Mr. Creswell of any partiality for Marian,
any, at least, beyond that which, a man in
his position, and of his age, might be
expected to feel for a bright, intelligent girl,
with whom he was thrown into frequent
contact. And as for Marian, it was the
last thing she should have expected of her.
If she were to think of marriage, which Mrs.
Ashurst never contemplated, she would not
have suffered herself to be thrown away on a
man so much older than herself, she would
have looked for some one whom she could
love. No! It was what had first struck her,
and the more she thought about it, the more
convinced she grew! Marian had sacrificed
herself on the shrine of filial duty, she had
accepted the position of Mr. Creswell's wife
in order that her mother might be able to
continue in the house where all possible
comforts and luxuries were at her command.
It was a good motive, a noble affectionate
resolve, but it would never turn out well,
she was sure of that. There had been a
baronet once under James's tuition; what
was his name? Attride, Sir Joseph Attride,
a young man of rather weak intellect, who
had been sent by his friends to be what
James called "coached for something," and
who had a very large fortune. Why did
not Marian take him, or Mr. Lawrence,
the miller and churchwarden, who was
very rich, and took so much snuff. Either
of them would have been much more suited
to her than Mr. Creswell. And so the old
lady sat, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter
fancy, but always coming back to her
proposition that Marian had sacrificed herself
for her mother's sake, throughout the afternoon.

When Marian left her mother she did
not take the hint about the luncheon bell—
the pretence under which Mrs. Ashurst had
asked to be left to herself. She knew that
if her absence from the table were remarked,
it would be attributed to the fact of her
being engaged in attendance on her mother.
She knew further that Mr. Creswell would
not expect to see her just then, and she
calculated on having two or three hours to
herself free from all interruption. So she
went straight to her own room, turned the
key in the lock, sat herself down in a low
chair opposite the fire — fires are kept
constantly alive in that north-midland county,
where coals are cheap, and the clay soil cold
and damp — took Walter Joyce's letter from
the bosom of her dress, opened, and began
to read it. It was a task-work which she
had to go through, and she nerved herself
as for a task-work. Her face was cold and
composed, her lower jaw set and rigid.
As she read on the rigidity of her muscles
seemed to increase. She uttered no sound,
but read carefully every word. A slight
expression of scorn crossed her face for a
moment at Walter's insisting on the
necessity of their good faith towards each
other, but the next instant it vanished, and
the set rigidity returned returned — but to
be equally fleeting, to be swept away in a
storm of weeping, in a hurricane of tears,
in a wild outburst of genuine womanly
feeling, showing itself in heaving bosom, in
tear-blistered face, in passionate rocking to
and fro, in frenzied claspings of the hands
and tossing of the head, and in low moaning
cries of, "Oh, my love! My love!" It
was the perusal of the end of Joyce's letter
that had brought Marian Ashurst into this
state; it was the realisation of the joy
which, in his utter devotion to her, must
have filled his heart as he was enabled to
offer to share what he imagined great
prosperity with her, that wrung her conscience
and showed her treatment of him in its
worst light. It was of her alone that he
thought when this offer was made to him.
He spoke of it simply as a means to an
end — that end their marriage and the
comfort of her mother, whose burden he also
proposed to undertake. He said nothing
of what hard work, what hitherto unaccustomed
responsibility, it would entail upon
him; he thought but of the peace of mind,
the freedom from worry, the happiness
which he imagined it would bring to her.
How noble he was! How selfless and
single-minded! This was a man to live and die
for and with, indeed! Was it too late?
Should she go bravely and tell Mr. Creswell
all? He was sensible and kind hearted,
would see the position, and appreciate her
motives, though the blow would be a
heavy one for him. He would let her
retract her consent, he would ——
Impossible! It might have been possible if she
had read the letter before she had told her
mother of Mr. Creswell's proposal, but now
impossible. Even to her mother she could
not lay bare the secrets of her heart,
disclose the slavery in which she was held by
that one ruling passion under whose control
she had broken her own plighted word,
and run the risk of breaking one of the
truest and noblest hearts that ever beat.
No, she could not do that. She was growing
ing calmer now; her tears had ceased to
flow, and she was walking about the room,
thinking the matter out. No! Even
suppose — well, this proposal had not been