Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/64

 vapid description, so far as he had had the opportunity of observing.

There was not much of importance in appearance to relate about the occurrences of a day which was destined to be remembered as very important by all who passed its hours at Woolgreaves. It had the usual features of a "long day;" spasmodic attacks of animation and lapses of weariness, a great deal of good eating and drinking, much looking at pictures and parade books, some real gratification, and not a little imperfectly disguised fatigue. It differed in one respect, however, from the usual history of a "long day." There was one person who was not glad when it came to an end. That person was Mr. Creswell.

Poor Mrs. Ashurst had found her visit to Woolgreaves much more endurable than she expected. She had indeed found it almost pleasurable. She had been amused—the time had passed, the young ladies had been kind to her. She praised them to Marian.

"They are nice creatures," she said; "really tender-hearted and sincere. Of course they are not clever like you, my dear; but then all girls cannot be expected to be that."

"They are very fortunate," said Marian, moodily. "Just think of the safe and happy life they lead. Living like that is living. We only exist. They have no want for the present; no anxiety for the future. Everything they see and touch, all the food they eat, everything they wear, means money."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ashurst; "and after all, money is a great thing. Not, indeed," she added, with tears in her eyes, "that I could care much for it now, for it could not, if we had it, restore what we have lost."

"No," said Marian, frowning, "but it could have saved us from losing it; it could have preserved love and care, home, position, and happiness to us. True, mother, money is a great thing."

But Marian's mother was not listening to her. Her mind had returned to its familiar train of thought again.

Something had been said that day about Mrs. Ashurst's paying Woolgreaves a longer visit, going for a week or two, of course, accompanied by Marian. Mrs. Ashurst had not decidedly accepted or negatived the proposition. She felt rather nervous about it herself, and uncertain as to Marian's sentiments, and her daughter had not aided her by word or look. Nor did Marian recur to the subject when they found themselves at home again in the evening. But she remembered it, and discussed it with herself in the night. Would it be well that her mother should be habituated to the comforts, the luxuries of such a house, so unattainable to her at home, so desirable in her state of broken health and spirits? This was the great difficulty which beset Marian; and she felt she could not decide it then.

Her long waking reverie of that night did not concern itself with the people she had been with. It was fully occupied with the place. Her mind mounted from floor to floor of the handsome house, which represented so much money, reviewing and appraising the furniture, speculating on the separate and collective value of the plate, the mirrors, the hangings, the decorations. Thousands and thousands of pounds, she thought, hundreds and hundreds of times more money than she had ever seen, and nothing to do for it all. Those girls who lived among it, what had they done that they should have all of it? Why had she, whose mother needed it so much, who could so well appreciate it, none of it? Marian's last thought before she fell asleep that night was, not only that money was a great thing, but that almost anything would be worth doing to get money.

friend, Nourri Effendi, had passed a considerable portion of his life in the department of Foreign Affairs, and had spent some time in the European embassies. His chief western acquirements were French and a little German, but he was a distinguished oriental scholar. As a master of the epistolary style in Turkish—or rather in Turkish strongly dashed with Persian after the ancient fashion—few could get near him, for he mounted to the seventy-seventh heaven of inspiration. The Effendi, being by no means a man of the world, continually got into contentions with his colleagues. Thus he was often thrown out of employment, and it was difficult for his numerous old friends and admirers to find him anything suitable to his genius; for he did not shine so much in the quantity of his work, as in his own estimate of the quality. The quantity was small.

I remember his favouring me by writing a translation of five lines which were to be addressed in triplicate to the Grand Vizier, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the Minister of Commerce. The Effendi, as was his wont, came later than his appointment, with a time-honoured excuse, that as Zuleikha Hanum wanted him to buy something, her errand had engaged him.

He set himself sedulously and seriously to