity that offered for bettering her position in life. Her mother was thoroughly dependent upon her, and the past few months had made a wonderful difference in her mother's physical condition. With plenty of comfort and attention, with a command of certain luxuries and the power of remaining perfectly quiescent, knowing that there was not the smallest occasion for mental disquietude, Mrs. Ashurst' s life might last for some time, but the smallest mental worry would probably be fatal. This Dr. Osborne had said, and it behoved Marian to think of her mother before any one else in the world.

And yet—and yet? Was it all to be forgotten and stamped out, that one halcyon time of her existence, that one period in which she had ceased to think of the struggle for living, and to love life for being as it was? Was that one green oasis where she had rested so pleasantly, forgetful of the annoyances past, not caring for the dangers to come, as she lay beside the bubbling fountain of Hope, and drank of its pure waters, was that to be swallowed up in the world's Simoom, and to vanish with every trace obliterated? Or was it but a mere mirage, unsubstantial and unreal? As she battled with herself she pressed her eyes tightly with her hands, and endeavoured to recall those scenes of her life. She would see her lover, modest, earnest, hopeful, delighted at his so-far success, sanguine as to that which was to come. She would remember the cheery manner in which he would meet her doubts, the calm self-reliance, never degenerating into bravado, with which he spoke of their future as perfected by his efforts. Reminiscences, looks, tones, each had their effect upon her. Then she would think of that future, even when painted as glowingly as in Walter's fervent expectation. And what was it? Genteel poverty, at its best. The coming together of two hearts in a cheap lodging, with a necessity for watching the outlay of every sixpence, and a short career of starved gentility as the crowning result of a long life of labour and waiting. And to give up all she had in prospect, all she had in command, she might