Caroline Mansergh, of whose high standing,
even amongst her equals, Marian had
heard frequently from Mr. Gould, her one
link with the great world. This was a
bitter blow; but it was even worse to think
that this introduction had been obtained
for the girls through the medium of Walter
Joyce—the man she had despised and
rejected on account of his poverty and social
insignificance, and who now not merely
enjoyed himself, but had apparently the power
of dispensing to others, benefits for which
she sighed in vain. Now, for the first time,
she began to appreciate the estimation in
which Walter was held by those whose
esteem was worth having. Hitherto she
had only thought that the talent for
"writing" which he had unexpectedly
developed had made him useful to a political
party, who, availing themselves of his
services in a time of need, gave him the
chance of establishing himself in life; but
so far as position was concerned, he seemed
to have already had, and already to have
availed himself of, that chance; for here
was the sister of an earl, a woman of rank
and acknowledged position, eager to show
her delight in doing him service! "And
that position," said Marian to herself, "I
might have shared with him! Marriage
with me would not have sapped his brain
or lessened any of those wonderful qualities
which have won him such renown. To
such a man a career is always open, and a
career means not merely sufficient wealth,
but distinction and fame. And I rejected
him—for what?"

These reflections and others of similar
import formed a constant subject for
Marian's mental exercitation, and
invariably left her a prey to discontent and
something very like remorse. The glamour
of money-possession had faded away; she
had grown accustomed to all it had brought
her, and was keenly alive to what it had not
brought her, and what she had expected of
it—pleasant society, agreeable friends,
elevated position. In her own heart she felt
herself undervaluing the power of great
riches, and thinking how much better was
it to have a modest competence sufficient
for one's wants, sufficient to keep one from
exposure to the shifts and pinches of such
poverty as she had known in her early life,
when combined with a position in life
which gave one the chance of holding one's
own amongst agreeable people, rather than
to be the Crœsus gaped at by wondering
yokels, or capped to by favour-seeking
tenants. A few months before, such
thoughts would have been esteemed almost
blasphemous by Marian; but she held
them now, and felt half inclined to resent
on her husband his ignorant and passive
share in the arrangement which had
substituted him for Walter Joyce.

That was the worst of all. After Maud
and Gertrude Creswell left Woolgreaves,
an unseen but constantly present inmate
was added to the household, who sat
between husband and wife, and whispered
into their ears alternately. His name was
Doubt, and to Mr. Creswell he said—
"What has become of all those fine
resolutions which you made on your brother
Tom's death?—resolutions about taking
his children under your roof, and never
losing sight of them until they left as
happy brides? Where are they now?
Those resolutions have been broken, have
they not? The girls, Tom's daughters
—orphan daughters, mind—have been
sent away from what you had taught
them to look upon as their home—sent
away on some trivial excuse of temper—
and where are they now? You don't
know!—you, the uncle, the self-constituted
guardian—positively don't know
where they are! You have had her
address given you, of course, but you cannot
imagine the place, for you have never seen
it; you cannot picture to yourself the lady
with whom they are said to be staying, for
you never saw her, and, until your wife
explained who she was, you had scarcely
even heard of her. Your wife! Ah! that
is a pleasant subject! You've found her
all that you expected, have you not? So
clever, clear-headed, bright, and, withal, so
docile and obedient? Yet she it was who
quarrelled with your nieces, and told you
that either she or they must leave your
house. She it was who saw them depart
with delight, and who never bated one jot
of her satisfaction when she noticed, as she
cannot have failed to notice, your emotion
and regret. Look back into the past, man
—think of the woman who was your trusted
helpmate in the old days of your poverty
and struggle !—think of her big heart, her
indomitable courage, her loving womanly
nature, beaming ever more brightly when
the dark shadows gathered round your
lives!—think of her, man, compare her
with this one, and see the difference!"

And to Marian the dim personage said—
"You, a young woman, handsome, clever,
and with a lover who worshipped you, have
bartered yourself away to that old man
sitting there—for what? A fine house, which
no one comes to see—carriages, in which
you ride to a dull country town to receive