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diff --git a/old/60613-0.txt b/old/60613-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 013c342..0000000 --- a/old/60613-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19103 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lover and Husband, by Ennis Graham - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Lover and Husband - -Author: Ennis Graham - -Release Date: November 2, 2019 [EBook #60613] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVER AND HUSBAND *** - - - - -Produced by Robert Parr and Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers - - - - - -LOVER AND HUSBAND - -A Novel - - -BY ENNIS GRAHAM - - - -“The history is a tragedy as all human histories are.” - -CARLYLE'S MIRABEAU. - - -IN THREE VOLUMES - -VOLUME I. - - - -LONDON: - -CHARLES J. SKEET, 10, KING WILLIAM STREET - -CHARING CROSS - -1870 - -(All Rights reserved.) - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. I. - -CHAPTER - -I.ANTECEDENTS - -II.ACROSS THE CHANNEL - -III.BLUE SKIES - -IV.A FRIEND IN NEED - -V.AU LION D’OR - -VI.FLORENCE - -VII.THE LITTLE GOVERNESS - -VIII.BEAUTY AND THE BEAST - -IX.“DE CAP A TU SOY MARION” - -X.A SUDDEN RECALL - -XI.THE LAST AFTERNOON ON THE TERRACE - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. II. - -CHAPTER - -I.AN EVENTFUL RAMBLE - -II.MORE THAN HALF WAY - -III.“FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND” - -IV.THE END OF SEPTEMBER - -V.ORPHANED - -VI.MALLINGFORD AND AUNT TREMLETT - -VII.GREY DAYS - -VIII.AND RALPH? - -IX.RALPH (continued) - -X.THE BEGINNING OF THE END - -XI.VERONICA’S COUNCIL - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. III. - -CHAPTER - -I.THE GARDEN AT THE “PEACOCK.” - -II.THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH - -III.THE END OF THE HONEYMOON - -IV.“AT HOME” - -V.A WIFELY WELCOME - -VI.A CRISIS - -VII.A FRIEND IN DISGUISE - -VIII.COTTON CHEZ SOI - -IX.“GOODBYE AND A KISS” - -X.LITTLE MARY’S ADVENT - -XI.MARION’S DREAM - -XII.GEOFFREY’S WIDOW - - - -CHAPTER I. ANTECEDENTS. - -“———The children of one mother, -You could not say in one short day, - What love they bore each other.” - WORDSWORTH. - - - -LONDON in September. A dull, close, airless day. The streets would have -been dusty enough too, no doubt, had there been a breath to stir the -dust, which one felt instinctively, was lying there in masses, ready -on the slightest provocation to rise in choking clouds. A day when one -longed for the sea, or failing that, for a breeze of fresh air. A day -when one could hardly believe in the reality of cool green fields, or -babbling, trickling brooks. Not that it was so much hot, for there was -little sun, as dry, and heavy, and intensely dull. Dull everywhere, but -especially so in one of the somewhat old-fashioned, but unmistakably -respectable squares of which there are not a few in London, so much -resembling each other as to require no special description. The -square at this season looked its very dullest and ugliest; under these -circumstances, I should suppose, the more nearly fulfilling the aim, as -regards outward appearance, of the melancholy architects who planned -it. Half the houses were shut-up, and of the remainder, several were -evidently shortly about to be so, for in some, hot and dusty housemaids -were to be seen pulling down window curtains, and in one or two more -an acute observer, by dint of a little peeping, might have discovered -business-like trunks and carpet-bags ready packed and strapped for -starting, or else gaping open while undergoing the mysterious process -called “airing,” in some of the lower regions where such domestic rites -are usually performed. - -In one of the dullest of the dull houses, in a sort of library or -morning room on the first floor, a young girl sat alone. The room -was not a pretty one. At the best of times it might have been called -comfortable, but nothing more for its furniture, though solid and -good of its kind, was like the rest of the house, heavy, dark, and -ungraceful. On this day the room looked especially uninviting, for there -was about it that peculiar look of business-like disorder, which, even -in the neatest of households, inevitably accompanies preparations for -“leaving home.” Torn letters, bits of string, and address labels, a -work-basket half emptied of its contents, all told their own tale. - -The only pretty thing in the room was its occupant. She was certainly -not beautiful, but like many people to whom that word, in its ordinary -and superficial sense, could not be truthfully applied, she was most -thoroughly pleasant to look upon. Possibly a thought too thin, and -hardly rosy enough for what one likes to see in a girl of nineteen, but -with no lack of health and vigour in her firm, well set frame, and pale, -though not sallow complexion. And with no want of intelligence or quick -perception in her grey eyes, as a glance from them would soon have told. -A good, gentle, pretty girl, just such, I think, as one would like -to see one’s own daughter, though with rather more thoughtfulness of -expression than seems quite natural in so young a creature. This came, -however, from her rather too quiet and solitary life, and from no -original dearth of the bright hopefulness and gaiety of spirit hardly in -theory to be separated from the idea of healthy youth. - -The girl sat at her writing-table, but not writing. Rather wearied with -all her little preparations, she felt glad to sit still doing nothing, -and though looking very thoughtful, as was her habit, still, to tell -the truth, she was thinking of little in particular. There was perfect -silence through the house, and the occasional roll of wheels in the -neighbouring streets sounded rumbling and heavy through the still, -drowsy air. Marion, I think, was very nearly on the point of succumbing -to these various influences by falling asleep outright, when her -reveries were disturbed by a sharp, sudden ring at the hall-door. She -started up, but sat down again lazily, saying to herself,” Oh, I forgot, -it will be only Cissy.” “Cissy,” evidently not being a person to be -treated with much ceremony. But a second start was in store for -poor Marion’s nerves, had she been conscious of possessing any such -undesirable things. A moment’s interval and then came the sound of hasty -feet up the stairs; the door opened suddenly and an unexpected visitor -entered. A boy of course. No one but a boy, and one too in a hurry, -could have come up stairs in that three-steps-at-a-time sort of way, or -opened the door with that indescribable sort of fling, neither bang -nor jerk, though partaking of the nature of both. Though, after all, -perhaps, it is hardly fair to this particular boy, to introduce him as -so thoroughly one of his rather objectionable class; for when he was -not in a hurry or very unusually out of temper, Harry Vere, my Marion’s -brother, did not by any means forget the small proprieties of life. A -good boy, in the main; certainly neither a sneak nor a bully. His looks -would have belied him had he been either. He had a fair, open, honest -face, with, however, much less strength than his sister’s, and also -less promise of future development. He hurried in, looking flushed and -travel-stained, and anxious too, as the girl’s quick observation was not -slow to discover. - -“Harry!” she exclaimed, “you here! How did you get off, and what is -the matter? Is anything wrong?” asking, after the manner of people in a -hurry to get an answer, three questions, where one would have served the -purpose. - -“No, no, nothing is wrong,” said the boy “at least, nothing much. I have -not been expelled, or broken my legs, as you can see for yourself. Don’t -get into a fuss. I only came up because I wanted so much to see you -before you go. You shall hear all about it in a minute; but first tell -me one thing. My father is still away? There no fear of his seeing me -today?” - -“Oh no, not the least,” replied the girl, evidently by no means -surprised at the unfilial spirit of the question; “he has been away -since Monday, and won’t return till the day after tomorrow. But I am -leaving tomorrow, you know. When I heard your ring I thought it -was Cissy Archer, for I am expecting her this afternoon, to settle -definitely about our train. I see though,” she added, glancing at the -time-piece, “she won’t be here for an hour yet, so we have plenty of -time for a talk.” - -“Not so very much,” said Harry, “for I must have some luncheon, as I -can’t get back to school till late, and my train goes in an hour and a -half. You can fancy how very much I wanted to see you, Marion, for even -though I came second-class, my fare will all by clear me out; and I -can’t now get leave to be away again before Christmas, so I shall miss -the match at Barrow next week.” - -Before answering Marion rang the bell and ordered some cold provisions -in the way of luncheon for her brother. As the servant was leaving the -room Harry said to him rather awkwardly and hesitatingly, “Brown, you -needn’t say anything to your master about my having come up to see Miss -Vere before she goes.” - -Brown being fortunately of the order of discreet domestics, answered -simply: - -“Very well, Sir, I will take care that your wishes are attended to;” -muttering however to himself as soon as he was outside the door, “Lucky -for poor Master Harry that none of them other chattering idiots saw him -come, and that I got the cold beef and bread unbeknownst to cook.” - -When Harry was comfortably seated at his repast, Marion repeated her -request. - -“Now, Harry, tell me all about it.” - -“Well, Marion, the long and the short of it is, I’ve got into a scrape. -Not a bad one though,” added he hurriedly, seeing the increasing anxiety -in his sister’s eyes, “nothing disgraceful or ungentlemanly. You would -never fear that for me, May? It was a good while ago; but I did not tell -you about it at Midsummer, because I thought then I should be able to -set it right, but now it has got worse. I know I was a fool for my pains -to hide it from you. Several months ago, one holiday at school, I hired -a horse. Of course it is against the rules but lots of follows do it. I -am really very fond of riding, though I don’t know about it, but I don’t -think I should have been tempted to do it in this underhand sort of way -if my father had sometimes let me have a little in the holidays. But -then—you know as well as I how he thwarts me; but that’s an old story. -Well, as ill-luck would have it I lamed the beast. I am no judge of -horses, but still I think it was above the average of a livery stable. -The man made an awful row, said he had that morning refused sixty pounds -for it, and it was now worthless. He threatened to complain to the -head-master. I don’t know what is the law in such matters, but I was in -such a fright that he would really tell on me, that I made on the spot -the best terms I could with him, which were to pay him twenty pounds -down the next morning; though when I promised this I had not the least -idea where to get the money. I went straight to Cuthbert, my great chum, -you know, Marion, and told him all about it. He begged me not to make -a fuss, and I should have the money in time. And sure enough by next -morning he had it for me, and I paid the man, as I had promised.” - -“But Cuthbert!” said Marion, in amazement, “how could he get it, Harry? -His people are not at all rich, and I should think he has even less -pocket-money than you.” - -“Yes, indeed,” replied Harry,” there’s the pull. Cuthbert knew I would -pay him as soon as I could, and he has been awfully good about it. But -only last week he came to me in great distress and told me the whole -affair. It seems he got the money in his own name from a wretched Jew -at a hideous rate of interest, trusting to my being able to pay him, in -part, any way, last mouth; as I quite hoped I should have got something -from Aunt Tremlett on my birthday. Of course she was ill and sent me -nothing. Now poor Cuthbert must pay it before the 15th of October, -and this wretch has made it somehow or other come to thirty instead -of twenty pounds. The exposure would utterly ruin Cuthbert. That’s the -horrible part of it; to think what my folly has brought him into, -good fellow that he is. Why he never spends a sixpence he can help on -himself! Now Marion what can I do? How ever am I to get thirty pounds -before the 15th of October?” - -“If only I had it,” sighed poor Marion, “but you know I never have five -pounds in my own hands, much less thirty.” - -“I know that quite well. I never had the least idea of getting it from -you, May. All thought of was, that as two heads are better than one -you might help me to find out some way of getting it. Of course, if the -worst comes to the worst, rather than let Cuthbert suffer I will go to -my father. He would pay it. I have no doubt, but would probably never -speak to me again. Any way all chance of my going into the army would -be over, and just when I am so close upon it too: leaving school at -Christmas for good. Oh, what a fool I was! But for both your sake and my -own, May, I would rather do anything than speak to my father. It would -be perfectly horrible to have to do it. I declare I would rather run -away, if only I could beg, borrow, or steal the money in the first -place.” - -“Hush, Harry,” said his sister, “don’t talk nonsense, but think -seriously what to do. If only Aunt Tremlett had not been so ill, she -might have helped us.” - -“Not she, indeed,” replied the boy impatiently, “or if she had even -agreed to do so, she would have been pretty sure to discover that it was -her duty to tell my father. Old idiot that she is.” - -“You need not waste your time in abusing her, Harry, for as things are, -she is out of the question. But Harry, dear,” she added anxiously, as -the sound of the clock striking caught her ear, “I fear your time is -almost up?” - -“All but,” said the boy, with a rather poor attempt at a laugh, “so -Marion you don’t see any way to helping me out of my trouble? And think -what a time it will be before we see each other again! You are to be at -Altes with Cissy Archer for six months, didn’t you say?” - -“Six months, certainly, I believe,” said his sister, “I should like the -thoughts of it exceedingly, but for the one drawback of not seeing you -in the holidays. But that can’t be helped! And now about this trouble -or yours, Harry. Do nothing just yet. Wait, any way, till the end of the -month; that will be a fortnight from now, and I will see if by then -I can hit upon any plan to prevent your having to tell Papa; for that -would really be too dreadful. Not so much the disagreeable of it as the -after consequences, for he would never forgive it, or trust you again.” - -“Never,” said Harry, emphatically. “But Marion, I must go. Thank you, -dear, for being so kind about it. Many a sister would have scolded or -preached, but I am far more sorry than if you had done either. Well, -then, you’ll write within a fortnight and send your address. I suppose -you don’t know it yet? Good bye, and mind you don’t fuss about me more -than you can help.” And with a more affectionate parting hug than he -would perhaps have liked Brown major or Jones minor, to be witness -to, Harry departed, his heart considerably lighter, as is the way with -selfish mankind, for having shared its burden with another. - -Marion, poor child, sat down again where he had found her, burying -her face in her hands as she vainly tried to solve the problem so -unexpectedly placed before her: “Where to find thirty pounds?” She had -never before actually cared about the possession of any sum of money, -for though by no means luxuriously brought up, still, as is the case -with many young people, the comforts of life had, as it were, “grown for -her.” Her father’s peculiar ideas as to the inexpediency of treating -his children as reasonable or responsible beings, had left her, in many -practical respects, singularly inexperienced. She had certainly often -wished, like all young people in a passing way, for things beyond her -reach; but still, whatever was really necessary to her comfort, or -suitable for her position, Mr. Vere had provided and paid for. In -proportion, therefore, to her previous exemption from anything in the -shape of financial anxieties, were her alarm and consternation at the -present difficulty. And terrible, indeed, appeared the alternative of -laying the matter before her falter. Sad perversion of what should -be the most tender and trustful of relations; that between parent and -child, when, in his distress and perplexity, or even in his shame and -remorse, the child’s first impulse, instead of being to fly for counsel -or comfort to the one friend who should never refuse it, is, at all -costs, to conceal his trouble from the parent who has indeed succeeded -in inspiring him with fear and distrust,—but alas with nothing more! And -this is done every day, not by hard or indifferent fathers only, but by -many who, according to their light, honestly enough desire to do their -best by the young creatures committed to their charge. - -Mr. Vere, the father of this boy and girl, was perhaps less to be blamed -than some parents, for the fact that his children did not regard him as -their friend. An extreme natural reserve of character and manner had, -in his case, been so augmented by the unhappy circumstances of his life, -that to his children from their earliest years, he had never appeared -otherwise than hard, forbidding, and utterly unsympathising. Yet in -reality he was a man of deep feeling, and capable of strong and lasting -attachments; but along with these healthy characteristics were to be -found in him a large amount of morbid weakness on certain points, and -a peculiarity which I can best describe as narrow-heartedness. The one -passion of his life had been his love for his wife, a lovely, silly, -mindless baby, whose early death was certainly not the bitterest -disappointment she caused him. Their carried life was short, but it -lasted long enough for the freezing, narrowing process to begin in the -husband’s heart. He lost faith in affection, or at least in his own -power of inspiring it. The want of breadth about him prevented his -seeing that though he had been so unfortunate as to make the one “grand -mistake,” an uncongenial marriage, it did not necessarily follow that -every other relation in life was, for him, to be in like manner a -failure. He made up his mind beforehand, that were he to allow himself -to seek for consolation in the love of his children, in that, too, he -would but be laying up fresh disappointment for himself. And therefore -he was weak and cowardly enough to stifle, so far as he could, the -natural outflowings of fatherly affection. He did not altogether succeed -in this, for his heart was still, in spite of himself, sound at the -core; but, alas, as time went on it proved no exception to that law of -our nature, by which all unused members gradually contract and wither. -From his children’s earliest years, as I said, Mr. Vere checked in -himself all outward demonstration of affection, and this, of course, -quickly reacted upon them. Little people are not slow to understand -when they and their innocent caresses are unsought, if not unwelcome. -Fortunately, however, for these poor little things, they had each other; -and the affection of two as honest, loving little hearts as ever beat, -refused vent in one direction, only flowed the more vehemently in the -remaining one. And to give the father his due, he certainly was not -unmindful or careless of their actual comforts and requirements. They -had everything to be desired for their health and happiness, except -their father’s love. As they grew older, time brought no improvement to -the state of matters. Extreme strictness, not to say severity, was the -basis of Mr. Vere’s theory of education. This, and the fact that he -never in the slightest degrees confided in his children, or appeared -to consider them as reasonable and intelligent companions, extended the -already wide gulf between them. Yet he continued, solicitous about their -health and comfort, and was even scrupulously careful in his choice -of their teachers, books, and the few companions he thought it wise to -allow them. Had any one taxed him with not fulfilling to the utmost his -duties as a parent, he would have been utterly amazed and indignant; for -so one-sided and warped had his whole being become through the one great -mistake of his life, that it simply never entered his imagination that, -by not loving his children, he was denying to them the first of their -natural rights; or that his systematic coldness could possibly be to -them an actual injury and injustice. - -For himself, he came in time to be so absorbed in other interests, those -of a political life, as not in the least to miss the affection he had -so deliberately stifled in its birth. In a rather narrow way a clever, -though never a brilliant man; accurate, painstaking and calm, he -gradually became very useful to his party. And thus, contentedly enough, -he lived his life, rather congratulating himself than otherwise, on -what he had made of it, and on the strength of character which had so -thoroughly thrown off and outgrown the bitter disappointment of his -early manhood. - -The childhood and youth of Marion and her brother had not, however, been -on the whole desolate or unhappy. Indeed, it takes a great deal, thank -God, to crush the happiness out of healthy children I And they don’t -miss what they have never known. - -The first great sorrow was Harry’s going to school; but at the Name -period, a kindly disposed and very terrible governess appearing on the -scene, Marion’s life was by no means solitary and loveless as she had -anticipated. The happiest times they remembered, poor children, were the -summer months, Harry’s holidays, which with this kind Miss Jervis, they -every year spent in Brentshire, their father’s native county, and where -he still owned, near the little village of Bradley, a pretty cottage -and a few acres of land—the remains of a once considerable property. In -Brentshire, too, at the dull little town of Mallingford, lived the -old Aunt Tremlett, Harry’s godmother, from whom they learned the few -particulars they ever knew of their pretty young mother and her early -death. - -Their father never accompanied them to Brentshire. He still shrank with -a morbid horror from ever revisiting the place where he had first met -his wife, and where, so few years after, she was buried. - -The Veres had in past days been people of no small consideration in -their own county, and though for two generations the head of the family -had been settled in a different part of England, there were still -plenty of people about Mallingford to whom the name in itself was a -recommendation to show kindness to the two children who bore it. And as -they were loveable and engaging, they soon gained hearts on their own -account. There was old Mr. Temple, the clergyman, who had married their -parents, and seen the sad end of that story, and his two young-lady -daughters, in particular Miss Veronica, who played the organ on Sundays, -and sometimes invited May or Harry as a great treat to sit up in the -loft beside her, Then there was jolly old Mr. Baldwin, of the Bank, -always so merry and hearty; and Geoffrey, his son, the great tall -schoolboy, who used to carry both children at once, when they were very -small, one perched on each shoulder. He came to see them one Christmas -in London, and told them of his kind father’s death, looking so sad -and lonely that both Marion and Harry cried when he went away. That was -several years ago, but they had never seen Geoffrey Baldwin since; for -as they grew older, their visits to Brentshire became fewer, and at -last ceased altogether. Their father sold the cottage, and the Midsummer -holidays were now spent in London, with the exception of a fortnight -or so at the seaside, if it happened to strike Mr. Were that town was -unhealthy in hot weather for young people. - -I think there is very little more to tell of Marion’s early life. Simple -and uneventful enough it had been, and with but few of what are usually -considered young girls’ special privileges and pleasures. But, on the -whole, by no means an unwholesome training for a rich and vigorous -nature, though it might have crushed and stunted a poorer one. Such -society as, since she grew to womanhood, she had seen at her father’s -house, had been almost confined to that of the few friends whom he now -and then invited to a somewhat ponderous dinner. Clever men, all of -them, in their different ways; interested, if not absorbed, in topics, -much of which Marion hardly understood, but from which, not being a -common-place young lady, her quick intelligence led her to glean much -material for quiet thought and speculation, which certainly did her no -harm, and probably more good than the “finishing” touches she would -at this period have been undergoing, had her education been more in -accordance with prescribed rules. - -That anything in the shape of a “coming-out,” so called, was necessary -or even advisable for his daughter, had never occurred to the -pre-occupied mind of Mr. Vere; but as some of his friends took a kindly -interest in the girl, she had not been quite without an occasional -glimpse into the doings of the gay world. And now a very unexpected -treat was before her, in the prospect of spending several months at the -far-famed wintering place of Altes, under the care of the pleasantest of -chaperons, the aforesaid Cissy Archer. - -Six or seven years before this, when Marion was a thin, shy little girl -of twelve or thereabouts, this cousin, then Cecilia Lacy, had been to -her a vision of beauty and loveliness such as she could hardly imagine -excelled by any even of her favourite fairy princesses. And this -childish admiration had not been misplaced. Cissy had been an -exceedingly pretty girl, and now at eight-and-twenty was an exceedingly -pretty woman. A good little soul, too, as ever lived. Possibly not -exactly over-flowing with discretion, but so thoroughly and genuinely -amiable, bright and winning, that it was utterly impossible to wish her -in any respect other than she was. She had married happily. Her husband -was considerably older than herself, and by his rather overwhelming -superabundance of discretion, good judgement and all other model -qualities of the kind, more than atoned for his pretty, impulsive wife’s -deficiencies, if indeed they could be called such. There were people who -called Colonel Archer a prig, but it was well for them that loyal little -Cissy never heard the sacrilege; for, dissimilar as they were, yet the -two were entirely of one mind in the most important respect, of each -thinking the other little short of perfection. The greater part of their -married life had been spent in India, where their only trouble had been -Mrs. Archer’s extremely delicate health, which at last, about a year -before this time, had obliged her to return home to try the effects -of the long sea voyage and English air. The experiment had in a great -measure proved successful, and Cissy, now hoped to be able, before very -long, to rejoin her husband. The one winter, however, which since her -return she had spent in England, had rather tried her strength, in -consequence of which she had been advised to spend the coming six months -of cold weather in a milder climate. She was now, therefore, on the -point of starting for Altes, accompanied by her only child, a very -small boy known as Charlie, and also, to her great delight, by her young -cousin, Marion Vere. A pretty stout battle Cissy had fought with the -awful Mr. Vere, before obtaining his consent to his daughter’s joining -the little party, but Mrs. Archer had what the old nurses call “a way -with her,” and the uncle had rather a weakness for his captivating -niece. She was the child of his dead sister, whom not so very long ago -he remembered just as bright and happy as her daughter was now. So the -end of it was as might have been expected. Mr. Vere gave in, and Cissy -came off triumphant. - -Master Charlie, at the age of five and a half, was already one of that -devoutly-to-be-avoided class—enfants terrible. Frightfully spoilt by his -mother since he had had the misfortune to be under her exclusive care, -and yet a loveable little monkey too, for the spoiling had principally -resulted in making him preternaturally sharp, rather than selfish -or exacting. He was a chivalrous mite in his way. He firmly believed -himself to have been entrusted by his father with the exclusive care of -his mother, and thought it simply a matter of course that his opinion -should be asked before any important step could be decided upon. His -extreme views on the subject of “Mounseers” had for some days caused the -journey to Altes to remain in abeyance; but a bright suggestion of his -nurse’s, that he might turn his experiences to profit by writing a book -about these objects of his aversion and their queer ways, had carried -the day triumphantly. - -His deficiencies in literary respects, for he had not yet succeeded -in mastering the alphabet, fortunately presented no insurmountable -difficulties; as he had already engaged the services of Miss Vere as -amanuensis, at a liberal rate of a penny a week, provided she was “very -good, and wrote all the book in red ink with a gold pen.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. ACROSS THE CHANNEL. - -“Besides ‘tis known he could speak -Greek, As naturally as pigs can squeak.” - BUTLER’S HUDIBRAS. - - -AS Harry Vere turned the corner of the square, a carriage drove past -him, in the direction of his father’s house. It passed quickly, but not -before he had recognised the lady seated in it. - -“What a blessing,” thought he to himself, “that Cissy was looking -the other way, or as sure as fate she would have stopped, and -cross-questioned me in that chatter-boxing way of hers. People all say -she is so lively and charming. I dare say she is, but all the same I -think Marion is worth a dozen of her.” - -And so thinking, the boy hailed a passing hansom, and was quickly -whirled off to the railway station. - -Marion sitting alone, meditating sadly enough on Harry and his troubles, -was soon interrupted. A soft rustle outside, the door gently opened, and -her cousin entered. - -“Oh, Marion, dear,” said she, as she kissed her, “I am in such a -terrible fuss, and have been so busy all the morning that I have not got -half my shopping done. So if you don’t mind, instead of my staying home, -will you come out with me and help me to finish it, and we can settle -all our plans on the way.” - -“By all means,” replied Marion, “I shall be ready in two minutes,” -and so she was, being in certain respects somewhat of an exception -to young-ladyhood in general. There are, I think, by-the-way, some -advantages to a girl in being brought up in a masculine household. With -no sisters to back her small delinquencies, she is pretty sure, sooner -or later, to discover that it is really much better and more comfortable -to follow the example of the menkind about her, in such trifles as -punctuality and other “minor morals” of the kind; adherence to which -women in general seem to consider by no means an addition to their -charms. - -Hardly was Mrs. Archer again seated in the carriage when she commenced -to pour into the sympathising ear of her cousin the recital of her many -and all but overpowering afflictions. - -“Only think, Marion,” said she, with the most self-pitying tone, -“this whole day have I been rushing about in this carriage to one -register-office after another, only varied by frantic dives into -institutions for finding, or rather not finding unexceptionable -governesses. Me, of all people on earth, to be entrusted with the -selection of a model governess as if I hadn’t long ago forgotten every -thing any of mine ever taught me. Though I must say, looking for nurses -is almost as bad. And with the horrible feeling on me all the time, of -how this carriage hire will be running up. It is really too bad of -that tiresome old lady and that stupid girl. Just when I meant to be -so economical too, and clear off all my bills before going away; for -I really owe such a dreadful amount. I declare, Marion, I have a great -mind to set off for India at once, instead of going to Altes.” - -All this medley of grievances little Mrs. Archer ran through in such -a hurry, that but for being pretty well accustomed to her rather -bewildering way of talking, Marion would have been utterly at a loss to -make sense or it. Knowing by previous experience that it was useless to -attempt to put a word, till Cissy stopped from sheer want of breath, she -patiently waited till this occurred; and then said quietly, - -“Really, Cissy, you should have some pity on my dullness of -apprehension. Why have you been running about to register-offices? I -heard nothing of all this last night, when I saw you. I haven’t the -slightest idea what tiresome old lady and stupid girl you are talking -about. Nor can I see how going to India would pay your debts?” - -“For goodness sake, Marion, don’t be so precise and methodical, or I’ll -shake you,” replied Cissy, “how could I have told you last night what I -didn’t myself know till this morning. And as to my bills, of course I am -all right in India, as George looks after me there. He is so dreadfully -particular never to owe anything, and not to spend too much and it is -knowing this that makes me hate so not to manage with what he sends me, -for I know it is the very utmost he can afford. I suppose I am one of -those people Aunt Tremlett always speaks of as ‘very deficient in good -management, my dear.’ But I really can’t help it. I’m too old to learn.” - -“Well, we shall be very economical at Altes, Cissy,” said Marion, -cheerfully; “I won’t let you buy anything. Not even velvet suits for -Charlie! Though I’m sure you can’t want money more than I do,” she -continued, with a sigh. - -“You, child. What nonsense!” exclaimed her cousin, “if you don’t get -money itself you get money’s worth, and no trouble of bills or any -thing. You are talking rubbish, Marion. Wait till you are married, and -the cares of life are upon you, before you talk wanting money.” - -“It’s true, nevertheless,” maintained Marion; “but never mind about that -now. You haven’t yet explained about the nurse and governess difficulty. -Whom are you looking out for? Not for yourself? I thought you were so -pleased with the maid you had engaged; and you don’t want a governess -for Charlie?” - -“Of course not; but that reminds me that I promised to buy him a bottle -of red ink. Don’t let me forget. And also a wedding present for him to -give to Foster, for she is a good soul really. She has put off her visit -home till next week, so that she will see us safe off from Paris. It -was only this morning I heard that the maid I had engaged can’t possibly -come. She is ill or something. It is impossible to get one in her place -at such short notice, so I have made up my mind, as Foster can go so far -with us, to wait till we get to Altes, and get a French girl there -to look after Charlie. It will be just as well, for she can teach him -French. Provided he does not take it into his head to hate her for being -what he calls a ‘Mounseer.’ ” - -“Not a bit of him, if you tell him it would be rude and silly. I wish -however that I could have helped you by taking my maid. But you see, I -can’t do so, unless it had been arranged before, for mine, you know, is -a rather venerable individual, and acts housekeeper to some extent. Tell -me now about the governess mystery.” - -“Oh!” said Cissy, “it was a letter I got this morning from old Lady -Severn. They have just returned to Altes from some place or other where -they have been during the summer, and she is in a great state to get a -good English governess, for the very few daily governesses there have -as much as they can do. So hearing accidentally of my going there, -she write to ask me if I can hear of one, as it would be so much more -satisfactory for me to see the unfortunate young lady in the first -place. I daresay it would! But where the being in question is to be seen -I haven’t yet discovered. I have got the names and addresses of two -or three to tell her about, but I don’t think they seem particularly -promising.” - -“But what does an old lady want with a governess?” asked Marion; “didn’t -you say Lady Severn was old?” - -“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Archer, “sixty or seventy, or eighty -for all I know. A regular old lady. But that does not prevent her having -grandchildren, does it? Surely, though, Marion, you have heard of the -Severns? Lady Severn is a step-sister of Lord Brackley’s in Brentshire. -Did you never hear of them there?” - -“No, not that I remember,” said Marion thoughtfully; “but you know I -have not been there for several years. How is it the grand-children live -with Lady Severn? Are their parents dead?” - -“Yes, both,” replied Cissy, “and that’s how we know them. I mean,” she -went on, “it was owing to George and these children’s father, the eldest -brother, having been great friends at school and college. Old Lady -Severn was devotedly attached to this son, Sir John, (the father died -many years ago) and she has always kept up a correspondence with -George for his sake. She and I have never met but she has written very -cordially several times, and I was quite pleased to hear this morning -of their being at Altes. I should have got her letter sooner, but not -knowing my address, she sent it to George’s mother at Cheltenham to -forward to me, which has, you see, caused all this hurry and fuss about -a governess at the last minute.” - -“How many children are there?” asked Marion. - -“Two, both girls, ten and twelve, I think, their ages are. Their father -died two years ago, so their uncle, Ralph Severn, is now the head of -the family. Lady Severn has never got over Sir John’s death. It was very -sudden, the result of an accident. He was her favourite too. I don’t -fancy she cares very much for Sir Ralph, but, as far as I can judge, -don’t think it is very much to be wondered at.” - -“Why?” asked Marion, “is he not a good son?” - -“Oh dear, yes,” said Cissy, “unexceptionably good in every respect. In -fact, I fancy he is something of a prig and not half so attractive as -his brother was. And besides, Sir Ralph has not been very much with his -own family. John Severn was splendidly handsome, George has often told -me. A grand, tall, fair man, and with the most winning manners. The sort -of man who did everything well; riding and shooting and all those sorts -of things you know. No wonder his mother was proud of him! Whereas Ralph -is quite different, quite unlike his family, for they are all remarkably -handsome people, and he is not at all so, I should say. Dark and sallow -and gloomy looking. Horribly learned too, I believe. A great antiquary, -and able to read all the languages of the Tower of Babel, I’ve been -told. So he’s sure to be fusty and musty. He spent several years poking -about for all manner of old books and manuscripts somewhere in the -East.” - -“How do you happen to know so much about him? Did you ever see him?” -enquired Marion.” - -“Yes, once, on our way to India, he met us at Cairo. He had been -vice-consul somewhere, I think, but when I saw him he was in the middle -of his poking for these dirty old books. I thought him a great bore, but -George rather liked him. He had not the slightest idea then of getting -the title, and I believe he hates having it. But I declare, Marion, we -have been chattering so about the Severns that we haven’t said a word -about our plans.” - -Whereupon ensued a Bradshaw and Murray discussion, in which Cissy, -having previously crammed for the occasion, came out very strong. Marion -felt dull and depressed, but glad that her cousin’s pre-occupation -prevented her observing that she was less lively than usual. - -The shopping was at last satisfactorily executed. Just as they were -about to separate at Mr. Vere’s door, Marion remembered a message which -her father had charged her to deliver to Mrs. Archer. - -“Oh, Cissy!” she exclaimed, “Papa said I was to tell you that instead of -leaving money with me here for my expenses, he has sent some to Paris, -so that you won’t have any trouble about the exchange. I was to ask you -when we got there, to call at somebody or other’s bank, I have the name -written down, and there you will find fifty pounds waiting for you to -use for me. And then Papa wants you, after getting to Altes, to make -a sort of calculation as to what my expenses will be, and he will send -whatever sum you need.” - -“Awful prospect!” exclaimed Cissy. “Imagine me drawing out a set of what -do you call them?—statistics, isn’t that the word?—for Uncle Vere, as to -the average prices and probable amount of bread, meat, fruit, &c, likely -to be consumed by a young lady with a healthy appetite in the course of -six months. I declare I can’t do it, Marion, but we’ll see when we get -there. So good bye till tomorrow morning. I needn’t impress upon such a -model as you the expediency of being ready in time, and not forgetting -your keys.” - -And so saying she drove away. - -The next morning saw our little group of travellers fairly started on -their journey. Mrs. Archer in a violent, but amiable state of fuss; -Charlie, thoughtful and meditative, as became a would-be author, -but perfectly ready, nevertheless, to take the whole party, luggage -included, under his small wing, and inclined also to be severe and -cutting to his nurse on the subject of her lachrymose condition, owing -to the fast approaching separation from her darling. - -“It’s what I’ve told you thousands of times, Foster,” he observed; “if -you love me better than Mr. Robinson, then marry me, and we shall never -be parted no more; but if you do marry him I won’t be angry, and come -and have tea with you on Sundays if you’ll let me spread my own toast.” - -Marion was standing by the book-stall, idly eyeing its contents, when -the sound of a voice beside her, enquiring for a newspaper, struck -her with a half-familiar sound, and involuntarily she glanced at the -speaker. He was quite a young man, six or seven and twenty at most he -appeared to be. The momentary glimpse of his face, before he turned -away, gave her the same vague impression of having met him before, -though where or when she had no idea. A very pleasant face, any way it -was. Somehow Cissy’s words, when describing Sir John Severn to her the -day before, came into her mind. “A grand, tall, fair man, with the most -winning manners.” Of which last, in the present case, she had soon an -opportunity of judging, for at that moment Charlie, running up to her -eagerly, stumbled and fell, poor little fellow, full length on the hard -platform. The blow to his dignity was worse than the bump on his head, -and his mingled feelings would, in another moment, have been beyond his -control, had not the stranger in the kindest and gentlest way lifted the -child from the ground, holding him in his arms while he carefully wiped -the dusty marks from his face and hands. - -“There, that’s all right again. Nothing for a brave little man like you -to cry for, I’m sure,” said he brightly, at which well-timed exhortation -Charlie was speedily himself again. - -“Thank you very much,” said Marion. “Now Charlie, we’ll go hack to your -mamma.” - -But at the sound of her voice the stranger started. - -“Surely,” he began, but the sentence was never completed, for at that -moment went the bell rang, and Mrs. Archer hurrying up, swept them -all off in her train, leaving the young man standing with a puzzled -expression on his face, as Marion, involuntarily smiling at their mutual -perplexity, half bowed in farewell as she passed him. - -“Who could that be, Cissy?” said she, when they were at length -satisfactorily settled amidst railway rugs and shawls, and Charlie -having related his misfortunes to his mother, had been further consoled -by a biscuit. - -“Who could it be?” she repeated, “that tall, fair man who picked Charlie -up so kindly. I am sure I have seen him before.” - -But Cissy had not observed him, and though Marion amused herself by -trying to guess the riddle she not succeed in doing so. The incident, -however, was not without its use, for during the long journey to Paris, -it took her thoughts a little off what had been engrossing them to an -undesirable extent—her brother’s troubles. - -Thinking seemed to bring her no suggestion as to any way of obtaining -the thirty pounds, so she at last made the manful resolution for a time -to dismiss the subject from her mind, and when arrived at Altes, if no -other idea should strike her, to consult with Cissy, who was certainly -quick-witted enough, and also thoroughly to be trusted once she really -understood the necessity for silence on any particular subject. - -The journey to Paris, including that horror of mild voyagers, crossing -the channel, was safely accomplished. A day or two in the Paradise of -milliners, during which time Cissy underwent torments, compared to which -those of Tantalus were as nothing, from the sight of palaces of delight, -yclept “magasins de modes,” into which she dared not venture, and from -which her only safety was in flight. - -A heartrending parting scene between Foster and her beloved Master -Charlie, whose heroic fortitude gave way at the last; and again the -little party, now reduced to three, are off on their travels. - -“Now my dear Marion,” said Cissy, with the air of a very small Jeanne -d’Arc about to lead an army into battle, “now our adventures are about -to begin. Behold in me your only pillar of defence, your only refuge in -danger, and—all that sort of thing, you know. Do be quiet Charlie; what -is the matter with you?” - -“Foster promised to buy one a gun in case we meet wobbers and fiefs,” -said Charlie dole-fully, “and she forgot.” - -“Never mind, child, I’ll get you one at Altes. I only wish we were -there!” said his mother. - -“By-the-by, Cissy, have you heard any more about our lodgings at Altes?” -enquired Marion. - -“Oh dear yes, I got an answer to any letter just as we started this -morning, but I’ve hardly read it yet,” and as she spoke, Mrs. Archer -drew it from her pocket. “Yes, that’s all right. It is from Bailey, the -English doctor at Altes, to whom mine at home gave me an introduction. -It’s really very kind. He says he has engaged a charming apartement -for me, and cheap too, and that the daughter of the somebody—who is -it, Marion? Oh, I see, the propriétaire. Yes, the daughter of the -propriétaire, Madame Poulin, will be very happy to act as maid and look -after Charlie. That’s a blessing. And he, that’s Dr. Bailey, will send -some one to meet us on our arrival, so after all, Marion, we need not be -afraid of meeting with much in the way of adventures.” - -“Is inventures fiefs, Mamma?” asked Charlie, “for if they are, you -needn’t he afraid. I can pummel them even without a gun. And take care -of you too, May, if you’re good.” - -“Thank you, Charlie,” said Marion, laughing, “I’ll not forget your -promise.” And then, turning to Cissy, she asked if she knew anyone else -at Altes besides Lady Severn. - -“I had one or two introductions,” Mrs. Archer replied, “but I know no -one personally, except old Major and Mrs. Berwick, who are residents -there. They used to live at Clifton, and one of the daughters was at -school with me. She can’t be very young now, for she was some years -older than I.” - -And so, chatting from time to time they beguiled the weariness of a long -day shut up in a railway carriage. Charlie fortunately was very good, -and when he got tired of looking out of the window, had the good sense -to compose himself for a little siesta, which lasted till they were -close to the town where they were to stay for the night. This they spent -in a queer, old-world sort of hotel, where the windows of the rooms -all looked into each other, and the beds were panelled into the wall, -something like those in old Scotch farmhouses. I write of some few years -ago. No doubt imperial rule has by this time “changé tout cela,” -and, travelling in France is probably fast becoming as commonplace as -anywhere else. The rest of the journey, which occupied two long days, -was performed en diligence, an irksome enough mode of procedure, as -those who have had the misfortune to be shut up in a coupé for twenty or -thirty hours it a stretch cam testify. - -The country for some distance was fertile, and here and there, when one -got rid of the poplars, even picturesque. But halfway to Altes on the -last day, it altogether changed in character, becoming utterly waste and -sterile. Now, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen on -either side of the road, but long stretches of bleak, barren moorland. -Hardly, indeed, correctly described by that word, for our northern moors -have a decided, though peculiar, beauty of their own, wholly wanting -in the great, dead-looking wastes of this part of France, known as “les -landes.” To add to the gloomy effect of the scene, a close drizzling -rain began to fall, and continued without the slightest break, the whole -of that dreary afternoon. - -Marion, though neither morbid nor weak-minded, was yet, like all -sensitive and refined organisations, keenly alive to the impressions -of the outer world. A ray of sudden sunshine; a tiny patch of the -exquisitely bright green moss, one sometimes sees amidst a mass of dingy -browns and olives; or the coming unexpectedly towards the close of a -dusty summer ramble on one of those fairylike wells of coolest, purest -water all shaded round by a bower or drooping ferns and bracken,—these, -and such things as these caused her to thrill with utterly inexpressible -delight. But on the other side she, of necessity, suffered actual -pain from trifles which, in coarser natures, waken no sense of jar or -discord. - -I do not, however, believe that this latter class of feelings is ever -roused by nature herself, except where she has been distorted, or in -some way interfered with. Even in her gloomiest and wildest aspects, the -impression she makes upon us is of awe, but never horror; of melancholy, -but never revulsion of pain, in some mysterious way so far transcending -pleasure, as to be, to my thinking, the most exquisite of all such -sensations. - -In a half-dreamy, half-pensive mood sat Marion, this dull September -afternoon, in the ugly, dingy old French diligence, intently gazing as -if it fascinated her, on the far stretch of grim, brown waste all round; -the rain dripping and drizzling, and the poor tired horses patiently -splashing on through the mud, now and then encouraged by the queer -outlandish cries of the driver. At last, the girl glanced round at her -companions. Both fast asleep. There was nothing else to do, so she again -betook herself to the window, and yielded to the gloomy fascination of -the moor and the rain. It began, at last, to seem that her whole life -had been spent thus, that everything else was a dream, and the only -realities were the great trackless desert, and the diligence rumbling on -for ever, where to and where from she seemed neither to know nor care. -Then, I suppose, she must have fallen into a doze, or perhaps asleep -outright. However this was, she must have shut her eyes for some time, -for when she next was conscious of using them, all was changed. - -Still the wide-stretching moor all round; but no longer brown and grim, -it now appeared a field of lovely shades of colour; for far away at the -horizon, the beautiful sun was setting in many-hued radiance, and the -rain had all cleared away, except a few laggard drops still falling -softly, each a miniature rainbow as it came. Marion watched till the sun -was gone. Then the golden light grew softer and paler, the clouds melted -from crimson and rose, to the faintest blush, and at last all merged in -a silvery greyness, which in its turn gradually deepened again to the -dark, even blue of a cloudless night. And one by one the stars came out, -each in its accustomed place; all the old friends whom Marion had -first learnt to call by name from the windows of the little cottage at -Brackley. Somehow the strangeness and the loneliness seemed to leave her -as she saw them, and a feeling of tranquil happiness stole over her. But -this solitary evening in the old diligence was never forgotten, for -it became to her one of those milestones in life, little noticed in -passing, but plainly seen on looking back. - -Soon, a rattle on the stop y, and lights of another kind from those -overhead, told the travellers that their wearisome journey was ended at -last. Cissy woke up brisk as ever; for whatever weak points Mrs. Archer -may have had, she was certainly strong that of being an agreeable -travelling companion. It is a trite saying, that there is no trial of -temper equal to that afforded by being shut up together for weeks in -a ship, or for days in a railway. But both of these tests Cissy’s -amiability had stood triumphantly. Now rubbing her eyes as she sat up -and looked about her, she exclaimed brightly, “Here we are, I declare, -and now we shall soon be able to put this poor little fellow to bed -comfortably,” glancing at still sleeping Charlie. Then, in the sudden -inconsequent manner peculiar to very impulsive people, added hastily:— - -“Marion, do you know it has just this instant struck me that I quite -forgot to answer Lady Severn’s letter. How very stupid and careless of -me! I shall have to go to see her to-morrow to explain about it.” - -As she spoke, they drove into a covered courtway. The diligence drew up -at last with a squeak and a grunt, as if it sympathised with the tired, -cramped travellers it had brought so far. A jabber outside, and the -conducteur jerked open the door, enquiring if Madame Archère were the -name of “une de ces dames.” - -“Archère. Archer,” repeated Cissy “yes, certainly, by all means. Now -Charlie, my boy, wake up;” and so alighting from their coupé, they found -that the very obliging Dr. Bailey had sent a man-servant and carriage to -convey them to their apartement at the other end of the queer, rambling, -up-and-down-hill little town. - -It was not so very late after all, though past poor Charlie’s bedtime, -when they found themselves installed in the pretty little suite of -rooms, which for several months to come they were to consider “home.” - -The first thing to be done, of course, was to get the small gentleman -of the party safely disposed of for the night. He pronounced himself -too sleepy to want any supper; but brightened up in the most aggravating -manner at the sight of pretty Thérèse Poulin, already prepared to -commence her new duties as his personal attendant. - -“Little Miss Mounseer,” said he deliberately, seating himself on a stool -and staring lap in her face, “tell me what your name is.” To which, on -Marion’s interpretation, the girl replied smilingly: - -“Thérèse, mon cher petit monsieur. Thérèse Poulin.” - -“Trays,” repeated he meditatively; “Trays, very well then, Trays. I’ll -let you undress me if you’ll always let me spread my bread myself.” - -Delighted at the promising aspect of the much-dreaded new nursery -arrangements, Cissy and Marion made their escape to the little -salle-à-manger, where Madame Poulin, a cheery active old body, had -providently prepared tea à l’ Anglais, as she phrased it, for their -refreshment. - -Happening to ask, as she left the room, if the ladies had any messages -they would like executed that evening; any letters to be posted for -instance, a thought struck Cissy, and she enquired if the post-office -were near at hand. To which Madame Poulin replied briskly, that it was -in the very next street, just round the corner. - -Then,” said Mrs. Archer, “pray send some one to ask if there are any -letters lying there for me, for,” she added, turning to Marion, “it is -quite possible there may be, as I gave no address, but, poste restante, -and all yours will come under cover to me, as we agreed would be best.” - -Five minutes later, Thérèse entered the room with two letters for -Madame, which had been waiting her arrival since the day before. Tearing -one open an enclosure fell out, addressed to Miss Vere, who seized it -eagerly. - -“From Harry, I see,” said Mrs. Archer, “what a model brother to write so -quickly!” - -But Marion did not respond with her usual brightness to her cousin’s -remark, for before opening the envelope a misgiving came over her that -its contents would not be of a cheerful nature. Nor, alas, were they! -Poor Harry wrote in sore trouble. It appeared that the money lender, the -“wretched little Jew,” of the boy’s story, had begun to have fears about -obtaining from Cuthbert the sum he declared to be owing to him. The very -day Harry had seen his sister in London, the man had stopped Cuthbert in -the street, and had loudly threatened him with exposure unless the money -were speedily forthcoming. The distress and anxiety all this was causing -his friend, Harry very naturally felt must be put a stop to, and he -wrote to say that he only waited for Marion’s reply, in the faint hope -that some idea might have struck her, before making up his mind to risk -all, and boldly apply to his father. - -Marion shuddered at the bare thought. She was tired too, and -over-excited by her several days’ travelling. Cissy was engrossed by her -own letter, and did not for a moment or two notice poor Marion’s face of -despondency and distress. - -Suddenly looking up to tell some little piece of news, in which her -young cousin might take interest, she was startled by the girl’s -expression. “May, my dear child, whatever is the matter? Have you had -news from home?” enquired she anxiously. - -“Oh, no,” answered Marion, “at least, not exactly. Nothing but what I -knew before.” - -But the ice once broken, the impulse to confide her trouble to kind, -sympathising Cissy, was too strong to be resisted, and in another minute -Mrs. Archer was in possession of all the facts of the case. - -She listened attentively, only interrupting Marion by little soft -murmurs of pity for her anxiety. And when she had heard the whole she -agreed with her cousin that it certainly would be very awful to have -to apply to Mr. Vere, only she “really didn’t see what else was to be -done.” - -“If only, I could possibly spare the money,” she said, “but alas—” - -“Cissy, you know I wasn’t thinking of that,” interrupted Marion; “I know -you are rather short of money yourself, just now.” - -“Indeed, I am,” said Cissy dolefully; “but now, May dear, you must go -to bed and try to sleep. I promise you I’ll cudgel my brains well, and -we’ll see by to-morrow if we cannot somehow or other help poor Harry out -of his scrape.” - -With which rather vague consolation, Marion, for the present had to be -satisfied. And with an affectionate “good night,” the cousins separated. - - - - -CHAPTER III. BLUE SKIES - -“To me the meanest flower that blows can give -Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” - WORDSWORTH. - -“They order,” said I, “these things better in France.” - STERNE. - - - -THE next morning was bright and sunny. Marion woke early, feeling, -thanks to her eighteen years, perfectly rested and refreshed. Under -these circumstances too, as might be expected, her spirits were -considerably better than they had been the previous night, when she -cried herself to sleep in her fatigue and distress. - -She lay quietly for a few minutes, hazily glancing round at the quaint -little room, exquisitely clean and fresh, certainly, for Madame Poulin -was a model housewife, but looking somewhat bare to Marion’s thoroughly -English eyes. Still, the very strangeness was pleasant, and the sunshine -pouring in through the uncurtained window, was bright enough to fill -even this plain little room with light and beauty. - -Feeling buoyant and cheerful, Marion sprang up, and was nearly dressed, -when a small tap at the door, and the request, “May I tum in?” announced -the presence of Master Charlie. His tidings were not of the cheeriest. - -“Poor Mamma was very tired and couldn’t get up, and May was not to wait -breakfast.” It was really not to be wondered at, for Cissy was by no -means a robust person, though fortunate in the possession of a most -cheerful disposition and a wonderful amount of energy and spirit. -Notwithstanding, however, all the good will in the world, she was now -forced to confess herself on the point of being very thoroughly knocked -up; so Marion breakfasted alone. But for the remembrance of Harry’s -letter, she would have felt very bright and happy this first morning at -Altes. The weather was exquisitely beautiful. From the little terrace -on to which opened most of their rooms, there was a lovely view of the -mountains, standing out sharp and clear against the intense, perfect -blue of the sky. What a colour! How utterly indescribable to those -who have never chanced to see it! How different from the bluest of our -northern skies is this rich intensity of azure! In the reaction of the -present clay against exaggeration of sentiment or language, it has, -I know, become the fashion to disbelieve and decry many “travellers’ -stories” that used to be undoubtingly accepted. Still, as all reactions -do, this one has gone too far, and a spirit of cynical scepticism is -fast undermining much of the pleasure simple-minded stay-at-home people -(certainly a very small minority now-a-days) used to derive from the -descriptions of their more fortunate sight-seeing neighbours. - -People are told that it is all humbug and nonsense about southern skies -having a richness and depth of colour unknown in those of the north. -That the Mediterranean is just like any other sea, and the tints of its -waters not one whit more varied or brilliant than may be seen at any -English coast on a sunny day. Doubtless, the north has its own peculiar -and precious beauties, and well and fitting it is that its children -should appreciate and prize them. But why therefore set ourselves to -ignore or make light of the more vivid and striking loveliness we must -turn southwards to see? For my part I can only tell of things as they -seemed to me; and I come too of an older generation; one in which -people were not ashamed to wonder and admire, heartily and even -enthusiastically. No poor words of mine could ever in the faintest -degree picture the marvellous perfection of those blue skies of the -south, at which I gazed with a very ecstasy of delight, or of the waves -like melted emeralds and sapphires lapping softly the silvery sparkling -sands. They come to me in my dreams even now, and I wake with a vain -longing to hear their gentle murmur. - -Think, in contrast, of the faint, sickly hues brought before us by -our English words “sky-blue “and “sea-green!” Assuredly those who love -chiefly beauty in colour, must not look for it hereabouts. - -Marion stood on the terrace for some little time in perfect enjoyment. -She was just at the age to take unalloyed pleasure in the loveliness of -the outer world. It woke no painful remembrance, stirred up no bitter -association or fruitless longing. Alas, alas, that there should be so -few, so very few, to whom, in later years, the beauty of this beautiful -world, if not altogether hidden by the thick veil of past sorrows, -is truly what is always meant be, a delight, a refreshment, “a joy -forever.” - -Surely it is more or less in our or power keep or make it so? At least, -one cheering thought might be drawn from it by even the most weary -and heavy-laden spirit. It tells us that we and our sorrows are not -forgotten, for there, before us in every leaf and blade of grass -the Universal Beauty reveals to us the Universal Love. But a girl at -eighteen does not stop to analyse the sensations of pleasure aroused -by a beautiful landscape. Marion only thought that it was lovelier than -anything she had ever imagined, and well worth corning so far to see. -She was fortunate in being so fresh to such scenes. It seems to me most -mistaken kindness to take young children sight-seeing, even of nature’s -sights. They become familiar with beauty of these noblest kinds long -before it is in the least possible that they can feel or appreciate it. -And this familiarity ends generally in utter indifference; ignorance -in short that there is anything to admire. Not that children should be -brought up among dinginess and ugliness. The prettier and sweeter their -surroundings the better. But oh parents and teachers, do leave the -little creatures simple and fresh! To my mind a child of ten years old, -who has been half over the continent, and chatters pertly of Switzerland -and Mont Blanc, Naples and Mount Vesuvius, is in-finitely more to be -pitied than we children of long ago, who talked to each other with -bated breath of these wonders we should see “when we grow big,” and who -believed implicitly in Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss family, if not in -Liliputland and Hassan of Balsra! - -Some time passed, and then Marion reluctantly withdrew from the terrace -and re-entered the little salon. It looked quite dark from the contrast -with the flood of light outside; and as the girl’s eye fell on her -little writing-desk which she had set on the table intending to write to -Harry, it seemed as if the darkness had entered her heart too. - -“What can I say to him?” thought she, “and poor Cissy ill and tired. I -can’t even talk to her!” - -And then there came before her a picture of Harry compelled to -confess all to his father. A terrible scene of parental reproaches and -harshness. Harry cast of for ever, perhaps running away to sea, and -his life utterly separated from hers, and from all happy and wholesome -influences. It was too dreadful to think of! Very foolish and -exaggerated no doubt. Still such things have been! Then too, there -was great excuse for Marion’s anxiety, even if carried too far. Harry, -though little more than two years her junior, had been almost like a -son to her as well as a brother. She was naturally stronger in character -than he, and also much more thoughtful and considerate. And then to a -gentle unselfish girl it comes so naturally to act a mother’s part at -almost any age. I think as I write of a tottering nursemaid of six or -seven, all but overwhelmed by the baby in her arms, at first glance -quite as big as herself. A cold day and the clothing of both babies of -the scantiest. Of course the small nursemaid has a tiny shawl. Small -nursemaids always have. Her charge at last succumbs to cold and sets up -a dismal howl. Then see the poor little woman, poor baby that she -is, untaught, unkempt, uncared for. With what sweetest tenderness she -soothes the crying infant, seating herself with infinite pains on a door -step, and wrapping round the other the poor little rag of a shawl which -was the only protection of her own shivering shoulders. Dear, good -little girl. True-hearted, unselfish child. How many such as these are -in our streets! Ugly, dirty little creatures we shrink from them as we -pass, who yet are already fulfilling nobly, in utter unconsciousness, -their part of woman’s work. - -As Marion’s dismal imaginations had reached their height, she was again -interrupted by Charlie. - -“Mamma is awake and wants to speak to you,” was his message, which -Marion was very glad to hear. - -“May,” said Cissy, after assuring her cousin that she was much less -tired now and would be quite herself by the afternoon, “May dear! do you -know I’ve been thinking ever so much in the night about this affair of -Harry’s. Don’t think me hard or cruel for what I am going to say, for -I’m sure I don’t mean to be; but I can’t help having a sort of feeling -that perhaps after all it would be best for you to advise Harry to -tell all to your father. Though he is stern I don’t think he is -really hard-hearted. And then it is such a pity for a boy to begin any -concealment from his father. Don’t you think so yourself, dear?” - -“As a rule certainly I do,” said Marion, “but in this case it is so -different. Cissy, you don’t know Papa. It is not the harshness at the -time that I so dread for Harry, though that would be bad enough. It -is the thought of the dreadfully galling way he would be treated -afterwards. Papa would make him feel that he had utterly lost confidence -in him. He would run away before long, I am sure. And think what might -become of him! No, Cissy, I can’t advise him to go to my father if there -is any possible way of avoiding it.” - -“Well, dear, I suppose you know best,” replied Mrs. Archer, “only -thinking it over last night it seemed to come before me that it would be -right for Harry to confess his fault (for after all it was undoubtedly -his own fault), to Uncle Vere, and take his reproaches manfully as a -merited punishment. Not that I do not feel very sorry for him, poor -fellow, for after all it was a mere piece of boyish folly.” - -“And folly which he bitterly repents, I assure you,” said Marion; -“but oh, Cissy, can’t you think of any plan to help him? I must write -to-day.” - -“I can help you so far,” said Cissy. “I can lend you the money for two -or three months. You see we are sure to be here for six months, and I -can let some of my bills, the rent, I dare-say, run on till Christmas -any way. So there will be no fear of our running short. I only wish -I could clear poor Harry of this horrible debt altogether. But if the -worst comes to the worst I can write to George and he will only think I -have been rather more extravagant than usual.” - -“That you certainly shall not have to do, dear Cissy,” exclaimed her -cousin; “rather than that, I would face Papa myself and risk the worst -he could say or do to me, for he should never know it had been Harry’s -debt, though I fear he would suspect it; but if you can really lend me -the money, Cissy, I promise you I shall find some way of repaying it -before we leave Altes. I shall not tell Harry how I have got it, as he -would be dreadfully hurt at my having told you, and still more ashamed -of my having borrowed it in this way, so remember it is my debt and not -his, and if I don’t pay, it you may put me in prison,” he added, gaily, -so great her relief at the thought of Harry’s safety. - -“Very well, you may be quite sure that I shall do so,” replied Cissy, -“and now run off and write your letter. I will give you three ten pound -notes, so that you may send the first halves of them to-day.” - -Gratefully kissing the kind little woman, Marion obeyed. Her high -spirits lasted till her letter was written, and with its precious -enclosure carefully posted with her own hands. Then as she walked slowly -homewards a little of the weight returned to her mind. How was she -now to repay Cissy? That her cousin should suffer more than the mere -temporary inconvenience of having advanced the money she was determined -should not be the case. Certainly there was no immediate hurry about the -matter, but Marion was not one of those people who think it quite time -enough to face a difficulty when it is close at hand, and her active -imagination at once set to work on all manner of possible and impossible -schemes. - -She would take in fine needlework and get up at unearthly hours to do -it without Mrs. Archer’s knowledge, She would paint same exquisite -landscapes that would be sure to sell. - -On reflection, however, she saw obstacles in the way of executing -either of these projects. She was not, in the first place, remarkably -proficient with her needle, nor was she conceited enough to think that -her water colours were much above the average of most young-lady-like -productions of the kind. - -And in the second place, supposing she had anything to sell how could -she, an utter stranger in a foreign town, find a purchaser? - -And so one after another or half-a-dozen promising looking schemes was -passed in review and rejected by her common sense as impracticable. - -Still on the whole she was rather amused than distressed. Her mind at -ease about Harry, all other considerations seemed trifling. There was -even something, exciting and exhilarating about the novelty of the -idea. And she was young and strong, and to such the grappling with a -difficulty has a curious charm of its own. Even about such a sordid -matter as the making or earning of thirty pounds! That in some way or -other her voluntary promise to her cousin should be redeemed she was -determined. And the girl was not one to undertake what she would not -fulfil. - -It was too hot to leave the house for some hours after noon. Cissy -herself on a sofa in the coolest earner, declaring it felt -something like India, and then suddenly remembered her housewifely -responsibilities, rang for Madame Poulin, and entered, somewhat vaguely -it must be confessed, on the subject of dinners. All, however, was -charmingly satisfactory. Though not professing to do much cooking -herself, the good lady assured Madame all could be agreeably arranged, -for her brother was the head of the best hotel in Altes, but a two -minutes’ walk beyond the post-office, and would supply regularly a -dinner for any number from two to a dozen, at a really moderate price. -Or if ces dames would prefer a little variety now and then, there was -the table d’hôte at this same hotel every day at five, where the choice -of viands would be greater and the company of the most select. - -“That would be rather amusing now and then for a change” observed Mrs. -Archer. - -Marion preferred the idea of a private repast, but agreed that they -might go and “see what it was like.” - -For to-day, however, Madame Poulin was requested to order a comfortable -little dinner in their own quarters, and after some further conversation -on the subject of Charlie’s tastes, the pleasant old lady retired, -leaving behind her a decidedly favourable impression, which longer -acquaintance only confirmed. - -A few minutes passed in silence till it occurred Marion that it would be -as well for her to write her father announcing their safe arrival. This -task accomplished, and Cissy declaring she was too tired to go -out, Marion settled herself in a snug corner by the window with an -interesting book, which she had read half of on the journey. But alas -for her pleasurable intentions! Hardly had she opened the volume when an -interruption appeared in the person of Charlie in a state of tremendous -eagerness to write a letter to Foster. The poor little fellow had -really been very good all day, doing his best to get on pleasantly with -Thérèse, who was certainly good nature itself, and had been making, -on her side, super-human efforts to amuse her small charge and to -understand his observations. Still as she was us wholly innocent of -English as the child of French, it was rather trying work for both. -Marion felt that, Charlie deserved some reward, so she laid down her -book and established him on her knee with a sheet of note-paper before -him and a pencil in his hand. - -The nature of their occupation being a very engrossing one Marion did -not hear the sound of a carriage drawing up at the door below the little -terrace, nor did she pay attention to the slight bustle of bell-ringing, -enquiries made and answered, which ensued. - -In another moment, however, the door of the room opened and Thérèse -ushered in a visitor, whom Cissy started up to receive. Marion was -reluctant to disturb Charlie, and being almost hidden by the curtains -sat still, quietly observing the new corner who, cordially greeting Mrs. -Archer, had evidently not noticed that there was anyone else present. - -The visitor was an elderly lady, tall, and well dressed, with some -remains of former beauty, of a pleasing, though not very striking, kind. -Her expression was gentle, but somewhat anxious and uneasy, which was -soon explained, by her announcing herself to be very deaf. - -“Very deaf, indeed, my dear,” she repeated to Mrs. Archer in her fussy -way. Whereupon poor Cissy, of course, set to work shouting in a shrill, -high-pitched tone, of all others the most impossible for a deaf person -to catch the sound of. - -After one or two trials, however, she got on a little better, and -succeeded in explaining to Lady Severn, as Marion had already guessed -her to be, her regret at having failed in meeting with a desirable young -lady as governess, owing to the delay in the letter’s reaching her which -contained her friend’s request. - -Lady Severn was evidently disappointed, but consoled herself by entering -at great length into her troubles and anxieties with respect to her -grand-daughters’ education. Mrs. Archer listened sympathisingly, as was -her wont. But so absorbed was the elder lady by her own recital, that it -was not till she rose to go, that she remembered to make enquiry for her -hostess’s child, or children, and for the last news of Colonel Archer. - -The satisfactory state of her husband’s health having been communicated, -Cissy, suddenly remembering that, in the confusion of Lady Severn’s -unexpected entrance, and the subsequent discovery of her deafness, she -had not introduced her young cousin, turned to look for her. There the -pair was still seated in perfect content. Charlie, perched on Marion’s -knee, as quiet as a mouse, had found ample amusement in peeping from -behind the curtains at the funny old lady whom Mamma was shouting to. - -But now, at a sign from his mother, he slipped down and ran forward to -be kissed and admired as a fine little fellow, and “so like his papa was -when I first remember him,” said Lady Severn, adding in an undertone, -as a tear glistened in her eye, “They were two such fine boys, my dear, -your husband and my poor John. And he left no son to succeed him, -you know. Only the two little girls. Not but what they are very dear -creatures, but I can’t help wishing there had been a boy. And so does -Ralph himself, for that matter! But it can’t be helped.” - -Marion listened with some curiosity to these allusions to the family -history she had already heard. Half unconsciously stepping forward into -the room, Lady Seven’s glance at last fell upon her, and Cissy hastened -to apologise and explain. Unfortunately, however, in her eagerness to -introduce her pretty guest, Mrs. Archer pitched her voice badly, and the -result was that the old lady caught no words of the sentence but the two -last. - -“Miss Vere,” Cissy had ended with. - -“Miss Freer,” repeated Lady Severn with satisfaction at her own -acuteness. “Miss Freer, I hope you will like Altes. And you, too, my -dear little fellow”—to Charlie—“there are some lovely walks in the -neighbourhood, which I do not think Miss Freer will consider too far for -these sturdy little legs.” - -“Vere,” ejaculated Cissy, “my cousin, Miss Vere.” - -“Miss Vere,” again repeated Lady Severn with perfect satisfaction; -“oh yes, I caught the name, thank you. I am generally rather clever at -catching names correctly. Besides, it is familiar to me. It is the name -of our much-respected surgeon at Medhurst. Perhaps he may be a relation -of yours, Miss Freer? It is not a very common name.” - -Marion replied, with malicious calmness, that she was not aware that -she had any relations at Medhurst. But, by this time, Cissy was beyond -attempting further explanations. She controlled herself sufficiently -to accompany Lady Severn to the head of the stairs, where the good lady -favoured her with some further remarks still more distressing to her -gravity, on the subject of Miss Freer; and then she rushed back into -the room, scarlet with suppressed laughter, though, at the same time -considerably annoyed. - -“Marion, how could you,” she exclaimed, “standing there in that demure -way, and answering that you had no relations at Medhurst? Do you know -that the old goose thought you were my companion or Charlie’s governess? -I am not sure which. Imagine Uncle Vere’s face, if he had seen it! She -told me, as she said goodbye, that she only wished she could meet with -just such a young lady for her two dear creatures. I tried to explain, -but it was hopeless. Really, you might have helped me.” - -“Truly, I don’t see how,” said Marion: “would you have had me confuse -the poor lady still more by shouting my name into her one ear while you -were doing the same into the other? And she was so pleased at her -own cleverness. It would really have been a shame to undeceive her. -Besides,” she went on more seriously, “I truly don’t see what harm it -does me for Lady Severn, or anybody else, to take me for a governess. -Don’t vex yourself about it, Cissy. It really doesn’t matter.” - -“It does matter,” said Mrs. Archer almost angrily, “and it was all my -own stupidity, too, in not introducing you properly at first. But I was -all but asleep when she came in, and then I couldn’t make her hear.” - -“But how does it matter?” asked Marion gently, seeing that her cousin -was really annoyed. - -“In a hundred ways. I want you to enjoy your visit here, and have a -little more variety than in your dull life at home. I want you to make -some nice acquaintances, and to be admired, and all that sort of thing, -you know. And what a stupid beginning, to be mistaken by our only -acquaintance for a governess!” - -“Governesses are not altogether debarred from all the pleasant things -you name, are they?” said Marion, “I really can’t see anything dreadful -either in the mistake or the reality, had it existed. But seriously, -Cissy, leave off thinking about it, do.” - -This incident, however, or something, gave Marion herself ample subject -for reflection; for she was unusually thoughtful and silent all the -afternoon. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Archer received a note -from Dr. Bailey, apologising for not having already called to see her, -and expressing hopes that, when she had got over the fatigue of her -journey, Mrs. and Miss Bailey might have the pleasure of making her -acquaintance. - -“He must be a civil, kindly old man,” said she after reading it, “but -I don’t exactly see the necessity of a friendship with Madame and -Mademoiselle. I wonder how they know anything about me, unless they call -in a semi-professional sort of way on all the papa’s lady-patients.” - -“I should hardly think they could find time for that,” said Marion “but -perhaps they have heard about you from some one.” - -“Oh, yes, by-the-bye,” exclaimed Cissy, “I remember Lady Severn said -she had got my address from the Baileys. Really, Marion, it was horribly -rude of me not to answer her letter! I suspect it was her eagerness -on the governess question that brought her to call so quickly. But I -daresay she’s very good and kind. Indeed, I know she is, for George says -she was almost like a mother to him, long ago, when his own mother was -in India.” - -“Lady Severn doesn’t look particularly delicate,” remarked Marion, “do -they always spend the winter abroad?” - -“Oh dear no. She’s not delicate, if by that you mean a consumption, or -anything of that kind. I daresay she is not remarkably strong, and then -she is no longer young. Sir John’s death aged her terribly, I believe. -But it is principally on account of one of the little girls, that they -have spent the last two or three years on the Continent. The younger -one, I think—Sybil she is called—who was very ill soon after her -father’s death, and her grandmother thought she was going to die, and -came abroad in a fright. The child’s all right again now, but I suppose -Lady Severn is over anxious and fussy. I fancy, too, she dislikes the -idea of returning to Medhurst, for it was there her son died.” - -“I can’t help thinking,” said Marion, after a minute or two’s silence, -“that there is some-thing unnatural in Lady Severn’s devotion to the -memory of the one son, and apparent indifference to the other. Even what -she said to-day, about regretting that Sir John had left no boy, struck -rue as a curious thing to say, considering that Sir Ralph is her own -son. Unless, indeed, he is peculiarly unlovable, or has, in some way or -other, forfeited his mother’s affection by his own fault?” - -“Well, it does seem queer,” replied Cissy, “but still from what I have -heard, I can understand it in a sort of way. You see from boyhood John -Severn was looked upon as the heir, and Ralph was so different. Quiet -and grave, and not the sort of character to be much noticed in any -way. Whereas Sir John must have been a splendid fellow really. I don’t -suppose it ever occurred to any one that Ralph could become the head of -the house! But if you are interested in the family, May, I dare say -you will have opportunity enough while here to study their various -peculiarities.” - -“What is the other child called?” - -“I don’t know, or if I ever did I’ve forgotten. Girls of ten and twelve -don’t interest me particularly; though I liked you, May, when you were -a little girl,” said Mrs. Archer, affectionately; “you were such a -dear, shy little thing, and you had such funny, quaint ways. I never can -believe you are the same. You seemed to me to become grown-up all in a -minute. With my never seeing you all these years after toy marriage, -I kept fancying in that silly way that I should come home and find you -just as I left you.” - -“Then you don’t think me very childish now, do you?” asked Marion, -rather anxiously, “do I look much younger than I am, do you think, -Cissy?” - -“What has put that in your head all of a sudden?” said Mrs. Archer, -laughing. “I thought you were far too wise ever to think about outward -looks at all. That’s the very thing about you that is so unlike most -girls. You are such an indescribable mixture of extreme girlishness and -preternatural wisdom. You look such a perfect child sometimes, at -the very moment that I am shaking in my shoes before you, and your -dreadfully good advice. You certainly would make a capital governess, -Marion, if you kept your pupils in as good order as poor me! Only you -are fa too pretty. All the big brothers and gentleman-visitors would -fail in love with you to a certainty.” - -“Don’t Cissy, please don’t joke in that sort of way. I want to ask you -seriously; do you really think I should make a good governess?” - -“Of course you would. I believe you might make a good anything you -chose. You are certainly clever enough to manage me in a way that -fills me with amazement and admiration. But do think of something more -interesting than governesses. Thank goodness there’s no fear of your -ever having to be one.” - -“Isn’t there? Well, I don’t know. Stranger things happen every day. Why -Papa might loose all his money, and I might have to earn my bread like a -model young lady in a story book.” - -“You might, undoubtedly, but also you might, not,” answered her cousin, -carelessly, and then changing the subject, she continued: “What should -you say to our dining at the table d’hôte to-morrow? Wouldn’t it be -rather amusing?” - -“If you like,” replied Marion, “though it would be pleasanter if we -knew anyone likely to be there. Didn’t you, say you knew another family -there?” - -“Oh, yes, the Berwicks. I must, look them up, I suppose, for they are -old friends, and they don’t know I’m here. But I’m getting sleepy, -Marion. Are you ready to say good night? I hope you won’t mind -breakfasting alone again, for I want to be quite rested by to-morrow -afternoon, so that we may go a walk or a drive. I’m afraid it has been -very stupid for you today.” - -“But it would be much more stupid if you were to get ill, Cissy dear,” -said Marion, “so rest by all means. I shall have breakfast early -and perhaps go out a little walk on my own account, with Charlie and -Thérèse, before you are up.” - -As she spoke her eye fell on a calling-card lying on the table. It -was that of Lady Severn, which, Thérèse being rather untaught in such -matters, had followed instead of preceding her into the room. Marion -took it up and looked at it closely. In the corner was written the -temporary address: “Rue des Lauriers, No. 5.” A trifle, but it decided -a good deal. “Now that I know the address,” thought the girl, “I can go -there in the morning before Cissy is up.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. A FRIEND IN NEED - -“Sweet fickle Love, you grow for some, -And grip them to their grief, - As sudden as the redwings come - At the full fall of the leaf. - -“And sudden as the swallows go, - That muster for the sea, - You pass away before we know, - And wounded hearts are we.” - W. P. L. - - - -“Rue des Lauriers, No. 5:” last thought in her head at night, first when -she woke in the morning. In her dreams too the words had been constantly -before her: “No fear of my forgetting the address,” said Marion to -herself. - -Breakfast over, she arranged with Thérèse and Charlie, to accompany them -in their morning walk about twelve o’clock. And then she fidgeted about, -unable to settle to anything; rather frightened, if the truth must be -told, at the thought of what she was about to do. - -It is a crisis in our lives, when, for the first time, we take what we -believe to be an important step, entirely on our own responsibility. -Well for us when this crisis does not occur too soon. Well too, when it -is not deferred too late. Of the two extremes, doubtless the latter -is the more to be dreaded. Better some sad tumbles and bruises; better -indeed a broken limb, than the hopeless feebleness of members, stunted, -if not paralysed for want of natural use. Experience is truly a hard -schoolmaster, but we have not yet found a better one. Some day we must -be self-reliant, or else be utterly wrecked and stranded. So, if for no -higher motive than mere prudence and expediency, it is well not to delay -too long the testing of our own powers, the trial of our individual -strength. - -Cissy had said truly that Marion was a curious mixture of simplicity and -wisdom, child and woman. I wonder if in this lay her peculiar charm? But -this, indeed, I cannot tell. The charm I have felt, deeply too, but like -other sweet and beautiful things, I endeavoured in vain to analyse or -define it. - -The girl tried to read, or write or work; but all her attempts were -useless. Like a naughty schoolboy, who has resolution enough to plan it -truant expedition, but fails to conceal his excitement beforehand, so -Marion was on the point a dozen times that morning, of betraying her -strange intention. Had Cissy not been tired and sleepy when Marion -peeped in to wish her good morning, she would infallibly have detected -some unusual signs of excitement in her young cousin’s manner. A word -from her and the whole would have been in her possession, and then — -Marion’s life might have been more happily common-place, and this story -of it would, in all probability, never have been written. - -However it was not so to be. Twelve o’clock came at last, and with her -little cavalier and Thérèse as escort, Marion sallied forth. The Rue -des Lauriers she learnt from Thérèse, was about a quarter of a mile only -from the street in which Mme. Poulin’s house was situated. Anxious that -Charlie’s walk should not be curtailed on her account, and perhaps not -sorry in her secret heart to delay, if only for half-an-hour, the task -she had set herself, Marion proposed that they should in the first -place take a stroll beyond the town. The day was much cooler than the -preceding one. Indeed, it was cloudy enough to suggest the possibility -of not far distant rain. Marion’s beautiful mountains were all but -hidden in mist, and it was difficult to believe in the blue sky of -yesterday. Still there were now and then breaks in the mist and clouds, -showing that the loveliness was veiled only, not destroyed, Charlie’s -remarks apropos of everything, from the fog-covered bills to the sisters -of charity with their enormous flapping caps, were amusing enough. But -Marion was too engrossed by her own thoughts to listen with her usual -attention. As they reached the end of Rue des Laurier’s, a slight -drizzle began to fall and Marion told Thérèse to hasten home with -Charlie, as she herself had a call to make some little way up the -street. - -“Tell your mamma, Charlie,” she cried, as they separated, “if she wants -me, that I shall be home in a very little while.” - -No 5 was at the other extremity of the street, avenue almost it might -have been called; for it was prettily planted with trees at each side, -and the gardens of the houses, standing, many of them, detached or -semi-detached in villa fashion, were bright and well kept. Those at the -upper end were evidently of older date. No. 5 especially had a somewhat -venerable air. It was built round three sides of a court laid out with -turf and flower-beds, in the centre of which a little fountain was -playing lazily, A damp, drizzling day, however, is hardly the occasion -on which such a place is seen to advantage, and Marion decided mentally -that she would have been sorry to exchange the little terrace on to -which rooms opened, for the quaint old court-yard, however picturesque. - -She rang bravely at what appeared to be the principal door, which to her -surprise was opened by an old woman who informed her that the apartment -of Miladi Severn was on the other side, au premier. The entrance -opposite was open, so Marion ascended a flight of stairs and rang again -at the first door that presented itself. This time she felt sure she was -right, for a man-servant in English-looking attire appeared in answer -to her summons. In reply to her enquiry as to whether she could see Lady -Severn on a matter of business, he said that he would ask, and ushered -her into a very pretty sitting room, opening, to her surprise, on to a -pleasant garden. The mystery as to how she found herself again on the -ground floor without having descended any steps, was explained, when she -remembered that the Rue des Lauriers was built on a steep hill, at the -upper extremity of which stood No. 5. How it came to be number five -instead number one was a problem never satisfactorily solved. - -Marion waited a few minutes and then the servant re-appeared, to -say that Lady Severn would be ready to see the young lady almost -immediately, if she would be so good as to give her name. - -Here was a poser! Marion could not, yet bring herself to say “Miss -Freer.” But a lucky compromise occurred to her. - -“I have no card with me,” she said, “but Lady Severn will know who I am -if you say I have come from Mrs. Archer’s.” - -The name apparently was all required, for in another moment Lady Severn -entered the room. She came in looking rather puzzled, but shook hands -kindly enough with Marion, saying, as she did so, that she hoped. -Mrs. Archer was not feeling ill or that anything was wrong with little -Charlie. - -“Oh dear no, thank you,” said Marion, “they are both very well. At -least, my cou—Mrs. Archer is only a little tired still from the long -journey. I should have remembered that you would be surprised at my -calling so early, but I trust you excuse my having done so. The truth is -I called on my own account, not on Mrs. Archer’s.” - -“Indeed!” Lady Severn, looking still more puzzled, when a bright idea -suddenly striking her, she exclaimed “oh, perhaps you have some friend, -Miss Freer, who you think might suit me as governess for my little -girls. A sister possibly,” she continued, for the expression of the -girl’s face did not seem to contradict her assumption. - -Profiting by Cissy’s dire experience of the day before, Marion took care -to speak in a natural, regular tone, which she was pleased to find her -companion heard perfectly. Probably her voice was rounder and fuller -than Mrs. Archer’s, but however this may have been, the result was -eminently satisfactory, and very possibly, still further prepossessed -Lady Severn in her favour. - -“Not exactly that,” she replied, “I have no sister. But what I have to -propose is myself, as governess to your grand-daughters.” - -“Yourself, my dear Miss Freer,” exclaimed lady Severn in amazement, “but -how can that be? Are you not engaged already to Mrs. Archer? I supposed -that you had accompanied her from England. And, excuse me, Miss Freer, -but I should think on no account of interfering with any arrangements -Mrs. Archer may be depending upon, even though you may not consider -yourself exactly bound to her. You must not mind my speaking plainly, -Miss Freer. Young people, and you look very young, are not always as -considerate in these matters as they should be.” - -In spite of herself, Marion felt a little indignant. This was the -first slight taste of the disagreeables and annoyances (“insults,” a -hotter-tempered and less calm-judging girl would have called them) to -which, by the strange and almost unprecedented steps she had taken, -she had exposed herself. What is commonly called “a dependent -position,”—though whose are the independent positions I have not yet, -in the course of is long life, been able to discover,—has, I suppose, -peculiar trials of its own. Yet I am anxious in the present case not -to be misunderstood as exaggerating or laying undue stress upon those -attendant upon governess life. Much harm has been dome already in this -way, and were I desirous of entering at all upon the subject, I would -much prefer to draw attention to the bright side of the picture; side -which, I am happy to say, my own personal experience call vouch for us -existing. It is a false position which is to be dreaded, and which is, -in the evil sense of the word, a dependent one. - -Marion seldom, if ever, blushed. But now, when this speech of Lady -Severn’s roused her indignation, she felt the strange tingling sensation -through all her veins, which agitation of any kind produced upon her, -calm and self-possessed as she appeared. She replied quietly: - -“If I were capable of behaving in any dishonourable way to Mrs. Archer, -I should not think myself fit to be entrusted with the care of your -grand-daughters, Lady Severn. But I assure you there is no such -objection to my proposal. I only came from England with Mrs. Archer as -a friend. We are indeed very old friends. I should not think of leaving -her for more than a part of the day. What I was going to propose was -that I should be the little girls’ daily governess—morning governess, -I should say, for I should require to spend all my afternoons with Mrs. -Archer.” - -“Oh, I see,” replied Lady Severn. “You must pardon my not having quite -understood the state of the case at first. What I wished, however, -was to meet with a residential governess for the young ladies, my -grand-daughters.” - -Marion winced again, but pulled herself up in a moment. “Certainly,” -thought she, “it must sound rather free and easy my speaking these -children, whom I have never seen, as the little girls.” So she answered -demurely, - -“I understood that a residential governess was what you wished for the -young ladies, but my idea was that in the meantime, while you have not -succeeded in meeting with one, I might at least be able to employ -the morning hours profitably. I think any rate I could kelp them from -forgetting what knowledge they have already acquired.” - -“Certainly, certainly,” replied Lady Severn graciously. “I have no doubt -you could do far more than that, and I really think your idea, a very -good one. I should, however, like to consult with my niece, Miss Vyse, -before deciding anything. She takes a great interest in her little -cousins, and is herself most highly accomplished. And as to terms, Miss -Freer. Have you thought what you would wish to have as compensation for -your morning hours?” - -Wince number three! “How silly I am!” thought Marion, and answered -abruptly: - -“Thirty pounds; I mean,” she added hastily “if I were staying at Altes -six months, and I taught the lit—the young ladies all that time would -fifteen pounds a quarter be too much?” - -Something in the child-like wistfulness of the sweet face appealing -to her, so timidly and yet so anxiously, touched a chord in the not -unkindly, though somewhat self-absorbed nature of the eider lady, and -she exclaimed impulsively, - -“Fifteen pounds a quarter too much, my dear? No, certainly not. I should -much prefer making it twenty. But, my dear, you are so very young. Are -you sure this is a wise step for your own sake? Would not your friends -prefer your making a real holiday of this little time abroad with Mrs. -Archer?” - -“My friends are not likely to interfere,” said the girl, adding sadly, -“I have no mother.” - -How much those few words left to be inferred! They came very close home -to Lady Severn’s heart. “No mother!” A sad little picture, as far as -possible removed from the truth, but none the less touching on that -account, rose before her mind’s eye of this motherless girl’s probable -home. But though somewhat curious to hear more, she made no enquiry, -which for aught she knew, might have touched some tender spot. She only -said very gently: - -“Poor child,” and then went on more briskly, “Well then so far there -appears no difficulty. The sum I named would quite satisfy you, Miss -Freer? Twenty pounds each quarter.” - -“Twenty,” repeated Marion; “that would be forty pounds in six months. Oh -no, thank you. I would much rather have only fifteen. Truly I don’t want -more,” she added earnestly. - -“But my dear, do you know you will never get on in the world if you -are so very—the reverse of grasping?” remonstrated the old lady, half -laughing at this very eccentric young governess; “your friends, even if -they do not interfere with you in general, would certainly disapprove -of your not taking as high a salary as is offered you, and which indeed -from what I see of you, I feel sure you would do your best to deserve. -Besides I should look to you for a good deal. My grand-daughters” (they -were no longer the young ladies) “have several masters, for music, -drawing, German, and so on. But I should wish you to superintend their -preparations for their masters, as much at least as you found time for, -besides yourself directing their English studies. You would feel able to -undertake all this I suppose?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Marion. “I think I could do all that would be required -by girls of their ages. I can play pretty well, I believe,” she -said, with a pretty little air of half-deprecating any appearance of -self-conceit—“at least I was well taught. I don’t draw much, but I could -help them to prepare for their master, and I have studied German a good -deal and Italian a little.” - -“Do you sing too?” asked Lady Severn. “You should do so, and well, to -judge by your voice in speaking which is peculiarly clear. Indeed, it -is very seldom I can hear anyone as easily as you. I should like the -children to sing a little now and then. Not much, of course. Not so as -to strain their voices while they are so young, but I should like them -to learn a little. Some of the simpler parts of glees, for instance. -Their uncle, Sir Ralph Severn, is very fond of music, and has a -remarkably fine voice. We often have little concerts among ourselves in -the evenings, and it would be nice for Charlotte and Sybil to be able to -join in them.” - -“I do sing,” said Marion. “Not very much, though. But I could teach them -in the simple way you wish, I am sure.” - -“Then this terrible money appears the only obstacle?” said Lady Severn, -smiling; “but, my dear, you must really think what your friends would -say.” - -“I assure you,” replied Marion, “l am quite free to judge for myself. -Indeed, when I came to Altes I had no intention of making any money -in this way. It was only hearing of your difficulty in meeting with a -governess; it struck me I might do temporarily, for I was very anxious -to make thirty pounds while here. Not more, truly. My friends could not -object, for it was—” she went on hesitatingly, feeling she was getting -on unsafe ground, “it was for one of them, the nearest of them, that I -so much wanted the money at present.” - -“Very well, then,” said Lady Severn, “very well. As you wish it, we -will leave it so at present:” adding to herself, “though you shall be no -loser by it in the end, poor child,” And then aloud, “If you will -call here to-morrow at the same time, I will give you my decision, and -introduce your pupils to you. As to references, there need be no delay,” -(fortunate that Lady Severn was thus easily satisfied, for references -hail never entered poor Marion’s head) “for your being a friend of Mrs. -Archer’s, is quite enough. And at your age, you cannot have had much -former experience of teaching.” - -“No,” replied Marion, “I never taught anyone regularly before.” - -“I thought so, but I do not regret it. The children will probably be all -the happier with you, than if you had been older and more experienced. -And, for so short a time, it will be no disadvantage.” - -So, with a cordial good morning from Lady Severn, and a kindly message -or remembrance to Mrs. Archer, Marion took her departure. With a curious -mixture of feelings in her heart, she slowly descended the flight of -stairs to the courtyard, so wholly absorbed in her own cogitations, that -she all but ran against a gentleman just entering the doorway, whose -attention on his side was engrossed by the endeavouring to shut a rather -obstreperous umbrella. A hasty “Pardon,” and he passed her, quickly -running up the stair. She noticed only that he was slight and dark, and -that he had on a very wet “Macintosh;” in those days, when but recently -invented, not the pleasantest of attire, unless one had a special -predilection for the odour of tar and melted India-rubber combined. “How -can anyone wear those horrible coats?” said Marion to herself. But very -speedily she was forced to confess that she would not be sorry were -she to find herself magically enveloped in such a garment; for it was -pouring, literally pouring, with rain. No longer drizzle, but good, -honest, most unmistakable rain; and, of course, with her head full of -blue sky and brilliant sunshine, as the normal condition of weather at -Altes, she had brought no umbrella. There she stood, rather despondently -staring at the fountain, which seemed to her in a much brisker mood -than when she had observed it on entering. As far as she herself was -concerned, Marion really was by no means afraid of a wetting, but then -she knew the sight of her with drenched garments would seriously annoy -Cissy, whom at this present time she was most especially anxious to -conciliate. She thought of turning back and borrowing au umbrella from -Lady Severn, but she felt rather averse to doing so, and had just made -up her mind to brave it when a voice behind her made her start. - -“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” it said, “il parait que vous n’avez pas de -parapluie, et il pleut à verse. Permettez moi de vous ofrir le mien.” - -The French was perfectly correct, the accent irreproachable, but yet a -certain something, an undefinable instinct, caused Marion to hesitate -in her reply, as she turned towards the speaker. She stopped in the “je -vous remercie” she had all but uttered, and for it substituted a hearty -“thank you,” as her glance fell on the gentleman who had a few minutes -before passed her on his way in. - -“Thank you,” she repeated, “you are very kind indeed.” - -“Ah,” he said, with, she fancied, a slight expression of amusement on -his quiet, grave face, “my accent still betrays me, I see. But I am not -sorry it is so in the present ease, as nothing is more ridiculous than -forsaking one’s native tongue unnecessarily. I think,” he added, “my -umbrella is a good-sized one, and will protect you pretty well, opening -it he spoke. This was more easily managed than the shutting had been, -and, with repeated thanks, Marion had turned to go, when suddenly -recollecting that she was in ignorance of the name and address of the -owner of the umbrella, she stopped and asked if she should return it to -number five. - -“Yes, if you please,” he replied, “I live here. You will see my name on -the handle. But do not trouble about sending it back at once. Any time -in the next few days will do. I believe I have another somewhere. And, -indeed, I much prefer being without one. These charming coats are -much better things,” he added, regarding his attire with supreme -satisfaction. - -“Charming they may be to the wearer, but assuredly not becoming, Mr. -Whatever-your-name-is.” said Marion to herself, as she crossed the -courtyard under the shelter of the friendly umbrella. “I do think it was -very kind of him, though, to lend me this, so I should not laugh at his -queer appearance in that hideous coat, By-the-bye, I wonder what his -name is.” By this time she was in the street, and stopped for a moment -to decipher the letters on the handle: “R. M. Severn.” - -“How funny!” thought she, “really my introductions to this family are -rather peculiar. How amused Cissy will be!” - -But, with the thought of Cissy, came hack rather uneasy sensations. -Marion’s satisfaction at the success of her visit to Lady Severn, had -for the moment caused her to forget the still more awful business before -her: the confessing all to Cissy, and extorting from her a promise of -co-operation, without which her scheme must infallibly fail. The part of -the whole which she least liked to think of, was the being known under -a false name. And yet this very mistake of Lady Severn’s had been one of -the strongest inducements to her to offer herself as governess to these -children; for, as Miss Vere, she felt that she could not have ventured -on so bold and unusual a proceeding. Now, however, that the Rubicon was -passed, it appeared to her that the turning back would entail greater -annoyances and mortification on both herself and her cousin, than they -could possibly be exposed to by perseverance in her intention. This -she hoped to be able to demonstrate to Cissy, and thus to induce her to -refrain from opposition. But the more she thought of it, the more she -dreaded the coming interview. No use, however, in delaying it. She -had hardly made up her mind as to how she should enter upon the awful -disclosure, when she found herself at their own door, which was standing -open, Cissy anxiously looking out for her. - -“Oh, Marion,” she exclaimed, “how very naughty you are to stay out it -the rain! I have been in such a fuss about you.” - -“Oh, Cissy,” replied the delinquent, “how very naughty you are, to stand -at the door catching cold!” - -“Don’t be impertinent, Miss, but come in and take off your wet things, -and then tell me what you have been about. Oh, I see, you had an -umbrella. What a great, big one! Is that your own one?” - -“No I got the loan of it,” said Marion hastily closing the conspicuous -umbrella before Cissy had time to observe it more particularly. “Go into -the drawing-room, Cissy, and I’ll be with you in five minutes, and tell -you all my adventures in the rain.” - -The five minutes had hardy elapsed when Marion rejoined her cousin. The -damp day had rendered a tiny fire acceptable. Cissy was seated near it, -and Marion knelt down on the rug before her, looking up into her face -with a curious, half-anxious expression on her own. - -“What is the matter, May? Have you really any adventures to tell me?” -asked Mrs. Archer. - -“Yes,” replied the girl quietly, “at least I have a confession to make -to you. What do you think I have done, Cissy?” - -“What do I think you have done? How can I think till I know? Don’t -frighten me, May: tell me quickly what you mean.” - -“Well, then, I will tell you quickly, Cissy. What I have done is this: I -have engaged myself as daily governess to Lady Severn’s grand-daughters, -for three months certainly, and, if possible, for six.” - -“Marion,” said Cissy excitedly, “you are joking. You don’t mean that you -have really done such a mad, unheard-of thing. You, Marion Vere, a daily -governess! You Uncle Vere’s daughter! No, nonsense, you can’t be in -earnest.” - -“Yes, Cissy, I am, thoroughly and entirely in earnest. It came into my -mind yesterday, when Lady Severn mistook me for Charlie’s governess. I -saw before me a simple, easy way of making the money I required to pay -back poor Harry’s debt, and I determined to carry out my scheme without -telling you of it till it was done.” And then she gave her cousin a -full account of her interview with Lady Severn, and the arrangements -proposed; and without giving Cissy time to make any remarks, or to urge -any objections, she went on to show her how easily and naturally the -thing might be managed without anyone’s ever being in their secret. How -Lady Severn’s mistaking her name, and the fact of her being a perfect -stranger in Altes, would effectually prevent her identity with the -daughter of the well-known Mr. Vere ever being suspected. - -“And after all,” she continued, “it is such a very thrilling thing. -I shall only be away for a few hours in the morning, and often indeed -shall be home almost before you are dressed. The work itself, such as -it is, will be exceedingly good for me in every way. I am really looking -forward to it with the greatest pleasure.” - -“It is not that part of it I am thinking of so much,” said Cissy -gravely, “it is the disadvantage it may be to you in a hundred indirect -ways, which you are too childish to think of. Even supposing, as may -be the case, that the truth is never suspected, there is something very -anomalous and undesirable about the whole affair. Especially the being -known under a name that is not yours. Fancy, in after life, if it came -out in the queer way that things do, that you had spent six mouths -abroad under an assumed name! You must own, Marion, that it is enough -to startle me to think of what you may be exposing yourself to; and to -think it is all for the sake of that wretched money! As if I would not -twenty times rather have lent you six times as much, whether you ever -repaid it or not.” - -“But Cissy, you couldn’t, and that settles the matter. You couldn’t have -lent it, and I certainly wouldn’t have borrowed it without repaying it -properly. The choice lay between my doing what I have done, or applying -to Papa; and rather than go to him for it, I really think I would be -a governess all my life. Besides,” she added, “seeing that so much is -done, can it be undone? It seems to me the attempting to undo it, -would entail all manner of disagreeable things; explanations of private -matters to Lady Severn, a perfect stranger to me, and personally hardly -better known to you. One thing I am quite sure of, and that is, that she -would not forgive the part I have acted in the matter. Indeed I myself -should feel dreadfully small! As far as my chances of enjoying my visit -to Altes are concerned, which you, dear Cissy, think so much of, I -assure you I am more likely to do so, as Miss Freer, Lady Severn’s daily -governess, than as Marion Vere. I couldn’t get over the mortification, -at having appeared so cunning. If I really earn the money, I shall feel -that I am working for Harry, and somehow that prevents my feeling as if -I were deceitful or scheming.” - -And the more they talked it over, the more awkward appeared the -complication. Or at least, Marion talked Cissy into thinking there was -nothing for it but to go on with the plan. - -“For indeed,” said Marion, by way of triumphantly summing up her -argument, “I am under promise to Lady Severn to undertake the post, if -she thinks me suitable. And I couldn’t go back from a promise.” - -So, tired of discussion and rather bewildered by Marion’s eloquence, -poor Cissy gave in, sorely against her will. - -“It really will be great fun, putting every thing else aside,” said -Marion. “Remember, Cissy, you must never call me ‘my cousin,’ or ‘Miss -Vere.’ Fortunately we have no English servants with us, and Charlie -always calls me May. Then all my letters, which won’t be many, come -under cover to you. It will all answer beautifully.” - -”I am sorry I can’t join you in seeing anything beautiful about the -whole affair from beginning to end,” said Cissy,” but having given in, I -must not be cross about it. I know you did it from the best of motives, -but all the same it was fearfully rash. I believe it’s leaving off -raining,” she added, as a sudden gleam of sunshine entered the room, -“that reminds me, May, where did you borrow that great umbrella? Did -Lady Severn lend it you?” - -“No,” replied Marion, and then, not sorry to distract her cousin’s -thoughts, she related her little adventure. