Brooks, the blacksmith and minister of the Independent Chapel, who was
at never-ending war with all the members of the Establishment, made a
special exception in Mrs. Ashurst's favour, and doffed his greasy
leathern cap to her as she passed the forge.
And his pretty little wife brought him good fortune, as well as
domestic happiness? James Ashurst delighted to think so. His
popularity in the village, and in the surrounding country, was on the
increase; the number of scholars on the foundership had reached its
authorised limit (a source of great gratification, though of no
pecuniary profit to the head master); and Master Peacock had now two
or three fellow-boarders, each of whom paid a fine annual sum. The
governors thought better of their head master now, and the old rector
had lived long enough to see his recommendation thoroughly accepted,
and his prophecy, as regards the improved status of the school, duly
fulfilled. Popular, successful in his little way, and happy in his
domestic relations, James Ashurst had but one want. His wife was
childless, and this was to him a source of discomfort, always felt and
occasionally expressed. He was just the man who would have doated on a
child, would have suffered himself to have been pleasantly befooled by
its gambols, and have worshipped it in every phase of its tyranny. But
it was not to be, he supposed; that was to be the one black drop in
his draught of happiness: and then, after he had been married for five
or six years, Mrs. Ashurst brought him a little daughter. His hopes
were accomplished, but he nearly lost his wife in their
accomplishment; while he dandled the newly born treasure in his arms,
Mrs. Ashurst's life was despaired of; and when the chubby baby had
grown up into a strong child, and from that sphere of life had
softened down into a peaceful girl, her mother, always slight and
delicate, had become a constant invalid, whose ill-health caused her
husband the greatest anxiety, and almost did away with the delight he
had in anticipating every wish of his darling little Marian.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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