To have an income of fifteen thousand a year, and to be her own mistress, would, one would have imagined, have placed Marian Creswell on the pinnacle of worldly success, and rendered her perfectly happy. In the wildest day-dreams of her youth she had never thought of attaining such an income, and such a position as that income afforded her. The pleasures of that position she had only just begun to appreciate; for the life at Woolgreaves, though with its domestic comforts, its carriages and horses and attentive servants, infinitely superior to the life in the Helmingham schoolhouse, had no flavour of the outside world. Her place in her particular sphere was very much elevated, but that sphere was as circumscribed as ever. It was not until after her husband's death that Marian felt she had really come into her kingdom. The industrious gentlemen who publish in the newspapers extracts from the last will and testaments of rich or distinguished persons--thereby planting a weekly dagger in the bosoms of the impecunious, who are led by a strange kind of fascination to read of the enormous sums gathered and bequeathed--had of course not overlooked the testamentary disposition of Mr. Creswell, "of Woolgreaves, and Charleycourt Mills, Brocksopp, cotton-spinner and mill-owner," but had nobly placed him at the head of one of their weekly lists. So that when Mrs. Creswell "and suite," as they were good enough to describe her servants in the local papers, arrived at the great hotel at Tunbridge Wells, the functionaries of that magnificent establishment--great creatures accustomed to associate with the salt of the earth, and having a proper contempt, which they do not suffer themselves to disguise, for the ordinary traveller--were fain to smile on her, and to give her such a welcome as only the knowledge of the extent to which they intended mulcting her in the bill could possibly have extorted from them. The same kindly feeling towards her animated all the sojourners in that pleasant watering-place. No sooner had her name appeared in the Strangers' List, no sooner had it been buzzed about that she was the Mrs. Creswell, whose husband had recently died, leaving her so wonderfully well off, than she became an object of intense popular interest.

Two ladies of title--the widow of a viscount (Irish), and the wife of a baronet (English), insolvent, and at that moment in exile in the island of Coll, there hiding from his creditors--left cards on her, and earnestly desired the pleasure of her acquaintance. The roistering youth of the place, the East India colonels, the gay dogs superannuated from the government offices, the retired business-men, who, in the fallow leisure of their lives, did what they would,--all looked on her with longing eyes, and set their wits to work on all sorts of schemes to compass knowing her. Over the laity the clergy have a great advantage--their mission is in itself sufficient introduction--and lists of all the local charities, district churches to be erected, parsonages to be repaired, and schools to be established, had been presented by those interested in them to the rich widow in person before she had been forty-eight hours in the place.

It was very pleasant, this popularity, this being sought after and courted and made much of, and Marian enjoyed it thoroughly. Unquestionably, she had never enjoyed anything so much in her previous life, and her enjoyment had no alloy. For although just before her husband's death, and for some little time after, she had had certain twinges of conscience as to the part she had acted in leaving him ignorant of all her relations with Walter Joyce when she married him, that feeling had soon died away. Before leaving home she had had a keen experience of absolute enjoyment in signing cheques with her own name, and in being consulted by Mr. Teesdale as to some business of her estate, and this feeling increased very much during her stay at Tunbridge Wells. Nevertheless, she did not remain there very long; she was pleased at being told that her duties required her at home, and she was by no means one to shirk such duties as the management of an enormous property involved.

So Marian Creswell went back to Woolgreaves, and busied herself in learning the details of her inheritance, in receiving from Mr. Teesdale an account of his past stewardship, and listening to his propositions for the future. It was very pleasant at first; there were so many figures, the amounts involved were so enormous, there were huge parchment deeds to look at, and actual painted maps of her estates. She had imagined that during that period just prior to their marriage, when she made herself useful to Mr. Creswell, she had acquired some notion of his wealth, but she now found she had not heard of a tenth part of it. There was a slate quarry in Wales, a brewery in Leamington, interest in Australian ships, liens on Indian railways, and house property in London. There seemed no end to the wealth, and for the first few weeks, looking at the details of it with het own eyes, or listening to the account of it in Mr. Teesdale's sonorous voice, afforded her real pleasure. Then gradually, and almost imperceptibly, came back upon her that feeling which had overwhelmed her in her husband's lifetime, of which she had gotten rid for some little space, but which now returned with fifty-fold free-questioning, "What is the good of it all?"