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Archer, “that must certainly have been Sir Ralph. But -don’t feel flattered by his civility, Marion. At this moment I have no -doubt he has not the slightest idea if the person he lent it to was an -ugly old woman or a pretty young girl. Very probably he would have lent -it all the more heartily had you been the former.” - -“Very likely,” said Marion, laughing, “outward appearance evidently does -not trouble him much.” - -And then, as it had really cleared up wonderfully, they set of for a -walk. - -“Remember, Cissy,” said Marion, “that Dr. Bailey is coming this -afternoon. - -“Yes,” replied Mrs. Archer, “I had not forgotten it. But Marion, if I -give in to this mad scheme of yours, you must instruct me what I am -to do. Must I introduce you on all occasions in this new character of -yours?” - -“There will very seldom be any necessity for introducing me at all. -You can speak of me and to me as you always do, which will seem quite -natural. I told Lady Severn we were very old friends, and that I had -just come abroad with you for the pleasure of the visit.” - -“Very well,” said Cissy, “you shall hear me introduce you to Dr. Bailey, -as a deserving young person whom I have a very good opinion of.” - -But this introduction proved to be unnecessary. Dr. Bailey had hardly -sat down before he remarked to Mrs. Archer, how pleased he was to hear -that her young friend had undertaken, temporarily, the charge of the -studies of the little Misses Severn. “An excellent arrangement,” he -pronounced it, “your new pupils, Miss Freer,” (he had heard the name -even!) “are charming children. The younger one especially is a great -friend of mine. She has been far from strong, poor child, but is now -much better. I should not, however, advise her being pressed forward in -her lessons. Time enough for that, time enough.” And so he chattered -on in a kindly, uninteresting way; told Mrs. Archer the names of the -principal families, English, French, Russians, and Germans, who intended -this year wintering at Altes; advised her by all means occasionally to -dine at the table d’hôte of the “Lion d’Or,” as the variety would be -good for her and the cooking excellent; and then took his leave with the -promise of a speedy visit from the ladies of his household. - - - - -CHAPTER V. AU LION D’OR - -“A feast was also provided for our reception, -at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the -conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter.” - VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. - - - -“YOU HAVE no objection to dining at the table note today, have you, -Marion asked Cissy when Dr. Bailey had taken his departure. - -“Oh dear no,” said Marion, “I am perfectly willing to go if you like.” - -So when the dinner hour drew near, the two sallied forth to the “Lion -d’Or.” They were ushered into a good-sized room, where a long table -stood prepared for a considerable number of guests, of whom, however, -only a few had as yet made their appearance. As strangers, Mrs. Archer -and Marion found themselves placed at the lower end; the younger lady’s -seat being at the corner, at the right of what in a private house would -have been the host’s chair, commanded an excellent view of the whole -table. The persons already assembled did not strike Marion as in any way -interesting. There were several English, mostly elderly and common-place -in the extreme. A rather stout German lady with a very stupid, though -not unamiable-looking daughter, and a couple of awkward half-grown -sons. Just as Cissy had, in a low voice, confided to her cousin, that in -future she thought it would be nicer to dine at home, the door opened -to admit several other guests. A little group of three persons, -seating themselves on the vacant chairs beside Mrs. Archer, immediately -attracted that observant lady’s attention. They were evidently -father, mother, and child, the last a nice little girl of fourteen or -thereabouts. The mother, still young and bright-looking, was decidedly -prepossessing in appearance, and her devoted attention to her husband, -evidently the invalid of the party, touched a wifely chord in Cissy’s -affectionate little heart. Mrs. Fraser, for so her neighbours soon -discovered that she was named, happened to sit next to Mrs. Archer, and -but a few minutes elapsed before the two somewhat congenial spirits were -in friendly conversation. - -Marion, by her position at the table slightly separated from them, felt -herself at liberty to sit silent and amuse herself by observing her -companions. Of these the liveliest and most conspicuous were some six or -seven gentlemen, who had entered the room immediately after the Fraser -family. They came in together, talking and laughing, though not noisily, -and evidently belonging to one party. Marion soon gathered from their -conversation that some excursion was in question, preliminary to which, -they had all met to dine at the “Lion d’Or.” She found them an amusing -study, as from time to time she glanced at them demurely. In the little -group of six or seven young men, several nations were represented. - -First came John Bull, in the shape of a good natured, substantial, -rather handsome man, apparently about thirty years of age. Then -a lively, energetic little Frenchman, brisk and amusing, but with -something unquestionably refined about him too. Next to him sat an -exceedingly conceited young man, fair, and with good features, of which -the most striking was exaggeratedly Roman nose. The nationality of this -individual somewhat puzzled Miss Vere, as did also that of his immediate -neighbour on the left, a very young man, a boy almost, whose handsome -face and thoroughbred air rendered him the most attractive of the party. -He and his Roman-nosed friend, soon proved themselves to be famous -linguists, for in the course of less than half an hour, Marion heard -them speak English, French, German, and a word or two incidentally, of -Italian, each, so far as her ear could discover, with perfect ease and -fluency. The rest of the party consisted of a frank-mannered young -man, an English officer home from India; and a half clerical-looking -individual, middle-aged and stiff, whom Marion decided and rightly, -to be the tutor of the handsome cosmopolitan. Snatches only of their -conversation reached her, but enough to amuse and interest her. The -whole party was full of the anticipated enjoyment of the mountain -expedition. As far as she could gather they intended starting that -evening, driving a considerable distance and ascending to a certain -point in time to see the sun rise. - -“Not that I care much about seeing the sun rise,” said the heavy -Englishman, shivering at the thought; “but I daresay it will give us -good appetite for breakfast.” - -“After which think you, my friend, to mount still higher?” asked the -Frenchman, “or will you that while you repose we then ascend? In this -case can we again find you as we recome.” - -“You don’t mean to say, De L’Orme,” interrupted the young officer, “that -you ever dreamt of Chepstow’s getting to the top! By all means, leave -him half way. We should certainly have to carry him the best part of the -way up, and he’s no light weight, remember.” - -“Nonsense,” said the substantial Chepstow, there’s no reason why I -shouldn’t get to the top.” - -“Not the slightest, my dear sir, why you should not both get to the -top and stay there if you find it agreeable,” observed the Roman-nosed -gentleman, with what seemed to Marion a rather impertinent sneer in his -tone. - -Mr. Chepstow, however, being one of those happily self-satisfied, -matter-of-fact people to whom the possibility that they are being made -fun of, never occurs, commenced a ponderous speech to the effect that -his friend had misunderstood him in supposing that he had any wish -to settle for life on the summit of the “pic noir;” which speech -unfortunately was destined never to be concluded, for the person to whom -it was addressed, taking not the slightest notice of it, turned to his -neighbour on the other side, “the handsome boy,” as Marion had mentally -dubbed him, saying: - -“How is it, my dear —” (she could not catch the name) “your hero has -then disappointed you? We are not to be honoured with his company after -all? Ah, what a loss! Think only how we might all have profited by -twenty-four hours in the company of so learned an individual. You, -especially, Chepstow,” he added, turning sharply to that gentleman, -hardly yet recovered from the surprise of finding himself not listened -to. - -“Not so fast, Erbenfeld,” replied the younger man, “I still hope for my -friend’s company. Mr. Price met him this afternoon, and at that time -he spoke of joining us. Did he not, Mr. Price?” he enquired of the -semi-clerical gentleman. - -“Certainly, he did,” answered the person addressed. But just then the -little Frenchman broke in with a vivacious description of something or -other, and Marion lost the thread of the conversation. - -All this time Cissy had been chattering busily to her new acquaintances; -but though from the position or her seat, she had not so good a view as -her cousin of the party of young men, it must not be thought that they -had escaped her observation. Far from it. She had been making good use -of her time, by extracting from her lively and communicative companion -quite a fund of information respecting the little world of Altes -society. Before the end of dinner she was perfectly informed respecting -the names, rank, antecedents, and expectations, of the several gentlemen -composing the group at the other end of the table; and now with a smile -of satisfaction she whispered to Marion that she had lots to tell her -when they got home. - -Poor Cissy! I am afraid it must be admitted that she was something of -a gossip; but after all, if no one ever said worse of their neighbours -than she did, the world at large would be in a considerably more -amicable state of mind than it is at present. - -Half way through the meal there was a new arrival. A gentleman, who came -in quietly and made his way to the head or the room where the party of -young men was seated, and before taking his place said a few words in a -low voice to Mr. Chepstow; of apology for his tardiness, Marion fancied, -thereby confirming her guess that the substantial Englishman was in the -present instance the entertainer of the others. - -The appearance of the new-corner seemed to affect the members of -the group variously. Mr. Chepstow shook hands with him in a hearty, -hospitable way, that would have seemed more in place in an English -dining-room than at a French table d’hôte. Erbenfeld greeted him with -the slightest possible approach to a bow, which, however, he could not -succeed in rendering haughty or dignified as he evidently intended; the -Frenchman was airily cordial; and the young officer looked sulky and -rather disgusted, as if he thought the jollity of the party had received -its death-blow. But over the thin, careworn face of Mr. Price, there -crept an expression of pleasure touching to see, and the handsome boy, -his pupil, started up with a bright smile of welcome which made Marion -think of her own Harry at home. - -The stranger’s face had not yet been fully turned in her direction, but -the sound of his voice was slightly familiar. That voice, had he known -it, was his strong point. Not too deep, though round and mellow; in no -wise weak, though it could be gentle as a woman’s; firm and penetrating, -without a shade of hardness. And above all it was a voice that rang -true. When at last he sat down and Marion saw him distinctly, the -familiarity of the voice was explained. It was the hero of the umbrella! -As he glanced round the table she half fancied that his eye for a second -rested upon her, with the slightest possible expression of recognition. -But very probably this was only a trick of her imagination. She was -glad when he entered into an evidently interesting conversation with Mr. -Price and his pupil; as he then turned slightly aside and she ventured -now and again to glance at him. No, Cissy was right; he was most -certainly not handsome. And yet not exactly plain-looking either. A -certain quiet, self-contained gravity of expression attracted her. She -knew him to be an unusually clever man, but had she not known this from -hearsay, she fancied she would have discovered it for herself. The brow -was good, the eyes too deeply set for beauty, the nose passable, the -mouth well-shaped, but with lines about it that would have made it -hard, had it not been for a gentler expression, half of humour, half -of melancholy, which went and came, now brightening, now saddening, but -always softening all the features of the dark, quiet face. Knowing, as -she aid, nothing of his history and character, it seemed to Marion that -it would not be difficult to understand this man; if not to like him, at -least to respect and be interested by him. I think it was what she had -heard of his somewhat isolated and solitary life, that inclined her to -feel already a sort of regard, pity almost, for him. Her life had not -been so bright and full, but that she had some knowledge of lonely hours -and lonelier feelings. How easily she could picture him to herself as -a boy, shy and backward beside his more brilliant brother. How well she -could enter into the little understood suffering carelessly alluded to -in those few words of his mother’s when expressing her wish that -Sir John had left an heir, “and so does Ralph himself wish, for that -matter.” - -Marion sat dreaming thus to herself, and half started when a question -from Cissy as to what in the world she was thinking of, drew her into -conversation with her cousin and Mrs. Fraser. Dinner was about over -and in a few minutes the whole party dispersed. Mrs. Archer greatly -delighted by Mrs. Fraser’s request that she might call to see her the -next day. - -“She is really a very nice little woman, isn’t she, May?” said Mrs. -Archer, as they were walking home. “Mrs. Fraser, I mean.” - -“In the first place, my dear Cissy, she is at least half a head taller -than you. As for her niceness I hadn’t much opportunity of judging; she -was so busy talking to you. She is certainly very nice-looking, and I -like her husband’s face too.” - -“Yes, poor man, but how dreadfully ill he looks! There isn’t a chance of -his living long,” said Cissy, briskly. - -“Indeed! Was that part of his wife’s very entertaining communications?” -enquired Marion, drily. - -“May, for shame! Of course not. I could see it for myself in half a -minute. You do take one up so for whatever one says,” exclaimed Mrs. -Archer, indignantly. “But I was going to tell you all I heard about the -people here. Mrs. Fraser knows the Berwicks, slightly that is to say. -At least she knows the ladies of the family and the old major. By-the-by -that sunburnt young man among those gentlemen at the head of the table -was the son, young Berwick. Captain, I think he is now. He is home on -leave for two years. I never saw him before, but George knows him a -little I think. Mrs. Fraser says he’s rather nice by all accounts. Mrs. -Berwick and the eldest daughter, Blanche, are rather stupid. Blanche -always ill and the mother fussing about her. The younger daughter, -Sophy, is good-natured and lively, but is allowed to run rather wild, -I fancy. She had a great flirtation with that fair young man with the -queer nose. Erbenfeld is his name; a Swede. But he found out in time -that she had no money; all this happened last year and so it came to -nothing.” - -“Really, Cissy, your new friend must be a regular gossip.” - -“Not at all, Marion, you don’t understand,” said Mrs. Archer, with a -slight shade of annoyance in her tone. I am very glad to have got to -know something of all these people in this sort of way. There was no -harm whatever in Mrs. Fraser giving me a little information about them. -She saw I was a perfect stranger in the place, and I told her I should -like to know something about the society here. Perhaps it was a little -rash of us both, but I know that she is a nice person. I felt it -instinctively, and perhaps she felt the same towards me. Her husband was -laughing at her a little for gossiping, but he said she made a point -of collecting all the stories she could to amuse him with, for often -he can’t leave his room for days together. But if you would rather not -listen to my ‘gossip,’ Marion, I’m sure you needn’t hesitate to say so.” - -“Nonsense, Cissy, I was only teasing you. Well, what more about Mr. -Erbenfeld?” - -“About Mr. Erbenfeld? Oh, there’s not much to tell about him. He’s a -sort of adventurer, I should say. He has spent the two last winters here -on pretence of his health, but really, they say, because he hopes -to pick up a rich English wife. He is rather clever—accomplished, at -least—and visits all the best people here, being fairly good-looking -and gentlemanlike. But Mrs. Fraser says he is a good deal laughed at -on account of the airs he gives himself about his old family and grand -relations in Sweden.” - -“I though he was very rude indeed to Mr. Chepstow,” remarked Marion. - -“Oh, yes, that’s the stout, big man. How did you hear his name?” - -“I heard that Mr. Erbenfeld mention it. ‘Shepstow’ he pronounced it. But -what can a man like Mr. Chepstow be doing here? I am sure he does not -look as though he were an invalid.” - -“But, my dear child, do get it out of your head that everyone at Altes -is an invalid. It is quite a mistake. At least half the people here -simply come for amusement. Mr. Chepstow, as it happens, is here to -recruit his spirits, for his wife died a few months ago, and he found -his home so miserable without her that he couldn’t bear to spend the -winter there. He’s an enormously rich man, Mrs. Fraser said.” - -“Did you notice the gentleman who came in when dinner was half over?” -asked Marion. - -“Not particularly. I don’t think Mrs. Fraser knew him—at least she made -no observations about him.” - -“You should have him, though,” said Marion. - -“I; why?” exclaimed Cissy. “But now I think of it, by-the-by, his face -did strike me as familiar in a sort of misty way. I know,” she went on, -eagerly; “Yes, I know now. It was Sir Ralph Severn.” - -“So I supposed,” said Marion; “for it was certainly the gentleman who -lent me the umbrella this morning.” - -“How stupid of me not to recognize him,” said Cissy; “but I might just -as well say how stupid of him not to recognize me! He is a good deal -changed, naturally, for it is seven years since I saw him at Cairo, and -then only for a few hours. He is more manly-looking, but even graver -than he was then. But what a handsome young man that Russian was! Didn’t -you think so, Marion?” - -“Yes, I liked his face exceedingly,” she replied. “Ah! that explains -his speaking so many languages—his being a Russian, I mean. What is his -name?” - -“Count Vladimir Nodouroff, or some name like that,” answered Mrs. -Archer; “his family comes here every winter. He has a beautiful sister. -That stupid-looking man was his tutor. The little Friendship’s name -is Monsieur de l’Orme. Mrs. Fraser knows him a little, and says he is -charming. They are all setting off on a mountain excursion tonight.” - -“Yes, I heard them alluding to it,” said Marion; “so after all, Cissy, -your Sir Ralph can’t be such a very unsociable person.” - -“I never said he was,” answered Cissy; “I only said he was much less -popular than his brother. Indeed, I know very little about him; but -those learned people are always stuck-up and disagreeable. But oh, May, -how I hate this governessing scheme of yours! Mrs. Fraser asked me if -you were my sister, and when I said ‘no,’ I, as nearly as possible, -added that you were my cousin.” - -“Poor Cissy! What did you say? I saw you looking at me rather -uncomfortably.” - -“I said you were a great friend of mine, and that not being particularly -wanted at home, I had persuaded your friends to let you come abroad with -me. Thinking it was as well to get accustomed to my rôle in this farce, -I went on to say that, rather against my wishes, you had determined on -accepting a situation as daily governess while at Altes, rather than -be idle. Mrs. Fraser said, ‘Poor girl; well, if she has to do it, -the sooner she begins the better?’ I felt such a hypocrite, Marion. I -managed to avoid naming you, though. I really couldn’t have called you -Miss Freer.” - -“But you will have to do so, sooner or later, Cissy; though, I confess, -it’s the part I least like of the affair myself. Did you bear anything -of the Bailey family from Mrs. Fraser?” - -“Yes; she says they are plain, good sort of people. The mother is gentle -and amiable, and the daughter takes after her. Mrs. Fraser was here all -last winter too. She says there are excellent subscription balls. They -are kept very select indeed. You can only get tickets by giving your -name to one of the committee. Major Berwick is on it so there will be -no difficulty for us if we feel inclined to go. Somehow I don’t think -I shall like the Berwicks much. Mrs. Fraser was cautious in her way of -speaking about them, but I gathered that old Mrs. Berwick is rather a -mischief-maker, though she professes to live quite out or the world, on -Blanche’s account. Poor Blanche! At school, I remember, she promised to -be a very pretty girl. But she was always delicate.” - -An hour or so later, as Marion and Cissy sat quietly reading and -working, they heard the sound of several carriage wheels passing -quickly. Strolling on to the terrace they caught sight of the party of -gentlemen setting off on their expedition. It was a lovely evening after -the rain, the moon just appearing as the daylight began to fade. The -young men’s voices sounded cheerfully as they drove past, just below the -terrace. - -“How I envy them!” said Cissy “don’t you, Marion? Think how delightful -it would be to drive ever so far in the moonlight!” - -“Yes,” replied Marion, with a sigh, “yes, it would be very delightful.” - -And as she spoke a sort of childish discontent with her quiet humdrum -life came over her. She wished that she was very rich and very -beautiful, and free to enjoy some of the many pleasant things that there -are in the world. And then her mood gradually altered. A feeling stole -over her that a change was impending, what or how she could not have put -in words. A vague presentiment that she had reached the boundary of her -simple, unruffled girl-life, and that womanhood, with its deeper, fuller -joys—but also, alas! its profounder sorrows and gnawing anxieties—was -before her. A voice seemed to warn her, to ask her not to be in haste -to leave the careless, peaceful present for the unknown, untried future. -But he answered in her heart defiantly, “I am not afraid to meet my -fate, to take my place in the battle; the sooner the better. I am strong -and ready to do my part, and bear my mead of suffering. Only give me my -woman’s share of life. Let me feel what it is to live.” - -Poor child! Poor little bird, eager to try its newly-fledged wings, -little knowing how tossed and torn, how very weary, they would be before -they were again folded in rest! - -But, thank heaven, there are many bright days in young lives, and of -some of these we must tell. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. FLORENCE - -“With every pleasing, every prudent part, -Say what can Chloe want?—she wants a heart.” - POPE. - - - -FIVE minutes after Marion had left Lady Severn’s drawing-room that rainy -morning, another young lady entered it. A tall, handsome girl. Beautiful -almost; at least, to those who define beauty as material perfection of -form and colour, not troubling themselves too much about the nature of -the soul within. That in appearance she was what is called “striking” -no one could have denied. Well-made, in a certain sense graceful, and -thoroughly well-dressed, her figure would have stood the test of pretty -sharp, even feminine criticism. - -As to complexion, exquisitely fair; of which, however, she paid the -penalty, if such it be, in the colour of her hair, which though fine, -soft, and abundant, was undoubtedly red. A deep, warm red, however—in -itself, a lovely shade, though, probably, few would admire it as that of -hair. But now comes a surprise. The eyes were good, hazel, I think; but -whatever their precise tint they always looked deep and lustrous, for -they possessed the inestimable advantage—little to be looked for -in conjunction with such hair—of dark, almost black, lashes, and -clearly-defined, slightly arched, eyebrows to match. - -Oh! what ill-natured things were said about those eyebrows and -eyelashes! How the sandy freckled Misses Macdonald, husband-hunting at -Altes, whispered, about, “What a pity, is it not? Still quite a young -person, and really not bad-looking, if she would only leave herself -alone.” Each sister, all the same, secretly experimenting in the privacy -of her own chamber, with “bâton” and “bandoline;” nay, for aught I know, -with camel’s hair-brushes and “lamp-black,” alias “noir velouté;” in the -vain hope of rivalling the beautiful Florence. Vain hope truly, for as -to eyebrows and eyelashes, the girl was indebted to nature only; and, -indeed, had she been less gifted than she was in these respects, -I question much if such expedients would have occurred to her, so -perfectly satisfied was she with her outward appearance. Naturally so, -it must be allowed. The youngest and fairest of the three daughters of a -widowed and struggling mother, her surpassing beauty had, from earliest -childhood, been impressed upon her as the great fact of her existence. A -fact utterly impossible to question or dispute. - -That this same beauty was to be turned to the best account in the -matrimonial market, followed naturally enough, as the second article of -belief in the poor girl’s creed. - -Of the two plainer sisters, one, the elder, was married respectably, -though by no means brilliantly, to a young curate, over-worked and -under-paid; in these particulars, I fear, no exception to his class. The -other was hopelessly engaged to a lieutenant in the navy, dependent on -his pay, which had hitherto barely sufficed to keep his own head above -water, and whose only prospects consisted in a vague talk of far distant -“promotion.” - -But the there was Florence! Florence the beautiful, whose brilliant -marriage was to be the turning point in the fortunes of her family:—to -obtain a comfortable living for her older brother-in-law; and in some -mysterious way to bring the Admiralty to a sense of what was owing to -the meritorious but unappreciated lieutenant. - -Hardly was the girl out of short frocks and pinafores, before the -anxious, scheming mother set to work to plan her future and obtain for -her the desired opportunity. Nor must we judge her harshly. Poverty, -and above all poverty of the striving, pinching, keeping-up-appearances -kind, is not an influence likely to exalt or refine the character, -and poor Mrs. Vyse, no lofty-minded woman to begin with, sank and -deteriorated beneath it, as many better people have done before and -since. - -In one direction her efforts met with success. - -It happened thus. Among the few friends, who in the long weary years -of her widow-hood and adversity, still remembered Mrs. Vyse, none was -kinder, or showed her more substantial proofs of good will than Lady -Severn, her husband’s cousin by marriage. No very near connection -certainly, but there was another reason for this kindness to the poor -widow and her fatherless children. The history of Dame Eleanor Severn, -like that of most people in this world, had begun with a first volume, -or which the hero was not her lamented and much respected husband, the -late Sir Ralph Severn, but a certain harum-scarum sailor cousin of his, -a handsome auburn-haired boy, with beautiful black-fringed eyes: Gordon -Vyse by name. Of course it was “utterly out of the question.” She -was, an heiress, consequently it would never have done for her to have -married a prospectless younger son. In time, suppose, she herself was -brought to see the thing in this rational light. Any how she married -Sir Ralph, her own cousin, and (she being an only child), heir to her -father’s title, though not to his wealth, which was all settled on -Eleanor Severn herself. So title and wealth were re-united by this -marriage; a highly satisfactory arrangement in the eyes of the family -and the world at large. Nobody troubled him or herself much about poor -Gordon; who before long consoled himself by marrying, considerably -beneath him, a rather pretty, inferior-minded, managing little woman, -who made him as good a wife as she knew how, and after his death did her -poor best by the three daughters left to her care. They got on somehow. -Florence seemed the most fortunate, for Lady Severn saw her as a -child, took a fancy to her, and paid for her education at a fashionable -boarding school. Questionable good fortune; but the girl was capable of -gratitude, and honestly loved her mother and sisters. So she made what -she truly believed to be best use of her educational privileges, devoted -herself to accomplishments, including the art of dressing, and arranging -her magnificent hair to the best advantage; and so succeeded as become, -before she left school, the show pupil of the establishment. The thought -of furnishing the inside of her head with any knowledge really worth -acquiring, never occurred to her. And indeed it is difficult to say if -she could ever have succeeded in doing so, for the cleverness which she -certainly possessed, was of that self-conceited, essentially superficial -kind, to teachers far more hopeless to deal with than any extreme of -good, honest, modest, stupidity. - -Grown up at last, ready in every sense, of the word to “come out,” had -there been any one to introduce her, for a tiresome year or two the -beautiful Florence languished at home. For some time the distress in the -Severn family put a stop to all hopes of a helping hand in that quarter. -At last, however, Mrs. Vyse plucked courage. A gratefully expressed and -judiciously timed letter to Lady Severn, resulted in an invitation -to Florence to visit her abroad for a few weeks. So well had the girl -profited by her mother’s instructions that the few weeks lengthened into -months, and the latter had already numbered more than twelve, and still -there was no talk of Miss Vyse returning home. She knew how to make -herself useful her hostess, who, on her side, treated her with the -greatest generosity; for she was proud of her handsome young relative, -niece as she preferred to call her, though in point of fact the -connection was much more remote. Every where Miss Vyse was admired and -made much of, and on the whole she had spent a very agreeable year. -Still, the great object of her ambition, a wealthy husband, had not been -attained, and for some time past this consideration had caused her no -little anxiety. - -There were difficulties in the way. Lady Severn’s continued mourning -and Sir Ralph’s indifference to society, caused their life to be a very -quiet one, which to Florence was the more provoking, as she saw plainly -that wherever they went, it only rested with themselves to have the -entrée of the most select portion of the fashionable world. On coming -to Altes this winter, Lady Severn had kindly volunteered to relax little -from her usual seclusion on her young friend’s account. Pleasant news -for Florence! She was, however, too far-seeing to hope for very much in -the way of gaiety, considering the habits of her entertainers; and she -was far too prudent to take advantage of Lady Severn’s promise in any -but the most careful and moderate manner, fearing lest the slightest -appearance of discontent with their somewhat monotonous life, should -weaken the influence she had gained over the mother, and, equally -important, the favour she hoped to acquire in the eyes of the son. - -For it had come to this! Gradually, but steadily, for some months past, -Florence’s thoughts had been concentrating to this point. True, Sir -Ralph himself was far from rich, but then there was considerable wealth -in the hands of his mother, of which, even during her life, were he to -marry to please her, Florence had every reason to believe a fair potion -would be his. - -It was rather a bold idea; but she was not burdened with over-delicacy -or scrupulosity, and on the other hand, was by no means deficient -in tact, and possessed besides the inestimable of supreme, unruffled -self-confidence. And, to do her justice, poor girl, she was strengthened -by the thought of the happiness the news of such a marriage would -diffuse over the dear, care-worn faces at home! - -Two distinct objects lay before her to achieve. In the first place there -was Lady Severn to be won over, unconsciously, to her side. Liking must -be deepened to affection, esteem, and admiration judiciously heightened; -till one day it should suddenly break upon the good lady, entirely as -an idea of her own, that here, beside her, in the person of her young -favourite, the daughter of her own, never-forgotten, first love, was the -very wife for her son; the woman of all others, beautiful, sensible, and -cheerful, whom she would choose as a helpmeet for the dreamy, studious, -unpractical Sir Ralph. So thought Florence for Lady Severn, and so, ere -long, the unconscious lady was made to think for herself. For, though -no plain words had as yet passed between them on the subject, Florence -believed, and rightly, that the first of her designs was in a fair way -towards being accomplished. - -But with the contemplation of the second came the “tug of war.” -Florence with all her self-belief, with all her happy confidence in the -irresistible nature of her charms, felt at a loss. “Tug of war” is not -a happy quotation in this instance, for it was no case of Greek versus -Greek, but the involuntary repulsion of an utterly alien nature, which -so baffled this girl in all her efforts. Ralph puzzled her. There were -so many things about him which he could not understand. No wonder! For, -if only she had known it, it would have been nearer the truth to say -that there was hardly one thing about him; which, with all the good-will -in the world, all the capacity for lending herself to his peculiarities -on which she prided herself, she could ever have come to understand. - -Her opinion of human nature in general was by no means an exalted one. -Disinterested goodness, in the highest sense, was to her incredible, or -rather inconceivable. Strange, at first sight, this may appear. Strange -in so young a girl, for Florence was little more than twenty, and her -actual experience of the world had not been very extensive. Strange, and -no less sad, for the disbelief, or slowness to believe, in the truth -and goodness of our fellows, which is almost excusable in a soured and -world-tried man or woman of middle age, revolts and repels us in a very -young person. Meeting with it we cannot but suspect some terrible defect -in the early up-bringing of such an one, if not some crooked tendency of -peculiar strength innate in the character itself. - -So, as I said, Ralph puzzled Florence. His devotion to study for its own -sake, utterly indifferent to its bringing him name or fame; his distaste -for society, in which, nevertheless, his rank and prospects would have -insured him a cordial reception; his goodness itself; the union of -strength, with gentleness which to her seemed almost weakness; nay, -more, his very faults—his whole nature, in short—baffled her utterly. - -And, above all, his indifference to her charms! For in this last there -was a certain amount of inconsistency. Not in his being always kind and -attentive to her; that went for nothing, she knew he would have been so -to any woman. But, over and above this, she saw that he admired her. In -a quiet, cold sort of way, as if she had been a picture or a statue. -She was pleasing to him as a beautiful object, for his perceptions were -refined and correct to a fault. And even she felt, and truly, that to be -thus admired by him was worth all the coarser adulation of the many—the -vulgar triumph of reigning as a ball-room belle. - -But this was all! Beyond this point she could not succeed in impressing -him. At last, after much cogitation, she decided in her own mind that -he, a student, if not already a “savant,” must be of a different nature -from other men, and she must content herself accordingly. One comfort -certainly was hers. She need fear no rival, past, present, or future. -His never having been specially attracted by any young lady had become, -as it were, a proverb in the family. And as for anything else—. No; she -felt instinctively there was nothing to fear. No awkward entanglement -which might have precluded the idea of matrimony, or engendered a -distaste thereto. And she was right. The life of this man, from earliest -boy hood to the present time, would have stood the strictest scrutiny. - -He must have always been, she decided, just the same peculiar being she -found him now. It was simply not in him to fall in love, “to lose his -head about anyone,” as she phrased it to herself. The best she could -hope for was, that he should become, as it were, accustomed to her, -regard her with quiet friendliness and respect, feel a certain amount of -pleasure in her society; so that when his mother should one day make -the proposition to him, for which Florence was thus carefully paving the -way, the idea should not, at least, be repugnant to him. He would -marry her, no doubt, if his mother wished it, provided it could be done -without much trouble or interference with his usual habits. Still, it -was mortifying to think of, that with this faint, colourless sentiment -she must be content. For though herself too cold, or perhaps too -thoroughly selfish, ever to experience the all-absorbing, self-devoting, -uncalculating intensity of a genuine love, she was yet by no means -insensible to the extreme gratification, the agreeable triumph of -awakening such a feeling in all its depth towards her in the bosom -of another. She had all the elements that go to the making of a -thorough-paced coquette; but she was wise enough to see that, in her -critical position, the exercise of any such arts might result in the -direst misfortune to herself; and, through her, to the only three people -in the world she really cared about. - -The one consolation to her wounded vanity—Ralph’s evident admiration -of her beauty for its own sake, she sedulously cultivated. She -was perfectly aware that it was merely the gratification an artist -experiences when brought into relation with harmony of any kind. An -utterly different feeling from that, happily far more common-place one, -by no means confined to artist natures, which makes the outward form -precious for the sake of its owner. The feeling which made makes -Rochester declare that “every atom or Jane’s flesh” would, must be, -dear to him, in pain, in sickness—yes, even in the wild paroxysms or -insanity. The feeling so exquisitely described in another sense, in that -lovely picture or motherhood, when Heather tells how precious to her is -every freckle on her little Lally’s snub nose. - -Well aware that Ralph’s admiration for her sprung from no root of this, -kind, Florence found it the more necessary to nurse and cherish, with -the utmost care, the delicate plant. - -Never, in all the months they had been members of the same household, -had Ralph seen her in any but a perfectly well-chosen and tasteful -“toilette.” Unless, indeed, on one or two occasions when he had -“accidentally” caught sight of her in the most becoming of studied -“negligés.” Her magnificent hair escaped from its trappings perhaps, -or decorated with a wreath of flowers to please her little cousins in -a game of play, which had flushed her usually pale cheeks with an -exquisite bloom. - -This sort of thing, she imagined, kept up with Sir Ralph her character -of gentle artlessness, somewhat subdued by the trials of her past life. -Whereas, in reality, she neither sat nor moved, looked nor spoke, -when in his presence, save with the one purpose of strengthening and -increasing his admiration. - -This girl, then, as I have shown her, this Florence Vyse, was the young -lady who entered the room that rainy morning, just as Marion had left -it. - -“Oh, Florence, my love,” said Lady Severn, as she came in, “I am so -sorry you did not happen to come before. Such a nice young person -has been here applying as daily governess. Really, quite a superior, -lady-like girl. Evidently well brought up. I should fancy, from what she -said, that her family must be in reduced circumstances. I wish you had -seen her; I should have liked your opinion.” - -“I am sorry I did not know you wanted me, dear Aunt,” replied the young -lady, seating herself on a comfortable low chair, near enough to Lady -Severn to be heard without the disagreeable exertion of raising her -voice. “I am very glad to hear of a suitable governess for the dear -pets,” which, indeed, she was from the bottom of her heart; having, -of late, had sundry most uncomfortable misgivings, that unless such a -person appeared she would before long, for the sake of her character of -unselfish amiability, be obliged to offer her services temporarily -at least, as instructress. Mentally resolving that this unexpected -deliverance must be accepted, even though the candidate for the -undesirable post should be a suspected tool of the Jesuits, or something -equally objectionable, she proceeded to cross-question Lady Severn on -the subject, and had got the length of hearing that Miss Freer was a -friend and guest of Mrs. Archer’s, when the door opened and Sir Ralph -entered. - -“Oh, Ralph,” said his mother, “I was just telling Florence what a nice -governess I have all but engaged for the children. - -“Indeed,” replied he; “she must have dropped from the skies to -oblige you, for at breakfast this morning Florence was bewailing your -disappointment that somebody or other—Mrs. Archer, wasn’t it?—had not -succeeded in finding some unfortunate lady willing to torture herself -and the children for so many hours a day. Really, mother, I think you -might leave them alone for a while. Sybil is too delicate and Lotty too -flighty to do much good at lessons.” - -“I must beg you, Ralph, not to speak in that foolish way. How can you -possibly be able to judge about the education of young girls? Florence, -who really may be allowed to have an opinion on the subject, agrees with -me that they have been running wild far too long.” - -“Oh dear Aunt, pray don’t speak as if I would dream of interfering,” -interrupted Miss Vyse, “I only happened to say the other day that I -wished I had my school-days over again, now that I saw to how much -better profit I might put them. Though, perhaps, after all it would not -be much use; for I am so stupid. And being with minds I can really look -up to, has made me of late painfully conscious of my own deficiencies!” -she added, with a gentle little sigh. - -She wanted Sir Ralph to say that he hated learned women, but he took no -notice of her self-depreciation. “He is really horribly boorish,” she -thought to herself, as after waiting till she had finished her pretty -little speech, he turned to his mother and enquired, “Where and how have -you heard of a governess then, mother? Of course if she is a desirable -person it will be a good thing for the children. I am quite aware such -things as lessons are unavoidable, sooner or later.” - -For the second time Lady Severn related the history of the lucky -coincidence that had brought Miss Freer as an applicant for the post. -She ended by saying that the young lady (she had called her “a young -person” to Florence, but “Ralph had such queer notions”) had only just -left her. “Ah then,” he said, “I must have seen her as I came in. I lent -her my umbrella.” - -“Lent her your umbrella, Ralph. What for?” - -“To keep off the rain,” he answered, quietly. - -“Pray, Ralph, do not answer my questions in that ridiculous way. You -know what I mean, perfectly. You are not in the habit or lending your -umbrella to the first person you happen to meet in the street.” - -“Certainly not, mother. And as it happens I did not meet this protégée -of yours in the street at all. I saw her as I came in, standing at the -foot of the stairs, looking out at the rain rather disconsolately. It -never occurred to me till I had run up stairs that perhaps she had no -umbrella, and so I ran down again to see. I had no idea who she was. -Young or old, ugly or pretty. I passed her quickly, thinking of other -things; which was stupid enough, for I might have thought a lady would -not be standing, staring at the rain for any pleasure in the prospect.” - -“And when you ran down again did you see her, Cousin Ralph?” asked -Florence, softly. - -“Yes, Cousin Florence,” he replied jestingly; “but I am afraid I can’t -tell you much about her. I only saw a young girl with pretty brown hair, -for she was standing with her back to me, and hardly turned round to -thank me, so eager was she to run off as soon as she had the umbrella.” - -He did not add that as the girl had retraced a step or two to ask his -address, her veil had flown back and revealed a pair or grey eyes, which -the word “pretty” would not have adequately described. But “pretty brown -hair!” What evil genius prompted Ralph to use the expressions? The -first seed sown of many, that were in time, to yield a harvest of bitter -fruit. The first small prejudice planted in the heart of a jealous and -scheming woman. Pretty brown hair, indeed,” said Florence to herself, -and she never forgot the words. Ralph so seldom seemed to notice -anything, pretty or ugly, about a woman, that the slightest expression -of admiration at once caught her attention. And in the present case -another feeling was aroused. Notwithstanding all her self-satisfaction -Florence was, to tell the truth, touchy about the colour of her hair. -She thought it, really and truly, the loveliest that ever grew on -a woman’s head, but yet she was aware that there was a diversity of -opinion on the subject. Vulgar people, uneducated eyes might call it a -defect. Spiteful people might say spiteful things about it, were they -so inclined. She was sure that Ralph admired it, for under none of these -heads could be classed. He, whose taste was refined and cultivated in -the extreme, must, could not but think it beautiful; but yet — she could -not endure him to speak of another woman’s “pretty brown hair.” - -They went in to luncheon. As they were taking their seats at table they -were joined by the two grand-daughters, “the children,” Florence’s “dear -pets.” Charlotte, the elder, was a tall, well-grown child. Handsome -already, and with promise of considerable beauty of the large, fair -type. “Quite a Severn,” as her father had been before her, and already -well aware of the fact. - -Sybil was as unlike her, as in childhood, Ralph must have been unlike -his handsome brother. A quiet, mouse-like little girl, with a pale -face and straight, short-cut, rather dark hair. Sweet eyes though; and, -indeed, far from plain-looking, when one examined the features more -critically. Few, probably, were ever at the pains to do so, for she was -precisely the sort of child that gets little notice; partly, perhaps, -because she never seemed to expect it. She was rather an unsatisfactory -child. Her grandmother loved her and cherished her, but yet somehow -she did not, or could not, understand her. Her great delicacy and the -constant care and indulgence it necessitated, would have utterly spoilt -most children; but it had not done so with Sybil. Not, at least, in the -ordinary way. - -Lotty, one could see at the first glance, was tremendously spoilt. But -she was by nature honest and hearty, though selfish, headstrong, and -conceited. Conceited, however, in a childish, innocent sort of way. -Laughable enough now and then. After all I hardly think the conceit was -indigenous in her. I suspect Miss Vyse had had a hand in the sowing of -it. Lotty was her avowed favourite, and on the whole had not improved in -character since Florence had taken up her residence among them. - -Lotty burst into the room and seated her-self opposite her cousin, -without any of the gentle, half appealing air so pretty to see in a girl -of her age. - -“Soup” she said, coolly, in answer to her grandmother’s question as to -what she would take; “that’s to say if it isn’t that horrid kind we had -yesterday.” - -But observing a look of gentle reminder on the face of Miss Vyse, who -intended Sir Ralph to see it too, she added— - -“I beg your pardon, Grandmamma, for calling it horrible, but Florence -and I both think—” - -“Never mind what we both think, Lotty,” interrupted Miss Vyse, -smilingly. “Sybil, dear, will you have some or this?” - -Little Sybil was sitting quietly by her uncle; her favourite place, -for though frightened of him, she was always pleased to be near him. -He stroked her smooth, soft hair, and she looked up in his face with a -smile. - -“Are you going up the mountain to-day, Uncle Ralph?” he asked. - -“Not to-day exactly, but very early to-morrow,” he replied. - -“What you going to do early to-morrow?” asked Lady Severn, who had not -heard Sybil’s question. - -“I am going to ascend the ‘Pic noir’,” he answered. “I think I mentioned -it some days ago. There is a whole party going; rather more than I care -about, but poor Price and Vladimir Nodouroff were very anxious for me -to join them. We dine at the Lion d’Or today, and start this evening, -if fine. I shall not be back till the day after to-morrow, but I suppose -that will make no difference to you?” - -“Oh, dear no,” his mother, “but by-the-by, do not stay away longer than -that. I want you on Friday to take us all to Berlet. It is rather too -far to go without a gentleman, but the view, I hear, is lovely.” - -“I shall be very glad to take you,” said Ralph, quite pleased at Lady -Severn’s wish for his company; “you must all come. The children, too, -may they not?” - -“We shall see,” was the reply. Oh, how provoking a one to childish ears. - -“By-the-way,” said Ralph, “a Mr. Chepstow has arrived here lately, who -is anxious to make your acquaintance, mother. He is a friend of the -Bruces, at Brackley, they told him of our being here. He has lately lost -his wife. He seems an honest, stupid sort of man. Shall I tell him you -hope to see him? He is going with us tonight.” - -“Any friend of the Bruces, of course, I shall be glad to see,” said Lady -Severn, in a rather formal voice—(in her heart she disliked the Bruces; -her eldest son’s wife had been one of them)—“but I must say, Ralph, you -manage to describe people and things in a most peculiar way.” - -“In a most characteristic way, I should say,” murmured Florence, as just -at that moment her aunt rose from table and led the way from the room. - -She could not tell if Ralph heard the little compliment. He gave no sign -of having done so. Truly, his manners were very objectionable! - - - - -CHAPTER VII. THE LITTLE GOVERNESS. - -“’Twas frightful there, to see -A lady richly clad as she, -Beautiful exceedingly.” - CRISTABEL. - -“Here’s metal more attractive.” - HAMLET. - - - -AS she had promised, Marion called the next day to hear Lady Severn’s -decision. - -She had not much fear of its being unfavourable, and from the readiness -with which the servant threw open the drawing-room door, announcing her, -unprompted, as Miss Freer, she felt little doubt but that the fact of -her new honours had already transpired to the retainers of the family. - -Lady Severn was not in the room. Only Miss Vyse. She was lying on the -sofa as Marion entered, but rose and came forward to meet her. For half -a moment, one of those strange half-moments that seem so long, the two -girls looked at each other. Florence was mentally measuring this little -governess with the pretty brown hair. Measuring and weighing her; and -she did it correctly enough so far as her weights and measures went. - -“Not pretty, but pleasing. Not striking, but with a something that -might develop into a certain kind of attractiveness. Well-bred looking, -certainly, and as to character—well, not exactly a goose, but by no -means a person much to be dreaded. Far too ingenuous and transparent.” - -Florence felt relieved, and inclined to be amiable and patronising; -which agreeable sensation increased when in Marion’s grey eyes she read -evident admiration for herself. More than admiration. Marion’s first -glance at Florence actually dazzled her. She had forgotten all about -the existence of such a person as Miss Vyse, and had entered the room -expecting to see only Lady Severn, when this radiant creature rose to -greet her. In her gracious mood, Florence spoke courteously and kindly, -yet with a certain inflection of condescension, some few words of -apology for Lady Severn’s absence. - -“My aunt was obliged to go out this morning,” she said; “she asked me -to see you instead, and talk over a little the plans for my cousins’ -lessons; the hours, and so on. So pray sit down, Miss Freer. Lady Severn -may perhaps come in by the time I have given you a little idea of what -she wishes.” - -“Thank you,” said Marion. And as Miss Vyse seated herself gracefully, -she thought again, “How very beautiful you are.” But, somehow, she -did not think it quite in the same way since hearing Florence speak. -Something in her voice repelled her. Not the tone of condescension, that -was simply rather laughable; and irritating, perhaps, for the moment. It -was no incidental inflection that she disliked. It was something in the -voice itself: or, rather, it seemed to her something wanting in it. An -absence, not of depth nor refinement, nor sweetness; of no one of these -exactly, but of something including and yet surpassing them all. And, in -a strange way, it seemed to her as if her immediate perception of a want -in the voice revealed to her at the same moment an equally indefinable -want in the whole being of the woman before her. And yet she was so -beautiful! If only she had been a picture instead of a living being, -Marion felt that she could have admired her with perfect satisfaction! - -But she was brought back from these fancies by Miss Vyse’s proceeding -to inform her that Lady Severn was anxious to know if she could commence -her new duties as soon as the following Monday. - -“Oh, yes,” said Marion; “I am sure Mrs. Archer will be able to spare me -by then. She only asked me to be as much with her as possible this week, -as I can help her in arranging things a little.” - -“Certainly,” said Miss Vyse; “and then as to hours. Can you be here -regularly by half-past nine?” - -To which proposal also Marion agreed; and had next to listen to a -dissertation from her companion on the subject of the studies to which -Lady Severn especially desired her to direct her grand-daughters’ -attention. Miss Vyse had rather got herself up for the occasion, and -talked so fluently about books and methods, the system on which she -herself had been educated, &c., &c., that she ended by frightening -Marion far more than Lady Severn had done the previous day. She was just -beginning to wonder if Miss Vyse would ever leave of talking, when, to -her great relief, their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the entrance of -Lady Severn and her two grand-daughters. - -“Good morning, Miss Freer,” said the elder lady. “I was quite obliged to -go out early this morning with my grand-daughters, but I have no doubt -Miss Vyse will have said to you all I wished. I am glad you are still -here, as I can now introduce these little girls to you. Charlotte, my -dear, this is Miss Freer, who has kindly undertaken the charge of your -studies.” - -Charlotte came forward frankly enough, shook hands with Marion in -an easy, careless sort of way, and then, turning to Miss Vyse, began -eagerly to relate to her the event of the morning—a visit to the -dressmaker; not seeming to think it necessary to bestow any more -attention on her prospective governess. - -Little Sybil put her hand in Marion’s, shyly, glanced up half wistfully -in her face, and there, evidently reading encouragement, drew closer and -held up her mouth to be kissed. Marion’s heart was, of course, won on -the spot, and she began talking pleasantly to the child. Sybil answered -timidly, but at last, gathering fresh courage from Marion’s gentle -manner, became, in her childish way, quite communicative and -confidential. - -“We are going a beautiful drive on Friday,” she said, “all the way to -Berlet, and we are to have tea in a cottage at the top of the hill. Will -you come too?” - -“No thank you, dear,” said Marion, “but you will tell we all about it on -Monday.” - -“Yes, but I would like you to come. Grandmamma, will you please let Miss -Freer come to Berlet?” - -Marion felt rather annoyed at the child’s pertinacity, but the -suggestion appeared strike Lady Severn in a different way. - -“I should really be very glad if you would come, Miss Freer,” she said, -cordially, “it would be an excellent way of making acquaintance with the -children. And Mrs. Archer too. Do you think she would care to be of the -party? We shall have two carriages, so there will be plenty of room.” - -Marion thought it very probable that Mrs. Archer would enjoy the little -excursion, and promising to let Lady Severn know their decision by the -following day, took her departure, after another kiss from Sybil, a -graceful bow from Miss Vyse, and a rather cross shake of the hand -from Lotty, when interrupted by her grandmother, in the midst of her -conversation with her cousin. - -“How I wish Sybil were to be my only pupil!” thought Marion, as she -walked home, “though Lotty seems a frank sort of child. But I am sure -she is dreadfully spoilt. I can’t make up my mind about Miss Vyse. How -very handsome she is, and yet I don’t think I like her. I wonder if I -should have liked her better had we met as equals, instead of my being a -governess. I wonder how she and Sir Ralph get on.” - -And so she wondered on till she got home, and then amused Cissy by her -morning’s adventures. Mrs. Archer had never heard of Miss Vyse, and from -Marion’s description of her felt curious to see her. She readily agreed -to join Lady Severn’s party to Berlet, and evidently was beginning to -think better of her cousin’s masquerade, as she called it; seeing that -its results so far, had been by no means disastrous. That afternoon and -the next brought quite an influx of visitors to Mrs. Archer’s pretty -little drawing-room. Mrs. Fraser, who proved on further acquaintance to -be really an intelligent and agreeable woman. Mrs. and Miss Bailey, the -former a good motherly creature, and the latter a pretty childish girl, -incapable of inspiring, very vehement feelings of any kind. Her chronic -insipidity was increased at the present time by her imagining herself to -be the victim of unrequited affection, in which melancholy condition -she fancied it suitable and becoming to sit with her head on one side, -staring before her in a vacant and slightly imbecilic manner. She took -it into her head to form a sudden and vehement friendship for Miss -Freer, who was rather puzzled by her at first, not being behind the -scenes of the silly Dora’s heart. Marion’s want of responsiveness, -however, did not appear to chill her in the least. She grew more and -more communicative, and by the end of the half hour’s visit had all -but confided to her patient listener the name of her cold-hearted hero. -Fortunately Mrs. Bailey rose to go before this juncture; greatly to -Marion’s relief, for her experience of the gushing order of young ladies -had been extremely limited. Friday brought the Berwick family en masse -with the exception, that is to say, of the invalid, Blanche. Major -Berwick was an old Indian, which expresses a good deal. His wife was -sharp and fussy, and evidently perfectly ready to gossip on the smallest -provocation. Sophy, a rough and ready sort of girl, impressed Marion -rather more favourably than the rest of the family. Her strong affection -for her brother, “Frank,” the good-looking young officer of the table -d’hôte party, inclined Marion’s sisterly heart towards her. Before the -end of the visit, Captain Berwick himself appeared. He was full of the -adventures and amusement they had met with in their mountain expedition, -which, he declared, had turned out famously. - -“Our party was capitally arranged,” he said, “just the right number, and -all well up to the work. Excepting Chepstow,” he added, to his sister. - -“Poor man,” said she, “what did you do with him?” - -“Left him half way,” he replied, “but he really is an awfully -good-natured fellow. It is too bad the way that conceited Erbenfeld -makes fun of him.” - -Sophy coloured: - -“I don’t think Mr. Erbenfeld is half as conceited or disagreeable as Sir -Ralph Severn,” said she. - -“Indeed,” said Cissy, “I am sorry to hear Sir Ralph is so undesirable -a companion; for we are going to drive to Berlet with the Severns -tomorrow. “ - -“Sophy is very foolish, Mrs. Archer,” said her brother. “Sir Ralph is -much nicer when one comes to know him. I, myself, did not at first take -to him at all, but now that I have seen a little more of him I really -like him.” - -Sophy looked rather annoyed: - -“Next time you intend to change your opinion of any one in such a hurry, -I wish you would give me notice, Frank,” she said; and then turning to -Mrs. Archer, she began a rattling conversation on every subject under -the sun, making fun of all the people it Altes, one after another. - -Marion felt disappointed. Something in the girl had attracted her, but -this sort of talk wearied and repelled her. She much preferred hearing -from Captain Berwick a more detailed account of his mountain expedition, -which he, pleased at the interest this pretty girl took in his recital, -was nothing loth to give her. He several times alluded to the young -Russian, Nodouroff. - -Marion asked who he was. - -“Oh, they’re rather grand people, I believe,” said young Berwick; “the -father is an official, of course, something about the court. The mother -and daughter come here almost every winter. The daughter, Countess Olga, -is the most beautiful girl here. At least, in my opinion. Some people -admire Miss Vyse, Lady Severn’s niece, more. Have you seen her?” - -“Yes,” said Marion “I think her very beautiful.” - -“So she is undoubtedly; but the Countess Olga’s expression is much -more to my taste. I am sure you would think so too. There is something -melancholy about her face. I don’t know if she is really so, for I have -never spoken to her.” - -“But beautiful people always look more or less melancholy, don’t you -think?” asked Marion. - -“No, not all. Miss Vyse doesn’t look melancholy, though she tries it, -now and then,” said Captain Berwick; “but her face is too hard for that -sort of thing, I hate a hard expression. Even a goose like Dora Bailey -is more to my taste than a beauty like Miss Vyse.” - -“Who is the English gentleman with Count Vladimir?” - -“Oh, his tutor, Mr. Price, you mean. He used to be Severn’s tutor. Poor -wretch! I do think tutors are more to be pitied than any order of human -beings, except governesses. Do you remember, Sophy, how fearfully you -bullied yours?” - -A frown from Sophy revealed to the unfortunate Frank that he had made a -terrible blunder. - -Marion pitied him, though not a little amused at his confusion. She said -quietly: - -“I don’t think all governesses are to be pitied. Not, at least, those -like me who live at home and only give daily lessons. You don’t think I -look very wretched, do you, though I am daily governess to Lady Severn’s -little girls?” - -“Pray forgive me, Miss Freer,” said the young man; “and pray believe I -am the very last fellow on earth to—“ - -“To say anything to hurt any one else,” suggested Marion, -good-humouredly. “Yes, I assure you you are quite forgiven, Captain -Berwick.” - -But the young soldier did not forget the little incident, nor did -it tend to lessen the favourable impression left on his mind by Mrs. -Archer’s pretty friend. - -As Mrs. Berwick took leave she expressed a hope that they should “see a -great deal of Mrs. Archer.” - -“You must always come to us on Thursdays,” she said. “By-the-by, what -day are you going to choose for receiving your friends?” - -It had not occurred to Mrs. Archer that any such formal arrangement -would be necessary. But Mrs. Berwick and Sophy hastened to explain -that every one had an “at home “day at Altes. The English society being -limited, people found it necessary to make the most, of it; and, as -Sophy said, “It was very provoking to spend an afternoon in calling on -one’s friends, and to find them all out. And then, on getting home, to -find that half of them had been calling on us.” - -So Cissy told her always to come to see her when she could find no one -else at home. - -“We shall not be such gad-abouts as other people, Miss Berwick, for we -have not a great many acquaintances, and besides I am not very strong,” -she said. - -“Oh, within a fortnight you’re sure to know every one here,” said Sophy: -“and I assure you you had better fix a day.” - -“Well, then, you choose one for me.” - -“Let in see,” considered Sophy; “ours is Thursday. Then on Wednesday the -band plays, and I know several people have Mondays and Tuesdays. Suppose -you take Fridays?” - -“So be it,” replied Cissy; “then on Fridays, if you have nothing better -to do, I shall hope to see you here, to join Marion and me in our -afternoon tea, which, when it is fine enough, we can partake of on the -terrace. I haven’t much of a garden, but what there is looks pretty -enough from the end of the terrace. “ - -“That’s a capital idea, Mrs. Archer. Tea on the terrace. You may expect -to see Sophy and me every Friday without fail,” said Captain Berwick. -And then the visitors departed. - -“Oh, how tired I am, May, “exclaimed Cissy, curling herself up in a -corner of the sofa. “I am not in love with the Berwicks. I like the son -the best. Ring for tea, Marion. I must have a cup, or I shall faint.” - -So they consoled themselves for the fatigues of the afternoon. -Before-dinner tea was as yet hardly a domestic institution; but Cissy, -be it observed, had a mind in advance of the age. - -“How I hate old Indians!” she exclaimed. “Marion, if ever you catch me -talking Indian ‘shop,’ I give you leave to cut my acquaintance.” - -Friday came, but in clouds and rain. So the Berlet excursion was given -up, and Marion’s becoming better acquainted with her pupils had to be -deferred till Monday, when her new duties began. - -The first morning’s lessons passed off better than the inexperienced -governess had ventured to hope. Charlotte was marvellously docile -and attentive, though evidently totally unaccustomed to anything like -regular study. The secret of her good behaviour transpired in the course -of the morning, when the children informed Miss Freer that if they -were very obedient and industrious at lessons up to Thursday week—which -happened to be Sibyl’s birthday—on that day the Berlet expedition was -to take place, on a much grander scale than had been originally -contemplate. - -“And you are to come, Miss Freer, and that lady where you live,” said -little Sybil, launching out into such enthusiastic descriptions of all -they should do and see, that Marion was obliged to remind her that by -too much talking in school-hours they might be in danger of breaking -their grandmother’s condition. - -“Little girls can’t he industrious at lessons if they’re thinking of -birthday treats all the time, you know, Sybil.” - -So the child dutifully set to work again, labouring hard at words of two -syllables, which was the stage she had reached in her spelling-book. -She was very ignorant for ten years old; and, indeed, the little she did -know, had been imperfectly and irregularly acquired. She was naturally -slow, though by no means stupid. There were strange, fitful gleams of -decided originality about her; a delicacy of perception, and an almost -morbid sensitiveness, which would have suffered terribly in the hands -of many teachers. But Marion, though herself so young and inexperienced, -understood the child instinctively. Still, the spelling-book was hard -work, and but for the extreme docility of the pupil, and the patient -gentleness of the teacher, would have been the cause of no little -irritation to both. - -Lotty was decidedly clever when she chose to exert, or rather, I should -say, to concentrate her powers. Strong and healthy, quick-witted and -warm-hearted, under good management, she promised to turn out a sensible -and intelligent woman. But, hot-tempered and self-willed, fond of -admiration and amusement, the risk to such a nature from injudicious -training was far greater than to that of her little sister. That Lotty -would develop rapidly for good or evil was evident. Sybil, on the -contrary, might be stunted or withered, but would never run wild. - -But they were both interesting children; and Marion was very happy this -morning in the receipt of a grateful letter from Harry. A letter which -cheered her about him in every way. He had “had a good lesson,” he -said, but, thanks to her, had incurred no disgrace; and he begged her to -believe that never again would he cause her such sorrow and anxiety. “I -won’t make grand promises,” he wrote, “but I think the future will show -that I mean what I say. I shall always feel that but for you, dear May, -my whole life might have been spoilt. As you ask me not to tease about -where you got the money I won’t do so, but I do trust it has not greatly -inconvenienced or harassed you.” - -So the morning’s studies passed off prosperously, and Marion wrote -on two slips of paper her report of her pupils for Lady Severn’s -edification. - -“Charlotte: obedient and attentive.” - -“Sybil; very painstaking.” - -For which she was rewarded by a hug from Lotty, and an affectionate kiss -from Sybil. - -That afternoon, as Cissy was resting on the sofa, after walking with -Marion to return some of the visits paid them the previous week, they -were surprised by the entrance of Sir Ralph Severn. - -He seemed pleased to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Archer, and -apologised for not having recognized her at the table d’hôte. - -“Your not knowing me was very excusable, I think,” said Mrs. Archer; -“remember, it is seven years since we met at Cairo.” - -“Seven years only,” said he; I could fancy it was fifteen.” - -“Do I look such an old woman already?” asked Cissy, maliciously. - -Sir Ralph looked confused. - -“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Archer,” he exclaimed. “I am sure I have -said so. Indeed, I doubt if I was ever anything else. My remembrance of -you at Cairo is that you then looked very, very young. A mere child, I -was going to say, but I am not at all sure that such an expression would -not be as bad as the other was.” - -“Supposing we take the middle course, then,” said Cissy; “being neither -an old woman nor a mere child, I may consider myself as somewhere -between the two. But seriously, Sir Ralph, though you needn’t call me an -old woman, I hope, for my husband’s sake, you will consider me as an old -friend. George will be really pleased to hear of your coming to see me; -and if you don’t find the company of two ladies unendurably stupid, I -hope now and then you will look in when you have nothing better to do.” - -Sir Ralph seemed pleased. - -“You are very good, Mrs. Archer. I shall like to come and see you now -and then. I should like to hear about George—Colonel Archer, I should -say. You don’t know how kind he was to me long ago. Indeed, I have more -to thank him for than any one knows. I may as well tell you what I mean, -for I should like you to tell him about it some day. It was long ago, -before you were married. An unlucky, stupid misunderstanding had arisen -between my brother, his friend, and me. John was, naturally enough, -provoked at me, and I, utterly mistaking him, was in a wretched state -of wounded pride and mortification. My mother tried to set it right, but -failed. I was on the eve of going abroad, with all this miserable cloud -between us, when, luckily, George Archer came to Medhurst. It is -a thankless task meddling between relations, but he braved it, and -succeeded, as he deserved. John and I parted the best of friends; and -you will understand how doubly grateful I felt to Archer, when I tell -you that I never saw my brother again in life.” - -Cissy’s warm little heart was won. - -“Thank you, Sir Ralph,” she said, “for telling me. But have you never -seen George since then?” - -“Oh, yes, at Cairo, you remember? But that was very soon after all this -happened. And at that time I little thought that my farewell to John -(thanks to Archer, a friendly one) was indeed a farewell for ever in -this world. Yes, I should much like to see Archer,” he added, dreamily. -“I think he would enter into some of my feeling’s, for he was very fond -of John. Those poor little girls! Have you seen them, Mrs. Archer?” - -“No, not yet; but I have, of course, heard a great deal about them from -Marion. Marion, dear,” she went on, but looking round no Marion was to -be seen. - -“Ah—Miss Freer,” said Sir Ralph. “How stupid I am! I have frightened her -away by engrossing you in my selfish conversation. Pray, Mrs. Archer, -ask her to return. I really want to thank her for her kindness in -undertaking to teach those dreadfully ignorant children.” - -Charlie, at that moment appearing most opportunely, was sent to recall -the truant. - -“May!” he shouted, “that gentleman wants you, this minute.” Which -intimation or her presence being desired, did not by any means hasten -the young lady’s movements. - -When she re-appeared she was greeted with reproaches from Cissy and -apologies from Sir Ralph. - -“I thought you had a good deal to talk about,” she said. - -“Nothing, I am sure, that Sir Ralph would have minded your hearing, -May,” said Cissy; “he has only been making me more conceited than ever -about my husband.” - -“The surest way to winning Mrs. Archer’s favour, I can assure you,” -observed Marion. - -It had been on his lips to say something to her of his satisfaction that -she had undertaken the charge of his nieces; to give her even, should he -have an opportunity, a little advice about these children. But something -in her manner made it impossible for him to carry out his intention. -A certain unconscious taking-for-granted of perfect equality in their -positions. An utter absence of anything like the feeling of dependence -in her whole air and bearing. Nothing presuming, nothing affected. She -was evidently quite at her ease, and accustomed to feel so. Anything -more unlike the shrinking, modest young governess he had, from his -mother’s description, expected to meet, it was utterly impossible to -imagine. He could not make her out. - -“Whoever she is she cannot have been brought up with the idea of -occupying a dependent position,” he said to himself, and then thought -no more about it; but gave himself up to the, to him, rare pleasure of -spending an hour with two agreeable women, one of whom was lively and -amusing, and the other something more than either. What he could, not -exactly say. Not beautiful, not brilliant, not fascinating. What then? -Something that suited and interested him, something original, unlike -what he had seen in other women; and so unconscious, so artless, so -thoroughly womanly. Over and over again he found himself asking, “Where -lay the charm?” Grey eyes, brown hair, sweet voice, sweeter smile, which -of you all has to answer for it? None, yet all. A something including -and surpassing all these, a something so subtle and indefinable, that -not in all the long roll of years since this old world began, has poet -breathed or minstrel sung, words, which, to those who have never felt -it for themselves, can in the least picture or describe this strange, -sweet, sad mystery. - -Poor Ralph! It was only the beginning of the old, old story, after all, -little though he thought it, that pleasant afternoon, when he sat in -Mrs. Archer’s pretty drawing room, talking lightly and merrily even, -with these two. Of books and flowers and music; of all manner of things -under the sun, it little mattered what. Marion somehow had a knack of -understanding one’s words almost before they were uttered. She said -the right things in the right way. At least, when she felt she was with -those who, on their side, liked and understood her. How they all three -talked and laughed, agreed and argued! - -Ralph, walking home, thought what a pleasant, refreshing afternoon be -had spent. After all he was glad to find he was not yet so old and -stiff but that he could now and then unbend a little. Of course, when in -company with younger and more brilliant men, he could not expect to be -so made of and entertained as he had been today. But for once in a way -it was a pleasant change. And then he fell to thinking how strange it -was that he should be so different from other men. - -“Why have I always lived so lonely and apart? Why have I never cared, -when I was younger and in the way of such things, for any sweet, gentle -woman, who might in time have learnt to care for me?” - -Surely it was very strange! It never occurred to him that after all it -was not yet too late for the tree of his life to bear the fruit of love; -all the richer and fuller, perhaps, for having been somewhat late of -maturing. - -He imagined himself altogether beyond the pale of such things. Too hard -and dry, too naturally unimpressionable. Might he not think so? He had -escaped heart-whole from much fascination, for his life had not been -altogether spent in a study or a cell. He had seen beauty in all its -forms. He had even, most unanswerable of all, been unimpressed—nay, -rather revolted than, attracted—by charms displayed expressly for his -benefit. Those of the beautiful Florence Vyse. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST MARGARET. - -“For this reason I should wish never to be in love all the days of my life. - The loss would grieve me to death.” - -MEPHISTO. “Joy must have sorrow, sorrow joy.” - HAYWARD’S FAUST. - - - -THE lessons went on fairly enough. There were days on which Lotty’s -conduct could not be truthfully described as “obedient and attentive;” -days, too, on which poor Sybil was provokingly absent and dreamy. -Still there was nothing of sufficient importance to risk the children’s -forfeiture of the promised treat. - -Sybil, indeed, was not deserving of blame for the sleepy, stupid moods -that occasionally over-powered her. As Marion learnt to know her better, -she found that these always preceded periods of sharp suffering for the -poor child. Some hours of headache, almost maddening in its intensity, -and invariably followed by prostration and weakness painful to witness. -It seemed to Marion, anxious for the child’s peace and comfort, that -there must be some cause for these attacks, for they evidently had to -do greatly with her mental and nervous condition at the time. She tried -gradually to gain the little girl’s confidence, for that there was -something to tell she felt convinced; but whenever she thought that -Sybil was on the verge of disclosing her secret distress, the child -seemed to grow frightened again, and would say no more. - -The days passed on smoothly and pleasantly. - -The acquaintances Mrs. Archer had already made, were increased by a few -more, so that every day brought its own little plan or amusement. Some -one to call on, the band playing on the “Place,” and on Fridays their -own miniature reception on the terrace. Captain Berwick was as good as -his word, and unfailingly made his appearance. He asked and obtained -Mrs. Archer’s permission to introduce to her his friend, Mr. Chepstow, -who was certainly fully deserving of the epithet of “the most -good-natured fellow living.” Notwithstanding his condition of -inconsolable widowhood, he managed to get on very comfortably, every -house in Altes was open to the reputed millionaire; whose endless -variety of carriages and horses was always at the disposal of his -friends. He entreated Mrs. Archer to consider as her own a charming -pony-carriage, which she was one day rash enough to admire. The offer -was made in all sincerity and kind-heartedness, but Cissy had too much -good sense to avail herself of it to any great extent. Not so, Sophy -Berwick. She, notwithstanding her brother’s remonstrations, drove Mr. -Chepstow’s ponies, rode Mr. Chepstow’s horses, whenever the inclination -seized her for either of these amusements. And this at the very time -that she was making fun of him in all directions. - -“Vulgar old cotton-spinner, that he is,” she said one day to Marion, -when they happened to meet at Mrs. Fraser’s, “Frank is always going on -at me as if one should be as particular with those sorts of people as -with one’s equals. He is certainly very good-natured, otherwise I would -not put myself under an obligations to him. But seriously, he may be -very much obliged to me for exercising his horses. He is so fat, the -pony-carriage would break down if he got into it, and he is far too -frightened to attempt to ride. Don’t you agree with it Miss Freer?” - -“I would, much rather you did not ask me, Miss Berwick,” replied Marion. - -“As if I didn’t know what that means!” exclaimed Sophy; “I can see you -don’t like me, Miss Freer. I am too noisy and rattling for you. But -truly I am very good-tempered, and I would really like you to tell me -what you think. I won’t be a bit offended, I assure you.” - -“Well, then, if you will have, it, Miss Berwick,” said Marion, “I do -think your brother is quite right. In the first place it would to me -be very disagreeable to put myself tinder an obligation to any one, -a gentleman especially, who was not much more to me than a mere -acquaintance. And in the second place it would be to me not merely -disagreeable, but actually impossible, to receive benefits from a person -whom I looked upon with the contempt which you appear to feel for Mr. -Chepstow. More than contempt. You ridicule and deride him constantly, -make fun even of his personal peculiarities on all occasions. I don’t -like it at all, Miss Berwick, though I should never have said this -unless you had asked me.” - -Marion spoke indignantly, for she really felt so. - -“Vulgar,” Sophy had called Mr. Chepstow. Strange perversion, that she -should be so sharp to perceive the outward deficiencies in speech or -manner of the honest, good-hearted millionaire, and yet be so utterly -blind to the far more repulsive vulgarity of her own speech and -behaviour. - -Sophy did not answer. Marion began to fear she had really offended her, -when looking up she saw that the girl’s face, though grave, bore by no -means an angry expression. - -“Miss Freer,” she said at last, “I think I deserve what you say. I have -got into reckless, careless sort of way of going on. To tell you the -truth, I am not very happy at home, and so long as I can get something -to amuse me; riding or driving, or making fun of people, it does not -much matter which, I fear I think very little about how I get it. Frank -is the only person who cares about me at all, and even he gives me -credit for very little good. One thing I will promise you, and that is, -to leave of making fun of poor old Chepstow, so long, at all events, as -I continue to use his horses. There now, Miss Freer, isn’t it true that -I am good-tempered?” - -“Yes, indeed it is,” said Marion heartily. - -“And even more amiable than you think,” Sophy went on; “I don’t believe -any other girl with a favourite brother would have tried to make friends -with a girl that same brother is always praising up to the skies, and -holding up as an example sister to follow! You will let me make friends -with you, Miss Freer, won’t you?” - -“Don’t you think I have done so already?” asked Marion. “I assure you I -wonder at myself for speaking so plainly as I did. I could not have done -so to a person I had not a friendly feeling for.” - -“Thank you,” said Sophy, “that is a very pretty way of taking out the -sting of your very decided home-thrust.” - -And then, girl-like, they rambled on to other subjects. The excursion -to Berlet, in which the Berwicks were to join, the balls Sophy was -anticipating, and some few allusions to the home-troubles she had hinted -at. Her father’s irritability, her mother’s overweening partiality for -Blanche, Blanche herself, with her everlasting ailments: - -“And yet with all, I think I could be very fond of her if she would -let me,” said Sophy “she is really sensible and satisfactory when she -chooses; and long ago, Miss Freer, she was so pretty.” - -“So I have heard,” said Marion, not however encouraging further -revelations of Sophy’s home secrets. - -The girl was really not without many good qualities. Wanting in delicacy -no doubt, far too self-confident and pronouçée; but affectionate, and -open to good impressions. And above all thoroughly honest and true. This -was the reason of the liking Marion felt for her. This was why she -so much preferred Sophy, rough, and even in a sense unrefined, to the -graceful, faultlessly lady-like Florence. - -Sir Ralph’s call was not repeated for some little time. Cissy and Marion -met him one day, and when the former reproached him for not having come -again to see her, he confessed that he had been on his way thither the -Friday previous, but meeting Captain Berwick and hearing from him that -this was “Mrs. Archer’s day,” had thought better (“or worse,” Cissy -suggested) of it, and turned back. - -“Well, then, I think you very silly and provoking,” was all the sympathy -he got Cissy. - -“Particularly provoking,” she added, “for we had quite a little concert, -and I know you like music. Indeed a little bird once told me you sang -yourself. Bye-the-by, we are short of a gentleman’s voice for that -pretty glee, Marion,” turning to her; “I wonder if Sir Ralph would take -that part.” - -Sir Ralph looked any thing but inclined to do so: - -“Truly, Mrs. Archer,” he said, “you give me credit for powers I do -not possess. Little birds at Altes, I am sorry to say, as well as in -England, tell a great many stories. My singing is a thing of the past, -not that it ever was much of a thing at all.” And then, as if anxious -to change the subject, he turned abruptly to Marion. “Do you sing then, -Miss Freer?” he asked. - -“A little,” replied she, and then smiling at herself, she added, “you -must not laugh at my very young-lady-like answer. In my case it is -simply the truth.” - -“I should like to hear you, and then I can judge,” he said. - -And without giving Cissy time to invite him to come to her house, for -the purpose of criticising her guest’s singing, he exclaimed hurriedly, -“I really must not keep you standing. Good morning, Mrs. Archer, I am -sorry I have forfeited your good opinion.” And so left them. - -“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, “though I thought him so nice the other day, -I cannot say that I think so now. He is very rough and ill-tempered.” - -“But Cissy, you teazed him on purpose. I think you deserved what you -got.” - -“You are an impertinent little cats Miss Freer,” replied her cousin. -After which relief to her feelings, Mrs. Archer recovered her good -humour, and they spent an amicable evening. This was the day before -Sybil’s birthday. There had been some slight discussion, consultation -rather, between Lady Severn and her niece, as to the advisability of -inviting the daily governess to make one of the party to Berlet. But as -Lady Severn wished to pay some attention to Mrs. Archer, and it would -have been awkward to invite that lady without the young girl whom she -evidently looked upon as a valued friend and guest, it was decided -that the invitation should include Miss Freer. The children would have -rebelled had their dear Miss Freer been left out; indeed they would -naturally enough have looked upon such an omission as a gross breach of -promise, as their governess had been asked to make one of the previous -expedition, which the weather had put a stop to. - -“Still, dear aunt,” suggested Florence the sensible, “I think for every -sake, her own especially, it is well to show that she is invited as the -children’s governess. Of course, had she been governess to any one else, -the mere fact of her staying in Mrs. Archer’s house would not have made -it necessary for you to notice her.” - -“Of course not, my dear,” replied Lady Severn; “but how can I draw the -distinction? I quite agree with you about it but I don’t see how it is -to be done.” - -“It is difficult, certainly,” said Florence, “that is the worst part -of a somewhat anomalous position, like Miss Freer’s. I am glad she is -coming to-morrow, for I am anxious for the children’s sake to get to -know her a little better. I have gone into the schoolroom now and then, -but I am so afraid of seeming to interfere in any way.” - -“It is very kind of you, my dear, to take such an interest in the -children. Miss Freer could not possibly think any such kindness on your -part, interference,” replied Lady Severn. - -“Well, I don’t know. It is better not to risk it. Besides, I really -think Lofty and Sybil are getting on very well with her. But do you -know, aunt, I can’t quite make her out. She is inconsistent altogether. -Her manners, her general appearance, her dress even, are not the least -like what one expects in a girl brought up to be a governess.” - -“I have not observed any inconsistency of the kind,” said Lady Severn, -“but I dare say my eyes are not so quick as yours. The only time I can -really say I had any conversation with her was the first day she called, -when she appeared a gentle, modest young person. I understood her to say -that her family had met with misfortunes, which had led to her becoming -a governess. These things happen every day you know, my dear, in the -middle classes. Rich one day and poor the next! But to return to our -plans for to-morrow. What arrangement do you think will be best about -Miss Freer?” - -“I was thinking,” said Miss Vyse, “that it might be as well if Miss -Freer were to come as usual, at half-past nine, and start from here in -the same carriage as the children. You, dear aunt, might propose to call -for Mrs. Archer on your way past her house, which would save her the -fatigue of the walk here in the first place.” - -“Yes,” said Lady Severn, “that will do very well. Knowing that Charlotte -and Sybil are with their governess, I shall feel comfortable about them. -I must consult with Ralph about the carriages. There are our own two, -and Mr. Chepstow has offered any of his we like.” - -For Mr. Chepstow had called at the Rue des Lauriers, and been graciously -received by the dowager and her fascinating niece. - -It was part of Florence’s worldly wisdom always to be civil to people in -the first place. Time enough to snub and chill them if they turned out -useless, or not worth cultivating further. Easier, far, to do this than -to undo the prejudicial effects of a haughty or freezing manner on first -introduction. And in the present case, that of Mr. Chepstow, if he were -only half, or even a quarter, as rich as report said, he would still -be well deserving of some judicious attentions—according to Miss Vyse’s -scale of judgement on such matters. - -Another little téte-à-téte conversation on the subject of the Berlet -expedition took place this same Thursday evening between Mrs. Archer -and her cousin. A note from Lady Severn, explaining the proposed -arrangements for the morrow, brought the subject to Cissy’s mind. - -“By-the-by, May,” she said, “what are you going to wear to-morrow?” - -“I was thinking about it,” replied Marion, thoughtfully. “I should -like to wear that gauzy dress; white, you know, with rosebuds. It is -deliciously cool, and then my white bonnet matches it so beautifully.” - -“Well and why shouldn’t you wear it?” asked Cissy; “it is a perfectly -suitable dress.” - -“Suitable, certainly, for Marion Vere, but I am by no means sure that it -is equally so for Miss Freer,” replied Marion. - -“What on earth do you mean, child?” asked Cissy. - -“Just what I say. As long as I have to act, what you call my farce, I -think I should do so as consistently as possible. And from some little -things Lofty Severn has told me, I am afraid I have been careless. Miss -Vyse, it appears, has remarked, in the children’s hearing, that my dress -is unbecoming to my station; and, of all people in the world, I should -least like her to begin making remarks about me.” - -“Why ‘her of all people?’ ” asked Cissy. - -“I don’t know,” replied Marion. “I don’t like her, and I don’t trust -her, and that’s about all I can say. No doubt if she were finding out -about who I really am, she might do me great mischief.” - -“Of course she might,” said Cissy. “But one thing I must say, Marion: -were it found out that you are not really Miss Freer, I should feel -myself bound, in your defence, to tell the whole story from beginning to -end. I could not consent to screen Harry’s part in it any longer.” - -“Harry has had no part in it,” said Marion, eagerly. “You know this -governessing scheme was most entirely my own. No one could be blamed for -it but myself.” - -“H—m,” was Cissy’s reply. “I am by no means sure of that. I should most -strongly object to meeting Uncle Vere after he had learnt my part in -it! However, I should bear that, and more too, rather than not let your -conduct be seen in a proper light. But there’s no good talking about it. -I trust, most devoutly, you may continue Miss Freer, as long as we are -at Altes. I have only warned you what I should think it right to do, in -case of any fuss.” - -“Very well,” said Marion. - -But the conversation was not without its result. With a girlish sigh -of regret, she put away the pretty rosebud dress, and laid out for -the morning’s wear an unexceptionably quiet and inexpensive costume of -simply braided brown-holland. - -But I question much if so attired, my Marion was any less winningly -lovely than in the glistening, delicately-painted gauze. The grey eyes -looked out as soft and deep from under the shade of the brown straw hat, -as from among the flowers and fripperies of the dainty Paris bonnet. -Still, she was not so much above the rest of her sex and age but that -this called for some self-denial. - -Friday morning was cloudlessly fine. The sky was of that same even, -intense blue, which had so impressed Marion on her first arrival in the -south; and as she walked to the Rue des Lauriers, the girl felt joyous -and light-hearted. She found Lotty and Sybil watching for her. In their -different ways the two children were full of delight at the prospect of -the day’s treat, and Marion felt glad that lessons had formed no part -of the morning’s programme, as such a thing as sitting still would have -been quite beyond the power of her excited little pupils. - -By ten o’clock the various carriages assembled. Lady Severn and two -middle-aged friends of hers, the English clergyman at Altes and his -wife, seated themselves in the first, and drove off to pick up Mrs. -Archer. Marion, looking out from the schoolroom window, did not envy -Cissy her long drive in such company! Then came Mr. Chepstow’s -dog-cart, driven, in the height of his exhilaration, by that adventurous -individual himself. Miss Vyse was invited to occupy one of the two -vacant seats, but, in some graceful manner, succeeded in evading the -honour. After a little consultation, Sophy Berwick, nothing loth, took -her place, followed, somewhat unwillingly—(but then, in pleasure parties -the wrong people always get together!)—by her, so gossips said, former -admirer, the cynical Erbenfeld. Next appeared a larger, and evidently -hired, carriage, already occupied by Papa and Mamma Berwick, and a -pale, worn-looking girl, whom Marion rightly concluded to be the invalid -Blanche. No one appearing ambitious of making a fourth in this vehicle, -it drove on. - -Now dashed up, what penny-a-liners call, a “perfectly appointed -equipage,” driven by the handsome young Russian Nodouroff. Seated beside -him was his tutor, Mr. Price, who, however, descended, leaving, two -places to spare. Some discussion ensued as to who should occupy them, -which was ended by Captain Berwick hoisting up a laughing, romping girl, -whom Lotty informed Marion, was Kate Bailey, the younger sister of the -languishing Dora. - -“She’s only two years older than I am, Miss Freer,” said Lotty, -virtuously, “and yet she goes to all sorts of parties. I’m sure I don’t -know how she ever learns any lessons.” - -Vladimir’s horses growing impatient, young Berwick jumped in after Kate, -and off they set. Next drew up a pretty waggonette, belonging to Mr. -Chepstow. Into it, without hesitation, stepped Miss Vyse and Dora -Bailey, followed by the little Frenchman, De l’Orme. But where was the -fourth? In some unaccountable manner this being, whoever he was, had -disappeared. No one but Mr. Price stood waiting to ascend. An angry toss -of the head from Florence, an impatient order to the driver, and they -drove off quickly. Rather lose the chance of the companion she had hoped -for than, by longer delay, run the risk of Mr. Price’s uninteresting -society! - -Lotty and Sybil were beginning to think themselves forgotten, poor -children, when a familiar voice sounded at the door. - -“Now Lotty, now Sybil old woman, the carriage is coming round, for you. -Ah! Miss Freer, too!” Ralph added, as he saw her. “I beg your pardon; -I thought you were to have been picked up on the road with Mrs. Archer. -But, never mind, we shall pack in.” - -As they passed through the court-yard there stood Mr. Price, looking -somewhat disconsolate, not quite sure that he had done right in quitting -his seat by the side of his pupil, which, yet, his shrinking modesty -would not have allowed him to retain, unless all the rest of the company -had been already provided for. - -“You, too, still here, Price!” exclaimed Sir Ralph. “I thought you had -been whisked off in the waggonette. However, it’s all the better! If -Miss Freer does not mind a little crowding, that’s to say?” - -Miss Freer, in her sensible brown-holland, being happily careless of -crushing or squeezing, the whole party was soon comfortably established -in the roomy carriage. - -Sybil’s little face wore an expression of perfect content. Lotty, having -obtained her uncle’s consent to sit beside the driver, was no less well -pleased. Her incipient airs of fine ladyism forgotten for the time, she -became the hearty, happy child nature meant her still to be, chattering -to the coachman in her broken French, and translating his replies for -the benefit of the less accomplished Sybil. Both children really were -their very nicest selves that day; and nice children are by no means a -bad addition to a party of pleasure. For one thing, they are pretty sure -to enjoy it, which is more than can be said or their elders. - -What a merry drive they had! Marion hardly recognized the silent, -melancholy Mr. Price in the agreeable, humourous man beside her. Sir -Ralph and he amused her with reminiscences of their younger days, from -time to time saddened by a passing allusion to the brother she had -already heard of. The “John” so affectionately mentioned by Sir Ralph -when speaking to Mrs. Archer. - -Now and then the conversation became more general. Subjects of public -interest were broached and commented upon by the two gentlemen, in a -manner which caught Marion’s attention; for such discussions were not -as strange or incomprehensible to her as to most girls of her age. Sir -Ralph had the latest arrived English paper in his pocket. He glanced at -it as he went along, from time to time reading out little bits for the -edification of his companions. Once or twice Marion, half unconsciously, -made some remark in response to his; remarks which showed that she -knew what she was talking about, though, probably, of no great depth or -originality. - -The second or third time this happened, Sir Ralph glanced at her with a -slight smile of surprise and amusement. - -“Why, Miss Freer,” he said, “you must be a great newspaper reader! You -are certainly better up on that last speech on the education question of -the member for —. Bye-the-by, what place does Vere stand for?” he asked, -turning to Mr. Price, who could not satisfy him on the point. “Never -mind,” he went on “how is it you know so much about it, Miss Freer? As I -said, you are decidedly more at home in it than Price here, and that is -saying a good deal; as I haven’t, in fifteen years, succeeded in finding -a subject he was not at home in.” - -“Nonsense, my dear boy,” said Mr. Price. “You will really make me blush, -and that would look very funny on an old man like me. Would it not, Miss -Sybil?” - -Oh! how grateful Marion was to the all-unconscious Mr. Price, for thus -opportunely turning the conversation! - -The title of some forth-coming new book next attracted Sir Ralph’s -attention, and led to an animated discussion on the previous works of -the same author, in interest of which, Marion forgot her embarrassment. -She little knew how keenly her fresh, bright thoughts and enquiries, -uttered with perfect simplicity and self-forgetfulness, were appreciated -and enjoyed by her two companions. Cultivated, nay even learned men, -that they were, yet not too “fusty and musty,” as Cissy had called it, -to value the clear sparkling of an unprejudiced, but not uneducated -youthful intellect; and better still, the softening, beautifying -radiance of a true, gentle, woman’s heart. - -Mr. Price, as he looked at her, wondered if the little infant daughter -long ago laid to rest beside her young mother, in the far of church-yard -on a Welsh hill-side would ever, had she lived, have grown to be such a -one as the sweet, bright girl beside him. - -Sir Ralph, as he looked at her, thought to himself a “what might have -been,” had he met this Marion in years gone by, before, as he fancied, -youth and its sweet privileges, were over for him. - -And with these thoughts, mingled in the hearts of both her companions, -a manly pity for this young creature, apparently so alone in the world, -and already, at the age when most girls think of nothing but pleasure -and amusement, working, if not for her daily bread, at least towards her -own or her friends’ support. “For surely no girl would be a governess -if she could help it,” thought Ralph, as ever and anon the curious, -indefinable inconsistency struck him between this girl herself and her -avowed position. - -“Here we are,” exclaimed he, rather dolefully, as the carriage stopped -at the little inn at Berlet, where all vehicles “arrested themselves,” -a Monsieur De l’Orme called it. The ascent of the hill, from the top -of which was the far-famed view, could only be managed on foot or -donkey-back. Some of the elderly and more ponderous ladies had preferred -the latter safe, though inglorious, mode of conveyance, and had already -set off by a more circuitous path. The younger members of the party, -intending to climb up the most direct way, were just about starting, -when the last carriage, containing our happy little party arrived. - -As Marion was stepping out, she heard herself addressed by name: - -“Miss Freer,” said a voice beside her, “I cannot understand how it is -that you and the girls came in this carriage. There must have been some -strange mistake, which you should have rectified. Lady Severn is not a -little annoyed at it, for she particularly wished you and your pupils to -come alone,” with a strong accent on the last word. - -Marion turned round, her cheeks pale with the paleness that tells of -deeper indignation than quick mantling crimson. - -“Miss Vyse,” she said quietly, “I do not understand you. If Lady Severn -has anything to find fault with in me, I am perfectly ready to hear it. -But—” - -The words were taken out of her mouth by Mr. Price, who standing beside -her had, unawares, heard the little conversation. - -“I think, indeed,” he said, “there has been some mistake. Miss Freer -took her seat in the carriage in which she was asked to place herself. -On these occasions little contre-temps are apt to occur. I myself did -a very stupid thing, for I was as nearly as possible left behind -altogether.” - -Instantly Florence turned round, her face radiant with smiles: - -“Oh. Mr. Price,” she said, “I hope you don’t think me so silly as to be -cross about a trifle; but you don’t know how particular Lady Severn -is in all arrangements about the children, and I was so afraid of her -thinking either Miss Freer or I had neglected her wishes.” - -Mr. Price looked puzzled but said nothing. - -However, he resolutely attached himself to Marion; as the party -dispersed into twos or threes, to begin the ascent. - -Sybil clung to Marion, who felt some misgivings as to how the little -creature would get to the top, when a cheerful “halloo” behind them made -her glance round. - -There was Frank Berwick dragging along a reluctant donkey, which Sir -Ralph was encouraging on the other side to hasten its movements. With a -cry of pleasure little Sybil ran hack to her uncle, who lifted her on -to her steed. Hardly had he done so, when Vladimir appeared with a -pencilled note for Sir Ralph. He glanced at it, and with a clouded face, -turned to the young officer. - -“Berwick,” said he, “I must go to look after some or my mother’s other -guests. Will you help with Sybil’s donkey? I any sorry to trouble you, -but unless some one leads it, she could not make it go up this steep -path.” - -“Certainly,” said Frank, heartily, “you may trust me to get it safely to -the top.” - -So Ralph left them. On the whole, I don’t think Frank would have -regretted if Mr. Price had done the same. But this did not appear to be -that worthy gentleman’s intention. So Captain Berwick consoled himself -by engaging Marion steadily in conversation, and thus obliging her to -walk at the other side of the donkey’s head; for she could not have -been cold or inattentive to one who was showing such good nature to her -little pupil. - -At last they got to the top. Most of the party were there before them, -for the donkey’s tardiness had delayed them. There was a sort of terrace -round the cottage, or châlet rather, from which the view was supposed -to be seen in perfection. It was indeed beautiful! If only there had -not been such a crowd of people talking about it! How the young ladies -cluttered and admired, how the gentlemen thought it their duty to agree -with their observations, however inane! All but Ralph. When Marion first -caught sight of him he was standing perfectly silent beside Florence, -who was speaking to him in a low voice, from time to time raising her -beautiful, lustrous eyes to his face, with a look half of questioning, -half of appeal. It was some mere trifle she was asking him about, but, -as she watched them, Marion thought to herself that Sir Ralph -must indeed be strangely almost unnaturally callous, to resist the -fascination of such loveliness. - -Somehow she felt glad when the chorus of enthusiastic admiration calmed -down again and, the little groups dispersed. Before long whispers of -“luncheon” began to run through the party, and they all adjourned to a -smooth lawn on the other side of the châlet, where picnic parties were -accustomed to dine. - -Marion found herself seated near Cissy, who looked rather tired. She -whispered to Marion: “How nice it would be if all these people were -away!” - -Still, it was very amusing, on the whole. There were dignified Lady -Severn and fat Mrs. Berwick, seated on the grass, vainly endeavouring to -preserve the equilibrium of their plates and glasses. Mr. Chepstow, in -a peculiar attitude, looking more like a magnified frog than a portly, -middle-aged Englishman; and insisting, in his exaggerated politeness, -on constantly unsettling himself to fetch something or other which he -imagined some lady beside him to be in want of. - -“You have no salt, Mrs. Harper,” he exclaimed to the clergyman’s wife. -“Allow me to fetch you some. I brought some of my own, knowing it is so -often forgotten, I shall get it in a moment. It is in the pocket of my -over-coat. And up he started. - -“Stay one moment, my friend,” interrupted Mons. De l’Orme; “here is of -the salt that one has not missed to bring.” - -Upon which Mr. Chepstow was, with difficulty, induced to re-settle -himself. - -“How charming it is, this scene,” continued the little Frenchman, with -effusion; “it must absolutely that I visit England. All that I of her -see fills me with admiration. Above all these ‘peek-neeks.’ What can one -desire of more agreeable than at the once to enjoy the delights of the -nature, the charms of the society, and the sweet allures of the life of -family.” - -“Bravo! De l’Orme,” exclaimed Erbenfeld; “may I ask who assisted you in -the composition of this little oration? I strongly suspect Chepstow had -to do with it. It is in his style. Do you not think so, Miss Sophie?” he -asked of his neighbour, with whom, failing better, he had, in a rather -lukewarm manner, renewed his last year’s flirtation. - -Sophy was on the point of replying in the same strain, but, happening to -glance in Marion’s direction, had the self-control to remain silent. - -In are opposite corner Marion espied Dora Bailey, looking so -marvellously brisk and lively, that one would hardly have recognized -her. The secret of the change was soon revealed, when looking again, -Miss Freer perceived that young Berwick was her neighbour, for poor -Dora had long before this disclosed his name as that of her chosen hero. -Frank, however, did not appear to be in correspondingly good spirits. - -But everybody talked and laughed, and eat cold chicken and drank -champagne, as if they had been in England. So I suppose they all enjoyed -themselves. - -After luncheon they dispersed in little parties to ramble about the -hill, one side of which was covered by a charming miniature pine-forest. -Cissy was tired, and went into the châlet to rest. Miss Vyse and the -other young ladies went off to choose pretty “bits” to sketch, followed -by their attendant gentlemen. - -Marion, finding them all scattered, proposed to Lotty and Sybil to go a -little way into the forest, and there find a nice seat, where she would -tell them a story. - -Her proposal was accepted with delight, Sybil only stipulating that they -should not go far enough into the forest to meet bears or wolves. The -story extended into two or three before the children were satisfied. -Then at last they agreed that “poor Miss Freer must be tired;” and they -amused themselves by discussing the rival merits of her narrations. -“Beauty and the Beast” was Sybil’s favourite, though she shuddered as -she listened to the description of the dreadful, though amiable monster. - -Suddenly a quick step approached them, and Sir Ralph appeared. He threw -himself down beside them, exclaiming as he did so: - -“I beg your pardon, Miss Freer, but I am so horribly tired. I have been -on duty all this time, and if had stayed longer, I should infallibly -have said something rude to somebody, so I ran away to avoid getting -into a scrape.” - -“You’re like the Beast, Uncle Ralph,” said Lotty, oracularly. - -“Like a beast!” he exclaimed. “I hope not, Lotty. What on earth do you -mean?” - -“I said the Beast. We have been talking about Beauty and the Beast, and -I thought when you came growling so, you were just like him.” - -“Thank you, Lotty,” he said; “or, rather, I think I should thank Miss -Freer for the compliment, should I not? That’s what Miss Freer teaches -you, eh, Sybil? To call your poor old uncle a beast.” - -Marion laughed, but Sybil looked distressed. - -“Oh no, dear Uncle,” she said, “Miss Freer didn’t ever say you were -a beast. Lotty only said it because you growled. But, besides, Uncle -Ralph, didn’t you know that the Beast was very nice, really he was, a -beautiful prince at the end.” - -“Really, was he? And how did he come to be so improved?” asked Ralph, -with an air of the profoundest interest. - -“Oh, because Beauty—” began Sybil. - -“But who was Beauty, in the first place?” interrupted heir uncle. - -“Beauty was a pretty, sweet young lady,” replied Sybil. - -“Oh, indeed. Like you or Lotty, perhaps?” he suggested. - -“No, oh no. Not a little girl. A young lady, Uncle. A big young lady, -like——like——oh, yes! Just like Miss Freer. A pretty, sweet young lady, -just like Miss Freer.” - -“And she turned the Beast into a beautiful prince, you say? I wonder how -ever she could do that,” he said, thoughtfully. - -“Can’t you guess? Well, I will tell you,” said Sybil, full of -importance. “You see, the Beast was very good and kind, though he was -ugly. And the fairy fixed that whenever any pretty young lady would -love him for being good and kind, and not mind his being ugly, then that -minute he was to turn into a beautiful prince. So the very minute Beauty -said, ‘I do love you, my dear good Beast,’ he turned into the prince. -Isn’t it a pretty story, Uncle, and don’t you think Beauty must have -been just like Miss Freer?” - -“A very pretty story, indeed, Sybil,” replied he, to the first question; -but to the second he made no answer. As he lay on the ground, however, -he managed to glance up slyly to see how the “big young lady” took all -these rather personal remarks. But he did not get much satisfaction. -Marion’s face was rather graver than usual, but for all other change in -its expression, her thoughts might have been far away, too far away to -have paid any heed to the child’s chattering. - -What was she really thinking? - -The old puzzle: “I wonder how Sir Ralph and Miss Vyse get on together!” -And why from the first have I disliked the one and liked the other?” - -Ralph seemed suddenly to grow restless. He sat up and looked at his -watch, and then said it was time for them to return to their party. So -they all left their pleasant nook, considerably to their regret. - -Sir Ralph stayed beside them till they were close to the edge of the -wood, helping them to climb up the steep, rough paths. Then he hastened -on before them, saying they had better follow at their leisure. Soon -after they had reached the châlet it became time to think of rejoining -the carriages. - -They all descended the hill together; an easier managed business -than the ascent; and returned home as they came, except that, by Lady -Severn’s request, Marion took Mr. Harper’s seat in her carriage, that -gentleman occupying her former place, and was set down with Mrs. Archer -at the door of their own house, which was passed on their way to the Rue -des Lauriers. - -So ended little Sybil’s birthday pic-nic. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. “DE CAP A TU SOY MARION” - -“And will thee, nill thee, I must love -Till the grass grows my head above.” - TRANS. OF DES POURINNS BÉARNAIS SONGS. - -“Ihre Augen waren nicht die Schönsten die ich jemals sah, aber die -tiefsten, hinter denen man am meisten erwartete.” - WAHRHETT UND DICHTUNG. - - - -THE weeks passed on quietly, and to outward seeming, uneventfully -enough. - -Cissy and Marion grew so accustomed to their calm, pleasant, life at -Altes, that save for occasional home letters, they could have fancied -themselves permanently settled in the pretty little southern town. - -Harry wrote frequently and very cheerfully, only bewailing, as the -Christmas holidays drew nearer, that they must be spent away from -Marion. At rarer intervals there came paternal epistles from Mr. Vere, -to which Marion always dutifully replied. Cissy, as her share, had -regular letters from her husband, who latterly had alluded to a prospect -before him of obtaining ere long a staff appointment in a part of the -country sufficiently healthy for his wife to rejoin him there without -risk. - -Mrs. Archer was in great spirits at this news, and chattered away about -returning to India, as if it were the most easily managed little journey -in the world. But Marion, as she looked at her, felt certain vague -misgivings. She was not satisfied that her cousin was gaining strength -from her sojourn at Altes, for at times she looked sadly fragile. The -slightest extra exertion utterly prostrated her, and yet so buoyant and -high-spirited was she, that Marion found it impossible to persuade her -to take more care of herself. Poor little Cissy! What a baby she was -after all! And yet a difficult baby to manage, with all her genuine -sweet temper and pretty playfulness. - -Marion’s governess duties were faithfully, performed, and on the whole -with ease and satisfaction. Certainly it was not all smooth sailing in -this direction, but still the storms were rarer, and less important, -than might have been expected. Sybil caused her from time to time -anxiety, but never displeasure. Lotty, on the other hand, was now and -then extremely provoking; disobedient, inattentive and impertinent. But -Marion had succeeded in gaining the child’s affection, and in the -end these fits of haughtiness were sure to be followed by repentance, -genuine, though somewhat short-lived. - -Now and then Miss Vyse favoured the schoolroom party with her presence. -These were the days the young governess dreaded. Not that then, -was anything in Florence’s manner actually to be complained of. She -refrained from the slightest appearance of interfering, and indeed went -further than this; for she paraded her respect for the governess, in -a way that to Marion was more offensive than positive insult or -contemptuous neglect. She it was who always reproved the refractory -Lotty for any sign of disrespect or inattention. - -“Oh, Lotty,” she would say, in an inexpressibly mischief-making tone, -“how can you be so forgetful of your duty to Miss Freer! Remember, dear, -what your grandmamma was saying only yesterday. I am sure you were never -so troublesome with me when I helped you with your lessons. And that was -only a sort of play-learning you know. Now Miss Freer is here on purpose -to teach you; you know dear, you must be obedient.” - -All of which, of course, further excited the demon of opposition, and -defiance of her gentle governess, in the naughty Lotty’s heart! - -Florence managed too to show that she came, in a sense, as a spy on -Miss Freer. Little remarks made, as it were, in all innocence; half -questions, apologised for as soon as uttered: in these and a hundred -other ways she succeeded in making Marion conscious that she was not -fully trusted. And far worse, she instilled into Lotty, by nature so -generous and unsuspicious, a most unsalutary feeling, half of contempt, -half of distrust of the young governess; the being, who of all that had -ever come into contact with Charlotte Severn, might have exercised -the happiest influence on the child’s rich, but undisciplined, nature. -Marion did not see much of Lady Severn, whose civilities to Mrs. Archer -were generally of a kind that did not of necessity include Miss Freer. -A proposal to “sit an hour” with her in the morning before lessons were -over in the Rue des Lauriers, or an invitation to accompany the -dowager in her very stupid afternoon drive: these, and such-like little -attentions she showed her, some of which accepted as a duty, though by -no means a pleasure; to the last day of her stay at Altes, Mrs. Archer -could not succeed in making the deaf lady hear what she said without -ludicrous, and well-nigh superhuman exertions. - -One thing in her daily life, for long struck Marion as curious. She -never, by any chance, saw Sir Ralph in his mother’s house. Had she not -been informed to the contrary, she would have imagined he was not a -member of the establishment. The children talked of him sometimes, -indeed Sybil would never have tired of chattering about him, but Marion -did not encourage it. Much chattering would effectually interfered -with lessons, and besides this, the girl-governess had of late begun to -suspect that her discretion in this could not be carried too far; as -she had a sort of instinctive fear that all or a great part of the -schoolroom conversation was extracted from Lotty by Miss Vyse. Not that -she cared about the thing itself; though the feeling of a spy in the -camp, is not a pleasant one, even to the most candid and innocent; and -in her present position, Marion could not feel herself invulnerable. But -it was very trying to her, trying and almost sickening, to see the sweet -child-trustfulness gradually melting away out of Lotty’s nature. - -She thought it better to say very little about the children to Sir -Ralph, when she met him in Mrs. Archer’s house. And, indeed, he by no -means encouraged her doing so. The mention of her morning’s employment -always appeared so to annoy him that at last it came to be tacitly -avoided, and really, for the time being, forgotten. For they were at no -loss for things to talk about, those three, in the afternoons, generally -one or two a week, that Sir Ralph spent in Cissy’s drawing-room. - -Pleasant afternoons they were! To him indeed there could be no doubt -of their being so, as otherwise he would not have thus sought them -voluntarily. He took care, however, never to come on a Friday. Sophy -Berwick’s chatter, Dora Bailey’s silliness, and Mr. Chepstow’s ponderous -platitudes, all at one time, in one little room, would really, he -declared irreverently, have been too much fox him. - -“And so,” said Cissy, “just like a man, you leave us poor weak women to -endure as best we may, what you confess would be beyond your powers.” - -“Now, Mrs. Archer,” he replied, “that’s not fair at all. ‘What’s -one man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ I can’t suppose your -drawing-room-full of friends is disagreeable to you, as, to speak -plainly, you have yourself to thank for it. If you don’t want to see all -these people, what do you ask them for?” - -“I never said I didn’t want to see them,” said illogical Cissy; “I only -said you might come and help me to entertain them. Besides,” added she -mischievously, “there’s Marion. She didn’t ask them, so she’s not to -blame for the infliction, if such it be. You might come to help her to -get through the afternoon.” - -“Great use I should be!” he said, lightly, and then went on more -seriously, “Besides, do you know, Mrs. Archer, I am really busy just -now.” - -“Busy; what about?” she asked coolly. - -“Oh, things that you would think very stupid. Hunting up specimens of -the old language and dialects once spoken about here. I’m doing it for a -friend who is taking up the subject thoroughly.” - -“I should think that very interesting work,” said Marion. - -“Yes, indeed,” he replied warmly; “indeed, interesting is no word for -it. It has quite reconciled me to spending the winter here. A prospect -that was dreadful enough to few months ago, I can assure you.” - -Just at that moment Charlie appeared with a whispered message to his -mother, who, thereupon, left the room, saying as she did so, that she -would return in a few minutes, and that in the meantime, Sir Ralph might -amuse himself and Marion by giving her some specimens of the ancient -language he was so interested in. - -Charlie followed his mother, but stopped for a moment as he reached the -door, to announce in a stage whisper, with a confidential nod: - -“It’s only the dressmaker!” which piece of impertinence was audibly -punished by a box on the ear from his indignant mamma. - -“Is your name, Miss Freer—the name Marion, I mean—spelt with an A or -an O?” asked Sir Ralph, somewhat irrelevantly, it appeared to the young -lady. - -“With an O,” she replied. - -“Oh, I fancied so,” he said, with satisfaction. “Mrs. Archer told me to -amuse you with specimens of the old dialects just now, but she would -be surprised if I told her that there is an old song, old though not -ancient, actually dedicated to a lady who must have borne your name.” - -“Is there, really?” exclaimed Marion. “I had no idea my name was to be -found anywhere out of England, or Great Britain, I should say, for there -are plenty of Scotch Marions. Oh, tell me about the song, Sir Ralph; or -can you show it to me? Is it pretty? And has it been set to music?” - -“It has been set to music, and I think it very pretty,” he replied. “I -could show it to you, for I have both copied it and translated it. But -I can’t show it you just now. Indeed, I am not sure that it would not -please you more if I gave it to some one else to show you.” - -He looked at her closely as he spoke. But she only appeared puzzled. - -“If you gave it to some one else to show me?” she repeated. “I don’t -understand what you mean, Sir Ralph. Really I don’t.” - -“Really, don’t you?” said he again; “truly and really?” He spoke, as it -were, in jest, and yet something in his voice sounded as if he were in -earnest. - -“Think again, Miss Freer. Though you may never have seen this little -song, you may easily enough fancy that, pretty and simple as it is, -there was only one person who could have ventured to address it to the -Marion of those days without fear of its being scornfully rejected. That -Marion must have been young and fair; but now-a-days there are others -as young and as fair. And there are knights, too, gallant enough, though -not exactly cast in the mould of the old-world ones. You see, Miss -Freer, I should not like my poor little song to be scorned. I would -rather keep it till the true knight passes this way, and I am anxious -to—” - -He stopped, at a loss to finish his sentence. Half ashamed, indeed, of -having said so much. - -Marion had listened quietly. No sign of displeasure in her face, but -an expression of slight bewilderment, and somewhat, too, of sadness, -overspread it. - -“Sir Ralph,” she said, “I won’t say again I don’t know what you are -talking about; but, truly, I may say I don’t know whom you are referring -to. You wouldn’t wish to vex me, I know. If even there is anything you -wish to warn me about, I am sure you would do it most gently and kindly. -I am not very old, and I daresay not very wise,” she added, with a -smile; “but, truly, I don’t quite understand. No knight, as you call it, -is likely to pass this way on my account.” - -She spoke so earnestly and simply that Ralph all but moved out of his -habitual self-control, looked up again with the sun-light look over his -face. - -“Miss Freer,” he began, eagerly, and still more eager words were on -his lips; but— —the door opened, and in walked, with the air of one -thoroughly at home, and sure of a welcome, Frank Berwick! - -It was not the first time Ralph’s pleasant afternoons had been -interrupted by this young gentleman. He rose, the bright look utterly -gone from his face, shook hands with Frank, and, Mrs. Archer shortly -after returning to the room, seized the first opportunity of taking -leave of the little party. As he bade good-bye to Marion he said, in a -low voice, heard by her only: - -“Forgive me, Miss Freer, for what I said. I must have seemed very -impertinent, but, truly, I did not mean to be so. Remember how many -years older I am than you, and let that prevent your thinking me -unpardonably officious.” - -Marion said nothing, but for one half instant raised her eyes to his -face, with a curious expression, part deprecating, part reproachful. The -sort of look one sees in the face of a child who has been scolded for a -fault which it does not feel conscious of or understand. Then she said, -or whispered—or, indeed, was it only his fancy; the words were so faint -and low?