Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/591

 her doings that he had no eye nor ear for any one else, and he would probably have been very much astonished if he had been told that a complete estrangement had taken place between him and the other members of his family, and would positively have denied it. Such, however, was the case. The girls, beyond seeing their uncle at meals, were left entirely to their own devices, and it was, under the circumstances, fortunate for their future that their past training had been such as it had been. Gertrude, indeed, was perfectly happy; for although Mr. Benthall had not actually proposed to her, there was a tacit understanding of engagement between them. He occasionally visited at Woolgreaves, and during the summer they had met frequently at various garden parties in the neighbourhood. And Maud was as quiet and earnest and self-contained as ever, busied in her work, delighting in her music, and, oddly enough, having one thing in common with Mrs. Creswell—an interest in the forthcoming election, of which she had heard from Mr. Benthall, who was a violent politician of the Liberal school.

One day the girls were sitting in the room which had been assigned to them on the establishment of the boudoir, and which was a huge, lofty, and by no means uncomfortable room, rendered additionally bright and cheerful by Gertrude's tasty handiwork and clever arrangement. It was one of those close warm days which come upon us suddenly sometimes, when the autumn has been deepening into winter, and the reign of fires has commenced. The sun had been shining with much of his old summer power, and the girls had been enjoying its warmth, and had let the fire out, and left the door open, and had just suspended their occupations—Maud had been copying music, and Gertrude letter-writing—owing to the want of light, and were chatting previous to the summons of the dressing-bell.

"Where is madam, this afternoon, Maud?" asked Gertrude, after a little silence.

"Shut up in the library with uncle and Mr. Gould, that man who comes from London about the election. I heard uncle send for her!"

"Lor, now, how odd!" said unsophisticated Gertrude; "she seems all of a sudden to have taken great interest in this election thing!"

"Naturally enough, Gerty," said Maud. "Mrs. Creswell is one of the most ambitious women in the world, and this 'election thing,' as you call it, is to do her more good and gain her higher position than she ever dreamed of until she heard of it."

"What a curious girl you are, Maud! How you do think of things! What makes you think that?"

"Think it—I'm sure of it. I've noticed the difference in her manner, and the way in which she has thrown herself into this question more than any other since her marriage, and brought all her brains—and she has plenty—to uncle's help—poor, dear uncle!"

"Ah, poor, dear uncle! Do you think madam really cares for him?"

"Cares for him? Yes, as a stepping-stone for herself, as a means to the end she requires!"

"Ah, Maud, how dreadful! but you know what I mean—do you think she loves him—you know?"

"My dear Gerty, Marian Ashurst never loved anybody but one, and"

"Ah, I know who you mean, that man who kept the school—no, not kept the school, was usher to Mr. Ashurst. Mr.—Joyce. That was it! She was fond of him, wasn't she?"

"She was engaged to him, if the report we heard was true, but as to fond of him! The only person Marian Ashurst ever cared for was—Marian Ashurst! Who's there?"

A figure glided past the open door, dimly seen in the waning light. But there was no response, and Gertrude's remark of "Only one of the servants" was almost drowned in the clanging summons of the dinner-bell.

Bengalee village is almost as quiet in the hot weather as the water of the river on whose bank it is situated. Time was when it was the channel of a stream of commerce as mighty as the torrent which swells the river in the rains. Then, the road on which it stands was the highway for goods passing down the country to the great port of Calcutta. Now they are sent by an iron road which passes at a distance from our streets. The inhabitants seem to live in an eternal hot weather of fortune. Like their own paddy-fields, when shorn of their crops, they have a dry, poor, parched-up appearance. The large buildings, ghauts, temples, and houses are tumbling to decay; luxury has fled the spot; cleanliness dwells only with the poor. And, truly, in spite of its mud walls and thatched roof, an Indian hut is one of the cleanest habitations that you could discover in a journey round the world. The