What indeed? She sat in the midst of her possessions more lonely than the poorest cotter on any of her estates,--less cared for than the worn-out miner, for whom, after his day's toil, his wife prepared the evening meal, and his children huddled at his knee. Formerly her husband had been there, with his kindly face and his soft voice, and she had known that, notwithstanding all difference of age and temperament between them, so long as he lived there was one to love her with a devotion which is the lot of few in this world. Now he was gone, and she was alone. Alone! It was a maddening thought to a woman of Marian's condition, without the consolation of religion, without the patience calmly to accept her fate, without the power of bowing to the inevitable. Where money was concerned she could scarcely bring herself to recognise the inevitable, could scarcely understand that people of her wealth should, against their own will, be left alone in this world, and that love, friendship, and all their sweet associations, could not be bought.

Love and friendship! Of the latter she could scarcely be said to have had any experience; for Marian Ashurst was not a girl who made friends, and Mrs. Creswell found no one equal to being admitted to such a bond; and as to the former, though she had enjoyed it once, she had almost forgotten all about it. It came back to her, however, as she thought over it; all the sweet words, the soft endearing epithets, and the loving looks came back to her, all the fond memory of that time when, for a period, the demon of avarice was stilled, the gnawing desire for money, and what money in her idea might bring, was quenched; when she was honestly proud of her lover, happy in the present, and expectant of the future. She recollected the poor dresses and the cheap trinkets which she had in those days; the wretched little presents which she and Walter had exchanged, and the pleasure she experienced at receiving them at his hands. She remembered the locket, with her portrait, which she had given him, and wondered what had become of it. He had it, doubtless, yet, for he had never returned it to her, not even in that first wild access of rage which he may have felt at the receipt of the letter announcing her intended marriage, nor since, when he had cooled down into comparative carelessness. Surely that argued something in her favour? Surely that showed that he had yet some lingering regard for her? In all that had been told her of him--and specially during the election time she had heard much--no mention had ever been made of any woman to whom he was paying attention. She had thought of that before; she remembered it delightedly now. Could it be that in the secret recesses of his heart there glimmered yet, unquenched, a spark of love for her, the idol of his youth? It was not unlikely, she thought; he was very romantic, as she remembered him--just the sort of man in whom commerce with the world would be insufficient to blot out early impressions, to efface cherished ideals.

Could it be possible that the great crisis in her life was yet to come? That the opportunity was yet to be given her of having wealth and position, and, to share them with her, a husband whom she could love, and of whom she could be proud? Her happiness seemed almost too great; and yet it was there on the cards before her. Forgetting all she had done, and shutting her eyes to the fact that she herself had made an enormous gulf between them, she blindly argued to herself that it was impossible such love as Walter Joyce's for her could ever be wholly eradicated, that some spark of its former fire must yet remain in its ashes, and needed but tact and opportunity on her part to fan it again into aflame. What would not life be, then, were that accomplished? She had been pleased with the notion of entering society as Mr. Creswell's wife (poor prosaic Mr. Creswell!), but as the wife of Walter Joyce, who was, according to Mr. Gould, one of the most rising men of the day, and who would have her fortune at his back to further his schemes and advance his interests, what might not be done! Marian glowed with delight at this ecstatic day-dream; sat cherishing it for hours, thinking over all kinds of combinations; finally put it aside with the full determination to take some steps towards seeing Walter Joyce at once.

How lucky it was, she thought, that she had behaved amiably on the announcement of Gertrude Creswell's marriage, and not, as she had felt inclined at first to do, returned a savage, or at best a formal, answer! These people, these Benthalls, were just those through whose agency her designs must be carried out. They were very friendly with Walter, and of course saw something of him; indeed, she had heard that he was expected down to stay at Helmingham, so soon as he could get away from London. If she played her cards well--not too openly at first, but with circumspection--she might make good use of these people; and as they would not be too well off, even with the interest of Gertrud............