— - -“How little you understand me!” - -When Ralph left Mrs. Archer’s house he did not turn towards the Rue des -Lauriers, but walked briskly in the opposite direction. Like many other -men, he had a habit, when perplexed or annoyed, of “taking it out of -himself,” as he would have called it, by sharp, physical exercise. Not -till he was some way out of the town, in a quiet country lane, did he -slacken his pace, and begin steadily to think—thus: - -“What a weak fool I am, after all! Can it really be that after all -these years, I, now that I am middle-aged (for thirty-three is more -than middle-aged for men like me), have caught the strange infection, -hitherto so incomprehensible to me? What is there about this girl, this -grave-eyed Marion, that utterly changes me when in her presence? Oh! -Madness and Folly are no words for what I was nearly doing just now, -who of all men in the world am least fitted, have indeed least right to -marry! Lucky it was that that boy, Berwick, came in when he did. Not, -after all, that it would have mattered much. She could not care, or ever -learn to care, for me. But the thing might have distressed her all the -same, and increased the discomfort of her position. How odious it is to -think of her trudging backwards and forwards every morning as a daily -governess, and that hateful Florence sneering at and insulting her in -her cat-like way!” - -At this point he stopped short in his meditations, and laughed at -himself. - -“Really, I am too absurd! Now to be reasonable about it, what shall -I do? So far, surely, I am not so very far gone. No necessity for my -running away from Altes. And before long, I have very little doubt, the -temptation will be beyond my reach, for of young Berwick’s intentions -I have not the shadow of a doubt. He is not a bad fellow, by any means, -and will make a fair enough husband, I dare say. Not good enough for -her, of course, but then that’s the way in such things. Besides, going -out to India with him is, suppose, a preferable lot to being a governess -at home. But I hope his people will treat her properly. My poor little -girl! But what right have I to even think of her so? Ah! After all, if -things had been different!” - -Thus he thought to himself as he slowly walked homewards. Turning the -thing round and round in his mind, and looking at it from all sides. -Finally deciding that all he could do was gradually to dismiss this wild -dream from his mind (not realizing in his inexperience, that in such -matters it is hearts, not minds, we have to deal with), and so far as -possible forget that it had ever visited him. - -As no one but himself was involved, no one’s happiness or suffering in -question but his own, he decided he need not absent himself from -Altes for a little, as had been his first impulse, on making this -extraordinary discovery. Not, at least at present. But he would be -careful. He would not lay up for himself unnecessary perplexity or -suffering; for after all, his belief in his own self-control had -received a great shock. So he resolved, and acted upon his resolution by -not calling at Mrs. Archer’s till the next week; when, trusting to the -safety, which we are told, lies in numbers, he purposely chose a Friday -for his visit. - -It was disagreeable, as he had anticipated, and indeed almost hoped it -would be. - -The day being chilly, none of Mrs. Archer’s friends ventured out on the -terrace, and the small drawing-room was therefore rather crowded. There -was the usual set; the Bailey girls, Mr. Chepstow, and Monsieur De -l’Orme, the Frasers and Sophy Berwick, accompanied, of course, by her -brother. Erbenfeld was there too, amusing himself by trying to get up -a flirtation with Mrs. Archer; by no means an easy undertaking, as -he found to his cost; for Cissy’s self-possession, quick wit and -unaffected, utter indifference to his graceful compliments and -sentimental allusions, baffled him far more effectively than any -affectation of matronly dignity, or the most freezing airs of propriety. -It was really rather amusing to watch, for Erbenfeld was clever enough -in his shallow way, and evidently quite unaccustomed to have his -flattering attentions thus smilingly rejected. Ralph had not been there -two minutes before he began to wish himself away; but he had resolved -to say half-an-hour or so, to avoid the appearance of any marked change; -and so he sat on patiently, thinking to himself it was no bad discipline -for his powers of self-control to sit there trying to talk nonsense to -Sophy Berwick, all the time that he was intensely conscious or Marion’s -near presence at the piano, where she was eagerly examining sonic new -music which Frank had just brought her, the giver, of course, standing -close by, replying to her remarks with a bright smile on his handsome -face. - -Suddenly some one proposed that they should have, a little music. The -glee party collected round the piano, and went through their little -performances successfully enough. This over, there was an exhibition of -instrumental music from one or two of the young ladies. In the moving -about the room that ensued, Ralph found himself, for the first time that -afternoon, near Marion. In his nervous hurry to say something, he, of -course, said about the stupidest thing he could have chosen: - -“Do you sing, Miss Freer?” - -She looked up at, him with surprise, but when she saw the perfect good -faith in which he had asked the question, she began to laugh in spite of -herself. - -“Yes,” said she, “I think I have told you before that I sing a little, -and if you had been listening you would have heard me singing just now.” - -“Were you singing?” he said, “truly I did not know. Certainly I would -have listened had I known it was you. I was thinking the other day how -odd it was I had never heard you sing.” - -“I was not singing alone, just now,” she said, more seriously, “I only -took a part in those glees.” - -“Ah!” he replied, “then it was not bad of me after all. But I should -very much like to hear you sing alone. When Miss Bailey finishes this -affair she is playing, will you sing, Miss Freer?” - -“Oh, yes, if you like,” she answered lightly. But in a moment a thought -struck her, and she added mischievously, “what would you like me to -sing, Sir Ralph? Is there any song you think would suit me?” - -“Several,” he replied, in the same tone. But as at this moment Miss -Bailey’s twirlings and twitchings suddenly ceased, and as Marion rose, -he said in a lower voice: “one in particular, but I can’t give it you.” - -She seemed as if she hardly heard him, and at a sign from Cissy, took -Dora’s place at the piano. - -Her voice was certainly not a very powerful one, but neither could it -be called weak. It was true and sweet, but its chief beauty was its -exceeding freshness. Clear and bright, and yet with an under-tone of -almost wild plaintiveness. The sort of voice one would be inclined to -describe as more like a young boy’s than a woman’s. It made one think -of a bunch of spring field flowers, freshly gathered and sparkling with -dew. So, at least, Ralph fancied as he listened, and went on in his own -mind to compare Florence Vyse’s rich contralto to a perfectly arranged -group of brilliantly coloured and heavily scented exotics. The simile -was not however a perfect one, for it did not sufficiently express the -tenderness and cultivated refinement of Marion’s singing. - -What her song was, Ralph did not know nor care. It was German, so much -he discovered, and some words reached him, which sounded like these: - -“So ist verronnen Meine Jugendzeit.” - -A sort of sorrowful refrain they seemed to him, and they set his -thoughts off again in the direction of wishing they were less true as -applied to himself. But he pulled himself up short, thanked Miss Freer -quietly, said good bye to Mrs. Archer and her guests, and was just about -to take his departure when the door opened, and “Lady Severn and Miss -Vyse” were announced by Mrs. Fraser’s man-servant, whose mistress very -goodnaturedly lent him to Mrs. Archer on Fridays. - -It was rather annoying. Ralph so seldom called on any lady, that his -presence here could not but surprise his mother. However, it was much -better than if the worthy lady had taken it into her head to call on -Mrs. Archer on one of the several afternoons he had spent in the -company only of Cissy and her guest. He made the best of the situation, -gratified Florence by asking if they had a seat to spare in the -carriage, in which case he would wait and return home with them, and -altogether made himself so sociable and agreeable, that Lady Severn -began to think, with pleased astonishment, that after all her -unsatisfactory Ralph had inherited something of the “Severn” affability. -So all seemed smooth and smiling; but for all that Florence had her -eyes open that afternoon; and bitter thoughts were in her heart as they -bowled home to the Rue des Lauriers, though the words on her lips were -honeyed and soft. - -A few days after this, the second of the Altes balls took place. Mrs. -Archer and her cousin had not gone to the first, as on the day it was -held the former had not been well enough to risk the fatigue. But having -been, or fancied herself, stronger of late, she was bent on attending -the forthcoming one. Marion had no objection to accompanying her, save -her former fear of appearing inconsistent. But this time Cissy was not -to be moved. Marion was to go to the ball, attired in the prettiest -of dresses, and for this one evening to enjoy herself thoroughly, and -forget all about that “odious governessing.” - -So the girl yielded, not unwillingly, I dare say. They arranged to -go with the Berwicks, Frank and Sophy warmly applauding Mrs. Archer’s -determination that Miss Freer should make one of the party. - -“Of course you should come,” said Sophy. “I should think it bad enough -to have to be shut up all the morning with those brats, without thinking -it necessary on that account to forego a pleasant way or spending an -evening.” - -“Oh, well,” replied Marion, “for once in a way I daresay there can be no -objection to it.” - -“Once in a way,” repeated Sophy; “it is absurd to hear you, a girl ever -so much younger than I, talking like that. You don’t mean to remain a -governess all your life, do you, Miss Freer?” - -Marion felt and looked rather annoyed at this not very -delicately-expressed inquiry; but, before she had time to reply, Cissy, -who was present at the time, came to the rescue. - -“Of course not, Miss Berwick,” she exclaimed, rather indignantly, but, -on catching a beseeching look from Marion, she changed her tone, and -added, half laughingly, “Don’t you know, Miss Berwick, that Marion is -going out with me next spring, to marry a nabob whom she has never -seen? A real nabob, I assure you, as rich as—as I should like to be, and -that’s saying a good deal, I assure you. By this time next year, -imagine Miss Freer converted into Mrs. Nabob, with more fine dresses -and diamonds than she knows what to do with. What a charming prospect! I -hope you will remember, May, to give me some of your cast-off grandeur.” - -“How can you be so silly, Cissy!” said Marion, half laughing and half -annoyed. - -Sophy looked curious and mystified. She could not make out how much was -fun and how much earliest of Mrs. Archer’s announcement. Miss Freer’s -“How silly,” very probably, only applied to her friend’s exaggerated way -of telling it. It was quite possible, Sophy decided, that the young lady -was in fact engaged to some rich Indian, and was only a daily governess -for a short time, perhaps to make some money towards providing a -trousseau, being of a more independent spirit than some brides elect in -similar circumstances. - -It seemed rather a plausible way of accounting, for the mystery, which -even Sophy, whose perceptions were not of the acutest, felt there -existed about this girl. She would have uncommonly liked to hear reason, -but, was not bold enough to make further inquiries. Besides which, -Marion evidently wished the subject to be dropped, and Sophy would have -been really sorry to annoy her. So no more was said; but, as Sophy was -leaving, Marion accompanied her to the door, and said to her, earnestly, -but in a low voice: - -“Miss Berwick, will you be so good as not to think anything of what Mrs. -Archer said today? I mean, will you please not to talk about it. You -don’t know how exceedingly it would annoy me if any reports were spread -about me; if, indeed, I were spoken about at all, it would vex me, for -it might cause much mischief.” - -“Certainly, Miss Freer, I won’t be the one to spread reports about you,” -replied Sophy; “I like you far too much to wish to annoy you. You may -depend upon my discretion.” - -“Thank you,” said Marion, looking more comfortable, for she saw that -Sophy meant what she said. - -Still it was not very wise of her to have made this appeal to Sophy. -It only impressed upon the thoughtless girl’s memory what otherwise she -would probably have soon forgotten. - -Marion returned to the drawing-room, intending to scold Cissy, but the -naughty bird was flown. - -This was the day of the ball. Mrs. Archer’s head was full if her own and -Marion’s toilettes. In justice to her it must be said her young cousin’s -appearance interested her quite a much as, if not more than, her own. -The result in both eases, was eminently satisfactory. Cissy, always -pretty, showed to advantage in a ball-dress; and Marion was at the age -when a girl must be plain indeed, not to look bright and sweet in a robe -of floating, cloudy white, here and there dotted with rosebuds of as -delicate a tint as the unaccustomed flush on the wearer’s cheeks. Marion -was far from plain. “Bright and sweet” would but ill have expressed what -Ralph Severn thought of her, as almost immediately on his arrival in the -room he caught sight of her, not dancing, but sitting quietly beside old -Mrs. Berwick, Cissy not far off. Ralph had come as a duty, because his -mother had desired it. He had been present at the previous ball for -the same reason, and had spent a most disagreeable evening. He hated -dancing, or fancied he did (for he danced well, and judges in such -matters say that no one who hates this “amusement” can ever be a -proficient therein). However this may have been, he certainly did most -devoutly hate dancing with Miss Vyse, which, to his dismay, he found -himself expected to do, to a considerable extent. So, his previous -experience having been the reverse of reassuring, he, with fear and -trembling, for the second time prepared to obey the maternal commands. -He entered the room hating himself and everybody else. In plain English, -not in the sweetest of tempers. - -But one glance in a certain direction, one glimpse of a white dress and -blush rosebuds, one moment’s view of a graceful little head, round which -the bright brown hair was wound in thick, smooth coils; and the whole -scene was changed to him. And yet, but a few days before, he had calmly -decided that this dream of his was but a dream, a passing fancy, that he -could easily overcome, and, ere long, forget! - -A strange reaction came over him this evening. From being unusually -gloomy and morose, he suddenly became, in the opposite extreme, -high-spirited, and, as he could be, in rare excitement, brilliantly -lively and amusing. He delighted and amazed Florence by dancing with her -twice in succession, waltzing, as she told him, “exquisitely.” This duty -over, and having seen his fair charm! engaged to the end of her card, he -found himself free to saunter up the room. - -Yes, there she was, still sitting. She had not danced yet, then. How -could that be? - -A friendly greeting from Mrs. Archer, a few words of commonplace small -talk, and he turned to Marion. - -“Have you not been dancing, Miss Freer?” - -“Not yet,” she answered, smiling; “l am engaged for two or three dances -further on, but you know I have not a great many acquaintances here.” - -As she spoke Mr. Erbenfeld came up eagerly to Mrs. Archer, whom he -immediately began urging to break her resolution of not dancing. As -his glance fell upon Marion he bowed to her in the very stiffest and -slightest manner. - -“Will you dance this with me, Miss Freer,” asked Sir Ralph, “whatever -it is? I don’t know, but it really doesn’t matter.” And as she rose and -took his arm, and they walked away, he added, “What have you done to -offend that fellow—Erbenfeld?” - -“Nothing,” said Marion, “only—I think you forget.” - -“What?” he asked. - -“That I am a governess,” she answered simply. - -“Miss Freer,” he said, earnestly, “don’t vex me by that sort of thing. -I won’t insult you by supposing for an instant that you mind any vulgar -insolence of that kind, but it hurts me for you to seem conscious of -it. Please, put all that nonsense aside. I am in a very good humour -to-night, which, you must know, is a rare occurrence, and deserves to be -commemorated. So I am going to enjoy myself, and you must do the same.” - -“I assure you I intend to do so,” she said. Please remember it was you, -not I, that took any notice of Mr. Erbenfeld’s manner.” - -“Well, forgive me for having done so,” said he. “And now tell me what -is your idea of enjoying yourself? Shall we dance this, or find a -comfortable corner for ‘sitting it out in’?” - -“I should like to dance this,” said she; “if you don’t mind?” - -“Mind!” said he; but the one little word held a good deal - -So they danced and enjoy it; Marion being young enough, and Ralph not -so old after all as he fancied. He found his views on various subjects -undergoing a curious change this evening. Dancing and its attendants no -longer seemed to him so utterly insane and ridiculous as he had hitherto -considered them. The music was really very good, the floor capital, and -some of the ladies’ dresses exceedingly pretty. Marion was amused at his -expressions of satisfaction. - -“You really must be in a very good humour, Sir Ralph,” said she, “or -else you have hitherto belied yourself. I always understood you detested -balls.” - -“So I do, in general,” he replied, “this one is an exception. Do you -care about such things, Miss Freer?” - -“Yes,” answered Marion, “I think I do. Not exceedingly perhaps, as -some girls do. But then my life has been different. I have no mother or -sister, and I have lived very much out of the world.” - -“But you are not an orphan?” he asked hesitatingly; “your father is -alive? He is a clergyman, I think, is he not?” And before his mind rose -a picture of the struggling curate, and the unluxurious home in -which this girl had probably been reared. Though, how, under such -circumstances, she had come to be what she was, was a mystery beyond his -powers to fathom. - -They were sitting in a quiet corner, and as he spoke, Marion’s face was -full in his view. She was looking down, but as he asked these questions -he distinctly saw her colour change, as it rarely did. There was a -change too in her voice as she replied: - -“No, my father is not a clergyman. He—;” but then she stopped and -hesitated. - -“Ah,” thought Ralph, “there is something worse than poverty here. She is -not a girl to be ashamed of anything but real disgrace.” - -And there was a deepened tenderness in his tone as he quickly tried -to set her at ease by instantly changing the subject. She felt it. How -grateful she was! How gladly at that moment would she have agreed to be -indeed Miss Freer, the poor little governess, able to answer his kindly -questions with perfect frankness, with no secret from this man, whom -already she was learning to trust more than any other on earth. A sudden -impulse seized her to tell the truth. But the words died on her lips as -she thought to herself what might be the results of her betraying her -secret. In all probability she, and not only she, but Cissy too, would -for ever forfeit his respect. What might he not think it right to do? -Possibly to write to her father, in which case all she had striven for, -would be lost, and Harry after all disgraced. Sir Ralph, at the best, -would feel obliged to tell all to Lady Severn, and would naturally be -indignant at the trick that had been played her. The story would get -wind, and would spread beyond Altes, for Marion’s father was too much of -a public character for his daughter to masquerade with impunity. - -All this flashed through her mind in an instant, and arrested the words -on her lips. Ralph saw that she was nervous and uneasy, and blamed -himself for having turned her thoughts in an evidently painful -direction. He tried to gain her attention, to amuse her, but in vain. At -last he stopped and laid his hand gently on her arm. Marion started. - -“Miss Freer,” said he, “I see I have spoilt your pleasure by my -inconsiderate talk. Most unintentionally, poor child, I have brought -back to your mind sorrows and anxieties which I would give more than I -can express to banish far from you, not for one short evening, but for -ever. I am so angry with myself that I can’t bear the reproach of your -sad face. Won’t you forgive me and look happy again. Believe me I am the -last man on earth to pry into another person’s private concerns. Unless, -indeed, I could do anything to help you?” - -“You are very, very good and kind,” replied Marion; and I truly did not -mean to look reproachful. No, thank you, you can’t help me in any way. -After a while things will come right.” - -“So you are patient as well as brave?” said he, with a smile. - -“How do you know I am either?” asked she. - -“Because,” he began, eagerly, but slackened a little as he went on, -evidently changing what he was going to have said, “because I have seen -you in peculiar circumstances which have called for both, and you have -not failed.” - -“You think better of me than I deserve,” said Marion, in all sincerity, -though the phrase she had used is seldom so uttered. “I fear if you knew -all about me you would greatly change your thoughts of me. I fear you -would,” she repeated, half questioningly, and as she spoke she laid -her hand on his arm, and looked up in his face with a sort of wistful -appeal. She did it in all simplicity, poor child. Somehow her secret -weighed heavily on her that evening; and oh! how she wished she could -tell him the whole! - -Ralph did not speak for a moment. Then, as if in spite of himself, he -said, hoarsely almost, “Child, do not try me too far.” - -But before another word could be said by either, Cissy’s voice was heard -behind them. - -“Marion, how ever have you and Sir Ralph managed to hide, yourselves? -I have had such a hunt for you. There’s poor Captain Berwick in such a -state at having lost one of his dances. You know you promised him the -first two when he came, and he couldn’t get here sooner. Do come. Sir -Ralph, pray bring her hack to the dancing room. Thank you, Mr. Chepstow” -(who was her cavalier), “my shawl’s always tumbling off.” - -Ralph escorted Marion back to the dancers; at the entrance to the room -to be relieved of his charge by Frank Berwick, radiant with eagerness -and murmuring gentle reproaches to the truant partner as he led her away -to redeem her promise. - -It seemed to Ralph that they danced together all the rest of the -evening, for he hardly let them out of his sight, though he spoke to -neither again till the very close. - -Then, as Frank, with a face that to so acute an observer as Ralph -Severn, would, had he been less preoccupied, have told its own tale, -was leading Marion to the cloak-room, she heard herself addressed. There -were several people crowding round where they stood, but Ralph made his -way near enough for her to hear him, though he spoke low. - -“Miss Freer,” he said, “I am going to leave Altes to-morrow for some -weeks, months perhaps. Will you say good-bye to me?” - -“Going to leave Altes to-morrow,” repeated Marion, with a quiver in her -voice, which he did not hear, or if he did, set it down to a different -cause, “going away, to-morrow! Good-bye, Sir Ralph. Good-bye. And—thank -you for being so kind to me.” - -“The last words were very low. If only he had looked at her, had -seen the tears welling up and all but running over! But no, he looked -resolutely aside. Only wrung the soft little hand and repeated again, -“Good-bye.” - -It was all Marion could do to keep from crying right out in the dark -carriage on the way home. She had had enough to excite and distress -her that evening, and might well have been excused had her self-control -failed her at last. - -Only the knowledge that Cissy would discover her tears as soon as she -reached home, enabled her to keep them back till alone in her little -room. - - - - -CHAPTER X. A SUDDEN RECALL. - -“O that spectre! For three years it followed me up and down -the dark staircase, or stood by my bed: only the blessed -light had power to exorcise it.” - A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. MRS. JAMESON. - -“That way madness lies.” - KING LEAR. - - - -IT was quite true. She had not misunderstood what he said. Sir Ralph, -for reasons best known to himself, left Altes the next day for an -indefinite time. It seemed to Marion that there had been something -prophetic in his calling her “brave and patient.” She needed, at this -time, to be both. And she succeeded, poor child, in her endeavour to act -up to his opinion of her. Day after day the appointed hour saw her -in the schoolroom, doing her very best with her pupils, bearing with -Lotty’s tempers and poor little Sybil’s moods. And no one, not even -Cissy, suspected that she had even these to bear, far less the deeper, -though hardly even to herself acknowledged sorrow—disappointment—call -it which you will, the magnitude of which unconsciously swallowed up -the lesser daily irritations. It was not merely a sorrow, a loss, a -something gone out of her life, which she had not known was there till -she missed it. It was more than these. She was mortified, ashamed of -having given her regard, she would call it by no more tender name even -to herself, unasked. For Ralph’s strange words and manner she, in -her morbid self-reproach, now explained as entirely traceable to his -generous pity for her. Pity, in the first place, for her dependent -position, and secondly (ah, how it wounded her to think so!) for her -unmaidenly, because unsought and unreturned, revelation of her “regard” -for him. How extraordinarily people misunderstand each other! Thus she -was thinking and suffering, at the very time that Ralph was repeating to -himself over and over again, “Under no possible circumstances, had there -been no shadow of a rival in the field, could that bright, sweet being -have learnt to care for a soured, dried-up, in every way unattractive -man like me!” - -At this period, I think, could Marion have been assured that such -were Ralph’s feelings for her, she would have looked upon permanent -separation from him as a comparatively small trial. For mortification, -self-abasement of this kind are very hard upon a sensitive, pure-minded -girl. - -“If only I could think he did not despise me,” she said to herself. - -It never occurred to her that so far, as least, as Ralph himself was -concerned, her being a governess might have in any way have influenced -him. She was too unpractical to realize the possibility of this; or was -it, perhaps, the instinctive trust one genuine, noble nature feels in -a kindred spirit? For Marion had been quick to perceive Mr. Erbenfeld’s -contempt and Miss Vyse’s condescending insolence. - -But time wore on, as it always does, through the weariest weeks, -as through “the roughest day.” Christmas came and went. January far -advanced, and Marion began to think indeed, she was never to see Ralph -Severn again, for Cissy still spoke of the not for-distant “spring” -as the probable date of her return to India. April had been originally -mentioned as the limit of their stay at Altes, but before then, she -heard from the children, the Severn household was to be removed to -Switzerland for the summer. - -Sybil sometimes spoke of her uncle. He had been in London for the last -month, she said. And then two or three days after, with great delight, -she showed Marion a letter he had sent her from Paris, dated from the -Hôtel de ——, where he said he was going to stay a week or two. - -“And after that, perhaps, he will come home here,” said Sybil. - -“Nonsense, Sybil,” said Lotty, hastily; “that’s not at all certain. He -may, perhaps, not return to Altes at all. What do you know about it, I’d -like to know?” - -She spoke roughly and rudely, and Sybil began to cry. Marion checked -Lofty, and desired her to attend to her lessons, and not interfere with -her sister. Then she tried to soothe Sybil, but it was difficult to -do so. Of late the child had seemed far from well. Her timidity and -nervousness had increased to a painful extent, and Marion felt strangely -anxious and uneasy about her. More than ever she felt persuaded that -some unhappy influence was injuriously affecting the child, though in -what it consisted, or how it was exercised, she was utterly unable -to conjecture. This morning Lotty happened to be sent for by her -grandmother, a few moments after receiving her governess’s reproof for -her roughness to Sybil. When left alone with the poor little girl, still -sobbing piteously, Marion again tried to soothe her. She took her on her -knee, and spoke kind, loving words, while she kissed and caressed the -throbbing brow and tear-stained cheeks. - -“Sybil my darling,” she said, “try and leave off crying. It will make -your head ache so. Lotty did not mean to be unkind; she only spoke -thoughtlessly, as she does, but you must not mind it so very much.” - -Sybil clung to her more closely and tried to check her sobs as she -answered. - -“It isn’t Lofty I’m crying about, dear Miss Freer. I’m thinking Uncle -Ralph isn’t coming back.” - -“But he’s sure to come back before long, dear,” said Marion;” Lotty only -said he wasn’t perhaps coming just yet.” - -“Oh! but I want him so much,” said Sybil, “so very much. I was thinking -I would tell him. I couldn’t tell any one else.” - -“What about, dear?” asked Marion, gently. “If you will tell me, perhaps -I can help you.” - -“No, you couldn’t,” answered Sybil. “Besides I mustn’t tell you. I said -I wouldn’t, and it might hurt you. I didn’t mean ever to tell anybody, -because of what Emilie said. But since it has been so bad, I thought I -would tell Uncle Ralph. He is big and strong, you know, and he wouldn’t -laugh at me.” - -“Laugh at you, dear,” said Marion, eagerly; “no, indeed, he would not. -Nor would I, Sybil. You know I wouldn’t. Won’t you tell me this secret, -darling, unless, of course, you are sure it would be wrong to do so?” - -“It wouldn’t be wrong,” said Sybil, “only I promised. And then—— Oh!” -she exclaimed, suddenly, while a sort of shiver ran through her—“oh, it -is so dreadful. Can’t you make me forget it, dear Miss Freer? Last night -I said my prayers a hundred times over without stopping, before Emilie -came to bed, but it was no use. I couldn’t go to sleep, and it gets so -hot under the clothes I can hardly breathe.” - -“But how do you menu, before Emilie came to bed?” asked Marion; “doesn’t -she sit in your room after you are in bed? I am sure I have heard that -she was told to do so.” - -“Yes,” answered Sybil in a whisper; “yes, Grandmamma did tell her so, -after Lotty went to sleep in Florence’s room. I was always able to go to -sleep before that. But Emilie won’t stay in my room till I go to sleep. -That is what has made it so bad. Only she told me not to tell. If I did, -she said I should get into a fit and die. All alone, Miss Freer, all -alone except for them,” the child added in a whisper of the utmost -horror, her eyes dilated as she looked up into Marion’s anxious face. -Suddenly she threw herself back into her governess’s arms, clutching -her tightly in her terror and distress, and burying her face on her -shoulder. - -“Oh!” she exclaimed; “don’t make me tell any more. Don’t, please don’t.” - -“Very well, darling,” replied Marion, soothingly; “we will talk about -some nice things. Only tell me, dear Sybil, does any one know? Any one -besides Emilie?” - -“Florence knows part,” said the child; “Emilie told her I was very -naughty, and Florence wasn’t kind at all. She scolded me very much, and -said if I told that Emilie didn’t stay with me, she would get me sent -away to school. She said it was very unkind of me to want Emilie to sit -all the evening in my room. But I think Emilie didn’t tell it her all, -or she would not have scolded me so. Emilie does tell little stories, -Miss Freer, and I don’t like her, but Florence likes her because she -does a great deal of work for her, and then she says I give her so much -trouble, she has no time to do the things that Grandmamma wants done. -And it isn’t true, Miss Freer,” said Sybil, emphatically, clenching her -little hands in indignation. - -“Well, dear, it should make you not mind so much what Emilie says, -if she is so careless in her way of speaking. If your secret is about -something Emilie has told, I would try not to think any more about it.” - -“Yes, but that is true,” repeated Sybil, relapsing into her awe-struck -whisper; “I know that is true, because of what I saw, Miss Freer.” - -She shuddered as she spoke, and Marion, fearful of uselessly exciting -her—as it was evident she must not at present insist upon the child’s -full confidence—hastened to change the subject. After some efforts, she -succeeded in interesting and amusing her little charge, who by the end -of the morning looked brighter and happier. Still the young governess -felt very anxious and uneasy when the hour came to leave her pupils -for the day. Sybil looked ready to burst into tears again, but Marion -whispered to her that to-morrow she would arrange to stay an hour later, -to finish a delightful story that had been broken in the middle; which -promise brought back a smile to the woe-begone little face. - -“What can I do?” thought Marion. “I can’t bear to leave things as they -are, and yet any interference on my part would probably do no good, and -only cause me to be set down as presumptuous and officious. It might -even lead to my being dismissed, and then how miserable and forlorn -Sybil would be! It is evident that wicked Emilie is terrifying the poor -child to prevent her complaining of her. And Miss Vyse supporting such -conduct! Though I agree with Sybil that Emilie must have told the story -in her own way. Miss Vyse would not be so utterly heartless, if she knew -what the child is actually suffering. Though it is shameful of her -to have accepted Emilie’s statement as to Sybil’s naughtiness in that -careless way.” - -So Marion thought to herself. But she could see nothing likely to do -such good in her power. All her cogitations ended in wishing Sir -Ralph were back again. But she resolved in the meantime to watch Sybil -closely, and if no improvement became manifest, to brave all, rather -than conceal the hidden mischief she now had proof was at work. Emilie, -the children’s maid, she had seen little of, but the girl’s manner and -appearance she disliked. Lady Severn unfortunately had an exceedingly -high opinion of her; and Miss Vyse, as Sybil had said, was sure to take -her part, for the reasons the child had been quick enough to discover. - -The next day Sybil seemed better again, and told Marion she had had “a -very nice sleep all night.” But the day after the child was evidently -very ill. There were black circles round her eyes, telling of sleepless -hours and nervous suffering. The pain in her head was so bad, she said, -she could not see the words in her lesson-book when she tried to read; -and at last Marion gave up the attempt as useless. Sybil would not speak -much, and was evidently in terror of Marion’s renewing the subject of -her secret alarms. So, after trying to soothe her by reading aloud some -of the little girl’s favourite fairy tales, in which however she seemed -hardly able to take any interest, the young governess was obliged to -leave her for the day. Lotty did not seem much impressed by her sister's -suffering, saying carelessly: - -“Oh! Sybil’s always sulky when she has the least bit of a headache.” - -When lesson hours were over, Marion asked to see Lady Severn, intending -to tell her of Sybil’s evident illness. Considerably to her annoyance, -Lady Severn sent to ask her to see her in the drawing-room, in -consequence of which Miss Vyse was of course present at the interview, -which effectually dispelled Marion’s faint hopes of being able to do -poor Sybil any real good by what she might say to her grand-mother. - -“You wished to see me, Miss Freer, I believe?” began the dowager, in a -rather icy tone. - -“Merely to tell you that I think Sybil is far from well this morning,” -replied Marion rather shortly, at which Miss Vyse smiled contemptuously -as she bent over her writing-table. Miss Freer’s entrance into the room -she had acknowledged by the slightest and most indifferent of bows, or -rather nods. - -“Of that I am quite aware,” said Lady Severn; “I make a point of seeing -the children every morning, Miss Freer, and I am thoroughly acquainted -with Sybil’s constitution. She is only suffering from one of her -old attacks, and the usual remedies have already been applied. Your -intention was good, Miss Freer, I have no doubt, but I assure you, it -is quite unnecessary for you to add to your duties the care of my -grand-daughters’ health. It is in older and naturally more experienced -hands than yours. At the same time, I thank you for your well-meant -attention to Sybil’s indisposition.” - -Again Miss Vyse smiled quietly to herself. - -Marion was paler than usual, as she made another effort for her poor -little pupil: - -“You must excuse me, Lady Severn,” she said “if I seem officious or -presuming, but I am very anxious about Sybil. I think she has been -falling off for some time. I am afraid she does not sleep well, and bad -nights are sure to hurt a child. In the morning she often looks as if -she had been awake all night.” - -“She has never been a good sleeper,” replied Lady Severn, but not -unkindly. “It arises merely from her general delicacy. It is not to be -expected she will get over it till she is older. But in this respect she -is already improved. Emilie says she sleeps soundly now, does she not, -Florence, my dear?” she inquired of Miss Vyse. - -“Perfectly so, dear Aunt,” replied the young lady, with the same sneer -in her voice that Marion had detected in her smile. “Of course Miss -Freer cannot understand her in the same way that we do. I myself think -her wonderfully improved of late in her health, though I sometimes fear -the improvement in her temper and disposition is not so great.” - -“I quite agree with you my love,” said Lady Severn. “Do not think I am -finding fault, Miss Freer, but you must allow me to say that I think -your anxiety would be better directed were you to turn it to the points -my niece has alluded to.” - -“Sybil’s temper and whole behaviour are all I could wish when she is -well, Lady Severn,” said Marion stoutly. “At present I am convinced -there is much amiss with her, and believe it arises in great measure -from her having bad nights. I believe she sometimes cannot go to sleep -for hours after she is in bed. I am sure I would gladly come every -evening to sit by her or read to her, till she goes to sleep, if that -would do any good.” - -Miss Vyse’s delicate black eyebrows rose in supercilious amazement at -this proposal, and Lady Severn at first seemed too astonished to reply. -At last she said: - -“Really, Miss Freer I suppose I must again give you credit for kindly -and well-meant intention; but your must allow me to remind you that I -have an ample staff of servants in my household for waiting on the young -ladies. You really need not fear they are in any way neglected.” - -“Neglected indeed!” repeated Miss Vyse with a silvery laugh at the -absurdity of the idea. “Why Emilie sits the whole evening besides Sybil, -till her little ladyship goes to sleep. And not a little difficult to -please, poor Emilie has found her of late, I can assure you, dear Aunt. -Sybil is a child that requires very judicious management, young as she -is.” - -“She certainly does,” said Marion, quietly, looking at Florence as she -spoke. And then, as it appeared that Miss Vyse had exhausted her stock -of impertinent sneers and innuendos for the present, she thought it as -well to take leave. - -Her cheeks burned as she thought quietly over the interview. “Poor -Sybil, I have done you more harm than good, I fear!” she said to -herself. And then in her genuine anxiety for the suffering and -mismanaged child, she unselfishly forgot her own personal annoyance and -mortification. - -That afternoon as she was sitting with Cissy, Charlie, attended by -Thérèse, returned from his stroll in the park. He told her he had met -“those two little young ladies you go to play with every morning, May. -And the littlest one had red eyes, as if she had been crying,” he added -sympathisingly. - -“Poor baby!” said Cissy. “She looks horribly ill now and then, Marion. I -fancy they are rather rough with her sometimes. She has cowed, cowering -look I can’t bear to see in a child’s face.” - -All of which added not a little Marion’s uneasiness. An hour or so later -when she was alone in her room, Thérèse entered. - -“If you please, Mademoiselle,” she said, “the little young lady asked me -to give you this, but that no one should see it.” - -“This” was a leaf of copy-book paper, on which was written in Sybil’s -large, round text hand (the letters shaky and crooked, and the -whole bearing marks of being a laborious and painfully accomplished -production) the following words: - -“DEAR MISS FREER,—I meet the little boy and his kind nurse often, and -Lotty would tell, if I had told you this morneng. Pleese writ to Unkel -at Paris, and say I will dye if he wont come. I coudent tell eny boddy -but him. Sybil.” - -Marion’s resolution was instantly shaken. She fortunately remembered -the name of the hotel at which Sir Ralph was staying; and that evening’s -post bore to him a letter from her, enclosing poor Sybil’s piteous -appeal. She told Sir Ralph that she was unable to explain the cause of -the child’s suffering; but that she suspected that some cruel trick had -been played by Emilie, the maid, for the sake of terrifying her into -silence. She apologised for her boldness in writing to trouble him about -it; but added that she saw nothing else to do, as her own efforts had -failed to awaken Lady Severn’s anxiety about the poor little girl; and -she ended by begging him to return to Altes as soon as possible to judge -for himself, without of course betraying her confidence, or that of the -poor child. - -Once her letter was fairly gone, Marion began to be rather frightened -at what she had done. She was perfectly satisfied that the step she had -taken was a right and indeed unavoidable one; but then there came the -after thought. - -“What will he think of me for having done it? Knowing what I do of his -opinion of me, how could I have been the one, for any reason whatever, -to summon him back here before I leave!” - -And she felt half inclined to run away from Altes before he could -possibly arrive! And yet with it all, there was a strange under current -of inexpressible happiness in the thought that now she was almost sure -to see him again, to hear him speak, to feel him looking kindly at her -once more. - -“Once more!” If only that, and nothing beyond, yet that once more was -worth living for. - -Two—three days passed. Then came the fourth, the day before the one on -which Marion had calculated it might be possible to receive an answer -from Paris. She had not been alone with Sybil for more than a moment -since receiving her note. Lotty seemed inquisitive and suspicious, and -Sybil was evidently afraid of her. Marion could only manage to whisper -to the child that she had done what she asked, without any further -explanation passing between them. Sybil brightened up wonderfully on -hearing this, and for some few days looked so much better that Marion -began to think Sir Ralph would consider her alarm about his little niece -very exaggerated, if not altogether uncalled for. The reflection was not -a pleasant one! There was no letter on the fifth morning, nor up to the -eighth! which did not make her feel any the more comfortable, and on -her way to the Rue des Lauriers, one week after her letter had gone, she -really began most heartily to wish she had not written at all. - -But the first sight of Sybil changed her feelings entirely. The child -looked exceedingly ill, and was, as before, utterly unable to attend to -her lessons. She lay on the sofa without speaking, and hardly took any -notice even of her kind friend. Only as Marion was leaving, and bent -down to kiss her, Sybil whispered, hurriedly: - -“Is he coming?” - -“Yes, dear, I hope so,” replied Marion, in the same voice. - -There was no time for more, for just then Emilie entered the room with -some medicine, which poor Sybil was obliged to take every two hours; and -the child shrank back in fear. - -This was the evening of the last Altes ball before Lent. Cissy was not -inclined to go, not feeling particularly well, and Marion, too, was -much better pleased to stay at home. They spent till evening as usual, -quietly reading and working. From time to time the roll of carriages in -the street below reminded them of the gaiety which the little world of -Altes was about to enjoy. Marion did not envy the ball-goers, but she -could not help thinking, half sadly, of her one ball at Altes, and all -that passed there. Mrs. Archer was tired, and went to bed early, leaving -her cousin alone. To get rid of her thoughts Marion got a book, and -forced herself to attend to its contents, in which she so succeeded that -an hour or two went by, and it was close to midnight before she moved. - -Suddenly, she was startled by the sound of a carriage driving up rapidly -and stopping at their door. Knowing that all the servants were disposed -of for the night, and fearing, that a sudden ring of the bell might -frighten Cissy, Marion went quickly to the front door, which she -unlocked and opened softly, and stood with it slightly ajar, watching to -see if indeed the carriage contained any visitor for them. She heard the -driver’s voice, replying to some question, but it was a very dark night -and she could distinguish nothing distinctly. In a moment more she -felt, rather than saw, that some one was approaching the door, which, -to prevent this person’s ringing the bell, she immediately opened more -widely. Evidently the stranger took her for one of the servants; for, -though apparently rather surprised at finding the door open and some -one behind it the unseasonable visitor inquired in French if it would be -possible for him to see “une de ces dames, Madame au Mademoiselle.” The -voice told more tales this time than that its owner was an Englishman! - -“Sir Ralph,” said the girl, whom in the dim light he had taken for a -servant, “Sir Ralph, it is I—Marion.” (Even then she could not say Miss -Freer.) “Come in and tell me what is the matter. Oh tell me! Tell me -quickly,” she added, as she saw that he bore a burden in his arms. -Something covered with a shawl, but which he held tenderly and closely, -as if he would guard it from touch or approach. “What is that Sir -Ralph?” she almost screamed, as he entered the passage, and she saw that -what he carried was like a lifeless nerveless body, hanging limp and -loose and heavy in his grasp, though she could see no face or features. - -“Hush! Marion,” he said, unconsciously calling her what she had called -herself; “hush! I know you will control yourself and help me. What a -mercy you were still up!” - -He spoke in a matter-of-course tone that marvellously quieted Marion’s -first thrill of horror. But she could hardly control herself as he -had told her, when he gently laid his burden on the sofa in the still -lighted drawing-room, and softly removing the shawl from the face showed -Marion that it was Sybil! Poor little Sybil, there she lay, her eyes -closed, but her brow contracted as if with pain or terror, ghastly pale, -with the paleness it seemed to Marion that could only come from one -cause—death! - -“Is she dead?” she whispered. - -Ralph turned suddenly to her. - -“My darling,” he said, “how could I be so cruelly thoughtless as to -forget you in my anxiety about this poor child. Dead! no. Indeed, no. -She is only fainting, and will revive again in a few moments. But dead -indeed she might have been but for you. Your goodness, your promptness -have saved her. It anything had been wanting to—but what am I saying?” -he exclaimed, with a sudden change of tone. “Marion—Miss Freer, you must -think me mad.” - -But she said nothing. She leant over Sybil, and would not look up for -fear of meeting his eyes, as she asked quietly,— - -“What can we do to revive her?” - -“Nothing,” he said; “she is already coming round. Only be sure to -let her see you and this room, as soon as she opens her eyes. She has -already fainted once or twice, and was sent into hysterics again as soon -as she came round, by the sight of that room. And then she begged me to -bring her to you, so I did so, on my own responsibility. My mother and -Miss Vyse are out at a ball, the servants there told me. I sent for -Bailey, but the old fool was not to be found. Gone to the ball too, I -dare say. But it’s just as well to avoid the scandal, for a scandal it -is, no doubt, as you will say when you hear it all. I got her this the -chemist’s, on our way here. It can’t do her any harm.” - -And as he spoke he produced a little bottle, from which he poured a few -drops into a glass of water, which Marion fetched him. - -“Now Sybil, my pet,” he said, as the little girl opened her eyes, and -glanced round her with an expression of terror. “Now, dear, you are all -right again. You see you are with Miss Freer in her pretty house; and -she is going to let you sleep in her own room, and stay with you all -night.” At which information the poor baby tried to smile, as she -stroked Marion’s hand, laid on her caressingly. - -“Forgive My audacity,” he whispered to Marion; “but you will be as good -as my word this once, won’t you?” - -“You know I will,” answered Marion, in the same tone. - -And then she went to rouse the good-natured Thérèse, and as far as -possible “insense” her as to the strange state of things. Between -them, poor Sybil was divested of her cloaks and shawls, and comfortably -ensconced for the night in a corner of Marion’s bed. - -Exhausted by all she had gone through, the poor child soon fell asleep. -Marion returned for a moment to set Sir Ralph’s mind at ease about his -little niece, and to bid him good-night. He only detained her to request -her not to come to the Rue des Lauriers in the morning, as he would -explain her absence to Lady Severn. He also promised to call early, to -see how Sybil had passed the night, and to explain to Miss Freer what -had come to his knowledge as to the cause of the child’s terror and -consequent illness. - -“That Emilie shall leave my mother’s service at once,” he said “if I am -to have any authority at all over my nieces. But by the morning I shall -be able to explain the whole affair better. I am not quite clear how -much was Emilie’s doing, and how much the result of pour Sybil’s own -nervousness. The poor child tried to tell me all about it, but could -hardly manage to do so clearly, in the state she was in.” - -“You may be sure I shall take good care of her,” said Marion, as he was -leaving. - -“I know that well,” he replied. “But that reminds me,” he went on, “I -have never thanked you for it all. What a boor I am! In the first place -your goodness in writing to me, and now for your goodness in taking my -poor child in, as you have done. I am so stupid, Miss Freer, at thanking -people. But you know what I mean, I am sure you do. Something more I -would ask of you. Miss Freer, can you forgive me for having forgotten -myself as I did last night?” - -The last words he spoke very low, as if he could hardly force himself to -utter them. Marion did not speak for a moment, and he went on. - -“You must think me mad—mad with presumption and folly, as indeed I think -myself. I thought I had mastered myself, Miss Freer, knowing all I do, -both to myself, and you. You, I trust, will be very happy in the life -you have chosen—much happier than if—ah! I must take care or I shall -have to ask you to forgive me again. Can you do so, Miss Freer—Marion?” -he added softly, as if in spite of himself. - -And Marion looked up in his face, and said the one little word, “Yes.” - -He wrung her hand and left her. - -And she laid herself down beside the innocent little child he had given -into her care, and tried to sleep. But in vain! All night long she -tossed about, imagining herself kept awake by her anxiety about Sybil, -but in reality going over and over to herself his words, his looks, his -tones. And wondering why he behaved so strangely, and how it would all -end? - - - - -CHAPTER XI. THE LAST AFTERNOON ON THE TERRACE - -“O Erd, O Sonne! - O Glück, O Lust! - O Lieb. O Liebe! - So golden Schön - Wie Morganwolken - Auf jenen Höhn.” - GÖTHE. - - - -RALPH called early the next morning, as he had promised. He was relieved -to find, by Marion’s account, that Sybil was fairly well, and that there -appeared no necessity for sending for Dr. Bailey. At Sybil’s earnest -request her uncle went in to see her, and remained with her some time. -When he returned to the drawing-room, he gave Marion and Mrs. Archer, -who had just made her appearance two hours earlier than usual, thanks -to her curiosity, a full account of the whole mysterious affair, which, -with the additional light thrown upon it by Sybil’s communications this -morning, he said he had now got to the bottom of. - -This was what he had to tell. - -Immediately on the receipt of Marion’s letter (this part of the story -was not revealed to Mrs. Archer) he prepared to leave Paris. Some delays -arose however, in consequence of which it was not till the evening the -eighth day after receiving her summons that he found himself again at -Altes. He drove straight to the Rue des Lauriers, where he had to wait -some time at the door, without any one coming to open it. - -Growing impatient, and rather uneasy, for his mind was full of what -Marion had written to him about Sybil, he suddenly bethought himself -that, as likely as not, the window-door in the drawing-room, which -opened on to the garden, might be unlatched. He left the court-yard, -and returned to the street, told the driver of the carriage which had -brought himself and his luggage from the coach office, to wait a few -minutes; and then made his way to the garden at the top of the hilly -street, on which opened the drawing-room. The garden gate was fastened, -but he easily climbed over the railings, and hastened to the glass door. -The blinds were down, but the light inside was low. Evidently no one -in the room to be started by his unceremonious entrance! More and more -alarmed, he quickly tried the door, found it, as he expected, unlatched; -and in another moment was in the room. - -The lamp was burning feebly, the fire all but out. What could be the -meaning of it all? Thinking of nothing but Sybil, it rushed into his -mind that perhaps the child was very ill, dying it might be, and he too -late to save her. Half expecting to find the whole house-hold assembled -in mournful vigil round her bed, he made his way softly to her room. - -As he passed the chamber occupied by Miss Vyse he noticed that the door -was open and a light on the table. He peeped in but there was no one -there. But on the pillow lay as mass of golden curls, all but hiding -a round, rosy childish thee, which he soon identified as Dotty. Fast -asleep, the picture of health and comfort! Somewhat relieved in -his mind, but nevertheless surprised at the change in the domestic -arrangements which had thus separated the two little sisters, he stepped -softly to the other end of the long passage, up from which again a short -staircase led to the little vestibule, on to which opened the nursery -apartments. All was quiet. There was very little light, only what found -its way up from the lamp in the long passage below. The door of the -children’s bedroom was nearly closed. He entered the room. The first -thing that struck him was that the doors of a large hang-press, close to -the entrance of the room, stood wide open, disclosing a row of dresses, -evidently the property of Mdlle. Emilie; which, in the faint light, -bore a startling resemblance to the headless occupants of the far-famed -Bluebeard chamber. - -Half smiling at his own fancy, Sir Ralph approached the little bed which -he knew to be Sybil’s. But the smile quickly faded from his face at what -met him there. At first sight he thought there was no one in the bed. -But, looking more closely, he distinguished the outlines of a little -form, lying perfectly motionless under the coverings. Huddled up -together in a sort of heap it seemed to be. - -Ah! How thankful he felt that it lay thus, instead of straightened out -into that awful length and stiffness under the white sheet which, once -seen, is never, never again forgotten! - -Still, though, not so bad as that, there was cause enough for alarm. - -“Sybil,” he said, gently, “Sybil, dear, are you asleep? Put down the -clothes and look at me. I have got your letter, and have come from Paris -as fast as I could.” - -But there was no answer, no movement. His eyes were growing accustomed -to the dim light and he could have distinguished the least quiver in the -little figure. He looked round. An unlighted candle and matches stood on -the table. He struck a light, and again spoke to the child. But it was -no use. So he tenderly removed the clothes and raised the face, which -was turned round on to the pillow. It was indeed Sybil, but what a Sybil -to greet him on his return! She was perfectly unconscious. In a dead -swoon or faint, which for all he knew might already have lasted so long -that recovery might be impossible. But he had known her faint before, -poor little girl, and was at no loss what remedies to employ. He took -her in his arms, chafed her cold hands and feet, bathed her forehead, -and tried hard to revive her with strong smelling salts, which he found, -after a search, in Miss Vyse’s sanctum. He would not, as yet, ring for -assistance. He was so sure the child would best recover were she, on -regaining her senses, to find herself alone with him. - -In a few minutes she began to show signs of returning consciousness. At -last she opened her eyes, raised herself in his arms, and looked about -her with that dazed look peculiar to people when recovering from a state -of insensibility. He was on the alert for this moment. - -“Are you awake now, Sybil dear?” he said. “Are you pleased to see me -come back?” - -She turned to see his face. Oh! what a look of relief and happiness -overspread her poor pale drawn features! - -“Uncle Ralph,” she whispered; “dear Uncle Ralph, will you send them -away?” she went on with, with a thrill of agony in her voice. “Oh, will -you send them away?” - -“Who, dear? What?” he asked, eagerly. - -“Those dreadful people. Those ladies without any heads. They were cut -off long ago, down there, in the courtyard, with that dreadful big -cutting thing. And they walk about the house at night. And they come to -the side of any little girl’s bed if she doesn’t go to sleep quick. -And to-night they came again. And, oh! uncle, they’re coming now!” she -screamed, as, happening to turn round, she caught sight of the row -of headless dresses in the cupboard. And before Ralph could soothe or -explain away her terror, the little creature was torn with terrible -hysterics, screaming and shaking in a way pitiful to see, till she again -subsided into the death-like faint from which he had but just restored -her. - -Now he was obliged to summon assistance. In five minutes the house -was in a ferment. Such servants as had not taken advantage of their -mistress’s rare absence to amuse themselves elsewhere (among which was -not Mdlle. Emilie), were immediately rushing about, some suggesting one -thing, some another, till Sir Ralph wished he had managed the child by -himself. At last, among them, they succeeded in reviving her. This time -her uncle took care to have the cupboard doors shut before she opened -her eyes; and he was only too thankful to agree, notwithstanding the -amazement of the scandalized servants, to her proposal that he should -take her away to Miss Freer’s house, where “those dreadful people could -not come.” - -This was the history of the previous night’s adventures up to the time -when Sir Ralph arrived at Mrs. Archer’s door with Sybil in his arms. - -Cissy and Marion listened in silence to his recital, but when, having -got so far, he stopped for a moment to take breath, the former had a -host of questions ready for him. - -“But what in the world did the child mean, Sir Ralph?” she inquired, -eagerly. “ ‘Dreadful people without heads’—‘cut of in the court-yard.’ -I can’t make it out in the least. And if, as May here suspects, Emilie, -the maid, is at the bottom of it, what could be her motive? What good -could it do her to frighten the child to death, as she nearly did? No, I -can’t make it out.” - -“Nor could I, Mrs. Archer,” replied Sir Ralph, “till I heard what Sybil -had to say this morning. During the Revolution it is perfectly true -people’s beads were cut off in our court-yard, for there stood the -guillotine. This is a fact sure enough, and well known at Altes. And -I now perfectly remember it’s being mentioned to us when we first came -here. Sybil, it appears, heard it too, and from the first it made a -strong impression on her sensitive imagination. She tells me she never -could bear to look out on the courtyard after it grew dark at night; for -then this wicked Emilie told her the decapitated victims might be seen -promenading about. Some, Emilie told her, with a view to heightening the -dramatic effect of her story, might be perceived grubbing about among -the stones with which the yard is paved for the lost heads supposed -there to be buried. Others, again, would be seen marching along -triumphantly like St. Denis, with their heads reposing under their arms. -It is really too absurd,” he said, laughing, “though hideous enough to -the imagination of a nervous little creature of eight years old.” - -“But what in the world did Emilie tell her all this for?” asked Marion, -speaking for the first time. - -“You may well ask,” he replied “but as far as I can make out she did it, -in the first place, simply out of a spirit of low mischief; for the pure -pleasure of teasing the child, whom she evidently does not like, and -amusing herself with her terrors. Before long she must have discovered -that she could turn Sybil’s fears to useful account. For some time past -it appears Miss Vyse has taken it into her head to have Lotty domiciled -in her own room. Before this Sybil was comparatively happy; Lotty’s -substantial presence appearing to her a sufficient safeguard against -ghostly visitants. But when she was left alone in the room at night, -her terrors increased so that she could not go to sleep. She begged my -mother to let her have a light in the room till Emilie came to bed, but -this request was refused, my mother having a notion that it would be bad -for the child’s eyes. To make up for this however, Emilie was ordered -to sit by Sybil every evening till the child fell asleep. Not the -pleasantest of duties apparently, for Emilie regularly shirked it. Two -or three times, on being thus left to herself, Sybil jumped out of bed -and ran down stairs to fetch Emilie; conduct which that young person -much resented, as it interfered with her more entertaining way of -spending the evening, and also very nearly, more than once, brought -her into disgrace with the authorities below stairs. So she hit on the -ingenious expedient of telling Sybil that the headless spectres were -said to have a special predilection for the long passage leading to her -room. ‘They come along there every night,’ Sybil informed me, ‘and if -they find any little girl awake, they come to the side of her bed and -stand in a row.’ Isn’t it really frightful to think of the lonely little -creature’s agonies?” - -“Horrible!” said Marion, “but what about the dresses hanging up?” - -“Oh, that was another clever dodge of Emilie’s, evidently. I asked Sybil -how ever she could be frightened at dresses hanging on pegs, but she -assured me she did not know there were any dresses there; so I suppose -Emilie keeps the cupboard locked in the day-time, and opens it at night -to prevent Sybil’s venturing to rush past the dreadful row of spectres -at the doorway.” - -“But another thing, Sir Ralph,” said Marion, “why was Sybil afraid to -tell me?” - -“She was afraid to tell any one, I think,” answered he, “except me, -because, as she expressed it, I was ‘big and strong’ and ‘they’ couldn’t -hurt me. One day, it seems, when much provoked by her complaints, Emilie -gave a garbled account of the affair to Miss. Vyse; who, Sybil says, for -reasons of her own, was very unkind to her, and defended Emilie. Sybil -would told you, Miss Freer, but one day when, she was on the point of -doing so, Emilie, perceiving, I suppose, that the child’s powers or -endurance were all but exhausted, terrified her into not confiding -in you, by vague hints of injury that might result to you from her so -doing. Sybil is rather misty as to what exactly Emilie said; but it -seems to have been to the effect that if Sybil set you against her by -complaints of her nightly neglect of her duty, she, Emilie, could easily -be revenged on you by certain information about you in her possession, -which Sybil says ‘if Grandmamma knew would have made her “chasser” Miss -Freer away.’ I am not clear about it myself. I only tell it you to warn -you to have nothing to say to the girl, out of pity, or any other kindly -motive. She shall be ‘chasséed,’ and that very quickly. But first I -shall make her explain her insolent words,” he added, with a dark frown -on his face. - -But just then the clock struck eleven. Sir Ralph jumped up. - -“I must be going,” he said, “I want particularly to be home before my -mother and Miss Vyse are visible. I forbade the servants to say anything -to them last night, and this morning I counted on their not being very -alert after last night’s dissipation.” - -“I was just wondering what Lady Severn would think of it all!” remarked -Mrs. Archer. - -“I know what she shall think of it all,” replied Sir Ralph, “that is -to say at least, if I have any spark of influence left,” he added in a -lower tone. “In the meantime, Mrs. Archer, will you be so very kind as -to keep Sybil her till I have set things straight again at home?” - -“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied heartily. And then he left -them. Just as he was outside the room, she exclaimed, “Bye-the-by, Sir -Ralph, you must get some one to pack up and send her some clothes.” - -But he did not hear her, and Marion ran, after him to repeat the -message. - -“Very well you thought of it!” he said laughing, and then he stood for a -moment if expecting her to say something more. - -“Sir Ralph,” she said, “will you do me a favour?” - -“What would I not?” he exclaimed. - -“Will you be so good as not mention my name at all to that girl, -Emilie?” she asked, “never mind if says rude or impertinent things about -me. Let them pass. Only don’t set her more against me. I don’t like -having enemies.” - -“Very well,” she replied, “as you wish it, I will endeavour to do as you -ask.” But he looked rather surprised. - -“I daresay you think me very silly,” she said, “but”—— - -“But nothing,” he interrupted, “make your mind quite easy. You are only -too good, too gentle.” - -“No, indeed, I am not,” she said with a little sigh. “My motive is a -selfish one. I cannot afford to have enemies.” - -He looked at her searchingly but very kindly, saying however nothing. -The thought passed through his mind, “It must be some family disgrace. -Something connected with that father. My poor darling, if only I were -free! Can she think anything of that sort would influence me? But I am -forgetting. She will have some one else soon to fight her battles. Just -as well, perhaps, for her chances of happiness that she will be out in -India! As well for her—better in every way. But—for me!” - -As Marion returned to the drawing-room she said to Cissy anxiously— - -“Do you think it possible that that Emilie has found out about me, -Cissy?” - -“Found out about you,” repeated Mrs. Archer. “How? What do you mean?” - -“That Freer is not my real name, and all about it,” answered Marion. - -“Nonsense, child. How could she know anything of the sort? Don’t be -so silly. Besides, if she did! You speak as if it were a disgrace. I -declare, Marion, you provoke me. I wish most sincerely that every one in -Altes knew your real name, be the consequences what they might.” - -“Oh, Cissy!” said Marion reproachfully; for Cissy had spoken crossly and -pettishly. But Cissy was not repentant. - -“It’s not good your saying, ‘Oh Cissy’ in that way, Marion. I repeat -what I said before. I wish every one in Altes knew the true state of the -case.” - -Her tone was a trifle sharp and unkind, but her heart was full of -anxious affection. Of late certain misgivings had begun to assail her, -and she had spoken the truth as to her wish that the whole were known. -“That would indeed be carrying it too far,” she said to herself, -“risking her life-happiness for the sake or concealing that boy’s -misdemeanours. No indeed! Rather than that I would brave anything or -anybody.” - -But she was too much in awe of Marion to utter any of these thoughts -aloud. - -When Sir Ralph returned to the Rue des Lauriers morning, a council of -state—war, rather—was held in his mother’s drawing-room; at which for -once in his life, Ralph Severn distinguished himself by proving beyond -dispute that he had a will, and a very strong one too, of his own. - -Lady Severn was amazed, indignant, but finally submissive; repentant -even, for having, as her son phrased it, “allowed such goings-on without -finding them out.” - -“Rather an Irish way of putting it certainly,” he said with a laugh, for -he could afford to now that he was victorious. He was a man who could -fight, and bravely too, for any one in the world but himself! - -Miss Vyse escaped scot-free of course; expressing the greatest surprise -and disappointment at Emilie’s “shocking behaviour.” - -“A girl we all thought so well of,” she said, with an air of most -virtuous indignation, “to have deceived us so grossly! To think how, all -this time, she has been making our poor darling Sybil suffer! Why if I -had only known she grudged sitting beside the dear child in the evenings -how gladly I would have done so myself!” (Florence quite thought she was -speaking the truth.) “Oh, Sir Ralph,” she continued, “how fortunate it -was you returned last night in that unexpected way! More than fortunate -indeed; providential, I may call it.” - -“Particularly so,” replied Ralph dryly; “also that you and my mother -were out at a ball. By the way, how did you enjoy it?” - -“Pretty well,” replied Florence, not quite sure if he had been laughing -at her or not. “I missed your waltzing, Sir Ralph. Indeed, I don’t think -I have enjoyed any of the balls so much as the second one—the one, you -remember, before you went away so suddenly. Still I believe last night’s -was considered a good one. It was well attended.” - -“So I heard,” said Ralph carelessly. - -“So you heard!” said Lady Severn; “news travels fast, it appears. It -only took place last night, and you have seen no one this morning, -except Mrs. Archer, and she wasn’t at it.” - -“No,” he replied; “but I met young Nodouroff this morning on my way to -inquire about Sybil. By the by, I wonder why Mrs. Archer wasn’t at it.” - -“Oh,” said his mother, “she only went for the sake of that girl, Miss -Freer.” - -“And she, I suppose, didn’t care about going again,” observed Florence; -“she only went to the one. Certainly most of the people they know best -have left. The Frasers, and Captain Berwick; he has been away for two or -three weeks, but his sister said last night that he is coming back in a -week or two.” - -“Oh indeed!” said Lady Severn, whereupon the conversation dropped. - -Emilie was dismissed on the spot. She at first attempted some -vindication of her conduct, which, however, Sir Ralph very quickly put -a stop to; and further astonished her by some observations on her own -behaviour more truthful than agreeable. - -“Who would have thought so quiet a gentleman could fly out so like?” -observed Taylor, the leading authority below stairs. - -Of course, as soon as the culprit was “found out,” and punished, the -whole of the servants were down upon her. One had “never liked her -ways,” another had “always thought as much.” In short, not one of them, -by their own account, but had possessed evidence enough against her -to have led to her dismissal months before; and thus saved an innocent -child many weeks of agony, ending in imminent risk to her reason, if not -to her life. - -“So young Berwick has been away! “thought Ralph “and for this reason -Miss Freer was supposed not to care about going to the ball. All well, -so be it!” - -Sybil remained some days at Mrs. Archer’s, by no means to her -grandmother’s delight. Indeed, but for Ralph’s unwonted, but none the -less strenuous opposition, the child would have been sent for home that -same afternoon. He took the whole responsibility, blame if there were -any, on himself; religiously refraining from mentioning Miss Freer as -having had any share whatever in the affair; though dwelling strongly on -the ready kindness and hospitality of Mrs. Archer in the emergency. Yet, -notwithstanding all his care, the fact of Sybil’s flight annoyed Lady -Severn exceedingly, naturally so perhaps. From that time, also, her -growing dislike to the young governess increased rapidly, which Miss -Vyse was quick to perceive and to rejoice at. - -Its seed was of her own sowing, and had been fostered with the greatest -care. It was to be expected, therefore, that the sight of its strength -and vigour should fill her with gratification. - -The week that Sybil spent with her kind friends was the happiest she had -ever known. Lessons at the Rue des Lauriers were suspended for the time; -Lotty was allowed, by her uncle’s intercession, to spend some afternoons -with her little sister. She was sorry for Sybil, and anxious to make up -to her for her roughness and unkindness. - -The two little sisters appeared to cling to each other more fondly and -closely than had been the case for long; a state of things the good -influences about them were not likely to discourage. With much care -Marion and Sir Ralph endeavoured to efface from poor Sybil’s mind the -recollection of her midnight terrors; and to some extent succeeded. -Though so vainly nervous and impressionable, the child was also -sensible, and by no means deficient in reasoning powers. By the end of -the week she perfectly understood and believed that no real grounds -for her alarm had existed; though at the same time, she begged that she -might not again be asked to sleep in the room where he had passed so -many hours or misery. This request was of course acceded to, and her -future comfort further ensured by a kindly; and trustworthy young woman, -an elder sister of the amiable Thérèse, being engaged in the place of -the objectionable Emilie. - -During this week Sir Ralph was naturally good deal at Mrs. Archer’s -house, which, as might have been expected, did not tend to increase his -peace of mind. The state of calm equability which, during his absence -from Altes, he believed himself to have attained, lasted only till he -was again in Marion’s presence. After much resistance, many struggles, -he gave in; resigning himself to his fate and to the intense enjoyment -of the present. - -“After all,” thought he, “I suppose it’s not much worse for me than for -other people. I am certainly not likely to go in for this sort or thing -twice in my life, and I may as well take the wretched little taste of -happiness that has come in my way, for the very short time it can last.” - -“For happiness it was, though certainly of curious kind. He perfectly -believed her to be engaged to marry another man, one too, whom he could -quite imagine it possible that she cared for sincerely, though not -perhaps to the full extent that a nature such as hers was capable of. -He believed, too, that under any circumstances, it would have been -impossible for her to care for him, the man Ralph Severn, to even this -same small extent; besides which his circumstances were such that he -considered marriage, at least for many years to come, as all but out of -the question for him. He knew all this, he repeated it over to himself -a dozen times a day—and yet—and yet—he could not stay away from her; it -was happiness even to be in the same room with her. She was so sweet, -so gentle; and yet so bright and intelligent! A merely sweet and gentle -woman would not have contented Ralph Severn; would not, though her -beauty might have ten times exceeded that of Marion Vere, have made him -feel, as she did, that here indeed was one who suited him—yes, “to the -innermost fibre of his being.” - -So he went on, playing, alas, with edged tools; knowing full well that -the day was not far distant when they would cut him, and deeply too. -But thinking not, be it remembered in his defence, that there was the -slightest danger of their wounding another as well as himself. Another, -not perhaps capable of deeper suffering than he, but a gentle, tender -creature. One to whom such suffering would be hard and strange; who -would not, improbably, sink altogether beneath it. And one, too, whom he -loved—this strong, brave man—loved, though as yet he hardly knew it, so -entirely, so intensely, that to save her, he would gladly have agreed to -bear through life the burden of her sorrow in addition to his own. - -But for this little space, he went dreaming on. There was not just -yet anything exactly to awaken him. Besides, he thought himself so -particularly wide awake! The remembrance of Frank Berwick’s existence -was never absent from him. He looked upon it as a sort of charm, a -safeguard against any possible imprudence. Every now and then he used to -give himself a little prick with it, as a sort of wholesome reminder, -as it were. He noticed certainly that the young man was seldom, if -ever, named by either Mrs. Archer or Marion; but that, under the -circumstances, was not to be wondered at. - -The engagement was not as yet a formally announced one, though he had -heard it alluded to, two or three times in other quarters. Frank’s -absence was probably connected with arrangements he might be making in -preparation for his marriage. In short there were a hundred reasons -why they should not care to talk about him. No doubt it was decidedly -pleasanter for Ralph that they should not do so. He fancied himself -quite prepared for it at any time; but, in point of fact, pricking -oneself now and then, in a gingerly manner, by way of testing one’s -powers of endurance, is a very different thing from the relentless cut -of a doctor’s lancet or the deep, piercing stab of an enemy’s poniard! - -Still now and then he felt puzzled. Marion herself puzzled him. In some -way she was changed from what she had been when he first knew her. She -had never seemed robust though perfectly healthy, but now she looked at -times strangely fragile. Her spirits were less equable. Her colour went -and came in a way he did like to see. She was always sweet and cheerful, -never more so than now; but it sometimes seemed to him that it cost her -an effort to appear so. Then, again, she would be so unaffectedly bright -and merry, so almost childishly gay and light-hearted, that all his -misgivings, so far as she was concerned, vanished as if by magic. And -then he found himself back again in his old place, “middle-aged and dull -and dried-up,” utterly unsuited to this happy young creature, whom yet, -in all her moods, he found so inexpressibly winning and attractive. She -liked him—he was sure of that—liked and trusted and respected him, he -said to himself, with a mental wry face. “I’m not sure but what I would -rather she hated me!” he thought more than once. - -And then one day came the rude awakening. All the ruder because he did -not know he had been dreaming; or, rather, how unconsciously he had come -to live in his dreams, to care more for them than for aught that passed -in world of realities! - -It was one lovely spring afternoon, early in March, a week or two after -Sybil had returned home, and everything in the little world of Altes -appeared, for the time being, to be jogging on in its usual course. - -Sir Ralph had sauntered into Mrs. Archer’s; a not unprecedented -occurrence, for her little drawing-room was a pleasant place to spend an -hour or two in, these hot afternoons. - -Spring, to our northern ears, hardly expresses the warmth and brilliancy -of some of these exquisite first tastes of the coming summer in -the south of France. The loveliest time, indeed, of all the year -thereabouts; while the green below, still fresh and radiant, matches in -brilliance the blue above. Later on in the season trees and herbage look -sun-dried and scorched, and one turns with relief to the thought of our -less intense summers at home. - -It was very hot already at Altes. Though every one was prophesying a -week or two of rain before the warm weather should finally set in. This -afternoon when Ralph came in, he found both Mrs. Archer and her friend -on the terrace, under the shade of the large, over-hanging sun-screen, -attached to the windows outside. Soon, however, Cissy got tired, and -ensconced herself on her favourite sofa in the coolest corner of the -drawing-room. Marion, however, stayed outside. She was busy about -some piece of work she seemed to be greatly interested in, and Ralph -established himself on the ground near her with a book in his hand, -which he professed to be reading; now and then favouring his companions -with choice bits which struck his fancy. But, in reality, most of his -attention wag given to Marion. He watched her from behind his book, and -thought how pretty her hands looked, glancing in and out of the bright -mazes of the many-coloured wools she was working. - -It was a deliciously lazy afternoon! Hot enough to excuse one’s not -feeling much inclined for exertion; and yet with all the freshness and -novelty of spring about it too. They were all very happy. Marion, in her -own way, enjoying the present, and Ralph, all his pricks forgotten for -the time, in a state of perfect content. He had actually got the length -of talking nonsense; he, the learned Sir Ralph Severn, the polyglot, -the antiquary, the “everything-fusty-and-musty-in-one,” as Cissy was -impertinent enough to describe him that day—long ago it seemed now—when -his name was heard by Marion Vere for the first. - -Suddenly there came a little pause, which was broken by Cissy, whose -ideas seldom ran in one direction for five minutes together. - -“Marion,” she exclaimed from her sofa, “isn’t it to-day that Frank -Berwick is expected back? I hope it is, for I am most anxious to see how -he has executed our commissions.” - -“Your commissions, you mean, Cissy?” said Marion. Something in the tone -struck Ralph as unlike the girl’s usual voice. Something slightly sharp, -ungentle—he hardly knew what. But he did not look at her just then. - -“Nonsense, child,” persisted Cissy, who, in spite of all her quickness, -was sometimes marvellously dull; and who, too, like many otherwise most -amiable people, would sometimes, to prove her in the right, talk far -from cautiously or advisedly; “nonsense, child. It is ridiculous of you -to speak that way. Whether they are actually your commissions or mine -you know very well it was to oblige you, Frank Berwick offered to -execute them. Indeed,” she went on recklessly, “if it was any other -girl than you, I should call it very affected of you, trying to make out -that—” - -“Cissy!” said, Marion. - -Then Ralph looked at her. From where she sat Mrs. Archer could not see -her cousin, but the tone of Marion’s voice stopped her in what more she -was going to say, and she muttered some half apology, carelessly, and -took up a book that lay beside her. So the sudden silence that followed -was never explained to, and, indeed, hardly observed by Mrs. Archer. - -Ralph looked up at Marion. For an instant her eyes met, but immediately -she turned away. But he had seen enough. She rarely, as a rule, changed -colour. The more tell-tale, therefore, appeared to him the flood of -crimson which now overspread her face. Not face only. Neck, throat, all -of the fair, white skin that was visible changed to deep, burning red. -Not a merely passing girlish blush, but a hot over-whelming crimson -glow, that, to Ralph, told of deep, heart emotion. He was right. But was -it all for Frank Berwick? - -“Oh,” thought poor Marion, “What a fool I am! Now, if even never before, -he is sure to think it is true; to believe those mischievous reports.” - -Ralph’s glance only rested on her for a moment. Then he looked away, -looked out beyond the little terrace where was spread before him as -lovely a view as mortal eyes could wish to behold. The bright smiling -landscape in front, of trees and fields and gardens; here and there -dotted with graceful villas or pretty cottages: and far away beyond, the -still snow-clad mountains, serene and grand in their dazzling purity, -their tops melting away in the few soft grey clouds which there alone, -at the horizon, broke the deep even azure of the sky. - -Two minutes before, Ralph had been admiring all this intensely. What had -come over it now? The brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of the -sunlight, there was a dull grey look over all. What was it that had thus -changed the world to him? Ah! what was it? - -He knew it now. Knew for the first time fully and clearly, not merely -that he loved this girl beside him, but far more than that, knew now in -the depth of the agony which it cost him to realize that he must lose -her, knew for the first time, how he loved her. - -For a minute or two no one spoke. Ralph could not have uttered a word -had he tried. A curious feeling, almost of suffocation, for a few -moments oppressed him. But it gradually passed off. Then he rose, said -something of it’s being later than he thought, shook hands with Marion, -now busy again with her substantial rainbow, and left the little -terrace. - -As he passed through the drawing-room there lay Mrs. Archer on her -comfortable sofa, fast asleep! - -END OF VOL. I - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. II. - - -CHAPTER - -I.AN EVENTFUL RAMBLE - -II.MORE THAN HALF WAY - -III.“FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND” - -IV.THE END OF SEPTEMBER - -V.ORPHANED - -VI.MALLINGFORD AND AUNT TREMLETT - -VII.GREY DAYS - -VIII.AND RALPH? - -IX.RALPH (continued) - -X.THE BEGINNING OF THE END - -XI.VERONICA’S COUNCIL - - - - -CHAPTER I. AN EVENTFUL RAMBLE. - -“I did never think to marry.” - -“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?” - MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. - - - -SIR RALPH did not go to Mrs. Archer’s the next day. Nor for several -days after that. How he got through them he could not have told; though -probably none of those about him saw in him any change, or traces of -disturbance of any kind. He heard Florence, speaking to his mother, -mention that Captain Berwick had returned, and he fancied there was a -hidden meaning in her tone as she said it. But yet it did not somehow -interest him. It seemed already a long time ago since that afternoon -on the terrace; and he was so utterly absorbed and engrossed by his own -feelings just at this time that outward things did not readily come home -to him. He felt as if it were already all over. The same moment which -revealed the depth of his love for Marion had burnt into him the -conviction that she was lost to him. He knew that his staying away for -three days, from the house which had of late become an almost daily -resort to him, could not but be observed and commented upon; but he did -not care. Just now he was suffering too newly and acutely, to be -very sensitive to lesser annoyances, and it seemed a matter of small -consequence that his behaviour should appear inconsistent or eccentric. - -As it happened however, his conduct was not discussed or in any way -commented upon by Mrs. Archer and her young friend. Cissy had been ill -for two or three days; so ill as to be unable to leave her room, and -though all Marion’s time, out of school hours, had been spent in nursing -her, they had neither of them felt inclined for much conversation. - -Ralph heard of the poor little woman’s illness quite accidentally. - -At luncheon on the third day since his memorable visit, Sybil asked if -she might go round by the market in her walk, to buy some fresh flowers. - -“It’s too late for fresh flowers to-day,” said Miss Vyse. - -And “What do you want them for?” asked Lady Severn. - -“For the little boy’s mamma, Grandmamma,” answered Sybil, “she has -been ill for two days, and Miss Freer said she was going to get up this -afternoon, and she wanted to get some flowers to make the drawing-room -pretty, but she hadn’t time to go round by the market.” - -“And so she left orders with you to do so!” said Lady Severn, -sarcastically, “Really, I must say Miss Freer’s ideas of what is -fitting and becoming are peculiar, to say the least. To think of my -granddaughters being sent all over the town to execute her commissions!” - -“Oh, Grandmamma,” exclaimed Sybil, on the point of bursting into tears, -“it wasn’t that way at all.” - -“No, indeed,” added Lofty, coming to the rescue; “it was Sybil herself -thought of it, and I said I would ask, but she said she would, because -when we looked at our money, I had only my gold Napoleon and no little -money. And she had two half-francs. So we fixed she should be the one to -buy them.” - -“You are very rude to interrupt in that way, Charlotte,” said her -grandmother severely, “both you and Sybil are by no means changed for -the better lately in your manners.” At which Lotty looked resentful, but -far from penitent. - -“If you both get up early to-morrow I’ll take you to the market myself -before breakfast,” said Ralph, “then the flowers are sure to be fresh.” - -This proposal was received with delight by both children, who scampered -off to consult the equally amiable sister of Thérèse as to the best -means of ensuring their waking by sunrise. - -Then Ralph roused himself and set out for a solitary walk. He went first -in the direction of Mrs. Archer’s house, intending to enquire at the -door if she were better, without going in. But as he entered the street -in which it was situated, he met Charlie and Thérèse, from whom he -obtained the information that Madame was much better, so much better -that Mademoiselle was going to let her get up this afternoon. - -Sir Ralph expressed his gratification at the good news. - -“Be sure you tell your mamma, Charlie,” said he, “that I was coming to -ask for her, when I met you. And give her my very kind regards, and say -I hope she will soon be quite well.” - -“I’ll remember,” said Charlie, “werry kind regards, and hopes she’ll -soon be well. And what am I so say to Madymuzelle, that’s May, you know? -What am I to say to her? Best love, that’s prettier than kind regards. I -always send my best love.” - -“Do you?” said Ralph, “but you see you’re a little chap. Best love isn’t -half so pretty when people are big.” - -“Isn’t it?” said the child dubiously. But Ralph patted his cheek, and -walked on. - -As he drew near Mrs. Archer’s house he saw a gentleman come out of it, -and walk on in front of him. It was Captain Berwick. He had only been -leaving some books at the door, which his sister had sent to amuse -the invalid, but this, of course, Ralph could not know; and, though -he thought he had suffered in these two days all that was possible to -endure, he found that the sight of his successful rival’s quitting the -house after enjoying, in all probability, a tête-à-tête with Marion, -added a fresh pang to all he had already undergone. - -Frank had not seen him, and he might easily have escaped his notice, but -a strange impulse urged him forward. He walked rapidly, and overtook -him just as he reached the corner of the street. The young man looked -surprised, but responded cordially enough to his greeting. - -“So you’re back again at Altes,” said Ralph, for want of anything better -to say. - -Frank did not deny the fact. - -“Yes,” he replied; “the day before yesterday I turned up again. You’ve -been away too, I hear?” - -“Oh dear, yes; for ever so long. I left before you did. Indeed, I did -not know till my return that you had not been here all the time.” - -“We seem wonderfully interested in each other’s movements,” observed -Frank, as they walked on, with rather an awkward laugh. He evidently, -for some reason or other, did not feel particularly comfortable in his -present society. - -Ralph did not reply, and for a minute or two there was silence. Suddenly -the same uncontrollable impulse again seized him, and he did not resist -it. - -“It’s absurd,” he thought, “going on in this way. It will be a ghastly -satisfaction to hear it confirmed by his own lips.” - -He turned to Frank. - -“Excuse me, Berwick, if I am premature—I have certainly not yet heard it -formally announced—but—I am right, am I not, in congratulating you?” - -Frank looked confused and exceedingly surprised. A cloud of not small -annoyance began to creep up over his handsome face. - -“You must excuse me, Severn, but I haven’t the remotest idea what you -are talking about. ‘Congratulate me.’ On what, pray?” - -It was intensely disagreeable for Ralph. The last man on earth to pry -into, or gossip about his neighbours’ affairs; who, indeed, carried to -such an extreme his sensitive horror of intrusion, his shy avoidance of -all matters of personal interest, that, in a general way, his nearest -friend might have lost a fortune or gained a wife without his appearing -to have heard of the event. He would have given worlds to have made some -half apology, to have shuffled out of it with some muttered words of -“must have been a mistake,” or “only a piece of the usual Altes gossip, -which Captain Berwick must excuse.” - -But he was determined to have done with it and drove himself on -remorselessly. - -“On your marriage,” he said quietly, “or, rather, I should say on your -engagement to be married.” - -“To whom?” asked Frank, in a constrained voice. - -“To Miss Freer,” replied Ralph. - -“And who told you?” asked Frank again. - -“No one in particular,” answered Ralph, beginning to chafe under all -this cross-questioning; “I heard it in several quarters, and you may be -sure I felt no doubt of the truth of the report, or I certainly would -not have motioned any young lady’s name, as I have just now done.” - -He spoke stiffly. He could not understand Frank’s behaviour. But his -bewilderment changed to utter astonishment, when suddenly Captain -Berwick turned round upon him. - -“ ‘No one in particular;’ you say Sir Ralph Severn, told you this piece -of News. Then perhaps you will be so good as till this friend of yours -‘no one in particular,’ that he or she will do better in future to -refrain in the first place from believing, and in the second place from -circulating, such idle and mischievous tales, for which there is no -foundation whatever in fact. As to whether this piece of advice may not -with peculiar propriety be extended to yourself, I leave you to judge.” - -So saying he bowed stiffly, his face flushed with excitement and -indignation, and turning sharply in an opposite direction, left Ralph to -pursue his walk alone. - -The whole interview had passed so rapidly that Ralph felt thoroughly -confused. Frank had left him no time to reply to his extraordinary -outburst, and indeed, had he done so, Ralph would hardly have known -what to say. He did not feel angry, and would have been ready enough to -apologise for however unintentionally, hurt or annoyed his hot-blooded -companion: though really it was difficult to see in what way he had done -so! As he walked on slowly his thoughts began gradually to emerge from -their bewilderment, and to take the only form by which it appeared to -him that the riddle could be explained. - -Frank was ashamed of himself! He had gone too far with Miss Freer, and -at the last had dishonourably withdrawn. No wonder the mention of this -report put him in a passion. No wonder indeed. Ralph ground his teeth, -as for one passing moment he wished he were Marion’s brother. This -explained it all. Her altered looks, her variable spirits, her painful -agitation at the mention if Captain Berwick’s return. Poor little -governess! This then was the price she had to pay for her womanly -self-denial and honest independence of spirit. (For Ralph had gathered -from Cissy’s remarks that during her stay at Altes there had been no -positive necessity for Marion’s exertions, but that she had “too great -a notion of independence.”) It must have been that mother and sisters -of his! Looking down upon her because she was a daily governess. Looking -down on her. - -“Oh,” thought Ralph to himself, “if only I could set ever thing at -defiance and brave the future, even now I feel as if I should like -to snatch her away from all those horrid people and devote my life -to making her happy. But,” and with the ‘but’ his mood changed, “she -doesn’t care for me. Oh, Frank Berwick, what a weak, contemptible fool -you are! For he did care for her—I am sure of that.” - -But hardly had his reflections reached this point when they were -interrupted. Hasty steps behind him which his absorption had prevented -his hearing as they drew nearer, and in another moment there stood Frank -Berwick beside him. His face still flushed, but more now from eagerness -than annoyance, and with a look of resolution about it too. - -“Severn,” he began abruptly, “I behaved like a fool just now; but I was -most intensely annoyed, as you will understand when you hear what I have -got to say. I want to tell you something. It’s rather a queer thing -to do, I know, but it seems to me we have all been playing at cross -purposes, and I shall feel better satisfied if I tell you. There is not -another man living, I don’t think, that I would trust, as I am going to -let you see I trust you.” - -He stopped, rather awkwardly, for Ralph had not by glance or gesture -encouraged him to proceed. Now, however, he could hardly avoid saying -something. - -“If I can be of use to you, Captain Berwick,” he said, coldly, “I shall -be glad to do what I can. But, remember a stranger can seldom do much -good by meddling among relations, if that, as I suspect, is what you -want of me.” - -Frank smiled. - -“I see what you’re driving at,” he said, “and that confirms me in -resolving to set you right; for my own sake, if for no other. You -think, Severn, I see plainly, that my very evident admiration—to use -no stronger word—for the young lady you mentioned a short time ago, -would—nay, should— have resulted in what you rather rashly congratulated -me upon just now, had it not been for some backwardness on my part. -Fear of my people’s opposition, or some such obstacle. You are quite -mistaken. I am in no way dependent on my parents. I have a good -appointment in India and need consult no one as to whom I marry. Nor, -indeed, would my people have opposed me in this. Of that I am quite -sure. Did it never strike you, Severn, that there might be another way -of accounting for the present state of affairs, which you evidently -don’t think satisfactory? You have been blaming me; suppose you find -I am more to be pitied than blamed. It’s not a pleasant thing to tell, -Severn, but this is the actual state of the case. I did offer myself -and all that I had in the world to Miss Freer, most distinctly and -unmistakeably. It certainly was not much to offer, but such as it was it -was most honestly laid before her, to take or leave. And she chose the -latter.” - -“The latter?” repeated Ralph, as if he hardly understood what Frank was -saying. - -“Yes, the latter. In plain English, Severn, she wouldn’t have me. -Refused me out-and-out. Decidedly, unmistakeably, but all the same, she -did it in such a way that, though rejecting me as a lover, she kept -me as a friend. And that’s a feat few women can perform. Her friend, -indeed. She has none truer.” - -“It does honour not only to her, Berwick,” said Ralph, warmly, “but -still more to you. But when did all this happen?” he asked eagerly, -adding in the same breath, “forgive me. I have no right to ask such -questions.” - -“You are perfectly welcome to the whole story,” said Frank, too much in -earnest to stand on much ceremony; “in fact, that you should hear the -whole story was my object in telling you any. When did it happen? -Oh, ages ago! I thought I had begun to get over it a little, till you -touched the tender place just now. It was on the night of the second -ball. You remember? The day before you went away.” - -Did he not remember? - -“But now comes the part of the whole I most want to tell you,” went on -Frank; “and yet the hardest to, even hint, to you. I fervently hope I am -not doing wrong, but I am sure I can trust you, Severn. Just now when -I lost my temper, it was not merely mortification and all that sort of -thing; it was indignation against you.” - -“But what on earth for?”asked Ralph in amazement. - -“Don’t you see? But of course you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t -require me to tell you. I was furious at you, very much in the same -way that you were furious at me. I declare, Severn,” he broke out, half -smiling, but impatiently, seeing that the look of bewilderment did not -in the least clear from Ralph’s face. “I declare you are very dense. I -know you’re very learned and clever, but I must say you are uncommonly -stupid too. Don’t you see?” he repeated. “You were indignant with me, -thinking I had been trifling with the best and sweetest girl in the -world. Well, I was angry because I thought the very same thing of you.” - -The light began to break on Ralph, but very faintly as yet. - -“I understand you to some extent,” he said; “but surely I, so much older -and graver than you—surely Altes gossip might leave me alone.” - -“That it won’t,” said Frank;” but it isn’t Altes gossip I am talking -about. To speak plainly, Severn, for you drive me to it. When Severn -she, you know who, refused me, it did not require much penetration to -discover she had the best of reasons. She is no coquette, and she is -very young. Only one thing had blinded her to my feelings towards her, -otherwise she would never have found it in her gentle heart to let them -go so far unchecked. And this thing was her own devotion to another. -Don’t you see it now, Severn? No wonder I blamed you. You, the luckiest -man on earth! For I knew she was not the sort of girl to have given her -affection unsought. And that night, when you came to tell her you were -leaving Altes, in that sudden, cruel way, I could have done I don’t know -what to you, Severn. Till to-day, I never doubted you knew it. You -see you went there pretty often, and that, for you, said a good deal. -Altogether, no one but yourself could have made me believe you were so -blind. If I have been mistaken, Severn, in believing that you cared for -her, for heaven’s sake do not misuse what I have confided to you, by -amusing yourself at her expense. Though, after all, I cannot quite -believe I have been mistaken he added anxiously. - -“You deserve my secret, Berwick,” said Ralph, in a voice that was husky -in spite of his efforts. “You are a good fellow, and I see your motive. -You shall have my secret. You were not mistaken. There now, remember -that, however strange my after conduct may seem to you. I shall, -whatever I may be forced to do, think more of her happiness than of my -own. Goodbye, for the present and thank you,” he said, earnestly, as -they shook hands hastily, and separated. - -Frank sailed for India three days after. - -Before he went, however, he took pity on the ill-requited devotion of -Dora Bailey; pro-posed to her, and was of course, accepted. Poor Frank! -He was not altogether of the stuff of which heroes of romance are made, -though one deed of his life had, at least according to the world’s -standard in such matters, somewhat savoured of the heroic. He made one -stipulation, however, with the enraptured Dora: she was to tell no one -of the engagement for two months to come; at the end of which time he -promised to write to her father, whose consent he did not anticipate -much difficulty in obtaining, and to make arrangements for her joining -him in India, under suitable escort. It was rather hard upon Dora, -but she was too much in awe of him, and too grateful for his immense -condescension to dream of opposing him, though she thought to herself, -“How very nice it would have been to announce my engagement before every -one leaves Altes for the summer. Particularly to that Miss Freer, who -has done her best to lure him away from me.” - -She would have had no objection to being married on the spot and setting -off with him then and there, which, considering it would have involved -the going without a trousseau and all its delightful attendants, proves -that she was very deeply in love! - -“She’s not a bad little thing in her way,” said Frank to himself, -“though rather too much of a goose. And certainly a long way better than -anything I could have picked up in India. So, on the whole, it’s the -best thing I can do, for I couldn’t stand much more of that horrible -bachelor life out there.” - -But as for marrying her on the spot! No, he was not quite ready for -that. Other things as yet were too fresh; though after a time, and a few -mouths of unsatisfactory, lonely life in India, he, being domestic in -his tastes, hoped to be able to work up to a moderate amount of love for -the silly, affectionate baby. - -“She’s pretty, and any way I know she cares for me, which is always -something. And I’m not likely ever to have a hotter chance, if as good.” - -And when the time came to say goodbye, he really felt more sorry to part -with her than he could have believed possible; and he whispered to her -that the period of separation should not be a long one, if it was in his -power to shorten it. - -When Frank left him, Ralph still walked on. Mechanically, for he was -quite unaware what direction he was following, or how far he had gone. -His whole being was shaken to its centre. He could see clearly along no -line of thought. All was confusion. What had he done? What should he -do? Duty and inclination, prudence and generosity, warred against each -other. Worse than this, one duty took up arms against another, and which -to consider victorious he could not decide. All his past convictions -as to what was right and wise for him, firm and sound as he had thought -them, were suddenly uprooted and thrown in his face, by the new -claims, not merely on his inclination, but on his honour, which Frank’s -communication had revealed to him. His was one of those morbidly -conscientious natures which persist in always erecting barriers between -the right and the pleasant. Often, no doubt, barriers are planted there -already by higher hands than ours, in which case, all we can do is to -submit, and make the best of the thorny road. But Ralph and others -like him could not feel content with. He could hardly believe that duty -sometimes wears an attractive form; that sometimes it is meet and lawful -for us to gather the roses blooming by the way, and to saunter for -awhile on the suit and inviting pastures, there to refresh our weary, -travel-sore feet. - -Had he not known and felt how entirely and intensely he cared for -Marion, he could, in one way, have decided more easily, he said to -himself; though in so thinking he erred. For had he cared for her less, -he could have offered her nothing meet for her acceptance! Of one like -him, the fullest, deepest love would alone be worthy of the name at -all. But the thought of winning her was so unspeakably tempting that he -doubted himself: - -“It is all abominable selfishness,” he said to himself, “I have no right -to think of it. No man has less right to dream of marriage than I. In -all probability I should only be dragging her into a life of struggling -anxiety. Far worse to bear than her present dependence; for then she -might have others to care for, and for whom she would kill herself with -anxiety. She is that sort of woman, I know. If I want a wife I should -choose a not over sensitive, managing young woman—from which all the -same Heaven preserve me!—one who would be good at living on next to -nothing, for to all appearances that is about what I should have to -offer her.” - -All most reasonable and true, if such indeed were his circumstances. - -“But,” whispered a mischievous little voice, “supposing it true that -this poor Marion loves you—loves you as you love her—have you any right -to condemn her too, to the suffering you yourself, for your manhood, -find hard enough to bear?” - -“And then the battle all began over again, with small prospect of being -quickly or satisfactorily concluded. But there came an interruption. -This walk was indeed to be an eventful one to Sir Ralph. - -He was hastening on, walking faster than usual, as was his habit when -agitated or perplexed; when, turning sharply a corner of the road, he -came suddenly upon Mr. Price, sauntering along, an open book in his -hand, of which he read a little from time to time. How peaceful and at -rest he looked! The picture of a calm, emotionless student, undisturbed -by the passions and anxieties by which ordinary mortals are tossed -and torn. True, so far, for now in his autumn his life was even and -colourless enough; but it had not always been so. There were furrows his -brow, deep lines round the sensitive mouth, which told that he too had -fought his battles, had loved and sorrowed like his fellows! - -“Sir Ralph!” he exclaimed, with a bright look of pleasure, “how -delighted I am to have met you. Out on a solitary ramble like myself. -Have you any objection to my joining you? What a lovely day, is it not? -Not nearly so oppressively hot as it has been. But which way are you -going?” - -“Any way you like,” said Ralph, “it’s quite the same to me. I am merely -taking a constitutional, as you see,” with a forced laugh. - -“Well then,” said the tutor, on whose quick ears neither the tone nor -the laugh fell disregarded, “since you have no choice, suppose we cross -the road and return to Altes by that lane opposite. It’s not much of a -round. Three to four miles will bring us home, and it’s pleasanter than -the dusty highway.” - -“Thank you,” replied Ralph, “that will do very well.” - -And they walked on for some little time in silence. Suddenly Ralph -remembered himself. - -“I am afraid, Mr. Price, you won’t find me very good company to-day. I -am thoroughly out of sorts, mentally, that is to say. I am wretchedly -unhappy because I can’t see my way before me. I want to do right, and I -cannot find out which way before me it lies. I couldn’t say as much as -this to anyone else, but I know of old how I can trust you. And I don’t -want you to think my queer behaviour arise from any other cause.” - -“There is no queer behaviour in your treating me as an old friend, my -dear boy,” answered Mr. Price. “Do just as you are inclined. If you -don’t wish to talk, keep silence. It is a pleasure to me to have a quiet -hour with you, whether you talk or not. But at the same time, my dear -Sir Ralph, I am an older man by many years than you, and my life has not -been all smooth sailing. It is just possible I might be able to -suggest something—advise you even, being so much older,” he added -apologetically, “if you should think fit to take me into your confidence -as to your present perplexity.” - -Ralph made no answer. Mr. Price looked penitent. - -“I trust you don’t think me officious or presumptuous,” he began. -“Believe me, Sir Ralph—” - -“Do one thing to please me, Mr. Price,” said his ci-devant pupil, -“forget all about that ‘Sir.’ Let me be plain Ralph again for a while, -to you at least. It will make it easier for me to confess all my sins to -you, as if I were a lad again.” - -Mr. Price smiled at his fancy. - -“If you have any sins to confess, my dear Ralph,” he said, “it will not -be like old times. I shall never have another like you—no, never,” he -added affectionately. - -“Perhaps you won’t call it a sin,” replied Ralph; “if not, so much -the better. All the same, for me, if not a sin, it was a piece of -inexcusable folly. You would never guess what I have done, Mr. Price.” - -“Should I not?” asked he drily. “Are you quite sure of that?” - -“Quite sure,” answered Ralph, “no one would believe it of me. This is -what I have done, Mr. Price. I have fallen in love like any unfledged -boy; or rather not like that at all, for that would be a passing affair, -which, to my sorrow and my joy in one, mine is not. It is very sober -earnest with me, Mr. Price. It is indeed. The whole of everything is -changed to me, and what to do, how to act, I cannot for the life of me -decide.” - -“And the young lady?” put in Mr. Price. - -“Yes, the young lady. That’s the worst of it, the worst and the best. I -am horribly afraid, horribly afraid—and yet, at the bottom of my selfish -heart intensely, unspeakably delighted to think so,—afraid I say, that -she, my poor dear child, has been no wiser than I. Is it possible, Mr. -Price, do you think it possible, that any sweet, lovely girl could care -for me? Ugly, stupid and unattractive as I am. I can hardly believe it. -And yet—” - -It was rather difficult for Mr. Price to help laughing at Ralph’s most -original way of making his confession. But in pity to his unmistakable -earnestness, he controlled himself, and said gravely,— - -“Yes, Ralph, I do think it possible, very possible, that such a girl as -you describe may care for you as you deserve to be cared for. And if -I am right in what I suppose, I think you a wise and fortunate man. -Fortunate in having obtained, wise, in having sought for, the love of -that young girl; for she is not one to love lightly. She is a sweet, -true girl, and she will be an even sweeter woman! I can’t pity you, -Ralph, if your choice, as I suspect, has fallen on Marion Freer.” - -“You have guessed rightly,” said Ralph, “though how you came to do so -passes my comprehension. But you don’t understand it all yet, Mr. Price. -‘Wise and fortunate,’ you call me. The former I certainly have not been -in this matter. To tell the truth I never thought about it, till the -mischief was done. Fortunate, most wonderfully so, I should indeed -consider myself, were I free to avail myself of this good fortune. - -“Free, my dear boy?” exclaimed Mr. Price. “I confess I don’t understand -you. Why are you not so? You are of age, your own master to a sufficient -extent to marry when and where you choose. It is all very well to think -of pleasing your mother, but you and she have not lived so much together -as to be in any way dependent on each other in the way that some -mothers and sons are. Probably Lady Severn might not consider Miss Freer -suitable as to position and all that. But no one can look at her and not -see that she is a lady! And beyond that I do not see that Lady Severn is -called on to interfere.” - -“Nor do I,” said Ralph, “but she thinks she is. But don’t mistake me. It -is no over regard to my mother’s prejudices that is influencing me. It -is sheer necessity. This is the actual state of the case, Mr. Price—I am -utterly and entirely dependent upon my mother. Not one shilling, not -one farthing of my own do I either possess at present, or have I any -certainty of ever possessing. How then can I think myself free to marry; -to involve another in such galling dependence on my mother’s caprices? -Though, truly speaking, hitherto the dependence has not galled me -particularly. It affected no one but myself, and till now it never -occurred to me how terribly it might complicate matters.” - -Mr. Price stopped and looked at the speaker with an air of extreme -bewilderment. - -“Even now, my dear Ralph,” he said, “I don’t clearly follow you. In what -is your position different from your brother’s? John married to please -himself. As far as I remember Lady Severn did not particularly fancy the -Bruce connection, but then she was too sensible to oppose it; knowing as -she did that in the end all would be his. You mean, I suppose, that -the amount of your yearly allowance depends on her goodwill? But if I -remember rightly this was settled permanently when John came of age; -and I never before doubted that you were now in receipt, as a matter -of course, or what had been his. Besides, in any case the whole must be -yours eventually. It is only a question of a little time! You seem to be -forgetting the entail.” - -“Forgetting it,” repeated Ralph, “no indeed; though there is little use -in remembering what no longer exists. I will explain it all to you. But -in the first place as to my allowance. It is altogether an arbitrary -affair. John’s was settled as you say—settled in such a way that he was -able to marry to please himself, without having to go on his knees -for my lady’s permission. But then he was the heir; and my mother’s -favourite. Whereas I, as you know, a mistake from the beginning, in -childhood and youth barely endured; in manhood still more unfortunate in -becoming the possessor or empty honours I never wished for; can hardly -expect now for the first time, to find my mother ready to accede to -my wishes; to agree in short to what few mothers in her position could -consider other than an immense folly and mistake. No, Mr. Price, I have -thought it all over calmly and dispassionately. My mother would never -consent to my marrying a governess. I don’t think she cares about money. -To do her justice she is not mercenary. But the thought of my wire -having been a governess she could never get over.” - -“And the entail?” put in Mr. Price, “what about that? You don’t mean to -say you consented to its being broken?” - -“Yes,” replied Ralph, “I do mean to say so. The entail no longer exists. -That part of the affair I have in a sense no one but myself to thank -for. This was how it happened. It was soon after John’s death—that -horrible time you know, when my mother was really mad with grief, and -the whole household shocked and upset by the accident and its dreadful -result. I came home just in time to see him die. He was hardly -conscious, but he whispered something when they told him I was there. I -could not catch the words, but my mother said it was an appeal to me to -be good to his children. Very probably it was. Well, after his death, my -mother fell ill, and made up her mind that she too was going to die. -She was in a frightfully low, nervous state, and her mind preyed on the -notion that these children, Lotty and Sybil, were going to be left to my -tender mercies, and that, I verily believe, I would turn them out into -the streets! Of course they were utterly unprovided for, and as things -were could not be made independent. So nothing would satisfy her but -the breaking of the entail, to which I, miserable enough at being thus -forced into my brother’s place, and at seeing how every one wished I had -been thrown from my horse instead of him, was only too ready to consent. -It was done, and a portion of ten thousand pounds each, was raised for -my nieces. Then the estate was resettled, giving back to my mother, of -course, her former life-estate according to her marriage-settlement.” - -“But only hers for life, Ralph,” interrupted the tutor. “It will all be -yours in the end?” - -“If I survive her,” said Ralph, “But if not, and if I marry without her -approval, what then? Why, my unfortunate widow and yet more unfortunate -children would be simply beggars! Not one farthing of all she has, would -got to them, save she gave it of free gift. Which thing, Mr. Price, in -such a case she would never do. I am not exaggerating the state of the -case. I know my mother well—her good points as well as her weak ones—and -I am not reckoning without my host. Very lately she has told me her mind -on the subject of my possible marriage; told it me plainly enough; and I -know what I have to expect. If I marry to please her, she will, I -know, act most liberally. If not, all I can look for depends on the -contingency of my surviving her. She has not actually threatened to stop -my allowance unless I marry as she wishes, but she very nearly did so. -And I may tell you, Mr. Price,” added Ralph, his dark cheek flushing -darker, “that my marrying to please her is utterly and entirely out of -the question. She is bewitched I think, but thank Heaven I am not. If -had but a certainty, however small, I would marry to-morrow, if my sweet -Marion would have me, and leave Florence Vyse to the enjoyment of all -she can extract from my poor mother. For that is all she wants. My -mother’s money, not me; but unfortunately she sees that through me she -might best secure it.” - -“But the Whitelake estate?” asked Mr. Price, “that surely is independent -of Lady Severn.” - -“Yes,” replied Ralph, “that was not in my grandfather’s power touch, -when he made over all the rest to his daughter. It went to my father -with the title. But unfortunately between his succeeding to the title -and his marrying the heiress several years intervened. Whitelake was -not much of a place to begin with—I don’t think in its best days it gave -more than some fifteen hundred a year; and my father mortgaged it so -heavily that now the rents only just cover the mortgage interest. So -that is a merely illusory possession, you see, I have nothing, Mr. -Price. Nothing whatever and no certainty of ever having anything. And, -then, though not idle, I am desultory. At this moment I see before me no -means of gaining enough to marry upon, even were I more sure than I am -of my own health and strength, and even if I could make up my mind to -risk the future. The present even is barred to me.” - -“But if John had not died, Ralph? If you had remained in your original -place as younger son. You are no worse off than you would have been -then.” - -“Yes, I am,” said Ralph emphatically, “ten times worse off. Had John -lived some small provision would have been secured to me. He often -talked of this. And I am worse off in another way. At that time I was -getting on fairly well and should soon have risen higher. I had been -vice consul at —— for some time, and had a good chance of succeeding Sir -Archibald eventually. I liked the East, and it suited me. Climate and -everything. I had ample time for the studies I liked best, and in my -quiet, stupid way I was contented enough. Looking back on it now I -certainly wonder at myself.” He went on dreamily. “I have, to my cost, -had a shadowy, tantalizing glimpse of something like happiness! But at -the time I believed myself to be an exception to the rest of mankind. -I thought myself perfectly secure against this sort of thing”—he -smiled half bitterly as he spoke. “You see how I am punished for my -presumption.” - -Mr. Price answered by another question. - -“Why, then, did you leave the East? I was never quite sure of the -reason.” - -“Solely and entirely to please my mother. Though she cared little for -me personally, she had a regard for me as the head of the family, and -thought it unfitting that I should spend my life half buried alive out -there. Then the estate, Medhurst, puzzled her. The agent left and she -had to choose another. Then, too, she had that fit of thinking she was -going to die. Altogether, I seemed to have no choice. So I threw up my -appointment, as you know.” - -“I think you did wrong, Ralph. Wrong in this way. You should not have -cut the ground from under your feet in both directions. You should not -have thrown up your only other chance without securing to yourself a -competency at home. This you might easily have done at the time the -money was raised for John’s children.” - -“Yes,” said Ralph penitently. “I see it plainly enough now. But at that -time I stood so completely alone. It never occurred to me that I should -ever have to be selfish for others!” - -“Well, there is no use blaming you now,” said Mr. Price. “The present -question is, what can you, what should you do?” - -“Yes, indeed,” replied Sir Ralph. “And you see, Price, how horribly -complicated it is. Were only I myself concerned I could soon decide, -whatever agony it cost me. But if indeed, it be true, as I have great -reason to believe (for the life of me I can’t be unselfish enough to say -“fear”), that she is involved, that she cares for me,”—his voice sank -as he uttered the words—“what can I do? How can I condemn another to the -suffering that it has taken all my manhood to endure?” - -Mr. Price did not reply. They walked on for some time in silence. - -Suddenly the elder man turned to his companion, with an apparently -irrelevant question. - -“Did you see Sir Archibald when you were in town lately?” - -“Sir Archibald?” repeated Ralph, with surprise. “Oh, yes, I saw him. He -was very gracious and condescended to approve of my notes on the various -patois about here. Though, of course, Basque is his great hobby; and -I have not been able to collect much new information about that. He is -leaving England again next month. He says Cameron has not been so well -lately.” - -“So I heard,” said Mr. Price; “indeed I had better tell you at once what -I am thinking of. I heard from Cameron yesterday. He is returning home. -He can’t stand the climate. Now, Ralph, you see your old post will be -free again. Supposing Sir Archibald were willing to use his interest for -you to get it again, would you take it?” - -Ralph did not answer at once. When he did at last speak it was slowly -and thoughtfully. - -“Yes,” he said, “I think I would. That is to say I should like to have -the option of it to fall back upon, if—if I am right in my hope—or -fear,” he added with a smile. “Thank you for telling me of it. But what -must I do? It is not much use writing to my old chief. It would be much -better to see him; don’t you think so?” - -“Much better, I should say, from what I know of him. If you take my -advice, Ralph, you will go over to London as soon as you can, see -Sir Archibald, and, as you say yourself, secure the option of the -appointment. There is no such tremendous hurry, as Cameron is not coming -home for a month or two. But you should lose no time in obtaining Sir -Archibald’s promise to get you the refusal of it. I don’t know the -particulars of the thing, I suppose you could live on it, if the worst -came to the worst and Lady Severn refused all assistance? But, remember, -I am not advising you to anything rash. You must, if possible, be surer -of your ground before risking a quarrel with your nearest relation. On -the other hand, you have no right to ask for this young girl’s pledge -till you are sure of something offer her. It is an awkward position, a -very awkward position,” he repeated. - -“But Price,” said Ralph, eagerly, “do you mean to say that were I -obtaining this small certainty for the present, I should be justified -in marrying? I—we could certainly live on my pay out there. Comfortably -enough, I dare say. But the future. What about that?” - -Mr. Price looked very grave. - -“I trust I am not advising you badly, my dear boy. I can only tell you -what I think. It seems to me that if you and this young lady do really -care for each other, as I believe you do—as I and my poor little -Margaret cared for each other, fifteen years ago,” he said, with a -gentle smile, “in this case,” he went on, “I think you should, to some -extent, brave the future. The probability of your not surviving your -mother is small. And I cannot help feeling more sanguine than you appear -about the way she would act if she were once convinced your decision was -irrevocable. Lady Severn, I have good reason to know, is kind-hearted -and conscientious, though, I must allow, prejudiced; and, perhaps, -naturally so. You don’t think it would be well to make an appeal to her -before doing anything else?” - -“No, I don’t,” said Ralph. “At present it could do no good, and might -do great harm. If I told her anything I must tell all, and imagine the -horrors of her name being bandied about and insulted by my mother and -Miss Vyse! For that girl hears everything. I have a dreadful idea that -her suspicions are already aroused. Besides I should feel myself so much -stronger to lay the case before my mother, if I felt I had something -else to fall back upon. It would prove to her that I was most thoroughly -in earnest. No, my first step must be to see my old chief.” - -Just then their roads parted. They separated with a hearty shake of the -hand, and a few strong words of thanks from Ralph for his former tutor’s -sympathy and advice. - -“You will let me know how it all ends, my dear Ralph,” said Mr. Price, -as he left him. - -“Most certainly. But I shall see you again?” - -“It is doubtful,” replied the tutor. Any day now the Countess may decide -on leaving Altes. And if you set off for England in a few days, we may -be away when you return.” - -“I hope not,” said Ralph. And then he walked home quickly, trying to -arrange his plans in his mind. - -“I should much like to be sure, quite sure, of what Berwick told me,” -he thought; “and yet I see no way of satisfying myself without risk -of committing her to more than at present I have a right to ask. But -I couldn’t endure to go about in an underhand way; prying into her -innocent thoughts and feelings. And on the other hand, I can’t endure -to think that she may now be suffering, through my apparent coldness. -Suffering, my poor little girl—and for me!” - -At that moment he felt inclined to brave all, and rush off to Mrs. -Archer’s on the spot. - -Thinking threw no light on the difficulty. All he could decide upon was -to make immediate preparations for another visit to England; and for the -rest to be guided by circumstances, and by his honest determination to -think first and most of her happiness. - -Notwithstanding, however, all his misgivings and anxieties, the Ralph -Severn who ran lightly up the long stone staircase of No. 5, was a very -different being from the grave, careworn man who had slowly descended -those same steps a few hours previously. - - - - -CHAPTER II. MORE THAN HALF WAY - -“Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, -Could ever hear by tale or history, -The course of true love never did run smooth.” - MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. - -“La doute s’introduit dans l’âme qui rêve, la foi descend dans l’âme qui -souffre.” - - - -THOSE few days had been dull enough for Marion. The weeks of happiness, -unquestioning, if not thoughtless, that had preceded them, had ill -prepared her for the sudden change. For that there was a change, that -some mysterious influence had come between Ralph and her, she felt -convinced. At first she was inclined to ascribe it to Cissy’s unlucky -allusion to Frank Berwick that afternoon on the terrace. But on further -reflection she became convinced that though this might explain part, -it did not throw light on the whole. If Ralph’s feelings to her were -merely, as she had for long believed, those of kindly, almost pitying -friendliness, there could be no reason why the suspicion of her -attachment to another should interfere with their pleasant intercourse. -If, on the other hand, as of late she had half unconsciously begun to -hope, his interest in her was of a far deeper nature, why should he have -allowed all these weeks of almost daily intercourse to elapse, and then -suddenly on the mere shadowy appearance of a possible rival, withdraw -without a word of explanation offered or demanded? - -No, if Ralph indeed “cared for her,” as she softly worded it to herself, -there must be some other obstacle in the way, some more important -influence at work than any mistaken dread of the young officer. Marion -to some extent misunderstood Ralph. She had no idea of his extreme -self contempt, his rooted notion that in all respects he was utterly -unattractive, and unlikely to win a girl’s affection. She, in her sweet -humility, so looked up to him that she could not realize his complete -unconsciousness of the loftiness of the pedestal on which she had -placed. - -But this obstacle, this hindrance, in what then did it consist? wherein -lay its insurmountably? A more worldly-minded or experienced girl -would at once have found an answer to this question in the fact of her -dependent position; but with respect to Ralph himself, this did not -somehow occur to Marion as of much consequence. Yet she was by no means -ignorant of the conventional importance of social position, and had -indeed been keenly alive to the slights, and still more objectionable -condescension, which in her rôle of governess she had not failed to meet -with. Her unworldliness showed itself rather in her perfect trust, her -childlike confidence that were there no other difficulty in the way, -Sir Ralph would not refrain from asking her to be his wife because he -believed her to be a governess. And indeed, though she knew it not, it -was only at times that she realized her present position. It was too new -to her, and she was too conscious of its unreality, for it to influence -save in a passing way her estimate of herself or others. When with Sir -Ralph, she always felt herself to be herself—Marion Vere—his equal in -every sense. In every sense, at least, in which a true woman would -wish to feel herself the equal of the man she loves. And, in an utterly -illogical way, it seemed to her almost as if her knowledge that this -was the case, her assurance that not even from the social point of view -could she be regarded as other than a fit wife for him, must somehow or -other be instinctively recognised by Ralph Severn himself. - -In all these ideas, as we have seen, she was partly right and partly -wrong. - -From her own side, what troubled her most, was the consciousness of the -deception she had practised. This indeed, were it known, might give Lady -Severn a fair and reasonable excuse for the growing antipathy towards -her, of which Marion had for some time felt conscious, while rightly -attributing it to the specious influence of Miss Vyse. And far worse -than this—for Sir Ralph, she knew well, was not the sort of man to like -or dislike at the bidding of another, even though that other were his -nearest relation—what might not be the effect on the young man himself -of the revelation of her falsehood, for such in deed, if not in actual -word, she felt that it deserved to be called? Would he ever forgive it, -ever make allowance for the temptation which had prompted it? It was -not like an isolated act, she said to herself in her sharp -self-condemnation, it was a long series of deception into which she had -been led, or rather allowed herself to fall. All these months she had -been living under false colours; his very kindness to her even, seemed -to her at times to have the scorch of “coals of fire.” Nay, for aught -she knew, anything beyond this same kindness was purely the work of her -imagination, and the little she was sure of, the gentle, almost fatherly -care which he had always shown her, not hers it all, but belonged to -Miss Freer, the poor little governess, who had upon him the claim that -all weak and dependent beings have upon the strong and prosperous. So -she tormented herself, her mind revolving in a circle of ever increasing -wretchedness, doubt and self-reproach. - -Then again, in those long, dull afternoons when she sat by Cissy’s -bedside, or longer, duller evenings, when she had nothing at all to do -but dream by herself in the little salon, there would come gleams of -brightness, beautiful and sudden. A glance round the room, lighting on -some book he had opened when last there, or the terrace where they had -spent such happy hours, or even on the glass which some few days before -had held the flowers he had brought her—any one of these things had -power to shed sunshine through her heart. What did they not recall? -Words all but spoken—slight, lingering touches of her fluttering hair, -the ribbons of her dress, or the bracelet that clasped her round, white -wrist—looks and tones more eloquent than words. Ah, how many silly, -sweet trifles came crowding into her mind! Each with its own precious -message of hope and assurance. - -She rose from her seat at last. (It was the evening of the very day on -which Ralph had met Frank and Mr. Price.) She rose from her seat, and -stood erect in her maidenly dignity. - -“I will believe,” she said to herself, “I will believe and trust him. I -cannot remember his eyes, his voice, and not think him true. It may be -he is not his own master; he is perhaps fettered in some way; I do not, -and probably never may know. But for all that I believe he loves me. My -love has not been given unsought, though it may be he hardly knew he was -seeking it. I will no longer yield to this horrible mortification, this -doubt of myself and of him. Come what may, Ralph Severn mid I have loved -each other.” - -And thereupon Marion found peace. Peace indeed of a somewhat hopeless -kind, but nevertheless infinitely better than the miserable state of -doubt and unrest which had preceded it. - -And as she sat there alone and silent, dreaming, till even the long, -light evening was drawing to a close, she gave the reins to her fancy, -in her endeavour to picture to herself the nature of this barrier, -which, she felt convinced, stood between herself and Ralph. - -One theory after another she rejected as untenable; but curiously enough -the real obstacle, Ralph’s actual want of means, his dependence on his -mother, never once occurred to her. She was not after all intimately -acquainted with the family history of the Severns, and naturally enough, -seeing Ralph the head of a house, whose possessions were generally -spoken of as considerable, the idea of associating poverty with one in -his position, would have appeared to her absurd. - -Suddenly a new solution struck her. Could it be that he was bound in -honour, though not in affection (of the latter she was very sure), to -his beautiful cousin, Florence Vyse? The more she thought of it, the -better it seemed to answer the riddle. Not much of the Altes gossip, so -far as the Severns were concerned, had reached her. Her position in the -family, and her evident dislike to hearing their affairs discussed, had -prevented her hearing much of the tittle-tattle which had been freely -circulated about them. - -Still, now and then, hints had reached her of an “understanding” on the -subject, a family arrangement, of which the principals were Sir -Ralph and the beautiful Florence. Her own observation had long since -discovered that if such were not the state of things, it was from no -backwardness on the part of the lady: but hitherto her thoughts had -never rested on the possibility of there being any foundation in fact, -for the rumours she had heard; for Sir Ralph had been at no to hide -his aversion for his so-called cousin, his more than indifference, -his absolute dislike to her society. Nor had he spoken of her with any -prejudice or exaggeration, which might have been attributed to some -other motive. He had simply allowed it to be plainly seen that he did -not like, even while he could not but, in a sense, admire her. One -expression of his, Marion recalled distinctly. Agreeing with her one -day when she happened to allude incidentally to Miss Vyse’s great and -peculiar beauty, she had heard him whisper, mutter rather, to himself: -“Beautiful, yes, no doubt. But there are some kinds of beauty, than -which I would rather have positive ugliness.” - -All this had long ago decided Marion that the reports which had reached -her on the subject were mere foundationless gossip; never before this -evening had it come home to her girlish heart, with all its fresh belief -in “love,” as the necessary precursor of marriage; never before had -she realized that the case in question might be a sad exception to her -rule—that heart and hand do not always go together—that Ralph himself -might be bound in honour to marry the beautiful Florence, while his -heart had been given to the simple, trusting girl, who long ago had -allowed him to steal away hers in exchange. - -Her quick imagination, once it had seized the clue, was at no loss to -follow out its discovery. “It is all plain to me now,” thought Marion, -“clear its daylight. And it is all over.” - -But as she lay down to sleep her last thought was: - -“I am content with my share. I would rather have his heart. I have got -it and,” she added almost fiercely, “I will keep it.” - -She had sat up later than usual that evening; and the next morning she -was somewhat behind time in making her appearance. The clock struck the -half hour after eight as she finished dressing. Just as she was leaving -her room she heard the front door bell ring; and curious to see who -could be so early a visitor, she passed quickly through the drawing-room -on to the terrace, which sideways overlooked the entrance to the house. -There to her amazement she descried Sir Ralph Severn! What could he be -come about at so unusual an hour? The little mystery however was soon -explained. A slight bustle in the room within, and in another moment -Lofty and Sybil, laden with lovely, fresh flowers, made their appearance -on the terrace. - -“Lotty! Sybil!” she exclaimed “where in the world have you got these -lovely flowers?” - -“From the market,” answered Lotty. “Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Freer? -But they are really more from Sybil than from me. She thought of them -first.” - -“Most from Uncle Ralph, Lotty,” interrupted Sybil, “he wouldn’t let me -pay for them. They are Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, to make the room -look pretty when she gets up in the afternoon. Won’t she be pleased?” - -“I sure she will, you dear children answered Marion. “They are lovely. -We have never had such pretty ones before. And Cissy is so fond of -flowers. Pray thank Sir Ralph very much for getting them, and let me -kiss you, Sybil darling, for having thought of them. You too, dear -Lotty. How early you must have got up!” - -“Oh, yes, we have been up two hours. We were so afraid of being too -late to go to the market with uncle. All these flowers are for Charlie’s -mamma, Miss Freer, but this one is for yourself, Uncle Ralph said,” and -as Sybil spoke, she took out of a corner of her basket where it had been -carefully placed, one perfectly pure white rose. - -Marion took it from her, and held it carefully. “Is it not a beauty?” -said Lotty, but Miss Freer did not answer. - -She turned, and went out again on the terrace. There she stood for a -moment, till Ralph, happening to look up, caught sight of her. His face -flushed, and a smile came over it when he saw what she held in her -hand. But he only bowed, and seemed to have no intention of entering the -house. So she went back to the children and thanked them again for their -pretty gift, and advised them not to keep their uncle waiting. - -When they were gone she at down to her solitary breakfast, with her -heart full of strangely-mingled feelings; while Ralph walked home -absent and preoccupied, and answering much at random to the incessant, -chattering questions of his merry little nieces. - -It is curious how sometimes when we have made up our mind to a certain -course of action, the most unexpected outward occurrences seem, as it -were, to happen on purpose to confirm us in our resolution. - -So it seemed just now to Ralph. The English letters arrived this morning -as he sat at breakfast, after his early visit to the market. Among -them, to his surprise, he recognized one in the handwriting of his “old -chief,” as he called him, Sir Archibald Cunningham. - -“Curious,” thought Ralph as he opened it. “Very, that I should hear from -him just at this crisis. The last man on earth to write a private letter -if he can avoid it.” - -Its contents were, in themselves, unimportant enough, merely requesting -Sir Ralph to forward to him by post one or two additional notes on -the neighbouring patois, which, when in England, he had not thoroughly -revised. The gist of the letter, so far as Ralph was concerned, was -contained in the postscript. - -“I would not have hurried you about these notes,” wrote Sir Archibald, -“but I have decided to leave England much sooner than I expected, -remaining some weeks in Switzerland on my way east. I start, if -possible, next week. I am only delayed by my wish to find out whom I am -likely to get instead of Cameron.” - -“Next week,” thought Ralph; “that’s quick work. I must see him before he -leaves town.” - -And that day saw a letter written and despatched to Sir Archibald -announcing Ralph’s intention of seeing him in London with as little -delay as possible, and giving him some idea of the nature of the -business he was specially anxious to discuss with him. - -Lady Severn was not a little annoyed, when she learnt her son’s -intention of starting again for England on the morrow. - -“It was very strange,” she said, “that Ralph could not have finished all -he had to do in town when he was there before.” - -And she did her best to discover the reason of this sudden move. But -she obtained little satisfaction on the subject from her son. The -remembrance of the last private interview he had had with her, in which -a certain delicate, and to him most unpalatable subject, had for the -first time been openly discussed between them, did not incline him to be -confidential till he was obliged. - -“I shall be only too ready to tell you all about this business of mine -when there is anything to tell, my dear mother,” he said; “at present I -can only assure you such is not the case.” - -Miss Vyse did not mend matters by privately confiding to Lady Severn, -her belief that Sir Ralph had taken such a dislike to her, that he -seized every occasion for absenting himself from the home circle of -which she was at present a member. - -“I am sure I don’t know why he dislikes me so, dear Aunt,” she said -sweetly, with tears in her lustrous eyes. “It is only of late. I can’t -help fancying sometimes”—— but then she stopped. - -“What, my dear Florence? Do tell me, I beseech you. I cannot indeed -understand my son’s conduct; strange and unaccountable as he often has -been, his present behaviour surpasses all. Oh, my dear child, if only -John had lived, you would not have been thus unappreciated! He had such -taste and such amiability of character; and after his wife’s death, per -little thing, he only saw with my eyes. But what is it you fancy?” - -“Pray do not blame me for it, dear Aunt. But I cannot help thinking that -there has been some outside influence at work to turn Sir Ralph from -me—and indeed from you. It is only since his intimacy with Mrs. Archer -and her friend that he has changed so to me. And I am sure I don’t know -why they should dislike me! But I would rather go home, dear Aunt,” she -went on, “truly I would rather go home” (though she was further than -ever from thinking of anything of the sort) “than stay here to be the -unhappy cause of coldness between my dearest, kindest friend and her -son.” - -“Go home, my love, go home! Indeed you shall not think of such a thing,” -exclaimed Lady Severn. “You, my dear Florence, shall not be allowed to -suffer for that foolish boy’s mad infatuation. He forgets, I think, all -that is in my power. But you, my dear, must not dream of leaving me till -you do so for a home of your own.” - -Not so bad for Florence after all! It was the first time she had -succeeded in obtaining from Lady Severn a distinct invitation to take -up her quarters permanently in her household, and she took care by her -vehement expressions of gratitude to clench the proposal, which in a -calmer moment the old lady might not have been in quite such a hurry to -make. - -It was not very cordially that Lady Severn bade adieu to her son that -evening as, accompanied by Miss Vyse, she drove off to an elegant -entertainment given by Mr. Chepstow in the gardens of his pretty little -villa a couple of miles out of Altes. - -Sir Ralph was to leave very early the next morning, and therefore -thought it expedient to make his farewells overnight. He thought himself -very fortunate in that, his farewells not being confined to the ladies -of his own household, Mr. Chepstow’s entertainment left him free to -spend the rest of the evening as he chose. - -But it was no easy task he had set before him. Far from it, for to tell -the truth, he had by no means made up his mind as to what it consisted -in. He was as determined as ever, in no way to allow Marion to commit -herself to any promise, till he felt that he had a better right to ask -such from her. On the other hand, the thought of leaving Altes even for -a few days, without some greater assurance (than that of Frank Berwick’s -communication) of the true state of the young girl’s feelings towards -him, was unendurable. - -Still more repugnant to him was the thought of the strange and -unfavourable light in which his own conduct must appear to her, were -no sort of explanation to take place between them; the worst of all, he -could not bear to go away haunted by the remembrance of her pale face -and anxious eyes, telling of suffering and disappointment of which he -was both the object and the cause. - -He must say something, however little. That was all that he could make -up his mind to. - -What it should be, or how it should be said, circumstances must decide. - -He wondered, as in the cool or the evening he walked to Mrs. Archer’s, -how he should find them. - -Would Marion be alone, her friend not yet well enough to be in the -drawing-room? In that case what should he do? Could he ask for Miss -Freer? Charlie’s “Madymuzelle.” He had never yet done so, and he dreaded -servants’ tongues, even that of the discreet and amiable Thérèse. He -felt considerably at a loss, and when he got to the top of the Rue St. -Thomas, twice turned back and walked some few yards in the opposite -direction while trying to decide on his next step. He might have saved -himself the trouble. Just its he was preparing to ring the bell, the -door was opened—by Marion herself. - -She started slightly when she saw him, - -“Oh,” said she, “I thought it was Dr. Bailey. I heard steps stop at the -door and I ran to open quietly. I wanted to see him alone to ask how he -thinks Mrs. Archer really is.” - -“Is Mrs. Archer worse then?” asked Sir Ralph with interest. - -“No, oh no. I think she is better. Almost well again indeed. But still -I am not satisfied about her somehow, and Dr. Bailey is one of those -people that talks to invalids as if they were babies. I thought perhaps -if I saw him alone he would tell me the truth.” - -All this time they were standing in the doorway, Marion indeed blocking -up the entrance. - -“Are you not going to ask me to come in, Miss Freer?” asked Sir Ralph. - -Marion looked uncomfortable, but could hardly help smiling as she -replied: - -“Mrs. Archer has gone to bed.” - -“Then I shall not have the pleasure of seeing her. All the same, I think -you might have the civility to ask me to come in.” - -Whereupon Marion drew hack laughing, and allowed him to enter the -drawing-room. - -“You are expecting Bailey?” he said; “did he say he would call this -evening?” - -“Yes, at nine o’clock. He wanted to see how Cissy was, after her drive -this afternoon.” - -“At nine,” said Ralph, consulting his watch. “That’s still a quarter -of an hour off. Are you busy, Miss Freer, or may I stay a few minutes?” -adding to himself mentally, “I must take care that old gossip Bailey -does not catch me here, A nice amount of mischief he would make, if he -went chattering to my mother while away.” - -“Oh no, I’m not particularly busy,” replied Marion, rather sadly, it -seemed to Ralph. “Indeed my evenings have been rather dull lately, but I -hope Cissy will soon be all right again.” - -“I hope so too,” said Ralph, and then he sat still, utterly at a loss -what more to say, and how to say it. Marion seemed calm and subdued. -Perfectly free from nervousness or embarrassment, but yet in some subtle -way he was conscious of a change in her. - -He looked at her as she at there opposite him, so quiet and pale. -Spirit-like, she seemed to his fancy, in her white, thin dress: the -faint colourless evening light seeming rather to shadow than illumine -her slight girlish figure. A sort of shiver ran through him. She looked -so fragile, so gentle and subdued. What if this were the beginning of -the end? What if he were thus to lose her? Lose her, before indeed -he could call her his. It was all he could do to control himself, to -refrain from gathering this fair, clinging, child-like creature in his -arms, and telling her that there she should be held for ever. - -But he kept firmly to his resolution. Something of what was in his heart -he would say; but not yet the whole. - -“Miss Freer,” he began. “I wanted particularly to see you this evening, -for to-morrow again I am going away.” - -She looked up at him gravely, but hardly seemed surprised. - -“Then,” she said with a slight, the very slightest, quiver in her voice— -“then you have come to say good-bye.” - -“Not for long, I hope,” he answered. “I am very loth to go, but I think -it is my best course. In a week or two I hope to be back again, and if I -succeed in what I am going to try for, I shall, you may be sure, make -no delay in finding my way here again. I cannot explain to you, -Miss Freer—Marion. I cannot explain to you at present my strange, -inconsistent conduct. But I could not bear to go away without asking -you not to think worse of me than you can help—to trust me for a little. -Just now I cannot defend myself, but I beseech you to think gently -of me. If indeed”—and here in spite of himself his voice grew husky—” -indeed, I am not mistaken in thinking you are likely to have me in -your thoughts at all. If I am mistaken I can only ask you to forgive my -presumption. - -“You are not mistaken,” said Marion, gently, but very clearly. “You -are not mistaken, and now I am not ashamed to tell you so. I do not -altogether understand you, but I do not ask for any explanation till -you can give it me. And if that time should never come I will still not -blame you, and I will not, even then, feel ashamed of having told you -so. I know that in some way you are not your own master, not free to -act as you wish. But I would not feel towards you as I do, if I did not -believe you cared for one thing more than for me.” - -“One thing?” asked Ralph. - -“Yes,” she said. “Doing right, I mean.” - -“Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you for all you have said. Above all, -for trusting me. You are right in what you suspect. I am indeed not -free, but it will not be my fault if I do not succeed in becoming so. -I may fail; in that case I must not ask you to remember me. But, in any -ease, Marion, my dear, true-hearted little friend, thank you for all you -have been to me; and, above all, for not, misjudging me now.” - -He had risen and come nearer her. She too stood up, and did not withdraw -the hand he had taken. But suddenly she started back, snatching it away -almost violently. - -“No, no!” she cried; “I am not as good as you think me. I am not worthy -of you. I have deceived you in letting you think me— Oh, what shall I -do? Must I tell you? Please, don’t ask me to tell you yet. Some day it -may be different, but not just now. You would blame me so.” - -“Hush, Marion; hush, my dear child. I don’t understand you. We both have -mysteries, you see. But don’t distress yourself so. Tell me nothing you -would rather not tell. Some day, as you say, when I can explain all my -strange behaviour to you, you shall then tell me what you please. Do you -think, my poor darling, that I cannot trust you as you trust me? Only -tell me this much. It is nothing that need come between us two, if, as I -hope, in a week or two from now I can see my way clearly.” - -Marion looked relieved, but anxious. - -“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It need not come between us if you -still wished it—cared to have me, I mean. It would depend on that, and -on my father,” she added. “If he would for once agree to my wishes. I -have never opposed him yet; never in anything.” - -But at that moment the clock struck nine. - -“I must go,” said Ralph, “or Bailey will be here. I don’t think your -secret obstacle will be insurmountable from what you say. Probably, you -exaggerate its importance. But before long I trust we may be able to -talk over together all our difficulties and anxieties, which will be the -best way of making an end of them. A fortnight at most will see me back -again. Till then we must hope the best and trust each other. Now I must -go. Good-bye, my darling. You are not angry with me for calling you so? -Good-bye.” - -He held her hand for a moment firmly in his, dropped it suddenly, and -was gone. - -Marion sat down again in her corner, still feeling the strong but gentle -pressure on her hand; still hearing the deep, earnest ring of his voice. - -It was all very strange! Very strange and bewildering and anxious. Just -yet she felt too confused to recall all that had passed. Only the one -strong impression remained in her heart. Ralph Severn loved her, and she -was very happy. - -What was he thinking? - -“I hope I have done right. I hope and trust I have done right. I could -not have said more nor less. It would never have done to tell her -beforehand, sensitive as she is, of the sacrifice, as it would be -called, that I must make to win her. No, now that I am sure of her I -must have everything else settled and done before she hears of it. But -then, again, some difficulty she hinted at on her side, connected, I -have no doubt, with the family disgrace I suspected some time ago. Her -father, she mentioned. Can he have some marriage in view for her? I -should not wonder. Mrs. Archer said more than once that she was not -always to remain a governess. There is something queer about their -affairs I am certain, for even Mrs. Archer, inconsiderate as she -generally is, is reserved about them. But there can be nothing that -would affect my Marion herself. Nothing, now that I am sure she cares -for me. But I wish I were back again! As soon as possible on my return -I must see her, and explain to her my position clearly. Then she must -decide for herself, if she can venture to be a poor man’s wife. A very -poor man by all appearances. But she has a brave spirit of her own! -Fortunately, the quarrel with my mother was not owing to her; so she -need have no feeling of responsibility about it. If there had been no -other woman in the world I would not have married Florence Vyse. Yes, I -see what I must do. As soon as I return with the promise I hope for, -I shall lay the whole before Marion, and, in return, hear from her the -fancied obstacles on her side. Then I will speak to my mother, and give -her a last chance of retaining my affection and respect. But not till -I have first had a thorough explanation with Marion. And supposing my -mission is unsuccessful? Time enough if it is so. I am tired of caution. -It must succeed.” - -And so, full of hope and bright anticipations, he started for England -the next morning. - - - - -CHAPTER III. “FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND.” - -“So, I will lay one kiss -Upon thy hand, and looking through the lights -Of thy soft eyes, whisper the old word -That runs before all detail and change, ‘farewell.’” - ORESTES. - - - -IT was now about the middle of March. Many of the human swallows at -Altes had already taken flight to more northern latitudes, others were -preparing for so doing. The season was an unusually early one. The -midday sun was already too powerful to face without great precautions in -the way of shady hats and parasols, and people no longer congratulated -themselves so triumphantly as a few weeks previously, on being out of -“that dreadful English climate.” - -Even a little London rain would be acceptable, thought Marion, as she -walked home one glaring morning from the Rue des Lauriers. And then -her thoughts flew on to a certain familiar figure at that very moment -probably enough pacing the grey, dreary pavement of the great city -itself. - -Hardly a week had a yet elapsed since Ralph left, but already she was -“wearying” for his return, her heart alternately dancing with sweetest -hopes and trembling with misgivings. - -But she would leave it all to him. Who so wise, so brave, so true? What -lay within human possibility to do, he would, she felt sure, set himself -to achieve. The exact, nature of the complications about him, the -fetters he had himself told her of, she did not just now much trouble -her head about. Vaguely, she imagined them to be connected with Florence -Vyse, though what, if this were the case, could be the special object -of a journey to London, she was at a loss to think. But he had judged it -best not at present to tell her, and she was content to wait for his -own explanation—to be followed, alas! by what she could not bear to -contemplate, the confession of the long deception she had herself -practised. - -She had left home this morning, as usual, early, before the arrival of -the letters, which to-day Cissy was looking for anxiously, the Indian -mail being due. - -When she entered the little drawing-room, she was surprised at not -finding her cousin there. Nor were there about, the room the usual -traces of Mrs. Archer’s recent presence. - -“I hope Cissy is not ill,” thought she anxiously, as she hastened to -Mrs. Archer’s bedroom. - -The door was shut, but “come in,” in Cissy’s voice reassured her. - -On entering the room, however, she stood aghast at the sight before her. -There was Cissy on her knees before a huge trunk, two or three others of -varying dimensions standing with their lids open in a row, while every -article of furniture in the room, bed, tables, chairs, and floor itself, -were literally heaped with the whole of the little lady’s wardrobe. -Dresses, cloaks, shawls, bonnets, boots and linen—the whole of Mrs. -Archer’s possessions seemed suddenly to have been seized with a frenzy -of disorder, while she herself in their midst, her small person almost, -hidden by the overwhelming portmanteau, looked utterly unable to cope -with the chaotic confusion around her. The scene reminded Marion of the -old fairy story of the poor little princess, shut up for twenty-four -hours in a room of tangled threads, all of which by the expiration -of the allotted time, she was ordered, under pain of some tremendous -punishment, to wind with perfect regularity in even skeins for the use -of her tormentor. - -“What are you about, Cissy?” ejaculated her cousin, “Have you lost -anything, have you quarrelled with Madame Poulin and determined to leave -her house on the spot?” - -“Don’t laugh, May, don’t,” said Cissy, beseechingly, looking up as -she spoke. Though the request was unnecessary, as the sight of -her tear-stained face quickly divested her cousin of any risible -inclination. - -“I have had a letter from India—from George. At least part of it is from -him; the rest from his doctor, he could not write much himself.” - -Here Cissy was interrupted by sobs, and for a moment or two could not -control herself sufficiently to go on with her explanation. - -“Here is the letter, read it yourself,” she said at last, handing to -Marion the precious document, “I am beginning to pack, you see. We must -leave this the day after tomorrow. I would have sent to Lady Severn’s to -tell you had you been late of returning.” - -Marion read the letter in silence. It was, as Mrs. Archer had said, -a joint production, begun by her husband, and then gone on with and -concluded by the medical man attending him. For he had been very ill, -this beloved “George” of poor Cissy’s; very ill indeed, Marion could -discover, through the assumedly cheerful tone of the letter. But he was -better now; so much better that Dr. Finlayson, an old friend or Cissy’s, -assured her he wanted nothing more but her nursing and society. He had -got sick leave for six months, and by the end of March hoped to be able -to be moved to a healthy neighbourhood, not far from Simla, where by the -autumn he had every prospect of obtaining the staff appointment he had -long been hoping for. So, as far as climate was concerned, there was -nothing to prevent Cissy’s at once rejoining him, provided always -her own health was sufficiently re-established, which point, said Dr. -Finlayson, Mrs. Archer’s anxiety for her husband must not allow her to -overlook, nor must she omit to consult as to this both her physician at -Altes, and her former medical adviser in England. - -Marion stood staring at the letter without speaking. Was it selfish of -her, that even at this moment of warm commiseration for her cousin, the -effect this sudden move might have on her own prospects, rushed into her -mind? She tried to drive it back, but found it difficult to do so. - -“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, peevishly, for, being in no small terror of -her cousin’s remonstrance as to so sudden and impulsive a step as the -immediate return to England, she was determined, woman-like, to take the -bull by the horns by constituting herself the aggrieved party. - -“Well, Marion, have you nothing to say? You stand there as if you were -asleep, instead of helping me, with all that must be done to let us get -away by Thursday.” - -“But are you really determined to go at once, Cissy? Do you think you -are fit for the journey even to London, or Cheltenham rather? I much -doubt it. Have you seen Dr. Bailey? Dearest Cissy, I am so sorry for -you, but I fear you are not well enough to rejoin Colonel Archer just -yet.” - -“I am well enough to go to India to-day, but I am not well enough to -bear the anxiety of waiting for another mail’s rows. It would kill me, -Marion—kill me, simply,” repeated Cissy, emphatically, “and neither you -nor anyone else who wants to keep me alive, will attempt to stop me. As -for Bailey, he is an old woman and an old fool to the bargain. All the -same, I have sent for him and seen him. He says I am as well able to go -now as I am likely to be for the next year or two, if ever. And whether -it is so or not, Marion, I must go. What is my health to George’s? What -would I care for my life without him? You don’t know what it is to love -anyone, child, as I love my husband. Some day you may, and then you -will understand. But now, I must ask you, beg of you, to harass me by no -remonstrance. I have done all I was told. I have seen Bailey, and will -also see Frobisher at Cheltenham.” - -Marion felt indeed that any interference on her part would be worse than -useless, though a sad foreboding was at her heart, and the tears filled -her eyes, as she looked at poor Cissy’s rapidly changing colour, the too -great brilliance of her eyes, and the nervous working of her thin, white -hands. - -“And Charlie?” was all she asked. - -“He will go, too. George wishes it, and Simla is so healthy. You have -not read the postscript.” - -Which accordingly Marion did; and then proceeded to give way to a most -silly and ill-timed burst of tears! - -“How silly!” stronger-minded young ladies will exclaim. Just so; but -then I am telling all about it, as it happened, and I must not make -my heroine any stronger or wiser than she was, poor little girl. Cissy -should have scolded her, but she didn’t. Instead thereof, she plumped -herself down beside her on the floor, and for a good quarter of an hour, -they cried and sobbed in each other’s arms. Then they sat up and wiped -their eyes, like sensible young women, as in the main they were, kissed -each other, while they ejaculated—“Dearest Cissy,” and “darling May,” -and set to work to think what they must do. - -First of all there was Marion’s engagement with Lady Severn. This, -fortunately, was within a fortnight of expiring, and in answer to a -note of explanation which Marion dispatched, came a sufficiently cordial -reply from her pupils’ grandmother, enclosing a cheque for the fifteen -pounds (which had been all the little governess would agree to accept -for each quarter) owing to the end of the engagement, expressing thanks -for the kindness and attention she had bestowed on her pupils, and -begging her on no account to distress herself at having to leave Altes -before the quarter had fully expired. - -With this came a note for Cissy. It was couched in much heartier -language, and the anxiety expressed as to Colonel Archer’s state of -health was evidently genuine. Lady Severn, in conclusion said she hoped -to call to see Mrs. Archer the following afternoon, and that she had -forgotten to mention that her grand-daughters would be disappointed not -to say goodbye to Miss Freer in person. They would be at home all the -next morning, if “Mrs. Archer’s young friend” could spare a few minutes -to come to see them. - -“How thoughtless of her to propose it,” exclaimed Cissy; “really some -ladies deserve to be governesses themselves for a while, to see how they -would fancy that sort or thing. As if the children could not come to see -you! Oh, May, I am so thankful for you to say goodbye for ever to that -odious Miss Freer.” - -“Are you?” said Marion; “I can’t say if I am or not. Sometimes I detest -her, and then again I feel very grateful to her. Thanks to her I am now -out of debt, any way. This fifteen pounds will come in nicely for the -quarter’s rent.” - -“Very nicely,” said Cissy; “all the same, I’d like to make you eat that -of cat’s cheque!” - -Marion did spare five minutes the following morning, and the parting -with Lotty and Sybil was really a most touching affair. There had been a -secret expedition the previous evening from the Rue des Lauriers, under -the escort of Thérèse’s sister, which resulted in the presentation to -Miss Freer or two original, though not strikingly appropriate parting -gifts. A mantel-piece ornament from Lotty of the china, pottery rather, -of’ the district, and from Sybil a gaily-bound and profusely illustrated -story book, more suited to her tender years than to the maturer taste of -the young governess. - -“All fairy stories, dear Miss Freer,” said the child, trying her best to -keep back her tears, and bear the parting bravely. “All fairy stories, -and Beauty and the Beast is in I looked for the picture, and Jeannette -read me the name, ‘La Belle et la Bête.’ Won’t you like reading it, Miss -Freer?” - -“Yes, indeed, my darlings,” said poor Marion, kissing them for the -twentieth and last time, with a strange wistful questioning in her -heart as to whether she should ever again kiss these sweet, fresh, child -faces, and if so, where and when! Then she ran away without looking, -back, to hide the fast dropping tears that, do what she would, could not -she entirely repressed; and carrying with her the presents on which -had been expended all the available resources of the little girls. Poor -little presents! There came a day when he hid them out of sight, far -away in a high cupboard. Not that she lived to forget her little pupils, -but sad unendurable memories came to associated with them in her mind, -and all she could do was to try to forget. - -She hurried home to the Rue St. Thomas, treading for the last time -the now familiar streets. Hurried home to find Cissy immersed, and but -prostrated, by the terrible business of packing and accounts paying. - -“Leave as much as possible to me, Cissy, dear. I have said my goodbyes, -and am now free to work. You have to be ready for Lady Severn, you know. -The Berwicks, and others, we cannot attempt. You might ask Lady Severn -to explain to them and any one else the reason of our sudden flight. One -thing, Cissy, will you do to oblige me? Give Lady Severn your address at -Cheltenham. It is possible there may be some message to send us through -her. I did not like to ask the children to write, but perhaps they may -think of it.” - -“I don’t suppose any one will help them to do so, poor little things, -even if they wish it,” replied Mrs. Archer. “However, I can easily give -her the address.” - -She did so when Lady Severn and Miss Vyse called to as goodbye. Lady -Severn took the card on which it was written, and after glancing at it, -handed it to Florence, when they reseated themselves in the carriage. - -“You keep it, Florence, dear,” she said; “you have all my addresses. -Though, indeed, I shall not forget it. I have a capital head for -addresses—23, West Parade, Leamington. Yes. 23, West Parade.” - -And after a week’s bustle crowded into a few hours, the little party -set off again on their travels. Just the three, Mrs. Archer, Marion, and -Charlie, for poor Thérèse had to be left behind. Mr. Chepstow sent two -carriages to convey them to the place from which the diligence started, -and was there himself to see them off. He was “really very kind,” they -all agreed. - -But it was sad, this sudden, hurried departure from the place they had -come to know so well. Hardly sad for Cissy, perhaps; her thoughts were -far away eastward, and she only lived in the hope of soon following them -thither. But for her young cousin! Ah, it was very trying. Just a few -short, days before “he” would be back again, when all, she had hoped, -would have been explained between them. She had no hope of meeting him -in London. In all probability he would have left before their arrival, -and even if not, the chances of their meeting were of the most remote. -She did not know his address, and he!—he neither knew of her coming, -nor, should he even hear it from his mother, would he have the slightest -notion where to seek her. No, she must trust that he would write, as, -she felt satisfied he would be sure to do without delay, if he had -anything good to tell. In any case, indeed, she thought, considering the -circumstances, he would write. He was so thoughtful and considerate, and -must have a fair notion of the suspense she was enduring. - -She did what she could before Leaving Altes. Besides the address -given at her request to Lady Severn, she left with Mme. Poulin several -ready-stamped envelopes, similarly directed by herself to Mrs. Archer’s -Cheltenham address, and gave their obliging landlady most particular -injunctions to the forwarding immediately of all letters and notes of -any kind that might be sent after their departure. How she wished she -could have left some directed to her own name and address! The going in -the first place to Cheltenham would add to the delay, but she dared -not venture to do more, and could only trust that a happy ending might -compensate for the present trying suspense. - -It was a hurried and uncomfortable journey, and yet poor Marion could -hardly wish it over, for it was the last she could hope to see of Cissy -for many a long day to come. - -They arrived in London very late in the evening of a chilly, rainy March -day. For this one night Marion accompanied her cousin to her hotel, for -though she had written from Altes to her father announcing their sudden -return to England, she felt more than doubtful of his having received -the letter, as he was much addicted to eccentric flights from home of -two or three days’ duration, and on such occasions did not think it -necessary to leave his address. - -How strange to be in London again, and oh, how dreary and ugly it -looked! How painfully “the national dread of colour” is felt by the -traveller returning home from the brightness and freshness across the -channel! - -“Oh,” exclaimed Marion, “how could I ever have grumbled at Altes -sunshine and heat! I envy you, Cissy. I declare, I wish I were going, to -India with you.” - -“I wish indeed you were, my darling,” quoth Cissy, whose tears in these -days were never far to seek. “But if we are to drop you on our way to -the station, May, it is truly time to go.” - -For Mrs. Archer’s plans were to go straight on to her mother-in-law’s at -Cheltenham, the morning after their arrival in London. - -So their goodbye had to be said in the cab! - -If walls had tongues as well as their proverbial ears, we should want no -other story tellers; but what of the romances we might hear from those -wretchedest of conveyances, London cabs, were they likewise endued with -speech! - -Oh, the broken hearts that, have been jogged along the dirty London -streets since the days when the first “Hackney” saw the light! Oh, the -bright hopes doomed to disappointment, the vows made but to be broken, -the agonies of anxiety, the “farewells” of very utmost anguish, of -which these grumbling, creaking, four-wheelers, or rattling, springing -Hansoms, might tell! For my part I don’t think I should much fancy -spending a night alone in one of l hose dilapidated remains of a -vehicle, “cast,” at last, as no longer possible to use, which we now and -then discern in some dingy corner of a cab proprietors yard. I am quite -sure I should not spend the dark hours alone. Strange shadowy visitors -would occupy the other seats, and long forgotten scenes would be -re-enacted within the small compass of the four wooden walk! No, -assuredly, I should not fancy it at all! - -But to return to our special cab, or rather to its occupants. - -“You will be sure to write to me, Cissy dear from Cheltenham, and tell -me when you really go,” said Marion.” - -“Oh yes, dear, of course, I shall,” replied Mrs. Archer; “and you, May,” -she continued, “must let me know how you find Uncle Vere, and Harry. For -he will be with you soon, won’t, he? It is so easy for him to run up to -town now he is at Woolwich.” - -“Yes, I hope so,” answered Marion somewhat absently; then she added in -a lower voice, while a slight shade of colour came over her face, “Will -you, Cissy dear, be careful to send me on at, once any letters that may -be forwarded to me—to Miss Freer, you know—under cover to Cheltenham?” - -“Certainly, I shall. But do you expect?” asked Mrs. Archer with some -surprise. - -“I don’t know—perhaps,” replied Marion rather confusedly. - -Something in her tone made Cissy turn so as to see her better. Then she -took the girl’s hand in hers, and said gently, very gently: - -“My dearest, is there anything you are anxious about? Once or twice -lately I have half suspected something, but you are not like most girls, -silly and not to be trusted. Indeed I often fancy you are much wiser -than I, and I could not bear to pry into your confidence. But now, -darling, we shall not see each other for so long—perhaps indeed—but no, -I won’t he gloomy. Won’t you tell me if there is anything? Any special -letter you are expecting?” - -“I can’t tell you just now, Cissy. Indeed I can hardly say there is -anything to tell. When, or if, there is I will write to you at once. I -promise you this, dear Cissy.” - -“Or if I can help you in any way?” suggested Cissy rather timidly. “Yes, -if you could, I would as you to do so sooner than any one.” - -“Only one word more, May. You wouldn’t go on screening Harry at the -expense of your happiness? You know how I mean, dear. You would not -allow this idea of your being only a governess to remain in any one’s -mind so as to cause injury to your own prospects? Promise me this, for -if not I shall never forgive myself for having given in to this scheme -of yours at Altes.” - -“Don’t be afraid, Cissy. I have no intention of keeping it up. The very -first opportunity I have, I mean to tell the whole truth to —— you know -whom, for if I ever see him again, he will have a right to hear it.” - -“Thank you for telling me this,” said Cissy, “I only wish he knew it -already! In any case, Marion, however things turn out, you will write -and tell me?” - -“Yes, in any case. I promise you I will,” replied the girl. “But here we -are at my home! Oh, how unhomelike it looks, Cissy! Papa must be away, -but that I don’t mind. Oh, my dear, my darling Cissy, if only you -were not going so far! Whatever shall I do without you, my kind sweet -sister?” - -And all her composure broken down, poor Marion clung to the only near -woman friend she had ever known. She had not thought she would feel -this parting so acutely; and when at last she had torn herself away, and -stood watching the cab drive off slowly, out of sight round the corner -of the square, it seemed indeed to her that she had parted for ever with -her dear, sweet friend. - -It was a small comfort to remember that the faithful Foster, now -transformed into Mrs. Robinson, was to meet poor little Charlie and his -mother at the station, and not forsake them till she saw them off on -their long journey eastward; for Cissy was already half worn out with -fatigue and anxiety, and the parting with Marion had been almost more -than she could stand, poor loving little soul that she was. - -“How thankful I shall be to hear of her being safe with her husband -again! My dear, kind Cissy. But oh, how I shall miss her!” thought -Marion as she entered her gloomy home, with no one to welcome her but -the startled servants; whose faces however did grow brighter when they -saw who it was. Which even, to my thinking, was better than no welcome -at all. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. THE END OF SEPTEMBER. - -“He comes, the herald of a noisy world; -News from all nations lumbering at his back. - . . . . - Messenger of grief - Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some: - To him indifferent whether grief or joy. - THE TASK. - - “Art thou dead? - Dead? - . . . . . - Could from earth’s ways that figure alight - Be lost and I not know ‘twas so? - Of that fresh voice the gay delight - Fade from earth’s air, and I not know!” - MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - - -IT was not, certainly, a pleasant change from Altes to London, for poor -Marion. For a day or two she was perfectly alone, her father, as she had -expected, absent; and she herself too anxious and dispirited to care to -announce her return to the few friends, so-called, with whom she was on -anything like intimate terms. - -On the third day Mr. Vere made his appearance. Marion was sitting alone, -late in the afternoon, in the same room in which we first saw her, when -he returned. She heard him enter the house, she heard his step on the -stair, and rose, half trembling, to greet him. Oh, how she wished she -could feel glad to see him! What she had of late gone through had both -softened and widened her heart. She was very ready to love this father -of hers, if only he would let her, but alas, it was too late in the day -for anything of this kind! - -He came in. A tall, slightly bent, grizzled man. Looking older, -considerably so, than his age, and giving one, somehow, the impression -that he must always have appeared so. - -He shook hands with his daughter in what he intended for a cordial -manner, and then in a jerky sort of way kissed her forehead, as if he -were half ashamed of what he was doing. - -Still, for him, this was a good deal, and Marion tried her best to -respond to it heartily. - -“So you’re back again, my dear,” he remarked by way of greeting. - -“Yes, Papa,” she replied; “I arrived here on Tuesday morning. Poor Cissy -went on to Cheltenham at once to begin her preparations. I have been so -happy at Altes, dear Papa, so very happy. I shall always be so grateful -to you for having allowed me to go with Cissy. And now that I have come -back, I am so anxious to do what I can in return for your kindness. You -must let me be of use to you, Papa—more than I have been hitherto.” - -“Ah, yes, humph, just so!” half grunted, half muttered Mr. Vere. “Very -glad you have enjoyed yourself. I wish I could get a holiday myself. I -am more knocked up than I ever remember feeling before.” - -This was wonderfully communicative and gracious! “I am so sorry. I -thought you were not looking very well,” remarked Marion. But her father -didn’t encourage any further expression of filial solicitude. His head -already half hidden in a newspaper which he had brought into the room -with him, he appeared lost to the world outside its folds. - -Suddenly he startled Marion by speaking again. - -“What’s all this nonsense about Cecilia Archer setting of to India just -now?” he asked; “At this season it’s utter madness! She’ll kill herself -before she gets there. I thought she had more sense.” - -“The doctors have given her leave,” replied Marion: “I believe they -thought the risk would be greater of detaining her at home, when she -is in such anxiety. And besides, she is going to Simla, which is a very -healthy place.” - -“Anxiety, fiddlesticks!” growled Mr. Vere, “what good did anxiety ever -do any one? Simla, humbug! To get there she must pass through the very -worst and unhealthiest part of the whole continent—at this season, -that’s to say; as you might know if you would speak less thoughtlessly.” - -“I am very sorry,” began Marion, but the head had again retired behind -the newspaper, and she said no more. - -In another moment it appeared again. - -“There have been a lot of invitations for you. I did not think it worth -while to send them to Altes. You can look them over, and tell me if -there are any you wish to accept. What gaiety you wish for, you must be -content with early this year, for Lady Barnstaple is going abroad in a -few weeks to some German baths, and I don’t care about your going out -with any one else.” - -“Thank you, Papa,” said Marion, really grateful for the unusual interest -he expressed in her concerns, “I shall look over the invitations but I -don’t think I care very much about going out this year. A very few times -before Lady Barnstaple leaves town, will quite content me. I have a -letter from Harry,” she went on, feeling unusually bold, “he wants to -know if he may come up from Woolwich for next Saturday and Sunday to -see me. It is so long since we have seen each other,” she added -deprecatingly, for something in the way the newspaper rustled, -frightened away her newly found audacity. - -“Harry wants to know if he may come for next Saturday and Sunday, does -he?” said Mr. Vere, very slowly, distinctly emphasizing each word of the -sentence, “then, you will perhaps be so good as to tell him from me that -most certainly he may not come here for Saturday, Sunday, or any other -day, fill I see fit to send for him. Idle young idiot, that he is! I -wonder he is not ashamed to propose such a thing. Had he worked as he -should have done years ago, he might now have been at the head of the -Woolwich academy, instead of being, at seventeen, obliged to cram at a -tutor’s to obtain even a Line commission. And now, forsooth, he thinks -he is to have it all his own way and run up and down to town, whenever -the fancy seizes him! I tell you, Marion, you mean well, I believe, -but if there is to be peace among us, you must be careful what sort of -influence you exert over your brother. I give you fair warning of this. -See that you attend to it.” And so saying, he marched out of the room, -newspaper in hand, without giving his daughter time to reply. - -It was well he did so, for the fast coming tears would have choked her -voice. Though by no means a woman of the lachrymose order, Marion’s -self-control had of late somewhat deserted her, and she had so longed -to see Harry! Not only this, she had come home, though anxious and -depressed, thoroughly determined to fulfil to the best of her power, her -daughter’s duty. The hope that no very long time would elapse, before -she might be taken to a more congenial home, naturally encouraged her -to the better performance of her present duties, before they should be -beyond her power—among the things of the past: and joined to this, was -a half superstitious, hardly acknowledged belief, that according to her -present earnestness in well-doing, would be the measure of her future -happiness. - -Was she more of a heathen, poor little soul, for so thinking, than many, -in their own opinion, far wiser people? Doing good for good’s own sake -is a doctrine not often inculcated, even by those who think themselves -the most “orthodox” and spiritual-minded. - -“Surely, surely,” cries the eager, anxious heart, “if I but bear this -patiently, and to the best of my poor power perform these hard and -uninviting duties, surely I shall at last meet with my reward? The -Father above ‘is not a man that he should lie,’ and has he not promised -‘good things’ to the patient doer of present duty; ‘long days and -blessedness to such as honour his commandments?” - -Such is the unexpressed, unacknowledged hope of many an aching, -longing heart. A hope which perhaps strengthens to do bravely, and bear -uncomplainingly, at times when higher motives might be powerless. - -Vain hopes, unwarranted expectations, are they? Nay, not so. The “good -things” are no dream, the “blessedness” no delusion, though they may not -indeed consist of the one thing craved for by the anguished heart, that -one gift, whatever it be, which at such seasons seems to our dark and -imperfect vision the only blessing worth having, without which existence -itself were no boon! - -And now to poor Marion. Full, as I have said, of her ardent resolutions, -her self-administered incentive to exertion, the thought that if she -were not a good daughter at home, she would never deserve to be placed -in a happier sphere, where duty, become so sweet and attractive, would -no longer be a hard taskmaster, but a smiling handmaiden—now, full of -all these earnest thoughts and aspirations, it was indeed hard upon her, -very hard, to be thus chilled and repelled by her father. - -And at first he had seemed so kind, so much gentler and less reserved -than usual! There was certainly some change in him, which she could not -understand. He was no longer so calm and unbending as he had been—more -impulsive in both ways—kinder, and yet so much more irritable than she -had ever known him. What could be the meaning of it? He looked ill too, -and confessed to not feeling as well as usual. Marion felt anxious and -concerned, and almost forgave him the harshness of that last speech, -though her eyes filled with tears as she recalled it. - -“Oh how sorry Ralph would be for me if he knew it!” she thought. “Oh, if -only I could see him and tell him all my troubles, and ask him to take -care of me for always!” - -And she longed for him so intensely, that had he suddenly entered the -room and stood beside her she would not have been surprised! - -And had she only known it—ah! it tears me even to write it—after all -these years since that dreary March afternoon; and though long since -then, these hopes and sorrows of my poor child’s have faded and softened -into the faint shadows of the past; all, even now, I can hardly bear -to think of it—at that very moment Ralph was in a house on the opposite -side of that very square, closeted with Sir Archibald Cunningham, -while they discussed the business which had brought the younger man to -England, and of which the successful conclusion was sending him back to -Altes the next morning hopeful and elated, feeling strong enough to -face all the world in general, and his mother in particular, now that no -insurmountable obstacle stood between him and the only woman he had ever -loved. - -But this Marion did not, could not, know. - -So she stood by the window in a half dream of vague hope and -expectation. Something, she felt sure, was going to happen: a sensation -often the result of over-strained nerves, or excited imagination, but -for all that none the less consolatory in its way while it lasts. - -What happened was a ring at the bell! It was almost too dark to -distinguish the form of the visitor as he ran up the two or three steps -that separated the hall door from the pavement; in vain Marion strained -her eyes. She could perceive nothing clearly, so she took to listening -breathlessly. - -The door was opened, but shut quickly. - -“No visitor, then,” thought Marion, and her heart sank. But another -moment, and it rose again. - -“Two letters for you, ma’am,” said the servant entering, but as hastily -retreating in search of a light. Letters; ah, yes, good news often comes -by the post, so what may not these contain? - -One from Harry. A few rough, kindly words, begging her not to take it to -heart if her request for his Saturday’s visit was refused by her father. - -“He has been so queer lately,” wrote Harry, “so changeable and -irritable, I am afraid of putting him out, and almost sorry I suggested -it. “Never mind, if he won’t let me come. We are sure to meet before -long. It is a comfort to know you are near at hand.” - -So much from Harry. The other was from Cissy, but it felt thick—was -there, could there be, an enclosure? Yes, sure enough, inside Cissy’s -few loving words of last farewell, it lay. A foreign letter, in an -unfamiliar hand, addressed to, - -MISS FREER, care of Mrs. Archer, - -23, West Parade, - -Cheltenham. - -She tore it open. What a disappointment! A large sheet of thin paper -covered with the text-hand she knew so well. A child’s letter, from poor -little Sybil in fact, folded and directed by the new governess already -installed in place or her dear Miss Freer. - -That was all! Ralph folded the letters. His own to Miss Fryer he -destroyed. - -“Miss Brown is very kind,” wrote Sybil, “but I cry for you when I am in -bed. Uncle Ralph has not come home, but I think he will be very sorry -you have gone away.” - -That was all! - -There was, however, a certain amount of satisfaction in the fact of the -letter come safe to hand. It showed that she need fear no postal delay -or miscarriage, owing to the roundabout manner in which her letters must -come. For Cissy added in a postscript, “I forward the only letter for -Miss Freer that has come, and I am leaving with my mother-in-law (a very -careful and methodical person) most particular directions to forward -at once to you all letters that may arrive to my care, for that same -mysterious young lady.” - -Marion would much have liked at once to reply to poor, affectionate, -little Sybil; but as things were, she thought it better not. - -This, and more important matters, would all be set straight soon—or -never. In the latter case it was better for the child to forget her; -in the former, a short delay in thanking her little friend would be -immaterial. - -For the next few weeks the soul of Marion’s day was the post-hour. - -How she woke and rose early to be ready to hear the ring she came to -know so well. - -How she composed herself to sleep by the thought of what might be coming -in the morning! - -But the weeks went on—the weeks, so easy to write of—but each, alas with -its appalling list of days, and hours, and minutes! Looking back to -the time of her return from Altes, six weeks later, Marion could hardly -believe that mouths, if not years, had not passed since the evening she -parted with Ralph. Her life at this time was strangely solitary. She -saw little of her father, though she had forgotten none of her good -resolutions, and in many hitherto neglected ways, endeavoured to show -him her daughterly affection and anxiety for his comfort. - -He was, on the whole, kinder in manner to her than had been his wont, -but still strangely irritable and uncertain in temper. The change was -remarked by others besides herself; and once or twice commented upon by -some of the more intimate of Mr. Vere’s friends and allies, who now and -then visited at his house. - -“He is wearing himself out. Miss Vere,” said one or these gentlemen to -her, “mind and body. The amount of work he has gone through in the last -few years would have killed most men long ago. He is wearing himself -out.” - -Poor Marion thought it only too probable, and more than ever regretted -the unnatural isolation from his children, in which her father had -chosen to live, which now utterly precluded her from remonstrance or -interference of any kind. - -As the season advanced she went out a little more, under the chaperonage -of her god-mother, Lady Barnstaple. But it was weary work—balls, -concerts—whatever it was, weary and unenjoyable. She had not, naturally, -enough of what are called “animal spirits” to throw off suffering, even -temporarily, under excitement, as many, by no means heartless, women are -able to do. Her indifferent, almost absent manner, came to be remarked -by the few who knew her well enough to notice her; and more than one -desirable “parti,” who had in former days been struck by the girl’s -sweet brightness and gentle gaiety, was frightened away by the -indefinable change that had come over her. - -“Miss Vere looks as if she were going into a decline,” was murmured on -more than one occasion, when her slender figure and pale, grave face -were discerned among the crowd. - -“Such a pity, is it not? And she promised to be so pretty last year. -Do you remember her mother—oh, no, it was long before your time, of -course—Constantia Percy, she was, the Merivale Percies, you know, and -such a lovely creature! They do say Mr. Vere bullied her to death. I -could believe it of him. Those very clever, ambitious men, my dear, are -not the best husbands. Have you heard that a baronetcy is spoken of for -him? No? Ah, then it may be mere gossip,” and so on. - -Not till May did Marion get a glimpse of Harry, and then but a hurried -one. Mr. Vere graciously permitted him to come up to town on his -sister’s birthday, which fell in “the pleasant month.” - -His visit was really the first bright spot in her life since her return -to England. How well and happy he looked! And how sweet it was to be -thanked by his own lips for what she had done for him—done, though she -knew it not, at a priced that had cost her dear! - -For she was still as far as ever from guessing the real nature of the -difficulty that Ralph had alluded to. - -Still she imagined it to be connected with Florence Vyse, and in this -found the only reasonable solution of his continued silence—a silence, -she now began to fear, never likely to be broken or explained. - -A little incident led her to do at last what she had not hitherto felt -fit for,—to write to Cissy a full account of the whole from beginning -to end, and to ask her advice as to the propriety of disclosing to Sir -Ralph the secret of her assumed name and position while at Altes. A -disclosure which, were it to be made, could be done by no one so well as -by Cissy, and which, were it once clearly explained to Sir Ralph, would -satisfy her; even if the result destroyed her last lingering hope that -after all some mistake through her change of name had occurred, that in -some way the mysterious obstacle in the way of his marrying Miss Freer, -might be removed by her appearing in her true colours as Marion Vere. - -If indeed he could forgive the deception! - -It was a few chance words overheard at a dinner party, that led to her -taking this step. - -She had accompanied her father to one or the rare entertainments -he honoured with his presence, and finding herself at dinner very -“stupidly” placed—her neighbour on the right being a discontented -gourmand, (terrible conjunction! a good-natured gourmand being barely -endurable), and he on the left a “highest” church curate, a class with -whom she could never, unlike most young ladies, succeed in “getting on” -as it is called—she gave them both up in despair, and amused herself by -listening to the snatches of conversation that reached her ears. - -Suddenly a name caught her attention. - -“Severn, did you say? Oh yes, I know whom you mean. He was out there -before; at A——, I mean. A peculiar person, is he not? A great linguist, -or philologist, I should say. So he is going out again, you say?” - -“So Sir Archibald told me just before he left. ‘I expect to have my old -vice out again in a few months, when Cameron returns,’ was what he -said. I take some interest in it, as my son and his wife are thinking of -spending next winter out there, for her health.” - -“Oh, indeed!” was the reply in the first voice, and then the -conversation diverged to other topics. - -It was very strange! What could be the meaning of it? It must be the -same “Severn” they spoke of; the description suited, exactly. This did -not look like marrying Florence Vyse! Marion thought it over till her -brain was weary, looked at it first in one light, then in another; the -final result of her cogitations being the letter to Cissy alluded to -above. It was now about the middle of June. By the end of the month she -was hoping to hear of Cissy’s arrival in India; by the end of September, -at latest, she calculated she might receive an answer to her present -letter. - -This done, she felt more at rest than had been the case with her for -many a day. It seemed to her she had acted wisely in allowing no false -dignity to stand between her and the man she loved and trusted so -entirely, and on the other hand the step she had taken in no way -infringed the delicate boundary of her maidenly reserve, in after life -need cause her no blush to look back upon. - -Harry’s vacation was at hand, and he was looking forward with eager -delight to spending it in her society. Marion resolved that he should -not be disappointed of his anticipated pleasure. “The end of September,” -she set before herself as a sort of goal, till then resolving to the -utmost of her power to set aside her personal anxieties, and enjoy the -present. Nor were her endeavours vain. Harry and she had never -been happier together than during these holidays, and she herself -unconsciously regained much of her usual health and elasticity both of -mind and body. - -A fortnight, by their father’s orders, was spent at Brighton. Here, one -day, Altes and its precious associations were suddenly brought to her -mind. Harry and she were strolling on the sands, when a voice beside her -made her start. - -“Could it be, is it then posseeble that I have the plaisir to look at -Mees Feere?” It could be none other than Monsieur de l’Orme. He -indeed it was, as large, or rather as small as life, got up in what he -considered a perfectly unexceptionable English costume, the details of -which can be better imagined than described. Poor little man! He was so -inexpressibly delighted with himself and every one else, that his gaiety -was infectious. - -Marion greeted him cordially. - -“For it is just possible,” thought she, “that through him I may hear -something, however little, of him who is never really absent from my -thoughts.” - -But it was not so. The little Frenchman had left Altes soon after Mrs. -Archer’s departure, and since then had been wandering to and fro, now at -last finding himself at the summit or his desires, a visitor in “le pays -charmant d’Angleterre.” - -His account of his travels was very amusing, only he was so dreadfully -polite about everything. - -London he had found “manifique, tout ce qu’il y a de plus beau,” but -“triste, vairee triste, surtout le Dimanche.” “Laysteer Squarr,” had -not, he confessed, quite come up to his ideal of the much vaunted -comfort Anglais, and the cab fares had struck him as slightly -exorbitant, not being accustomed in France to pay something extra to the -driver over and above the five itself, as he found was always expected -by London cabbies. - -“But my dear Monsieur,” broke in Harry at this point, “you must have -been regularly done. I declare it’s a national disgrace to treat -strangers so!” - -M. de l’Orme looked puzzled. - -“Pardon,” he exclaimed, “I do not quite at all onderstand. Monsieur say, -I have been ‘donne.’ Donne? I request tousand forgives. That I am then -beast! Mais ‘donne.’ C’est bien ‘fini,’ ‘achevé,’ que Monsieur veut -dire?” - -“Oh, no,” said Harry bluntly, “not that at all. Done means cheated, -taken in. You understand now? I meant that the cabbies had been cheating -you, in other words ‘doing you,’ and uncommonly brown too,” he added in -a lower voice. - -“Harry!” said Marion in a tone of remonstrance. - -But M. de l’Orme was really too irresistible, and Harry after all only a -schoolboy. - -They took the little man a walk (Harry worse confounding his confusion -by offering to put him in the way of “doing” Brighton), exhibiting to -him the beauties of this London-super-mare, with which kind attention -he was so charmed, as to be rather at a loss for sufficiently effusive -expressions in English, and obliged consequently to fall back upon his -native tongue. - -Then Harry took upon himself to invite him to dine with them, a -proposal which Marion could not but second; aghast though she was at -her brother’s audacity; for at no hour of the day, and on no day of -the week, were they secure from their father’s swooping down upon them. -Fortunately, however, M. de l’Orme was obliged to leave Brighton at -once, and could not therefore accept their invitation, much to Marion’s -relief, for besides her fear of Mr. Vere’s appearance, she had been -every moment in terror of the little Frenchman coming, out with some -allusion to her pupils at Altes. - -But the Severn family was not mentioned till the last moment, when M. de -l’Orme observed casually that several of their Altes acquaintances -were spending the summer in Switzerland. The Berwicks, he said, were -a Lausanne, and “Miladi Sevèrne” had taken a maison de champaigne at -Vevey. - -“All’s well that ends well,” and Marion was thankful when their friend -had bidden them an overflowing farewell, and taken himself off in an -opposite direction. - -By the middle of August Harry was off again, for what he trusted would -be his last half-year at the Woolwich tutor’s; and Marion returned -to her lonely life, brightened only by the hope that the end of the -following month would bring her an answer from Cissy. - -No letter from her cousin had yet reached her; but from the elder Mrs. -Archer at Cheltenham she had heard of the traveller’s safe arrival at -their destination. These few weeks were not so bad as those immediately -succeeding her return home. To certain people, weak-minded ones perhaps, -in such circumstances, the looking forward to a distinct goal is a great -help! But still it was weary work. All sorts of torturing fears would -now and then rush into her mind—that Ralph would have left for the East -before any communication from Cissy could reach him—that he would never -forgive her deception—that he was already married to Miss Vyse; these -and a hundred other “thick coming fancies” from time to time came to -torment her; above all, in the middle of the night, would they crowd -upon her, ten-fold deepened and magnified, by the strange power of the -all-surrounding darkness and silence. - -It sometimes struck her as curious that she never dreamt of Ralph; for -naturally she was a great dreamer, and since infancy had been accustomed -to live over again in “mid-night fantasy,” the pleasures and sorrows, -the hopes and disappointments of the day. - -The end of September came at last. The Indian mail was in, but as yet -no letters for her. Still she was not disheartened. Not improbably -Cissy might have enclosed hers in a budget to her mother-in-law; or even -supposing the worst, that her cousin had been prevented writing at once, -she must just extend a little further her laboriously acquired patience, -and hope for what the next mail might bring. - -She rose early on the morning of the 30th, and sat at the dining room -window, watching for the postman, as had come to be a habit with her. He -came at last. Brown, the discreet, seemed to guess she was eager to hear -what he had brought. For before she asked any question, he announced, -“No letters for you, ma’am—all for my master.” - -She thought she had not expected any, but still ——. In another minute -a second ring at the front bell was explained by Brown’s re-appearance, -with the Times, which she took up, though hardly caring to see it, and -amused herself in the listless way people often do, when perhaps -their hears are well-nigh bursting with anxiety, by glancing over the -advertisement sheet. - -“Births. No, no one that I care about I’m sure. I wonder what people -do with all these hosts of children! There are some names—the wife of a -somebody James., Esq., Notting Hill; and another, the better half of a -Rev. Mr. Watson, in the midland counties, who, I really do believe, make -their appearance here at least once a mouth! - -“Marriages. Yes, I may happen to see some I know of. Ah, I declare! Well -I need not waste any more pity on you, my dear sir.” - -“ ‘At Calcutta, on the so-and-so, by the Reverend, &c., Francis Hunter -Berwick, Captain 81st Bengal Native Infantry, and Acting Commissioner -in Oude, to Dora Isabella, eldest daughter of R. D. Bailey, Esq., M. D.’ -Poor little thing! I daresay she’ll be very happy! But how strange it -seems. So soon alter. Well, never mind. I’m very glad.” - -So Marion soliloquised. Having gone through the marriages, she was on -the point of throwing the paper aside, when it occurred to her to look -if among the deaths was announced that of a very old gentleman, their -next door neighbour, whose funeral had taken place the previous day. A -moment, and the paper fell from her hands, to be clutched at again, and -glared at by the stony, unbelieving eyes, which one would hardly have -recognised as the sweet, tender Marion’s! Then a burst of wild, bitter -sobbing—an abandonment of grief, very piteous to see. Poor girl, poor -solitary child! This was the first time it had come so near her, the -first time she had felt that agonising grief—the wild cry of revolt -against the awful law of our nature, which, at such seasons, rends us -with despair. God be thanked, He Himself hears that terrible cry, “and -pitieth.” His poor children! This was what Marion saw in the death -column of the Times. - -“On the 10th of August, at Landour, North West Provinces, suddenly, -Cecilia May Vere, aged 28, the beloved wife of Lieut.-Colonel Archer, -H.M.’s 101st Regiment, and only daughter of the late Charles Hope-Lacy, -Esq. of Wyesham, ——shire.” - - - - -CHAPTER V. ORPHANED. - -“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” - MACBETH. - -“L’incertitude est vraiment le pire de tous les maux parcequ’il est le -seul qui suspend nécessairement les ressorts de l’âme, et qui ajourue le -courage.” - OCTAVE FEUILLET. - - - -MR. VERE breakfasted alone that morning. He was surprised at his -daughter’s absence, more particularly as he was considerably later -than usual, having had a sleepless night. In spite of himself he was -beginning insensibly to feel pleasure in Marion’s society. Of late he -had felt strangely weakened and unhinged, and when obliged by utter -weariness to rest from his usual occupations, he found it soothing and -refreshing to watch his gentle little daughter. She was just the sort of -woman one could imagine at home in a sick room. Calm, cheerful, and with -immense “tact” of the very best kind—that which springs from no worldly -notions of policy or expediency, but from the habit of consideration -for others—the quick instinctive sympathy which may be cultivated, but -hardly, I think, acquired. - -So, as the breakfast was getting cold and no Marion appeared, Mr. Vere -fidgeted and fussed, and ended by ringing the bell, and desiring Brown -to enquire the reason of Miss Vere’s absence. - -The servant soon reappeared. - -“Mrs. Evans wished me to say, sir, that Miss Vere is rather upset this -morning. Indeed she thinks Miss Vere must have had some bad news, and -she would be glad, if so be as you could step up to her room, sir, as -before you go out.” - -“Bad news!” exclaimed Mr. Vere, “nonsense. If there had been any bad -news I should have heard it.” - -But his hand shook as he hastily emptied his coffee-cup; and without -further delay he hastened up to his daughter’s room. It was the first -time for years that he had been in it, and, as he entered, he was struck -by its plainness and simplicity. It was the same room she had had as -a child, and her innocent girl life might almost have been read in a -glance at its arrangements and contents. There were the book-shelves on -the wall, the upper ones filled with the child’s treasures she had not -liked to set aside; the lower ones with the favourites of her later -years. There were the plaster casts she had saved her pence to buy -many years ago, now somewhat yellowed and disfigured by London fogs -and smoke. The framed photograph of Harry over the mantel-piece, and a -little water-colour sketch of the dear old cottage at Brackley, the only -pictures on the walls. - -Somehow it all came home to the father’s heart, and for almost the first -time a strange misgiving seized him. Had he after all done wisely in -the life he had marked out for himself? Had he not deliberately put away -from him treasures near at hand, which, now that failing health of mind -and body was creeping upon him, might have been to him the sweetest of -consolations—strength to his weakness, comfort in his need? - -Nor were his misgivings merely from this selfish point of view. -Something of fatherly yearning towards his child, pity for her -loneliness and admiration of the gentle, uncomplaining patience with -which, of late especially, she had borne his coldness and irritability, -caused him to speak very kindly, and touch her very softly, as he -stood beside the bed on which, in her paroxysm of grief, she had thrown -herself, her face buried in the pillows. - -“Marion, my dear,” he said, “you alarm me. What can be the matter, my -poor child? Surely, surely,” he went on hurriedly, as for the first time -a dreadful possibility occurred to him, “there can be nothing wrong with -Harry?” - -She sat up, mechanically pushing back from her temples the hair, usually -so neat and smooth, which had fallen loose as she lay. Her father caught -her upraised hand, and held it gently in his. But she seemed hardly -conscious of the unusual kindness of his manner. - -“No, not Harry,” she replied, “but, oh, Papa, look here,” and as she -spoke, with her other hand she pointed to those dreadful four lines -in the newspaper lying on the pillow beside her, “it is Cissy, my dear -Cissy—the only sister I ever had—my own dear, kind Cissy.” And the sobs -burst out again as violently as at first. Mr. Vere, hardly understanding -what she said, stared at the place she pointed out, but for a minute or -two could not decipher the words. - -When their meaning at last broke upon him, he staggered and almost fell. - -“This is very dreadful,” he said, “very sad and dreadful. So young -and bright and happy! My poor little Cissy! It is like her mother over -again. Marion, my dearest child, you can hardly feel this more than I -do. You don’t know all it brings back to me.” - -And Marion, now glancing at her father, saw his face pale with deep -emotion, while one or two large tears gathered in his eyes. - -It was the best thing to bring her back to herself. - -“My poor father,” she thought, “how I have misjudged you!” And with a -sudden loving impulse, she threw her arms round his neck, and clung to -him as she had hardly, even in her confiding infancy, ever clung to him -before. Nor was she repulsed. - -In a little while her father spoke to her; kindly and gently, in a way -she would hardly have believed it possible for him to speak; he, in -general, so cold and satirical, so unbending and severe. - -He left her in a short time, promising to write at once to Cheltenham -for details of this sad news; and volunteering also to send for Harry -for a day or two, that she might feel less solitary in her grief. - -This kindness soothed and calmed her, and in an hour or two she crept -down stairs, and tried to employ herself as usual. But it would not -do. Ever and anon it rushed upon her with overwhelming force, the -remembrance of those dreadful printed words:— - -“On the 10th of August, Cecilia Mary Vere.” - -“The 10th of August,” that was the time she and Harry were at Brighton, -possibly the very day they were talking and laughing with M. de l’Orme! - -And then another thought, of aggravating misery, occurred to her. With -Cissy had gone the last, the very last link between herself and Ralph! -Ralph, whom more than ever in this her time of sorrow, she hungered for; -Ralph, whom she could not live without. - -“If only he were here,” she thought, “merely to sit beside me and hold -my hand, even though I knew he was never to be more to me afterwards! -Oh, if only, only, he knew of my bitter grief, he would, I know, find -some way to comfort me. But he will never, never know it, never hear of -me again. For most likely my poor Cissy never got my letter at all. Oh, -why are things so cruel upon me? Why may I not be happy? Why could not -my one, only woman friend have been left me? It is more than I can bear, -this losing Ralph again. For I had been counting so on Cissy. - -And the sad, weary day went by, followed by others as sad and weary, -and Marion thought she had drained sorrow to its dregs. She had only one -comfort—her father’s continued kindness and gentleness. She clung to him -wonderfully, poor child, in those days; but more was before her that -she little thought of. In her absorption she did not observe Mr. Vere’s -increasing illness; but when Harry me home on the following Saturday -he was much startled by it, and amazed, too, at the strange, unwonted -softness and tenderness almost, of his father’s manner to both his -sister and himself, though especially to the former. - -Before leaving Marion on the Monday the boy debated with himself whether -he should confide his misgivings to her. But he decided that it was -better not to do so. - -“It is not as if she could do any good,” thought he, “and after all I -may be exaggerating the change in my father. I think it is as much -his unusual kindness as his looking ill that has struck me so. May has -trouble enough already.” - -Still it was with a strange feeling of anxiety and impending sorrow, -that he shook hands with his father and kissed his sister that Monday -morning, when he left them to return to his tutor’s. - -His presentiments were realized only too correctly. On the following -Friday he was telegraphed for, and arrived at home to find his father -already dead, and Marion sitting by his bedside in speechless, tearless -sorrow. - -“Just as he was beginning to care for is a little,” she said, in a dull, -husky voice, that did not sound the least like her own. “Oh, Harry, I -am so lonely, so miserable! I have only you, and soon you will be going -away. Except for you I wish I might die.” - -It was very pitiful. These two solitary children clinging to each other -in their great desolation, as, long ago, they had clung to each other -for comfort in their little trifling child! - -“It,” Marion whispered to her brother, “had been very sudden, dreadfully -sudden.” Mr. Vere had been presiding at a large public meeting the day -before that or his death, and had come home late, saying he felt tired. - -“But I never thought he was really ill, Harry,” said Marion; “I had no -idea of it. At breakfast yesterday morning he seemed very well. He got -several letters, and read them while he eat his breakfast.” - -“Could there have been anything in his letters to startle or annoy him?” -suggested Harry. - -“No, I think not. I have them all here. Among them was one from young -Mr. Baldwin—Geoffrey Baldwin, you remember, Harry?—saying that he -would come to see him, as he wished, ‘to-morrow or Monday.’ Papa seemed -pleased at this, and gave me the letter to read. He began to speak about -Mr. Baldwin, and told him he had appointed him our guardian, or trustee, -in his will. It surprised me a little his talking this way to me. He has -generally been so reserved about these sort of things.” - -“He must have known he was very ill,” said Harry. “He said something -to me about his will last Sunday. He told me that he wished to give a -little more attention to his private affairs than he had found time for, -for some years past. Indeed, Marion, I may be mistaken, but I have a -sort of idea that though every one has seemed to consider my father a -rich man, he was not really so. He has spent an immense deal of money -on public matters one way and another. That contested election two years -ago, and lots of subscriptions and things always going on. It’s always -the way with ‘public men,’ they neglect their own affairs to look after -everybody else’s. I hope I may be mistaken, but I have my fears that we -shall not be rich by any means.” - -“I don’t care,” said Marion; “I would be just as miserable if we had -millions. I don’t care for money. But I wish you would not talk about -money, Harry. It seems too horrible—so soon—only yesterday!” - -“Don’t think me heartless, dear May,” said the boy. “For myself I truly -don’t care. I could go to India. It was only for you. Did my father say -nothing more to you?” - -“No,” replied his sister; “at least only a word or two almost at -the last, before he became unconscious. He went up to his room after -breakfast, and about half-an-hour after, Brown heard a heavy fall. He -ran upstairs and found him, as he told you, in a sort of fit. I don’t -understand what it was exactly. He lifted him on to his bed and sent for -a doctor before telling me. Poor Brown, he was very kind and thoughtful! -A little after the doctor came Papa grew slightly better, and asked for -me. I was beside him. He signed for me to kiss him, and whispered to me: -‘You have been my dear little daughter. It was a great mistake, but -you will forgive me. Poor Harry too.’ Then he grew uneasy, and muttered -something about ‘sending for Baldwin, hoping it would be all right for -them, poor children.’ I bent down and said, ‘Yes, clear Papa, it will -be all right.’ He seemed pleased and smiled at me, but he did not speak -again to me. Only I heard him whisper to himself very, very low—no one -else heard it—the prayer of the poor publican, Harry: ‘Lord, be merciful -to me a sinner.’ Then he lay quite still, seeming not to suffer at all. -I had laid my head down for a minute when the doctor spoke to me. Then l -knew, Harry. Oh, poor papa! Poor Papa! We did not think we cared so much -for him, did we, Harry?” - -“No,” said the boy, “nor that he cared for us.” - -There was no exaggeration about their grief. Mr. Vere had not been -an affectionate father, and his death was far from being to them the -overwhelming, utterly prostrating blow, that the loss of a parent -is felt to be in some happier families. Nevertheless it was, more -especially from its suddenness, a very terrible shock, to Marion, in -particular, whose life for several months had been one of constant -suspense and disappointment, culminating in the great grief of her -cousin’s death. And young natures after all, with rare exceptions, are -sweet and generous, ready to forgive and forget, not backward to give -their love on slight enough encouragement. - -Mr. Baldwin came late on Monday evening. Harry received him, but Marion -was tired, and begged not to be asked to see him, or any one, till after -the funeral was over. Mr. Vere had left directions that this should -take place very quietly; in consequence of which only a few of his most -intimate friends were present. It was evident that he had for some time -past suspected the state of his own health. Only two days before he -had called on his lawyer about some slight addition to his will, which -however there had not been time to execute; and had left with him a -letter of directions; as to the arrangements of his funeral, in case of -his death occurring suddenly, as he had been warned might possibly be -the case. - -So though the papers were full of the sudden death of the great man, -each vying with the others as to the extent and accuracy of their -biographical notices, the actual mourners were few; and with but little -of outward parade or ostentation, the mortal remains of Hartford Vere -were carried to the grave. - -Ralph Severn, sitting at breakfast that morning in his mother’s villa at -Vevey, observed casually that the Member for —— was dead. - -“A useful man he was a very useful man. His party will miss him -exceedingly. There are rumours, I see, that his private affairs are in -some confusion. Always the case with these public men. I hope, however, -it may not be true.” - -“Was he a friend of yours, then?” asked Florence. - -“O dear, no,” replied he, “I have seen him, of course, and heard him -speak. But I never spoke to him. I am far too small a person to be hand -in glove with the leading politicians of the day. But I should be sorry -to think that a man who had spent his life, as he believed, for the good -of his country, should leave his family unprovided for.” - -“Has he left a large family?” asked Lady Severn. - -“No,” said Ralph, consulting the paper; “a son and a daughter, I think -it said somewhere. His wife died many years ago. By the bye, she was -one of those beautiful Miss Percies of Merivale, mother. You remember -Merivale, of course? That queer old place near my Uncle Brackley’s. It -is sold now, but the last time I was in Brentshire I went to see it. The -Veres were Brentshire people, too, were they not?” - -“Oh dear, yes, one of the oldest families there,” said Lady Severn, -who prided herself on her genealogical accuracy, and was supposed to be -particularly well up in Brentshire family lore, Lord Brackley, the great -man of the county, being her step-brother. “I remember them well long -ago. But the present head of the family, this Mr. Vere’s uncle or -cousin, I forget which, married a great heiress, and emigrated to some -other country.” - -“Ah, indeed!” replied Sir Ralph, for whom these details possessed no -peculiar interest, and whose thoughts were just then painfully engrossed -by private troubles of his own, complicated of late in an altogether -unexpected way. “Ah, indeed!” said he, and straightway forgot all about -the death of Mr. Vere, and fell to thinking of very different matters. - -To return, however, to our poor little Marion. - -On the morning of the funeral she received at last what she had so long -been looking for—an Indian letter! Not, alas! in the familiar hand that -was wont to cause her such pleasure; for in all the seven years of her -married life in the East, Mrs. Archer had seldom allowed a mail to pass -without writing to her little cousin—that dear handwriting she would -never, never see again. This letter had a deep black border, and the -address was written in a firm, large hand, very different from Cissy’s -characteristic scratch. It was from Colonel Archer. - -Some few, sad details, it gave of Cissy’s last illness and death (the -first Marion had received, for the elder Mrs. Archer had been ill, and -unable to reply to Mr. Vere’s enquiries), the suddenness of which had -been its most distressing feature, for she had suffered little, poor -Cissy. Some blunt, strong words of his own agony, at losing, her, which -told that poor George Archer’s heart was all but broken. And then her -last message to Marion, when too nearly gone almost to speak. George had -written them down, he said, at once, for fear of possible mistake—the -faint, fluttering words of the tender, affectionate heart. “Tell dear -May,” she had said, “I have done what she wished, and I hope they will -be very happy.” - -That was all—the message, and a little lock of the bright fair hair -Marion knew so well, cut off, gently and reverently, from his dead -wife’s head, by the husband she had loved so devotedly. - -All, but how much! Enough to turn the grey world rosy again, to -bathe all around her in golden light, to fill her heart with joy and -thankfulness, which she tried in vain to banish by the recollection that -today her father was to be buried. - -“Oh, am I wicked, am I heartless?” she asked herself. “God forgive me -if I am. But I was so broken down, so hopeless, and now all seems so -different! By now even, this very day perhaps, Ralph will know it all, -will have received Cissy’s letter, explaining away all the trouble, so -far, at least, as I was concerned. Sooner even than to-day, for Cissy -must have written before her illness began. Yes, sooner, surely. Any day -I may look for a letter from him if, as I feel convinced, some mistake -or misapprehension has been at the root of his strange silence.” - -And in proportion to her previous hopelessness and despair, was her -present sanguine belief that all would soon be well. - -In the afternoon of that day, when “all was over,” as people say, the -will read, and the few guests departed, Harry ran upstairs to beg Marion -to come down to see Mr. Baldwin, who was going to remain with them for a -day or two. Her presence at the reading of the will had been suggested, -but not after all considered advisable; for as Harry, poor boy, had -feared, the will itself, and still more Mr. Crooke the lawyer’s comments -thereupon, had revealed that the state of the dead man’s affairs was the -reverse of satisfactory, and it was thought well that Marion should be -spared the shock to her feelings of such a disclosure in public. - -Some hint of this Harry gave to his sister as they went downstairs -together. He was somewhat disappointed that she did not say again, as -she had said the other day, “I don’t care about money, Harry, truly I -don’t.” - -“After all, I fear she does care,” thought her brother. Mr. Baldwin was -in the library, Harry said, and thither they went. - -When they entered the room he was standing with his back to the door, -looking out of the window. A tall, powerful figure, hands in pockets, -clad in tweed and velvet shooting coat, for which, by his young host’s -permission, he had already exchanged the uncongenial black, in which he -had performed his part as second chief mourner in the morning. But he -started when Harry’s voice reached him; he had not known that the boy -had gone to fetch his sister. - -“I have persuaded May to come down to make tea for us, Baldwin,” said -Harry. - -Geoffrey Baldwin wheeled round suddenly, and his handsome face flushed. - -“Miss Vere,” he exclaimed, almost before he saw her; “that’s too bad of -you, Harry—not to have warned me, I mean. I thought we were to be alone. -Miss Vere, you must excuse me, really. I had no business to change my -clothes, but I didn’t know I should see you to-day.” - -Even as he finished the words he had begun, a curious expression came -over his face, and seemed to affect the tone of his voice. Marion hardly -at first understood it. - -“Never mind,” she said quietly, “I am sure people’s clothes have nothing -to do with their feelings.” - -Mr. Baldwin did not reply. He stood staring at her, regularly staring, -in a way that in any one else would have been offensive and rude. But -he did it so simply, so unconsciously almost, that the only feeling it -aroused in Marion was an extreme, almost nervous wish to laugh. Then it -flashed upon her. - -“I know why you look so amazed, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed. “You can’t -remember where you saw me before. I can tell you. It was at the railway -station, nearly a year ago,” she added, with an imperceptible sob in her -voice. - -A look of extreme satisfaction overspread his face. - -“Thank you for reminding me. I am so very glad. Yes, it was just then. -You had a little boy with you?” - -“Yes,” she replied, “little Charlie Archer. I was on my way abroad with -his mother. Harry!” she turned to him appealingly. It was too fresh yet -for her to tell it herself. But he understood her, and in a few words -explained to Mr. Baldwin what Marion could not find voice to tell. - -The fair face before her was softened by a look of almost womanly -commiseration, though all he said was the commonplace phrase, - -“I am very sorry to hear it.” - -He was wonderfully good-looking, and of a thoroughly manly type of -beauty. Tall, as I have said, but firm and compact, the features almost -perfect of their kind, and the colouring unusually rich and mellow, if -such a word can be applied to a human face. The hair was of that bright, -sunny hue, on which, however in the shade, some light always seems to -linger; the eyes unmistakeably blue, honest, laughing, what I have heard -called “well opened eyes,” set round by thick, soft fringes, curling -like a girl’s. A pleasant mouth too, lips closed in repose, though -usually open enough to show the clear, even, white teeth within. But -nothing in the mouth or lower jaw to spoil the beautiful whole, as is -not unfrequently the case in such great physical perfection, by its -confession of spiritual weakness, undue preponderance of the lower part -of our nature over the higher. No, if Geoffrey Baldwin’s mouth told -tales at all, they were of too great sensitiveness, too quick a -sympathy, too impulsive a heart, to be altogether well managed and -directed by the intellectual powers with which nature had gifted him. -For although of average ability and intelligence, he was certainly not -a clever man, in the ordinary sense of the word. “An illiterate -clod-hopper,” he called himself, but that was far too severe. Feel -deeply, very deeply, he could, and often, perhaps on the whole too -often, did. But as for thinking deeply! It made his head ache, he said, -and after all what was the good of it? - -He knew well and thoroughly all required of him in his daily life, which -was that of a gentleman farmer, and so long as that was the case, he -couldn’t for the life of him see what more learning he wanted. - -But honest as the day, brave as a lion, and tender as a lamb, -chivalrous, with a chivalry that is fast going out of fashion, generous -and unsuspicious to a fault—though he went to sleep over Tennyson, -and preferred a ride across country to the most exquisite music ever -heard—after all, the world would not be the worse of a few more like -you, Geoffrey Baldwin. - -Then they talked a little of old days, and Geoffrey blushed more than -Marion, when some of their escapades were referred to—their tumbling -into the brook and his fishing them out; their “hare and hounds,” when -the hare, and she, perched on Geoffrey’s shoulder, the terrible horseman -pursuit. And another remembrance came to Geoffrey’s mind, though this -he kept to himself. Of a day when, in return for some special act of -kindness, little May had clambered on to his knee and kissed and bugged -him right honestly, while she promised, voluntarily too, that if only -“Jeff” would wait till she was big she would marry him, she would -indeed, really and truly, or “in truality,” which was her childish mode -of asseveration. - -“What a little tomboy I must have been,” said Marion, and then she added -dreamily, “I wonder if I shall ever see that Brackley cottage again!” - -“I hope so,” said Harry cheerfully, but he looked uncomfortable, and -glanced appealingly at Geoffrey, who in turn frowned slightly, and -seemed at a loss. So Harry spoke. - -“May, dear,” he said, “I must go back to Woolwich so soon, and Mr. -Baldwin too has little time to spare, that if you don’t mind, I think we -had better explain to you a little how things are. It won’t take long. -We need not go into details with you, but you see we shall not have much -time to consult together.” - -“No,” said Marion, “we shall not. I am quite ready to listen. I don’t -understand business matters much, but you won’t mind?” she added, half -appealingly, to Mr. Baldwin; “I know Papa told me he had asked you to -take charge of things for us. I am very glad. It is so much nicer than a -stranger.” - -She spoke quietly, but with a slight sinking at her heart, why, she -could hardly have told. Was some fresh trouble before her? Some new -obstacle in her path, just as she fancied it was going to be made clear? -Supposing she were utterly penniless. What then? She might be obliged -to become a governess in reality. How might not this affect her possible -relations to Ralph? Would it be right for her, in that case, to think of -him, or rather, to allow him to think of her? All this flashed through -her mind in a bewildering, perplexing whirl. She had time to think -a little, for Mr. Baldwin appeared to hesitate somewhat to begin his -statement. - -“Please tell me,” she said at last. “Never mind how bad it is. I would -so much rather know. Have we nothing at all to live on? Is that it?” - -“No, no, May!” said Harry, eagerly. - -And “Oh, no, Miss Vere! Indeed, no!” exclaimed Mr. Baldwin. But her thus -fearing the worst made it easier to tell the whole. - -Of their father’s large property, but a comparatively small portion, -after all liabilities were cleared off, remained to them. For many -years, it was evident that Mr. Vere must have lived beyond his income, -though he himself, not improbably, had been unaware of the fact. Then, -when this state of things had been suddenly brought before him, how -or when, no one knew, it appeared that by hasty, ill-considered -speculation, he had endeavoured to retrieve himself. In vain; more -and yet more had been sunk, and still he had persisted in more deeply -involving himself, till at last all was gone, save some few thousands -of ready money, originally intended as a settlement on his wife, but of -which the deed had never been executed. So, in all probability, had his -life been extended, this would have gone the way of the rest, and his -children might have been left beggars. - -“I see,” said Marion, “but I am sure Papa did it for the best. Don’t say -any more about it, but just tell me how much there is left. How much we -shall have to live on, I mean.” - -“I can’t tell you quite exactly,” said Mr. Baldwin, “till we decide -what to do with this house, the furniture, &c. There is a long lease to -dispose of and the furniture, I suppose, is valuable. But to give you a -rough idea,” he went on, consulting a note book in his hand. “I should -think, after all is cleared, you and Harry will have about—mind I only -say about—four hundred a year between you. The ready money is at present -in the Mallingford hank, the bank of which my father used to be the -head, you know, Miss Vere. If the other trustee, a cousin of your -father’s, who is at present abroad, wishes to put it anywhere else, I -shall have no objection, though for my own part I think it may as well -stay where it is. The old bank’s as safe as can be. All my own money is -there, which shows what I think of it. Still I don’t profess to be -much of a man of business and I should like to have Mr. Framley Vere’s -opinion. I am sadly afraid I shall make a very poor trustee! I don’t -like to say “guardian,” to such wards, for I honestly believe you are -both much wiser than I. I fear your poor father must have credited me -with some of my own father’s long-headedness as to money matters, and if -so the result will prove he was mistaken. I however can only do my best. -Only pray don’t ever ask me anything I should not consent to, for I -could not possibly refuse you.” - -He spoke lightly, and as if to both, but his eyes rested on Marion. She -was touched by his frankness and simplicity, his kindness of voice and -manner, and, in all innocence and child-like confidence, she held out -her hand to him, saying warmly, “Thank you, Mr. Baldwin for explaining -it to me so kindly. I am quite sure I shall never wish for another -guardian any way.” - -Geoffrey took the little hand, softly, reverently almost, in his -own great strong one. A deep flush spread over his face, for though -sunburnt, he was naturally so fair that as a boy at school his quickly -changing colour had procured for him many undesirable epithets; and -there came a grave, earnest look into his eyes, which added to their -depth, without diminishing their softness. Without speaking, he pressed -gently the hand that lay in his, held it for a moment, as if mentally -sealing a vow. - -Harry had turned away before this little scene occurred, and all that -Marion thought of it was, “How kind and brotherly Mr. Baldwin is! Were -it necessary I almost think I could take him into my confidence.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. MALLINGFORD AND AUNT TREMLETT. - -“Non illum nostri passunt labores, -Non si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque libamus -Sithoniasque nives hiemis subeamus aquosæ— -Omnia vincit amor.” - VIRGIL. - - - -“AND what then do you and Harry think I should do? Where, I should -rather say, do you think I should go, for I am sure you have thought -of some plan?” asked Marion, later is the evening, as they still at -together talking. - -Mr. Baldwin looked at Harry, and Harry at Mr. Baldwin. This was the part -of the whole they most dreaded telling her, being, as are all their sex, -sad cowards when there was question breaking bad or disagreeable news. - -“No permanent arrangement can be made till we hear from Mr. Framley, -Vere,” began Mr. Baldwin, but Marion interrupted him. - -“You need not, I assure you, take him into consideration with regard to -my movements,” said she: “he is one of those old bachelors that think -girls torments, and provided he is not asked to look out for a home for -me himself, he will trouble himself very little as to what becomes of -me. I daresay Harry may find him a sensible adviser and he may be a good -man of business, but beyond that I am sure he won’t interfere.” - -“The only plan that appears at all feasible to Harry and me,” resumed -Mr. Baldwin, “is one which I fear will be very distasteful to you.” -Again he stopped. - -“Please tell me what it is,” urged Marion. - -Mr. Baldwin looked at Harry beseechingly. - -“It’s nothing so very dreadful,” said the boy, “all really for the -present it’s the only thing to be done. It’s only Aunt Tremlett and -Mallingford, May.” He spoke lightly, but in his heart he dreaded the -effect of his announcement. - -But to his amazement Marion took it philosophically in the extreme. - -“I thought it was that,” she replied, “well, I daresay it will do very -fairly, all things considered. Mallingford certainly is dull, and Aunt -Tremlett duller; but I don’t mind. I shall get on comfortably enough, -and I shall have you Harry, in the holidays. May I not?” she asked, -appealing, to Mr. Baldwin. - -“Most assuredly,” he answered warmly, “I was thinking of that. And if -Miss Tremlett objects to the racket of a young gentleman in her house, -Harry can come to me. It’s not two miles from my house to Mallingford, -and I can lend you a horse, or two if you like,” he said, turning to -Harry. - -“That would be capital,” said the boy, “much more to my taste than Aunt -Tremlett’s. Though I’ll stay there part of the time if shell have me,” -he added quickly, seeing that his sister looked rather disappointed. - -And so Marion’s future, for a time at least, was decided. - -It all came to pass very soon. So soon, that ten days later she found -herself, under the escort of Mrs. Evans and Brown (about to set up a -joint establishment, after “keeping company” of many years’ standing), -in the railway on her way to Mallingford, hardly able to realize that -not yet a month had passed since the day when she saw those sad four -lines in the ‘Times’—when for the first time the destroying angel had -passed close by her, breaking the small circle of her immediate friends. -And now already another place was vacant! - -It was rather a long journey to Mallingford. A few years ago, when -as children Marion and Harry used to spend the summer in the Brackley -cottage, the railway only went about two-thirds of the way, and the -last thirty miles were traversed in the coach. Now it was different. -Mallingford had a station of its own, at which some half dozen trains -stopped in the day, so the whole of the journey was performed on -the railway; at which, had she been in the mood to observe or feel -interested in outside things, Marion would have murmured; for long ago -the stage coach part of the programme had been the children’s great -delight: in fine weather at least, when they coaxed their attendants to -allow them to mount up to the top of the vehicle, from whence they had -a charming view of the country in general, and of the four dashing, -smoking horses in particular. - -But Marion was sad and listless, and so long as she was left at peace -to pursue the wearying circle of her own thoughts, cared little for what -might be her surroundings. - -She had heard nothing from Ralph, received no sort of explanation of his -strange conduct. And her hopes were sinking low. By Cissy’s last message -she was now perfectly convinced that no sort of mistake was at the -bottom of his incomprehensible silence. He must, by the last mail at -latest, if not sooner, have received Mrs. Archer’s explanation of the -whole from Marion’s side. That he still refrained from communicating -with her must be owing to one of two causes: either his feelings to her -were changed by the knowledge of the deception she had practised; or he -himself had failed in the object of his visit to England, and was -still fettered by the mysterious complications to which he had alluded. -Complications in no way removed, as she had now and then begun to fancy -might prove to be the case, by the fact of her being the daughter of -the distinguished politician Hartford Vere, instead of Marion Freer, the -little governess. - -“Not that my position would have made any difference to him personally,” -she always added; “he, I know, cared for Marion Freer as I shall never, -never be cared for again. But it might have influenced his mother if the -obstacle was in any way connected with her.” - -Latterly she had said to herself somewhat bitterly, that so far as his -advantage was concerned, there was nothing to regret. - -My father dead, and a mere pittance all my portion! And the very little -beauty I ever had fading already,” she thought, as she looked at herself -in her old toilet glass for the last time, the morning she left London. - -She was mistaken, however. But her beauty was not of a kind to be -materially affected by such causes, and in this respect rose far -superior to the more striking, but merely physical, loveliness of such -women as Florence Vyse. The “sweet soul” that looked out of Marion -Vere’s grey eyes would render them beautiful till old age; the delicate -features and sensitive mouth drew their chief attraction from the truth -of heart and refinement of mind of their owner. To my mind she was -at all times a beautiful woman. Her nature, in spite of adverse -circumstances, was sound and healthy, and in a sense, even strong; for -after all it is the strongest who suffer the most, that bend only, where -weaker ones would break. - -As Geoffrey Baldwin handed her on to the little platform at Mallingford -station, whither he had driven to meet her, he, at least, would have -agreed with me. Likely enough, he would have been at a loss to define -his sensations with regard to her. He was not a man who troubled himself -much with definitions of any kind certainly, but it is curious to -reflect on the peculiar attraction this girl had for him from the first. -He had seen plenty of far handsomer women, he had known some few as -sweet and good. Intellect he did not care for, did not understand. Yet -as he looked at the slight figure in its heavy mourning dress, at -the fair face and sad, gentle eyes that glanced up at him with their -indescribable expression or mingled womanliness and childlike appeal, -there came over his honest manhood the same yearning instinct of love -and protection, the same wild longing to fold her then and there in -his arms, which, before now, had stirred the innermost depths of Ralph -Severn’s heart, had indeed cost him no slight struggle to resist. I -make, no secret of it at all. Both these men fell love with her, as -it is called, almost from the first. It was very strange. They were so -utterly different, alike only in that they were brave and good and true. -But as to tastes, shades of character, habits, ideas—all in short that -goes to the formation of individuality, you might search high and low, -far and wide, before you could find two men so radically dissimilar -as the quiet, studious Sir Ralph Severn, and the high-spirited, -open-hearted, life enjoying farmer, Geoffrey Baldwin. - -Marion felt glad that her young guardian had come to meet her, and she -told him so. - -“It seems less desolate,” she said, “for I do not expect much of a -welcome from Aunt Tremlett.” Which expectation, for all his wish to -cheer her, Mr. Baldwin could not find it in his conscience to disagree -with. - -So in silence he put her and Evans into the fly he had stopped to order -at the King’s Arms, on his way through Mallingford, he himself following -in his dog-cart, “just to shake hands with Miss Tremlett,” he said to -himself, though in reality to make sure that his charge should have what -little additional comfort and support his presence might give her, on -her first arrival at the not very cheerful dwelling, which, for some -time to come, at least, was to be her home. - -There was no mystery about Miss Tremlett. She was simply a narrow-minded -hypochondriac, who, never having been accustomed in youth to live for -any other object than her precious self, had in old age, naturally -enough increased in devotion to this all-engrossing idol. She was what -is called a woman of high principles and excellent judgement, meaning, -I suppose that when she was young, pretty, and poor, she had refused to -marry the only man she cared for because he was a struggling curate, and -had done her best to secure a rich husband; failing which she had for -years “devoted herself” to an odious old woman, her god-mother, in hopes -of succeeding to her fortune, in which, strange to say, she had not been -disappointed. And now that she was old (for the fortune did not come to -her till she was fifty) she had not been guilty of any enormity, robbing -a church, for instance, in consequence of which and her large fortune, -she was “greatly respected” in Mallingford, and at the various -tea-tables always alluded to by the rector in the terms above mentioned. - -It was a great feather in her cap, this taking her orphan grand-niece -to live with her. Many of her acquaintances, in their secret hearts, -wondered at it, especially when it oozed out, as such things always do, -that the great Mr. Vere had not left his children “overly well provided -for,” as Mrs. Jones, of the King’s Arms, expressed it to her crony, Miss -Green, the milliner. Miss Green was better informed than Mrs. Jones, -however, a few days later, for she had been working at “The Cross -House,” Miss Tremlett’s residence, and had it from Mrs. Thomas, the -housekeeper that Master and Miss Vere had been left “quite destitoot.” - -“Not one brass farthing between them, Mrs. Jones, I do assure you,” she -said, “and his debts, they do say, something awful.” - -To which communication Mrs. Jones replied by an impressive “In-deed.” - -Miss Tremlett had been influenced by various motives, when on hearing -of her nephew’s death, she had authorized Geoffrey Baldwin to offer her -house as a temporary home for Marion. For one thing, in her heart, as -in most others, there was a soft spot, and in her way, she had loved and -been proud of Hartford Vere. Then again, though to some extent grasping -and money-loving, she was not on the whole ungenerous or stingy. There -was one thing she loved better than money and that was herself and her -own comfort, and it occurred to her that even if Marion should be -left very scantily provided for, she would cause but little additional -expense in her household, and would be all the more ready to repay her -aunt’s kindness by making herself a useful and agreeable companion. The -effect on her nerves of a cheerful young person about the house would, -her medical man informed her, be decidedly beneficial. Any way, it would -do no harm to try. She had been rather disagreeably well lately, and -felt in want of a little excitement. And if Marion failed in all -else, there was one point on which it was quite impossible she should -disappoint her. The girl’s presence in her house would, at all events, -give her something new to grumble about! - -So much as to Aunt Tremlett. As to Mallingford itself there is not very -much to say. It was (in those days at least, possibly the last few years -may have improved it) an intensely stupid little town. Dull, with -a dullness that to those fortunate people who have had no personal -experience of small provincial town life, altogether baffles -description. And worse than dull—spiteful, ill-naturedly gossiping, and -conceited, with the utterly hopeless conceit, only seen to perfection -in the stupidest or people and societies. Conservative of course, to -the back-bone, in everything—the more objectionable and undesirable the -object of its conservatism, the more stolidly, bull-doggishly tenacious -grew Mallingford. Instance the long resistance to the introduction of -gas lamps in the streets and public buildings, the still prevailing -cobble stones in the market-place, the stiflingly high pews in the -peculiarly hideous church, and, last not least, the universally signed -petition against that most noisy and blustering of innovators—the -railway. - -The only liberals in Mallingford were its numerous young ladies, who, -on the subject of the fashions, became positively rabid. Though their -admirers of the opposite sex were few, for the census reported but one -single gentleman to every eight or ten equally marriageable damsels, -there were really few things a Mallingford girl would have hesitated to -do, for the sake of being the first to be seen in the High Street -with the latest fashion, whatever it might be, coal-scuttle bonnets or -pork-pie hat, high-heeled hoots or Paris crinoline! - -There were good gentle souls in Mallingford, too, of course, as, Heaven -be praised, there are in most places in this wicked world; but the -prevailing spirit of the little town, the placid stupidity, unrelieved, -save by occasional snappish outbursts of party-spirit, the ludicrous -pretension and would-be exclusiveness of its reigning families, the airs -of the half-educated daughters of the same—these things and many other -of a similar nature would need a keener pen than mine to do justice to -them! Very laughable, very contemptible no doubt, were it not that from -so surely passing away, is giving place, not merely to another, but to a -better state of things. - -It may seem exaggerated to speak so gravely of the foibles and -absurdities of county town society as it existed in Mallingford some few -years ago, as possibly it still exists in other yet more “conservative” -places of the kind. If it appear so I can only say that to me it -comes naturally to speak seriously of things I have myself felt -strongly—absurdities if you like, but worse than absurdities, for they -have sprung from deep rooted error, and their influence, again, has, in -its turn, been an evil one. Besides which, it is necessary to a right -comprehension of my heroine’s life and character, that the nature of the -social atmosphere into which at this critical period of her history she -was thrown, should be, to some extent at least, understood and justly -appreciated. - -Over the cobble stones, in the fly from the King’s Arms, Marion was -rattled to her destination. “The Cross House,” as it was called, its -name from its vicinity to the old market place (now, wonderful to say, -deserted in favour of a more convenient site), in the centre of which, -though no longer surrounded by booths and stalls, still stood in -respectable decay the pride of Mallingford, the venerable cross. Queer -things that ancient monument must have seen in its day; strange sights -if all be true that is to be read concerning it, in the “Guide to -Mallingford and its neighbourhood,” changes many and marvellous even in -this sturdy little stronghold of conservatism! Of its antiquity, there -can be no doubt, for it was already aged in 1641, when by some special -good luck, or over-sight on the part of the fanatic destroyers, it -escaped the fate of its fellow monuments. - -To Marion in her childhood it had not been without appalling -associations, for besides whispers of a heretic or two burnt to death -at its base, there was a more ghastly legend of a modern Sapphira -struck dead on the spot by what some good people used to call “a -special dispensation of providence,” as an awful warning to succeeding -generations. Marion’s nurse told her this pretty little story one day -when the perfectly truthful child persisted in refusing to confess to -a sin she had not committed; but it had an opposite effect to that -anticipated. “If, then, I say I broke the jug, nurse, when I know I did -not, God would perhaps kill me like the woman. Which way of putting -it was rather beyond the nurse’s logical powers. Fortunately the real -delinquent was afterwards discovered, and the little girl came off with -flying colours! - -As the fly stopped at the door of the Cross House, Geoffrey’s bright -face appeared. He rang the bell, and notwithstanding the forbidding -frowns of the prim, crabbed looking maid-servant, who answered the -summons, stood his ground bravely, and carried out his intention of -assisting at the first meeting of aunt and niece. They were almost -strangers to each other, for the years during which they had not met had -changed the girl from a child to a woman, and had nearly effaced from -her recollection the personal appearance of her aunt, who had done -little to attract of attach her young relative to herself. - -Marion and Mr. Baldwin were shown into a room at the back of the house, -on the first floor. A pleasant bright room it might have been, had -its owner been a pleasant or bright person, for it looked out on an -old-fashioned walled-in garden, which too, might easily have been -rendered pretty and attractive, instead of formal and bare. An untidy, -neglected garden is an unpleasant sight, but hardly less so to my mind -is a faultlessly neat one, if stiff, ungraceful and prim—the one might -quite as justly as the other be described as “uncared for.” No person -who cares for a garden as it should be cared for, would be content with -doling out to it the minimum of unlovely, unloving attention, necessary -to keeping it merely in order—that particular kind of lifeless, stunted -order which is one of the ugliest things I know. - -So, as might be expected from the glance at the garden on entering, the -room was very dreary, uninviting and colourless. The dingy library in -the London house where we first met Marion was charming in comparison, -for it, though dull and gloomy, always looked warm and comfortable, -which was far from being the case with Miss Tremlett’s drawing-room. -In the literal sense it was not cold, for winter and summer, spring and -autumn, it was kept at an equal temperature by all means of tiresome -inventions—patents most of them—self-adjusting ventilators and -equalising stoves, pipes with hot air and pipes with cold, on which the -credulous lady spent a small fortune in the course of each year. Still -it always looked cold. It was so oppressively grey—drab rather. So -obtrusively neutral, if such an expression be permissible; that -one almost felt as if the most glaring mixture of colours would be -preferable! I wonder, by the way, whence has arisen the notion so common -to people of very small taste or no taste at all, that so long as -they stick to greys and drabs and slate colour, they are perfectly -unimpregnable, however terribly they may mingle the shades, or, which -is almost as bad, distress more sensitive organizations by unbroken -monotony of dingy gloom. - -“I must say I like quiet colours,” you will hear said with a -self-satisfied smile by the most hopelessly commonplace and least -educated of your acquaintance. - -“Quiet colours!” Just as well, my dear Madam, might you be proud of -being stone deaf or lame of one leg, as of your incapability of admiring -one of the most exquisite of our material gifts, that of colour. A pity -truly that you and others of your refined tastes had not a hand in the -arrangement of things in general; this world for instance, how very much -more tasteful and less “vulgar” it would have been, had it been left to -your unexceptionable greys and drabs! Not that greys and drabs are not -good in their place, beautiful even, as a background to more vivid hues, -a repose to the eye after the luxury of greens and blues and scarlets, -which nature has the bad taste to love and cherish so fondly. But only -fancy a whole world of greys and drabs! Oh, intensity of blue sky; oh, -fields of emerald green; flowers of every conceivable perfection of -colour; from deepest, richest, crimson, through golden gleams, to -faintest blush of rose; oh, beautiful bright radiant things, what -a dreary, ugly world this would be without you! But we, being more -refined, in our tastes, some of us, prefer “quiet colours” as we call -them. Rather I think, would I endure the agony of Mrs. Butcher’s Sunday -bonnet before me in church, a perfect mass of utterly unassorted reds -and greens and yellows, but in its way an innocent, “vulgar” barbaric -expression of delight, untutored and, spontaneous, in the colour-beauty -so profusely bestowed; rather I think this, than the other extreme, of -cold, presumptuous scorn of this great gift, which results—In what? In -a dungeon of a drawing-room like that of the unlovable Miss Tremlett at -Mallingford! From which by-the-by we have wandered an inexcusably long -way. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. GREY DAYS. - -“Here there was but sorry going, for the way was very wearisome.” - PILGRIMS PROGRESS. - - - -THE autumn days were already beginning to draw in, and it was growing -late in the afternoon when Marion and her guardian entered Miss -Tremlett’s presence; so the light was dim; and at first it was difficult -to distinguish the owner of the sharp, somewhat querulous voice which -greeted them from the opposite corner or the room. - -“So you have got here at last, Miss Vere, Marion, I suppose I may still -say? Excuse my rising. At this hour I always am obliged to rest the -sofa till tea time. How did you get here? Oh,” as she for the first time -perceived her niece’s companion. “So you’re there, Geoffrey Baldwin! -Quite unnecessary. My niece could perfectly have walked up from the -station alone.” And with the last few words the voice increased in -acrimony. - -Instinctively Marion crept a little closer to the tall form beside her. -He felt her shiver slightly and—instinctively too—groped with his great -strong hand for the little cold one hidden under her cloak, and gave it -a reassuring pressure. She took it quite naturally, and for a moment -or so allowed her hand to remain in his grasp. But she could not brace -herself up to reply to her aunt’s greeting. Geoffrey did so for her, -ignoring altogether the latter part of the speech. - -“Yes,” he replied cheerfully, “here we are, Miss Tremlett, Miss Vere, -I am sure is glad to be at her journey’s end. But it is so dark, I can -hardly see. Take care, Miss Vere,” as Marion made a movement in the -direction of the sofa, “there’s a footstool in the way. Perhaps Miss -Tremlett will allow me to lights?” - -“I never have lights between my afternoon luncheon and tea time, -Geoffrey Baldwin. I am sure you might know that by now,” replied the -old lady snappishly. “My head would never stand it However for once in a -way—Oh, Martha is that you? You certainly need not have brought the lamp -till I did ring.” - -But Martha deposited the lamp and quietly retired. Now, Marion could see -her aunt plainly. There was not very much to see. A withered face -with some remains of former good looks, but none of the more lasting -loveliness of sweet expression; or the rare but unsurpassed beauty of a -tender, loving old age. A graceful figure had in her young days been -one of Miss Tremlett’s attractions, and this she still imagined that -she possessed. In consequence of which somewhat mistaken notion, for -the former sylph-like slightness was now rather to be described as -scragginess and angularity, she was fussy to a degree about the make -and fit of her dresses. A wrinkle drove her frantic, and though her days -were principally spent on the sofa, the slightest crease or rumple -in her attire altogether upset her never-very-firmly-established -equanimity. She wore a light brown “front” surmounted by a cap of -marvellous construction, so precise and stiff in its appearance that -till you touched it you could hardly believe it to consist of anything -so soft and ethereal as lace. Miss Tremlett had one art in perfection -altogether peculiar to herself that of lying on a sofa without the -slightest appearance of ease or repose: she made you feel somehow as -if, all the time instead of reclining on a couch, she was sitting bolt -upright on the stiffest of high backed chairs. - -As Marion drew near her, she held out her hand, and permitted, rather -than invited, her to kiss her cheek. Geoffrey wished he could have -bitten her, instead. - -“Your cloak is not damp, I hope?” she exclaimed; and as Marion was about -to express her thanks for the unexpected anxiety on her behalf, she went -on, “if it is the least damp, you had better not stand so near me, I -am so sensitive to the slightest damp or cold.” On which Marion timidly -suggested that perhaps she had better change it at once, if Miss -Tremlett would be so good as tell her which was to be her room. - -“Evans, our housekeeper, is with me,” she added, more and more timidly, -as she observed the expression of her aunt’s face, “but only for -one night. She is going on tomorrow to visit her mother before her -marriage.” - -“You don’t mean to say that old woman is going to be married!” exclaimed -Miss Tremlett, in a less unpleasant tone than Marion had yet heard. - -“Evans is, not her mother,” replied the girl. - -“Of course I never supposed you meant the mother,” said she elder lady -snappishly. “The mother is eighty, and paralysed. I call Evans herself -an old woman, and a very silly old woman too, by what you tell me. I -really don’t know where she can sleep. I had no idea of you bringing any -one with you. You must speak to Martha; she will show you your own room. -It will be tea time in an hour, till then I must rest. Good evening. Mr. -Baldwin,” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of retiring, “I should be so much -obliged to you if you would remember to shut the door.” - -“Hateful old woman!” thought Geoffrey, as he obeyed, resisting the -boyish inclination to slam it loudly, by way of soothing Miss Tremlett’s -nerves. He had time for a word to Marion, whom he found outside on the -landing, disconsolately eyeing the staircase, and apparently at a -loss as to her next proceedings. He began to speak to her -jestingly,—something he said in ridicule of her aunt’s fears,—but he -stopped suddenly when she turned towards him, and he saw that her eyes -were full of tears. - -“Oh, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed passionately, don’t leave here. I had -no idea my aunt was so utterly selfish and heartless. Not a word about -poor Papa, whom she professed to care for! Oh, I can’t stay in this -dreadful house.” - -And in her distress she caught hold of his arm with both her hands. It -was rare that Marion so lost her self-control, and therefore the more -impressive. Geoffrey was terribly grieved. - -“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” he said, “that you feel it so painfully. -I would give all I have in the world to spare you an hour in this place, -but truly my—truly, Miss Vere, there is at present no help for it. -Anything I can do in the way of cheering your stay here, softening its -disagreeables, you have only to ask me, and I shall be so pleased, so -delighted, to do it.” And half timidly he laid his hand on those still -grasping his arm. His touch seemed to recall her to herself. She drew -her hands away gently, and said penitently: - -“You are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I am very self and ungrateful. -I will try to be sensible and make the best of things so long as I stay -here.” - -“Which shall not be an hour longer than I can prevent, you may be very -sure,” said Geoffrey fervently. - -“Thank you,” she replied sadly, “but I am afraid there is not much in -your power, dear Mr. Baldwin; you could not help me in the—the only -way,”—and then she stopped suddenly. Geoffrey had not caught her last -words clearly. Had he done so, ten to one, she might have been led on -to say more, and to yield to the impulse which came over her to take her -young guardian into her confidence, to trust him, at this time almost -her only friend, with the sad little story of her life. A good impulse -it was, a good and wise one. Ah, Marion, why did you not yield to it? -Why, m y heart’s darling, if not for your own, then for the sake of -honest, chivalrous Geoffrey? What might it not have saved him—him -and you, and yet another! If only the child had been a little more -conceited, a trifle more like other women, she would have seen the -dangers before her, the sharpness of the tools with which, in all -innocence, she was playing. What a strange thing it is that of the many -times in their lives in which conscientious people refrain from yielding -to an impulse, so large a proportion would, viewed in the light of after -events, have been wise and expedient! Whereas, if ever such persons do -act upon the moment’s inclination, they are almost sure hereafter to -repent it! It is everywhere the same—in trifles as in important matters, -nothing but the old rule of contrary; which rule, nevertheless, may some -day be seen to contain more things, by a great many, than are at present -dreamt of in our philosophy. - -So unfortunately it came to pass that Geoffrey did not hear Marion’s -half-whispered words. - -Satisfied, so far, with seeing her calm and gentle as usual, he bade her -good night and left her, promising to look in in the course of a day -or two, to see how she got on with “the old cat,” as he mentally -apostrophised her. - -Marion succeeded in finding Martha, whom she was glad to discover much -more hospitably inclined than her mistress. So Evans was comfortably -entertained for the one night she spent at the Cross House, and I doubt -not spent a much more agreeable evening below stairs, than did Marion in -the drab drawing-room with her aunt. It really was terribly hard work. -Miss Tremlett evidently expected to be entertained, a state of mind -always liable to exert a peculiarly depressing influence on the second -member of a tête-à-tête, even when there are no saddening or dulling -thoughts and anxieties already at work on heart and brain. For the -life of her, Marion could not rouse herself to make small talk for the -tiresome old lady; nor could she bring herself to express the profound -interest evidently expected of her, in the painfully minute account of -all her aunt’s maladies, with which in the course of the evening she -was favoured. At last Miss Tremlett lost patience, and waxed very cross -indeed. - -“Are you always so stupid and sulky, Marion?” she inquired. “If so, the -sooner you make some other arrangement for yourself, the better. I am -not strong enough to support the depressing effect of a companion in low -spirits. Nor can I understand why you should look so gloomy. It is not -as if your poor father had been so much attached to you, or you to him, -when he was alive. In that case it would be very different indeed. But -all the world knows he cared very little for his children, though, all -things considered, I don’t blame him.” - -“What do you mean, Aunt Tremlett?” said Marion, fiercely almost, for she -felt roused to sudden passion. “What do you mean by speaking so of my -dear father? He did love us, more than anybody knows, and no one has any -right to say he did not.” - -“A pity he did not leave you some more substantial proof of his -affection,” said Miss Tremlett, sneeringly. “I am not blaming him, -however. Considering all, as I said, it is no wonder he took but little -interest in you.” - -“What do you mean by that?” repeated Marion, in the same fierce tone. -(Miss Tremlett rather enjoyed her excitement. She had roused her at -last.) “Considering all what? I am not a child now, Aunt Tremlett, and -I will allow no one, not even you, to say, or infer, anything -disrespectful to the memory of either of my parents.” - -“ ‘Will not allow.’ Indeed! Very pretty language for a young lady. Upon -my word I little knew what I was about when I invited you to my house, -Marion Vere. Though for all your grand heroics, I see you have some -notion of what I refer to. ‘Either’ of your parents, you said. So, then, -you do allow it is possible there might be something to be said against -one of them after all! On the whole, I think, with your permission or -course, Miss Vere, after what I have seen of your very amiable tempo, it -will be as well to drop the subject. In plain words, I will not tell you -what I mean; and you will I oblige me by leaving me for the night -and retiring to your own room. You have upset me quite enough for one -evening. It will be days before I recover from the nervous prostration -always brought on by excitement. Go; and if you wish to remain my -guest, learn to behave like a reasonable being instead of making such an -exhibition of temper without any provocation whatever.” - -Miss Tremlett always took the injured innocent tone when she had -succeeded in goading any one else to fury. - -Without a word Marion left the room. Her self-control only lasted till -she was safely ensconced in her own little bedroom, and then, poor -child, after her usual fashion when in sore distress, she threw herself -on the bed and hid her face on the pillows, sobbing with excitement -and weeping the hot, quick rushing tears that came more from anger than -grief. - -She felt very much ashamed of herself. This was, indeed, a sad beginning -of her Mallingford experiences. How foolish she had been to take fire at -the old lady’s sneers! She knew of old that there had been bitter feud -between her silly, pretty young mother and her father’s family, and it -was worse than foolish to rake up these old sores. Now, when the two -principals in the melancholy story of mistake and disappointment were -laid to rest, passed away into the silent land where to us, at least, it -is not given to judge them, how much better to let the whole fade gently -out of mind! Her aunt was old, and old age should be sacred. She had -no right to resent her crabbedness of temper, her self-absorption, her -ungenial asperity, and small snappishness. - -A loveless life, with few exceptions, had been Miss Tremlett’s. “Heaven -only knows,” thought poor Marion, “if in similar circumstances my nature -would prove any more amiable! Certainly, I am not at present going the -way to make it so.” - -And with a sore heart, sore, but gentle and humble, the orphan fell -asleep, in the strange, unloving home, which was the only shelter at -present open to her. - -Morning, somehow, made things look brighter. For one thing, there was -the tantalising post-hour to watch for; Marion not having yet given up -hopes of “some day” bringing the long-looked-for explanation of -Ralph’s mysterious silence. The whole affair changed its aspect to her -constantly, according to the mood she was in. She had taken good care -that there should be no miscarriage of letters owing to her change of -residence, and so here at Mallingford, as in London, the arrival of the -letters became the great interest of her day. Truly, there was little -else to distract or occupy her! She determined, however, from this -first morning to profit by her disagreeable experience of the preceding -evening, and, at all costs, avoid any sort of word-warfare with her -aunt. Miss Tremlett, at the bottom of her heart, was not a little -disappointed when, on her making her appearance for the day, in the -drawing-room about noon, her niece, instead of receiving her with sulky -silence or indignant remonstrance, greeted her with a few gentle words -of apology for her want of self-control the previous night, and offers -of her ready services in any way the old lady might wish to make her -useful. - -“Would you like me to read aloud sometimes, Aunt?” said she. “I think I -can do so pleasantly. Or is there any work I can do for you?” - -“I am glad, Marion, to see that you have come back to your senses this -morning,” was all the thanks she got. But she did not care. All she -asked was peace and quiet; in which to muse over her own secret hopes -and fears, to perplex herself endlessly with vain guesses to what was -beyond her power to fathom. And for some little time she felt almost -contented. The perfect monotony of her life did not pall upon her just -at first. It seemed rather a sort of rest to her after the violent -excitement through which she had lately passed. But it was not a healthy -state of things. - -Her days were very like each other. The morning hours were the -pleasantest, for Miss Tremlett always breakfasted in her bedroom, and -till noon Marion was her own mistress. After that her aunt expected her -to be in attendance upon her till the hour of her after noon siesta, -which came to be the girl’s favourite time for a stroll. Even in the -dull autumn days she felt it a relief to get out into the open air -by herself and ramble along the country roads leading out of -Mallingford—thinking of what? Of “this time last year.” How much is told -by those few commonplace words! - -Now and then her aunt had visitors. Very uninteresting people they -seemed to Marion. Mostly elderly, still, and formal, of her aunt’s own -standing. Not many of the younger denizens of the little town found -their way to the Cross House. Had they done so, I question if they would -have been much to my heroine’s taste! Her deep mourning, of course, put -her partaking in any Mallingford festivities quite out of the question -at present. They were not of an attractive kind, and even had she been -in perfect health and spirits she would have cared little about them. - -Still, after a time, there came a sort of reaction. A protest of youth -against the unnatural torpidity of her present life. Her only friend, -Geoffrey Baldwin, she saw but once during the first two months of her -Mallingford life, for, much to his regret, within a week of Miss Vere’s -arrival in the neighbourhood, he was called away on business connected -with his own affairs—the disposal of a small property of his father’s -in a distant county—and it was late in November before he found himself -free to return home. - -It was very provoking! Just when he had hoped to be of some use to her, -to cheer her a little in her present gloomy life. Geoffrey had never -before in his life thought so much, or so continuously, on any subject, -as during the dull autumn weeks he thought of his poor little ward at -the Cross House. He wrote to her once or twice, though he was by no -means a great hand at letter writing; and was immensely delighted with -the answers he duly received. At last, by the beginning of December, he -found himself on his way home; much to his satisfaction, for not only -was he anxious to see Marion again, but was also in a great state of -fidget about his hunters. The season had opened most favourably, no -signs of frost to speak of, and already he had missed some capital days. -It was really too provoking, thought Geoffrey to himself, as comfortably -ensconced in the railway carriage, he lit his last pipe before entering -Mallingford station. - -The next day he rode over to see Marion. Being well acquainted with the -Cross House hours, he took care to be there early, and the great clock -in the Market Place was only just striking eleven as he stood on the -door steps. Miss Tremlett was not yet visible, he was informed by the -sour-faced Martha (who, however, as we have seen, was more amiable than -she looked), Miss Vere was up-stairs, but if Mr. Baldwin would step into -the drawing-room, the young lady should be told he was there. - -So into the grim drawing-room Geoffrey stepped. Grimmer than ever it -looked at this season; when truly it takes an extra amount of bright -colours and cheerful faces inside, to balance the dismalness of all -things out-of-doors. And this winter was what they called an open -season. Damp and dank and foggy. Above all—for a flat unpicturesque -county like Brentshire, whose only beauty consisted in the freshness and -luxuriance of its vegetation, this “grim December” was not the time to -see it to advantage. - -Geoffrey shivered slightly as he entered the uninviting room. From -physical causes only; he was not particularly sensitive to more -recondite influences. The fire was only just lighted and was smouldering -and sputtering with that irritating air of feeling offended at having -been lighted at all, peculiar to inartistically built fires on a damp -winter’s morning. Mr. Baldwin strolled to the window and stood biting -the end of his riding whip, staring out on the ugly, dreary plot of -ground misnamed a garden. - -“It’s not a pleasant place for her to be in, certainly,” thought he, “My -little breakfast-room at the Manor Farm, notwithstanding all the litter -of guns and fishing-rods and pipes, is a much more inviting room than -this. To my mind at least—I wonder if she would think so!” And then he -fell to wondering which of his horses would carry him best to cover on -the morrow, considering the direction which was likely to be taken, the -nature of the ground &c. “By-the-bye,” he thought suddenly, “I wonder -if Miss Vere has ever been at a meet. I’ll ask her. Bessie, I’m certain, -would carry a lady, only then who would be with her? If Harry were -here it would be all right. There are those Copley girls, they are very -good-natured, and might ask her to join them. I’ll see if I can’t manage -it.” - -But his further reflections were interrupted by the opening of the door, -and the entrance of Marion herself. She knew who was there, and her -pale face was slightly flushed with pleasure as she came in; but for all -that, Geoffrey was not a little startled by her appearance. She looked -painfully fragile. The cold weather and her black dress increased the -extreme delicacy of her complexion, and the almost attenuated look of -her slight, tall figure. Strangely enough, at that moment there thrilled -through Geoffrey the same foreboding, the same acute misgiving as had -tortured the heart of Ralph Severn that last evening at Altes. And in -the present instance it acted to some extent as a revelation. As his -gaze rested on Marion, a tremor seized the strong man. Horses, hunting, -all he had been thinking of with so much interest but a moment before, -faded from his mind, and in perfect silence he touched the hand so -cordially extended to him, and mechanically drew nearer the fire a chair -on which Marion seated herself. She did not observe his agitation, and -began to talk brightly and heartily. - -“I am so glad, so very glad, to see you again, Mr. Baldwin,” she said, -“I really began to think you were never coming back. And I wanted to -tell you that I have, really and truly, been doing my very best to be -good and patient—but really, Mr. Baldwin, it is drearily, inexpressibly -dull here.” - -Geoffrey’s only answer was a glance of sympathy, enough however to -encourage her to proceed. - -“It did not seem so bad at first,” she went on, “it was more like a rest -to me; but now it is getting very bad. There are days on which I can -hardly bear the terrible monotony and loneliness. I have not told Harry -so for fear of disturbing him; but I have wished very much to see you -and tell you, Mr. Baldwin. I really would rather be a servant,” (a -governess she was going to have said, but the association was too -painful), “or anything in the world than live on here like this always. -You are not angry with me for saying this, Mr. Baldwin? I know it seems -childish and selfish, but today I was feeling so—I don’t know what to -call it—homesick expresses it best; and I thought it would be such a -relief to tell you about it; but I hope you are not vexed with me?” she -repeated, looking up at his face beseechingly. - -“Vexed with you! My dear Miss Vere,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “How can you -use such expressions? As if, even if I had a right to be vexed with you, -which I have not, anything you could by any possibility say or do, could -ever seem to me anything—I am stupid—I can’t make pretty speeches, least -of all when I most mean them. Only don’t ever speak as if I could be -vexed with you. I am sorry, terribly sorry to see you looking so pale -and thin, and to hear how this wretched life is trying you. But what -is to be done? There is the difficulty. As I said to you before, I see -present no help for it, unless——.” But here he stopped abruptly, his -fair face suddenly flushing crimson. - -“Unless what Mr. Baldwin,” said Marion innocently. “Don’t be afraid -to tell me the alternative, however disagreeable. Is there any fresh -trouble about our money matters?” - -“Oh dear no,” replied the young man, thankful that he had not, on -the impulse of the moment, wrecked all by a premature betrayal of his -hardly-as-yet-to-himself-acknowledged hopes, and eager to distract her -attention. “Oh dear no, don’t get anything of that sort into your head. -It is true I fear some little time must pass before your affairs are -thoroughly settled; but by the spring, at latest, I hope we may hit on -some better arrangement.” - -“By the spring,” repeated Marion, dolefully; “ah, well, it does not much -matter. After all, I daresay a good deal of the dullness is in myself. -But tell me, Mr. Baldwin, what were you going to say? ‘Unless,’ you -began,—unless what?” - -“Nothing, Miss Vere—nothing, truly,” replied Geoffrey, rather awkwardly; -“it was only an idea that struck me, but at present impossible to carry -out. Please don’t speak about it.” - -“Very well,” answered Marion, looking rather puzzled; “I won’t ask you -about it if you would rather I did not. I am afraid the truth is I am -very difficult to please. I fear in my present mood I should not be -happy anywhere, except—” - -“Except where, Miss Vere?” said Geoffrey, lightly; but Marion looked -painfully embarrassed and made no reply. A curious misgiving shot -through Mr. Baldwin’s heart; but he did not persist in his inquiry, and -turned it off with a jest. - -“We have both our secrets, you see,” he said, laughingly; my ‘unless,’ -and your ‘except.’ Well, supposing we put both aside for the present, -and consider things as they are. Can nothing be done to make your stay -here pleasanter, so long as it lasts?” - -“Nothing,” said Marion, sadly. “Don’t trouble yourself so much about me, -Mr. Baldwin; it is only a fit of low spirits. I shall be better again -in a day or two. It is an immense comfort to me to grumble a little. I -can’t tell you how much good it does me.” - -“But you are not looking well,” he persisted, “and you know it is my -duty to look after you. This life is killing you. Have you made no -acquaintances here at all, Miss Vere?” - -“None whatever. My aunt’s friends are all old, like herself; and somehow -I don’t fancy I should get on very well with other girls, Mr. Baldwin. -I have grown so dull and stupid; and from what I have seen of the -Mallingford girls at church, and some few who call here with their -mothers, I am sure they would not take to me, nor I to them. No, just -leave me alone. I shall do very well. There is only one thing I wanted -to ask you: can you ask leave for me to go to see Miss Veronica Temple? -She is the only one of my friends that I remember as a child, still -here, and I should so like to see her, particularly as she can’t come -to see me. I spoke of it to my aunt one day, but to my surprise she got -into such a rage I was glad to change the subject. Why does she dislike -Miss Temple so, Mr. Baldwin?” - -“Some old quarrel—what, I can’t exactly say—with Mrs. Temple,” replied -Geoffrey. “Of late years, you know, Miss Tremlett has taken it into her -head to become very Low Church, and she insulted the widow, Mrs. Temple, -very much one day, by drawing a comparison between the state of Church -matters in her husband’s day, when his daughters played the organ and -dressed up the altar—did just as they, chose, in fact, for he was the -easiest of good old easy-going parsons—and the present condition of -things under that very vigorous and vulgar Irishman, Mr. Magee, who -toadies Miss Tremlett tremendously, as you may have seen for yourself.” - -“Yes, indeed,” replied Marion; “horrid man he is, I think! And I am sure -the Temples were the best and most charitable of people. How long has -Miss Veronica been crippled, Mr. Baldwin? I remember running up and down -that steep stair leading to the organ loft with Harry in her arms when -we were quite little children. Such a bright, active creature, I always -imagined her. It seems so sad to come back to find her so changed.” - -“But bright and active still, though she never leaves her sofa,” said -Geoffrey; “she is one of the sweetest women I ever knew. You must -certainly go to see her. She will be delighted, I know. I shall call and -ask her about it on my way home.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Marion, earnestly. “I should like to see -her again,” she added softly. And then she sat, leaning her cheek on her -hand, gazing silently into the fire. - -It was burning more cheerfully by this time, and the flickering light -danced fitfully on Marion’s pale face; for it was a very gloomy day -outside, and the dingy room was in a sort of twilight. Geoffrey looked -at her anxiously. Suddenly he spoke again: - -“Do you ride, Miss Vere” he asked. - -She started; for her thoughts had been far away, and he had to repeat -the words before she caught their sense. When she did so, she answered -carelessly: - -“A little. That is to say, I have ridden, and I am not nervous. I liked -it very much.” - -Geoffrey’s face brightened. - -“I have a mare that I’m certain would carry you beautifully,” he said, -“I’ll have her tried. I was thinking, if you were to make acquaintance -with some of the girls about here who ride, you might come to a meet now -and then. There are the Copleys of Copley Wood. They’re really not bad -girls, and I know they would be delighted to make friends with you.” - -But Marion laid her hand on his arm. - -“I should like to ride with you Mr. Baldwin, very much, if you will be -troubled with me. But I don’t want to make any new acquaintances. I know -it seems very fanciful and unreasonable, but I don’t feel as if I had -spirits for it. Let me ride alone with you, please.” - -“You shall if you like, Miss Vere,” he replied, “but you couldn’t -very well come to a meet unless you knew some of the other ladies. It -wouldn’t be comfortable for you. I’ll tell you how we’ll do. I’ll have -Bessie tried for you, and you shall have a few rides quietly me first, -and then, if you like it, I’ll arrange for the Copley girls to ask you -to join their party to the next meet at a convenient distance. You won’t -object to this? Riding will do you good, I know, and if you ride I shall -not be satisfied unless you come to see the meets. What do you say to -this?” - -“That you are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I should be shamefully -ungrateful if I did not do whatever you wish. I shall look out my habit -today. I expect it will be much too big for me, I have got so thin,” she -said lightly. Geoffrey looked at the hand she had laid in his. It was -indeed white and wasted. - -“My darling!” he whispered under his breath, so low that she had no -suspicion of the inaudible words. - -Then he dropped it gently, and looking up, said cheerfully, - -“All right then. You may expect to see me some day with Bessie all ready -for you. Goodbye, and do try to get some more colour in your cheeks by -the next time I see you. Guardians are allowed to make rude remarks, you -know,” he added, laughingly; “it’s it all for their wards’ good.” - -And with another shake of her hand he left her. - -“How very kind he is,” thought Marion. “I wonder—I wonder, if it could -possibly do any good for me to tell him all about it. But no,” she -decided, on thinking it over. She had done as much as seemed to her -right and fitting. More would be undignified and unmaidenly. And then -she was so utterly in the dark. What might not have occurred since she -left Altes? Ralph could not be dead; of that she was certain. He could -not have died without her knowing it. But a worse thing might have come -to pass. At this very moment, for all she knew to the contrary, he might -be already the husband of another woman. - -“Though not in heart,” she said to herself. “He was not the man to love -twice. Not at least so quickly. And never while he lives will he love -another as he loved me. In this at least he is mine.” - -Thus she felt in certain moods. There were others, however, in which her -faith was less undoubting, in which she almost questioned if she had -not exaggerated what he had said; whether after all it had not been with -Ralph a much less serious affair than, to her cost, it had been with -her? Then again she seemed drawn the other way. His was no slight or -shallow nature. Were his depth and earnestness to be doubted, in what -could she ever allow herself to believe? And so the poor child was -tossed and torn. Still, it came to pass, thanks to Geoffrey Baldwin, -that a little more brightness and enjoyment were at this time infused -into her daily life. The riding proved a success, and, as her young -guardian observed with self-congratulation, “really did bring some -colour to her cheeks.” - -The Copley girls came up to Mr. Baldwin’s favourable account of them, -and did their best in the way of showing kindness to “that pretty, -pale Miss Vere, that Geoffrey Baldwin is so taken up about.” They -were hearty, healthy girls, and both engaged to be married to the most -satisfactory partis. Possibly this last had something to say to their -cordial reception of their old friend’s interesting ward. - -The renewal of her acquaintance with the invalid Miss Temple, was -also in a different way a source of great pleasure to Marion. Trifling -incidents both—her introduction to the Copley girls, and her meeting -again with the kind Veronica—but they both influenced her indirectly in -the great decision of her life, towards which, though she knew it not, -the tide of affairs was rapidly drawing her. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. AND RALPH? - -“Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Seeking a higher object.” - LAODAMIA. - -“For love and beauty and delight -There is no death nor change; their might -Exceeds our organs, which endure -No light, being themselves obscure.” - THE SENSITIVE PLANT. - - - -AH, yes! What of Ralph? Through all these months, to Marion so weary -with suspense and ever-recurring disappointment, what had he been about? -How came it that he, whom we have heard vowing to himself that her -happiness should be his first consideration, had allowed her thus to -suffer, when, as we know, a word from him at any moment would have -set all right, would have made the world rosy again, and filled with -sunlight even the grim old house at Mallingford? - -To explain it all, to show what a strange chain of commonplace mistakes -and cross-purposes had, coupled with one small act of deliberate malice, -effected all the mischief, tortured with doubt and misgiving two true -hearts, and altogether changed the course of two, if not three, lives—to -make all this clear, we must step back some way: to the very time, -indeed, we last heard of Ralph. Heard of him, only, incidentally, as -having been successful in obtaining the promise of Sir Archibald, -or rather, through his influence, that of the powers that be in such -matters, with respect to the expected consular vacancy at A—. - -That was the last, I think, that we know of him thus far, excepting, -by-the-by, an instant’s peep of him more recently in his mother’s Swiss -maison de campaigne, where the Severns were domesticated for the summer. -To return, however, to the day in March, on which, hopeful and elated, -as I think I said, Ralph set out again for Altes, having succeeded in -the mission which had brought him across the water. - -The journey back was a much more cheerful affair than had been that to -England. - -Ralph was not naturally by any means given to over-anxiety about money -matters—in fact his actual experience of limited means had been but -small, for he had always had enough for moderate requirements. But he -was a thoroughly conscientious man. Many would say morbidly so, and I -daresay there might be nothing exaggerated or unreasonable in such an -opinion. - -Very quiet and reserved people are apt to become morbid on some point. -They get hold of a notion, and turn it round and round in their minds, -till a sort of mental dizziness, very adverse to clear judgement, -results. It is a grand thing now and then to get a fresh, outside -opinion on matters about which we are deeply interested. Nor is the -soundness of that opinion of as much moment as might be imagined. Its -freshness is the great thing; for assuredly, though directly it may not -influence our eventual decision, our own powers of judgement will, -by its breezy rush through our cobwebbed brain, become marvellously -invigorated, and braced for the work, which, after all, to be well done, -must be their own, and no one else’s! - -Such had been on Ralph the effect of his rare confidence in another—that -other, as will be remembered, having been the sensible, middle-aged, but -nevertheless quite sufficiently “romantic,” Mr. Price. From the date of -his long talk with his odd tutor, the young man’s bewilderments, fors -and againsts, conflicting duties and inclinations, ranged themselves -with wonderful order and celerity. It was all nonsense, “morbid humbug,” -he soon learnt to call it, about his being different from other men, -cut off by peculiar circumstances from what, after all, in plain, honest -English is every man’s birthright—liberty to please himself in the -choice of the helpmeet, without which Providence certainly never -intended him, or any other able-bodied young man, to go through life! -Provided, of course, the prospective helpmeet saw things in the same -way as he; of which, Heaven be thanked, he had no reasonable grounds to -doubt. - -What he could do, without too much going out of his way, or any approach -to unmanly subservience, to conciliate his mother, he would. But beyond -a certain point he now saw clearly it was not his duty to defer to -her. Should she show herself inclined to be reasonable, which state of -things, however, he at present felt far from sanguine about: he would be -only too ready to meet her at any point on the friendly road, he would, -in any case, swallow his pride, to the extent of accepting from her -whatever amount of pecuniary assistance she saw fit to afford him. -Pride, indeed, was hardly the word for it, for in a sense the property -was his own, though at present, unfortunately, not to be obtained but by -her good-will. And if she took it into her head to stand out and refuse -him anything? Well, then, he had the appointment at A—— to fall back -upon, the securing of which, his practical good sense and Mr. Price’s -advice, had shown him to be the one distinct duty before him; without -which as a certainty, however small, he had no right to allow the -fortunes of another to be joined to his. - -What he had said to Marion, before leaving Altes, had not been on -impulse. Each word, each look and gesture, that last evening when she -had shown him in her innocence, the whole depths of her pure, loving -heart, and tempted him sorely to say but one word more, to press her if -but for an instant to his breast—each word and glance that evening he -had rigidly controlled, and acted throughout implicitly as he believed -to be for the best. From the light of after results, we now may question -if he did wisely; if, after all, it had not been better to have gone -further, or not so far? From the top of the hill it requires no great -wisdom to look back and say which would have been the best road up: -but this is not how we are meant to travel our life-journey. Slowly and -toilfully, with but little light, and what there is often dazzling and -deceptive, with bleeding feet and trembling limbs we creep along—one -step beyond, often the limit of our darkened view. This is how the -Allwise sees fit to train us. Doubt not and judge not. When at last we -climb beyond the mists and fogs, though that time may be still a far way -off, we shall see that it was for the best. - -But no misgiving of this kind came to torment Ralph on his way back, as -he thought, to the woman, from whom no reasonable barrier now divided -him. - -“For to put it in its very worst light,” said he to himself (a feat -by-the-bye your very conscientious people are strangely fond of -performing), “even if my health gives way and I have to throw up the A—— -appointment, my mother is not so utterly devoid of natural affection as -to let us starve while she is rolling in wealth. And even if I were to -die and leave my darling alone, why, we should have had our little hit -of happiness, which surely is better than to have had none at all. And -if my Marion had a child, or children,” he murmured to himself softly, -“it would force my mother to take an interest in her for the old name’s -sake. It would not seem quite so bad to leave her if she had boys and -girls about her! She seems so very lonely, poor child, except for Mrs. -Archer, who after all is only a friend. Though I really don’t know why -I should think myself likely to die. I am perfectly healthy, though not -very robust. John’s death, I think, put it into my head that I should -not live to be old.” - -And then in thought he wandered off to picturing to himself where and -when he could best manage to see Marion alone. - -“I wonder if she thought me cold,” he said to himself; “I must have -seemed so. But still I am sure she understood me. She has a wonderfully -quick and delicate sympathy. Yes, I am certain she understood me or she -would not have trusted me so. The only unsatisfactory remembrance I have -of our conversation is of her sudden distress when she bethought herself -of what she hinted at as a barrier on her side. What could it be? Some -disgrace in her family. Something connected with her father. But that -will soon be explained and set straight. Nothing not actually affecting -herself could conic between us.” - -So he whiled away the many hours of his journey, tedious only in so far -as the days seemed long till he could see her again, hear repeated by -her own lips the sweet assurance, which, had he been a vainer or -more conventional man, he would have read many a time ere now; in her -changing colour, the varying tones of her voice, the childlike trust and -appeal in her innocent eyes when she raised them to his. - -I don’t know that ever Ralph Severn was happier than during this journey -back to Altes. Truly, this falling in love of his had done great things -for him: sunnied his whole nature, and for the first time revealed to -him the marvellous beauty there is in this life of ours; the light and -joy which underlie it, our intense powers of happiness no less than of -suffering. All which things being real and true, whatever be the dark -mysteries for the present on the other side; it was, I doubt not, well -for him to have had a glimpse of them, an actual personal experience of -happiness, however short-lived. We speak fluently of the discipline of -suffering? Is nothing to be learnt from its twin sister, joy? Or is -she sent but to mock us? I cannot think so. Her visits may be short and -rare, but some good gift of enduring kind she surely leaves behind, if -only, blinded by the tears we shed at her departure, we did not fail to -see it. - -Such, however, it seems to me, is not the case with the highest and -deepest natures. To them, I think, all life experience is but as fresh -and precious soil in a garden where all is turned to good account sooner -or later. There may be ugly and unsightly things about; the flowers, -when withered, may seem to pollute the air and cumber the ground; but -only to our ignorance does it appear so. Under the great Master-hand -all is arranged, nothing overlooked. Every shower of rain, every ray of -sunshine, has its peculiar mission. All influences tend to the one great -end in view, the ultimate perfection of the work. If only the gardener -be humble and willing, patient, and, withal, earnest to learn. Then even -from his mistakes he shall gain precious and lasting fruit. - -Ralph Severn’s character was no shallow one. His love for Marion was, -as I have said, the one great affection of his life. And something his -nature gained from its present happiness that it never afterwards lost. -Something indefinite and subtle. But an influence for good. - -It was late in the evening when he reached Altes. His mother and -Miss Vyse, ignorant of the precise hour at which his arrival might be -expected, were just about leaving the drawing-room for the night. The -children, of course, were in bed; but, in the fulness of his happy -heart, Ralph went and kissed little Sybil as she lay asleep. - -How forcibly it reminded him of his last return to the Rue des Lauriers! - -He only saw Lady Severn and his cousin-by-courtesy for a very few -minutes; but even in that time his quick perception revealed to him some -slight change in the manner of both. In Florence it was the most marked. -Her tone seemed to him more natural because more unrestrained. A sort -of contemptuous indifference to him, united to something of triumph and -secret satisfaction, peeped out in her carelessly good-natured, rather -condescending greeting. She was looking very well too, exceedingly -radiant and handsome. Her white skin appeared positively dazzling, her -clear black eyebrows in their faultless curve, relieving what might -otherwise have been too marble-like for attractive living beauty; -her glorious hair, in which nestled a cluster of crimson roses (of a -peculiar and carefully-selected shade, by contrast browning the surface -they lay on) shone a mass of burnished gold; for by candlelight the -tinge of red only intensified its lustre and richness. She stood thus -for a moment, under the full glare of the lamp—a rash thing for any but -a perfectly beautiful woman to do; but Florence knew herself to be one -of the few whose charms are immensely increased by such an ordeal—her -eyes cast down—fortunately so, if she were challenging the young man’s -admiration, for wonderfully fine as they were Ralph never could succeed -in admiring them, nor her, when he felt them fixed on his face. She was -dressed in black, something soft and sweeping, but yet intensely -black; and from out of its midst curved her round white arms, rose her -beautiful, dazzling neck and throat, on which lay some heavy coils of -dull, red gold chain, or beads. A golden rope was the appearance they -presented at a little distance, or “rather,” thought Ralph, as in his -moment’s glance he saw the coils heave slightly as she breathed, “are -they like some magical snake she has bewitched to serve her purpose?” - -It was a silly fancy, but it dispelled the momentary impression of her -great beauty; which, not to have been struck by, one must needs have -been less or more than human. - -“What can she be after now?” thought Ralph, with some misgiving. “All -this very effective get-up must have been done with a purpose. And her -uncommonly cool tone! Rather a change from the oily manner she used to -favour me with, though upon my word I think it’s an improvement. Can -she be intending to try to pique me? No, she would never be so silly. -Besides, they did not know I was coming to-night. I declare I believe -she has got hold of some one else. How I pity the poor devil! All the -same, from personal motives, I can’t refrain from wishing her success.” -And half puzzled, half amused, he turned to his mother. - -“How well you are looking, Ralph!” broke from her involuntarily. And it -was very true. For all that he was tired and travel-stained, for he had -come in to see his mother before changing his clothes, the young man -certainly looked his very best. There was a healthy brown flush under -his somewhat sallow skin, which improved him vastly, and showed to -advantage the dark, rather too deep set eyes, whose colour I never could -succeed in defining. His figure, always lithe and sinewy, seemed to have -gained in vigour and erectness. He looked both taller and stronger; his -whole carriage told of greater heartiness and elasticity, a quicker and -healthier flow of the life-blood in his veins. - -He looked pleased at the gratification involuntarily displayed in his -mother’s tone, for till then her manner had chilled and perplexed him. -She was more cordial than when he had left her, but she looked uneasy -and depressed, and received him with the manner of one almost against -her convictions, allowing to return to favour a but half-penitent -culprit. Her “So you are back again, Ah, well!” had something rather -piteous in its tone of reproach and resignation, but was, at the same -time, exceedingly irritating. “Let bygones be bygones,” it seemed to -say. “You have been an undutiful son, but I am the most magnanimous -and long-suffering of mothers.” Underlying all this, however, was a -different feeling, an evident anxiety as to his well-being, evinced -by the heartiness of her exclamation as to his satisfactory looks. And -besides this, he felt convinced she was concealing something which she -believed would distress him; for, with all her worldly-mindedness -and class prejudice, Lady Severn was the most transparent and -honest-intentioned of women. He could not make it out, nor ask to have -it explained; for, joined to his constitutional reserve, his mother and -he were not, never had been, on such terms as to allow him frankly to -beg her to confide to him the cause of her evident uneasiness. So they -separated for the night. He, happy man, to forget all mysteries and -misgivings in the thought of tomorrow’s meeting with Marion. Poor Ralph! - -The morning came only too soon to dispel his dream. He did not see the -children at breakfast as usual, and on expressing his surprise was told -by his mother that they now breakfasted separately, as otherwise it made -them too late for their lessons. - -“Then does Miss Freer come earlier now?” was on his tongue to ask, but -something in the air of satisfaction with which Florence was sipping her -coffee, stopped his intention. - -“I shall not mention my darling’s name before her,” he said to himself. - -A few minutes later Lotty and Sybil ran in “just for one moment, -Grandmamma,” clamorous in their welcome of their truant uncle. While -they were still busy hugging Sir Ralph, the bell rang. - -“Oh come, Lotty, do,” said Sybil the virtuous, “that will be Miss -Brown.” - -“Miss Brown,” quoth Ralph, in haste, “who the—who on earth is she?” - -“Our governess, since Miss Freer left,” replied Lotty, (Sybil was as yet -incapable of approaching the subject of Miss Freer’s departure without -tears, and therefore was wise enough to leave the explanation to Lotty’s -less sensitive tongue). “Didn’t you know, Uncle Ralph, that Miss Freer -had left? She went away with Mrs. Archer, but she would have left off -teaching us at any rate. Grandmamma thought she was not ‘inexperienced’ -enough for us now we are getting so big. Not instructed enough, though -she was very kind. Miss Brown plays far grander on the piano. You can -hear her quite across the street. Just like the band on the Place. And -she——.” - -“Lotty,” said her grandmother sharply, “you talk much too fast. It is -not for little girls like you to discuss their elders. Go now, both of -you, at once, to Miss Brown, and be good girls.” - -Lotty disappeared instantly. Sybil lingered one little short moment to -kiss her uncle softly once more, and then followed her sister. What had -the child-heart read of the sorrow, the sudden, sharp pang of bitter -disappointment that thrilled through the strong man, in whom her -innocence, she instinctively wished to comfort? - -For once in his life Ralph felt thankful for Lotty’s tongue. Its chatter -gave him an instant in which to recover himself, to rally his scattered -forces and decide on his present course. Perfect silence! He was not -in the habit of betraying his feelings, and certainly his powers -of self-control must not fail him now, for the gratification of the -heartless beauty at his mother’s board. - -His first impulse had been to rise in the strength of his wrath -and indignation, to have done, for once in a way, with conventional -restrictions, and to hurl bitter, biting words at her, who in his inmost -heart he believed to be the author of all this. It was well he did not -do so. Florence was prepared for it, would have enjoyed it immensely, -and would certainly have remained mistress of the field. His heroics -would have been altogether out of place, as a very few minutes sufficed -to show him, and would but have exposed himself and another to ridicule -and derision. For what would Florence have answered? She had the words -all ready. - -“My dear Ralph, what do you mean? My dearest aunt, has your son gone out -of his mind? How can I, of all people, be responsible for Mrs. Archer’s -having been called to India to nurse her husband, or to the movements of -the young lady visiting her? Truly, Sir Ralph, you must excuse me, but -just ask yourself—why should I be supposed to take so extraordinary an -interest in every young lady my aunt sees it to engage to teach your -nieces? And still more, what possible reason could I have for supposing -this particular young lady to be an object of interest to you? It is -not usual, to say the least, for the gentleman of the house, to have an -understanding with the governess?” - -Which memorable speech however was never destined to be uttered. - -Ralph thought better of it, and decided to nurse his wrath and keep his -own counsel. - -There is a great deal of nonsense spoken and written about truth, and -truth tellers. The most exalted characters in a certain of class fiction -can never bring themselves without a tremendous fuss, either to utter -or act a falsehood, and if they ever attempt either, they are sure to -bungle it: spite of themselves “their ingenuous nature betrays itself,” -“their lips scorn to descend to the meanness,” &c. &c. It is not so in -real life. I know of no persons who, when they are put to it, can tell -a falsehood better, or act it more cleverly, than essentially truthful, -because truth-loving natures. The reason, I fancy, lies somewhere in -this direction. It takes some strength, some resolution, to do something -they thoroughly dislike, and so they, having “gone for it,” feeling -the necessity of the disagreeable action, do it to the best of their -ability, set their shoulder to the wheel and go through with it with -a will. This is how, to my experience, really thorough people tell -stories! - -Ralph did his bit of falsity very neatly. All the same, alas, Florence -saw through it! He did not over-act it. He looked up with a sufficiently -concerned expression, saying to his mother: - -“Dear me! I am sorry to hear Mrs. Archer has left. And Miss Freer too! -It must have been a sudden movement.” - -“Very sudden indeed,” replied his moving, most completely taken in, -and evidently not a little relieved and delighted, “Mrs. Archer was in -dreadful distress. She is to sail almost immediately. She would have -gone straight to Marseilles from this, but she had some business she was -obliged to attend to personally in England.” - -“But,” said Ralph, “I don’t understand. What is all the dreadful -distress about?” - -“Oh,” exclaimed his mother, “I thought you knew. Had you not heard of -poor George. Archer’s illness?” Launched on which topic, she sailed away -calmly for some minutes. - -“And did she take the child with her?” asked Ralph, “the little boy—and -the young lady, Miss Freer, did she go too? Are they going to India -together?” - -“I really don’t know,” said Lady Severn, “I forget, I’m sure, if little -Charlie is to go. And as to Miss Freer, I know still less. She was -a peculiar young woman, never even mentioned where her home was in -England.” - -“I always understood,” began Florence, but on Lady Severn’s pressing her -to tell what she had “always understood,” she, to use a very charming -schoolboy phrase “shut up,” and could not be prevailed on to say more. -Murmuring something about “not liking to repeat gossip,” she rose -gracefully from table, and the little party separated. - -Later in the morning Ralph sauntered into the drawing-room where the two -ladies were sitting. - -“It is rather tiresome,” he said, “Mrs. Archer’s having left before I -returned. I had something to send to her husband. I think my best way -will be write to her at once and ask directions for sending it to her. -Do you, happen to know her address?” - -“Oh yes,” said his mother, unsuspiciously, “she gave it to me the last -day I saw her. I gave it to you, Florence, my dear, but I remember it. I -have a good head for addresses. It is— - -Mrs. George Archer, - -Care of Mrs. Archer, sen., - -23, West Parade, - - -Leamington. - -That is it, I know. I am right, Florence, my dear, am I not?” - -Miss Vyse did not answer for a moment. Then she said slowly, sulkily, it -seemed to Ralph, which confirmed him in his opinion that the address -was correct, “Yes, Aunt, you are quite right. But I have the address -upstairs; if you wish I can run up and refer to it.” - -“No, thank you,” said Ralph, “I am quite satisfied. - -23, West Parade, - -Leamington. - -I shall not forget it,” - -“A good thing,” he thought to himself, “that my mother really has a -correct memory for addresses. Even if that girl showed me an address in -Mrs. Archer’s own writing I should not believe it was correct if it had -passed through her hands.” - -The greater part of that day he spent in writing to Marion. It was all -he could do, and he did it thoroughly; entering without reserve into all -his hopes and plans, only passing by, rather more slightly, the probable -opposition, his marriage might meet with from his mother, and inferring -that any mischief to be apprehended on this score was already done by -his having, months before, refused to marry as she wished. He impressed -upon Marion that he was far from rich, that indeed for many years to -come their life might be a struggling one, and told her the object and -success of his visit to London. - -He begged her to reply at once, and to confide to him the “imaginary” -(he called it) obstacle on her side, the remembrance of which had so -distressed her. That it was imaginary only, he told her he felt assured, -for nothing not affecting her personally would he allow to come between -them. Whatever it was, he begged her to tell it to him. Lastly, he -entreated her to send him word where and when he might see her. At any -moment, he wrote, he would hold himself in readiness to set off for -England, to see her in her own home, or wherever else she might appoint. - -One possibility only he did not allude to, for as yet it had not -seriously occurred to him, that of her perhaps having determined on -accompanying Mrs. Archer to India. Later, he wondered at its not having -struck him. - -So he wrote his letter, and enclosed it to the care of Mrs. George -Archer, to be by her forwarded, or delivered immediately. And having -posted it with his own hand, he felt rather lighter of heart than had -been the case with him since his grievous disappointment of the morning. -He tried to reason himself out of his excessive depression. “After all,” -thought he, “it is nothing to be so miserable about. It is merely a -question of a week or two’s delay. And now I can console myself by -counting the days till her answer can come.” But it was not much use. -From the first moment that he had heard her departure carelessly alluded -to, he had somehow lost hope, felt an irresistible conviction that she -was altogether and for ever gone from him. “It was very childish,” he -said to himself, “childish and unreasonable.” But he could not help it. -Still he did not allow his depression to paralyse or weaken his efforts -to obviate the harm, too likely, in one form or another, to have been -caused by Marion’s sudden and unlooked-for departure. - -More he would gladly have done; for once his letter was written and -despatched, the forced inaction and miserable suspense tried him -terribly. Many times in the course of the next few days he was on the -point of starting off again for England, but on refection he always -discarded the idea. He was so utterly without knowledge of Marion’s past -history and present circumstances. What, where, or who her friends -were, he had no idea. Of everything in fact, save herself, her own sweet -personality, he was entirely ignorant. Were he to find his way to her by -means of his only clue, the address of the senior Mrs. Archer, it -might do more harm than good, might injure his cause irretrievably. -The father, to whom she had all alluded with more dread than affection, -concerning whom there was evidently some sad or shameful page in her -young history, what might he not be? How might not Ralph’s unlooked-for -appearance irritate or exasperate him, how might it not pain or distress -her, whose peace and well-being were truly, as he had said, his first -consideration? There was no question of it, he decided, calmly and -dispassionately; he had done well to write to her in the first place, -and till he received her answer, he must take no more open or decisive -steps. It might be, though hardly to himself would he own the dreadful -doubt, yet it might be that on her side the obstacles would prove -stubborn, even altogether insurmountable. In that case, with the -terrible possibility before him, he would do well, for her sake, far -more than for his own, to guard his secret, to save her name from even -a breath of coarse innuendo or reproach, which, once under the -acknowledged shelter of his love and protection, would fall harmless; -but might, should it attack her without such defence, wound and sting -her through all her pure, guileless innocence of thought and deed. To -know that she was spoken of as “that Miss Freer who tried her best -to catch Sir Ralph Severn, but who found it no use, as Lady Severn -discovered that so-and-so, or such-and-such was the case,” would be too -horrible! From this at least he could save her. - -Sometimes it struck him as hard that she had left no message for him, -no farewell greeting or word of remembrance. But then again, when he -recalled the particulars of their last conversation, the extreme reserve -and guardedness with which purposefully he had referred to his plans -and intentions, the fears he had expressed that his efforts might be in -vain—all this, to which he judged it right to confine himself, so that -in case of adverse results she might in no wise consider herself bound -to him—he could not find it in his heart to blame her. No girl, in her -place, could have been expected to do more. Few, very few, would have -trusted him as she had done. - -So he waited, to outward appearance patiently enough, for the coming of -the earliest day on which he might reasonably expect an answer to his -letter. - -During these days the mystery of Miss Vyse’s altered manner, and -continued succession of gorgeous “gets-up” was to some extent explained. - -She had really succeeded in attaching another string, and that other by -no means a despicable one, to her bow! - -The first day of his return they dined, as usual, alone. Florence -complained of being tired, and left the drawing-room early. The -following morning Lady Severn informed her son that dinner was to be -half-an-hour later, that day, as she expected a guest. - -“A gentleman,” she added, as if she wished Ralph to enquire further. -But he was too profoundly indifferent to do so; and forgot all about the -matter till just before dinner-time, when, to his amazement, on entering -the drawing-room, he descried, seated side by side, on a sofa, in very -suspicious proximity, Florence the magnificent, and our old friend the -substantial and inconsolable widower, Mr. Chepstow! - -“So he is the poor devil I was pitying in anticipation,” thought Ralph, -“On the whole I think the sentiment is uncalled-for. His back is broad -enough, and his susceptibilities not too acute. Besides which, he is the -kind of man that must be ruled, and perhaps when he is incorporated as -a part of her precious self, Florence may not treat him badly. She -will have no more need for plotting and planning on pecuniary grounds, -anyhow.” - -Mr. Chepstow was all beaming with the effulgence of prosperity and -good-humour, delighted to see Sir Ralph again, hoped he had enjoyed his -visit to England, etc., etc. - -Ralph felt rather at a loss how to demean himself. The thing was so very -palpable, he wondered if he was expected to congratulate the happy pair -forthwith. But as there had been no announcement made to him, he decided -that it was better to be on the safe side, and risk no premature good -wishes. - -It was a very tiresome evening. Mr. Chepstow bored him inexpressibly; -the more so, that being his mother’s guest, he felt bound to be civil -to the good-natured millionaire. After dinner he was doomed to a -very exhausting tête-à-tête, in the course of which the stout widower -unbosomed himself, described in glowing terms his admiration for Miss -Vyse, and ended by expressing his hopes that Sir Ralph would look -favourably on the proposed alliance. - -“I am very happy to hear of it, I assure you, Mr. Chepstow,” replied -Ralph. “But you are mistaken in thinking my approval has anything to say -to the matter. Miss Vyse is very distantly related to me, and though -she has been staying with my mother for some time, I am very slightly -acquainted with her. She is, I believe, quite her own mistress. It think -her fortunate in the prospect of a kind husband; and you, on your side, -I need not tell you, will have an exceedingly handsome wife. May I -ask when the—what do you call it?—happy event, isn’t that the proper -expression, is to take place?” - -Mr. Chepstow’s rosy completion visibly deepened in hue. - -“We have not exactly fixed. In fact, my dear Sir Ralph, Miss Vyse is a -young lady of such exceedingly delicate feeling—I had wished her to name -an early day, but she rather objects to our marriage taking place till -the anniversary of the late Mrs. Chepstow’s death has passed. - -“Oh indeed!” said the younger man; “then that anniversary falls about -this season, I suppose. Ah well, a few weeks’ delay will give you time -to know each other better! I forget by-the-bye how many years you have -been a widower.” - -Mr. Chepstow looked still more uncomfortable. - -“My late wife, Mrs. Chepstow,” he said, “died in June. I thought I -mentioned that Miss Vyse wished to postpone matters till after the -anniversary was passed.” - -“Your late wife only died last June then?” exclaimed Sir Ralph, feeling -considerably disgusted. “Then I certainly agree with Miss Vyse as to the -propriety of deferring the present affair a little longer.” - -This was rather a damper even to the obtuse Mr. Chepstow. He looked -rather ashamed of himself, and appeared glad to agree to his host’s -proposal that they should return to the drawing-room. - -“I wonder what sort of a person the first Mrs Chepstow was?” thought -Ralph somewhat cynically, as he observed the devotion of the fat lover, -the cool affectation and airs de grande dame of the beautiful fiancée. -It was amusing to watch the change in her manner already. She had -altogether thrown aside her gentle deference and fawning amiability, -and seemed to go out of her way to seek for opportunities of covertly -sneering at Sir Ralph, or annoying him with ingeniously impertinent -innuendoes, and his real, unaffected indifference to it all galled her -not a little. - -“How can it be,” thought he, “that two women can exist, so utterly, -so radically different as this girl and my Marion?” And as the thought -passed through his mind, he glanced at Florence. She was looking at him, -with a strangely mingled expression on her face. Regret, remorse, even a -shade of pity, seemed to cross her beautiful features. But for a moment, -and then she hastily turned aside and began chattering nonsense to Mr. -Chepstow. But a new direction had been given to Ralph’s mediations. - -“Why does she look at me in that way?” he asked himself: “she has -doubtless discovered my secret. Can it be that after all she is -possessed of something in the shape of a heart that is capable of -pitying my bitter disappointment? It is possible, I suppose. Moralists -say there is a spark of good in the worst of us.” - -Florence, by-the-bye, scolded Mr. Chepstow furiously when she discovered -that he had confessed to Sir Ralph that the first anniversary of her -predecessor’s death was not yet past! - -Henceforth there was nothing but Chepstow. Morning, noun, and night -it seemed to Ralph he never entered his mother’s drawing-room without -coming upon that worthy there ensconced. He grew very tired of it; but -finding at last that the millionaire never took offence at anything, -came to treat him somewhat unceremoniously, and found it rather -convenient to shuffle on to his broad shoulders some of the -gentleman-of-the-house duties so unspeakably irksome to his unsociable -self. - -The day came on which an answer to his letter was to be expected. It -passed, bringing him nothing. Likewise its successors, one, two, and -three, and Ralph began to be very miserable. He waited a few days -longer, then thought of writing again; but to what purpose? Why should -a second letter fare better than its predecessor? Suddenly a new idea -struck him. He was walking near the Rue St. Thomas at the time, and -acted at once on the notion. - -Hitherto he had avoided passing Mrs. Archer’s house. He dreaded the -sight of it, and especially of the little terrace; a corner of which was -visible from the street. - -As he stood now at the door after ringing the bell, he heard merry -voices above. He stepped back a little and looked up. On the terrace -he saw the figure of a young girl about Marion’s height, playing and -laughing with some children. They were utter strangers to him; happy, -innocent creatures, but at that moment he felt as if he hated them. - -He was recalled to himself by the voice of Mme. Poulin at the door. She -recognized him, and enquired civilly how she could serve him. - -“Do you happen to know Mrs. Archer’s address?” he asked. “Did she -leave it with you before she went? I have some letters of importance to -forward to her.” - -“But yes, certainly,” replied the brisk old woman; “Monsieur shall have -it at once. It is mademoiselle that gave it to me. Already have I sent -letters, a little bill by example, that madam, in her distress, failed -to pay. And I have received the answer with an order for the money. ‘Ces -dames étaient gentilles, mais bien gentilles. Cette pauvre Thérèse a -bien pleuré leur départ! Eh le petit, ah qu’il était mignon.” - -“But the address,” reminded Ralph. - -“Ah yes, the address! I go to seek it.” - -And she disappeared, in another moment returning with two or three ready -directed and stamped envelopes in her band, on each of which was written -in a clear girlish hand— - -“Mrs. George Archer, - -23, West Parade, - -Cheltenham.” - -“Cheltenham!” exclaimed Ralph, “by Jove, and I put Leamington. My -mother’s mistake, evidently, and that snake of a girl suspected my -secret and encouraged my mistake. Heaven forgive her, for I can’t. And -now— - -Mme. Poulin saw that something was wrong. - -“Monsieur fears then that this address will not reach ‘ces dames.’ It is -true, they were soon to depart pour les Indes. Mais il faut éspérer—-” - -“Pour les Indes,” interrupted Ralph, eagerly, “were then both the ladies -going there? The young lady, too?” - -Mme. Poulin looked puzzled. - -“Mais oui,” she said, “that is to say at least, I have always thought -so.” Evidently the contrary had never occurred to her. But a bright -idea struck her. “I go to ask Thérèse,” she said; “she spoke much with -Mademoiselle. Without doubt Mademoiselle will have told her if it were -not so.” - -And the old woman disappeared for the second time. In a few minutes she -returned, bringing her daughter to assist at the consultation. Ralph -heard their voices chattering shrilly along the passage, and a few words -reached him. “Aux Indes,” “la petite demoiselle,” “Mais non, ma mère, -assurément,” and so on. Those few moments seemed hours to him! - -Thérèse’s opinion to some extent relieved him of this new terror. Though -on close cross-examination she did not appear to have very certain -grounds for her belief, yet the impression she had received while the -little family was with them, was evidently that the young lady was not -going to India, was not, in fact, a permanent member of Mrs. Archer’s -household. - -“That I am aware of,” said Ralph; “all I want to know is, did she ever -allude in any way to India, or to her perhaps going there?” - -But Thérèse could not remember that she had ever done so. So with this -negative satisfaction, Ralph was forced to be content, and thanking the -mother and daughter for their good-nature, went his way, the precious -envelope in his hand, to think over what next to do. - -After all he decided, there was nothing for it but to write again. This -time, of course, to the right address. The same objections remained in -full force against his going to England and trying there to find Marion -for himself. So he wrote at once. Two letters. One to Mrs. Archer, -enclosing, as before, another to Marion. Then, unfortunately, he changed -his mind, and sent them separately. That to Miss Freer, to the care of -Mrs. Archer, &c. That to Cissy, merely a few words, begging her at once -to send him Miss Freer’s address, or if by any possibility she were -actually accompanying Mrs. Archer to India, to let him know whence and -how they were going. If from Marseilles, he would start at a moment’s -notice to meet them there on their way. - -This letter reached Cheltenham a few days after Cissy had left. It lay -for some time in the senior Mrs. Archer’s house, that lady being ill or -away from home, and was then sent on to India, where Cissy received -it by the same mail as another letter from Ralph sent to India direct, -which we shall hear about presently. - -The other letter, that directed to Miss Freer, never reached its -destination, never, at least, as we have seen, came to Marion’s hands. -Its history was never known. Probably enough it arrived at Mrs. Archer’s -house, and some stupid or officious servant, seeing the unfamiliar name, -may have said, after the manner of her kind, it was “not for us,” and -sent the poor letter adrift again. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. RALPH (continued.) - -“Which when his mother saw, she in her mind -Was troubled sore, she wist well what to weene; -She could by search nor any means out find -The secret cause and nature of his teene. -Unto himself she tame and him besought, -If aught lay hidden in his grieved thought, -It to reveal: who still her answered there was nought. - FAIRY QUEEN, CANTO XII. - - - -BY this time April was pretty far advanced. - -Suddenly, after an interval of some weeks’ temperate weather succeeding -the usual spring rains, Altes grew intolerably hot, and every one began -to desert the poor little town as if it we plague stricken. - -Some weeks previously, Lady Severn had engaged for the six months’ -summer, a villa at Vevey, and thither she now decided on removing -herself and her rather cumbrous household. Much to Ralph’s -disappointment. He was heartily sick of living abroad in this unhomelike -fashion, and had been for long hoping that the approaching summer would -see Medhurst once more inhabited. But to this wish of his, his mother -was as yet unwilling to agree. She still shrank from returning to the -place where the light of her eyes, her eldest son, had met his death, -and succeeded in persuading herself that on every account, Sybil’s -especially, it was better for them all to remain on the continent for -another year. - -So they left Altes at the end of April. - -Sufficient time, however, had elapsed to Ralph to have received an -answer to his second letter, but none arrived. - -He came at last to a new determination. At all risks, he resolved, after -seeing his mother and her party safely established at Vevey, to go to -England, and with the help of the Cheltenham address in his possession, -seek to discover his lost Marion, and learn the reason of her strange -silence. - -Mrs. Archer’s not having replied to his enquiries did not surprise him. -He began to feel sure that she must have set out on her long journey -eastward before his letter had arrived at her mother-in-law’s house. -The fear that Marion might have accompanied her to India, he resolutely -determined for the present to set aside. Time enough to think of it when -he discovered it to be actually the case. - -As ill-luck would have it, some considerable time elapsed before he -found himself free to turn northwards. Half way on their journey to -Switzerland Sybil fell ill—grievously ill, poor little dove–and he could -not find it in his heart to leave her, even had he thought it right to -do so. It was a very miserable state of things. Their resting-place -was a small provincial town near the French frontier, where, as may be -imagined, the accommodation was far from luxurious. They succeeded in -securing the best rooms in the best hotel, which sounds gorgeous enough, -but practically speaking was the very reverse. - -The little inn was built round a small courtyard, on to which opened -the windows of all the rooms. Considering that in this courtyard were -performed all the unsightly, though doubtless unavoidable household -duties, such as scouring of pans, washing of cabbages, and killing of -chickens; that herein also took place all the gossiping, bargaining, and -scolding of the neighbourhood; and that, to crown all, the weather was -stiflingly hot, and cleanliness, but a pleasing recollection of the -past, it may easily be imagined that it was hardly the spot one would -choose to be ill in. The poor child suffered terribly. Her constant cry -was for “Uncle Ralph,” in whose arms, at all hours of the day and night, -she seemed alone to find ease or repose. And for a whole fortnight they -knew not what to think or hope. - -Lady Severn was wretched. She, too, in her suffering and anxiety clung -closely to her son. It drew them very near together—this time of dread -and watching—and did not a little to reveal to the poor lady the true -character of her quondam favourite, Florence Vyse. The beauty, as -might have been expected, behaved with utter heartlessness and selfish -disregard of every one’s comfort but her own; grumbling fretfully -whenever she thought Lady Severn could not hear her, at the hardship of -being detained in this “odious hole,” and all but saying openly that if -only they could get away from this “horrible place,” she cared little -whether the child lived or died. - -But sweet Sybil’s life-battle was not yet to end. She recovered, and, -as is the way with children once they “get the turn,” as it is called, -amazed them all by the speediness of her convalescence. - -Spite of all the disadvantages of her surroundings, by the latter half -of May she was able to be moved, and the end of the month saw them all -comfortably established in the pretty Swiss “maison de campagne.” Then -at last Ralph began to think of executing his project. But before he -had had time to enter into any of its details, the whole scheme was -unexpectedly knocked on the head. - -The first morning after their arrival in Vevey, he was passing along the -principal street on his way to look up the doctor in whose care they had -been advised to place Sybil, when, some way in front, he saw a familiar -figure advancing towards him. - -An Englishwoman evidently, as he could have told by her walk, even had -he not known her. Middle-sized and broadset, ruddy-complexioned and -reddish haired, coming along with that peculiar swing of mingled hauteur -and nonchalance, affected by one type of that curious genus, the fast -young lady; there was no mistaking our old acquaintance Sophy Berwick. - -Ralph, looked about him nervously for a chance of escape, but on neither -side was there any. He was not quite capable of turning round and -actually running for it, though he felt not a little inclined to do so. - -In another moment she saw him, and he was in for it. Almost before she -was within hearing she began to speak, as fast as ever. At the present -time his appearance was a perfect godsend to her; she was burdened with -the weight of a whole budget of uncommunicated Altes gossip. - -“So you are here, Sir Ralph!” was her greeting. “Upon my word, wonders -will never cease! The last person I expected to see. I thought you had -gone back to England for good. I am very glad to see you though. Fancy -what a piece of news we have just heard. Frank is going to be married! -You will never guess who the lady is. For my part, I can’t imagine what -he could see in her. Little milk-and-water idiot in my opinion. Do guess -now who it is.” - -It was useless for Ralph to protest his incapacity for ever guessing -anything, especially the present puzzle. Sophy had, metaphorically -speaking, button-holed him. There was no escape. - -“It’s not Miss Freer,” proceeded Sophy; “I wish it were. She had more -sense. It’s that doll, Dora Bailey! And, just imagine, it was all -settled before Frank left, only they agreed to keep it a secret for -three months for reasons best known to themselves. Now confess, aren’t -you surprised?” - -Knowing all he did of Frank Berwick’s private history, Ralph could -honestly say he was. Having listened to a few more comments from Miss -Sophy on this subject, he began to hope he might be allowed to pursue -his way, but such was far from the young lady’s intention. - -“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said she; “I’ve lots more to tell you and -ask about. Is it true that your cousin is going to marry that jolly old -Chepstow? That, too, I heard the other day.” - -“It is true, certainly,” said Ralph, “that Mr. Chepstow and Miss Vyse -are engaged to be married. But whoever told you the young lady was my -cousin made a mistake. However, that does not signify.” - -“Oh, and about that pretty Mrs. Archer,” pursued the relentless Sophy, -“she went off in such a hurry—to nurse her husband, was it not? I heard -of her from some friends of mine who knew her, and were going out at the -same time. About the middle of April they set off—she and Miss Freer. -They will be near their journey’s end now. Only, by-the-by, they were -going up to the hills, I believe—somewhere near Simla. I was just -thinking how queer it would be if Frank and Marion Freer came across -each other again out there, when I heard of his engagement to that -stupid Dora. Though I daresay it’s just as well. There’s no doubt Frank -was tremendously smitten by her—Marion, I mean—but then she was already -disposed of. And I don’t think she was the sort of girl to break off an -engagement, even though her heart was not in it. Do you, Sir Ralph?” - -From sheer want of breath the girl at last came to a stop. All too soon, -however, for her auditor; who, though tortured with anxiety to hear more -of the dreadful things the thoughtless rattle alluded to so carelessly, -yet could not, for a moment or two, find voice to utter the inquiry on -his lips. Fortunately, at this juncture, Sophy’s attention was attracted -by something passing in the street. When she turned round again he had -perfectly recovered himself. - -“It is not pleasant standing here, Miss Berwick,” he said. “I am in no -hurry; suppose you allow me to walk so far on your way with you, and we -can compare notes about all our old acquaintances.” - -“By all means,” replied Sophy, delighted with his unusual urbanity, -which confirmed her in her often expressed opinion that ‘Ralph Severn -only wanted shaking to be a good fun as any one.’ - -“What were we talking about?” added she. - -“Miss Freer,” he said, carelessly. “I think so at least. You were -saying she had gone out to India, were you not? I did not know she lived -permanently with Mrs. Archer?” - -“She didn’t,” said Sophy. “At Altes she was only visiting her. But she -was going out to India to be married. Mrs. Archer told me so herself -one day, and Marion was very angry. She wanted it kept a secret. Her -husband-to-be is enormously rich, much older than she, I believe. I am -almost sure she did not like the idea. Her manner was so queer when it -was referred to. I expect she had been forced into it. She was so poor, -you know.” - -“You don’t happen to know the gentleman’s name, do you?” in a voice that -would have sounded startling in a strangeness to any one less obtuse -than his companion. - -“No,” she said, consideringly. “I did not hear it. Mrs. Archer was just -going to tell it me, but Marion got so angry she stopped. She was to be -married as soon as she got there. Why, she will almost be married now—in -another month any way! Doesn’t it seem funny?” - -She looked up in Sir Ralph’s face as she spoke—her bright, good-humoured -eyes fixed on his face in all good faith and unconcern. She thought she -was speaking the truth. Ralph looked at her, and saw that she meant what -she said. - -He accepted it. - -Something in his glance struck even Sophy as peculiar. Whispers had once -or twice reached her at Altes that he too, the unimpressionable baronet, -had at last been “attracted”—if not more. And by whom, of all people in -the world, but by that quiet, pale girl, the Miss Freer, who gave daily -lessons to his nieces! It was very strange, the Altes magpies said -to each other, what there was about that girl that gentlemen found so -charming. Very strange and incomprehensible; above all, that Sir Ralph -Severn, who might marry “any one,” should think of her. He was odd, -certainly, but then there was his mother. She would never hear of such -a thing! So, as no further material was provided for the growth of the -report, it died a natural death, and was quickly succeeded by other and -more exciting topics. - -Like a dream, the hints she had heard returned to Sophy’s memory. “Could -it have been true?” she asked herself, and again she glanced at her -companion. He was walking along quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground. -In another moment he spoke. - -“And what more news have you for me, Miss Berwick?” he said lightly. -“Let me see, we have done a good deal of business in the last few -minutes. Assisted at three prospective marriages, and made our comments -thereupon. The last we discussed seems to me the least satisfactory. -That poor girl, Miss Freer, I pity her if she is forced into a mercenary -marriage.” - -“Yes,” replied Sophy, “I suppose she is to be pitied. “But provided she -does not care for anyone else, she will get along well enough with her -husband, I dare say. Particularly if he is so rich. It is much easier to -keep good friends when there is plenty of money.” - -“Do you think so?” said Ralph, indifferently. How the girl’s words stung -him! “Provided she cares for no one else.” But he answered so carelessly -and naturally that the Sophy was quite deceived, and dismissed as -groundless the idea that had occurred to her. They walked on together -some little distance; Ralph skilfully drawing her out, but to -no purpose. She had evidently told him, and apparently without -exaggeration, all she knew on the subject. - -He went home. What he thought and felt and suffered, those who have -marvelled at themselves for living through similar bitterness and -disappointment, will know without my attempting the impossible task of -describing it. Those, on the other hand, who have not hitherto passed -through such anguish, may yet have to bear it. And to many, even -the feeble words I might vainly employ, would appear exaggerated and -unnatural. - -The result of that day’s meeting with Sophy Berwick was the following -letter to Mrs. Archer, containing an enclosure for Miss Freer. He wrote -both letters at once. He could not rest till he had done so; though, by -the rule of contrary again, he found when they were written, that he had -missed the mail by two or three days only. So they did not go till the -following month. And it was July ere Cissy received them, additional -delay resulting from their going round by the headquarters of Colonel -Archer’s regiment in the first place; the only address which Ralph felt -confidence in after his late disastrous experience. This was what he -wrote to Cissy:— - - -“CHATEAU MORNIER - -“VEVEY - -“JUNE 3rd, 18— - - -“MY DEAR MRS. ARCHER, - -“Before this you may have received a letter I sent to your Cheltenham -address, trusting it might reach you before you left. As, however, I -have received no answer to it, I suppose it must have been too late. It -will, therefore, probably be sent after you. It consisted merely of a -few lines, begging you at once to send me the address of your friend, -Miss Freer, to whom, on the chance of her being there, even had you -left, I wrote at the same time. To that letter neither have I received -any answer. Only to-day have I learned the reason—that she accompanied -you to India last April. This news was a great shock to me. Still -greater the information that accompanied it—that Miss Freer went out to -India the betrothed wife of a gentleman to whom she was to be married -very shortly after her arrival! The person who told me this, mentioned -having heard it directly from yourself at Altes, some months ago. I may -as well tell you that my informant was Sophy Berwick. She had no reason -for telling me. She did incidentally. Nor can I see that it is likely -she was mistaken. Certain words and allusions of Marion’s own confirm me -in believing it. Still there is a chance—a mere chance—that it may -not be so; and on this I now write to you, begging you as speedily as -possible to tell me the truth. At the time Marion, under pressure of -strong excitement, let fall the hints I refer to, she evidently did -not consider herself irrevocably bound. She alluded to some concealment -concerning herself, some obstacle connected with her father’s wishes. -Had I only then dared to speak more openly of my own hopes and -intentions all might have been well. But I thought it right not to do -so; and since I have been free to speak, a series of cross-purposes, -beginning with your sudden flight from Altes, and ending with my last -letters missing you (previous ones having shared the same fate through -an incorrect address), has, I fear, separated us—for ever. It is very -terrible to me to realise that it probably is so. As to her, I must -try to be unselfish enough to hope that all this may have fallen more -lightly on her younger and more elastic nature. I do not know if you -ever guessed this secret of mine? I almost wish now that I had confided -it to you. The enclosed letter contains a full explanation of all in -my conduct, that to my poor darling must have seemed mysterious and -inexplicable. If, when you receive this, she be yet by any blessed -chance free, give it to her. All then will, I feel assured, be well. If, -on the other hand, as is more probable, she be already bound to another, -even perhaps by this time married, return it to me as it is; and never, -I beseech you, mention my name to her. Better far she should forget me, -despise me even; than that, by learning that I, alas, have not ceased, -never can cease to care for her, her married life with another should be -embittered by vain regret. And in no case, mind you, do I blame her. I -am ignorant of the circumstances which must have compelled her to agree -to a marriage, into which she could not enter with her heart. Whatever -they may have been, she, I am sure, is to be excused. Her youth and -unselfishness of disposition would render her easy to persuade to such -a sacrifice. I have said more than I intended. Selfishly too I have -omitted to express my hopes that you found Colonel Archer in a fair way -to complete recovery. I do not send any message to him, as I must beg -you, on every account, to consider this letter and all it contains as -strictly private. I shall be very grateful to you if you will answer -this as soon as possible. Believe me, - -“Yours faithfully, - -“RALPH M. SEVERN. - - - -“P.S. I am forgetting to mention that if the letter I sent to Cheltenham -to Miss Freer, has, with yours, been forwarded to India, it is not -either way of much consequence. Fearing it might not reach her directly, -I purposely made it short and formal. Merely expressing my regret at not -having seen her again, and asking for her address that I might send her -some books, &c. This (and everything else) is fully explained in the -enclosed.” - -“The enclosed” was three times the length of the foregoing. It -contained, as Ralph said, a full explanation of all that had occurred -since the last evening at Altes, when they parted, as they thought, for -the fortnight merely of Ralph’s visit to England. - -Now began again for Ralph a period of weary waiting, till the answer, -or answers, to his letters might be expected. It was a long time -to wait—four months or thereabouts! He grew sick of the summer, the -constant sunshine and brightness, and longed for the time when he -should see the leaves beginning to turn, when among the trees he should -perceive the first whisper of autumn. “For by then,” he thought, “this -suspense at least will be over. And at the worst I shall be free to -begin to live down my disappointment.” - -So it came to pass that at the very same time both Marion and he were -waiting with anxious hearts for news from the far-off East. Whereas, -had they only known it, but a few days’ journey and a few words of -explanation, would have sufficed again, and for life, to unite them. - -What, for two or three weeks, Ralph thought was to be his only answer, -came to him, as to Marion, in the advertisement sheet of the “Times;” -where one morning early in October, he saw the announcement of poor -Cissy’s death. It shocked him greatly. - -For a week or two he knew not what to think or do. Then one morning, as -he was all but losing hope of any further or more satisfactory reply, he -received an Indian letter. A bulky letter with a deep black border round -the envelope, and addressed in an unfamiliar hand. He turned it about, -as people always do when particularly anxious to learn the contents of -a letter, stared at the address, the stamps, and the black seal, as if -they could reveal the secret of the inside! - -At last he opened it, and drew out a second envelope likewise addressed -to himself, but in a different hand, and with no black edge. This again -he opened, and out fell, on to the floor at his feet, a letter that was -no stranger to him. His own letter to Miss Freer, somewhat crushed and -worn-looking from its much travelling, but otherwise exactly as it had -left, him, the seal unbroken, the whole evidently untampered with. And -his own words to Cissy recurred to him,—“If on the other hand she be -already bound to another, even perhaps by this time married, return it -to me as it is, and never, I beseech you, mention my name to her. - -He understood it. Poor Cissy had obeyed him, and no fear that now she -would betray his confidence. But looking again at the black-bordered -outside envelope, he saw that it still contained something. A short -letter only, written almost immediately after his wife’s death by George -Archer, whose was the writing which Ralph, not having seen for many -years, had failed to recognize. It ran thus, - -“LANDOUR, N.W. PROVINCES. - -“AUGUST 20TH, 18— - -“MY DEAR SEVERN,— - -“Already you may have chanced to hear of my great loss. Considering all -the aggravations; our long separation; her hastening out to nurse me at -risk to herself; my inexcusable selfishness in having suggesting it; I -think you will not despise me for confessing to you that I am perfectly -prostrated, utterly heart-broken; even though yet at times unable to -realize it. One of her last requests to me was that I would, without -delay, forward to you a letter which would find in her desk—‘written,’ -she said, and ‘ready to be addressed.’ She was very ill at the time and -must have been confused in what she said, for the enclosed I found as -I send it, all ready, save the stamps, to be posted. I need hardly -tell you that I am in entire ignorance of it contents, and perfectly -satisfied to remain so always. My poor child told me it related to some -private matters of your own, as to which you had consulted her. She was -evidently anxious about the matter, so whatever it be, I trust it may -end well. You will forgive my not writing more just now. Remember me to -Lady Severn, and thank her for the kindness she showed to my wife and -child last winter. - -“Yours most truly, - -“GEORGE ARCHER.” - -That was all! Ralph folded the letters. His own to Miss Fryer he -destroyed. - -“And so,” he said to himself, “my story is ended.” - -He wrote at once to Sir Archibald, declining the appointment at A——, -which till now, his old chief had with some trouble kept open for him. - -He remained at the Château Mornier with his mother till in the autumn -she left it for a more genial climate. And one day soon after receiving -Colonel Archer’s letter, he read, in the newspaper, of the death of the -well-known and distinguished Member for ——, Hartford Vere, and bestowed -a moment’s passing pity on the scantily provided for orphan children of -the great man! - -The Severns did not winter at. Altes. That was spared him. He persuaded -his mother to try Italy for a change. Yet more, he obtained from her -a promise that should all be well, the following spring should see the -family re-established at Medhurst. Once there, he felt he should be more -free to leave them; and travel by himself where the fancy seized him, -or rather, wherever he saw the most encouraging prospect for the -furtherance of the special studies which he was now determined to resume -in earnest, and in which he hoped to find sufficient interest to prevent -his life from becoming altogether a blank. His mother was ready enough -now-a-days to agree to his wishes, even, when possible, to forestall -them. Since Sybil’s illness at Lusac, there had been a great change in -Lady Severn. She had learned to cling much to her hitherto little valued -son. And something had reached her, in some subtle, impalpable way, -of the sorrow, of the bitterness of disappointment through which -this summer had seen him pass. She knew no particulars, her private -suspicions even, were wide of the mark; but she could see that he had -aged strangely of late. Always grave, he had grown more so, and it was -long since any of the bright, sudden flashes of humour had been heard, -which of old relieved by their sparkle, his usual quiet seriousness. - -Something of her anxiety about him, she one day endeavoured to express -to him; but she never tried it again. With perfect gentleness, but -irresistible firmness, he put her aside; and in her inmost heart she -felt she deserved it. - -He could forgive, even, in a sense, forget. But as to taking into -his confidence, accepting the sympathy of the mother, whose previous -indifference, narrow-minded prejudice, and love of power, had greatly -been to blame for the great sorrow of his life—it was asking too much. - -Still, though too late for confidence, there was perfect peace between -mother and son; undisturbed even by the continued presence of through -the winter of Florence Vyse, who had taken it into her head that the -éclat of her marriage would be much increased by Medhurst being the -scene of the interesting ceremony; in consequence of which the ardent -Chepstow had to agree to its being deferred till the spring. Florence -found it rather good fun being “engaged.” She kept her stout admirer -trotting backwards and forwards between England and Italy all the -winter; which was rather a profitable arrangement so far as she -was concerned, as on each occasion of arrival and departure she was -presented with a new and gorgeous “souvenir” of the about-to-be absent -Chepstow, or token of his remembrance of her when in distant lands. His -devotion was really “sweetly touching,” as ladies’ maids say; and paid -well, too, for long before she became Mrs. Chepstow, the beauty had -accumulated a very fair show of jewellery and such-like feminine -treasures, not a few of which, in justice to her be it recorded, found -their way to the humble little house standing in a “genteel” row, in one -of the northern suburbs of London, where dwelt the mother and sisters on -whom what she possessed of a heart was bestowed. She was more genuinely -amiable and good-tempered this winter than she had yet shown herself. -To Ralph in particular her manner had become gentle, almost humble. -Prosperity suited her, and she could afford, now that the cause of her -jealous irritation was removed, almost to pity the man, in every respect -so immeasurably her superior, whose happiness she had yet, in a moment -of pique and mean spitefulness, deliberately endeavoured to destroy. -She too, before leaving Altes, had heard and believed Sophy Berwick’s -romance; and had seized with delight the opportunity of delaying, till -too late, all communication between Sir Ralph and the girl who, she -fancied, had usurped her place with him. - -Yet now, when she looked at him sometimes, and, despite all his proud -self-control and impenetrable reserve, descried symptoms of a grief -it was not in her self-absorbed nature to understand—now, when all was -smiling on her, and she had begun to think herself decidedly better off -with the manageable Mr. Chepstow, than she would have been as the wife -of the incomprehensible Ralph, there were moments in which she wished -she had not done that ugly thing, not said those two or three words, -which even her easy conscience told her were neither more nor less -than that which we prefer to call by any other name but its own—a -cold-blooded, malicious lie. - - - - -CHAPTER X. THE BEGINNING OF THE END. - -“Un mensonge qui flatte ou blesse le cœur trouve plus facilement -créarice qu’une vérité indéferent.” - OCTAVEFEUILET. - -“———Thank God, the gift of a good man’s love.” - ANOLDSTORY. - - - -MALLLINGFORD again! And not looking more cheerful than when we last saw -it. Then it was late autumn, now, except for the name of the thing, a -scarcely more genial season, early spring. - -“More genial,” indeed, impresses a comparison strictly speaking, -impossible to draw—in Brentshire at least—between either November and -February, or February and November; unless we subscribe to the logic -of that celebrated individual, the March hare, who tells his bewildered -guest, “Alice in Wonderland,” “that it is very easy to have more than, -nothing.” - -Geniality, truly, of any kind, outside or inside, our poor Marion had -not met with, through all those cheerless, dreary months at the Cross -House. Excepting always the occasional breaks in the cloudy monotony of -her life, contrived for her by the watchful thoughtfulness of Geoffrey -Baldwin. Not the least of these had been the pleasure of Harry’s company -during the Christmas holidays (the last, in all probability, the young -man would spend in England for years to come), for which Geoffrey alone -was to be thanked. Miss Tremlett would have fainted at the bare idea of -having that “dreadful boy” as even a few weeks’ guest. She “tipped” him, -however, handsomely, with which proof of her affection Harry was amply -content; finding his quarters at the Manor Farm infinitely more to his -taste than a residence in the Cross House. Though two miles distant, he -managed to see a great deal of his sister; his host being no unwilling -coadjutor in this respect. They had plenty of rides together, to which -this open winter, in other respects so disagreeable, was favourable; and -at times, when braced by the fresh air and exhilarated by the exercise, -Marion for a brief space felt almost happy. - -But only for a brief space. Her life was very repulsive to her, and -although she made the best of it to Harry, he saw enough to make him -feel for her greatly. Nor did his pity end with the sentiment. In all -seriousness the brother offered, rather than condemn her to such an -existence, to give up his cherished and chosen intention of entering the -army, for which by this time he was fully prepared; and remain near -her, with the hopes of in time being able to set up a modest little -establishment of their own. He would try for a clerkship in the -Mallingford Bank, or take to farming, under Geoffrey Baldwin’s guidance. -To neither of which proposals, however, would Marion hear of consenting. - -“You don’t think so poorly of me, Harry, as to imagine that my life -would be any the happier for knowing I had been the means of spoiling -yours? Though I love you for offering this, and I will try to be incited -by the remembrance of it to more cheerfulness.” - -Her one woman-friend, the gentle, but brave-spirited Veronica, warmly -applauded her unselfish resolution. So, in his heart, for more reasons -than one, did Geoffrey Baldwin, though he said nothing. - -With a face smiling through its tears the poor girl bid her brother -farewell. - -“Only to midsummer, you know, May,” said the boy, “whatever regiment I -may get my commission in, I’m sure of some weeks at home first. That’s -to say with Baldwin,” he added, for “home,” alas, was a mere memory of -the past to the two orphans. “He is so very kind, May. I really don’t -know how we are ever to thank him for it.” - -“He is indeed,” said Marion warmly, so warmly that Harry, who had -but small experience of that queer thing, a woman’s heart, smiled to -himself, and want away considerably happier in mind about his sister for -this corroboration, as he thought it, of a very pleasant suspicion which -had lately entered his imagination. - -“It would suit so capitally,” he thought to himself. “In every way he’s -a thorough good fellow. Not so clever as May, certainly, but they’d get -on just as well for all that.” Perhaps so, Harry. It is a question, -and a not easily answered one, as to how far congeniality of mind is -necessary to a happy marriage. - -But certainly, to give two such different natures as those of Geoffrey -Baldwin and Marion Vere, a chance of assimilating in the long run, -one element is indispensable, a good foundation of mutual love. Not -friendship, however sincere, not esteem, however great—but love—of which -the former are but a part. “And not necessarily even that,” say some, -from whom nevertheless I differ in opinion. - -After Harry had gone, it was the old monotonous story again. It was -impossible for her to ride so much as while her brother was with them, -for the Copley girls were not always to be got hold of, and Mr. Baldwin, -as Marion observed with some surprise, rather fought shy of tête-à-tête -excursions. - -“Who would have thought he was so prudish,” she said to herself. “It’s -rather misplaced, for I’m sure everybody knows he is just like a sort of -uncle or brother to me.” - -“Everybody” however, in Brentshire, is not in the habit of thinking -anything so natural and innocent, and Geoffrey was wise in his -generation. Though in this instance really, the Mrs. Grundys of the -neighbourhood might have been excused for remarking the very palpable -and undeniable fact, that Mr. Baldwin was a remarkably handsome bachelor -of only seven or eight and twenty, and Miss Vere “a pretty pale girl” -of little more than nineteen. “The sort of girl too that manages to get -herself admired by gentlemen, though why I really can’t see,” remarked -one of the sister-hood to her confidante for the time. Who in reply -observed that “no more could she.” Adding, moreover, that, “Everyone -knows what that sort of story-book affair is sure to end in. Young -guardian and interesting ward! The girl knew well enough what she was -about. Evidently she had not taken up her quarters with that odious Miss -Tremlett for nothing. Had her father lived, or left her better off, she -might have looked higher. But as things were she had done wisely not to -quarrel with her bread-and-butter.” - -Marion’s visits to Miss Temple, though by reason of her aunt’s -unreasonable prejudice, they had to be managed with extreme discretion -and not made too frequently, were at this time of great benefit to the -girl. The influence of the thoroughly sound and sweet Veronica softened -while it strengthened her; and did much to weaken, if not altogether -eradicate, a certain root of bitterness, which, not unnaturally, -began to show itself in her disposition. She was not given to bosom -friendships or confidantes. Though frank and ingenuous, she had, like -all strong natures, a great power of reserve. Even to Cissy Archer, the -most intimate friend she had ever had, she by no means, as we have seen, -thought it necessary to confide all her innermost feelings. - -Through the circumstances of her life and education, her principle -acquaintances, not to say friends, had been of the opposite sex—and to -tell the truth she preferred that they should be such—though from no -unwomanliness in herself, from no shadow of approach to “fastness,” had -she come to like the society of men more than that of women. Rather I -think from the very opposite cause—her extreme, though veiled, timidity -and self-distrust; which instinctively turned to the larger and more -generous nature for encouragement and shelter. It never cost her a -moment’s shrinking or hesitation to preside at one of her father’s -“gentlemen” dinner parties, where the sight of her bright, interested -face and the sound of her sweet, eager voice, were a pleasant -refreshment to the brain-weary, overworked men who surrounded the table. -Yet in a ball-room, or worse still, in a laughing, chattering party of -fashionable girls, Marion, though to outward appearance perfectly at -ease—a little graver and quieter perhaps than her companions—at heart -was shy and self-conscious to a painful degree. - -After all, however, it is well for a woman to have one or more good, -true-hearted friends of her own sex. And this Marion acknowledged to -herself, as she came to know more intimately how true and beautiful -a nature was contained in the poor and crippled form of the invalid. -Veronica was, I daresay, an exceptional character; not so much as to her -patience and cheerful resignation—these, to the honour of our nature be -it said, are no rare qualities among the “incurables” of all classes—as -in respect of her wonderful unselfishness, power of going out of and -beyond herself to sympathise in the joy as well as the sorrow of others, -and her unusual wide-mindedness. A better or healthier friend Marion -Vere could not have met with. That some personal sorrow, something much -nearer to her than the death of her father or the losses it entailed, -had clouded the life of her young friend, Veronica was not slow to -discover. But she did not press for a confidence, which it was evidently -foreign, to the girl’s feelings to bestow. She only did in her quiet -way, what little she could, insensibly almost, towards assisting Marion -to turn to the best account in her life training this and all other -experiences that had befallen her. - -How different from Geoffrey! Ever so long ago he, honest fellow, had -poured out all his story to the friend who had for many years stood him -in place of both mother and sister; and by her advice he had acted, -in refraining from risking all, by a premature avowal to Marion of his -manly, love and devotion. - -Veronica, poor soul, was sorely exercised in spirit about these two. -She loved them both so much, and yet she could not but see how utterly, -radically unlike they were to each other. Geoffrey, some few years her -junior, had from infancy seemed like a younger brother of her own; and -since her illness in particular the gentle kindness, the never-failing -attention he had shown her, had endeared him to her greatly. What, on -his side, of his real manliness, his simple love of the good and pure, -and hatred of the wrong, he owed to this poor crippled woman, is one of -the things that little suspected now, shall one day be fully seen. Yet -for all this, for all her love for, and pride in him, Veronica made -no hero of the young man. She saw plainly that in all but his simple -goodness he was inferior to Marion. And seeing this, and coming to love -the girl and admire her many gifts as she did poor Veronica, as I have -said, was sorely perplexed. She temporized in the first place; till she -saw that it was absolutely necessary to do so, she had not the heart to -crush poor Geoffrey’s hopes. - -“Wait,” she said to him, “wait yet awhile. She has had much to try -her of late, and there is no time lost. Think how young she is. If you -startled her you might ruin all. Wait at least, till the spring.” - -So Geoffrey bit the end of his riding-whip rather ruefully, thanked Miss -Veronica, and much against his will—waited. - -“It may be,” thought Veronica, “that this is to be one of those unequal -marriages, that after all turn out quite as happily, or more so, -than those where the balance is more even. Marion, as yet, is hardly -conscious of her own powers. Should she marry Geoffrey the probability -is she will never become so. Never, at least, in the present state of -things. And after all, much power is doomed for ever in this world to -remain latent! But, on the other hand—I wish it could be! I do, indeed -wish it so much, that I doubt my own clear-sightedness. She will, -assuredly, be well able to decide for herself when the question comes -before her, as I suppose in time it must. It is Geoffrey I am so -troubled about. Should I do better to crush his hopes altogether? I -could do so. But then, again, if it should turn out unnecessary! Ah, -no! All I can do is to watch and wait. If only he does not ruin his own -cause by anything premature.” - -“If only!” But, alas, there came a day on which, riding back to -Mallingford, Geoffrey seeing Marion home after parting with the Misses -Copley at the gate a their father’s park, the following conversation -took place. - -It was late in February, a rank, dank, chilly afternoon, such as there -had been plenty of this winter. Foggy, too; daylight already growing -dim, an hour or more before it had any right to do so. - -Marion shivered, though not altogether from the cold. - -“Isn’t it a horrible day, Mr. Baldwin?” she asked; “a perfectly wretched -day. Enough to make one wonder that people can be found willing to -stay in such an ugly, disagreeable world. And yet there’s something -fascinating about it too. I wonder how that is! Let me see; what is it -it reminds me of? Oh, I know. It’s that song of Tennyson’s. ‘A spirit -haunts the year’s last hours,’ it begins. - -‘My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves - At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves. - And the breath - Of the fading edges of box beneath.’ - -That’s the sort of smell there is to-day, though it’s so chilly. Though -that song is for the autumn. But it’s more like autumn than spring just -now, isn’t it, Mr. Baldwin? There isn’t the slightest feeling of spring -anywhere. No freshness, no life. Everything seems to be decaying.” - -“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey doubtfully, sniffing the air as he spoke. -“Things ain’t looking bad on the whole. You’ll see it will all take a -start soon, once the sprouts get their heads above ground. And then just -think what a hunting season we’ve had! I declare my horses haven’t had -so much taken out of them for I don’t know the time.” - -“Yes,” said Marion, half amused at her companion’s way of putting -things. “To you, I daresay it has seemed a very bright winter, and a -cheerful, promising spring. After all, I believe the seasons are as much -in us as outside us. Long ago I remember days on which I was so happy, -that looking back, I fancy they were in the very brightest and loveliest -of the summer, though in reality they were in dreary mid-winter. It is -like time, which seems so short when we are happy, so long—so terribly -long—when we are in sorrow. And yet in reality it is always the same. I -wonder what is reality? Sometimes I think there is no outside at all.” - -Having arrived at which satisfactory explanation of the mystery of the -sensible world, Marion remembered her companion, long ago left behind -her, having, as he would have phrased it, had he been in the habit of -defining him situations, “come to grief at the very first fence, on -leaving the lanes.” - -“I wish I weren’t so stupid,” he thought to himself. “I wonder if all -girls say the same queer, puzzling, pretty sort of things she does.” - -Not that Marion favoured many people with all the fanciful, dreamy -talk—a good deal of it great nonsense, but not commonplace, as she said -it, for all that —with which patient Geoffrey was honoured. But she had -got into the way of saying to him—before him rather—whatever came into -her head, not troubling herself as to whether he understood it or not. -Rather a tame-cat way of treating him! But as he was far from resenting -it, there is no occasion for us to fight his battles. - -To the last observation he made no reply. For some minutes they rode -along the lane in silence; the horses apparently somewhat depressed in -spirit, not being, like Miss Vere, dubious of the reality of an outside -world, and a very foggy and disagreeable one to boot. Their feet sank, -with each step, into the soft yielding mud, in great measure composed of -the all but unrecognizable remains of last year’s leaves, not yet buried -decently out of sight, as should have been done by this time. Nature was -in a lazy mood that year. There was no sound except the thud, a ruddy, -slushy sound, of the tired animals’ slow jogtrot steps. - -Suddenly Marion spoke again. This time in a different tone. With -something of appeal, something of child-like deprecation, she turned to -her companion. - -“Mr. Baldwin,” she said shyly, “you said just now it was almost spring. -Don’t you remember promising me that by the spring you would try to do -something for me?” - -“What, Miss Vere?” said Geoffrey, rather shortly. He knew what was -coming. He had a presentiment he was going to be sorely tried between -the promptings of his heart and the sound advice of his friend Veronica, -to which in his inmost mind he subscribed as wise and expedient. So he -answered coldly, and hated himself for so doing, while his heart was -already throbbing considerably faster than usual. - -“Oh, don’t be vexed, with me,” she said; “I have not spoken of it for -ever so long. Don’t you remember? I am sure you do. It was about trying -to arrange for me to live somewhere else than with Aunt Tremlett. Could -I not go somewhere as a sort of boarder perhaps? I am sure I should not -be difficult to please if they were quiet, kind sort of people, and if I -could have a couple of rooms, and be more independent than I am now. The -worst of living at the Cross House is that I am never free, except when -my aunt is asleep. She is always sending for me or wanting me to do -something or other for her, and yet with it all I never can please her. -Have you no friends, Mr. Baldwin, who would be willing to let me live -with them as a sort of boarder? You see I am quiet and different from -other girls. I care very little for gaiety of any kind, and I feel so -much older than I am.” - -Geoffrey rode on in perfect silence, his head turned away from Marion as -she made this rather long speech, all in the same tone, half of appeal -and half of deprecation. At last she grew surprised at his not replying, -and spoke again. - -“Do answer me, Mr. Baldwin. If you are vexed with me, and think me -troublesome and unreasonable, please say so. Only I am so miserable at -the Cross House, and you are the only person I can ask to help me.” - -The last words sounded broken and quivering, as if the poor little -speaker’s contemplation of her own desolate condition was too much for -her self-control. - -Geoffrey turned round suddenly, his fair face flushed with the depth -of his emotion, his voice sounding hoarse and yet clear from very -earnestness. He laid his hand on the crutch of Marion’s saddle, and -leaned forward so as to face her almost as he spoke. - -“Miserable you say you are at the Cross House?—then possibly you -will forgive me if hearing this compels me to lay before you the only -alternative I have to offer you. I had not meant to speak of this so -soon, but you have tried me too far. I cannot be silent when I hear you -speak of being miserable. Marion, there is one home open to you, whose -owner would gladly spend himself, his whole life and long, to make you -happy. I know I am not good enough for you. I know in every sense I am -unworthy of you. Only I love you so deeply, so truly; surely I could -make you happy. Oh, Marion! what can I say to convince you of my -earnestness? For God’s don’t answer hastily! Don’t you think you could -be happy as my wife—happier at least than you are?” - -Till he left off speaking, Marion felt too utterly amazed and -surprised—stunned as it were—to attempt to interrupt him. But when his -voice ceased, she came to himself. In a sense at least. Not to her best -self by any means, for there was ungentle haste in the movement with -which she pushed away poor Geoffrey’s hand, and a tone of extreme -irritation, petulance almost, in her voice, as she replied to his little -expected proposition. - -“How can you be so foolish, Mr. Baldwin, so very foolish as to talk to -me in that way. Are you really so blind as not to see that to you are -more like another Harry than—than—anything of that sort? Oh! what a pity -you have done this—said this to me! The only friend I had. And now you -have put a stop to it all. I can never again feel comfortable with you. -You have spoilt it all. It is very, very unkind of you!” And she ended -her strange, incoherent speech by bursting into tears. - -Poor Geoffrey already, its soon as the words were uttered, aware of his -egregious mistake and penitent to the last degree, forthwith set himself -down as a monster of inconsiderateness and cruelty. Her tears altogether -for the moment put out of sight his own exceeding disappointment. Hee -only thought how best to console her. - -“Oh, Miss Vere,” he said, “forgive me! It indeed inexcusable of me to -have so startled and distressed you. I had no right so to take advantage -of my position with you. I am a rough boor, I know, but I entreat you to -forgive me, and forget all this. Only—only—after as time perhaps—could -you never get accustomed to the idea? Must I never again allude to this? -I would wait—years, if you wished it. But never?” and his voice, which -he had striven to make gentle and calm, grew hoarse again in spite of -his efforts. - -(He was not of the order of suitors, you see, who think a “no” in -the first place far from discouraging. For though by no means -“faint-hearted,” he was far too chivalrous to persist, and too genuinely -humble-minded not to be easily repulsed.) - -“Never, Mr. Baldwin!” said Marion, decisively and remorselessly, with -but, to tell the truth, little thought for the time, of the suffering -her words were inflicting on an honest, manly heart. She was not her -best self just then. Trouble and weary suspense had made her querulous -sometimes, and temporarily developed in her the selfishness which, -alter all, is to some extent inherent in the best of us. “Never!” she -repeated. “How could you have mistaken me so? Can’t you see that I mean -what I say about being different from other girls? All that sort -of thing is done with for me, altogether and entirely. So please, -understand, Mr. Baldwin, that what you were speaking of can never be.” - -“If so, then, ‘that sort of thing’ as you call it, Miss Vere, is -likewise altogether and entirely over for me,” said Geoffrey, with, for -the first time, a shade of bitterness in his voice. “You will not punish -me for my wretched presumption by withdrawing from me the amount of -friendship, or regard, with which you have hitherto honoured me? It -would complicate our relations most uncomfortably were you to do so, for -unfortunately we have no choice as to remaining in the position of ward -and guardian. Can’t you forgive me, Miss Vere, and forget it, and think -of me again as a sort of second Harry? Some day—perhaps before long—you -may choose another guardian for yourself, but till then, till the day -when that fortunate person takes out or my hands the very little I can -do for you, will you not try to feel towards me as you did before I so -deplorably forgot myself? - -“The day you speak of will never come,” said Marion; and the words, -notwithstanding his soreness of heart, fell pleasantly on Geoffrey’s -ears. “I tell you I am not like other girls. I am like an old woman, and -my heart, if not dead, is dying. There now, I have told you more than I -ever told anyone. I will try to forget that you were so silly. Some day -you will find some one far nicer than I to make you happy, and I shall -be great friends with her. So let us forget all this. Now good-bye”—for -by this time they were nearly at the Cross House—“good-bye. Don’t think -me unkind.” - -Geoffrey smiled kindly—forced himself to do so—as he parted from her. -Something in the smile sent a little pang through the girl’s heart, for -it was after all a very tender one. - -“Have I been unkind?” she asked herself. “Is there more depth in him -than I have given him credit for? Can he really be feeling this very -much?” - -And the misgiving did her good; recalled her a little from the -self-absorption in which at this season it appeared as if her nature -were about to be swamped. - -She could not help thinking a good deal about Geoffrey that evening as -she sat with her aunt, busy in repairing for that lady some fine old -lace, Miss Tremlett having discovered that the girl’s young eyes and -neat hands were skilful at such work. It was a very tiresome occupation, -and her head ached long before the task was completed. But she had -leisure to think while she worked, a luxury she had learnt to esteem -highly of late; for Miss Tremlett was engrossed this evening with a new -and most interesting three-volumer fresh from the circulating library -behind the post office. And while the elder lady was absorbed by the -loves and adventures of imaginary heroes and heroines, the younger one -was picturing to herself for the thousandth time the happiness -that might have been hers but for the mysterious obstacles that had -intervened; from time to time, too, thinking sadly of the new cloud -that had overshadowed her life, in the bitter disappointment she, on her -side, had been the means of inflicting on another. The reflection took -her a little out of herself. Her cry this evening was not merely as it -had been for long, “Poor Marion!” It contained also a more unselfish -refrain. “Poor Geoffrey!” she said to herself, “I cannot forgive myself -for having made him unhappy. As unhappy, perhaps, as Ralph’s strange, -cruel silence has made me.” - -Some days passed without anything being seen or heard of Mr. Baldwin -at the Cross House. Marion began to wonder if really their pleasant -friendship was to be at an end, and to reproach herself not a little, -not for what she had done—concerning that she not the shadow of a -misgiving—but for the way in which she had done it. - -These days Geoffrey spent at home in no very happy state of mind. He was -furious not with Marion!—but with himself for his own suicidal haste, -which truly, as Veronica had warned him, had “spoilt all.” He was more -thoroughly miserable than one could have believed possible for so sunny -a nature. He dared not even go with the burden of his woes and misdeeds -to his sympathising friend and adviser: for would she not truly be more -than human did she not turn upon him with the cry more exasperating to -bear than were to the “patient man” the many words of his three friends, -the reproach we are all so ready to utter, so unwilling to hear—“I told -you so.” - -But in some respects Miss Veronica was more than human, and when -Geoffrey at last mustered sufficient courage to make his grievous -confession, she, instead of irritating or depressing him further by -undeniably truthful but nevertheless useless reproaches, set to work -like a sensible woman as he was, to help the poor fellow to make the -best of the affair he had so greatly mismanaged. Possibly, in her -inmost heart she was not sorry to be relieved to some extent of the -responsibility she had found so weighty; for, though most earnest in her -anxiety for Geoffrey’s success she yet, as I have said, felt uncertain -as to the precise extent to which she was called upon to work for it. - -He told her the whole story, for he was not given to half confidences. -What he had said, and how Marion had answered. In the girl’s replies -Veronica discerned something deeper Geoffrey had discovered. They told -of more than mere disinclination to think of her young guardian in any -more tender relation. Girls of nineteen do not speak so bitterly as -Marion had spoken to Geoffrey unless they have had, or fancied they have -had, some very disappointing, heart trying experience reverse side -of the picture of “that sort of thing,” as Miss Vere called it. These -suspicions however were not new to Miss Temple, and she wisely kept them -to herself. She confined her advice to Geoffrey to impressing upon him -the extreme expediency of not allowing this unfortunate disclosure of -his to make any difference in the relations hitherto existing between -his ward and himself. - -“It is not only expedient,” she said, “it is most distinctly your duty -to let the poor child see that you were most thoroughly in earnest when -you asked her, as you did, to forget all this, and think of you again -‘as a sort of another Harry.’ Think only of her very desolate position! -Save for you and her young brother actually friendless in the world. -You, Geoffrey, of all men, are the last to wish another to suffer for -your inconsiderate conduct, as assuredly she would, if you allowed this -to affect your friendship.” - -To which Geoffrey replied that it was his most earnest wish that, at -whatever cost to himself, Miss Vere should learn again to trust and rely -on him, as she had done hitherto. - -“I only fear,” he added, “that it will be impossible for her to do so. -She said she should never feel comfortable with me again.” - -“Oh, yes,” replied Veronica, “but when she said that she was startled -and distressed. There is no fear but what she will soon be quite happy -and at ease with you—learn probably to esteem you more highly than -before, for she is the sort of girl thoroughly to appreciate manly -generosity of the kind—if only you do not allow time for the unavoidable -feeling of awkwardness at first, to stiffen into lasting coldness and -constraint. Do not put off seeing her. If you can arrange with Margaret -and Georgie Copley to ride to-morrow, I will ask them here to luncheon -in the first place, so that you can avoid the embarrassment of a -tête-à-tête just at the very first.” - -Geoffrey thanked Veronica warmly and promised for the future implicitly -to follow her advice. - -So it came to pass that the following day, somewhat to her surprise, -Marion received a note from Mr. Baldwin, saying that at the usual hour -the Misses Copley escorted by himself would call for her at the Cross -House; as they had arranged to have a good long ride out past Brackley -village in the direction of the Old Abbey. - -“I am glad he has made up his mind to be sensible, was Marion’s -reflection. “Really he is very good, and I hope he will soon fall in -love with somebody much nicer and prettier than I.” - -When they met, Geoffrey look just the same as usual. - -“In better spirits than ever,” the Copley girls pronounced him. Even -Marion hardly detected the forcedness in his merriment, the want of ring -in his usually irresistibly hearty laugh. He did his very utmost in his -unselfish anxiety to set her thoroughly at ease. Only he could not help -the crimson flush that would overspread his fair, boyish face when she -addressed him specially, or when, once or twice, their hands came -in contact as he arranged her reins or helped her in mounting and -descending from the rather imposing attitude of Bessy’s back. Marion -heartily wished the bay mare were a pony that day; for in a perverse -spirit of independence she chose to attempt to mount by herself; -which endeavour, as under the circumstances might have been predicted, -resulted in utter failure, and an ignominious descent into—of all places -in the world—Geoffrey Baldwin’s arms! Oh, how angry Marion was! - -She did not feel much inclined for talking. Nor was she much called upon -to do so. Her companions, all three, chattered incessantly. She hardly -heard what they were saying, when a question from Margaret Copley -recalled her to herself. They were passing near the ruined abbey at -Brackley, two or three miles distant from the present residence of its -owners. - -“Have you have seen the New Abbey, Miss Vere?” asked Margaret. “It is -only called New, you know, in contradistinction to the ruin, for in -reality it is a couple of hundred years old itself.” - -“No, I have never seen it,” replied Marion, “is it worth seeing?” - -“Not in itself. The house is nothing, but the pictures are good. It has -been shut up for ever so long—five or six years at least. Lord Brackley -fancies it does not suit him, so he lives almost always near his son, -who is married and has a beautiful place belonging to his wife. Some day -you must come with us and see Brackley Abbey. You are fond of pictures, -I know.” - -“And understands a good deal more about them than either you or I, -Margaret,” said Georgie good-humouredly. “To tell the truth, what I go -to the Abbey for is to gossip with the fanny old housekeeper. We were -there the other day, and I declare I thought I should never get away -from her. She told me the history of every family in the county.” - -“Yes, indeed,” resumed Margaret, “she is a wonderful old body. -By-the-by, Miss Vere, she had heard of your advent in the neighbourhood, -and was very curious to hear all about you. She remembered your mother, -she said.” - -“And I am sure she asked you if I was a beauty like my mother,” said -Marion, laughing, “now didn’t she, Miss Copley? Only you didn’t like -to say so, for you could not with any truth have said I was! Don’t you -really think, Mr. Baldwin, it is rather a misfortune to have had a great -beauty for one’s mother?” - -“As bad as being the son of a remarkably clever man of business?” -suggested Geoffrey. - -“Very nearly, but not quite. For only think what terrible things have -been entailed on you by your being your father’s son,” said Marion -maliciously. - -Geoffrey was pleased to see her sufficiently at ease to be mischievous, -and replied to her remark by a kindly glance. Then Georgie Copley took -up the strain. - -“Old Mrs. What’s-her-name—what is her name, I always forget it?—the -housekeeper, I mean, was full of a marriage that was to be in the family -shortly. That is to say not in the family exactly but a near connection, -Sir Ralph Severn, Lord Brackley’s step nephew. By-the-by, I dare say you -know him, Geoffrey? He used to come here sometimes several years ago, -before the Abbey was shut up. We were in the schoolroom, but I remember -seeing him. It was long before he got the title.” - -“I never met him,” said Mr. Baldwin. “Whom is he going to marry?” - -“A sort of cousin of his own,” replied Georgie, “a Miss Vyse. A very -beautiful girl, Mrs. Hutton—that’s her name—said. The old body made -quite a romance out of it. This girl’s father, it appears, was in old -days the lover of the present Lady Severn. But she was not allowed to -marry him as she was an heiress. She used to be here a good deal with -her step-brother when she was a girl, that is how Mrs. Hutton knows all -about her. It sounds quite like a story-book, does it not? The children -of the two poor things marrying, all these years after.” - -“Very romantic, indeed,” said Geoffrey. “Particularly as the lady is -beautiful.” - -“Exceedingly beautiful,” said Miss Copley. “She has been living with -Lady Severn for some time, for she has no home of her own. Every one has -been surprised at the marriage not being announced sooner, Mrs. Hutton -said. She had only just heard of it in some round-about way, and she was -quite full of it.” - -Then they talked about other things, and did not observe Marion’s -increased silence, which lasted till they said goodbye to her at the -door of the Cross House. A few days previously, when she had said to -Geoffrey decisively that “all that sort of thing” was done with for her, -“altogether and entirely,” she had meant what she said and believed her -own assertion. - -Now, when she hurried upstairs to her own bedroom in the dingy -Mallingford House, and sat down on the hard floor in her muddy -riding-habit, with but one wish in her mind—to be alone, out of the -reach of curious, unsympathetic eyes—Now, I say, when at last she felt -free to think over, to realize what she had heard, she knew that it was -not true what she had said. Far from being “done with for her,” on the -secret, unacknowledged hope that for her a happy day was yet to dawn -when all the mystery would be explained, all the suffering more than -compensated for by the blessedness of the present—on this hope she had -in truth been living, through all these weary months. And now that it -was rudely thus snatched away, that all was indeed for ever, over, what -was there left for her to do, poor weary, heartbroken wanderer in a very -strange and desolate land—but to lie down and die? - -* * * * * * - - - - -CHAPTER XI. VERONICA’S COUNSEL. - -“But all did leaven the air -With a less bitter leaven of sure despair, -Than these words—‘I loved once.’” - MRS. BROWNING. - - - -SHE did not die, however. Young lives do not end so easily, and young -hearts do not so quickly break as their inexperienced owners would -imagine. She was very, very ill. For many weeks she lay in a state -hardly to be described as either life or death, so faint was the line -between the two, so many times we thought we had lost sight of her -altogether in the shadows of the strange land that is ever go near us -while yet a very far way off. It was at this time I first knew her, who -ever after was very dear to me. It happened accidentally. I was visiting -some friends at Mallingford just then, and happened to be calling at the -Cross House the day the poor child was taken ill—the very day after the -ride to Brackley that I have described—and I naturally did what I could -in the way of nursing, as no nearer friend appeared to be at hand. -Miss Tremlett was at first frightened, then cross; in which state she -continued during the whole of Marion’s illness. Low fever, the doctors -called it, but that is a vague and convenient name for an illness -somewhat difficult to define. - -During these weeks Geoffrey Baldwin was very miserable. He suffered not -merely from his overwhelming anxiety, but also from self reproach and -remorse; for, despite all Veronica’s assurances to the contrary, the -poor fellow could not rid himself of an utterly irrational notion that -in some way or other the annoyance he had caused her had had to do with -this sudden and alarming illness. It was not really sudden though. The -tension on her nervous system throughout this winter had been great, -quite sufficient to account for her present state; the real wonder being -that she had held out so long. - -When at last she began to get better, Geoffrey’s delight was almost -piteous. Marion was greatly touched by it—as indeed no woman but must -have been—the first time she saw him again. His pleasure at her recovery -was purely unselfish, in the ordinary sense at least, for he had -altogether renounced the hope of ever winning her for his own. - -“I only wonder,” he said to Veronica, “that she could forgive my -presumption as she did. Since her illness it seems to me she has become -more beautiful than ever. I feel myself like a great cart-horse when I -am beside her. My only thought is, how I can make up to her for all I -have caused her. For indeed her coming to this place at all was greatly -owing to me. Even if I did not love her as intensely as I do, Veronica, -I could not but reproach myself when I think of my selfishness.” - -It was useless for his friend to contradict him. It pleased him far more -when she set to work to carry out a plan for Marion’s gratification, -which at first sight seemed hopeless enough. But between them the two -achieved it, and actually obtained Miss Tremlett’s consent to their -proposal that, now that she was sufficiently recovered to be moved, -Marion Clifford could complete her cure by spending some weeks in Miss -Temple’s pretty little house. - -Miss Tremlett was, in her heart, not sorry to be rid of so troublesome -a guest as a bona-fide invalid; though her consent was, of course, -bestowed as ungraciously as possible. - -The relief to Marion, of quitting for a season the ugly, uncomfortable -room in which for five weary weeks she had been immured, was -unspeakable; and once she was established in the pretty little chamber -so carefully prepared for her, she astonished herself and everyone else -by the rapidity of her recovery. - -The long dream was over at last. Ralph was hers no longer, but belonged -to another. She wished to hear no particulars; she was satisfied to -know the bare fact. She had torn him out of her heart and life, and -henceforth would seek to forget she had ever known him. God had been -good to her, had given her true and kind friends, whose affection she -would do her best to repay, and endeavour to turn to better profit the -life so lately restored to her; for it seemed to her, in truth, that -in her long illness she had, in a sense, died, and been again raised to -life. - -Thus she spoke to herself in the many quiet hours she spent in -Veronica’s little drawing-room, and a sort of dreamy peace and subdued -happiness seemed gradually to descend upon her. She was very sweet -and winning in those days. To Veronica she grew daily dearer and more -precious. And to poor Geoffrey? Ah! it was hard upon him, for all his -humility and unselfishness! And she, silly little soul, said to herself -that she only meant to be gentle and sisterly, to make up to this kind, -generous friend, for her former petulance and roughness. Partly this, at -least. In some measure she began instinctively to turn to him, out of a -sort of reaction from her former bitter experience. He might not be very -clever or original, this Geoffrey Baldwin; he was certainly wanting -in that extraordinary, inexpressible something—sympathy, perfect -congeniality of heart or mind, or both, which from the first had, as if -by magic, drawn and attracted her to Ralph; but at least, he was tried -and true, honest and devoted to the very heart’s core. And, oh! to the -poor little heart, smarting yet, under its sore disappointment—what -attraction, what soothing was there not in the thought that he, at -least, loved her! Loved her with a love which she felt she could never -give to him; and yet, though no coquette, she no longer felt inclined -to discourage him. For, after all, she was a thorough woman. And I am -afraid she was, in some respects, incapable of such a love of Ralph’s -for her; for, through it all, as we have seen, he never doubted, never -for an instant mistrusted her. - -Whereas she, naturally enough, had come gradually to lose her trust in -him, to doubt even, sometimes, if indeed he had ever cared for her as -she for him. - -And already she was beginning to say to herself, “I loved him once.” - -Veronica watched the two, earnestly and anxiously. There was no mystery -about Geoffrey. It was only too evident that more than ever he was heart -and soul devoted to his ward; in his eyes more beautiful than ever, from -the yet remaining traces of her severe illness; her thin white hands, -her pale cheeks, and hair far removed from its former luxuriance. - -“Have I not grown ugly, Mr. Baldwin,” she said one day, half in earnest, -half in joke, and greatly from a sort of instinctive wish to test her -power over him. “Look at my hair! It is hardly long enough to twist up -at all, and it used to come down below my waist.” - -His only answer was to pass his hand softly, nay, almost reverently, -over the little head, still fair and graceful, though “the pretty brown -hair,” poor Ralph had long ago admired, was sadly decreased in thickness -and richness. Marion did not shrink away from Geoffrey’s hand. They -happened at the moment to be alone. She looked up in his face, and saw -there the words all but uttered on his lips. Though in a sense she had -brought it on herself, yet now she shrank from it, felt that as yet, -at least, she could not bear it. With some half excuse she turned away -quickly, and left the room. But what she had seen in Geoffrey’s face -that afternoon decided her that something must be done, some resolution -arrived at in her own mind, as it was easy to see that the present state -of things could not long continue. - -It was now the beginning of May. Fully two months had elapsed since the -ride to Brackley, and the commencement of her long illness. Spring was -coming on apace, and the outside world looked very bright and sweet -that evening, as Marion sat by Veronica’s couch in the bow-window of the -little drawing-room. There was a half-formed resolution in the girl’s -mind for once to break through her rule of reserve, and seek the advice -of the true and wise friend beside her. For some minutes they had been -silent: suddenly Marion spoke. - -“Do you know, Miss Veronica, that I have been here nearly three weeks? -Soon I must he thinking of the Cross House again.” - -Miss Temple laid her hand caressingly on. Marion’s. “My poor child!” -she said. “But surely there is no hurry. I wish I could keep you here -always; but with the prospect of my sister’s coming to me for the -winter, I cannot do so. I hoped, however, that Harry would have had a -day or two to spend with you, before you return to Miss Tremlett’s. -Is there no chance of it? He must be so anxious to see you since your -illness.” - -“There is not a chance of his coming till June,” said Marion; “and then -it will be a real goodbye! He is sure to go abroad immediately. No, dear -Miss Veronica, it is very horrible, but I must be thinking of going. -That dreadful life at my aunt’s! So you know, rather than go on with it, -I sometimes wish I had died last month.” - -Miss Veronica made no reply. Then she said, very softly and timidly: - -“My darling Marion, forgive me if I appear officious or intrusive. But, -I am sure that, you know there is another home open to you, whose owner -would think himself blessed beyond measure to welcome you to it. He has -told me of his disappointment. Are you quite sure, my dear child, that -there can never be any hope for him, that you can never bring yourself -to think favourably of this?” - -Marion looked up into her companion’s face (she was sitting on the -ground at Veronica’s side), with a slight smile. She appeared perfectly -composed, her colour did not vary in the least. Miss Temple was far more -embarrassed than she. - -“I am glad you have spoken of this, Miss Veronica,” said the girl, “for -I wish very much to talk to you about it. I am in a great puzzle. The -truth of it is, I have already, in a sense, come to think favourably of -it; and yet, I fear, not so favourably—not, in short, in the way that -it—that he—deserves to be thought of. I like him most thoroughly, and I -like to know that he cares for me. I am weary, very weary of having no -home, no nest of my own; and if I yielded to my inclination, I would -run to Geoffrey and ask him to take care of me, and be good to me. And I -believe I could be a good wife to him. But, dear Miss Veronica, is this -enough? Is it not selfish of me so to take advantage or this good man’s -great love for me, when I know, ah, how surely, that never can I give -him the same in return? For,”—and here, at last, her pale face flushed -and her voice sank,—“for I have known what it is to give the whole love -of one’s being, one’s self, utterly and entirely to another. And this I -could never do again.” - -Veronica sighed again. - -“My poor child!” was all she said. - -But Marion urged her to say more. - -“Tell me a little more, in the first place,” was her reply. “This other, -whoever he may be, I do not wish to know, but tell me is it altogether -and for ever over between you?” - -“Altogether and for ever,” answered Marion firmly. “By this time he is -the husband of another woman.” - -“But you, you care for him still?” persisted Veronica, her own tender -heart quivering at the thought of the pain this necessary probing of -hers must he inflicting on Marion. - -The girl for a moment sat perfectly silent, her eyes gazing out on the -pretty garden, of which nevertheless they saw nothing. Then she said -slowly, but distinctly, and without hesitation— - -“No, as I know myself I do not care for him now. He has tried me too -cruelly, brought me in sight of the very gates of death, and when there, -I tore him, him the husband of that girl, out of my heart, for ever! I -forgive him, but I do not love him any more. And Geoffrey is so good and -kind, and I am so lonely. Dear Miss Veronica, may I not give myself the -only pleasure left me, that of making another person happy? I would, I -do love him, in a perfectly different way. More as I love Harry. But it -might grow to be a love more worthy of his, for I would indeed try to -be a good wife to him. And I can’t go back to the Cross House and to my -utter loneliness. Oh, do tell me what to do.” - -Veronica was sorely troubled. - -“I cannot tell you, my dearest. I dare not even advise you,” she said. -Suddenly an idea occurred to her, “How would you like the idea of laying -it all before the chief person concerned, Geoffrey himself? He is not -usually very thoughtful or deliberate, and in the present case it seems -too much to expect that he should be so. But he is very honest and -conscientious, and I believe, though the question is one of vital -interest for himself, he is capable of looking at it from your side too. -However it may be, I see no other course before you. Tell him what you -feel you can give him, and leave it to him to decide.” - -“Yes,” said Marion, thoughtfully, “I think I will do as you say.” - -And then they were silent for a time, and when they talked again it was -of perfectly different things. - -The next morning was Geoffrey came, as was now his daily habit, to spend -an hour in two with his friends, he found Marion alone; Miss Temple -being later than usual in taking her place for the day on the invalid -couch where her life was spent. - -Mr. Baldwin looked round nervously; he was pleased and yet half alarmed -at finding himself alone with his ward; for the first time almost, -since the memorable February afternoon when he had broken his promise to -Veronica. - -Marion was sitting working, as calmly as possible. She was in no hurry -to hasten the inevitable explanation. Now that she had made up her mind -what to do, she was perfectly content to leave in Mr. Baldwin’s hands, -the when and where of the dénouement. So she stitched away composedly. -Geoffrey sat down and looked at her for a few minutes, made, after the -manner of people in such circumstances, some particularly stupid remark -the weather, and then began to fidget. - -At last he plunged in, head foremost. - -“Miss Vere,” he said, “would you mind putting down your work for a few -minutes and listening to something I have got to say?” Miss Vere did -as she was requested, and Geoffrey continued. “I did not think that day -that—that you were angry with me, I did not think then that I could ever -bring myself to risk your anger again. But it is no use. It is worse -than ever with me—this wretchedness of being near you and yet to know -it is all hopeless. What I want to say to you is that I cannot stand it. -Your illness was so terrible to me; it showed me even more clearly than -before how insane I am about it. I can’t stay near you in this way, -Marion. Humbugging about friendship and all that, when I know that -twenty million friendships would not express a particle of my utter -devotion to you. I can’t, say it, well. I am abominably stupid and -boorish. Only I want to tell you that I must go away. I shall look after -your interests to very best of my power; only have some mercy on me, and -don’t try me in this terrible way by asking me to stay near you.” - -He rose in his earnestness and came nearer her. His tall, strong figure -shaken with emotion, his handsome face quivering with the strength -of his conflicting feelings. Marion was far too tender of heart to -tantalize or try him unnecessarily. She too rose and stood beside -him. What a slight, fragile creature she seemed, and yet probably the -stronger of the two in much that constitutes real strength of nature! - -She spoke very quietly and calmly. - -“Dear Mr. Baldwin,” she said, “I am more grieved, more deeply pained -than I can possibly put in words, to know that I have caused you -suffering. I was rough and hasty that day, but I have changed since -then. I will not ask you to stay near me if it is painful to you. But -you must decide for yourself after hearing what I want to tell you.” - -Then in a few simple words, she sketched for him the history of her life -and its great disappointment. She entered into no particulars. At the -end of her narration Geoffrey was perfectly ignorant as to when and -where all this had happened. Nor did he in the least care to know. He -was conscious only of the one great central fact. Marion, his Marion, -for whom he would have died, had loved some one else as he loved her. It -was a great blow to him, for it was altogether unexpected. The words -in which she had before repulsed him, had not to him, as to Veronica’s -quicker perception, told of anything of this sort. In his simplicity he -had understood them only as referring, with the exaggeration of youth, -to her father’s death and the many troubles consequent upon it. He -had intended no special allusion when he said something about at -the probability of her before long choosing another guardian. He had -perfectly understood that she did not care for him in any but a friendly -way; but it had never struck him that already her affections had been -elsewhere bestowed. She was so young! And Harry had all but told him how -cordially he approved of the idea, and had tacitly encouraged him in his -suit. - -For some minutes Geoffrey made no reply. He stood leaning on the chair -from which Marion had lately risen, thinking deeply, doing his honest -best to see light through this matter. Then the same question rose to -his lips as had occurred to Miss Veronica. - -“Forgive me,” he said, “but tell me one thing. This man whom you have -spoken of to me—do you still love him, Marion? I do not ask or expect -you to say you could ever care for me as you have done for him. That, I -understand would be impossible. Only to some extent I must know my own -chance. So tell me, my poor darling, do you still love him?” - -And Marion the second time made the answer, “As I know myself I do not -love him now.” - -Then said Geoffrey— - -“If so, my darling, I am not afraid. If the whole devotion of my being -can win you to love me, if ever so little, I shall be well repaid. And -at least I can make your life a degree less lonely; in time even -this sorrow of the past may, to some measure, fade away? Your brave -truthfulness has only made me love you more. And at least, my Marion, -you do not dislike me? - -And the girl looked up at him through the tears that were fast filling -her sweet eyes, and answered softly, “Dislike you, Geoffrey? The -gentlest, truest friend that ever a woman had? Heaven help me to be -worthy of you.” - -Geoffrey took her in his arms and kissed her fervently, on brow and eyes -and mouth. Then as he let her go, he asked her if she were angry with -him for being so bold. He need not have done so. She was perfectly at -ease and as little unembarrassed as if her lover had been Harry. - -“Angry?” she said, “oh no. Why should you think so?” Yet she was timid -and sensitive enough. Though now her heart beat as steadily and softly -as usual, though there was no gush on her cheek, no quiver on her lips, -it had not always been thus with her. Ralph Severn, who had never kissed -her, hardly ever ventured to press her hand, had yet had strange power -to affect her. His step on the stair, the slightest touch of his hand, -his very presence in the room had brought light to her eyes, colour to -her cheeks, glad throbbing to her heart. But Geoffrey’s embrace she took -with gentle calmness, perfect absence of emotion of any kind. - -Was it indeed true that, as she had said her haste, her heart was, in a -sense, dead? - -She thought so. Therein lay her excuse. - -And thus it came to pass that Marion Vere, a woman of strong affections, -dear perceptions, and earnest in her endeavour to choose the right and -reject the wrong, committed the grievous error, to call it by no harsher -name, of marrying a man whom she knew, and owned to knowing—that she did -not love. - -END OF VOL. II. - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOL. III. - - -CHAPTER - -I.THE GARDEN AT THE “PEACOCK.” - -II.THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH - -III.THE END OF THE HONEYMOON - -IV.“AT HOME” - -V.A WIFELY WELCOME - -VI.A CRISIS - -VII.A FRIEND IN DISGUISE - -VIII.COTTON CHEZ SOI - -IX.“GOODBYE AND A KISS” - -X.LITTLE MARY’S ADVENT - -XI.MARION’S DREAM - -XII.GEOFFREY’S WIDOW - - - - -CHAPTER I. THE GARDEN AT THE “PEACOCK.” - -“Ich ginge im Waldo So für mich him, - Und nichts zu suchen - Das war mein Sinn - - Im Schotten sah ich - Ein Blümchen stehn - Wie Sterne leuchtend - Wie Aüglein schön. - - Ich wollt’es brechen - Da sagt’es fein, - Soll ich zum Welken - Gebrochen sein?”— - GÖTHE. - - - -THEY were married in the end of June, after all engagement of six weeks -only. There were no reasons for delay, and several which made expedition -expedient. Harry spent his last fortnight in England with them, and the -marriage took place at its close. It was a very quiet affair, of which -Marion’s recent illness and continued mourning for her father were -patent and satisfactory explanations, even to the double-motive-loving -gossips of Mallingford. - -A sorrowful farewell to Harry, whose whispered words of relief and -satisfaction at leaving his sister in such good hands, were the most -grateful to her ears of the congratulations forthcoming on this, as on -all such occasions; a fervent blessing from Veronica; a snappish adieu -from Miss Tremlett, and the bride and bridegroom were gone—started on -their own account on the life journey which, up hill and down dale, -through fair weather and foul, they had chosen to travel together. - -They did not spend their honeymoon abroad. - -Geoffrey proposed that they should do so, but Marion negatived it, and -decided in favour of a certain county which I need not particularize -save by saying that its scenery is picturesque, its wayside inns -charming, and its fishing the best of its kind. Geoffrey was very fond -of fishing, and Marion was well content to spend the quiet, sleepy -midsummer days, book in hand, lounging on the grassy banks at his side. -She was not very strong yet, and travelling tired her; so after a week -or two’s rambling, they settled down in one of the sweetest nooks they -had come upon, and took up their temporary abode at the very prettiest -of the wayside inns I alluded to, by name and sign “The Peacock.” - -The neighbourhood was not much frequented save by anglers and artists, -of both of whom there were plenty. But it was before the railway days -in this pretty county, and tourists of the more objectionable kinds were -unknown. So everything as to outer surroundings was charming, and the -two made a very satisfactory newly-married pair. He so handsome, she -so sweet. Both to all appearance perfectly happy in themselves and each -other. Which, to a great extent, was the case. Geoffrey was happy beyond -all he had ever dreamt of as possible; his only misgiving the fear that -he was all unworthy of so sweet a bride, his only anxiety lest the wind -should blow on her too rudely, or the slightest roughness be in her -path. Beyond this absorbing dread of not succeeding in making her happy, -the impression on his sunny, hopeful nature, left by the girl’s sad -little history of her “first love,” had already began to fade. He -reverenced and trusted her so deeply that the slight melancholy still -clinging to her seemed to him to render her only the more beautiful, the -more tender and precious, and worthy of all devotion. Doubt, suspicion, -jealousy, or even the shadows of such unlovely visitants, were utterly -foreign to his being. She had told him it was “all over” —that sad -page in her history. He believed her, and loved her the more for the -suffering she had endured. She had stirred up in him by her recital no -feeling of anger or irritation towards his unknown rival. She had blamed -no one for what had happened. All, she told him, had been the result of -unpropitious circumstances; in saying which she had done wisely. It -made it the easier for him to forget what there was little use in his -remembering. - -And she herself? Was she too, happy? After all the storms and wearing -suspense through which she had passed, had she in truth found a haven of -rest and security. She thought so. “I am content,” she said to herself, -“content and at peace, which is more than many can say.” - -True; but not what one likes to hear of as the nearest approach to -happiness to be hoped for by a girl over whose head twenty summers have -barely passed. - -At the sign of the Peacock for a time we must leave them, while we hear -a little more as to what in these last few months had happened to Ralph. - -He remained in Italy with his mother and her household through the -winter which Marion had passed at Mallingford. The month of May saw them -all at last re-established at Medhurst, but not for very long. The place -had been to some extent neglected during the two or three years of the -family’s absence; the house looked dingy and smelt fusty. Before they -could take up their quarters therein “for good,” before Florence’s -marriage could be celebrated with fitting magnificence, the mansion -must be thoroughly “done up”—“beautified,” I believe, is the correct -technical expression. So for a season Medhurst was delivered over to -the tender mercies of painters and paper-hangers, upholsterers and -decorators, and “the family,” par excellence, of the neighbourhood, -flitted north-wards for the time, to a favourite and pleasant little -watering-place, in the same county where Geoffrey and his wife were -spending their honeymoon, but a few hours’ drive from the very inn which -for some days past they had made their head-quarters. - -Sir Ralph was still with his mother. She had “made a point” of his -remaining with her for the first few months of her return home, and he, -having no pressing interests of his own was willing enough to agree to -her wishes. Florence was no longer with them. The few weeks intervening -between their arrival in England and the time fixed for her marriage, -she had preferred to spend in the “genteel” terrace with her mother -and sisters. Nor did this decision call for any great exercise of -self-denial on her part, for besides the real pleasure of being with her -relations and showing off the honours present and prospective, attendant -on the bride of Chepstow the golden, her mother’s modest dwelling -was conveniently situated for expending to the best advantage in the -purchase of a trousseau, the very liberal parting gift of her “dearest -aunt and second mother.” Then in the future glittered Medhurst and -the gorgeous preparations for the nuptials of the beauty and the -millionaire. Truly Florence’s cup of happiness was full! - -And plainly speaking, she was not missed by her late entertainers. Lady -Severn and her son got on much better without her. - -Sir Ralph was therefore at the little watering-place of Friars’ Springs, -when, one day about the middle of July, a strange thing happened to him. - -He received one morning, forwarded from Medhurst, an Indian letter, -addressed to him in the same handwriting as the black-bordered envelope -which last year had brought back to him his own letter to Miss Freer, -a silent message from poor Cissy’s tomb, telling that his last hope was -gone. - -He was alone when he received this unexpected letter. Fortunately so, -for not all his practised self-control could have concealed from other -eyes the overwhelming intensity of emotion caused by the perusal of its -extraordinary contents. - -First he read the letter from Colonel Archer, which he discovered -speedily was but an explanation, to a certain extent, of a second which -it enclosed, in a blank envelope, but carefully sealed with black wax, -evidently by Colonel Archer’s own hands, as it bore his crest. -George Archer was not given to prolixity of style in his written -communications; His letter, therefore, may be given verbatim: - -“LANDOUR, - -“APRIL 30TH, 18——. - -“MY DEAR SEVERN— - -“You will remember my writing to you a few days after my wife’s death, -enclosing to you a letter which she desired me to send to you as quickly -as possible, and which she directed me to find in a certain place. -Do you remember also my saying to you that though I had followed her -directions exactly, the state in which I found the letter did not -altogether correspond with her description? She said I should find it -all written and signed, but not folded or addressed. On the contrary, -the letter I sent you I found folded and addressed, all ready in short, -save the stamps, to be posted. I am terribly afraid, my dear Severn, -that I have made some dreadful mistake. Evidently there were two letters -to be forwarded to you, of which the one I did send, and which I much -fear was the least important, had escaped my poor wife’s memory. Only -yesterday, being obliged to search among my wife’s papers for a missing -document of some importance, I came upon the enclosed letter in one of -the leaves of her blotting-book, written and signed, as she said, and -lying there evidently waiting to be by her folded and addressed. Not -improbably she had intended to enclose it to you in the same envelope -as contained the one I sent. I now recollect that I felt surprised at -finding it unsealed. As little as possible of the enclosed has been read -by me. In my first astonishment at my discovery I read some lines of the -first page; enough to explain to me that without doubt it was the letter -Cissy referred to. The name of my wife’s young cousin, Marion Vere, -caught my eye. Also that of a Miss Freer, with whom I am wholly -unacquainted. Marion Vere spent the winter at Altes with my wife. It is -probable you there met her. Beyond this the whole affair is a mystery to -me. Nor do I ever wish to have it explained unless agreeable to you to -do so. I earnestly trust my culpable, but not altogether inexcusable, -negligence, may have done no harm. It will be an immense relief to me -to hear this. I write in haste to catch the mail, so believe me, my dear -Severn, - -“Yours most truly, - -“GEORGE ARCHER.” - -Ralph read through this letter carefully, and felt after doing so as if -he were dreaming. What could it mean? “Marion Vere,” who could she be? -“Miss Freer,” a total stranger to Colonel Archer! Not for some moments -did it occur to him to turn for explanation to the sealed enclosure. - -Here indeed he met with it in full! With feelings of the utmost -astonishment and bewilderment, succeeded, as gradually the mists cleared -away, by a revulsion of almost intoxicating intensity of delight, -gratitude, returning hope and reviving anticipation, did his mind at -last take in the meaning of the strange solution of all past mystery. -This then had been the poor child’s secret, this the reason of all the -mistakes and cross-purposes! His Marion after all was no poor little -struggling governess, on whom though he would have been proud to wed -her, his narrow prejudiced world might have looked askance; but the -daughter of one of the leading men of the day, come of a stock with -which even Lady Severn herself could have no fault to find. And she had -dreaded his blaming her innocent deceit, Cissy told him; had feared it -might lower her irretrievably in his eyes! Truly as the daughter of an -ancient house he could love her no more fervently, than as the despised -little governess, sprang from no one knew where, with even the shadow of -a suspected disgrace on her family; but yet in a very different sense, -this revelation did increase his devotion, for it showed him yet more -the unselfishness of her character and its rare union of strength and -gentleness; and made him the more anxious to compensate to her by a -life of happiness, of perfect mutual love and trust, for all he now well -understood she must have so uncomplainingly suffered. It had not been a -wise proceeding, this little comedy of hers—assumed names and positions -are edged tools in the hands of inexperienced girls of nineteen—so much -even Ralph’s partial judgment of all that Marion had done, could all but -allow. But all the same he could not but lore and admire her the more -for the sisterly devotion which prompted the scheme, the bravery and -patience which had enabled her to carry it out. - -Some hours’ reflection decided him that no time must be lost in tracing, -by the light of Cissy’s communication, the girl whom he had little -expected ever to see again. It all straight sailing enough now; the -daughter of so well-known a man as Hartford Vere would be easy to find. -He remembered hearing that the orphans of the late Mr. Vere had been -left but scantily provided for; in all probability, therefore, their -town house had been given up and the young people themselves received -into the families of relatives, for he remembered too that Marion had -told him more than once that she had no mother. Still he decided that -London itself was the proper place in which to make enquiry, and thither -he resolved as speedily a possible to betake himself. - -One preliminary step only he felt it advisable to take. He must come -to some understanding with his mother on the subject of his probable -marriage. Not that he now anticipated much difficulty in this quarter, -for things were very different between Lady Severn and her son from what -they had been during the reign of Florence’s irritating influence. - -The mother’s instinct had divined the change that had passed over her -son; and now that she had come to know him better and love him more, -there were few things she would not have agreed to, to give him -pleasure. Often when he little suspected it, her heart ached for him, -when the outward signs of the secret sorrow that had so changed him, -came before her notice. The many grey hairs mingled with his black, -the new furrows round eyes and mouth, the general air of depression and -hopelessness, only too plainly visible even in one who had never been -other than quiet and grave. She would have given worlds to have obtained -his confidence; but she felt instinctively that she had neglected till -too late to seek what now she would have prized so highly. - -It was with no little gratification therefore that she this morning -acceded to Sir Ralph’s request that she would spare him a little time to -talk over some matters of importance connected with his private affairs. - -“But no bad news, I trust?” she said, as a new idea struck her. “You do -not look as if it were, but I do trust you are not going to tell me you -are thinking of leaving me?” - -“Not for long certainly,” he replied cordially. “A week or two at most -will be the extent of my absence at present. No, my dear mother. What -I have to say to you is more likely to lead to my settling near you -permanently. A year or two ago I displeased you very much by not falling -in with certain matrimonial schemes of yours on my behalf. I want to -know if you have forgiven me?” - -“Quite,” said Lady Severn. “I meant it for the best, Ralph, but I -now think you were wiser than I. It would not have been a desirable -arrangement. I am quite satisfied that Florence should not be more -nearly connected with us.” - -“But I want more than that, mother,” pursued Ralph, “I want you to -do more than forgive me for not marrying to please you. I want your -cordial, entire consent to my you to give you marrying to please -myself.” - -Lady Severn’s eyes filled with tears. A moment or two she hesitated; -then said slowly and distinctly, “You shall have it, Ralph. Whomever you -choose as your wife I shall cordially receive as my daughter. You -have suffered, my poor boy, long and deeply. I thank God if things are -looking brighter with you. Only—only one thing I must say, and if it -pains you, forgive me. I don’t care about money. We have plenty, and -whenever you marry, what John had shall be yours. His daughters are -provided for. I have not forgotten how well you behaved at that time, -Ralph, and as to herself personally, I feel no uneasiness about my -future daughter. But, Ralph, you have queer notions about some things. -Tell me, is she a lady? I would like the good old stock to be kept -up. As I have promised so I will do: whoever she be I will receive her -cordially. But it would be an immense relief to my mind to know that she -really was one of our own class.” - -Ralph smiled slightly, but there was no bitterness in his smile. He -could afford now to be lenient towards what he considered his mother’s -little foibles. - -“Then that relief I can give you, mother,” he said. “She is a lady even -in the very narrowest and most conventional sense of the word, as well -in the wider and far more beautiful one. She comes of a stock as good -‘or better’ than your own. Better at least, in so far as I think I have -heard there is no family of more ancient standing in the county they -belong to. And well-conducted people too they have been on the whole, -which, though, of course, a much less important consideration, is -satisfactory to know.” (Lady Severn had no idea her son was “chaffing” -her.) “She is not rich, but that I know you don’t care about. As to -herself I would rather not tell you more just yet. Her name too I should -prefer not mentioning, unless you particularly wish to hear it.” - -“Oh, no, thank you,” said his mother, “I am quite content to wait till -you feel ready to tell it me” (which by-the-way was a great story). “I -am so thankful to know what you have told me, for you know, Ralph,” she -went on apologetically, “you were rather peculiar in your ideas about -social position and all that. There was that young girl at Altes, you -remember, Miss Freer, whom Florence took such a dislike to. At one -time—it was very absurd of me—but at one time I really had a fear of you -in that quarter. She was a very sweet creature, I must say. I took quite -an interest in her at first, till Florence told me how underhand and -designing she was. Not that I altogether believed it. Florence was apt -to be prejudiced—but there certainly was something strangely reserved -about her for so young a person. But it may have been family troubles, -poor thing! I often wish we had her back again, for certainly the -children were better with her than they have been since.” - -Ralph did not reply to this long speech, at which, however, his mother -was not surprised; for she had rather a habit of maundering on in -a thinking aloud fashion, once she got hold of a subject, without -expecting any special notice to be taken of what she was saying. Nor had -she the slightest suspicion that there was any connection between this -long ago discarded dread of hers, and her son’s unexpected announcement -of his matrimonial intentions. - -She felt not a little curious as to who her daughter-in-law elect could -possibly be! - -Ralph was so renowned a misogynist, that where and how he had come to -fall in love she was quite at a loss to conceive. His acquaintances were -few, his friends fewer. Of the small number of eligible young ladies -she ever remembered his speaking to more than once, not one she felt -intuitively certain could be the mysterious lady of his thoughts. - -“Thank heaven she is a lady,” thought Ralph’s mother. “I have no fears -on any other score, for though so peculiar, he is thoroughly to be -depended on as to essentials. And his taste is refined. She is sure to -be pretty and pleasing, if no more. Most probably he has met her at -the house of some of his learned friends. Sir Archibald Cunningham -by-the-by! Ralph spent a week there last spring, just before the time he -grew so quiet and depressed. How stupid of me not to have thought of -it before! To be sure, Sir Archibald is a bachelor, so it can’t be a -daughter—but he is sure to have nieces or cousins. And good family too. -Yes, the Cunninghams may quite pass muster. Scotch too. Poor and proud -no doubt. Oh, yes, the thing is as clear as daylight. Only I wonder why -it has been so long coming to anything. He can’t have been afraid of -my disapproval: I am sure I have always shown myself ready to agree to -anything in reason! Ah, yes; a niece of Sir Archibald’s. I am glad I -have satisfied myself about it.” - -And “Sir Archibald’s niece” became henceforth an institution in the good -lady’s mind. At present she regarded her with feelings of prospective -motherly affection, and began to consider which of the Severn jewels -would be the most appropriate to offer to the young lady in token of -welcome into that august family. - -“Something simple would be more suitable in the first place. Of course -once she is married she will have her proper share of all, as the wife -of the head of the family.” - -So Lady Severn amused herself: feeling most amiably disposed to the -imaginary Miss Cunningham, whom before long she came to think of with -very different feelings! But both her goodwill and resentment were kept -to herself, poor lady, as Ralph exacted from her a promise that the -little she knew of his mysteriously unfortunate love affairs should -be kept to herself: and as he never became more communicative on the -subject, Sir Archibald’s niece was anathematized in the private recesses -of Lady Severn’s heart only. But this is anticipating. - -Sir Ralph left for London the morning after his conversation with his -mother. He had to drive some distance cross-country before meeting the -railway, which, as I said, had not yet penetrated into the pretty little -county where the family had taken up their quarters for the summer. - -So he hired a post-chaise and got through the first twenty miles briskly -enough. Then it became necessary to change horses, the roads being -hilly, and expedition indispensable to his catching the Scotch express -at the nearest point on its way south. - -Fresh horses, however, could not be provided in less than an hour’s -time, quoth mine host of the “Peacock,” the wayside inn at which Ralph’s -charioteer had thought proper to make the enquiry. - -The gentleman demurred. - -“I am obliged to catch the south express at Bexley Junction at four,” he -said doubtfully. - -“Time enough and plenty for that, sir,” said landlord and ostler in a -breath, “even if you don’t start from here till half-past two; and it’s -now only on the stroke of twelve.” - -“There’s the grey and the bay, Tom,” added the landlord, “would think -nothing of taking a trap like this that far in a hour and a quarter. -It’ll give the gentleman time to lunch and look about him a bit,” he -continued, as Ralph, on hearing his assurance, prepared to alight. “It’s -thought worth coming a good bit to see, sir, is the Peacock. We’ve kep’ -it among us, father and son, with now an’ then brothers and nephews -to help like in the way of ostlers and bootses, we’ve kep’ it nigh on -eighty years; and never without a bed to make up, sir—winter and summer -alike, sir. Those as finds their way to the Peacock onst, generally -finds it twice, not to say three times and fower. There’s a gentleman -here, sir, at present, a real gentleman, not a artist, as comes for the -fishin,’ says, sir, there’ll be few summers and far between as won’t -see him and his lady at the Peacock. (Newly-married couple,” he -inter-ejected.) “By reason of which it is that one of the pair has had -to be shod this morning, sir——” - -“The lady or the gentleman?” asked Ralph, but the landlord did not catch -his words. - -“Mr. Baldwin,” he continued, “took them a longish drive yesterday to -show his lady some of the sights of the neighbourhood. He’s off -again this morning to fetch the letters from Bexley village. A active -gentleman, very. The young lady’s a trifle delicate in health, I fancy. -She’s sittin’ reading in the arbour this morning. They’ve been a week -and more at the Peacock, and there’s no word of them going as vet.” - -“By-the-by,” said Ralph, who being in the possession of pleasant hopes, -could listen with patience to the worthy landlord’s communications, even -to his mention of the young couple who found the Peacock so charming. -“By-the-by, what is the meaning of the name of your place? The Peacock -you call it, but on the sign-board I saw something which looked more -like a tree or bush as I glanced at it.” - -They were by this time inside the house. - -“Right enough, sir,” replied the man. “The Peacock is a bush, sir. -One of the old-fashioned kind, sir, you know; cut for to look like a -peacock. It stands in the middle of the grass plot at the side of the -house, near the arbour. You can’t miss it if you take a turn that way. -It’s all complete, standin’ somewhat to the right of the plot, sir, tail -and all. It takes some trouble the cuttin’ and keepin’ it in shape. But -it’s quite a cur’osity. Will you take a turn, sir, while we’re getting -ready a little something in the way of lunch. Chops, veal cutlets, roast -chicken—which you please, sir?” - -Ralph was just the sort of man who could not for the life of him order -his own dinner. He always, when put to it, as in the present instance, -fell back, upon “a chop.” This the landlord undertook to have speedily -prepared. It was ready a good while before Ralph returned to eat it! - -As his host suggested, he sauntered out into the garden. A real garden -of the good old-fashioned sort. Seen, too, to the greatest perfection on -this hot, sweet, sunny day. What air there was, came laden with breath -of roses and clover-pinks, mignonette, and wall-flower; all of which, -with their less fragrant, but not less lovely companions—heart’s-ease, -sweet-William, and all the dear old friends we see so seldom now-a-days, -flourished in rare beauty and abundance in the neat little borders with -their trim box edges, round all sides of the smooth, close-cut lawn, or -grass plot, as its landlord had been content to call it. - -More than once Ralph stopped in his stroll to bury his face in some -peculiarly tempting rose, or to pass his hand caressingly over the rich, -soft velvet of an appealing pansy at his feet. - -“What a sweet place,” he thought to himself “and what a perfect day! -Just the place to make love in.” - -So, too, thought his only companion in the garden, a young girl, half -lying, half sitting in the arbour, whom as yet he had not observed -served. Nor had he, so far, been perceived by her. - -Marion, for she it was, had been spending the morning in a very idle -fashion. With a book in her hand, but not reading, in a half dream of -sweet summer fancies, subdued to pensiveness if not to melancholy, -as was all about her, by the shadows of the past; but tinged and -brightened, nevertheless, by the gentle sunshine of peace and affection -which was gradually stealing into her life. - -She was growing happier, there was no doubt. As she sat in the arbour -that morning in dreamy restfulness, she acknowledged this to herself. - -It might be to some extent the sweet summer influences about her—the -flowers and the sunshine, and that loveliest of summer sounds, the soft, -musical, mysterious hum—above, around, close-at-hand, and yet far off—of -the myriads of busy, happy insects, rejoicing in their life; it might, -to some extent, come from these outer-world influences, for her nature -was intensely, exquisitely sensitive and impressionable. But however -this may have been, the result was the same. The thoughts in her heart -were full of gratitude and gentle gladness, as she murmured to herself -softly, “I thank God that I am growing happier. The past has not crushed -me so utterly as I thought. My youth has not altogether left me. I have -suffered, God knows how I have suffered, but I thank Him that the memory -of it is beginning to fade in the light of the peaceful present.” - -“Happiness” to some natures means more than to others. There are plants -that cannot live without sunshine. Marion was one of these. Happiness to -her meant capability of well-doing—life, strength, and heart to fill her -place in the world and do her work. - -There are some few—the grandest of us all—to whom it is given bravely to -endure to the end, with no hope on this side the grave; to do their task -thoroughly, though it is all working in the dark with no prospect -of light, save the far-off, fitful gleam that but seldom reaches the -wearied eyes from across the depths of the dark river itself. But my -poor child was not of these. She was strong, in a sense, stronger and -deeper than most of her sex. But without some sunshine she must have -withered and died. - -She felt instinctively that so it was with her; and there was more, far -more, than the selfish cry of relief from pain, in her deep thankfulness -for the light beginning again, as she thought, however feebly, to -glimmer on her path. - -But as she was thinking thus, gazing out on the brightness and beauty -around her, a shadow came between her and the sun, and the warmth and -light flooding in through the narrow door of the rustic, close-thatched -arbour, were suddenly intercepted. - -A dark figure stood before her. Her eyes were somewhat dazzled by the -sunshine, and she did not for a moment see distinctly. The person—she -could see it was a man—stood with his back to her. It was Ralph, of -course. He was amusing himself with trying, from different points of -view, to discover the fancied resemblance of the old yew in the centre -of the green to a peacock with outspread tail. From where he now stood -some weird resemblance of the kind was perceptible. The arbour was deep, -and from the outside looked dark and cavernous. Utterly forgetful of the -landlord’s mention of the young lady’s occupancy of it, he stood at -the doorway unceremoniously blocking out the light: and when at last he -turned and glanced inwards, he did not for an instant perceive that -it was not tenantless. Then the flutter of a light dress revealed the -presence of its owner. With a hasty exclamation of apology for his -intrusion, Ralph was turning away, when a sound—what was it?—he could -never tell—a cry of distress, an appeal to him by name, or only an -inarticulate murmur—arrested him. - -The lady in the arbour stood up and approached him, gazing at him -fixedly, shading her eyes with her hand from the glare of light -surrounding him, as he hastily stepped forward to meet her. Something -in her figure first struck him as familiar, something slight and -indescribable, before he had time to look again at her face—to see the -hand drop powerlessly by her side—and to recognize her he was on his way -to seek—his lost love, Marion Vere! - -In his glad surprise all else faded from his mind. “Am I dreaming?” he -exclaimed. “Is it you, your very self? Marion, my darling, speak to me.” -And he seemed as if he were about to seize her hand and draw her towards -him. But she turned coldly; in an instant regaining her self-control, -which in the first moments of amazement had deserted her. - -“Sir Ralph,” she said, “I cannot understand how it is you are here; but -I do not want to see or speak to you. Go away, I beg of you, and do not -ask me to answer you again.” - -But almost before she had finished the few cold, strange words, he -interrupted her. - -“I don’t wonder you are indignant with me. Heaven only knows what I -must have seemed to deserve you to think of me. But, listen to my -explanation. You must, Marion, you shall!” he exclaimed, vehemently, as -she was endeavouring to pass him. And mechanically she obeyed. She was -not frightened, but the old influence was at work already. She could not -resist his determination that he should be heard. - -She sank on the seat beside her, and he stood there in the doorway, -the sunlight pouring in round him, while with earnest voice, and the -quick-coming words of a full heart, he told his tale. - -Rapidly and unhesitatingly he went over all we have heard already. The -reason of his former hesitation, the success of his journey to England, -the bitter disappointment awaiting him on his return to Altes, the long -string of mistakes and cross-purposes, up to the last extraordinary -revelation contained in Cissy’s overlooked letter. She did not interrupt -him by word or gesture. So he went on to tell of his delight, of the -revulsion to joy from the depths of utter hopelessness the increased -love and devotion wrought in him by the knowledge of all she had done -and suffered; above all, by the explanation of her poor little innocent -secret, which she, his poor darling, as he called her again, had dreaded -his knowing. Then he stopped for a second time, but still she did not -answer. - -“All is right now,” he said, while yet his heart throbbed faster, from -some strange, unacknowledged misgiving—“all is right now,” he repeated. -“My mother waiting eagerly to receive you as a daughter. Marion, my -dearest, have I startled you? You look paler and thinner than you were. -I am a brute not to have thought of it; you have been ill. Forgive my -roughness, I implore you; but do not punish me in this dreadful way by -refusing to look up or answer me. Speak to me, my darling, I beseech -you.” - -Then at last she spoke, but in a dull, dead voice, and without raising -her eyes from the sanded floor of the little summer-house, on which -she was gazing, as if she would print it on her brain. She only said, -without the slightest expression or inflection in her tone— - -“I thought you were married. I thought you were married to Florence -Vyse.” - -He almost laughed in the momentary relief. - -“Thought I was married—and to Florence Vyse! Whoever told you so? and -how could you have believed it? It must have been some absurd confusion -of the news of her marriage, which is to take place shortly, true -enough; but the bridegroom elect is Mr. Chepstow, not me. Oh, Marion, -you didn’t really believe it?” - -“Yes, I did,” she replied, still in the same dead tone. “I did believe -it thoroughly, so thoroughly that it nearly killed me.” - -“Ah, my darling!” he groaned, “then I am right. You have been very ill. -I feared it. But now it is all right. Now, if indeed my whole life’s -devotion can do so, I will make up to you for all the miserable past. -Why, why did you doubt me, my love, my darling? You knew at least if I -could not marry you, I should choose no other woman. But it is cruel to -reproach you—cruel and useless, for it is all right now.” - -And again he made as if he would draw her to his arms. But she put out -her hands before her, as if in appeal. - -“Stop!” she said; “stop, Ralph! You have not heard all yet. Remember it -is a year since that letter was written. Truly it is useless to reproach -me or anyone now, for—ah! how shall I tell him?—you have not heard all, -Ralph! It is not all right, but fearfully, unchangeably wrong. Ralph, I -am married!” - -A sound as of a great, gasping sob of despair. - -Then a voice she would not have known for him, said, “When?” - -“Yesterday fortnight,” she replied, as if she were repeating a lesson -learnt by rote; “yesterday fortnight. I was counting how long it was as -I was sitting here before you came, and I remember I said to myself, ‘It -was yesterday fortnight,’ otherwise I could not remember now. This is -Thursday, and it was on a Wednesday. I am not Marion Vere now. His name -is Baldwin—Geoffrey Baldwin—and he is my husband, and I promised to love -him! Oh, God, forgive me! What is this thing that I have done? What is -this awful punishment that has come upon me?” - -And she crouched lower down on the rough bench on which she was sitting, -and buried her face in her hands. - - - - -CHAPTER II. THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. - -“Could Love part thus? was it not -well to speak? To have spoken once? -It could not but be well. -* * * * * * -O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush -Upon their dissolution, we two rose, -There—closing like an individual life— -In one blind cry of passion and of pain, -Like bitter accusation ev’n to death, -Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it, -And bade adieu for ever.” - LOVE AND DUTY. - - - -THERE was a terrible silence in the little arbour. - -Outside, in the garden, the sun and the flowers, the birds and the -insects, went on with their song of rejoicing as before, but it reached -no longer the ears of the two human beings who but now had re-echoed it -in their hearts. - -Was it hours or only minutes that it lasted —this silence as of death. - -At last Ralph spoke, quietly—so very quietly, that though Marion could -not see his face, his voice made her start with a strange, unknown -terror. - -“And who did this thing?” he asked. “Who forced you into this hideous -mockery of a marriage?” - -“No one,” she replied; “no one did it but myself. You can’t understand. -Ralph;” and the anguish of appeal and remorse in her voice made it sound -like a wailing cry. “You can never know all I have endured. I was so -wretched, so very wretched; so utterly, utterly desolate and alone. And -then I heard that of you, and I lost my trust, and it nearly killed me. -Your own words had warned me not to build too securely on what might be -beyond your power to achieve.” Ralph ground his teeth, but she went on: -“I thought I was going to die, and I was glad. But I did not die, and he -was kind and gentle to me, and I was alone. And I thought—oh! I thought, -Ralph, till this very morning, that I had torn you out of my heart. The -scar, I knew, would be always there, but the love itself, I thought it -was dead and buried; and only just now I sat here thinking to myself in -my blindness and folly, that I could even see the grass be ginning to -grow on the grave.” - -“And your husband?” Ralph asked, in the same dead, hard, feelingless -tone. “Your husband—I forget the name you told me—do you then care for -him? Do you love him?” - -“Love him!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Ralph, have mercy! I did not mean to -deceive him! I told him I could not give him what he gave me; for he, I -know, loves me. He is good and true, and very kind to me. And he urged -it very much, and said he was not afraid; he would be content with what -I said, what I thought I could give him. For remember, Ralph, that other -I thought was dead—dead and buried for ever. I care for him too much to -have yielded had I known it was not so. But ‘love him!’ When I think of -the days when first I learnt what that word means, when you taught it -me, Ralph—you, and no other! And now you ask me, calmly, if I love him! -You of all!” She stopped suddenly, as if horrified at herself; and then, -her excitement changed to bitter shame and self-reproach, she cried -in an anguish, “Oh! what am I saying? Why has it all come back when I -thought it was gone? You are making me wicked to Geoffrey. Ralph! Ralph! -why do you mock me with these cruel questions? Have mercy! Have a little -mercy!” - -“Mercy!” said Ralph, turning from the door-post on which he had been -leaning, and rising to his full height as he spoke. Standing right in -front of her, and with a strange change in his voice. “ ‘Mercy!’ you -ask? Yes child, I will have mercy. Mercy on you and on myself, who have -done nothing, either of us, deserving of this hideous torment. You are -‘married’ you tell me—married to another man—but I tell you, you are -not. That was a blasphemous mockery of a marriage! I am your husband, I, -and no other! You are mine, Marion, and no one else’s! My wife! my own! -Come away with me, child, now, this very moment, and have done at once -and for ever with this horrible night-mare that is killing me. For I -cannot lose you again! Oh, my God! I cannot!” And as he spoke, he tried -to draw her towards him, not gently, but roughly, violently almost, in -sore passion of anguish which was enraging him. - -Hitherto, since he had begun to speak, Marion had allowed him to hold -her clasped hand in his. But now, as she felt the hold of his fingers -tighten, and as the full meaning of his wild, mad words broke upon her, -with a sudden movement she rose from the bench on which she was sitting, -and tore herself from his grasp, growing at the same moment as if by -magic, perfectly, icily calm. - -But only for an instant did her instinct of indignation against him -last. One glance at the dark, passionate, storm-tossed face beside -her—so changed, so terribly, sadly changed in its expression from its -usual calm, gentle kindliness—and her mood softened. She laid her hand -trustingly on his arm. - -“Ralph,” she said, “poor Ralph, hush! If you are for a moment weak, -I must be strong for both. This is terrible that has come upon us—so -terrible that just now I do not see that I can bear it and live. For -you know all my heart, and you can judge if it is not to the full as -terrible for me as for you.” (This she said in her innocent instinct of -appealing to his pity for her.) “You at least are alone—are bound by no -vows to another, and that other, alas, so good and kind. I had rather, -ten thousand times rather, he were hard and unloving and cruel! But -though just now I can see nothing else, this one thing I see plainly—you -must go Ralph, you must leave me now at once, and we must never, never -see each other again. There is just one little glimpse of light left in -the thought that hitherto we have neither of us done anything to forfeit -the other’s respect—unless indeed that deceit of mine?—but no,” she -added, glancing at his face, “I know you have not thought worse of me -for that. Do not let us destroy this poor little rag of comfort left us, -Ralph. Let me still think of you as good and brave—yes, as the best and -bravest. And do not tempt me, Ralph, to say at this terrible moment what -in calmer times might cause me shame and remorse to remember.” And she -raised her face to his with a very agony of appeal in the grey eyes he -loved so fervently. - -“Child,” he said, still with the hard look on his face, “child, are you -an angel or a stone? Have you a heart or have you none? If after all you -are just like other women; utterly incapable of entering into the depths -a man’s one love; at least you should pity what you cannot understand, -instead of maddening me with that conventional humbug about mutual -respect and so on. Who but a woman would talk so at such a time? But I -will do as you wish,” he went on, lashing himself into fury against her, -“I will not stay here longer to tempt you by my evil presence to outrage -your delicate sense of propriety, or to say one word which hereafter -you might consider it had not been perfectly ‘correct’ or ‘ladylike’ to -utter. Good God! what a fool I have been! I had imagined you somewhat -different from other women, but I see my mistake. It shall be as you -wish. Good bye. You shall not again be distressed by the sight of me. -Truly you do well to despise me.” - -And with a bitter sneer in his voice, he turned away. It was at last too -much. The girl threw herself down recklessly on the rough garden-seat. -She shed no tears, she was not the sort of woman to weep in such dire -extremity of anguish. She shook and quivered as she lay there, but that -was all. - -But soon the thought came over her “was it not better so?” Better that -Ralph should thus cruelly misjudge her, for in the end it might help him -to forget her. Forget her—yes. This was what she must now pray for, if -her love for him were worthy of the name. - -“Ah but he might have said good-bye gently,” broke forth again from the -over-charged heart. “He might have spoken kindly when it was for the -last, last time.” - -As the wish crossed her thoughts, and she half unconsciously murmured -it in words, she felt that some one was beside her. An arm raised her -gently and replaced her on the seat. It was Ralph again. Something in -his touch soothed and quieted her. She did not this time shrink from -him in alarm, but for a moment leant her throbbing head restfully on his -shoulder. - -“Marion, my poor child. Marion, my lost darling, forgive me.” - -“Forgive you, Ralph? Yes, a thousand times, yes,” she replied. “But do -not so grievously misjudge me. It is no conventional humbug, as you call -it. It is the old plain question of right and wrong.” - -As she said the words there flashed across her mind—or was it some -mocking imp that whispered it?—the remembrance of some other scene, when -this same phrase, “a plain question of right and wrong,” had been used -by herself or another. When was it? Ah yes! Long, long ago, the first -morning in the little house at Altes. She recalled it all perfectly. -The room in which they sat, the position of their chairs. And she heard -Cissy’s voice saying, timidly, “I don’t pretend to be as wise as you, -May, but are you quite sure there is not a plain question of right and -wrong in the matter?” And, to add to her misery, the thought darted into -her mind—what if she had then allowed herself to see it thus? If instead -of acting as she had done to screen him, she had encouraged Harry -bravely to appeal to her father, how different might all have been? -This terrible complication avoided, her life and Ralph’s saved from this -irremediable agony? Could it indeed be that this terrible punishment had -come upon her for this? - -Well for us is it, truly, that our sins and mistakes are not judged as -in such times of morbid misery and exaggerated self reproach we are apt -to imagine! - -The remembrance of that bygone scene at Altes flashed through Marion’s -mind in an instant, but not too quickly to add its sting to her -suffering. And, half mechanically, she repeated: - -“Yes, the old plain question of right and wrong.” - -“I know it is,” said Ralph, “and I knew it in my heart when you just now -said it. I was mad, I think, doubly mad. First, to torture you with my -wild, wicked words, and then to turn upon you with my sneers. So I have -come back to you for a moment, just for one little last moment, child, -to ask you to forgive me and say goodbye. Look up at me, dear, and let -me see that you forgive me.” - -She looked up at him; looked with her true, clear eyes into his, while -he gazed down on her—oh, with what an agony of earnestness, as if he -would burn her face into his brain for ever! - -For a moment neither spoke. - -Then he said: - -“It is as if one of us were dying, Marion, though that I think would be -easy to bear compared with this. ‘The bitterness of death’ they talk of! -All, they little know! Good-bye, my own true darling. My one love, my -life’s love—goodbye.” And as he said the words he stooped and kissed -her—gently, but long and fervently, on the forehead. - -Poor Ralph! It was the first time. - -Was it wrong of her to allow it? Those who think so may judge her, and I -for one shall not argue it with them. - -She stood with bent head, motionless, staring at the ground, but seeing -nothing. Then she looked up hastily, with eyes for the first time -blinded with burning, slow-coming tears. Tears that bring no relief, -wrung from the sore agony of a bleeding heart. - -But he was gone! - -And so “the old, old story” was over for ever for these two; as for how -many others, whose suffering is never suspected! - -Ralph walked back slowly to the inn, along the very garden path which -half-an-hour before, half a lifetime it seemed to him, he had paced so -light-heartedly. The same little stiff box-edging he had noticed before, -the same scent from the roses and honeysuckle, the same sun and sky and -air. Then, he remembered he had said to himself, it was all sweet and -bright and fair. Could he have said so? Was the change in himself only? -“Could it indeed be,” he asked, as we all do at these awful times, -beating our poor bruised wings against the bars of the inexorable “it -is”—“could it be that nature should remain thus unmoved and indifferent -when human beings were riven in agony?” - -And a feeling of intensest disgust, amounting almost to rage, seized -him at the sight of the hateful, heartless, beautiful world! But when he -found this mood coming over him he checked it violently. - -“I shall go mad,” he thought, “if I yield to this just now. I must not -think of my part of it yet. Time enough for that soon— Time enough, -surely, in the desolation of the long years stretching away before me.” -And he writhed at the thought. “What can I do?” he asked himself, “what -can I do to lighten it to her, or to strengthen her to bear it? Oh, -my darling, my darling. I that would have sheltered you from sorrow as -never yet woman was sheltered. And to think that of all living beings on -this earth, I am the one who must ever to you be less than nothing! But -I am maddening myself again.” - -A sudden idea struck him. - -“Yes,” he thought. “I should like to see him. One glance at his face -would give me a better notion of him than anything I could gather by -hearsay. And it will be a sort of satisfaction to know in whose hands my -poor child’s future lies.” - -But on thinking it over he remembered that actually he had heard and -asked nothing about this same “him.” In the absorbing personal interest -of his interview with Marion he had forgotten all but themselves. - -Whom she had married, what his station, where they had met—was utterly -unknown to him. Nor, indeed, if she had attempted to tell would he have -cared to listen. All, in that first bitter, bewildering agony, was to -him comprised in the fact that she did in truth belong to another. - -He walked on slowly through the garden, the hot sun beating on his head, -trying as he went to recall the name which he half fancied had been once -mentioned by Marion. But in vain. When he got to the house he was seized -upon by the landlord and obliged to listen to a long string of apologies -for the over-done state of the unfortunate chop. Various emissaries had -been despatched, it appeared, to inform him that his “something in -the way of lunch” was ready, but had all failed in their mission. “Not -expectin’, sir, as you would have strolled beyond the garden, which as -being so you must please excuse.” - -“Certainly,” replied poor Ralph, feeling that indeed his cup had not -been full if he were now to be called upon to partake of this wretched -chop in the presence of landlord, waiters, and stable boys, as appeared -to be their intention. But he succeeded in dismissing them; and, -thankful for silence and solitude, sat down to his semblance of a meal -in the little parlour opening out of the hall. - -While eating, or making a pretence of so doing, he kept his mind -directed to the consideration of his present object; a sight for himself -of the “him,” the husband who possessed for him so strange an interest. -After a time he rang the bell, intending to enter into conversation with -the waiter, and to gather from him indirectly the information he sought. -In the meantime, however, a new arrival had distracted the attention of -the household of the Peacock, and his summons was not at once obeyed. -While waiting he turned to the window and stared out vacantly, as we so -often do when utterly indifferent to all passing around us. But Ralph’s -indifference was not of long duration. A carriage drove into the little -court-yard, drew up at the door, and a gentleman alighted—jumped out -in a light-hearted, boyish fashion, hardly waiting till the horse had -stopped. He was smoking, and had several letters in his hand, one of -which he appeared to be in the act of reading. He stood still for a -moment, then sauntered leisurely into the porch and remained there while -he finished the perusal of his letter. It was Geoffrey. - -From where Ralph stood at the parlour window, he had an excellent view -of the young man, whom he no sooner caught sight of than he felt an -intuitive conviction that here before him was Marion’s husband. - -Geoffrey for a wonder was in a thoughtful mood, or looked so at least, -as he stood there reading his letter under the shade of the honeysuckle -and clematis climbing over the porch, the sunlight between the branches -falling softly on his bright brown hair. A pleasant picture truly; and -so Ralph owned to himself as he looked at him. The tall, manly figure, -the fair, almost boyish face, made an attractive whole. It was a strange -position. The two men, as to years nearly of an age, but in all else so -marvellously dissimilar. And yet though utter strangers to each other, -with the one absorbing interest in common. Ralph, from his concealment, -gazed at the young man, standing in perfect unconsciousness full in his -view, as if he would read every smallest characteristic, every hidden -feeling of his heart. Never did anxious mother scan more narrowly the -man to whom she was asked to confide her darling’s happiness, than did -Ralph the countenance of his unconscious rival, the being who had robbed -him of all that made life worth having. - -Just then some one from within came to the door and spoke to Geoffrey. -It was only a servant with some trivial message, but Ralph, still -watching earnestly, noticed the gentle courtesy, the smile sunnying over -the clear, honest eyes and mouth, the frank, bright readiness with which -the young man looked up and answered. Then refolding the letter he -had been reading, replaced it in his pocket, and sauntered away in an -opposite direction. - -“Yes,” thought Ralph, “I am satisfied she spoke truly. He is ‘good and -true and kind.’ And attractive too, personally, very. Most women would -not find it difficult to love that man. But then, alas, my poor child is -not like most women! Come what may however, I don’t think that man -will ever be unkind to her. Heaven knows I am not vain, but it would be -nonsense to pretend to myself that I think she will ever come to feel -for him, good fellow though I don’t doubt he is, what I know she has -felt for me. But yet, in time and when totally separated from all -associations connected with me, I trust a sort of moonlight happiness -may yet be in store for her.” - -Here Ralph’s reflections were interrupted by the tardy entrance of the -servant, who waited to receive his orders. - -“How soon will the horses be ready?” asked he. - -“Whenever you please, Sir,” replied the man. “In a quarter of an hour at -most your carriage can be round.” - -“Very well,” said Ralph, “you can order it to come round in twenty -minutes from now. In the meantime, bring me pens and ink and paper, as -I have a letter to write,” adding as the man was leaving the room, -“By-the-by, who is the gentleman that drove in just now?” - -“Mr. Baldwin, Sir. Comes from Brentshire, I believe. Least-ways the -lady’s maid does. Mrs. Baldwin is here too, Sir. A walkin’ in the garden -she is, I believe. Were you wishing to speak to Mr. Baldwin, Sir? He -has just stepped round to look at a horse which the ostler was thinking -might carry the lady while here, but I can run after him if so be you -wish to see him, Sir.” - -“I; oh dear no, not at all,” replied Ralph, who began to think a more -appropriate sign for the little inn would have been “The Magpie.” “Only -be so good as bring in the writing materials at once.” - -When they were brought, he sat down and wrote; quickly and -unhesitatingly, as if perfectly prepared with what he had to say. His -letter folded and directed, he sauntered out into the garden again. - -“There’s just a chance,” he thought, “that I may get it unobserved into -her own hands, otherwise I must post it, which, however, I would much -prefer not to risk.” - -Looking about he spied a small boy busy weeding. He called the child to -him and led him, to the top of the long narrow path, at the end of which -was the green with the peacock bush in the centre, and the old arbour -at the side. He felt no doubt that Marion was still there, her husband -fortunately having gone to the stables. - -“Now, my boy,” said he, “run as fast as you can to the summer-house down -there and give this letter to the lady you’ll see there. If she is gone -bring it back to me. Be as quick as you can and I’ll have a shilling -ready for you when you come back.” - -The child was soon back again. - -“Was the lady still there?” asked Ralph. - -“Yes, Sir,” said the little messenger, glowing with delight at the -thought of a day’s wages so easily earned. “Yes, Sir, the young lady -were there, and she said, ‘Thank you, and would I give this to the -gentleman,’ ” holding out a little turquoise ring, as he spoke. A -simple, common little ring enough. She had had it from childhood. He -had often seen it on her little finger. He seized it eagerly, and turned -away. Then recollecting himself, he gave the boy the promised reward, -thanked him quietly, and returned to the house. - -At the door the post-chaise stood waiting, and in another minute he was -gone, thankful at last to feel free to think over, as he phrased it, -his part of the day’s tragedy. Think of it! Did he ever not think of it -during that weary day and night, and many a weary day and night to come? -Women say men do not know what it is to be broken-hearted! That little -turquoise ring might have told a different tale. - -“I wonder,” thought Ralph as he drove along on his solitary hopeless -journey. “I wonder what she will think it right to do. She said her part -was the worse to bear. I fear it is. She is stronger and more unselfish -than most women, but, on the other hand, she is truthful and ingenuous. -Will she be strong enough for his sake to leave things as they are, to -let him think that at least she is giving him no less than she promised? -Or will it be impossible for her to live with him without to some extent -confiding in him, even though by so doing she wrecks, for the time -at least, his happiness, poor fellow, and what chance she has of any -herself? I see no distinct right or wrong in the case, but I wonder what -she will do. Oh, if I could have saved her this! Suffering for myself I -can bear. If only I could have borne it all, my burden would have seemed -lighter!” - -He caught the express at Bexley and went on in it to London. For no -reason, with no object, save that he felt it would be a relief to him -to escape the unendurable cross-questioning which would certainly have -awaited him, had he returned straight to Friar’s Springs. - -Late in the evening, as he travelled on through the twilight into the -intense darkness of a moon-less midsummer night, a strange feeling came -over him, bringing with it a faint, slight breath of consolation. - -“She said truly,” he thought, “that I was more fortunate than she in -that I am free and unfettered, bound by no uncongenial ties to another. -For me at least it is no sin to love her still, for I know it is not in -my nature ever to replace her by any other woman. And who knows but what -some day in the far future, though I may never see her again, I may in -some way be able to serve her, to lighten the lot it is so bitter to -me to think I have been the means of darkening.” And somehow there came -into his mind the remembrance of a well-known, simple little German -ballad, that years and years ago, as a mere boy, he had liked and -been struck by. For he had been peculiar as a boy—dreamy, morbid and -sentimental. The two last verses rang in his ears that night, over and -over again he heard them. And ever after they were associated with what -this bitter day had brought to pass. And the face of the dead maiden on -the bier grew to him like that of his own lost love. - -These were the words that thus haunted him— - - “Der dritte hub ihnDer dritte hub ihn wieder sogleich - Und kusste sie an den Mund so bleich.” - - “Dich liebt’ ich immer, dich lieb ich noch heut, - Und werde dich lieben in Ewigkeit.” - -From London a day or two later he wrote to his mother, telling her -simply, and in as few words as possible, that the hopes he had confided -to her, were utterly and for ever at an end. He begged her to spare him -the pain of entering into useless particulars, and enjoined her never, -if she valued his peace and comfort, to allude to the affair directly or -indirectly to him or anyone else. - -Lady Severn obeyed him implicitly, and only in the recesses of her own -heart, as I said, abused “Sir Archibald’s niece” for the sorrow she had -brought upon her son. - -Late in the autumn, after seeing his mother and nieces comfortably -re-established at Medhurst, and assisting at the gorgeous nuptials of -Florence Vyse and Mr. Chepstow, Sir Ralph left England for an indefinite -time: to travel in strange and distant lands, in search—not of -happiness—but of interest and occupation sufficient to make life -endurable. - - - - -CHAPTER III. THE END OF THE HONEYMOON. - -“O death, death, death, thou ever floating cloud, - There are enough unhappy on this earth, - Pass by the happy souls that love to live: - I pray thee pass before my light of life - And shadow all my soul that I may die. - Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, - Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.” - ŒNONE. - - - -THIS was the letter the little boy gave to the young lady in the arbour, -and which without moving from her seat she opened and read. It was -addressed outside correctly enough to “Mrs. Baldwin.” It was the first -letter she had ever received from Ralph! She read it slowly, though it -was short enough, dwelling on each phrase, each word, with the sort -of hungry eagerness with which we strain our ears to catch each last -precious whisper from loved lips which we know shall soon, very soon, be -silent for ever. - -“Marion,” it began, “my dearest, for I may call you that in the only -letter I shall ever write to you. I said just now it was as if one of us -were dying—will you try to receive what I am going to say to you as if -indeed it were a dying man’s request? It may seem cruel and heartless -to ask it just now, but it is my last chance; and afterwards, though you -may reject it just now, my earnest entreaty may come back to your mind. -What I would ask of you, my poor child, is to try to be happy. For the -sake of the love you have had for me, for the sake of the love you well -know I have for you, let me leave you trusting that some day you may -again be at least as happy, as you were today when I so rudely destroyed -the poor little fabric you had begun to build up. - - -You are so young, my child, so young and sweet-natured, and your husband -you tell me is good and kind. I have seen him, and I believe he is so. -Happiness cannot but to some extent return to you, if only you do not -repel it by dwelling on the past or by undeserved self-reproach. Let -me trust you will not do this; let me urge on you with more earnestness -than I know how to put in words not to refuse or shut out from you the -sunshine which will still come into your life. To know that you are -happy is the one remaining great wish of my life. - - -For me it is very different. I am not young and I have been accustomed -to live alone. You are the only being I ever took into my life; and I -must now return to the old loneliness, only a little drearier and darker -than before, for having known one short blessed glimpse of light. - - -God bless you, my dearest, and lighten to you the terrible trial it has -been my bitter fate to bring upon you. Leave me the hope that some day -you may be able to think of me without suffering. Forget all about me -except that you had never a truer friend, or one who would more gladly -sacrifice himself to ensure your well-being, than - -“RALPH SEVERN.” - -She read it slowly and quietly. No one observing her would have guessed -from the expression of her face that its contents were of more than -ordinary interest. In point of fact she hardly as yet understood it. -She was still stunned and bewildered: otherwise it is probable that -her first sensation on reading Ralph’s letter would have been of -indignation, bitter anger at him for daring to speak to her of such -a mockery as “happiness,” for thinking it possible that a human being -could bear such torture as hers and live. - -But as yet no such reflection occurred to her, no definite thought of -any kind was at present possible for her. The short-lived strength which -had enabled her to think and decide rightly both for herself and Ralph, -had already deserted her. She was literally crushed; unable even to -realize what had taken place; in a dull stupor of suffering, which to -natures like hers comes instead of the physical unconsciousness, in -weaker organisations succeeding to extremity of nervous tension and -over-excitement. - -After a time she grew chilly, and the sensation roused her somewhat to a -consciousness of the outer world. - -She wondered why she shivered and trembled with cold, for the sun was -still shining outside, and all looked bright and warm. Then the thought -occurred to her that soon Geoffrey would be returning from Bexley, and -she wished she could reach her room unobserved by him or her maid. Once -there, it would be easy to say she felt ill, and thus obtain some hours’ -quiet and solitude in which to brace herself for what lay before her. -For what lay before her, she repeated to herself. Words easy to say, -but in her case what did they mean? She could not tell, could not even -attempt to consider. - -She rose from her seat, first folding and concealing the precious -letter, and began slowly to walk towards the house. Her steps at first -tottered a little, but gradually became steadier. There was no one about -the door as she approached it, so she took courage, and succeeded in -gaining her own room without meeting any one but a stupid, unobservant -servant or two, who noticed nothing unusual in her appearance. - -She looked at her face in the queer, old-fashioned toilet glass. It was -pale as death, and her lips looked blue. So she drank some water, and -drew down the blinds, and then in her old childish fashion threw herself -down on the side of the bed, hiding her face in the pillow. - -“Now,” she said to herself,” I will begin to think. What must I do? How -can meet Geoffrey? What ought I to tell him?” - -Hopeless questions; unanswerable at least by the poor child in the state -she was in. She thought it all over, again and again, that strange scene -in the garden. There was a terrible fascination about it. She reminded -herself of every word he had uttered, every glance and gesture through -the whole of the interview. She could not force herself to think of -anything else. Geoffrey, her future life, everything but this one -remembrance seemed of little consequence. - -Gradually she found herself thinking of it all as if it had happened to -some one else and not to her; as if she had seen it acted on the stage, -or read it in a book; and then she seemed to have known it always. It -was nothing new—the arbour, and the flowers, and the sunshine, the dark -figure in the doorway, their mutual amazement, the mingled anguish and -joy of their meeting, the agony of their farewell—all seemed to have -been a part of her whole life; she had never been separate from it; she -would evermore exist in the thought of it. - -Then the images became confused. She was no longer herself, but some one -else, who, she could not decide. Ralph, still standing in the doorway, -grew strangely like Geoffrey. Again a change—the whole was a dream. She -was back at Altes, with Cissy and Ralph on the terrace, and Ralph was -smiling on her lovingly while she recounted to him the terrible dream -that had visited her. She was asleep! From very exhaustion, both mental -and physical, from extremity of suffering, though compressed into the -short space of a few hours, she was for the time laid to rest in the -peaceful unconsciousness, which, though the waking therefrom may be -bitter, is yet, at such times, an unspeakable mercy. I am not learned in -medical matters, but I believe this sleep saved her from a brain fever -or worse. - -Geoffrey came in from his visit to the stables, which had been prolonged -beyond his intentions. Not finding his wife in the little sitting-room -appropriated to their use, he came along the passage to seek her in her -bedroom. He was not a light stepper, and his boots creaked loudly as he -approached the room. But the sound did not disturb her, nor did his tap -on the door. He repeated it, but with no effect. Then, imagining she -must be in the garden, he opened the door, merely to glance in and -satisfy himself as to her absence. The room was very dark, all the -blinds drawn down, and a general air of sombreness and desertedness. -No, there was her hat on the floor, and a glance at the bed revealed -herself. In no very comfortable attitude, just as she had flung herself -down, but fast asleep, breathing soft and regularly as an infant, and, -as he looked more closely, with a sweet smile on her lips, though her -face looked paler than its wont. - -“My poor darling,” murmured Geoffrey to himself, “she has been tired -with her long morning alone. I must not leave her again for so long. She -looks pale too. I trust she has not been ill.” - -And very gently he drew the bed-curtains so as to shade her still more -from the light, closed the door with noiseless hand, and softly crept -back along the passage to occupy himself as best he could without her, -till she awoke. - -Already he had grown very dependent upon her. Indoors especially. He -never felt quite in his element in the house, his life for many years -past having literally been almost altogether spent in the open air. - -But now it was very different. Indoors meant Marion and cheerful talk, -flowers and work, and books even in moderation now and then; a sweet -face, and a graceful flitting figure, and tea at all hours of the day, -and pipes only on sufferance! It was all so new to him, so wonderfully -pretty and delicate, this atmosphere of womanhood for the first time -really brought home to him, great rough clod-hopper as he called -himself. And if so unspeakably charming here, in a strange, unhomelike -house, what would it not be at the Manor Farm, where this sweet presence -was to take root and bloom for evermore? “Till death u do part!” came -into Geoffrey’s mind that afternoon, as he fidgeted about, not knowing -what to do with himself, wishing she would wake, and yet afraid to go -near her for fear of disturbing her. “Till death us do part!” he thought -to himself. “A queer sort of life it would be without her!” After an -hour or two’s patience he crept back again to her room to see if she -were awake. But she was still asleep. He stood beside her for a minute -or two. Just as he was turning away she awoke: awoke from her dream that -the real was a dream; awoke from her sweet vision of Ralph’s dark eyes -gazing down on her tenderly, to find herself back in the hateful world -of facts, and Geoffrey Baldwin, her husband whom she did not love, -standing at her side with a happy smile on his honest face. She glanced -at him for an instant, then with a recoil of something very like actual -aversion, turned from him, and closed her eyes again, as if she wished -to shut out him and all beside from her sight. - -Geoffrey did not read correctly the expression of her face, fortunately -for him. He fancied only she was wearied, or in pain, and his voice -sounded anxious as he spoke to her. - -“Have I disturbed you, Marion dear? I was in the room more than an hour -ago, but went away for fear of waking you. You don’t look well, but -I hoped this sleep would have refreshed you. You are not in pain, my -darling, are you?” - -“Yes,” she said, without moving, or opening her eyes. - -Considerably alarmed, Geoffrey asked eagerly “Where? How? What was the -matter? Was it her head? Had she been out in the sun? Where was the -pain?” - -“Everywhere,” she replied, in the same tone. - -Awful visions of rheumatic fever, neuralgia, every sort of illness -of which, his experience being of the smallest, his horror was -correspondingly great—flitted before poor Geoffrey’s vision. He -carefully covered Marion with the shawl she had tossed aside, and, -without speaking, turned to leave the room. - -His step across the floor roused her. - -“Where are you going, Geoffrey?” she asked, in a sharp, impatient tone, -so unlike her own, that it increased his alarm. - -“To call Bentley, in the first place,” he answered, hesitatingly; “and -then—” - -“Well, what then?” she persisted. - -“To go or send for a doctor,” he replied. - -“A doctor!” she repeated, contemptuously, muttering to herself; “a -clever doctor, truly, he would be who could cure me. A doctor!” she -repeated aloud. “How can you be so foolish, Geoffrey? I don’t interfere -with you, why should you interfere with me? Am I not to have liberty to -rest for an hour or two, without you making yourself and me absurd by -talking of doctors?” - -“But you said you were in pain remonstrated her husband, considerably -relieved, and yet not a little amazed by this sudden and uncalled-for -ebullition of petulance. - -“Well, and if I did?” she replied, wearily, but more gently. “Surely, -Geoffrey, you can understand there are pains and pains! I am weary and -exhausted, but I want no doctor. Leave me, I beg of you, leave me alone. -I want to go to sleep—and to dream,” she added, to herself. - -Geoffrey left her, without saying more. - -Then, when she heard his steps receding down the passage, there visited -her the first of a long chain of tormentors, who from that day became no -strangers to her. A pang of self-reproach darted through her, for having -so cruelly wounded the heart whose only fault was its devotion to her. - -“I have vexed him,” she thought, “vexed and hurt him for the first time -since, since—that terrible mistake of ours! It is all a part of the -wretched whole.” And then the ungenerous thought occurred to her—“It -is his own fault. He has brought it on himself by persisting as he did. -Save for that—.” And she hardened her heart against him. - -But not for long. She had wronged him, wronged him cruelly, in thinking -those few petulant words of hers would have had power, even temporarily, -to chill or alienate him. - -In five minutes he was back again, with a fragrant cup of tea and a -delicate slice of bread and butter, which (forgive me, romantic readers) -Marion was in her heart not sorry to see. She had eaten nothing since -early morning, and violent emotion consumes the physical “tissue” no -less surely than it exhausts the mental powers. - -She drank the tea eagerly, for her throat felt parched and dry. Then -with a sudden revulsion of deep pity for the man whom she began to see -she had so grievously deceived, she said timidly, glancing up at him -with a world of conflicting feelings in her eyes— - -“Thank you, Geoffrey. You are very good. Are you vexed with me for being -so cross?” - -“Vexed with you, my darling!” he replied, as he had done once before; -“vexed with you! No, never fancy anything so impossible.” And he stooped -and kissed her on the forehead. - -That was more than she had expected. She shrank back, half raising her -hand, as if to repel him. Geoffrey looked surprised and concerned, but -not hurt. The change in her would take a long time to come home to his -unsuspecting heart. - -“I did not mean to tease you,” he said. “Is your head aching? I fear, my -poor dear, you are suffering very much.” - -“Yes,” she said, “I am suffering very much. But don’t begin again -about a doctor, Geoffrey,” she went on, growing excited. “I won’t see a -doctor. There is nothing the matter with me that a doctor is needed for. -I shall be well again by the morning, you’ll see. I won’t see a doctor.” - -“Very well,” he said, “you know best, I suppose. What will you do? Won’t -you get up a little and come into the other room? You can be quite quiet -there, and I should be horribly dull by myself,” he added, wistfully, -half smiling at himself as he spoke. - -But no answering smile broke on Marion’s face. She moved impatiently, -and answered coldly— - -“I don’t know if I shall get up or not. Leave me, any way, for the -present and go and smoke or something. Perhaps I will get up in a while; -but oh, do go.” - -So he went. And then, when alone, she cried with remorse for her -unkindness. - -“But I can’t help it,” she said—“I can’t help it. I don’t want to be -wicked, but I am forced into it. I shall grow worse and worse, till I -die. Oh, if only I might die now!” - -There was something consolatory in the idea, and it did not seem wicked -to wish for her own death! It seemed an escape from the unbearable -present, and in the thought she found a strange sort of calm. She felt -sure she was going to be very ill. After all, Geoffrey would not -be troubled with her long. In the meantime she need not grudge what -pleasure it was in her power to afford him. So after a while she got up, -rang the bell for her maid, who was full of sympathy for her mistress’s -bad headache, and smoothed her hair and arranged her dress; so that when -she rejoined Geoffrey in the sitting-room, he delightedly congratulated -her on looking “all right again.” - -She did her best to be patient that evening, to endure her husband’s -tender words and caresses. But it was hard work; and, oh, she was -thankful when night fell, and she could again, for a time at least, -forget the agony which she hoped was killing her. But in the morning, -greatly to her surprise, she was better. She felt terribly disappointed -that it was so; she had counted so surely on a return of the so-called -low fever, of which she felt pretty certain a second attack would prove -fatal. But she did not understand her own constitution. No sudden, -short-lived emotion, however violent, would have power to prostrate one -naturally so healthy; what rather was to be dreaded for her was a long -course of suspense or suffering, such as already she had under-tone. -Discontent, anxiety, uncongenial surroundings might gradually undermine -the springs of her life; but she was too young and, physically, to -elastic, to give way at a sudden, sharp assault. - -Nevertheless, yesterday’s events had left their mark on her. Besides -the suffering woven with many threads which henceforth must envelop -her life, the actual, temporary excitement had been too violent not to -affect her for some time to come. She was irritable and nervous to a -miserable extent. Geoffrey’s creaking boots, the hasty closing of a -door, even his voice, not always modulated to a nicety, nearly drove -her frantic. Then sharp words were followed by bitter self-reproach and -abasement. It was so undignified, so lowering, she said to herself, thus -to bear her trial. If she had been called upon to do something great or -heroic—to throw herself into fire or water to save the husband she did -not love, it would have been easy. But to feel herself tied to him in -this matter-of-fact way, to know that it was her duty to listen with -patience, if not interest, to his commonplace conversation, his stupid -talk of weather and crops or his anticipations of the coming season’s -hunting—oh, this indeed was martyrdom, all but unendurable. For in these -days she was far, very far from doing justice to the real character of -the man she had married. - -They did not stay long at the Peacock. The place grew hateful to her. -At first there was a sort of fascination about the old arbour in the -garden; she had a childish unreasoning fancy that some day Ralph would -appear there again; that finding his life unendurable without her he -would return in very recklessness of misery to see her again, if but -for a moment. But he never came, and she learnt to loathe the place -associated with such ever-recurring disappointment. There were times -when she blamed herself bitterly for her behaviour to him during that -last interview. She had been cold, repellent; she had belied herself in -concealing from him, as she fancied she had, the depth, the intensity of -her devotion, the anguish of parting from him forever. He had gone -away, she thought, suffering in himself, terribly no doubt, but with no -conception of the awfulness of the misery which he was leaving her to -bear alone. Had he realised it would he have left her?—would he not, -he was wise and far-seeing, have devised some means of freeing her from -this terrible bondage, of even now joining her life to his, where alone -it would be worthy of the name? - -She had told him once she could not love him so entirely did she not -know there was one thing he cared for more than her. “Doing right” she -had called it in her silly childish ignorance and inexperience. But what -was right? Could this, the life she was leading of misery to herself and -sooner or later to her husband also, utter stagnation intellectually, -and certain deterioration morally, could this be right? Was not her case -altogether exceptional; were there not, must there not, be in-stances -where the so-called right and wrong of other, more happily commonplace -lives, changed places—in which it was worse than obstinate folly, actual -suicide, to bow to the laws formed but with reference to every-day -circumstances and individuals? These suggestions tormented her at her -very worst times. In such moments I think, truly, the tempter himself -had her. - -Geoffrey, who remained sturdily convinced that physical suffering alone -was to be blamed for her strange moodiness and irritability, agreed -gladly to trying the effect of change of scene. For some weeks they -never rested, hardly arrived at one place before Mrs. Baldwin took a -dislike to it, and insisted on rushing off to another, with equally -unsatisfactory results. In one thing, however, Geoffrey had his way. -Marion found herself obliged to give in to consulting a doctor. A kindly -and sensible man happened to be the one they lit upon, and what little -was in his power he did for her. That something beyond his reach was at -fault he suspected, though he wisely kept his ideas on the subject to -himself. The young husband’s anxiety he was able, with perfect honesty, -to relieve. Mrs. Baldwin was suffering physically from nothing but a -certain amount of nervous prostration, consequent, in all probability, -upon the long illness some months previously, of which Geoffrey told -him. Time and care would alone set her “quite right.” To Marion herself -he spoke more plainly. He judged that she could bear his doing so, and -be, probably, “none the worse of it.” - -“You are not really ill at present, my dear madam,” he said, “but -you are fast going the way to make yourself so. Not seriously, not -dangerously, at least,” he added hastily, misinterpreting the start with -which Marion looked up at his words, “fretting and repining don’t kill. -At least they take a good while about it, and an uncommonly disagreeable -process it is. But what I wish to warn you of is, that continued -yielding to mental depression or discomfort, such as I can see you are -at present suffering from, ends, in nine cases out of ten, in chronic -ill-health. A worse trial, my dear young lady, than you at your age and -with your evidently small experience of sickness, can have any notion -of. You have had your share of trouble in your short life—perhaps more -than your share—but let me beseech you not to add to it, as you are too -surely doing. Trouble is hard to bear at the best of times; but none the -easier, I assure you, when our physical strength has failed us.” - -“No one can understand other people’s troubles,” said Marion coldly, -sullenly almost, if so ugly a word can be applied to such gentle tones. -“You can prescribe for bodily illness, I have no doubt; but you can’t -order a patient to get well. Neither can any one make himself happy at -command.” - -“Certainly not,” replied the kind old man; “but, unfortunately, it is -in your power, as in mine, and every one else’s, to make ourselves more -unhappy.” - -Marion did not reply, and he went on. - -“I am not prying into your sorrows, my dear young lady. I can quite -believe that, notwithstanding the blessings you possess, your troubles -have been very great. The more earnest, therefore, must be the effort -to live them down in the best sense. But I have been talking more like a -clergyman than a doctor—you must forgive me. Can I see your husband for -a moment? I am anxious to tell him that so far there is nothing much -amiss. He, I think, is inclined to err on the side of spoiling you, is -he not? Must I give him a hint that a little scolding now and then would -do you no harm?” - -“I wish you would,” she replied; “he is far too good and patient, and I -am very bad.” She looked up as she spoke with a half smile, but her eyes -were full of tears; and something in the tone of her voice haunted the -good doctor for many a day to come. - -His word, however, more than his medicine, acted upon her to some -extent as a tonic. Her health improved, her nervousness and irritability -decreased. Geoffrey was enchanted with the success of his first exertion -of marital authority. - -“You are looking ever so much better, my darling,” he exclaimed -joyfully, “that old fellow was a regular brick. By Jove, I wish I had -doubled his fee! You won’t be looking ill after all when I take you home -next week. How thankful I am! What would the world be to me without you, -my dearest?” And his voice grew husky as he looked at her and tenderly -raised her face to his. - -But she could not return his gaze of loving, devotion, could not meet -his honest eyes, bright with pleasure at her improved and spirits. For, -with returning strength, and powers of self-control, a new misery -had come upon her—the growing consciousness of how grievously, though -unintentionally, she had deceived Geoffrey Baldwin when she told him -that at least what heart was left her was free to give to him, that the -old love was dead, “dead and buried for ever.” In the first selfishness -of her overpowering wretchedness this feeling had somewhat fallen into -the background: now that her powers were regaining their balance it -revived with redoubled force. It was agony to her to receive Geoffrey’s -constant expressions of trusting, almost reverential love. A hundred -times she had it on her lips to confess to him, not the whole, but so -much of her secret as she felt it due to him to own. Only the thought of -what this knowledge would be to him, of his happiness wrecked as well as -her own, withheld her. - -But she felt that before long it must come. Whatever misery it might -entail, it must be done; for she could not live with him feeling -that systematically and deliberately she was deceiving him. She grew -strangely silent, and absent in manner. Geoffrey feared she was growing -ill again, and hastened their return home. - -“Once in our own house, dear, with all home comforts about you, you’ll -feel so different,” he said; “this constant travelling is really very -tiring. No wonder you’re done up. How delightful it will be to see you -at the old farm I shall then feel quite sure that you really belong to -me, my dearest.” - -She did not answer. He drew round her averted face. To his amazement she -was in tears. - -“Marion,” he exclaimed in astonishment, “my dearest, what is the -matter?” - -She seized his hand convulsively and held it fast. Then restraining with -difficulty the hysterical weeping which she felt coming upon her, she -spoke, fast and excitedly, to her bewildered listener. - -“Geoffrey,” she said, “I cannot bear it. All these weeks you have borne -with me—with all my strange fancies and wayward tempers. You have -been very good to me, for truly I have been very trying. You must have -thought me strangely unlike what you fancied me. I am strangely unlike -what I was, sadly changed from my old self, for I used to be gentle and -sweet tempered, Geoffrey. I must tell you the truth, cost what it may, -for otherwise I cannot live beside you. Geoffrey, poor Geoffrey, it -is dreadful for me to say, and dreadful for you to hear. I told you a -falsehood that day—the day I promised to marry you. I said at least you -had now no rival. I told you I no longer loved that other whom I had -loved so intensely. It was no intentional falsehood. I believed -it myself; but for all that it was not true. I did still love him, -Geoffrey, then when I said I did not. I did love him even then, with all -the love of my nature. And, oh, Geoffrey, I love him now. Forgive me, -for I am most miserable —pity me, for I cannot forgive myself.” - -There was not the slightest sound. The hand she still held tightly -clasped was not withdrawn, but Geoffrey spoke not a word. - -Marion went on. “I will tell you all about it. All at least that you -ought to know. How I found it out I mean. It was a fortnight after we -were married. That day, do you remember, at the Peacock when you thought -I was ill? I—” - -“Hush!” said her husband, “you need not tell me. I have no need to hear -what it must cost you much to tell. You saw him, I suppose, saw him, or -heard from him—it does not matter which. There had been some mistake, I -suppose. He was not married as you had been told?” - -“Yes,” she said, repeating his very words mechanically, “there had been -a mistake. He was not married.” - -“Ah!” muttered Geoffrey. It sounded like a groan. - -“I will tell you”—she began again, but he stopped her again. - -“No,” he said, “do not tell me. Do not treat me as if I were a judge -and you a culprit at the bar. Heaven knows, I have heard enough. And -God knows, I trust you, Marion, trust you utterly and entirely. Were you -less worthy of my trust this might be easier to bear. I can’t quite see -it yet. I can’t get it plain to myself. But that will come, I suppose. -Only do not ever tell me any more. It need never again be mentioned -between us. I think —I think I should thank you for telling me. It was -right, I suppose, but I can’t quite see it yet. For my part in it all, -for what I did wrong—the persisting in trying to win you, I mean—I ask -you to forgive me.” - -“Forgive you?” she exclaimed; “oh, Geoffrey, your asking it crushes me.” - -“I do not wish to pain you,” he said, gently but resolutely withdrawing -the hand she still held. - -“But you must remember it is rather hard on me—all this. I cannot just -yet get accustomed to it. So if in any way I Fain you, you must forgive -me.” - -Then he got up and strolled to the window. It was a beautiful summer -evening—a picture of peace and calm loveliness. - -“It is hard upon me,” he murmured to him-self, “very hard upon me. But, -good God, how she must have suffered! How she must suffer still, tied -to a rough boor like me! That other, I don’t want to know who he is, I -should pity him too, I suppose, but I’m not quite good enough for that; -for I can’t see that his case is as bad as mine. Heaven knows, though he -may be a hundred times my superior in every-thing else he can’t love her -better. And to think —! My darling, how you must have suffered!” - -If only Geoffrey could have uttered his thoughts, his generous, -unselfish thoughts aloud, who knows what even then might have been the -result? - -But he could not. A strange reserve had fallen upon this naturally open -and outspoken being. Gentle and attentive as ever to Marion, she was yet -utterly changed. He avoided most pointedly the slightest demonstration -of the affection with which his very heart was bursting; not a word of -endearment, not a gesture of fondness did he allow himself. It was what -Marion had been wishing for, and yet it pained her. But gradually she -grew accustomed to it; and slowly but surely began that lamentable -drifting apart so sad to see in two lives which should be as one. -Henceforth she felt free to live yet more entirely in the past and in -herself; for she was no longer fettered by the necessity of maintaining -a semblance of affection. Geoffrey, she fancied, had felt it much -less than she had feared. He would soon be absorbed and happy in his -home-life and country pursuits. - -So she did not trouble herself very much about him. “He was not after -all,” she decided, “a man of very deep feeling. His dogs and horses -would soon make up to him for any disappointment he might have -experienced in a wife.” - -Yet being a woman, with all a woman’s illogical “contrariness,” the -reflection was not without a certain amount of bitterness. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. “AT HOME.” - -“The little bird now to salute the morn - Upon the naked branches sets her foot, - The leaves still lying at the mossy root; - And there a silly chirruping cloth keep - As if she fain would sing, yet fain would weep. - Praising fair summer that too soon is gone, - And sad for winter too soon coming on.” - DRAYTON. - -“Perhaps the wind - Waits so in winter for the summers dead, - And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries, - For what has been and is not?” - THE SPANISH GYPSY. - - - -TO-MORROW then, I suppose, will see us at the Manor Farm,” said Geoffrey -the last evening of their travels. - -Marion noticed he did not speak of his dwelling as “home,” and she -looked up quickly, for she fancied there was a slight, a very slight -quiver in his voice. But no, it must have been only fancy. He sat at the -table arranging his fishing book, apparently engrossed in its contents. - -“I suppose so,” she replied indifferently. - -“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that you will not find the house in -particularly good order. That is to say it has not been ‘done up’ for -ages. I meant to have had some of the rooms refurnished, but there was -so little time before,” here he dropped a fly, and had to stoop down to -look for it on the carpet, “before we were married,” he went on with a -change in his voice, “that I deferred doing so, thinking you might like -to choose the furniture yourself. So as soon as we are settled I hope -you will order whatever you like for the rooms in which you will take an -interest. The drawing-room and dining-room. There is a nice little room -up stairs too which I think you might like as a sort of boudoir, or -whatever it is called. It opens out of the pleasantest of the bedrooms, -the one which I think you will probably choose for your own. I am very -anxious that you should arrange all just as you wish, and of course I -shall not in the least interfere with any of your plans. I shall keep -my own old rooms just as they were; they will do very well without -doing up. Indeed my old den would never be comfortable again if it were -meddled with.” - -This was a long speech for the present Geoffrey to make, for he had -grown very silent of late. When alone with his wife, that is to say: -outsiders would probably have perceived no change in him. - -“Thank you,” said Marion in a tone that was meant to be cordial. “I am -sure it will all be very nice. The house is very old, is it not?” she -went on, wishing to show some interest in the subject. - -“Yes,” he replied, “very old, some parts of it in particular. I wish it -were my own—at least,” he went on, “I used to wish it. Now I don’t know -that I care much to own it.” - -“I always thought it was your own,” said Marion with some surprise. “I -thought your father bought it long ago.” - -“No,” answered Geoffrey, “he only got it on a long lease. It will be -out in a few years now. I got a hint once that Lord Brackley would not -object to selling it when the lease is out, but I don’t know that I -should care to buy it. As likely as not I shall leave no—,” but the rest -of his words were too low for Marion to catch. - -“Then you have no land in Brentshire?” she enquired. - -“Not a rood,” he replied, “nor anywhere else. The old place that -belonged to my grandfather, for I had a grandfather, though Miss -Tremlett would probably tell you I hadn’t, was over at the other side of -the country but neither my father nor I cared about it—it was ugly and -unproductive—and before he died my father advised me to accept the first -good offer I got for it. So I sold it last year very advantageously -indeed. The purchase money is still in the old bank. I should invest it -somehow I suppose, for it’s too large a sum to leave in a country bank. -But all I have is there, and I really don’t know what else to do with -it. I have always had a sort of idea I should buy another place. The -bank is as safe as can be of course—I am actually a sleeping partner in -it still. But I believe they don’t want to keep me. That new man they -took in lately has such heaps of money, they say, and he’s making all -sorts of changes.” - -“Your father would not have liked that,” said Marion. - -“No indeed,” replied Geoffrey. “Any sort of change, he always thought, -must be for the worse.” He was talking more naturally and heartily than -had been the case for some time, in the interest of the conversation, -appearing temporarily to forget the sad change that had come over -their relations. But suddenly he recollected himself. With an entire -alteration of manner he went on. “I am forgetting that these personal -matters can have no interest for you. I beg your pardon for troubling -you with them. Still perhaps,” he added thoughtfully, “it is as well for -you to understand these things, however uninteresting, they may be.” - -Marion looked and felt hurt. - -“Geoffrey,” she said reproachfully, “you go too far.” - -He turned sharply and looked at her. But her face was bent over her -book, and she did not see the wistful entreaty in his gaze. He said -nothing aloud: but to himself he murmured. “Too far Ah, no! No more half -gifts for me, which in the end are worse than none. But she did not mean -it, poor child! Even now she understands me less than ever. As if her -kindness, her pity, were not far harder to bear than her scorn.” - -The next day they returned Brentshire. - -Geoffrey as thankful when it was over; and they had settled down into a -sort of commonplace routine, and to a great extent independence of -each other in their daily lives. It was grievously hard upon him—this -broken-spirited, heartless “coming home.” Harder to bear, I think, than -if his joyous anticipations had been cut short by death itself. For had -it been a dead bride he was thus bringing home, he would not have felt -so far, so utterly separated from her, in all that constitutes the real -bitterness of disunion, as he felt himself now from his living, unloving -wife—the pale, cold Marion, whose terrible words still rang in his -ears. “I did love him even then with all the love of my nature, and, oh, -Geoffrey, I love him now.” - -They both, though they did not allude to it, dreaded intensely the first -visit to Miss Veronica. By tacit agreement they did not pay it together, -by tacit agreement too, they decided that the secret of their fatal -“mistake,” should, if possible, be concealed from the affectionate and -unselfish friend, who, to some extent, was responsible for their -having committed it. But they reckoned without their host! Veronica’s -perceptions, naturally acute, and rendered still more so by her -reflective life and in her present case by her loving anxiety, were not -so easily to be deceived. Though no word of misgiving escaped her, she -yet saw too clearly that Geoffrey’s gaiety was forced—that Marion’s -expressions of content and satisfaction wore not genuine—that neither of -the two confided in her as of old. She was the last person in the world -to take offence or be hurt by their silence. That its motive was to -spare her pain she divined by instinct. Still on the whole, I think it -was a mistake. Poor Veronica suffered, I believe, more acutely from the -mystery surrounding her friends’ evident alienation from each other, -than would have been the case had they taken her into their confidence -and related to her the whole of the strange and exceptional history. On -their side both Geoffrey and Marion paid no light price for the reserve -they thought it their duty to maintain. For the first time since -childhood Geoffrey felt himself forced to shun the society of the friend -to whom he had carried every grief and perplexity, every interest, every -joy of his life. And to Marion likewise, it was no small trial to be -deprived at this critical time, of the wisest woman friend she had ever -known; of the gentle sympathy which during the many dreary months of her -Mallingford life, had never failed her. - -The Manor Farm was one of those rather anomalous habitations, half farm, -half gentleman’s house, of which in some of the agricultural counties -one sees so many. With no special characteristics of its own, save -perhaps that it was somewhat quaint, and decidedly old fashioned: hardly -picturesque and not exactly ugly; it was the sort or house that takes -its colouring mainly from the lives of its inhabitants. All dwellings -are not of this description: there are venerable walls which we cannot -but associate with gloom and solemnity, however merry may have been -the voices, however ringing the laughter which there we may have heard -resound; there are “rose-clad” cottages, which our memory refuses to -depict save as smiling in the sunshine, though our sojourn therein may -have been of the most sorrowful, and the brightness without seemed but -to mock the aching hearts and tear-laden eyes within. But the Manor Farm -was by no means an impressive abode. It was comfortable already, and -with a little trouble might have been made pretty: but alas, at this -time there was no grace or sweetness in the heart of the young girl who -came with reluctant steps to be its mistress, whose youth and brightness -had been swamped in the deep waters through which she had passed. - -Unconsciously she was entering on a new phase in her experience. The -first effect of her again meeting with Ralph had been to revive in her -the consciousness of his irresistibly strong personal influence. For -a time she felt very near to him; as if indeed she only lived in the -immaterial union with him which she had before imagined was at an end. -This did not surprise her. It seemed to her that the bar on her side of -a loveless marriage was in point of fact no bar at all: whereas so long -as she had believed in his union to another, she had felt herself more -utterly divided from him than by death itself. Woman’s indefensible -logic, no doubt, but so she felt, and so she expressed it to herself. -She was wrong—mistaken to a great extent—she had been drifting away from -Ralph. Only his actual presence, his personal influence had recalled -her: of which he himself was conscious when he deliberately resolved -utterly to sever himself from her life; by no species of intercourse or -communication, however apparently innocent or irreproachable, to keep -alive in her the consciousness of an influence so fatal to her prospects -of peace as the wife of another man. - -I hardly think this first phase of her suffering, though acute almost to -agony, was after all the worst. There is a great compensatory power in -strong excitement—the after days of grey depression are to my thinking -the most to be dreaded. On these she was now entering; for though she -knew it not, the full strength of his immediate influence was already -beginning to fade. The entering on a new life, the return to scenes with -which he was in no wise associated, had much to do with this. Still, at -times the first sharp agony returned to her; but generally when -roused by some external agency. The sight of any silly trifling thing -associated with him—a book out of which he had read to her, hand-writing -resembling his, even little details of dress recalling him—all had power -to stab her. Ah, yes! Even to the day of her death she felt that the -scent of honeysuckle would be to her unendurable, for that fatal day -in his excitement Ralph had plucked a spray off the luxuriant branches -overhanging the old arbour, and ruthlessly crushing it in his hands, the -strong, almost too sweet perfume had reached her as she sat before him. - -But these acute sensations gradually grew to be of rarer occurrence; -very possibly, had her new life at the Manor Farm been fuller and more -congenial, had Geoffrey been more experienced, less humble, and perhaps -less unselfish, at this crisis things might have mend. By allowing her -to see that, notwithstanding all that had passed he yet loved her as -fervently as before, that yet she was to him a very necessity of his -being; the husband might gradually have drawn her out of herself and -eventually led her at once to cling to and support, the man who truly, -as he had once said, found “life without her” a very mockery of the -word. - -But Geoffrey could not do this. He pitied her too much; he hated himself -for what he had brought upon her. He went to the extreme of fancying -himself actually repulsive to her. He guarded himself from the slightest -word or sign of familiarity or affection, imagining that the revulsion -these would engender would drive them yet further and more hopelessly -apart. - -“At least,” he thought, “she shall live in peace. All I can now do to -please her is to keep out of her way and not disgust her by constantly -reminding her of her bondage.” So, though his whole existence was full -of her, though her slightest wish was immediately, though unobtrusively, -attended to, he yet left her to herself, maintaining an appearance of -such indifference to her and adsorption in his independent pursuits, -that the girl was almost to be excused for imagining that Geoffrey was -“more of a farmer than a man,” incapable of very refined or long-lived -affection, and that, after all, so far as he was concerned, what had -happened did not so much matter. “He would have been pretty sure to get -tired of me before long in any case,” was the reflection with which she -threw off all sense of responsibility with respect to him, and stifled -for the time the pangs of reproach for the blight which through her had -fallen on his sunny life. - -There was little society of any desirable kind in the neighbourhood of -the Manor Farm. The other side of the county was much more sociable, but -about Brackley there were few resident county families—the great man of -the place a permanent absentee. Besides which the Baldwins’ position had -been a somewhat anomalous one, lying rather on the border lands, for the -father’s status as banker in Mallingford naturally connected him -with the little town, while at the same time it induced a species of -acquaintance with the out-lying districts. Geoffrey’s rooted aversion -from earliest childhood to anything in the shape of office or desk, or -indeed to indoor occupation of any kind, had led to the removal to the -Manor Farm some time before the old man’s death. Hunting, shooting, -and so on, with the sons of the few squires in the neighbourhood, had -brought about the sort of bachelor friendliness between him and these -families which was pleasant enough so far as it went, but committed -the other side to nothing in respect of the future Mrs. Baldwin. Had he -married quite in his own sphere, or slightly beneath him, he would have -sunk, as a Benedick, into peaceful obscurity. But when it was known that -his bride, though poor, was a daughter of the well-known Hartford Vere, -himself a cadet of one of the “best” Brentshire families, mammas began -to think they must really call at the Farm, and “show a little attention -to her, poor young thing!” To which disinterested amiability on the part -of their spouses, papas, being in general more liberal-minded in such -matters, made, of course, no objection. - -So Marion received some visitors, of whom the Copleys of the Wood were -the only ones in whom she felt the slightest interest. A moderate amount -of invitations to dreary dinner-parties, or still more trying “candle -visits,” followed. Geoffrey thought it right to accept them, so, feeling -that to her, change of scene was but the replacing of one kind of -dulness by another, Marion agreed to his decision, and they went. - -It was really not lively work, but the dreariness no doubt lay chiefly -in herself. For after all there were sensible, kindly people among their -entertainers, and though the world “is not all champagne, table-beer -is not to be despised.” Not certainly when we are young and fresh, and -vigorous; inclined, as youth should be, to the use of rose-coloured -spectacles, and to mistaking electro-plate for the genuine article. But -young Mrs. Baldwin was censorious because unhappy, difficult to please -because dissatisfied with herself. People were kindly inclined to her. -They knew she had long been motherless, and of late fatherless as well, -her only brother separated from her by half the world, her present -position, though the wife of “as fine a fellow as ever breathed,” far -lower, socially speaking, than originally she might have aspired to. -Altogether a good deal of kindness, really genuine so far as it went, -might have been received by her, had she encouraged it. But she did not, -“could not,” she told herself. So her new acquaintances felt repelled, -naturally enough, and she, sensitive to a fault, felt she was not liked, -and drew back still further into her shell of cold reserve. “Pride,” of -course, it was called. And “what has she to be proud of?” next came to -be asked, when the poor girl’s name was brought on the tapis. - -After one of these visits she was invariably more depressed than before. -She was not hardened to feeling herself disliked, nor callous to the -womanly mortification of knowing she had not been seen to advantage. She -fancied she was growing ugly; she knew she had grown unamiable, and she -was angry with herself, while yet she was bitter at others. Geoffrey -above all. When in company, he looked so well and in such good spirits, -that at times Marion thought she almost hated him. Truly she was hard -to please! Had he allowed himself to appear depressed, or in any way -different from his former well-known joyous self, she would in her heart -have accused him of indelicacy, of obtruding upon her regardless of her -feelings, the pain she had brought upon him, the wreck she had made of -his life. - -And the season too was against her. Autumn again, nature’s dying hour, -when all around was but too much in harmony with her desolate life, but -too apt to foster the morbid unhealthiness which was fast enveloping her -whole existence. - -The jog-trot dullness of her daily life came to have a strange -fascination for her. Its regularity seemed to be beating time to some -approaching change, some crisis in her fate. For that some such was -at hand, she felt convinced. The present was too unendurable, too -essentially unnatural to be long, continuance. - -So, in the intervals of her irritation at her husband, she lived, to all -appearance, contentedly enough, in the death-in-life monotony so fatal -to all growth and healthy development. Geoffrey had no idea how bad -things were with her. He thought he was giving her all she would accept, -undisturbed peace and perfect independence. Yet his very heart bled for -her, often, very often when she little suspected it. He made one grand -mistake; he gave her no responsibilities, no necessary duties. Her time -was her own; the housekeeping was all attended to by a confidential and -efficient servant, whose accounts even were overlooked by the master -instead of by the mistress of the establishment. - -Money Marion had in plenty, more than she knew what to do with; for she -had never been “fanatica” on the subject of dress, and even her old love -of books and music seemed to be deserting her. She would not ride. The -horse destined for her use stood idle in the stable; and more than once -Geoffrey so nearly lost heart that he was on the point of selling it. -He had one great advantage over Marion. He was the possessor of that -mysterious, and to mere spectators, somewhat irritating gift, known -as “animal spirits.” There were times when, in spite of all, his -unspeakable disappointment, his bitter self-reproach, the young man -could not help feeling happy. An exciting run, a bracing frosty morning -in his fields, filled him for the time with his old joyousness, the -exhilaration of life in itself, apart from all modifying circumstances. -Poor fellow! She need not have grudged him, what afterwards on looking -back through a clearer atmosphere, she believed to have been the only -compensatory influence in the lonely, unsympathised-with existence, -to one so frank and affectionate, more trying even than she, with her -greater powers of reserve and self-reliance, could altogether realize. - -Now and then, though rarely, the cloudy gloom of mutual reserve and -apparent indifference, into which day by day they were drifting -further, was broken, painfully enough, by stormy flashes of outspoken -recrimination and wounding reproach. Naturally, they were both -sweet-tempered, but this wretched state of things was fast souring them. -Scenes miserable to witness, had any friend been by, lowering in the -extreme to reflect upon in calmer moments, from time to time occurred. -In these it is but justice to Geoffrey to say that he was rarely, if -ever, the aggressor. - -One dull, foggy morning, a “by-day,” unfortunately, for Marion, yielding -to atmospheric influences, was in a mood at once captious and gloomy, -little disposed to take interest in anything—least of all in her -husband’s stable—on this uninviting morning, she was sitting, -discontented and unoccupied, in the little boudoir she had not yet -found heart to re-furnish, when the door opened suddenly and Geoffrey -appeared. He burst in, looking eager and happy. Like his old self, for -the time at least. - -“Oh, Marion,” he exclaimed, “do put on your hat and come round with me -for a moment to the stables. That new mare I bought last week has just -come. She is such a perfect beauty. Do come.” - -But Marion did not move, but sat there, her face turned from him, -affecting to warm her hands at the fire. Then she glanced at the door -which Geoffrey had left open, and said peevishly: - -“I wish you would remember that other people feel the cold if you don’t. -The draught along the passage makes this room almost uninhabitable. - -Geoffrey closed the door gently, with a ready apology for his -carelessness. Then he returned to the charge. - -“You will come out though, won’t you? I am really so anxious to show you -my new purchase. She is rather young to do much work this year, but -by another, she will be all I could wish. I really never saw a more -beautiful creature.” - -“I am glad you are pleased,” said Marion, coldly, “but you must excuse -my joining in the chorus of admiration which I have no doubt is going on -in the stable-yard. I should I only disappoint you, for I really could -not get up the proper amount of ecstasy.” - -Geoffrey’s face fell. - -“You used to take some interest in my horses, Marion,” he said, -deprecatingly. - -“Very possibly,” she replied, in a somewhat sneering tone. “Barley-sugar -isn’t a bad thing in its place. But as for living on it altogether, -that’s a different matter. Long ago I could afford to be amused by your -stable ‘fureur,’ now and then. But it never seem to occur to you that -it’s possible to have too much even of the charms of bay mares and -such-like! You must excuse my bad taste.” - -“I don’t understand you,” replied Geoffrey. “I cannot feel that -I deserve to be taunted with having bored you with anything that -interested me.” - -“I don’t suppose you do understand me,” she answered, in the same -contemptuous manner. “You made one grand mistake, for which we are both -suffering—that of imagining you ever could do so. Go back to your hones, -with whom, I can assure you, you have more in common than you could ever -have with me. Only do not, I beg of you, delude yourself with the idea -that a being who has the misfortune to possess something in the way of -mind and soul, is the right person to apply to for sympathy in the only -interests you seem capable of.” - -The extreme contempt, the insulting scorn of her words and manner stung -him to the quick. With a muttered expression of some kind, of which she -could not catch the words, he turned from her sharply, and for once -in his life slammed the door behind him violently, as, half mad with -misery, he rushed away from the sound of her cold, mocking words. - -When he had gone, Marion rose from her seat and sauntered to the window. -She stood there gazing out at the dreary garden, desolate and bare, save -for the leaves thickly strewing the paths and beds. Already her heart -was reproaching her for her cruelty; already her conscience was bitterly -accusing her. She had done very wrong; she knew, she owned it to -herself. But she could not feel responsible, even for her own misdeeds. - -“They are all a part of the whole,” she cried, “all a part of the -wretched, miserable whole.” - -She “could not help it!” “It was not in her nature to be good when she -was miserable.” “And I am no more to blame,” she thought, defiantly, -“for being wicked than a flower for not blooming without sunshine.” - -But does the poor flower resolutely turn from the light? Does it not -rather welcome eagerly each narrow ray that penetrates to its dark -dwelling, and with humble gratitude make the most of the sunshine -vouchsafed to it? - -Half-an-hour later Marion heard a clatter in the direction of the -stables, voices eager and excited—more clatter, the dogs barking. Then -the sound of a horse’s feet gradually sobering down into a steady pace, -as they were lost in the distance. Geoffrey had gone out riding. And on -the new mare, the footman told her, when she rang for coals, and made -some indirect enquiry. - -“Very handsome she is, ma’am,” added he, “but very awkward at starting. -My master had some trouble to get her out of the yard. She took fright -at a heap of bricks lying there for repairs. Perhaps you heard the -noise, ma’am?” - -“Yes,” said Marion, indifferently, “I thought I heard the dogs barking.” - -In her heart she felt rather uneasy. She wished she had gone out with -her husband to admire his favourite; she wished they had not separated -with such angry feelings; she wished he had not chosen to-day for trying -the new mare! - -She put on her hat, and, with a book in her hand, ensconced herself in -a sheltered nook, which after some difficulty she succeeded in finding. -Out of doors it felt less chilly than in the house, and gradually she -grew soothed and calm. She thought to herself she would stay out them -for some hours; the day was, after all, mild and pleasant, and the -perfect quiet would do her good. But her anticipations were doomed to be -disappointed. In less than an hour she heard from her retreat the sound -of approaching carriage-wheels, then ladies’ voices at the hall door; -and in a few minutes James appeared, breathless in hunting for her in -all her usual haunts. - -“The Misses Copley, if you please ma’am, in the drawing-room.” - -“Very well,” she replied, half provoked, and yet not altogether sorry -for the interruption, “I will be with them directly. The young ladies, -you said?” - -“Yes, ma’am, Miss Copley and Miss Georgie.” - -They were about the only people she ever cared to see. Really amiable -and affectionate; happy-hearted, and yet gentle, and perfectly -unacquainted with her previous history; with them she felt on safe -ground. They liked, and in a measure understood her. Their perceptions -were not of the quickest; they had no idea that all was not satisfactory -between her and Geoffrey, and her quiet manner did not to appear -either cold or proud, for they had known her since her first coming to -Mallingford, when there had been reason enough for her depression—and -so, as it were, they had grown accustomed to what struck strangers -as chilling and repellent. Besides, she liked them, and felt really -grateful for their consistent kindness. So of course they saw her to -advantage. - -This morning they were the bearers of an invitation—“We want you and -Geoffrey to come and dine with us to-day, and stay over to-morrow,” -began Georgie, eagerly; and then Margaret took up the strain— - -“Yes, you must come. I’ll tell you the great reason. Georgie’s ‘young -man’ is coming tonight, and we do so want you to see him. He has not -been here for some months; not since the time you were so ill. Then, -too, Papa has some draining on hand he wants Geoffrey’s opinion about. -You will come, won’t you?” - -“I should like it exceedingly,” said Marion, cordially; but as to -Geoffrey, I can’t say. He has gone out, and I don’t know when he will be -in.” - -“Of course,” exclaimed Georgie, stupid of us not to have told you. We -met him on our way—(by-the-by, what a beautiful mare that is he has got, -but what a vixen!)— and he said he would certainly come if you would. I -was to ask you to order his man to put up what clothes he will want, as -he said he would not return here, unless he hears at the Wood that you -are not coming. So it’s all right, isn’t it? Bring your habit, do; it’s -an age since we’ve had a ride together.” - -“I have not ridden for months,” said Marion. “Hardly since I was ill. -I don’t think I care about it, and I don’t think the horse Geoffrey -intended for me is in riding condition.” - -“You could ride one of ours,” suggested Margaret. But, “No, thank you,” -said Marion, resolutely. - -She agreed, however, to all the rest of their proposals, and in an -hour or two’s time found herself with her friends in their comfortable -carriage, bowling briskly along the high-road to Copley Wood, in far -better spirits than early that morning she would have believed she could -possibly attain to. - -Geoffrey met them at the hall door, and handed them out of the carriage. -Marion fancied he looked pale; though he began talking to her young -friends as brightly as usual. She felt grateful for their presence, as -otherwise their meeting after the scene in the morning could not but -have been uncomfortable for both. As it was, however, it was easy to -avoid any approach to a tête-à-tête. - -“I am glad you have come,” he said, rather stiffly. This was the only -approach to a reconciliation that took place between them. - -Then followed a hearty welcome from kindly, cheery Lady Anne and the old -Squire. It was impossible to resist altogether the genial influence of -the whole family, the pleasant atmosphere of goodwill and cordiality -pervading the dwelling. Yet even with this, there was mingled for Marion -much bitterness. - -“Why can’t I be happy and comfortable, like these kind, good people?” -she asked herself, as she stood by the bright fire in the pretty -morning-room, and, glancing round, took in all the details of the -pleasant, home-like scene. The old portraits on the walls, the bookcases -with their tempting contents, the furniture with a general air of warmth -and colour about it, though sobered down by time and use to the quiet -hue which in dull houses looks dingy, in cheerful ones comfortable. -The bits of work and newspapers lying about, the fresh, brightly-tinted -flowers on the table—the two pretty girls flitting about—all made an -attractive picture. Geoffrey seemed to enjoy the pleasant influence: he -lay back lazily in his chair, looking up laughingly in Georgie’s face -as she passed him, his gold-brown hair and contrasting charm-blue -“well-opened” eyes, contrasting charmingly with the little brunette’s -darker locks, and quick, sparkling glances. She was only a pretty girl, -little Georgie Copley, a merry, robin redbreast sort of a creature, who -by no imagination could be idealised into a beautiful or stately woman; -yet for one little moment Marion felt a passing pang of jealousy of the -happy child. - -“Why didn’t he marry her?” she thought to herself; “she would have -suited him, and in their commonplace way they would have been happy. I -am too old for him, as well as too everything else.” - -And with a slight shiver she turned round to the fire. She felt herself -like a skeleton at the feast, as her eyes caught the reflection of her -face in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Thin and pale and shadowy she -looked to herself, with large, unhappy-looking eyes, from which all the -lustre and richness seemed to have departed, closely bound round the -small, drooping head. “Showy,” in her best days, she never had been; nor -had she ever been inclined to do justice to her own personal charms. -“I am not ugly,” she had said to herself as a young girl, “but that is -about all there is to be said.” Now she would have hesitated to say even -as much. - -Some one else was watching her just then, as she stood quiet and apart -by the fire. Someone who she little thought was thinking of her at all. -Some one who, as he chattered merrily to Georgie, was hardly conscious -of any other presence than that of the slight, drooping figure at the -other end of the room, whose bitter sneering words of the morning -were already forgiven, and, if not forgotten, remembered only to add -intensity to his yearning tenderness of pity, his deep, enduring, -ill-requited love. - -Then came the announcement of luncheon, and a general move to the -well-covered table in the dining-room. - -During the meal, plans for the disposal of the remainder of the day were -discussed. - -“Captain Ferndale can’t be here much before dinner-time, Georgie,” said -her sister. “You don’t intend to stay in all the afternoon, I hope?” - -“Oh dear no,” replied the sensible little woman, “I intend to ride with -you and Geoffrey. Unless Mrs. Baldwin will change her mind, and ride -my horse instead of me. Will you, Marion?” And “Oh do,” added Margaret; -“I’m quite sure it would do you good. Do help us to persuade her, -Geoffrey. I am sure I have a habit that will fit you.” - -But Geoffrey only glanced at his wife, and, seeing the slight annoyance -in her face, said nothing. - -“Now, girls, don’t tease,” said Lady Anne, as notwithstanding Marion’s -evident disinclination to make one of the riding party, her young -friends still attempted to persuade her to change her mind. “You really -must let Mrs. Baldwin decide for herself.” And with these words she -rose and led the way back to the morning-room. Reluctantly Margaret and -Georgie gave up the endeavour and went to dress for riding. Geoffrey -strolled to the stables to give some directions respecting the saddling -of his beautiful “Coquette,” whose behaviour in the morning had decided -him that she would be none the worse for a little more exercise. - -“You’ll have some trouble to get her sobered down a bit, Sir,” said the -old coachman. “I’m a little afraid Miss Georgie’s ‘Prince’ will set -her off. Prince is fidgety like now and then, though he never does no -mischief when Miss Georgie’s riding him. But it wouldn’t take much to -upset this ’ere mare, Sir. She’s young and flighty, though handsome as a -pictur’.” - -“I’ll be careful, Jackson, no fear but what I’ll take it out of her,” -said Geoffrey. “If she’s tiresome beside the young ladies, I’ll give her -a gallop across country to settle her down.” - -Evidently some sedative of the kind was likely to be required! Coquette -showed the greatest reluctance to start in a becoming and ladylike -manner. True to her name she eyed Georgie’s Prince with evidently -mischievous intentions, and the very eccentric manner in which the -little party set out on their expedition was such as slightly to upset -even Lady Anne’s well seasoned nerves. - -Marion watched the departure from the window. She had not yet exchanged -a word with her husband since the painful scene of the morning; and very -unreasonably she felt inclined to be angry with him, for having, as -she thought, given her no opportunity of showing that she regretted the -unkindly and undignified temper to which she had given way. - -She felt somewhat uneasy as she watched the peculiar behaviour of the -new mare; but this feeling too she disguised from herself by turning it -in the direction of annoyance at Geoffrey. - -“It is exceedingly inconsiderate, indelicate almost of him,” she said to -herself, “to parade in this way his complete independence of any sort of -wifely anxiety. I believe he chooses these vicious creatures on purpose. -And of course if I made the slightest remonstrance he would turn on me -with taunts that I had no right to interfere, that to me his personal -safety must be a matter of utter indifference. Evidently he now -despises what, if he had acted differently, might still have been his—my -friendship and regard. But he really need not go out of his way to -exhibit to strangers the state of things between us.” And with a hard -look on her face, she turned to Lady Anne, who now entered the room. - - - - -CHAPTER V. A WIFELY WELCOME. - -“Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear, -Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.” - SHAKESPEARE. - - - -“I DON’T much like that horse your husband is riding to-day, my dear,” -said Lady Anne, as she sat down to her knitting beside the fire-place. -“It’s all very well young men riding these high-spirited animals, -breaking them in and so on, but Geoffrey is no longer a young man in -that sense of the word. His neck is no longer his own property. He has -you to think of and—and—I think you must scold him a little and make him -be more cautious.” - -“I fear I could do little good, my dear Lady Anne,” said Marion, as -lightly as she could. “You see bachelor habits are not so easily broken -through! It will take some time to teach Geoffrey the double value -attached to his neck.” - -“Ah well,” said the elder lady. “I suppose it would be rather hard on -a man to give up what has always been his great amusement. You may be -thankful, my dear, that rash riding is the worst ‘bachelor habit’ that -you will ever discover in your husband. Except perhaps smoking. Geoffrey -does smoke rather too much, I think. Don’t think me impertinent—though I -have no boys at home now, I take a great interest in young men, and for -years Geoffrey has been like one of our own. As to riding yourself you -are very wise to have given it up, my dear. The girls don’t understand, -you see. Of course, poor dears, it would not occur to them, or they -would not have teased you so. But you are very wise, my dear, very wise -indeed to run no risk—not that it might not perhaps do no harm, but it -is better not, much better,” she repeated, with sundry grandmotherly -nods expressive of the utmost sagacity. - -Marion looked up with extreme mystification. - -“I don’t quite understand you, Lady Anne,” she said. “I am not the least -nervous about riding, or afraid of its doing me harm in any way. Last -year it did me a great deal of good. It is only that just lately I -haven’t felt quite in spirits for it.” - -“Of course not, my dear. It is quite natural you should not feel so. You -must not mind me, my dear, but look upon me in the light of a mother. -If I can be of use to you in any way you must not hesitate to ask me. It -will be quite a pleasure in a year or two to see little people trotting -about the Manor Farm—it will brighten up the old place, and Geoffrey is -so fond of children.” - -Marion’s face flushed. Now she understood the good lady’s mysterious -allusions. Considerably annoyed, and yet anxious to conceal that she -felt so, she replied rather stiffly: “You are very kind, Lady Anne, but -I assure you you are quite mistaken. There is no reason of the kind for -my giving up riding.” - -Lady Anne looked incredulous, and before Marion felt sure that she had -succeeded in convincing her of the truth of what she had said, their -tête-à-tête was interrupted. - -But it had given a new turn to Marion’s thoughts. Never before in the -few unhappy months of her married life had it occurred to her to think -of the possibility of her at some future time occupying a new relation, -the sweetest, the tenderest of all—that of a mother. And to Geoffrey’s -children! Poor Geoffrey, he was “so fond of children,” Lady Anne said. -The few simple words softened her to him marvellously. She began to -wonder if such a tie might perhaps draw them together, if little arms -and innocent baby lips might have power to achieve what at present -seemed a hopeless task. Or was it already too late? She did not blame -him; in her gentle, womanly mood she blamed no one but herself. It -was her own doing; if indeed, as she feared, it was the case, that her -husband no longer loved her. These reflections engrossed her during -the quiet afternoon, which otherwise she might have found dull and -wearisome. She felt surprised when the servant appeared with afternoon -tea, and Lady Anne, waking from her peaceful slumber in her arm-chair, -began to remark how suddenly it had got dark, and to wonder why the -riding party had not yet returned. - -“Captain Ferndale will be arriving immediately,” she said, “and it will -look so awkward if Georgie is not at home.” - -Marion looked out. Dark, as yet, it was hardly, but dusk decidedly. -Much such an afternoon as the one on which, now more than a year ago, -Geoffrey had first ventured to tell her of his feelings towards her, -which confession she had so ungraciously received. - -“Why did I not keep to what I said then?” she asked herself. “How much -better for both of us had I done so! Poor Geoffrey, he thought me cruel -then, how much more reason has he to reproach me now!” - -She was recalled to the present by Lady Anne’s voice. - -“Do you see anything of them, my dear?” she asked. - -“No,” said Marion, listeningly. But almost as she spoke the faint, -far-off clatter of approaching horses’ feet became audible. “There they -are,” she exclaimed, and a certain feeling of welcome stole into her -heart. Somehow she felt anxious to be “good” to Geoffrey; to make up to -him, for the morning’s hard, sneering words. With which wish she ran -out into the hall to receive her husband and the two girls. They were -dismounting as she reached the door. Outside it looked foggy and chilly. -She could not clearly distinguish either horses or riders. - -“You are rather late,” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it very cold? How has -Coquette been behaving?” - -It was Georgie’s voice that replied. - -“Oh, is that you, Marion? We’ve had such a gallop home. The fog came on -so suddenly. Geoffrey is back, of course?” - -“Geoffrey!” said Marion in surprise. “Why should he be back before you? -No, he has not come. I was asking you how his new purchase had been -behaving.” - -“She’s a vixen,” replied Georgie; if I were a gentleman I would call her -something worse. Prince and she teazed each other so, that we separated. -Geoffrey said he would come home by the fields and take it out of her. -We came home by the road; but it is ever so long ago since we separated, -and he said he would be home long before us. What can he be about?” - -A strange sensation crept over Marion. Hardly anxiety, hardly -apprehension. Rather a sort of standing still of her whole being with -sudden awe, sudden terror of what for the first time darted into her -imagination as the possible end of the whole, the solution of the -problem of her life-mistake. Like a picture she saw it all before her as -if by magic. There been an accident; Geoffrey was killed! She, his wife -no longer, but freed by this awful cutting of the knot from the bonds -which had galled her so sorely, against which she had murmured so -ceaselessly. But was it a feeling of relief which accompanied the -vision, which for the moment she believed to be prophetic? Was it not -rather a sensation compared to which all her past sufferings seemed -trivial and childish—a draught of that bitterest of cups of which it -is given to us poor mortals to drink, unavailing, “too late,” -self-reproach? If Geoffrey were dead, it seemed to her, his wife, -standing there and remembering all, that she and she alone, had killed -him. She said not a word. In perfect silence she watched Margaret and -Georgie gather up their long muddy skirts and hasten across the hall, -peeping in as they passed the open door of the morning-room to reassure -their mother’s anxiety. She followed them mechanically; heard, as if in -a dream, Lady Anne’s exclamations of concern on hearing that Mr. Baldwin -was not with them; and while the good lady trotted off to share -her motherly uneasiness with the Squire, at this time of day always -ensconced in his private den, Marion crept upstairs to the room in which -but a few hours before she had carelessly thrown off her hat and hurried -below to risk no chance of a tête-à-tête with her husband! Her evening -dress lay on the bed—through the open door into the dressing-room -she saw by the firelight Geoffrey’s as yet unopened portmanteau. She -shuddered as it caught her eye. Would he ever open it again? Would she -ever again hear his voice, see his stalwart figure and fair sunny face? -Or how might she not see him? Would they bring him home pale and stiff, -stretched out in that long, dreadful way she had once or twice in her -London life seen a something that had been a man, carried by to the -hospital after some fatal accident? Or, worse still, would his fair hair -perhaps be dabbled with blood, his blue eyes distorted with agony, his -beautiful face all crushed and disfigured? - -Ah! It was too horrible. - -“Forgive me, dear Geoffrey, forgive me,” she said in her remorse, as if -her words could reach him. “Oh, God, forgive me for my wickedness, and -do not punish me so fearfully. For how can I live, how endure the light -of day with the remembrance of what I have done?” - -Crouched by the fire, she remained thus for some time. Then hearing a -slight bustle down-stairs in the hall, she rose and went out into the -vestibule, looking over the staircase to see what was taking place -below. It was an arrival, but not Geoffrey. Captain Ferndale evidently. -She saw little Georgie fly across the hall, followed more deliberately -by Margaret and her mother. - -How happy they all seemed! Had they forgotten all about her, and -Geoffrey, out in the fog, alive or dead, nobody seemed to care! But -she wronged them. Captain Ferndale was hardly welcomed, before they all -began telling him of their anxiety. - -“Papa has sent out men in all directions,” said Georgie, “I am perfectly -certain something must have happened. The horse he was on is a most -vicious creature. I was frightened out of my wits when he was riding -beside me, though of course I didn’t say so to poor Marion, Mrs. -Baldwin, you know, Fred. By-the-by, Maggie, where is she?” - -“In her room, I think,” said Margaret. “I’ll go and see. We have put -back dinner half-an-hour in hopes Geoffrey may come back safe and sound -by then. But I confess I am very uneasy.” - -Marion stole back to her room, and was sitting there quietly when in a -minute or two Margaret joined her. - -“Geoffrey has not come in yet,” said the girl cheerfully as she entered, -“but we are not surprised. It is so foggy, Fred. Ferndale says he had -hard work to get here from the station.” - -Marion did not answer. Margaret put her arm round her affectionately; -but Marion shrank back, and Margaret felt a little chilled. - -“You are not uneasy, Mrs. Baldwin?” she said kindly, but a little more -stiffly than her wont. “You know your husband is so perfectly to be -depended on as a rider. He is sure to be all right.” - -Marion looked up at her appealingly. - -“Don’t think me cross or cold, Margaret, and don’t call me Mrs. Baldwin. -I am very unhappy.” - -The expression was a curious one. “Very uneasy;” “dreadfully alarmed,” -or some such phrase, would have seemed more suited to the circumstances. -Margaret Copley felt puzzled. After all there was something very -peculiar about Marion Baldwin; she could not make her out. There she -sat staring into the fire, pale but perfectly calm. Not a tear, not a -symptom of nervousness; only saying in that quiet, deliberate way that -she was “very unhappy.” Margaret was too young, too inexperienced, and -too practically ignorant of sorrow to detect the undertone of anguish, -of bitter, remorseful misery in the few cold words—“I am very unhappy.” - -Marion said no more, and Margaret did not disturb her. At last the -dinner gong sounded. Marion started: she had not changed her dress. - -“Never mind,” said Margaret, “come down as you are. Unless you would -prefer staying up here.” - -“Oh, no,” said Marion, “I shall dress very quickly. I shall be ready in -five minutes.” - -She had a morbid horror of appearing affected or exaggerated; and an -instinctive determination to keep her feelings to herself. Naturally, -she made the mistake of overdoing her part. - -She dressed quickly, went downstairs and sat through the long, weary -dinner; to all appearance the calmest and least uneasy of the party. One -after another of the grooms and gardeners, despatched with lanterns -in various directions to seek the truant, returned after a fruitless -search. - -The Squire grew more and more fidgety. Lady Anne was all but in -tears—Margaret and Georgie unable to eat any dinner. Marion seemed to -herself to be standing on the edge of a fearful precipice, down which -she dared not look; but she said nothing, and no stranger entering the -company would have imagined that she, of all the party, was the one most -chiefly concerned in the fate of Geoffrey Baldwin. - -Dinner over, the ladies mechanically adjourned as usual to the -drawing-room. Lady Anne and Margaret sat together by the fire, talking -in a low voice. Marion stayed near them for a moment, but Lady Anne’s -sort of sick-room tone and half-pitying glances in her direction, -irritated her. So she got a book, and seated herself by a little -reading-table in the further corner of the room. Georgie ran in and out: -every five minutes braving the cold and fog at the hall-door to peep out -to see, or hear rather, “if any one was coming,” like sister Anne in the -grim old story. - -For more than half-an-hour they sat thus in almost unbroken silence. The -Squire and Captain Ferndale, with the usual manly horror of an impending -“scene,” lingered longer than usual in the dining-room. - -Suddenly Georgie darting back from one of her voyages of discovery to -the hall-door, flew into the drawing-room exclaiming excitedly. - -“Mamma, Maggie, I hear a horse!” - -In an instant they all jumped up, and followed her into the hall. -The door was wide open, the horse’s feet were heard plainly, steadily -approaching, nearer and nearer. - -Marion remained in the drawing-room, only creeping close to the doorway, -whence she could both hear and see all that took place. - -“I do hope it is all right,” said Lady Anne, earnestly. “Girls, Fred,” -(for by this time the gentlemen had joined them,) “do you think it is -he?” - -How could they tell, poor people? They only strained their eyes, vainly -endeavouring to pierce the darkness, thick enough, as the country folks -say, to be cut with a knife. A few servants’ heads appeared at the doors -leading to the back regions; without which, of course, no domestic event -can take place with correct decorum. The scene was really an effective -one! The horse’s feet coming nearer and, nearer, the little group in the -old oak-wainscoted hall, the pale face of the poor girl peeping out -from the drawing-room doorway, thinking and feeling so much that none of -those about her had the slightest conception of! What was to be the end -of it? What was she about to hear? Five minutes more suspense, it seemed -to her she could not have endured. - -There is but a step, according to a well-known adage, between the -sublime and the ridiculous. Thus almost could Marion have expressed her -feelings, when, as at last the horse drew near enough, for the rider to -distinguish the anxious faces at the door, a voice out of the darkness -reached them. It was Geoffrey’s. Loud and cheery it sounded. - -“Here I am, safe and sound! A nice adventure I’ve had. Imagine me, -Brentshire born and bred, having lost my way in this horrible fog.” - -“Oh, I am so glad you’re all right,” cried Georgie, clapping her hands. - -And “We’ve been so frightened about you,” chimed in Margaret and her -mother. - -The Squire too, and Captain Ferndale were most hearty in their -congratulations. Likewise several members of the servants’ hall, and a -few grooms and stable-boys who started up as if by magic, to lead away -the naughty Coquette who stood there in the fog humble and subdued -enough, with but small traces of the mischievous spirit which had -distinguished her departure some seven hours previously. - -For the moment Mr. Baldwin was made quite a hero of, as he stood in the -midst of the group, damp and muddy, but his fair face flushed and eager, -as he related all that had fallen him and the beauty that had led -him such a dance. Everyone was intensely relieved at the comfortably -commonplace end to the adventure which had caused so much anxiety: -everyone was most sincere and hearty in their congratulations. All but -one. The voice which alone he cared to hear was silent. He looked round -eagerly and enquiringly. - -“My wife, Marion,” he said, “is still here? I had better go to tell her -I am all right.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Margaret, rather awkwardly, “I will go and tell her; but -we have not let her know how uneasy we have been. She has not therefore -been alarmed.” - -“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. But on his heart the girl’s words fell with -a strange chill. “She had not been alarmed,” this wife of his. It had -been then so easy to prevent her feeling anxiety about him, that even -this girl, a stranger almost to her, felt instinctively that the extreme -coolness of the young wife at such a time, called loudly for some sort -of excuse, some palliation of what to those about her had evidently -looked very like utter heartlessness and indifference to his fate. - -“If only they knew the whole,” he said to himself, “they would not -wonder at her unnatural behaviour. ‘Alarmed’ about me! No indeed! The -saddest sight that can meet her eyes will be my returning alive and -well.” And with this bitterness in his heart, he followed Margaret to -the drawing-room in quest of Marion. - -What evil spirit of pride and unlovely perversity had been whispering to -her? And why, oh! why had she listened to its voice, wilfully stifling -the pleadings of her gentle woman’s heart, and deliberately destroying -what might have been the happy, softening influences of the day’s -occurrences? Much doubtless of the miserable state of things between -these two, bound together by the closest, most sacred of ties, -they—she—was not to be blamed for. “Circumstances”—the only name we, in -our ignorance, can find for the mysterious combinations which destroy -the lives of so many—“circumstances” in great part, were the scape-goat -in the case of the great mistake of Marion’s life. She had meant to -do right, poor child, and had tried her best to execute her intention. -Terrible mistakes we are all apt to make, the wisest of us perhaps more -than the humbler and less confident. But for such, though the temporal -punishment is often disproportionately heavy, in higher tribunals we are -leniently judged. Not so with deliberate acts of cruelty and unkindness -to each other, such as Marion Baldwin was this evening guilty of. - -She knew what she was about; she knew, though possibly she would -not have owned it to herself, that she wished to wound Geoffrey, -deliberately meant and intended to punish for some offence towards -herself which she would have found it difficult to define, the heart -whose only blame, if blame it were, was its too great devotion to her. - -She was angry with herself for having been frightened about him, -mortified, though yet her relief was real, at the matter-of-fact -conclusion of what she had been picturing to herself as a crisis in her -fate. So, after the manner of people when angry with themselves, she did -her best to make another as unhappy as herself. - -When Geoffrey entered the drawing-room, and Margaret Copley with -instinctive delicacy withdrew, he did not at first perceive that his -wife was present. In another moment, however, he caught sight of -her, seated at the little table in the furthest corner of the room, -apparently engrossed in a book. His heart throbbed with disappointment, -wounded feeling, and even some mixture of indignation; but he controlled -himself, and determined to give her a chance. - -“Marion,” he said, “I am going to take off my wet things, but I have -just looked in to tell you I am all right. You heard me come just now, -I suppose? Lady Anne and all the others were at the door to meet me. -I’m afraid I have given you all a very uncomfortable evening, but it was -Coquette’s fault, not mine. However, all’s well that ends well, and I -flatter myself the beauty has had a lesson that she won’t forget in a -hurry.” - -He went on speaking in a half nervous manner, for Marion did not appear -at first to hear him. When he left off she raised her eyes from her -book, and said, in the provokingly indifferent, half-awake tone of a -person still engrossed in the pages from which the attention is hardly -withdrawn: - -“I beg your pardon, Geoffrey. I did not hear you come into the room. Was -it I you were speaking to? Yes, I heard your horse come up to the door. -What a fuss Lady Anne gets into for nothing at all! Hadn’t you better go -and change your things?” - -And without giving him time to reply, her eyes were again bent on her -book. Geoffrey looked at her for a moment without speaking. She felt his -gaze fixed on her, she felt, though he could not see, the expression of -his face. Almost she felt inclined to spring up and run towards him to -ask his forgiveness, to tell him of the anxiety she had endured, the -genuine relief she had experienced when she heard of his safe return. - -“But he would not believe you,” whispered the evil spirit she had been -listening to. “Why lower yourself thus unnecessarily to one who no -longer cares for you?” - -And Marion gave heed to the specious suggestion, and the opportunity -faded away into the mournful crowd of things that might have been—good -deeds never done, loving words never spoken. - -The remainder of their visit at Copley Wood passed quietly and -uneventfully, but Marion was glad when it came to an end. She felt that -she had fallen back in her friends’ good opinion; evidently they too -thought her heartless and disagreeable, cold and selfish, reserved to an -unwomanly degree. - -All these epithets she piled on herself. In reality, the Copleys, -Margaret especially, thought of her much more kindly than she imagined. -They did not, could not, indeed, understand her; few things are more -hopeless than any approach to mutual comprehension between the happy -and the miserable. The happy, that is to say in the sense in which these -inexperienced girls may be called so, happy in utter unconsciousness -of the reverse of the picture, thoughtless in the innocent war in which -birds and lambs and flowers are thoughtless. But still they were gentle -judging, and what in Marion’s character and behaviour they could not -understand, they pitied and treated tenderly. - -The depth of feeling in the few words Geoffrey’s wife had addressed -to Margaret that evening by the fire, “I am very unhappy,” rang in the -young girl’s ears, and emboldened her to speak kindly in her defence, -when, as was often the case (for in country society people must talk -about their neighbours or else be altogether silent), young Mrs. -Baldwin’s peculiarities were discussed, and that, not in the most -amiable of terms. - -From this time Geoffrey and his wife lived yet more independently of -each other than before. One improvement took place in their relations; -though after all I hardly know that it merits to be thus described. -There was an end henceforth of all stormy scenes between them. So -much Marion had resolved upon; coldness and mutual indifference were -evidently to be the order of their lives. Let it be so, she decided, it -was to the full as much Geoffrey’s doing as hers. But at least she would -show herself his equal in the tacit compact: she would not again lower -herself by losing her temper and condescending to such aggressive -weapons as sarcasm or recrimination. To the letter of the law, she -determined in her pride, she would do her duty by him, so that in -after days come what might, she need never reproach herself with any -short-coming on her side; and Geoffrey for his part, if she should be -so fortunate as die and leave him free to choose a more congenial -help-meet, might at least remember her with respect, if with no warmer -feeling. Foolish, presumptuous child! In the terrible “too late” days—of -which the slight experience she had had the evening of Geoffrey’s -misadventure in the fog had profited her so little—in those days “the -letter of the law,” fulfilled as no fallible mortal yet fulfilled it, -would bring with its remembrance sorry comfort. Very “husks that the -swine do eat,” nay worse, mocking, gibbering fiends to torment us, -are in those days the memories of “duties,” proudly and perfectly but -unlovingly performed; acts of obedience, submission, self-denial even, -however outwardly flaw-less, without the spirit which alone gives them -value. - -Doubtless we all fall short in our relations taken to each other. Never -yet was the coffin lid closed on the dead face of a human being, but -what in the hearts of those who had taken their last look, pressed their -last kiss on the pale forehead—it might be the smooth, fair brow of a -child, it might be the withered, furrowed face of a world-weary man or -woman—there rose reproachful, sad-eyed ghosts of things they might have -done for the dead, or, more grievous still, others they would now give -much to have left undone. - -But it is not at such times the thought of sharp, hasty words repented -of as soon as spoken, or of unkind deeds done in the heat of passion and -in saner moments atoned for with all the earnestness we can command; it -is not the recollection of such things as these that stings us the most -deeply. Far more terrible and overwhelming, when we gaze on the dead -face in its silent reproach, is the memory of deliberate unkindness—the -long course of studied, repellent coldness; wrongs fancied or real, -cherished and brooded over instead of forgiven and forgotten; duties -even, performed, while yet love was withheld. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. A CRISIS. - -“I will be quiet and talk with you, - And reason why you are wrong: - You wanted my love—is that much true? - And no I did love, so I do: - What has come of it all along.” - R. BROWNING. - - - -SO time went on, as it always does, through weal and woe, bright days -and dull. But this winter was weary work to Marion Baldwin. Worse, far -worse to bear, she constantly said to herself, than the previous one, -spent Mallingford at the Cross House. Then at least, though she had -much to endure, she had been free from the reproaches of her conscience, -which now, for all her endeavours to silence it, would yet at times -insist on being heard. Geoffrey, though she saw him but seldom in the -day, constantly haunted her thoughts. She fancied she perceived a change -in him. His manner was the same—perfectly gentle: but never more. But -the sorrow of his life was beginning to tell on him physically. He was -fast losing heart altogether, as day by day he became more convinced of -the hopelessness of ever attempting to win back the wife, who indeed had -never been his! Yet she was gentler, more cordial even than she had -been to him; always ready to agree to his wishes, much less irritable, -anxious evidently to do her “duty” by him. She thought sincerely enough, -that he was wearied of her, that it was too late to convince him that -in her loneliness she was fast learning to prize the love and devotion -which when hers, she had so rudely repulsed. For she was truly very -desolate at this time. She was pining for affection, yearning for -companionship. - -The remembrance of Ralph was growing to be to her as the memory of the -dead, soft and chastened; shrined about with a sacredness of its own, -but no longer agonizing and acute. She had grown so thoroughly to -realize that she should never see him again, that he was utterly and for -ever cut out of her life, that the inward strife and rebellion were at -an end. She bowed her head in submission, standing by the grave of her -lost love, and in heart said a last, voluntary farewell to the beautiful -dream of her girlhood. She could never forget him, or in any sense -replace him by another. He was still, and for ever must remain, a part -of herself, of her whole existence. An impalpable, an indefinable and -wholly immaterial bond yet, at times, seemed to rivet her spirit to his; -and never was she so at peace as when she felt most conscious of this -still existing sympathy. A consciousness altogether superior to the -limitations of time or space—which the tidings of his death would in no -wise have affected—a certainty that the noblest part of their natures -was still and ever would be united, that, in the purest and most -exquisite sense, he still loved her, still cared for her well being. - -It was to her precisely as if he had long been dead; his own words had -foreshadowed this, “as if one of us were dying, Marion.” - -To some extent he had foreseen how it would be with her—that to her -sensitive, imaginative nature, his thus dying to her, fading softly out -of her life, was the gentlest form in which the stroke could come. For -she was not the sort of woman, “strong-minded, “philosophical,” call it -what you will, who could ever have come to look upon him personally -as only a friend, to have associated with him in a comfortable “let -bygones-be-bygones” fashion, possibly to have attained to a sisterly -regard for his wife, in no wise diminished by the gratifying reflection -that “though really she is a nice creature, my dear, Lady Severn was not -Sir Ralph’s first love.” - -Ralph had foreseen more. Her nature, though well-balanced and far from -weakly, was too clinging, too love-demanding, not, in time, to turn in -its outward loneliness and desolation, to the shelter and support (if, -indeed, Geoffrey’s countenance did not belie his character) only too -ready to welcome it. So much Ralph had read, and correctly enough, of -the probable future; and, therefore, as we have seen, even amidst his -own supremest suffering, had ventured to predict “a moonlight happiness” -for his darling. - -But he had not foreseen—how could he have done so?—the side influences, -the disturbing elements in the way. Marion’s physical prostration at the -time, which had rendered it much harder for her to act with her -usual unselfishness and self-control; her monotonous, uninteresting, -unoccupied life at the Manor Farm, where, partly through circumstances, -partly through Geoffrey’s mistaken kindness in sparing her every species -of care or responsibility, all tended to foster her morbid clinging to -the past, nothing drew her to healthy interest in the present. Above -all, Ralph had by no means taken sufficiently into account Geoffrey’s -personal share in the whole. He had thought of him as a fine, honest -fellow, devoted in his way to his wife; ready, as she herself had said -in other words, to do anything for her happiness. True, he had had -misgivings as to the effect of Marion’s extending her confidence to -her husband, he had thought it was only too probable that her doing so -might, for a time at least, have unhappy results. But he had by no means -felt certain that she would feel it her duty to tell more than she had -already, before her marriage, confided to him. And even in the event of -her doing so, he had not realized the manner in which it would act -on the young man’s nature. Few, indeed, even of those most intimately -acquainted with Geoffrey Baldwin could have done so. These sunny, -gleeful natures are often to the full as grievously misunderstood as -their less attractive, graver and apparently more reserved neighbours. -Oh what fools we are in our superficial, presumptuous judgments of each -other! May not the sunlight dance on the surface of the stream without -our forthwith pronouncing its waters shallow? Is there not latent in the -blackest, coldest iron a vast power of heat and light? - -Miss Veronica was absent from Mallingford the greater part of this -winter. Her general health had been less satisfactory of late, and, -after much consideration, it had been decided that the coldest months -must be spent by her in a milder climate. In a sense, her absence was -a relief to both her friends. It was becoming hard work to attempt to -deceive her as to the true state of things at the Manor Farm: her loving -scrutiny was more painful to Marion than the cold formality of the -generality of her acquaintances; more unendurable the thought of her -distress and anxiety than even the consciousness of the gossiping -curiosity with which the young wife felt instinctively she was elsewhere -discussed. - -Yet she murmured, sometimes, not a little at this separation from the -only friend she could really rely on: but then, in these days, Marion -Baldwin murmured, inwardly at least, at everything in her life. There -were times when she felt so desperate with ennui and heart-sick at what -she believed to be her husband’s ever-growing indifference to her, that -she said to herself, if only Veronica were attainable she would break -through her reserve and tell her all. Most probably, had the resolution -been possible to execute, she would have changed her mind before she was -half way to Miss Temple’s cottage! - -One day at luncheon Geoffrey, to her surprise, told her a gentleman was -coming to dinner. She felt considerably amazed and a little indignant. -It was not often any guest joined them—“entertaining,” to any extent, -not being expected of a young couple in the first months of their -married life, and the couple in question being only too ready to avail -themselves of the conventional excuse as long as they could with -decency do so—and the few times on which their tête-à-tête meal had been -interrupted, Geoffrey had given her plenty of notice, had even seemed -to make a favour on her side of her receiving any friend of his. To-day, -however, he did nothing of the sort. Hence her indignation at what she -imagined to be a new proof of neglect and indifference. - -In a somewhat abrupt manner he made his unexpected announcement. True to -her determination, that on her side there should be no shortcoming, she -answered quietly enough though at heart by no means as unmoved as she -appeared: - -“Very well. I suppose you have told Mrs. Parker. Do you wish me to be at -dinner?” - -He looked up, slightly surprised. Then answered rather shortly, as had -of late become a habit with him. “Of course. Why not? I never thought of -your not being at dinner.” - -“Very well,” she replied again; but added, rather stiffly—“In this case, -perhaps you will tell me the gentleman’s name. It might be awkward for -me not to have heard it.” - -All this time Geoffrey’s attention had been greatly engrossed by several -letters, printed reports, &c., which he had been reading as he eat his -luncheon. For a minute or two he made no reply, seemed not to have heard -her question; a trifling neglect, which Marion in her present frame of -mind found peculiarly irritating. She sat perfectly still, but no answer -being apparently forthcoming, she, having finished her luncheon, rose -quietly to leave the room, and had the door-handle in her hand before -Geoffrey noticed that she had left the table. The noise of the door -opening roused him. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said, hastily starting up. “You spoke to me. -It was very rude of me, but I did not pay attention to what you said. -Please tell me what it was.” - -“It was of no consequence, thank you,” replied Marion, coldly, as she -swept past him and crossed the hall to the drawing-room. - -This was how, silly child, she performed her wifely part to the very -letter of the law! - -But Geoffrey followed her, after delaying a few moments to collect the -papers in which he had been so absorbed, and carry them for safety to -his private den. This was at the other side of the house, so two or -three minutes passed before he gently opened the drawing-room door, -intending to apologise still more earnestly to his wife for his -inattention. Marion was sitting on the rug before the fire; for, though -it was now early spring, it was very chilly; her face he could not at -first see, it was hidden by her hands. But the slight noise he made on -coming in disturbed her. She looked up hastily, with rather an angry -light in her eyes, imagining it was the servant entering, with the -everlasting excuse of “looking at the fire,” and feeling annoyed at the -intrusion. But when she saw it was her husband her expression changed, -and without speaking she quickly turned her face aside. Not so quickly, -though, but what Geoffrey perceived what she wished to conceal--she was -crying. It was the first time since their marriage he had seen her shed -tears. (What different tales that simple little sentence may tell!) It -smote him to the heart. With da sudden impulse he approached her, and -stooped down, gently laying his hand on her shoulder: “My poor child,” -he said, with all the tenderness in his voice that the words could -contain, “forgive me. You have enough to bear without my boorishness -wounding you so unnecessarily.” - -Her tears fell faster, but she did not shrink from his touch. She felt -ashamed of her petulance and childishness. “It is not that,” she said at -last, trying to repress her sobs. - -“Not my rudeness that has vexed you so?” asked Geoffrey, gently, but -feeling already a slight, premonitory chill. - -“No, you must not think me so silly,” she replied. “It is” —and she -hesitated. - -“What?” he persisted. - -“Oh, I don’t know—I can’t tell you,” she exclaimed, passionately. “It is -not any one thing. It is just everything.” - -“Oh,” said Geoffrey, with a whole world of mingled feeling in his -voice. “Ah! I feared so. Poor child,” he said again, but with more of -bitterness than tenderness this time. “Even my pity I suppose would be -odious to you otherwise I might be fool enough to show you how genuine -it is. But it is better not.” And he was turning away, when her voice -recalled him. - -“No, no,” she cried, “Geoffrey, don’t be so hard. Think how very lonely -I am, how friendless! However I may have tried you, however you may -think I have deceived you, surely my utter loneliness and wretchedness -should soften you to me. I don’t want your pity. I want what now it is -too late to ask for—I know it is too late. I know that you would hate -me, only you are good, and so you don’t. But I can’t bear you to speak -so hardly and bitterly.” - -Her sobs broke out more wildly. Every word she had uttered was a fresh -stab to Geoffrey, interpreted by him as it was. But he controlled -his own feelings and spoke very gently to the poor child in her sore -distress. - -“Forgive me if what I said sounded hard and hitter, Marion. Heaven knows -I am far from ever intending to hurt you. It is, as you say, too late to -undo what is done; but do not make things worse by fancying I would ever -intentionally add by even a word to all you suffer. Do me justice at -least. So much, I think, I have a right to expect.” - -His words were gentle but cold. Marion’s sobs grew quiet and her tears -ceased. She was hurt, but her pride forbade her to show it except by -silence. - -In a moment Geoffrey spoke again, in a different tone. - -“You were asking me, I think,” he said, “the name of the gentleman who -is coming to dine here. I should have told you before, but I did not -know it myself till an hour or two ago when I met him accidentally in -Mallingford. It is Mr. Wrexham, my father’s successor in the bank. You -remember my telling you about him, perhaps? Very wealthy they say he is. -What he cares to be a banker for passes my comprehension.” - -“He has never been here before?” asked Marion. - -“In this house? No; and I would not have asked him now, for I don’t like -the man, but that I want to have some talk with him. I have called a -dozen times at the bank in the last week or two, but have never found -him in. So when I met him to-day and he began apologising, I cut -him short by asking him to dinner, and saying we could talk over our -business after. It seemed to me he did not want to come, but he had no -excuse ready. I can’t make him out.” - -“But you are no longer a partner in the bank, are you?” asked Marion. - -“In a sort of a way I am still,” said Geoffrey, “that is just what I -want to see Mr. Wrexham about. Through your other guardian, Mr. Framley -Vere, I have heard of a very good investment, both for your money—yours -and Harry’s, I mean—and part of my own. So I want to see about -withdrawing some of my capital from the old bank. I have a right to do -so at any time, with proper notice and so on. Last year Wrexham urged my -doing so very much. Just then it was not very convenient, but now that -I wish to do it, there seems some difficulty which I can’t make out. -I have never got hold of Wrexham himself, so you understand why I am -anxious to see him. To all intents and purposes he is the head of the -concern now.” - -“Why don’t you like him?” said Marion. - -“I don’t know,” said Geoffrey. “My reasons for disliking him would sound -very silly if I put them in words, and yet to myself they don’t seem so. -He is oily, and too ready, too business-like.” - -Marion half laughed. - -“Surely that is a queer fault to find with a business man,” she said. - -“Yes, I know it is,” said Geoffrey, “but—” - -The sentence was never completed. A ring at the bell made Mrs. Baldwin -take flight in terror lest it should be the announcement of visitors, -whom, with the evident traces of recent tears on her face, she felt -anything but prepared to meet. She need not, have been afraid. It was -only Squire Copley who had walked over to discuss drains with Geoffrey, -so she was left undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon. - -She felt brighter and happier. The little conversation with Geoffrey, -confined thought it had been almost entirely to business matters, had -yet done her good, taken her a little out of herself, given her a -not unpleasant feeling that notwithstanding all that had occurred to -separate them, they had yet, must have, husband and wife as they were, -some interest in common, some ground on which from time to time they -were likely to meet. - -“And any,” thought she, “is better than none, even though it be only the -unromantic one of money matters.” - -Geoffrey’s tone at the commencement of their conversation had somewhat -puzzled her. Transparent as she imagined him, she was beginning to find -him sometimes difficult to read. If he were tired of her, worn out by -her coldness and moodiness, as she had begun to fancy, could he, would -he not be more than human to address her with the intense tenderness -which this afternoon had breathed through his whole words and manner? On -the other hand, was it not more than could be expected of any man, save -an exceptionally deep and adhesive character (“Such as Ralph’s, for -instance,” she said to herself,) that through all that had happened, all -the bitter disappointment and mortification, he should yet continue to -care for, to love such a wife, or rather no wife, as she been to him? He -had echoed, without, she fancied, fully comprehending her own words, “it -is too late.” Was it too late? Or could it be that even yet, even now, -in what she felt to be in a figurative sense, the autumn of her life, -there was rising before her a possibility such as she had been indignant -with brave, unselfish Ralph for predicting, nay, urging on her, a -possibility of happiness, chastened and tempered, but none the less real -on this account, for herself and for the man to whom she was bound by -the closest and most sacred of ties? And of better than happiness—of -harmony and meaning in her life, of living rather than mere enduring of -existence, of duties to do and suffering to bear, both sanctified and -rendered beautiful by love. Could it be that such things were yet -in store for her? She could hardly believe it. Yet as she remembered -Geoffrey’s look and voice, her heart yearned within her, and the tears -again welled up to her eyes, but softly, and without bitterness or -burning. All that afternoon till it grew dark she sat by the fire in her -room—thinking and hoping as she had not been able to do for long. - -Though pale and wearied looking, there was a gentle light and brightness -about her that evening very pleasant for Geoffrey to see. It reminded -him of the days when he first knew her—still more of the first days of -their married life. And though the remembrance brought with it a sigh, -it too was less bitter than tender; and his voice was very gentle that -evening when he had occasion to speak to his young wife. - -Mr. Wrexham duly made his appearance. Marion’s first impression of him -was unfavourable. She felt quite ready to echo Geoffrey’s indefinite -expressions of dislike. But later in the evening she somewhat modified -her first opinion. He was so clever and amusing, so thoroughly “up” in -all the subjects of the day, from the last novel to yesterday’s debate, -that she felt really interested and refreshed by his conversation. It -was more the sort of talk she had been accustomed to in her father’s -house, and which, as far as her experience went, was by no means -indigenous to Brentshire, where the men’s ideas seldom extended beyond -fox-hunting and “birds,” varied occasionally by a dip into drains and -such like farmers’ interests; and where the still narrower minds of the -women rotated among servants and babies, descriptions at second or third -hand of the probable fashions, and gossip not unfrequently verging on -something very like downright scandal. - -Mr. Wrexham seemed at home on every subject and in every direction. -Certainly his personal appearance was against him, and the fact that in -five minutes’ time it ceased to impress his companions disagreeably, in -itself says a good deal for his cleverness and tact. He was middle-sized -and fat—not stout, fat—loose, and somewhat flabby. A large head, with -a bare, bald forehead such as many people take as a guarantee of brains -and benevolence, small twinkling eyes, a preponderance of jaw and mouth, -and a pair of fat, white, and yet determined looking hands—all these do -not make up an attractive whole. But he talked away his own ugliness, -and talked himself, with that round, full voice of his, into his young -hostess’s good graces in a really wonderful way. He did not flatter -her; he was far too clever to make such a mistake. He appealed to -her knowledge of the subjects they were conversing about in a -matter-of-course way far more insidiously gratifying to a sensible and -intellectual woman. Once or twice, as if inadvertently, he alluded to -her father, the loss the country had sustained in his premature death, -the immense veneration he, Mr. Wrexham, had always felt for him, though -not personally acquainted with the great man, and so on, so delicately -and judiciously, that Marion’s dislike was perfectly overcome, and -she mentally resolved never again to trust to first impressions. After -dinner, as she expected, the gentlemen sat long in the dining-room. She -was growing tired and sleepy when they joined her. Geoffrey’s face, she -was glad to see, looked brighter and less anxious than it had appeared -during dinner. Mr. Wrexham had evidently the faculty of talking business -as pleasantly as everything else, for his host’s manner to him had -decidedly increased in cordiality. - -“We were just talking of Miss Temple in the other room,” began Mr. -Wrexham. “I am delighted to find how intimate a friend of yours she is, -Mrs. Baldwin. A charming, really charming person she must be. By-the-by, -how terribly abused that word often is! I have not the pleasure of -knowing her personally, but her books make one feel as if she were a -personal friend.” - -“Her books!” repeated Marion, in surprise. “Miss Temple’s books! I never -knew she had written any. Did you, Geoffrey?” - -“Oh yes,” said he, “it was ever so long ago she wrote them. I believe -they’re out of print now.” - -“How could you be so stupid as never to tell me before?” said Marion, -playfully. Geoffrey looked pleased. - -“I’m not much of a novel reader,” he said; “to tell the truth I’m not -sure that I did read them. Very few people knew anything about them.” - -“What are they called?” asked Marion. But Geoffrey was quite at fault. -Mr. Wrexham as usual came to the rescue. Not only with the names, but -with slight but appreciative and well worded sketches of the two novels -in question. - -Marion was delighted, and still more so when their ever ready guest -volunteered to procure for her copies of the books, though now, as -Geoffrey had said, out of print. - -Shortly after, Mr. Wrexham took his leave. Geoffrey undertook to put him -on his road, as he expressed his intention of walking home. Marion was -tired and went to bed, so it was not till the next morning at breakfast -time that they compared notes on the subject of their guest. - -“You liked him better when you came to talk more to him, did you not, -Geoffrey?” asked Marion. - -“I did and I didn’t,” he replied. “I have still that queer sort of -feeling of not making him out. But it may be my fancy only. I daresay -he’s straightforward enough.” - -“He is unusually clever and well-informed,” said Marion. - -“So I should think,” said Geoffrey, “though not going in for that sort -of thing myself, I can admire it in others. Clever! oh dear yes! I only -hope he’s not too clever.” - -“Did you talk over your business matters satisfactorily?” enquired Mrs. -Baldwin. - -“Ye—es, I think so,” replied her husband. ‘‘All he said seemed right -enough. I can draw out your money of course any day, my own too in part. -The man can have no motive, as far as I can see. He doesn’t w my money, -but still it seems queer.” - -“What?” asked Marion. - -“Oh! I forgot I hadn’t told you. Wrexham has such a poor opinion of the -investment your cousin, Mr. Framley Vere, so strongly recommended. I -really don’t know what to do. Mr. Framley Vere is considered a very good -man of business, and he, you know, is your other trustee. In fact I have -hardly any right to delay doing as he advised—with respect to your money -and Harry’s I mean. He wrote about it three weeks ago and wished it done -at once, only I have never succeeded in getting hold of Wrexham. And I -can’t but be to some extent impressed by what he said. If I wait a month -or two he says he can put me in the way of something much better—more -secure, that’s to say. But I don’t like seeming to oppose Mr. Framley -Vere. Indeed I’ve no right to do so. If he were at home I would go and -see him. But he’s on the continent.” - -“You might write to him,” suggested Marion; “his letters are sure to be -forwarded.” - -“So I might, certainly,” replied her husband. “I don’t know but what it -will be the best plan. I will write and tell him all Wrexham told me. It -was in confidence, but that of course does not exclude my co-trustee. I -can ask him to reply at once. Yes, that will be the best plan. Thank you -for suggesting it. You see I hate writing so, it’s the last expedient -that ever enters my head.” - -And with considerable relief at the solution of his perplexity, Mr. -Baldwin left the breakfast-table. - -Two days later Marion fell ill. Her complaint was only a very bad cold, -but so bad that for a fortnight she was confined to her room. Geoffrey -was unhappy enough about her, though he said little. Marion herself was -comparatively cheerful. The enforced rest of body, and to a great extent -of mind also, was soothing to her just then. And she was the sort of -woman that is never sweeter and more loveable than in illness. - -Geoffrey wrote to Mr. Framley Vere. But during this fortnight there came -no answer. The first day Marion was downstairs again, Geoffrey told her -that the morning’s post had brought a letter from Miss Temple, begging -him possible to meet her the following day at a half-way point on her -journey homewards from Devonshire, as her escort could only bring -her thus far, and in her helpless state her maid was not sufficient -protection. The young man hesitated to comply, as he disliked the idea -of leaving his wife alone in a barely convalescent state; but when she -heard or it, Marion begged him to do as Veronica asked. - -“It is but little we can do for her,” she said, “and only think what a -friend she has been to us both.” - -“To me,” replied Geoffrey, “but I am not so sure that you have the -same reason to say so. Had it not been for her—for meeting again at her -house, I mean—the probability is, poor child, you would never have been -talked out of your first decision. What would it not have saved you!” - -“Geoffrey!” said his wife, looking up with eyes full or tears. He had -never before said as much, and she was deeply touched. Unconsciously his -few words revealed to her the rare unselfishness of his character. Even -in looking back to what truly had been the bitterest trial of his life, -he thought of the past if not solely, at least chiefly, from her point -of view. “What would it not have saved you.” - -She might have perhaps said more, but a servant’s entering interrupted -them. Geoffrey was obliged to leave that morning in order to reach the -half-way point the same evening, so as to be ready to start with his -charge the following day at an early enough hour to reach Mallingford -before dark the succeeding afternoon. But he carried with him on his -journey a companion which cheered and encouraged him as he had little -hoped ever again to be cheered and encouraged. - -All through, the long railway journey, in the unfamiliar, bustling town -where he spent the night, it was present with him—the remembrance of a -sweet, pale face and soft eyes dimmed with tears, gently calling him by -name in a voice half of reproach, but telling surely of something more. -Something he had not all through these weary months ventured to hope for -as possible for him even in the furthest future. Could it be, or was he -mad to think it, could it be that Marion, his wife, was learning to care -for him? - -The thought thrilled him through and through. It gave a brightness to -his face and manner that poor Veronica rejoiced to see. She was not -given to the asking of intrusive questions, or of beating about a -delicate subject in hopes of discovering its exact condition, (both -which modes of torture some people seem to consider a proof of the most -devoted friendship) so she said nothing at all verging on the matter so -constantly in her thoughts. But the tone in which Geoffrey replied to -her affectionate enquiries about his wife, fell pleasantly on her ear. - -“She is much better,” said Geoffrey, “but she really has been very ill. -I can’t bear to hear her coughs, though the doctor assures me she is -perfectly sound. To tell you the truth, Veronica,” he added, with a half -smile, “I am such a baby about Marion, I didn’t half like leaving her -even for a day.” - -“It was very good of you, dear Geoffrey,” said Miss Temple. “I really -don’t know how I should have got home without you. But if I had had the -least notion she was ill I would never have asked it.” - -“There was not the slightest reason really for my not corning,” said -Geoffrey, “only you see I’m ridiculously anxious about her. But -she would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t come. She is always so -delighted if we can be of the least use to you. No one I’m sure deserves -as much of us.” - -“You are very dear, good children both of you,” said Veronica. “And -were I, as I hope to be before I die, perfectly assured that I have -throughout acted for your real good by both of you, I think—I think I -should die content.” - -“She had said more than she had intended. A moment after she almost -regretted having done so, for though Geoffrey pressed her hand, her poor -wasted hand, which years ago in girlhood had been so round and pretty, -he said nothing; and she half fancied her words brought a red flush to -his fair face. - -Their journey was accomplished in safety. It was pretty late in the -afternoon when their train puffed into Mallingford station, and Geoffrey -jumped out on to the platform to see that the easiest of the “King’s -Arms” carriages was in waiting according to command, for the invalid -lady. - -Veronica meantime remained with her maid in the railway carriage, -awaiting his return. He was absent barely five minutes—too short a -time truly to change a man from youth to age, from the aspect of robust -health to that of pallid, haggard sickness—yet, had five months, nay -years, elapsed before Geoffrey Baldwin returned to Veronica, she would -have been amazed and horrified at the change. His bright boyish face -looked like that of a man of fifty, all drawn and pinched, pallid as -with a pallor of death, blue about the lips, even the sunny hair at that -moment seemed to be dimmed by a shade of grey. - -Veronica was too terrified to speak. The one word “Marion,” she shaped -with her lips, though her tongue refused to utter it. But Geoffrey -understood her. - -“No,” he whispered hoarsely “not that. But the old Bank, Baldwin’s Bank, -has stopped payment. It was my own fault. I have ruined her. Curse that -fellow, curse him,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. A FRIEND IN DISGUISE. - -“With all her might she cloth her business - To bringen him out of his heaviness. - * * * * * - Lo here what gentleness these women have, - If we could know it for our rudéness. - Alway right sorry for our distress! - In every manner thus show they ruth, - That in them is all goodness and all truth.” - CHAUCER. - - - -AN exclamation of terror from Veronica’s maid startled Geoffrey and -made him look round, for in his madness of rage and misery he had -instinctively turned his face away from the eyes of his gentle friend. -The poor lady lay all but fainting, gasping for breath in a way piteous -to behold. The sight to some extent recalled the young man to himself. - -In a few moments, by the exercise of strong self-control, Veronica -overcame the hysterical feeling which was half choking her, and allowed -Mr. Baldwin to carry her to the fly. Not a word was spoken by either -till they reached Miss Temple’s cottage; only just before they stopped, -Veronica took Geoffrey’s hand, and gently pressed it in her own. - -“My poor boy,” she whispered. - -He turned his head away; though there was no one in the carriage but -themselves, he could not bear her to see the tears which her sympathy -wrung from his manhood. But they did him good. He began to collect his -startled senses, and to consider how best to perform the terrible duty -before him, of breaking the news to his wife. - -When they alighted at Miss Temple’s door, and the little bustle of -conveying the invalid to her sofa was safely accomplished, the servant -handed him a letter. The address was in Marion’s handwriting. “Mrs. -Baldwin,” said the girl, “had called this afternoon, and had inquired at -what time Miss Temple was expected home. Hearing it might be late, she -had left the letter and asked that it might be delivered immediately.” - -The envelope contained a few words from Marion, enclosing a letter with -a German post-mark. - -Mrs. Baldwin’s was as follows: - -“DEAR GEOFFREY, - -“The enclosed came by this morning’s post. I see it is from Mr. Framley -Vere, and as I know you are anxious to hear from him, I am going to -take it in to Mallingford, that you may get it on your arrival at Miss -Temple’s. I am so much better, that the doctor told me I should take a -drive to-day. I hope you have got on prosperously in your travels, and -that you will bring dear Veronica safe home. Give her my best love. - -“Your affectionate wife, - -MARION C. BALDWIN.” - -Even at that moment Geoffrey held the letter tenderly, looked lovingly -at the words. It was the first letter he had ever had from his wife! - -But it added a sharper pang to his wretchedness. “Your affectionate -wife!” - -“Ah! my poor child, what have I ever caused you but misery?” he murmured -to himself. - -He opened the enclosure. These were its contents: - -“Baden, March 27th, 186—. - -“DEAR BALDWIN, - -“Your letter has only just reached me. I have been moving about lately -so much. I write in great haste to assure you that all you have been -told against the —— and —— is utter nonsense. There is no safer or -better investment in the united kingdom at present. Whoever told you -what you wrote of to me must be either a knave himself, with his own -purposes to serve, or the dupe of such a one. And if an honest man, I -don’t see why he should have bound you over not to give his name as your -authority to your co-trustee. The thing does not look well. Within the -last day or two I have heard, quite accidentally, from a friend in -your county, certain vague reports affecting the Mallingford Bank. Very -likely they have not reached you. Those on the spot, or most interested -in such rumours, are often the last to hear them. And they may very -probably be utterly unfounded. Still, all inclines me to lose no time in -with-drawing my young cousins’ money from its present quarters. I should -strongly advise you also to look to your own property in the bank, as I -believe it is of considerable amount. I should be glad to hear from -you that you have done as I advise. With regard to your wife’s and her -brother’s money, you have of course acted for the best: still the delay -makes me a little uneasy. Give my kind regards to Marion. I hear very -good accounts of her brother Hartford, from an officer in his regiment -who is a friend of mine. - -“Yours very truly, - -“FRAMLEY P. VERE.” - -Geoffrey handed both letters to Veronica. She read them carefully before -she spoke. He watched her impatiently. As soon as she had finished, he -said in a dull, hopeless voice— - -“How shall I tell her? And Harry too? She will feel his share of it even -more?” - -Veronica considered a little. Then she replied— - -“Are you not acting prematurely in deciding that all is so very bad as -you imagine? After all, it was a mere report you heard at the station. -Something must be wrong, doubtless, but it may not be so bad as you -think. Would it not be well, in the first place, to go to the bank, see -Mr. Wrexham, and hear particulars?” - -“Of course,” said Geoffrey, starting up and seizing his hat; “what a -fool I was not to think of that before. But I really was stunned for the -moment.” - -“You must have a cup of tea or a glass of wine before you go,” suggested -Veronica. “You will frighten everybody you meet, with that pale face of -yours. Now be a good boy. Five minutes will make no difference—for the -young man was chafing at the delay. - -“And Marion?” he suddenly exclaimed, “she will be expecting me at home.” - -“Stay here till the morning,” replied Miss Temple; “that will give -us time to talk over matters after you have learnt the exact state of -things. I will send a note to Marion while you are out, saying that I -have kept you as you were tired with your two days’ journey, and asking -her to send the carriage for you in the morning. I can get the gardener -to take the note. He can borrow Dr. Baker’s pony.” - -“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “That will do very well.” - -And thankful for the temporary reprieve, he set off on his errand of -enquiry. - -In about an hour’ time he returned. Veronica was anxiously waiting for -him. He entered the room slowly, and threw himself on the sofa, hiding -his face in its cushions. - -“What have you heard?” asked Miss Temple at last, though his manner had -already prepare her for his answer. It came, after moment’s interval, in -a dull, dead tone. - -“The very worst,” he replied. - -“How?” she asked gently. It was better to rouse him, to force him to -face it, and as speedily as possible to make up his mind to what must be -done next. - -He shivered slightly, then made an impatient gesture as if he would fain -push aside her enquiries and her sympathy. But she persisted bravely. - -“How has it all been?” she asked. “Whom did you see?” - -“The old clerk, Lee,” he replied; “he is heart-broken. All his savings -gone, and the disgrace, which I verily believe he feels more. As I -should if I were alone. Good God! why did I bind that poor child’s fate -to mine! To think of it all. Baldwin’s Bank—mv poor father’s bank—to -have come to this! It is an utter, complete smash, a perfectly hopeless -ruin. Some little trifle of Marion’s and Harry’s money I may possibly -recover eventually. But mine is all gone—gone for ever. You see I was -still legally a partner.” - -“But how has it been caused?” Veronica enquired again. - -“You may well ask,” he answered bitterly; that is the hideous part of -it--to think that it has all been the work of that oily devil, and that -he has taken himself off in time to escape the punishment he deserves. -What I should have given him if the law hadn’t! Cursed scamp that he -is!” - -“Hush, Geoffrey,” pleaded Veronica. “I am not blaming you, my poor boy, -but when you speak so violently you startle me, and make me so nervous I -cannot think quietly, as I should wish, of what is to be done. Wrexham, -I suppose, you are talking of?” - -“Yes,” said Geoffrey; “I can’t name him. It is all his doing. His wealth -‘elsewhere invested’ was all moonshine. He has been left far too much to -himself, Lee says, the other partner having perfect confidence in him. -He has been speculating in the most reckless way, it now appears; and, -foreseeing the inevitable crash, has laid his plans accordingly and -taken himself off in time. It is suspected he has taken, in some form -or other—(diamonds perhaps, like the fellow in that book Marion was -reading—a fellow who wasn’t himself or was somebody else; I couldn’t -make it out)—a comfortable provision for himself.” - -“But when was all this discovered? Can’t he be traced?” asked Veronica, -breathlessly. - -“He had been away four days before anything wrong was suspected, replied -Geoffrey. “He didn’t run it too fine, you see. He was to have returned -three days ago with lots of money. When he didn’t come, and sent no -letter, they began to get frightened. Mr. Linthwaite, the other partner, -then thought it would be as well to look into things a little, and a -nice mess they found. They did what they could then, of course; sent -off for detectives and all the rest of it, by way of shutting the empty -stable-door, but it’s useless. He’s had too clear a start, and even if -they got him they would get nothing out of him. He’s prepared for that, -Lee says. If he has made off with property in any form it will be too -well hidden for us to get at it. My case is the worst, for Linthwaite’s -wife has money settled on herself, elsewhere invested, and no one had -property in the bank to anything like my amount. They kept the doors -open for a day or two, and paid out the little they had, for one or two -of the farmers in the neighbourhood happened to draw rather heavily on -Tuesday. But yesterday evening they lost all hope of the scamp’s turning -up, and didn’t even go through the farce this morning of taking down the -shutters.” - -“But if old Lee has suspected that things were wrong, why in heaven’s -name did he not warn you?” asked Veronica. - -“He didn’t suspect anything,” replied Mr. Baldwin. “He disliked Wrexham -personally, but he could have given no reason for doing so. Besides, -unless he had had something definite to tell, you couldn’t expect the -poor fellow to have risked losing his daily bread by talking against his -employers. Ten to one, had he come to me, I would have thought him mad. -No, that blackguard has deceived every one.” - -For some minutes they sat still, Geoffrey moodily staring into the fire. -Then he repeated his old question. - -“How am I to tell Marion, Veronica?” - -“Shall I do so for you?” she said. - -“I wish to Heaven you would!” he ejaculated. “It would be the greatest -proof of friendship you have ever shewn me, which is saying a good -deal.” - -“I will do it if you so much wish it,” she replied, “still I do not feel -sure it is right for anyone to break it to her but yourself—her husband. -I think too you misjudge her in thinking this sort of bad news is likely -to shock and prostrate her as you seem to imagine it will. Your wife is -no fool, Geoffrey: she is a brave-spirited woman, and will find strength -to suffer and work for those she loves.” - -“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a groan, “had all been different in other -respects, she would not have been found wanting. But you don’t know all, -Veronica. You never can. It was the only thing I could give her—a home -and all that money could buy! And now, my darling will, for the first -time in her life, be brought through me face to face with poverty. It is -too horrible.” - -Miss Temple said nothing, but she had her own thoughts nevertheless. - -They decided that the following day when Geoffrey returned home he -should tell his wife that Miss Veronica was anxious to see her, and -should arrange for her driving over as soon as possible to her friend’s -cottage. - -But in this, they to some extent reckoned without their host. The -carriage which came the next morning to fetch Miss Temple’s guest home -to the Manor Farm, brought in it, early though it was, Mrs. Baldwin -herself, eager to welcome the travellers in person. - -Geoffrey was already out. Off again to the scene of his troubles, the -Mallingford Bank, there to meet Mr. Linthwaite, and go over with him -all the details of the miserable story. But he was to be back in -half-an-hour. Veronica’s heart failed her when she heard her young -visitor’s step on the stair. It was no light or pleasant task which, in -her unselfishness, she had undertaken. - -Suddenly it occurred to her, “might not Marion have already heard the -bad news, and this be the reason of her early visit? How stupid not to -have thought of this before!” She almost hoped it might be so, but a -glance at Marion’s face decided her that no bird of evil omen in the -shape a Miss Tremlett, or any of her gossiping cronies, had yet carried -the tidings to the young mistress of the Manor Farm. For Marion, though -somewhat pale from her recent illness, looked bright and cheerful: -happier by far than when last her friend had seen her; which did -not make things easier for poor Veronica! The girl kissed her -affectionately, and said something in her own sweet way (as far as -possible removed from the coldness of which by mere acquaintances she -was usually accused), of her pleasure at her safe return to them. Then -some little details of the journey were mentioned, and Veronica -remarked casually that Geoffrey had gone to the bank for half-an-hour on -business, but would be back shortly, as he was expecting the carriage to -meet him. - -“Though he did not know you would be in it, dear Marion,” said Veronica, -“it was very good of you to come so soon. I was just writing a note to -ask you to come this afternoon. I wanted particularly to see you.” - -Then there fell a little silence, and out of the heart of the elder -woman there crept to that of her friend a soft, mysterious message of -sympathy. Words were not wanted. A slight shiver ran through Marion, and -she turned to Veronica. - -“What is wrong? What is it you are wishing to tell me and cannot find -strength to utter? Dear Veronica, do not fear for me.” - -And Miss Temple laid her hand gently on Marion’s, and the girl’s brave, -clear eyes fixed on her drew forth the bare, unsoftened truth. - -“My child, your husband is ruined. The Mallingford Bank in which was all -he possessed has failed, and he is utterly penniless.” - -She had not meant to tell it so shortly and suddenly. She had thought of -“breaking it” by degrees, as even the wisest and tenderest of us -persist in doing to others, however we may suffer when the operation is -performed on ourselves. But with Marion’s eyes thus fixed on her she had -no option but to tell the whole sharply; to her own ears indeed cruelly, -in its matter-of-fact accuracy and stern reality. - -Marion’s eyes never flinched. She said quietly, “And my money—and—and -Harry’s?” With the last word her face worked a little, and for a moment -Veronica fancied a dimness overspread the grey eyes, still resolutely -fixed on hers. But she too, answered calmly and deliberately. - -“You and your brother rank as creditors. Eventually, therefore, some -small portion of your property may be recovered, once the affairs of the -bank are finally wound up. This however will probably not be known for -some months, and in any case it will not be much. Geoffrey’s settlements -on you at the time of your marriage, by-the-by, I never thought of. -I wonder if they will be considered your property. I am not enough -acquainted with such matters to say. But in any case, my dearest Marion, -I fear very, very little will be recovered. It is so dreadful. I don’t -understand how I am able to talk about it so coolly.” - -Marion did not speak for a few moments. Then she said: - -“Have many others suffered in the same way—to the same extent?” - -Veronica looked rather conscience-stricken. - -“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I did not ask; I was so absorbed -in your part of it. But no one I am sure can have suffered to the same -extent, for Mr. Linthwaite had not nearly so much money in the bank, -and his wife is rich besides. Doubtless many of the farmers in the -neighbourhood will have lost what to them will be as much as Geoffrey’s -is to him. It is all owing to his having unfortunately kept his whole -property there these last few months. A thing he never contemplated save -as a temporary convenience of course.” - -“And Mr. Wrexham?” asked Marion. - -“Mr. Wrexham!” repeated Veronica. “Did you not know it was all his -doing, that he has absconded? But, of course, not—how could you?” - -And then she related to Marion the details she had gathered from -Geoffrey of the reputed millionaire’s little suspected rascality. - -Mrs. Baldwin heard her in silence; but when all had been told she -exclaimed passionately: - -“Then, Veronica, the whole is my doing. Geoffrey’s instinct was truer -than mine. He distrusted that man from the first, and I talked him out -of it. I thought him clever, and I see now how he was flattering me up! -What a fool I was! Oh, Veronica, those two or three weeks might have -saved poor Geoffrey this ruin. It will break his heart, I know, and it -is all my fault.” - -“Hush, Marion,” said her friend, “it will make it no easier to Geoffrey -for you to blame yourself so exaggeratedly, and it is very unlikely -that the two or three weeks’ delay has made matters worse. Geoffrey’s -withdrawing any large sums when he first intended doing so would only -have accelerated the discovery without probably saving anything.” - -But Marion had got it into her head that she alone was to blame for the -overwhelming catastrophe, and refused to listen to Veronica’s attempted -consolation. - -It was the worst bit of the whole to her, the reflection that it was her -doing. What a curse she had been to this man, she thought to herself! -Saddening his whole life, as she had done: remorseful when, as she much -feared in her present mood, it was too late; and now, to crown all, the -cause of his finding himself a pauper; he who till now had known nothing -of battling with the world, struggling amidst the toilworn human beings -for the means of existence. In a very blackness of misery Marion Baldwin -sat in silence while she thus accused herself. - -Veronica was grievously distressed. At last she hit on a new argument. - -“Marion,” she said, “Geoffrey will be returning directly. The bitterest -part of this to him, I need not tell you, is the thought of what it will -be to you. It is for you only he dreads so fearfully the trials before -you both. I have been trying to comfort and strengthen him by telling -him he was exaggerating what it would be to you. You are brave and -strong, my dearest—braver and stronger than you perhaps think yourself. -I know it is not this misfortune in itself which is so crushing you. It -is this morbid notion that you have had a hand in bringing it on. But -even supposing it were so, Heaven knows you advised Geoffrey as you -thought for the best. It is unworthy of you to make yourself miserable -by this judging by results. And if Geoffrey finds you thus, how will -he, poor fellow, be able to stand it all? Don’t think me harsh, my poor -child, for speaking so at such a time. You will thank me afterwards for -urging you to show yourself a true wife by forgetting everything but -your husband’s suffering, and strengthening him to bear it.” - -Marion looked up with a new light in her face, a glance of mingled -strength and tenderness in her eyes. A door was heard to open, a step -slowly and heavily sounded along the passage. She had only time to -whisper, “You shall not be disappointed in me, Veronica,” when the door -opened and Geoffrey entered. - -He had not expected to see his wife; and when he caught sight of her, -his face flushed suddenly, and without attempting to greet her he sank -down on the nearest chair, burying his head in his hands. - -Veronica glanced imploringly at Marion, but her appeal was not needed. -Without a word the young wife rose from her chair and crossed the room -quickly to where her husband was sitting. He did not see her, his face -was hidden, but he heard the rustle of her dress as she approached him. -He knew it could not be the cripple Veronica; the step came quick and -firm. A notion flashed into his mind that his wife was leaving the room -because he had entered it; hastening from the presence of the man who -had at last by his insane folly, put the finishing stroke to all the -misery he had brought on her fair young life. - -He would not look up. Instinctively he kept his face hidden, preferring -to await blindly what he felt to be a crisis in his life. Less than a -moment passed while Marion crossed the room, but time enough for a -whole army of hopes and fears, doubts and misgivings to chase each other -across poor Geoffrey’s brain. - -He felt weak and giddy, for he had gone through much and eaten little -in the last few hours; and a quiver ran all through him when a hand -was gently laid on his shoulder and a voice, sweeter to him than the -loveliest music, called him by name. - -“Geoffrey,” it said, “my poor Geoffrey, my dear husband, look up and -show that you trust me. It is to the full as much my fault as yours that -this misfortune has come upon us. But why should either of us blame the -other? It is not the worst sorrow that could have happened to us. We are -young and strong, and we will meet it together bravely. Only, only—do -not turn from me. Do not punish me for all my selfish coldness—all my -wicked scorn, long ago, of your goodness and affection—do not punish me -by repulsing me now. Now, Geoffrey, in your time of sorrow when I brave -all and remind you that I am your wife.” - -Her voice broke and faltered: the last few words were all but inaudible. -But they reached with perfect clearness and distinctness the ears of the -man to whom they were addressed; they fell on his sore heart like drops -of refreshing, invigorating rain on dried-up withered leaves. He lifted -his head, he stretched out his arms, and drew her to him in a long, -close embrace, and there were more tears on Marion’s face than those -which had come from her own eyes. - -Neither spoke, and there was for a moment perfect silence in the room. -Then it was broken suddenly by a queer, irregular, stumping sound, -which passed across the floor and out at the door almost before it was -observed by the two so absorbed by their own emotion. It was Veronica’s -crutch! Never before or since was she known to get out of a room so -quickly, and she did it at no little risk to herself. But she felt that -the moment was a sacred one—one of those in which a third presence, even -though that of the most devoted friend, may jar on the sensitiveness of -the excited nerves; may unwittingly interfere with the perfect -healing of the disunited members, the sealing of the tacit bond of -reconciliation. - -An hour or two later, when the invalid bade adieu to her friends, and -from her window watched them drive away to the home soon to be theirs no -longer, some half-formed words escaped her. - -“How little, after all, we know of ourselves or each other, or what is -best for any of us! After all, who can say but what my two poor friends -may have reason to remember with thankfulness the failure of the -Mallingford Bank. Poverty and outward suffering and struggling may bring -them more happiness than they have yet found since they joined their -lives together. God grant it may prove so!” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. COTTON CHEZ SOI. - -“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, -Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” - - - -AUTUMN again! Three years only since the dull September day when we -first saw Marion Vere in her father’s house in the London square. Three -years ago, which have brought more than one change to her, which have -more than once utterly altered the current of her life. The last change -which has come over her might, to superficial observation, seem the most -disastrous of all. Let us see if in truth it is so. - -A dull, uninteresting suburban street. Secluded and “genteel.” Too much -so for even the enlivening neighbourhood of shops to be permitted in -that portion of it where our interest lies. Rows and rows of monotonous -little dwellings, all of the regulation pattern—two rooms on one side -of the strip of lobby, undeserving of the more important name of hall; -kitchen at the end thereof, a flight of some twelve or fifteen steps -leading to the half-way room above the kitchen, on again to the two -or three rooms occupying the position, in town houses of importance, -usually devoted to drawing-rooms. - -Ah, how wearied one becomes of this same everlasting pattern of house! -How sick to death the architects must be of planning it, the masons -of building it, and, worst of all, the occupants of living in it! Only -fortunately, or unfortunately, the dwellers in these same regulation -abodes have seldom much leisure, even had they the inclination, for -pondering on such matters. The poor dressmaker class, the struggling -wives and overflowing offspring of scantily-salaried clerks in great -mercantile houses, the landladies, legion by name, “who have seen better -days,” and are only too thankful to see the dreadful “apartments” card -out of their window—all these and the rest of the innumerable multitude -constituting the lower half of our English middle-class, are not likely -to complain of the shape and arrangements of their dwellings, provided -they are sufficiently warm and weather tight, and not usuriously high in -the matter of rent and its attendant privileges, rates. - -Rents are not so tremendous in the neighbourhood of smoky Millington as -in the suburban districts surrounding the great Babylon itself. Lodgings -in consequence are, or were some years ago, correspondingly few and far -between. For our middle-class John Bull, be he but possessed of the most -modest of salaries, has a wonderful tendency to feather a nest of his -own, to assemble his poor little household gods—from the six “real -silver” teaspoons left to Mary Ann by her god-mother, to his own gaudy -but somewhat faded Sunday-school prizes—in a retreat where they shall be -sacred from the inquisitive eyes and prying hands of landladies; where -he can smoke his pipe of an evening, and young Mrs. John nurse her -babies undisturbed by fears of complaints from the first-floor of “that -horrible smell of tobacco,” or “those incessantly screaming children.” - -But even the luxury of the smallest of houses of their own was as yet -beyond the means of Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin; and Geoffrey was fain to -be content with three tiny rooms and a civil-spoken landlady, when, -preceding his wife by a few days to their new home, it fell to his share -to do what he could in the way of preparing for her reception. - -For the smash at Mallingford had been a very thorough one. Nothing -as yet had been retrieved from the ruins. Months hence some trifling -dividend might be forthcoming; but as their share of this would be -altogether insufficient to provide for their daily wants, Geoffrey had -declined Veronica’s invitation to take up their abode with her till the -exact amount should be known, and had manfully set his shoulder to the -wheel by accepting the first chance of employment that came in his way. - -It was not of a kind congenial to his tastes or education. A clerkship -of a hundred a year in a Millington shipping-house does not sound -paradisaical to most ears; least of all to those of a country-bred, -country-loving man of thirty, whose nightmare from earliest youth -had been anything in the shape of office or desk, book-keeping, or -book-learning. - -But, as said the old friend of his father’s to whom he was indebted for -the introduction, it was better than losing time, and would do him no -harm should some more desirable opening occur hereafter. - -Had he been alone in the world when he thus for the first time in his -life found himself face to face with poverty, Geoffrey Baldwin, there is -no doubt, would have emigrated. He was just the man of which the right -back-woodsman stuff is made, and the life would have suited him in every -sense. But to his joy and his sorrow he was not alone in the world, and -the being to whom every drop of his honest heart’s blood was devoted, -shrank, with a not unusual or unnatural shrinking, from the unknown -horrors of life in an Australian sheep-farm, or the pathless “far west” -forests of Canada. Even Millington, smoky and crowded, with its vulgar -rich and toil-begrimed poor, seemed to her imagination to offer a far -less terrible prospect. - -“For after all Geoffrey, it is still England, and sooner or later -something else may turn up. In two or three years Harry may be coming -home, and think how terrible it would be for him if we were away at the -other side of the world,” said the poor girl. - -So the subject of emigration was not again mooted, and the Millington -offer accepted. Some ready money was realized by the sale of the Manor -Farm furniture and Geoffrey’s horses, but not very much, for when chairs -and tables that have looked very respectable in their own corners for -forty or fifty years, are dragged, to the sound of an auctioneer’s -hammer, into the relentless glare of day and bargain seekers’ eyes, -they, to put it mildly, do not show to the best advantage. And as -to horses, they are not famous for being high in the market when one -appears therein in the position of a seller. It was, too, the end of the -hunting season when the smash came, and Mr. Baldwin was not in the habit -of allowing his steeds to eat their heads off, so the lot of them were -not in the showy condition conducive to the fetching of long sums. - -Squire Copley, who, during the last few melancholy weeks of the young -couple’s stay in their own house, was suffering from a curiously -spasmodic form of cold in the head, which attacked him most -inopportunely on several occasions when he happened to “step over” -to the Farm, and necessitated a distressingly lavish recourse to his -pocket-handkerchief,—he by-the-by took a violent fancy to the now docile -Coquette. - -“Got her of course, under the circumstances, dirt cheap, Sir, dirt -cheap, I assure you,” he told his neighbours, when the details of -Baldwin’s sale were discussed “across the walnuts and the wine.” - -The exact sum he was never known to mention, (nor did it ever reach Mr. -Baldwin’s ears), for possibly every one might not have agreed with him -in thinking two hundred and fifty pounds so very unparalleled a bargain. -It went a good way to swelling the few hundreds of ready money with -which in safe keeping against the possible coming of a still rainier -day, Geoffrey Baldwin, after settling, down to the smallest, every -out-standing claim upon him or his household, set out for the first -time to do battle with the world, to win for himself and that other -so infinitely dearer, the “daily bread” so carelessly demanded, so -thanklessly received by those who have never known what it is to eat -thereof “in the sweat of the face.” - -But we have wandered too long from the little house in the suburban -street. - -In the small sitting-room looking out to the front sits Marion. The same -Marion, only I almost think altered for the better. She looks stronger, -and, to use a homely, but most expressive word, “heartier” than when we -last saw her. Surely there is more light and brightness over the clear, -pale features; and lurking in the depths of the grey eyes, one could -almost fancy there was something of gladness if not of mirth. Or is it -only the flickering, dancing light reflected on her face of the bright -little fire which—for the evening was chilly—Mrs. Baldwin, after some -house-wifely scruples on the score of economy, caused to be lit to greet -her husband’s return? - -We shall see. - -She sits there in the fire-light, gazing into the red, glowing depths, -but with the pleasant shadow of a smile on her face. She has been -working hard enough to-day in various ways, to enjoy the half-hour’s -holiday which she feels she has earned. A sensation worth trying for -once in a way, oh ladies! with the soft, white hands, guiltless of aught -but useless beauty, with the little feet to whom a few miles of tramp -through muddy streets, over bard, unyielding pavement, is unknown. -Or worse still, with brains unconscious of any object in their own -existence beyond the solution of some millinery problem, or the -recollection of the calls falling due on their visiting list. “Very hard -work indeed!” I have been told more than once by those who should be -qualified to judge. “And very poor pay!” I should certainly reply, -though the hardness of the work may be a matter of opinion. - -A ring at the bell, a step along the passage, a somewhat fagged looking -face at the door, which Marion sprang up to open, with bright welcome on -her own. - -“I’m very muddy, Marion,” said the new-comer, “and rather tired too. I’d -better run up at once and change my boots. I shall be awfully glad of a -cup of tea.” - -The voice evidently wished to be cheerful, but could not quite manage -it. Poor Geoffrey! truly Millington ways and Millington smoke did not -suit you. - -But there was genuine, unforced gladness in the tones which replied to -him. - -“Be quick then! as quick as you can. I have just infused the tea, and I -have lots of things to tell you. I have been so busy all day!” - -And as the wearied man slowly ascended the narrow staircase, some -murmured words, un-heard by his wife, escaped him. “My darling! my -darling! For myself I would bear it all fifty times over to know your -goodness as I do.” - -A short toilette sufficed for the simple meal prepared for Mr. Baldwin -in the little parlour which served him and his wife for drawing-room and -dining-room in one, and in ten minutes’ time he rejoined her. The room -looked wonderfully comfortable and home-like he owned to himself, and -for the time being he determined to forget the worries and annoyances of -the day, and respond as far as he could to the unfailing cheerfulness of -his wife. - -“Tell me what you have been about to-day, Marion,” he said. “You look -even brighter than usual, which is saying a good deal. And that red -ribbon round your neck and tying up your hair is very pretty,” he added, -looking at her approvingly. - -“I am glad you like it,” she replied laughing, “though in the first -place it isn’t a ribbon, it’s velvet.” - -“But there’s such a thing as velvet ribbon, isn’t there?” he asked -gravely. “I’m sure I have heard of it.” - -“Ribbon velvet you mean, you stupid Geoffrey,” she answered. “I am -really afraid you’ll never do for Millington. You’re not the least of a -shop-man.” - -Geoffrey laughed. - -“You had better take care what, you say, Marion. Imagine the horror of -old Baxter if he heard you talking of his palatial warehouse as a shop!” - -“But so it is, only a very big one,” persisted the incorrigible Mrs. -Baldwin. “However you needn’t be afraid of my hurting the feelings of -old Baxter, as you call him, or old anybody else. Not that he’s likely -ever to hear me speak either of him or his shop. These Millington people -are far too grand ever to take any notice of us.” - -“I don’t know that,” said her husband. “That reminds me I’ve a piece of -news for you too. But I want to hear yours first. Tell me what you’ve -been doing all day.” - -“This afternoon I have been busy at home like a good wife, darning -your stockings, or socks, as Mrs. Appleby calls them. Really and truly, -Geoffrey, I have darned four pair—that is to say three pair and a half, -for in the eighth sock, to my unspeakable delight there was no hole. -I poked m y hand all round inside it, but not one of my fingers came -through. There weren’t even any thin places which wanted strengthening, -if you know what that is? You have no idea of the excitement of looking -for holes. It is almost more fascinating than pulling shirt-buttons -to see if they are loose. I have to force myself to be dreadfully -conscientious about it. Sometimes I feel so tempted only to give a very -gentle tug, which couldn’t pull even a very loose one off. Millington -must be a ruinous place for poor people. You have no notion how quickly -you wear out your stockings.” - -“No, I certainly haven’t, as my good fairy takes care I never find any -holes in them,” he answered tenderly. “But never mind stockings,” he -went on, “tell me what you did this morning.” - -“This morning,” she replied, “oh, this morning I went a tremendously -long walk.” - -“By yourself?” - -“No, with Mrs. Sharp. You know I told you that nice little Mrs. Sharp -had called here last week. The wife of the curate at St. Matthias’s. Her -husband was a pupil at the Temples’, Veronica’s father’s, years ago, and -that seemed a sort of introduction. She is really very nice. She knew -something about us—about the bank breaking, I mean, and why we came -here. I told her the first time I saw her how anxious I was to do -something to help you, and—and—don’t be angry, Geoffrey—she came to-day -to tell me she had heard of two pupils for me.” - -“Marion!” exclaimed her husband. - -She crept down to the floor beside him and hid her face on his arm, as -she went on. - -“It seems so very nice, Geoffrey. Listen and don’t say anything till you -hear all about it. Mrs. Sharp took me to see the lady—a Mrs. Allen—whose -two little boys I am to teach. They are very little boys, the eldest -only ten. They generally go to school, but scarlet fever broke out there -a month ago, and they are not to return till Christmas. It is only till -then I am to teach them, and it is only to be three mornings in the -week. Just to keep them in the way of lessons a little, their mother -said. She is rather nice, fat and good-humoured-looking—but guiltless -of H’s. She was very kind and pleasant about ‘terms,’ as she called it. -Five guineas a month, I think very good. Don’t you?” - -But Geoffrey was incapable of replying in the same light cheerful tone. -He stooped down and passed his arm round Marion’s waist, thus drawing -her nearer to him. Then he said in a choked husky voice, - -“Marion, my dearest, you are an angel,—but, but—I can’t stand it.” - -“My being an angel?” she answered lightly. “Certainly you haven’t had -much experience of me in such a character—but seriously, Geoffrey, do -say I may do this. I really haven’t enough to do all the hours you are -away. Darning stockings, even, palls on one after a few hours! And -it will make me so happy to feel I am earning a little money. Dear -Geoffrey, don’t say I mustn’t.” And with a pretty air of appeal she drew -his face round, so that she could see the expression in his eyes. - -“It is only till Christmas, you say?” he enquired, doubtfully. - -“Only till Christmas,” she repeated. - -“And the distance,” he objected. “You said it was a long walk. How are -you to go there and back three times a week?” - -“In fine weather, walk,” she replied, unhesitatingly. “I am a capital -walker, and you see yourself I am not the least tired to-night. And -on wet days you can put me in the omnibus as you go to business in the -morning. It passes the corner of this street, and Mrs. Sharp says it is -never crowded at the hours I should be coming and going.” - -There was nothing for it but for Geoffrey to give in; as, indeed, from -the first he had instinctively feared would be the case. Though the plan -went sorely against his inclination, he yet had a half-defined idea that -possibly it was really kinder and more unselfish to yield to his wife’s -wishes—that the additional interest and occupation might be of -actual benefit to her, and help her to get through the lonely, dreary -Millington winter he so dreaded for her in anticipation. - -“You said, too, you had something to tell me, didn’t you, Geoffrey?” -asked Marion, after a short silence, and with perhaps something of -the womanly instinct of changing the conversation before the scarcely -attained concession could be withdrawn. - -“Did I?” he answered, absently. “Oh yes, I remember. It was when we were -talking of the Baxters, and you said they were far too grand to notice -us. Mr. Baxter told me to-day that his wife ‘hoped shortly to have the -pleasure of calling on you.’ What do you think of that?” - -“I am rather vexed,” she replied, speaking slowly and deliberately. “We -have been very happy here by ourselves without anybody noticing us, -and I would rather go on the same way. I am not silly or prejudiced, -Geoffrey. I like nice people, whoever they are, but I cannot help -shrinking a little from these terribly rich Millington people. I -am afraid I am just a little bad in one way. I can’t endure being -patronised.” - -Geoffrey looked pained. - -“I know, I know,” he said, hastily. “It is horrible for you. Perfectly -unbearable. You don’t think I don’t know it, and feel it. Heaven knows -how bitterly! I was more than half inclined to tell the old fellow his -wife might keep her precious visits to herself; only I dared not risk -offending him. Condescension, indeed! Vulgar wretches!—as if we wanted -them to come prying about us, the purse-proud——” - -Marion jumped up and put her hand on his mouth. - -“Hush, Geoffrey. It is very wicked of me to put such notions into your -head. I had no business to talk about hating being patronised. It is -very silly, and low, and mean of me. Of course they intend to be kind, -and of course I should be civil to Mrs. Baxter, if she is as ugly as -the queen of the cannibal islands. So don’t say any more about her. I -suppose she is elderly, and fat. These dread-fully prosperous people are -always fat. They can’t help it, I suppose.” - -“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Geoffrey, listlessly. “Oh yes, by-the-by, -I remember some one at the office saying Mrs. Baxter was much younger -than her husband. An heiress too, I believe. That’s always the way.” - -“He looked weary and dispirited, and Marion felt remorseful for having -caused it. So she played to him (Mrs. Appleby’s front room actually -boasted a piano, such as it was) soft, simple airs—for he was no -connoisseur in music—till he went to sleep on the hard, uncomfortable -little sofa of the regulation lodging-house pattern, the designers of -which seem to be under the impression that human beings can at pleasure -unhook their legs and fasten them on again sideways. In which posture -only could anything like comfortable repose be possible for the wretched -victims of upholstery torture. - -Mrs. Baxter was as good as her word, or rather as Mr. Baxter’s. - -Two days later, a chariot, of the imposing appearance and dimensions -suited for the conveyance of a Millington millionairess, drawn by two -prancing, rocking-horsey greys, comfortably conscious of their own -amazingly good condition and unimpeachable harness, drew up at Mrs. -Appleby’s modest door. A gorgeous footman having made the enquiry -necessary to preclude the possibility of his mistress’s getting in and -out of her equipage for nothing, and having reported to the lady that -Mrs. Baldwin was at home, or “hin,” as Mrs. Appleby’s factotum expressed -it, the door of the chariot opened, and thence emerged one of the very -smallest women Marion had ever seen. - -From where she sat, all that passed in front of the house was visible to -Mrs. Baldwin, and she observed with considerable amusement the immense -pomposity of the whole affair, resulting in the appearance of the almost -absurdly minute person of Mrs. Baxter. - -But if the body was small, the mind evidently felt itself great. No -five-feet-eight or nine woman ever sailed into a room with half the -awe-compelling dignity, the incomparable “air de duchesse” of little -Mrs. Baxter. It had done her good service in her day, this magnificent -mien of hers; it (and the fact of her being “poor dear papa’s only -child”) had won her the adoring homage of various young Millingtonians -more inclined to spend than to earn, had finally achieved the conquest -of old Baxter himself, and now in these latter days had constituted her -the indisputable queen of Millington society. - -Awful words! with bated breath only to be murmured, and reverence -approaching that of Mrs. Appleby as she peeped out of the kitchen at -the end of the passage, to behold, though at a distance, her lodger’s -illustrious visitor. - -For Mrs. Baxter was not in the least pretty. Her “air,” or “style” as -dressmakers say, was the whole secret of the admiration she excited in -the Millington world. - -It was thought good taste to admire her, as “far more than a merely -pretty person,” —there was a faint flavour of aristocratic proclivities -in the refinement of perception which saw more in this plain-looking -little woman than in the sweet, rosy beauty we all love as we do the -daisies, which depends not on the sweep of the robe or the richness of -the material in which it is clothed. For, though I tremble while saying -it, at my own audacity, there is not the shadow of a doubt that the -magnificence of Mrs. Baxter was more than half due to her clothes. The -other half lay simply in her entire, unimpregnable self-satisfaction, -a quality far surpassing the fainter shades of vanity or self-conceit, -which enabled her to hold her small person erect as a poker, which -would have carried her without the slightest embarrassment through any -conceivable womanly ordeal, from being presented at court, to rating -(and soundly, too), a six-foot “Jeames” who would have made at least -three of herself. - -Ideas, I was going to say, she had none. But this is incorrect. She -had two—herself and Mr. Baxter—and round these, revolving as lesser -satellites, deriving of course all their glory from the greater -luminaries, “the little Baxters.” You could hardly have called her -purse-proud. She was rather purse-accepting. Money to her was a simple -fact, a necessity of existence like the air we breathe, the blood that -flows in our veins. How people lived without it, had, once or twice in -her life, occurred to her as a curious problem, with which, however, she -was in no wise concerned, any more than one might be with the manner of -life or physical peculiarities of the inhabitants of one of the fixed -stars. But that by any terrible mistake on the part of Providence, she, -or Mr. Baxter, or any of the little Baxters could ever come to want -money, to have even to think about it at all, never entered the somewhat -circumscribed space allotted to her brain. - -There were poor people in the world, she knew. At least, if questioned -on the subject, she would of course have admitted the fact, adding -doubtless, that Mr. Baxter gave largely to charitable institutions, and -that she herself had more than once officiated as lady patroness at some -fancy fair or charity ball. - -Poor people in the world? Yes, of course there are. But so likewise are -there lions and tigers, and various species of ferocious or disagreeable -animals, black beetles and toads, and black people and cannibals who eat -each other. Ugh! But they don’t come in our way, and so there’s no use -thinking of them. - -So much for Mrs. Baxter’s “philosophy of life and things.” Breeding, in -the generally accepted sense of the word, as might have been expected -from her Millington education, she had none. Always of course excepting -the imposing “air de duchesse,” which really was very wonderful in its -way, and may be cited as an instance of the great perfection to which -electro-plate has been brought in these modern days. Breeding of the -higher kind, culture of mind and spirit, she was even yet more deficient -in. Under no possible circumstances, indeed, could such have been -attainable by her to any great extent. - -Yet after all she was far from a bad little woman; only her light was so -very small! Not even sufficient to make visible to the owner thereof the -surrounding darkness. Which quotation by-the-by is hardly applicable to -immaterial objects, for we are not spiritually in such a very hopeless -condition if we have attained to a perception of the darkness yet to be -dispersed; we are some little way up the ladder when our sight descries -the bewildering multitude of rungs yet to be ascended. - -Mrs. Baxter, I say, was not a bad little woman. She was the most dutiful -of wives and “exemplary” of mothers; she paid her bills punctually, -and nursed her babies irreproachably. Which latter occupation may be -considered as the great end of her existence, as year after year brought -a new olive branch to the Baxter nursery, each in turn received by its -parents with perfect equanimity, and installed in its place as a member -of the august household. - -She went to church twice every Sunday throughout the year, excepting -during the few weeks of her customary retirement; she never lost -her temper, and she spoke kindly to the housemaid when she had the -toothache. - -More than all, here she was, in deference to her husband’s wishes, -performing the unheard-of act of condescension of calling on the wife of -one of his clerks. - -“People, they say,” she confided to one of her female admirers, “who -have seen better days. A thing I specially dislike.” Which was repeated -as one of her bons mots through her social circle; for—really I was -forgetting the very funniest thing about this little woman—she, without -one spark of imagination, without one touch of humour in herself or -power of appreciating it in others, had yet acquired in the small world -in which she moved, a considerable reputation as a wit! - -This was the lady who sailed majestically into Mrs. Baldwin’s little -sitting-room. - -Marion, whose height exceeded that of the average of women, rose to -greet her, feeling, as sensitive people are apt to do when forced into -such contrast, uncomfortably taller than usual. But this sensation was -speedily succeeded by its equally unpleasant opposite, for seldom in her -life had Mrs. Baldwin felt herself, metaphorically speaking, smaller, -than when her little visitor extended her tightly gloved hand with a -species of condescending wave, and addressing her in what was intended -to be a reassuring tone, begged her to reseat herself and not to “put -herself out” on her, Mrs. Baxter’s, account. - -Almost before she knew what she was about Marion found herself waved -into a seat, while Mrs. Baxter proceeded calmly to ensconce herself -in the most luxurious of the not very tempting chairs of the little -sitting-room. - -Then the great little lady proceeded to enter into conversation, by -remarking that she hoped Mrs. Baldwin liked Millington. - -“Oh yes,” replied Marion, “we like it very well. Of course it takes some -time to feel at home in a perfectly strange place.” - -“I daresay you find it very different from living, in the country,” -observed Mrs. Baxter with an accent of superb scorn on the last word. -“For my part I can’t abide the country. People grow so stupid and -old-fashioned compared to what they are in town. Mr. Baxter talks -sometimes of buying a country-place, but I always tell him I really -couldn’t do at all without my six months at least in town.” - -Marion felt slightly puzzled as to the exact sense in which her visitor -was making use of the last word. - -“Then do you at present spend half the year in town?” she asked -cautiously. - -“Half the year!” repeated Mrs. Baxter, “oh dear yes. Three quarters at -least. We spend a month or two at the sea-side in summer. It suits very -well, as it generally happens so that I want a little change just then. -All the children except the twins were born in spring. And there’s -nothing sets one up like the sea.” - -Then there fell a little pause, Marion’s experience in the matters -referred to by the lady, not being sufficiently extensive for her to -hazard an observation in the presence of one evidently thoroughly “up” -on the subject. - -Mrs. Baxter swung herself round on her chair and scrutinized her -surroundings. - -“I never was in this street before,” she remarked. “I was afraid the -coachman would never find the house, but the footman knew it, because -his sister, who is a dressmaker, lives a little higher up. Mr. Baxter -never likes me to go through back streets for fear of infections and -those sort of things. But he made a point of my calling on you. More -than a week ago he asked me to do him a favour, and this was what it -was. I hope you haven’t stayed in for me though all this time? Mr. -Baxter has taken quite a fancy to your husband, Mrs. Baldwin. So regular -and steady in his hours, and quite a gentleman. He said so I assure you. -‘That young Baldwin is really quite a gentleman,’ he said to me. - -Marion’s face flushed. - -“I think perhaps Mrs. Baxter,” she began, “you hardly understand——.” - -But the voluble little woman interrupted her. - -“I was forgetting,” she exclaimed, “that Mr. Baxter wished me to fix a -day for your dining with us. Just in a family way, nothing of a party. -I thought most likely you would like better coming to luncheon, but he -said it would be rather too far for your husband to walk backwards and -forwards between business hours. He dines in town, I suppose? All -the clerks do, I think. Of course we dine late. I don’t mean an early -dinner. At six, we dine, and for once in a way, I daresay Mr. Baldwin -could get away from business early. Will Wednesday do? I expect some of -Mr. Baxter’s friends to be with us, so it will be quite a family party.” - -“You are very kind,” Marion forced herself to say. “We have not -gone into company at all since we came here, as I daresay you can -understand.” - -“Oh don’t make any apologies,” said Mrs. Baxter. “Of course I wouldn’t -ask you except in an unceremonious way. Don’t trouble yourself about -dressing or anything of that sort. You will do very nicely I am sure. A -high black silk, or even a merino will do quite well. Of course I always -wear a low dress, in the evening, but then that’s different.” - -“It was not on account of my dress I was hesitating,” said Marion, -quietly. “I was doubtful whether Mr. Baldwin would like the idea of -going out to dinner even in the unceremonious way you propose.” - -“Oh, but if you tell him Mr. Baxter will really make a point of -it,” urged the dutiful wife, whose desire to carry the day evidently -increased with the little expected hesitation she met with on Mrs. -Baldwin’s part. “Mr. Baldwin is sure to agree to my husband’s wishes.” - -This not very delicately expressed reminder of the relations between the -two men, had its effect. With a strong effort of self-control, Marion -answered gravely. - -“I daresay you are right, Mrs. Baxter. Then I think I may say we shall -hope to have the pleasure of dining with you next Wednesday.” - -Her mission thus successfully accomplished, the visitor took her leave, -sailing out of the room as majestically as she had entered; and in -another minute the magnificent equipage of the Millington millionaire -rolled away in ponderous grandeur from Mrs. Appleby’s door. - -Marion shook herself and stamped her feet. Then catching the reflection -of herself in the little mirror above the mantel-piece she laughed at -her own childishness. - -“How silly I am to mind it,” she said to herself. “But what a woman! How -thankful I am it is not her children but that nice kindly Mrs. Allen’s -I am going to teach! By-the-bye I am not at all sure that Mrs. Baxter -would have asked us to dinner if she had known I am was engaged to give -daily lessons. I wish I had told her. It would have been such fun to -have seen her face. I must not tell Geoffrey much about her; it would -infuriate him. And after all I suppose she means to be kind. But the -idea of her telling me my husband was ‘was really quite a gentleman!’ My -Geoffrey! My poor Geoffrey! What a vivid idea this gives me of what -he must have to endure among these people in his daily life. And how -uncomplainingly he bears it. At least let me do my part to smooth things -to him.” - -She kept her resolution. When Geoffrey returned home in the evening -Marion told him in the simplest, most matter-of-fact way of Mrs. -Baxter’s visit and invitation. “It is kind of them to ask us,” she said, -“and I thought it best not to chill or hurt them by declining it.” - -Geoffrey looked thoughtful. - -“Yes,” he replied at last. “I think you did right to accept it. It goes -rather against the grain, and no doubt it will be rather an ordeal to -both of us. But you did right, dear, as you always do,” he added fondly. - -Marion had her reward. - -“What sort of a person is Mrs. Baxter?” he asked presently. - -“A little woman,” replied Marion, “not pretty, but very well dressed. -Rather lively too. At least with plenty to say for herself. Good-natured -too, I should think, though of course not very refined. But we got on -very well.” - -He looked relieved. - -“I am glad you did not find it very dis-agreeable,” he said. “After all, -dear, it may be a good thing for you to have a few acquaintances here, -and even a family dinner at the Baxters’ may be a little variety for -you.” - -She was leaving the room as he spoke. As she passed him she stooped and -kissed his forehead as he lay back on the regulation sofa. - -“Yes, dear Geoffrey,” she said; “I have no doubt it will be rather -amusing than otherwise. Besides, it is always interesting and good for -one to see the different sorts of people there are in this queer world.” - -He caught her hands and clasped them in his own, looking up at her with -ineffable tenderness in his eyes. - -“Marion,” he said again, as he had said a few evenings before, “my -darling, you are an angel!” - -He had no great command of language, you see, poor fellow! - - - - -CHAPTER IX. “GOOD-BYE AND A KISS.” - -“And oh we grudged her sair, -To the land o’ the leal!” - SCOTCH BALLAD. - - - -“AND what sort of a person did you say Mrs. Baldwin was, my dear?” -enquired Mr. Baxter of his wife, when, the engrossing ceremonial of the -correct four or five courses having been gone through for the day, he -established himself in heavy comfort on one of the gorgeous gold and -blue couches in that lady’s drawing-room. - -“Oh, she seems a nice enough young woman,” replied Mrs. Baxter. “Rather -too free-and-easy in her manners for my taste. Of course she was very -plainly dressed, and is quite without any sort of style. But these -country-bred people always are. Besides, she has been brought up in a -very plain sort of way, I suppose. Didn’t you say she was the daughter -of some poor country Clergyman?” - -“I really don’t know who she was,” answered the husband. “The friend who -introduced Baldwin merely said he was married. He himself is so superior -looking, gentleman-like a young man, I could have imagined his having -rather a nice wife. But, as you say, country breeding always shows more -in a woman than a man.” - -Mrs. Baxter had not said anything half so original, but took care to -pocket the observation for future use, a little feat she was rather -clever at performing. - -“I didn’t say she wasn’t nice,” she replied. “I only said she hadn’t any -style.” - -“And you asked them for Wednesday?” pursued Mr. Baxter. “What day do you -expect Mr. and Mrs. William? I really forget.” - -“Monday,” replied the lady. “And that great trollopy Maria Jane of -theirs. Why they couldn’t have her at home, I can’t imagine. Mrs. -William writes she is so much improved by that new school, she is -growing quite a fine girl. Fine girl indeed! She will be six feet if she -doesn’t leave growing soon.” - -“Why isn’t she at school now?” enquired Mr. Baxter, lazily. - -“There was a fortnight’s holiday because of some death in the -governess’s family,” replied Mrs. Baxter, carelessly. “By-the-by that -reminds me Mr. Baxter, Phillips wants to go home for a week. His sister -is dead, and he wants to go to the funeral. So inconvenient, too, just -as Mr. and Mrs. William are coming. I can’t abide any one but Phillips -driving me; it shakes my nerves to bits, and makes me all over -‘ysterical.’ ” (It was, to do her justice, very seldom that Mrs. Baxter -fell short in this way, but now and then, when somewhat excited, her h’s -were apt to totter.) - -“Tell him he can’t go, then,” said Monsieur, sleepily, for the combined -influences of his three glasses of port, the fire and the blue and gold -sofa, were growing too much for him. And to tell the truth for Mrs. -Baxter too! So, till startled by the entrance of Jeames and tea, the -millionaire and his wife slumbered peacefully (though in one case -sonorously), on each side of that marvel of tiles and fire-brick, -burnished steel and resplendent gilding, which to them served as the -representation of their “ain fireside.” - -Wednesday came, and at six o’clock in the evening thereof, Mr. and Mrs. -Baldwin, four-and-sixpence the poorer for the fly which had conveyed -them from their “back-street” to the Millington West End, where the -Baxter residence was situated, made their appearance in the blue and -gold drawing-room. - -Somewhat against her wishes Geoffrey had insisted on Marion’s attiring -herself in a manner more befitting the wife of the rich Mr. Baldwin of -Brackley Manor, than the helpmeet of one of Mr. Baxter’s clerks on a -salary one hundred and fifty pounds a year. - -“When your dresses are worn out, and I can’t afford to buy you more,” he -said with some slight bitterness in his tone, “then you may go about -in brown stuff if you like. Or black more likely,” he added, in an -undertone, with as near an approach to a cynical smile as was possible -for him, “for I shan’t live to see it. By then it is to be hoped you -will be free of the curse I have been to you one way and another, -my poor darling!” And with the last words, though only whispered to -himself, there stole into his voice, spite of his bitter mood, an -inflection of exquisite tenderness. - -So the dress in which Marion Baldwin made her début into “cotton at -home,” socially speaking, though plain, was of the richest and best as -to fashion, colour, and material. - -Mr. Baxter positively started as he caught sight of her. Mrs. Baxter -even, felt a little taken aback, not by the woman herself, but by her -clothes, the quality of which her feminine acuteness was not slow to -estimate as it deserved. Into such particulars of course Mr. Baxter, -in common with his sex, did not enter, but the effect of the whole, the -tout ensemble presented by “Baldwin’s wife,” struck him with admiration -and surprise. - -“Country-bred!” he muttered to himself. “It seems to me, my dear Sophia, -you have made a little mistake hereabouts.” - -For though the range of his ideas was not so limited, nor their circle -so circumscribed, as was the case with those possessed by his wife. -Brain work of any kind, even though it be confined to invoices and -shipping-orders, and never soar above the usual round of mercantile -interests and excitements, having an innate tendency to develop -generally the mental faculties and widen their grasp. - -The “family dinner” was a very gorgeous affair. Besides Mr. and Mrs. -William and the “trollopy Maria Jane,” there were some six or eight of -the habitués of the Baxter circle, making in all a company of fourteen -or fifteen guests. - -Dinner announced, Marion, to her surprise, and the secret chagrin of the -observant hostess, found herself selected by Mr. Baxter to occupy the -place of honour at his right. Just, however, as she was placing her -hand on the old gentleman’s arm, to her amazement a sudden rush (if so -undignified a word may be applied to the movements of so stately a lady) -was made from the other side of the room by Mrs. Baxter and a tall man, -to whom she had the look of acting as a small but energetic tug. The -pair pushed their way to the front of the company, and Marion beheld for -the first time the unusual spectacle of the hostess preceding her guests -to her own dining-room. Mrs. Baldwin’s cheeks, despite her philosophy, -flushed. - -“Can this,” she said to herself, “be done intentionally to insult me? I -don’t mind for myself, but if Geoffrey thinks that little woman is rude -to me it will make him so angry, and our coming here will have done more -harm than good.” - -Somewhat anxiously she glanced up at Mr. Baxter’s face, to see what he -thought of this extraordinary procedure on the part of his wife. The -worthy gentleman was smiling blandly, and modestly made way for the -advancing couples, as one by one they filed out of the room, till at -last, his sheep-dog occupation at an end, he and his bewildered charge -brought up the rear, and, crossing the tesselated hall, through a double -row of Jeamses, took their places at table. - -Evidently nothing in what had occurred had in the least astonished him. -The whole, therefore, must have been thoroughly “en regle,” according -to Millington ideas. “Truly,” thought Mistress Marion to herself, -sententiously, as her gaze fell first on the splendour of the table -appointments and next on the faces surrounding her, and she began to -realize something of the wonders of cottonocracy, the talent and -energy which have made it what it is, the extraordinary contrasts and -inconsistencies discernible in its social aspects. “Truly,” thought to -herself “the wife of one of Mr. Baxter’s clerks,” “ ‘we live and learn -and do the wiser grow.’ ” Glancing across the table she caught sight -at the other end of Geoffrey’s face, and a smile on it brought a bright -expression to her own. He looked cheery and comfortable enough, which -it relieved her to see; and in the very bottom of her heart she, though -sitting there as “grandly dressed,” as the children say, as any at -table, felt not a little glad that for once in a way her poor boy was -sure of a really good dinner and as many glasses of excellent wine as -his extremely temperate habits would allow him to consume. - -For, with all her housewifely care, their living at Mrs. Appleby’s was -necessarily of the plainest, and sometimes Marion had sharp misgivings -that this, among other things, was beginning to tell on Geoffrey’s -health. He professed to dine, or lunch, in Millington, but as often -as not his wife suspected that the so-called meal was nothing more -substantial than a biscuit; for all their funds passed through her -hands, and out of the infinitesimal sum which was all she could persuade -him to appropriate to his personal expenses, very few luncheons worthy -of the name, it was evident even to her inexperience, could be provided. - -One of these sudden misgivings visited her just now, as glancing again -in her husband’s direction she observed attentively his face, this -time turned from her. Surely the profile was sharper than of yore, the -cheek-bone more defined, the hollow round the eye, strangely deeper? A -sort of mist came before her sight, and into her mind there flashed one -of those commonplace sayings, household aphorisms, to which, till they -touch us practically, we pay so little heed. “It is not always the -strongest-looking men that stand the most or are the wiriest,” she -had heard said a hundred times, without considering the meaning of the -words. Now, however, they suddenly started before her, invested with -new force and significance, and she was rapidly falling into a painful -reverie, when she was recalled to present surroundings by the fat, -commonplace voice of her host, remarking to her by way of saying -something original, that “he hoped she liked Millington.” - -Much in the same words as she had replied to the same observation on the -part of Mrs Baxter, Marion answered. “Oh, yes, she liked it very well. -Doubtless, in time, she would like it better.” - -“When you have made a few more friends here, perhaps,” said the -gentleman civilly. “I am sorry my wife was so long of calling on you, -but to tell you the truth it was not till lately I was aware my friend -Baldwin was married.” (A fib, of course, or at least three-quarters of -one.) - -“It was very kind of Mrs. Baxter to call,” said Marion, with a simple -dignity that was not lost on her hearer. “And you, I know, Mr. Baxter, -have been very kind to Geoffrey. When we came here, of course, it -was with no idea of living in any but the most retired way. I hardly, -indeed, expected to make any acquaintances at all.” - -“An expectation which, for the sake of Millington, I certainly trust may -not be fulfilled,” replied Mr. Baxter gallantly. - -Marion smiled, and accepted the good-natured little compliment with her -usual unaffectedness. - -“You have been accustomed to a country life, I believe?” continued the -host. - -“No,” replied she. “Till the last two years I lived principally in -London.” - -“Indeed!” remarked the gentleman, and forthwith discarded the -poor-country-clergy-man’s-daughter hypothesis. Sophia had been at fault -somehow, he began to feel sure. He rather enjoyed the idea of reminding -her of her “nice enough young person.” But in the first place he must -make sure of his own ground. - -“Your father, I believe, ma’am, was in the church?” he enquired, -gingerly. - -“Oh no,” she replied, good-naturedly still, though beginning to think -that all this cross-questioning must surely be another peculiarity of -Millington manners. “My father was not a clergyman. At one time of his -life I believe it was proposed he should go into the church, as one of -his uncle’s livings was vacant; but he did not like the idea, and never -entered any profession, unless you call politics such.” - -“Very hard work and very poor pay, any way,” replied Mr. Baxter, rubbing -his hands in a self-gratulatory manner. “I thank my stars I had never -anything to say to them. Then your late father, ma’am, was, I suppose, a -Hem P.?” - -“Yes,” said Marion, simply, “for ——. My father’s name was Vere—Hartford -Vere.” - -“You don’t say so. I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Mr. Baxter, though -why he did so Marion could not quite understand. Upon my soul.” (“Ah, -Sophia, I shall have a little crow to pluck with you.”) “Very strange,” -audibly again. “Very strange I never heard it. A great loss to his -country, a very great loss, was Mr. Vere. Your father! Well, to be sure. -Ah, indeed.” And with a series of such little detached, fragmentary -observations the worthy gentleman composed his somewhat startled nerves. - -The rest of dinner passed uneventfully enough. - -Marion got on decidedly better with the gentleman than she had done with -the lady. And Mr. Baxter, on his part, mentally pronounced her a most -charming woman. - -Geoffrey’s neighbour at table was the Maria Jane, so cuttingly described -by her aunt as “trollopy.” She was tall certainly, for her age, rather -alarmingly so, with the possibility in prospect of continuing to grow -some four or five years to come. And thin, very thin, “lanky,” to use -another of Mrs. Baxter’s favourite expressions. But at her age thinness, -lankiness even, if the word be preferred, has, when coupled with -gentleness and perfect absence of affectation, to my mind a certain -touching, appealing sweetness of its own. But this, of course, is a -matter of opinion. It may be very bad taste, but I have rather a horror -off fat young girls. - -Maria Jane Baxter was, however, really and truly a very sweet girl. -Geoffrey’s heart she very speedily won, for before they had been ten -minutes at table, she asked him timidly if he could tell her the name of -“the lovely young lady on her uncle’s right.” - -So he and she, as might have been expected from this auspicious -commencement, very speedily made friends; and when the ladies retired -after dinner to the drawing-room, Maria Jane took care to establish -herself in a modest corner not far from Mr. Baldwin’s attractive wife. - -The conversation of the elder ladies was to Marion so utterly -uninteresting, to say the least, that it was with a feeling of immense -relief that she heard herself accosted by name by a gentle voice, asking -if she would like to examine a collection of really beautiful engravings -in a portfolio on the table. Mrs. Baldwin responded cordially to the -young girl’s modest attention. - -Over the engravings they fell into conversation. - -“Do you draw, Miss Baxter?” Marion happened to ask. - -“A little,” replied the girl. “That is, I am very fond of it, and my -master thinks I have taste for it. But lately I have had to give it -up, as at the school where I am now they were afraid of its making me -stoop.” - -“Then you are at a boarding-school, I suppose?” enquired Marion. “I was -never at school myself; but sometimes, being an only daughter, I used to -wish my father would send me. Are you happy at your school?” - -“Very,” replied Maria, heartily. “It is a very nice school. It is not -like those you read of, where the girls are harshly treated. We have -such pretty little bed-rooms; only two in each. I have a little girl in -mine, whom I take care of. She has only lately come, and at first she -was very lonely. Poor Lotty! But now she is getting accustomed to it. -She is very fond of me, poor child!” - -Maria felt so perfectly at ease with her new friend, that she waxed -communicative in a wonderful way. - -“ ‘Lotty,’ did you say your name was?” said Marion. “I once knew a -little girl named Lotty.” - -What memories, what associations the simple word recalled! “Lotty,” -Mrs. Baldwin repeated, half mechanically. “What is her other name, Miss -Baxter?” - -“Severn,” replied the girl. “Lotty Severn, Charlotte Severn, that is to -say,” she added, glibly. “She is an orphan. Her father was a baronet, -and now her uncle is one. She has always been brought up at home till -lately. But about six months ago her little sister—” - -Maria stopped, something in Mrs. Baldwin’s look of intense interest -arrested her. - -“Her little sister—Sybil—yes, I know,” exclaimed Marion. “Go on, please, -Miss Baxter. I want to hear very much. You don’t know how much. Only -don’t say that Sybil——.” - -“I don’t like to tell you,” said Maria, looking frightened and half -ready to cry. - -“Please go on,” repeated her companion. - -“This little sister—Lotty Severn’s little sister, Sybil, she has -often told me her name— Don’t look so, dear Mrs. Baldwin, you frighten -me—little Sybil died six months ago. That was why they sent Lotty to -school. She was pining so for her sister.” - -“Oh, Sybil, my dear little Sybil, my poor little dove!” moaned Marion to -herself, but softly, so softly that no one of the Millington ladies at -the other end of the room could have suspected the sad little tragedy -taking place so near them. “So you are gone, my little girl, my gentle -darling! And I not to have known it! Could you not have stopped an -instant on your way to kiss me goodbye, as you used to say? And the only -creature left to him to love,” she murmured, in a yet more inaudible -whisper, though her former words had hardly reached the oars of the -sympathizing girl beside her. - -For a few moments there was silence at the little side table, whereon -lay the book of costly engravings. Then Marion, with a strong effort, -recovered herself, and looking up, said gently: - -“Forgive me, Miss Baxter. I loved that little girl very much, and, till -now, I had no idea of this. Will you be so very good as tell me all poor -Lotty told you about—about her sister.” - -“Lotty does not very often speak about her,” said Maria. “I was told not -to encourage her to do so very much as it makes her cry dreadfully. So -I don’t know many particulars. She was not ill very long—not at -last—though I believe she was always delicate?” - -Marion assented silently. - -“She died of some sort of fever,” went on Miss Baxter. “Lotty might not -see her to say goodbye, but poor little Sybil sent her a kiss two hours -before she died. She was very fond of her uncle, Lotty says, but he was -abroad at the time.” - -“Did Lotty ever happen to mentions to you any one else Sybil was very -fond of?” asked Marion. - -“Yes,” said the girl, after some consideration. “There was a governess -they had abroad. I forget her name. Lotty said Sybil cried for her when -she was ill. And she sent goodbye and a kiss to her by Lotty. But Lotty -thinks the lady went to India. Her grandmother, who takes care of her, -told her so.” - -“Will you do me a little favour, Miss Baxter?” said Marion. - -The girl assented eagerly. - -“When you see Lotty Severn next—(You are returning to school soon?” “The -day after to-morrow,” said Maria)—“tell her that, without her knowing -it, dear Sybil’s last message has been delivered. Tell her, too, that -Marion Freer has never forgotten her two little pupils and will always -love them. And if, dear Miss Baxter, you will continue to how kindness -to poor Lotty, it will be very good of you. You will have my gratitude -if no one’s else.” - -“You may be sure I will do all I can for her,” said the girl warmly. -“And I will give her your message.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Marion, adding, as she was obliged to turn -towards the rest of the company, for the gentlemen had just entered -the room, and Mr. Baxter was bearing down upon her, “You won’t mind my -asking you not to mention what we have been talking about to any one?” - -“Certainly, I will not,” answered Maria. “I would not have done so -even if you had not asked it.” For the girl felt instinctively that her -disclosure had trenched on sacred ground, and from what she had gathered -of Mrs. Baldwin’s history from Geoffrey’s allusions during dinner, she -was quite aware that it had been a somewhat eventful one. - -“Thank you,” again said Marion, and for an instant pressed the young -girl’s hand in her own. - -And the poor clerk’s beautiful wife and the rich man’s young daughter, -though they had never seen each other before, and would, probably -enough, never see each other again, felt more like friends than many -women who have lived for years in each other’s constant companionship. - - - - -CHAPTER X. LITTLE MARY’S ADVENT. - -“But the child that is born on a Sabbath day -Is blithe and bonny and wise and gay.” - - - -IN consequence of the family dinner at Mrs. Baxter’s, and the impression -there made upon the master of the house by the discovery of Mrs. -Baldwin’s antecedents, that young lade received the honour of morning -calls from some half dozen, more or less distinguished, Millington -matrons. For a short time indeed, Marion ran some chance of becoming the -fashion, but as the prospect was not a tempting one and the horrors of -being patronised did not diminish on nearer view, she managed, quietly, -though without giving offence, to let her new acquaintances understand -that she and her husband were of one mind as to the expediency of living -in a perfectly retired manner. - -“Quite out of the world,” Mrs. Baxter called it, and though Marion -smiled inwardly at the Millington lady’s notion of society, she had the -good sense to say nothing which could have uselessly irritated the wife -of Geoffrey’s superior. - -“Nor indeed would it be right not to seem to appreciate what they think -so attractive,” said she to her husband, “for after all, though our ways -of looking at things may be utterly different, they are in their own way -worthy people, and I suppose they mean to be kind to us.” - -“I suppose they do,” said Geoffrey, “but I couldn’t stand many of those -dreadfully heavy dinners. Even if we could afford the cabs, which we -can’t.” - -“In the bottom of her heart I think Mrs. Baxter is by no means sorry -that we have decided against ‘visiting,’ ” said Marion. “I can’t make -her out. She has been so wonderfully civil to me since we dined there, -notwithstanding the dreadful revelation of my teaching Mrs. Allen’s -boys. But yet I am certain she is not sincere in so urging us to accept -her friend’s invitations.” - -“She is a nasty little cat,” said Geoffrey; “she’s ready to scratch your -eyes out because old Baxter has gone about praising you. He’s an old -goose, (not for admiring you, I don’t mean that) but he talks in such an -absurd pompous way. All the same, he’s a long way better than his wife, -for he’s honest and she’s not. What a nice girl that little niece was we -met there! The tall thin girl I mean.” - -“Very,” assented Marion, and then her thoughts recurred to what had been -little absent from them for some days—the tidings which had so strangely -reached her of gentle Sybil’s death. She had not told Geoffrey about -it. He had never heard any particulars of her life at Altes, and had -she told him any she must have told him all, which on the whole she felt -convinced was better not. - -There was nothing really to be concealed, nothing of which she was -ashamed. Years hence, some day when they had left all the past further -behind, she would perhaps tell him the whole story. But not just yet. -She had wounded him once so deeply, that even now, there were times at -which she doubted if all was thoroughly healed; though for the last six -months each day had but served to draw them closer together, in a -way that, but for their loss of wealth, it might have taken years to -achieve. - -They were very happy together. Still, Geoffrey was at times dull and -depressed almost to morbidness, and though Marion, correctly enough, -attributed these moody fits greatly to outside circumstances, she yet -could not but fear that to some extent they arose from misgivings as to -her happiness, exaggerated self-reproach for what he had brought upon -her. - -At such times she found it best to ignore, in great measure, his -depression. Protestations of affection did not come naturally to her, -nor would they have convinced him of what, if he did doubt it, time -alone would prove genuine. Her devotion to him in practical matters at -such times even seemed to deepen his gloom. - -“You are too good to me, far too good,” he would say, but with a tone as -of disclaiming his right to such goodness, inexpressibly painful to her. - -At other times again he would brighten up wonderfully, and Marion’s -anxiety about him, physically and mentally, would temporarily slumber. - -So the days wore on, till it grew to be within about three weeks of -Christmas. The engagement with Mrs. Allen, which had been punctually -fulfilled, was drawing to a close, much to Marion’s regret; for the -five guineas a month had proved a very acceptable addition to Geoffrey’s -modest salary, and the task till latterly, had seemed a light and -pleasant one. Mrs. Allen had shown herself most consistently kind and -considerate; many a day she had suddenly discovered a pressing errand at -the other side of Millington obliging her to drive in the direction -of Brewer Street, where Mrs. Appleby’s mansion was situated, curiously -enough at the very hour of Mrs. Baldwin’s return thither. - -“So as it happens, my dear,” the worthy lad would say, “I can give you a -lift home without taking me five yards about.” - -The little boys were very nice children, gentle and teachable. The -youngest one indeed rather unusually and precociously intelligent; -but as is generally the case with such children, physically speaking, -fragile to a degree. They were the youngest and only remaining of a -large family, all of whom had dropped off, one by one, as the mother -expressed it, like buds with no life in them. - -“Though how it should be the young ones come to be so delicate -considering how strong Papa and I are, I can’t understand,” said Mrs. -Allen to Marion, as she wiped away a few tears one day when she had been -relating the history of her successive bereavements. - -As the weather grew colder Geoffrey seemed to feel stronger. The long -walk to and from Mr. Baxter’s warehouse was not half so trying to him -in winter as in the close oppressive days of their first coming to -Millington. But it was not so with Marion. Day after day she felt her -strength mysteriously diminishing, and as the last week of her daily -lessons’ giving approached, she felt thankful that the engagement was -so near its termination; for easy as the task had been, she felt that it -was growing too much for her. - -One morning the boys had been a little more troublesome than usual, -and she herself by the close of the lesson felt utterly exhausted. The -children had run out to their play, she was alone in the school-room -putting on her bonnet and cloak preparatory to her long walk home to -Brewer Street, when the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Allen appeared. -She had come, good soul, with her usual transparent little fib about -having to drive in Mrs. Baldwin’s direction; but before she had time -to explain her errand, to her surprise and alarm, Marion burst into a -violent fit of weeping. - -“What is the matter, dear Mrs. Baldwin? tell me, I pray you,” said the -kind-hearted woman. “Have the boys been teasing you, or are you not -feeling well this morning?” - -Marion tried to answer her enquiries, but for some minutes could not -control her voice sufficiently to do so. Mrs. Allen fetched a glass of -wine which she made her drink part of, and in a short time the poor -girl was well enough to speak as quietly as usual, and smile at her own -“silly fit of crying.” - -“Truly,” she assured Mrs. Allen, “I had no reason for crying. Alfred was -rather slower than usual at his sums, but he was perfectly good, poor -little fellow. I may have been a little tired by that, however; it is -the only thing I can think of. Only”—and she hesitated. - -“Only what, my dear?” urged Mrs. Allen. - -Marion looked up at the kind, motherly face. Its expression invited -confidence. - -“Don’t tell anyone what I am going to say, dear Mrs. Allen,” said she, -laying her hand appealingly on her friend’s arm. I cannot help feeling -it would be a relief to tell some-body. Do you know I am afraid I am -getting ill. Sometimes I feel as if I must really be going to die. I am -so dreadfully weak, and every day I feel more so. It is making the very -miserable, for I don’t know how Geoffrey could live without me. And my -falling ill would be such a fearful aggravation of all his troubles.” - -She looked as if she were ready to burst out crying again. Mrs. Allen -made her finish her wine, and then said very kindly, - -“I don’t think you are going to die, dear Mrs. Baldwin, but I certainly -think you must take more care of yourself, for I am sure you need it. -You are very young and inexperienced, my dear. I should like you to see -a doctor.” - -“I don’t think it would be any use,” said Marion, sadly. “Besides,” she -added, her face flushing, “doctors are so expensive, and my seeing one -would alarm Geoffrey so. Of all things I wish to avoid doing so till -I am obliged. I may get round again gradually, when the weather is -better.” - -“No, my dear,” persisted Mrs. Allen. “It does not do to trust to ‘may -get wells.’ You must see a doctor. And if you don’t want to alarm your -husband, I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it. If you will stay just now to -early dinner with me and the boys, whenever it’s over I’ll take you to -our own doctor. As nice a man as ever lived. You’ll go with me you know -in an easy sort of way. Nothing to pay this time any way. I’ll tell him -I brought you, a little against your will, feelin’ anxious about you. -If he goes to see you at your own house again that’ll be another affair. -To-day you’ll be like as might be my daughter.” - -Marion gratefully agreed to the arrangement so thoughtfully proposed, -which was accordingly carried out. Nothing could exceed Mrs. Allen’s -motherly kindness, and Marion felt not a little thankful for her -presence and sympathy, for wholly unexpected and somewhat overwhelming -was Dr. Hamley’s solution of her mysterious loss of strength. - -Was she sorry or glad? she asked herself, when, set down at her own door -by her friend, she had an hour or two’s quiet to think over this little -looked-for intelligence, before the usual time for Geoffrey’s return -from business. - -She could not tell. If they had still been rich, she thought to herself, -this new prospect before her would have been one of unalloyed rejoicing. -But now? They were so poor, and she feared much, the thought of another -help-less being dependent on his unaided exertions would sadly deepen -the lines already creeping round Geoffrey’s fair, boyish face, would -quickly mingle grey hairs with the golden ones she had learnt to love so -fondly. And then there came back to her recollection the words of Lady -Anne, that day at Copley Wood when she had been so frightened about -Geoffrey, and had yet been cruel enough to chill him by her affected -indifference to his safe return. - -“Geoffrey is so fond of children,” had said Lady Anne. - -“Would he still feel so?” Marion asked herself. She could not make up -her mind. - -So she kept her news to herself for a while. - -But when at last one day she confided it to her husband, she almost -repented not having done so before. The relief to him was so immense of -having a satisfactory explanation of Marion’s failing health and wearied -looks, that all other considerations faded into insignificance. He had -been watching her, though silently, with the most intense anxiety, and -though fearful of distressing her by objecting to the fulfilment of her -engagement with Mrs. Allen, had been counting the days till it should be -at an end. - -“Oh, my darling!” he said; “I am so thankful, so very thankful it is -this and not worse. For the last week or two I have been in such misery -about you. I saw how ill you were—saw you growing weaker and weaker -before my eyes without knowing what to do. I seemed paralyzed when -I first realized that it was not only my fancy, and yet I dreaded -startling you by noticing it. Only to-day I had made up my mind to write -to Veronica and ask her to arrange for your going to her for the rest -of the winter. I thought this place was killing you, and yet I could not -endure the thought of parting with you.” - -“And do you think I would have left you, Geoffrey?” she whispered. - -“I feared you would object to it, in your unselfishness, my darling—your -generous pity for the man that has ruined your life.” - -“Don’t, don’t,” she interrupted, laying her hand on his mouth. “It pains -me so terribly when you speak so. It isn’t pity, Geoffrey. It is far, -far more.” - -He did not contradict her in her words; he looked at her fondly, with -mingled reverence and tenderness. But she did not feel satisfied that he -quite believed her. - -“You are the whole world to me,” he murmured. “Surely I am not selfish -in wishing to keep you all to myself for a time. It may not, will not, -I think, be for very long. And then—heaven grant I may have strength to -work for her while she has no one else to look to.” - -He spoke too low, for Marion, who had moved across the room, to catch -his words. When she had got her work she came back and sat down beside -him. - -“It is frightfully hard upon you,” he said anxiously. No comforts, no -anything. If only we had a little house of our own, however small. But -we must not think of that just yet. In a few months I hope we shall get -the two thousand pounds, which is all we shall ever see of the old Bank. -Then, perhaps, we might think of furnishing a little house here.” - -“We should be dreadfully rich then,” said Marion cheerfully. “Another -hundred a year! Oh, yes, we might quite furnish a house then, and keep, -perhaps, two servants.” - -“But furnishing would make a hole in the capital, and then we shouldn’t -have as much as a hundred additional,” said Geoffrey, dolefully. - -“Not at all,” exclaimed his wife. “You are forgetting the three hundred -pounds ready money we have already. It is with that, or part of it, I -intend to furnish.” - -“Well, we must see,” he said, unwilling to damp her pleasure in these -plans, but mentally resolving that in the meantime at least the precious -three hundred must not be trenched upon. “We must see,” he repeated. -“One thing I am thankful for, and that is, there can be no more question -of your doing anything but take care of yourself. No more trampings to -Mrs. Allen’s, or still more horrible omnibus drives.” - -“It wasn’t horrible at all,” said Marion, brightly. “I am really very -sorry it is over. They are dear little boys, and Mrs. Allen herself is -the best and kindest creature possible. And as for sitting at home and -taking care of myself, I can assure you I have no idea of doing anything -of the sort. I have lots of things to do,” she went on, her face -flushing a little. “Just think of all the sewing I must get through. I -shall spend five pounds of the money I have earned in materials, and I -shall make everything myself.” - -Geoffrey smiled. A smile more piteous than tears. - -“My poor darling,” he said, “to think that you should have to work your -pretty fingers sore! I am afraid I don’t feel very amiably inclined to -the little——” - -“You are very wicked,” said Marion, laughing in spite of herself. - -“I am not, indeed,” he pleaded. “How can I feel amiably disposed to -anything that will cause you so much trouble. But I won’t say it if it -vexes you. I dare say you think me horribly unnatural, but how can I -care for anything as I do for you?” - -“Never mind,” she replied. “You’ll care quite enough when the time -comes. And I never said I was going to work my fingers sore, you -exaggerating creature.” - -Then she brought out the five pound note she had that day received from -Mrs. Allen, and set to work to calculate how far was the farthest to -which the hundred shillings could be persuaded to extend themselves in -her contemplated purchases. - -Geoffrey’s Millington experience was applied to as a competent authority -on the probable prices of various materials; but, to tell the -truth, though he gave his most solemn attention to the subject under -consideration, he failed to distinguish himself as might have been -expected, and ended by getting himself called “a great stupid, who -didn’t know the difference between linen and cotton, valenciennes and -crochet.” - -It was laughable enough in its way, this little domestic scene, I dare -say. But pathetic too. Marion, through all her cheerfulness, was yet -conscious of the peculiar loneliness of her position. Motherless, -sisterless, her only confidante in these essentially womanly matters a -man, whom, at first sight, one would hardly have selected as likely -to excel in delicate adaptation of his strength to her weakness, -his thorough manliness to her shrinking refinement. Yet, great rough -ploughman as he called himself, few men were better fitted than Geoffrey -Baldwin to be mother, sister, and friend, as well as husband, to the -solitary girl who had no one but him to look to. - -Christmas brought a letter from Harry, enclosing a cheque for ten -pounds, “to buy Marion a winter bonnet,” he said. Since the news of -their misfortune had reached him, Harry’s conduct had been beyond all -praise. Not only had he at once cut down his already moderate personal -expenses, but, by the strictest economy, he had succeeded in saving the -little surplus he now sent to his sister as a Christmas-box. How welcome -a one he little guessed! For it was, of course, at once appropriated to -be spent in the same direction as the obstinate five pounds, which so -resolutely-refused to behave themselves as ten. - -“Don’t be unhappy about me,” wrote Marion’s brother. “I only wish I -could see that you and Baldwin are as jolly as I. My pay is, as you see, -more than enough for my expenses, and if all goes well, by the time we -come home again, I have a very good chance of being made adjutant, -which will enable me to manage without difficulty in England. By another -Christmas I shall hope to be with you at home; Millington or anywhere, -it doesn’t matter—wherever you two are is home to me.” - -Some tears were shed over this letter. It was not in -woman-nature—sister-nature—that it should be otherwise. Nevertheless, it -added not a little to the cheerfulness of Mrs. Appleby’s two lodgers as -they ate their modest Christmas dinner in the sitting-room looking into -Brewer Street. A ponderous invitation to perform that same important -ceremony in the presence and at the board of Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, had -been received but civilly declined. - -“Let us have a nice quiet Christmas-day together, in our own little -room,” pleaded Marion; and Geoffrey was by no means loth to comply with -the request. - -Christmas past, the new year soon began. January, February, and March, -three ugly, dirty, slushy months, in Millington at least, followed each -other in gloomy succession. With April things began to mend a little. -Fresh sprouts made their appearance, with infinite labour and patience, -even on the few smoke-dried shrubs and trees in Brewer Street. And -in-doors at No. 32, there was comfort and content; for Mrs. Baldwin had -been far from idle these last few months, and surveyed with no small -satisfaction the piles of neatly-fingered little garments which bore -witness to her industry. - -Then came May, sweet, fickle, provoking May! Mois de Marie, which still -we dream of as loveliest of all the twelve; though seldom, if ever, are -our fond visions realised. But this year May was, for once, true to her -legendary character, and the end of the month was fresh and sweet and -genial, as we all fancy May used to be, long ago, when we were children: -in the times when Christmas was always clear and frosty, seen through a -brilliant vista of holly and mistletoe, plum-pudding and mince-pie; -and Midsummer’s-day a suitable fairy carnival of sunshine and flowers, -dances on the green, or picnics in the wood. - -What has come over the world in these later days? Why is Christmas, as -often as not, muddy and foggy and raw, ending in uneatable plum-pudding -or deplorably indigestible mince-pies? Is it in us, or in it, this -extraordinary change? Where have they all gone to—the beautiful winters -and summers of long ago? The lovely, hot, sunny days, when the nights -seemed years apart, and the deep green woods the proper place to live -in—when we made daisy-chains and cowslip-balls, and all manner of sweet, -silly, summer things, whose very names now sound as the dreams of a -former existence. The spring with its blossoms, the autumn with its -fruit. The bright sparkling winter, with its snow-balls and skates, -roast chestnuts and fire-side games, surely the most delightful of all! -What has come over them all? - -Now-a-days, all the year round, with few if any exceptions, the days -have a uniform shade of grey. With the exception of certain physical -sensations, certain practical and not unwelcome suggestions from the -housemaid, to the effect that “it is getting time to begin fires again,” -many a week would go by without my thinking of, or realising the change -of the seasons. Then again some trifle will bring it all back to me—the -first snow-drop head peeping through the soil, a cluster of red berries -on the hedge some early autumn day, the children’s voices passing my -door, intent on a summer day’s ramble, as beautiful to them, I suppose, -as it once was to me; or, more tender still, the sweet, quaint words of -the Christmas carols in the village street—with any of these, the old -wonderful feeling surges over me to overwhelming; and I ask myself if -indeed my youth is gone for ever, or but veiled for a time, to be found -again with all the beauty and truth, the essentially everlasting, in the -far-off land we must all believe in, or cease to exist? - -But I have wandered from Brewer Street, and what happened there one -Sunday morning a bright, lovely May morning, the last day but one of the -capricious month. - -A daughter was born to the young couple, with whom fortune had played -such malicious tricks. A sweet, tiny, soft, blue-eyed doll of a -thing. Truly the very nicest of babies! Healthy as heart could wish, -comfortable and content. - -“A real Sunday child, is she not?” said Marion to Geoffrey, as with -tremendous precaution and solemnity he bent down to kiss the funny pink -nose emerging from the nest of flannel by her side. “A nice, good, happy -Sunday child. I am very glad she is not a boy. A girl will be far more -of a comfort to us, won’t she, Geoffrey? And may I call her ‘Mary?’ ” - -“Of course you may, my darling,” he replied, “or any name you choose.” - -He would not have objected to “Kerenhappuch,” or “Aurora Borealis,” as -a small friend of mine once suggested at a family consultation of the -kind. He was perfectly satisfied with the baby, whatever its sex or -name, seeing that its mother, the light of his eyes, the being for whose -happiness he was willing, nay, ready at any moment to die, was well and -strong, and pronounced by the authorities to be in a fair way towards a -speedy and prosperous recovery. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. MARION’S DREAM. - -“Between the dawning and the day, - The wind fell and the thunder ceased, - The rod light came up from the east, - As my dear love a-dying lay - Between the dawning and the day.” - BALLAD. - - - -THE night after the baby’s birth Marion Baldwin had a somewhat -remarkable dream. Remarkable in more ways than one. In the first place -it was unusually coherent and clear; in the second, it was the first and -only time in which Ralph Severn, the being who had exerted the greatest -influence on herself and her life, ever appeared to her in “a vision of -the night;” in the third place, after events satisfied her at least that -to some extent the dream was prophetic as well as retrospective. - -She dreamt that she was again a little child. A girl with flying curls -and nimble feet, playing with her brother Harry in the garden of the -little cottage at Brackley. All that had happened to her since then—her -eventful girlhood, her sufferings and joys, her wifehood had hardly as -yet realized motherhood—her whole life in short, was for the time -being, swept out of her mind. She was again little May Vere, chasing -butterflies and running races on the grass with still smaller Harry. -Suddenly, in the midst of their play there was wafted towards her a -strong, sweet scent. It was that of honeysuckle; the scent which, ever -since the meeting in the old garden at the Peacock, she had not been -able to endure. Any day she would gladly have walked some miles rather -than encounter it. - -In her dream it acted upon her in a peculiar, bewildering way. For -a short time there came over her the painful sensation of partial -suffocation; it seemed to her that she stopped in her running, and lay -down on the soft, velvety grass. At this point Harry disappeared; nor -did the remembrance of him return to her again throughout the dream. -Gradually the oppression cleared away, and her breathing became easy. -She was still conscious of the honeysuckle scent; but no longer to -a painful of disagreeable extent. Then some one called her by name, -clearly and distinctly. She knew the voice to be Ralph’s; but, looking -up eagerly to see him, to her amazement she recognized the person -approaching her as Geoffrey. As he drew nearer she saw that he looked -pale and tired and walked very slowly. Something too he was carrying in -his arms, the form of which she could not at first distinguish. Then she -saw that it was a little child, lying across his breast as if asleep. It -was not a baby, for a shower of thick, dark hair fell over and concealed -the face: and as Geoffrey came close to her, and stood half fainting -beside her, with one hand he gently put aside the hair, and she saw that -the child was Sybil. Then he spoke. - -“Help me to carry her, Marion,” he said. “I promised to take care of her -and see her safe home, but she was too tired to walk any further; and I -am nearly worn out myself.” - -Marion stretched out her arm to take the child, but suddenly, as she did -so, Sybil seemed to awake, slid from her grasp, and stood before her. -Without speaking, the child for a moment gazed at the husband and wife -with yearning love in her face; then, kissing her little hands she -turned from them and hastened rapidly away, seeming rather to fly than -run; but ever as she went, turning to kiss her hands with a sort of -beckoning gesture. Marion did not feel the least surprise; but looking -at Geoffrey was amazed to see him in violent distress. - -“I must go,” he cried, “I must go.” As these words reached her ears she -was seized with that fearful, indescribable sensation of dream horror, -combining in itself every shade of human agony. Throwing up her arms in -her extremity, she heard again Ralph’s voice calling her by name; and -immediately she felt her hands grasped in his. Looking up, she met his -tender, loving gaze fixed on her. - -“Marion, Marion,” he cried, as if in reproach, “why did you not tell me -before? Why did you leave it for Sybil to tell? See only how Geoffrey -is suffering. Could you not have trusted my great love, not even for his -sake?” - -Then blinding tears fell from her eyes. In a mist as it were, she saw -Ralph dart forward, in time, barely, to prevent Geoffrey’s falling to -the ground; the sense of suffocation again oppressed her, and making a -strong effort to overcome it, she woke, with a slight scream — to -find Geoffrey bending over her in some anxiety; for her sleep had been -disturbed and he had obtained the nurse’s permission to watch beside -her, while that good lady was occupied in performing Miss Baldwin’s -toilette for the day. - -It was early morning. There were birds, a few at least, even in Brewer -Street; and their sweet spring chirping sounded fresh and bright to -Marion’s waking ears. - -“I have had such a queer dream,” she said to her husband, and she looked -at him anxiously. “You are quite well this morning, dear Geoffrey, are -you not?” she asked. “You have not been sitting up all night beside me?” - -“Oh, dear, no,” he answered cheerfully, “I have had an excellent night’s -rest. But now I must be off; for the old dragon in the next room made me -promise I shouldn’t let you talk first thing in the morning, before you -have had anything to eat. I shall get my breakfast and start for town. -I’ll be back for an hour in the middle of the day to see how you’re -getting on. Be a good girl, and get well as fast as you can, and don’t -dream queer dreams that make you scream in your sleep.” - -“It wasn’t a disagreeable dream exactly,” said Marion, “but I don’t -quite understand it.” - -Geoffrey smiled at the grave consideration she bestowed on the subject. -Then he kissed her tenderly, and was gone. - -It might have been only the faint light in the room, but somehow, Marion -could not rid herself of the idea that Geoffrey did not look well that -morning. Certainly he had had plenty to try him of late; his anxiety -about her had of itself been enough to knock him up. She must not be -morbid or fanciful, she said to herself. The best thing she could do for -her husband, was to get well herself as quickly as possible; so as to -be able to take care of him and see he played no tricks with himself; in -the way of not changing his wet clothes, going too long without food, or -any nonsense of that kind! - -She did her best to keep to her resolution, and her recovery progressed -satisfactorily. The baby was certainly very delightful, its fingers -and toes especially. It really cried very little indeed, hardly at all -“compared with a many,” said the nurse, and Marion thought it a round -ball of perfection. The nicest time was the evening, when Geoffrey came -and sat beside her, his day’s work over; and she made him hold the baby -in his arms and laughed at his wonderful clumsiness till the tears ran -down her cheeks. - -When she was well enough to be carried downstairs, and established on -the regulation sofa, which, by the help of a few pillows, Geoffrey had -succeeded in rendering somewhat more comfortable, some few visitors -dropped in to enquire after her. Kind Mrs. Allen, of course, who indeed -had allowed few days to pass since baby Mary’s arrival, without calling -herself, or sending a servant, with far more fruit than Mrs. Baldwin -could possibly have consumed, and flowers in sufficient abundance to -have decked the greater part of the front parlours in Brewer Street—not -to speak of more substantial proofs of friendliness in the shape -of jellies and blancmanges, and a dozen of old port surreptitiously -confided to Mrs. Appleby’s care, for the use of the young mother “when -she begins to get about again.” It was all done so simply, with such -homely, matter-of-fact kindliness, that even Geoffrey could not feel -offended, or otherwise than grateful for the motherly goodness which his -young wife’s gentleness and sweetness had thus drawn forth. - -The Baxter chariot made its appearance in Brewer Street one day, and the -descended therefrom in person, to inspect the new thing in babies which -had made its appearance at No. 32. She condescended to approve of -small Mary, handled her in a wonderfully knowing manner, and altogether -over-whelmed her mamma by the astonishing amount of monthly nurse talk -she managed to get through in a quarter of an hour. In this domain -evidently she felt herself at home, and thorough mistress of all she -touched upon. - -Two or three weeks soon passed, and Marion began to resume her regular -habits. Her anxiety about Geoffrey, though it had to some extent -subsided, had by no means altogether left her. At times he looked almost -like his old self; then again any extra fatigue or unusual anxiety would -tell on him fearfully. One day when he left for town he told her not to -expect him home for an hour later than usual, as he thought it probable -he would be detained till that time. It was a fine, mild evening. Marion -opened the window of her room upstairs, from whence she could see some -way down the street, and sat there watching for his return. He came at -last, walking slowly and looking very wearied. A slight shiver crept -through her as suddenly the remembrance of her strange dream flashed -across her mind. She darted downstairs and met him at the door, then -drawing him gently into the little sitting-room— - -“Geoffrey,” she said, “are you not well? I have been watching you coming -along the street, and I fancied you looked so pale and tired.” - -He did not answer her immediately. He sank down on a chair and covered -his face with his hand. She grew frightened. - -“Geoffrey,” she said, with the slight petulance of nervous anxiety, -“speak to me, do! Are you not well, or is anything the matter?” - -He roused himself and looked up in a bewildered manner. - -“Don’t be vexed with me, dear,” he said. “I know I am very stupid. No, -there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only a slight feeling of -giddiness came over me just now. I have had rather an extra long walk, -and it is getting very close and oppressive in the warehouse now the -summer is coming on. I shall be all right after tea. Let us have it now, -for I have a lot of things to talk to you about.” - -She saw he was very tired, and therefore said no more, till, refreshed -by the meal, he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair by the -window. - -“How delightful it must be in the country just now,” said Geoffrey. -“Brentshire will be looking its very best.” - -“Yes,” said Marion, a little sadly. “I am not happy when I think of your -being cooped up in this place all through the summer, Geoffrey. I can -see it does not suit you.” - -“It is not so bad for me as for you,” he replied. Then with a sudden -change of tone: “Where do you think I went to-day after leaving the -office? I set off to call on your friend, Mrs. Allen.” - -“To thank her for all her kindness?” exclaimed Marion. “I am very glad. -It is just what I have been wishing you would do, but I didn’t like to -propose it, for you have seemed so tired lately in the evenings.” - -“Well, to tell the truth it was not merely to thank her,” said Geoffrey. -“I wanted to consult her about you. I am not quite satisfied that you -are getting as thoroughly strong again as you should. And one day the -doctor said something about sea-air being always desirable after this -sort of thing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so at last I went to -consult with Mrs. Allen as to how it should be managed. She has made the -most capital arrangement, if only you will be a good girl and agree to -it. What a good creature Mrs. Allen is!” - -“Awfully good!” answered Marion, warmly. “What is this plan of hers?” - -“I’m almost afraid to tell you. I shall be so horribly disappointed if -you don’t agree to it,” said Geoffrey. “They, the Allens, are going to -the sea-side on Friday, for a month and she has asked you and the baby, -and nurse of course, to go with them for a fortnight.” - -“And leave you?” exclaimed Marion in dismay. - -“Only for a fortnight, dear,” he replied; “I shall get on very well. -Possibly I may get away on Saturday-week and stay with you till the -Monday. Don’t refuse to go, my darling. You don’t know what a relief it -will be to my mind to know you are having a breath of fresh air.” - -“But you want it more than I do, my poor Geoffrey!” remonstrated -Marion, her voice faltering. “How can I leave you here alone for a whole -fortnight? And you are not well. I see you are not well, though you -won’t own to it.” - -“But surely it would not mend matters for you not to try to get -stronger, now you have really a chance of doing so,” he urged. “Think of -all depending on you—that little monkey, too. Supposing I were to fall -ill, which Heaven forbid, so long as I am any good to you, my dearest, -all the more reason for you to keep strong.” - -There was reason in this, Marion could not deny. - -Geoffrey saw she was beginning to yield and resolved wisely to strike -while the iron was hot. - -“I promised to send Mrs. Allen a line by to-night’s post,” he said -briskly. “Give me my portfolio, and I’ll write it now and get Sarah Ann, -or whatever her name is, to post it. I am so glad to have it settled. -You are a very good girl, Marion;” and he kissed her fondly. - -“Promise me you won’t get ill while I am away,” she said wistfully. - -“Of course I won’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” he replied. The words were -rough, but the tone of the tenderest. “Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t -think I am a bit worse than I was last year when we first came here. It -is only the close weather that tries me.” And his satisfaction at the -successful result of his little scheme, made him look so bright and -cheerful that Marion’s spirits rose again, and she began to think her -fears had been exaggerated. - -“Be sure you write every day,” were her last words on the Friday -morning, when, for the first time since their coming to Millington, the -husband and wife separated. He nodded a cheerful assent, and in another -minute the train puffed out of the station, and poor Geoffrey, standing -solitary on the platform, straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse -of his wife, was lost to sight. - -Notwithstanding her misgivings on his account, Marion could not but feel -that the change of air and scene was very acceptable and pleasant. The -Allens were the kindest and most considerate of hosts; the fresh sea air -seemed to give her new life and strength with every breath; little -Mary throve as a Sunday child should, and everything but the thought of -Geoffrey’s loneliness conspired to refresh and inspirit her. - -For the first week every morning brought a few words from Brewer Street. -He was “getting on all right,” wrote Geoffrey; delighted to hear she was -so well and happy, and looking forward, if all were well, to a Saturday -and Sunday together by the sea before her return. - -One day he forwarded to her a letter in an unfamiliar hand. She opened -it with some curiosity, and hastily glanced at the signature. It was -that of “Maria Jane Baxter.” - -“How kind of her to write,” thought Marion, and the CONTENTS OF the -letter pleased her very much. - -“I have not been able to write before,” wrote Maria, “for at school we -are not allowed to send letters to any one not a relation. The holidays -have just begun, and I want very much to tell you that I gave your -message to Lotty Severn immediately I saw her. She was so very glad to -hear about you. She asked me a good many questions, and I hope it was -not wrong of me to tell her what I know. That you were married, I -mean, to Mr. Baldwin, and how handsome and kind he was, and also that I -thought you had lost a great deal of money. I hope it was not wrong of -me to tell that? I heard them speaking of you at my uncle’s, the next -day after you dined there, and I was not sure that I caught your name -rightly, for I think Uncle Baxter said your name used to be Vere, and I -understood you to say Freer. But Lotty says I am quite right, and that -before you were married, and at the time they knew you, you were Miss -Freer. She asked me to give you her love if ever I saw you, and to tell -you she would always remember you, and she hoped Mr. Baldwin would make -a great deal of money at Millington. She said she would not talk about -you to any one but her uncle—not to her grandmother, for Sybil always -thought Lady Severn was unkind to you, Lotty says—but her uncle loved -you very much for being so good to Sybil; and Lotty says she is sure he -will like to hear about you. I think that was all Lotty said. I should -like to see you again very much. I heard you had a little baby, and I -told Lotty so. She wished you would call it ‘Sybil.’ I am afraid I shall -not see you again, for my Aunt Baxter offended my mamma the last time we -were there, and mamma says she will never go there again,” &c., &c. - -And so the simple, girlish epistle ended. But it please Marion even -while it recalled painful associations. She was glad to have been able -to send a message to poor Lotty, and to receive this assurance of the -little girl’s affection. Pleased, too, that, even in this indirect -roundabout way, some tidings of her should penetrate to Ralph. She was -glad that he should know that her strong interest in his little nieces -had in no wise faded, that sweet Sybil had not been unmourned by her. - -That the incident should lead to any other result in no wise occurred to -her. - -It was on the Thursday morning of the second week of her stay with the -Allens that she received this letter. The day but one following—the -Saturday—was to bring Geoffrey. Friday passed without any tidings of -him; the first day he had missed writing. She felt a little uneasy. -Still more so when Saturday morning brought no letter. But Mrs. Allen -persuaded her that as he was coming that day he would not have thought -it necessary to write; might, not improbably, have been detained late at -business the previous evening in preparation for the Saturday’s holiday. - -Marion felt but half satisfied, but tried to think it was all right. To -kill time till the hour at which Mr. Allen promised to escort her to the -station to meet her husband, she went a long walk with the two boys. -She did her best to be cheerful; they hunted for shells, they built sand -fortresses for the waves to undermine, they ran races on the shore; but -for all that her heart was heavy with unacknowledged misgiving. At last -they turned towards home. A few paces from their own door they met Mr. -Allen hastening towards them. - -“You must have been quite a long walk,” he said, speaking, it seemed -to Marion, rather faster than usual. “I have been some distance in the -other direction looking for you. What a lovely day it is!” he went -on, hurriedly. “Just the day for the sea-side. Mr. Baldwin would have -enjoyed it so much. Such a pity he can’t come.” - -“Can’t come,” repeated Marion in astonishment. “He is coming, Mr. Allen. -I had no letter this morning, and he would have been sure to write had -anything prevented his coming.” - -She glanced at Mr. Allen’s face; he did not speak, but she read -something in his expression which caused her heart for an instant to -stand still, and then again to beat with almost suffocating rapidity. - -“Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed, wildly, “you are playing with me. It is -nonsense. I see it all in your face. You have had some dreadful news -while I was out. You have had a letter saying that——. Good God, tell me -the worst. Give me the letter, if you won’t speak.” - -“Not a letter,” stammered Mr. Allen, his rosy face suffused with -perspiration drawn forth by his very unsuccessful attempt at “breaking -it gently to the poor thing.” “Not a letter. A telegram from Mr. Baxter, -and, and—— yes, you shall see it,” he went on, fumbling in his pocket -for the large thin envelope, with the fatal “immediate” in the corner; -“for I Heaven’s sake, don’t excite your-self so, my dear young lady. -Think of the poor baby.” (He was a family man, you see, and none of the -little Allens had been brought up “by hand.”) “After all, it may not be -so bad as you think.” - -She seized the envelope, tore out the paper it enclosed, and devoured -the words with hungry eyes. - -From Robert Baxter, Esq., Millington, to “Henry Allen, Esq., Sandbeach.” -(Thus ran the telegram.) - -“Not seen Baldwin two days. Sent to enquire. Find him very ill. Better -send his wife at once.” - -That was all. All that could be learnt for the next dreadful three -hours, which must elapse before the poor wife could be by the bedside of -her suffering, perhaps dying, husband. - -For “send,” good Mr. Allen read “bring”; and after a waking nightmare -of hurry and confusion, Marion found herself but half conscious of where -she was or what she was doing, in the railway, hastening back to the -home she had quitted so unwillingly but a few days before. - -Baby Mary was with her, of course, torn from her cot, poor child, to be -hastily enveloped in hood and cloak, and hurried away on this unexpected -journey. But it was all one to her. She was really a wonderful baby -for taking things coolly, and reposed, poor little soul, in calm -unconsciousness of her father’s danger, or her mother’s agonising -anxiety. - -“ ‘Never so bad but it might have been worse,’ ” quoted Mr. Allen to -himself. “It would really have been dreadful if the poor baby, as they -generally do, had seen fit to scream all the way!” - -Millington, dirty, smoky, unlovely Millington at last. A wretched, -jolting drive, in a wretched, jolting cab, with a stupid driver who -could not, or would not, read the names of the streets or the numbers -of the houses; (in consequence of which the greater part of the transit -from the station to Brewer Street was performed by Mr. Allen with -the upper half of his stout little person—ensconced in the regulation -pater-familias sea-side costume of Scotch tweed, which he had not had -time to change—extended out of the cab window as far as it could reach -in the direction of the driver) ending at last in a sudden halt at Mrs. -Appleby’s door. - -Careless of cab fare, all but forgetful of baby, Marion dashed open the -little garden gate and flew to the door. It was opened before she had -time to ring; Mrs. Appleby had heard them stop. - -“How is he?” was all she could say. - -“Very poorly, I’m afraid,” replied the land-lady. But even that was -better than the worst. - -Then hastened up Mr. Allen; and, leading the way into the front parlour, -Mrs. Appleby related to the two new-comers the particulars of Mr. -Baldwin’s seizure. - -“He had not been ‘not to say well,’ since Mrs. Baldwin left,” said Mrs. -Appleby. Up to Thursday, however, he had been able to go to business as -usual. On that morning he had not got up, told Mrs. Appleby his head was -so bad, he thought he must stay in bed. He seemed to sleep most of that -day, and the landlady was in hopes by Friday morning he would be all -right again. But it was not so. She felt at a loss what to do, and -proposed to him to send for the doctor, or Mrs. Baldwin both of which -propositions he most decidedly negatived. This morning, however, -Saturday, he was so evidently worse, light-headed Mrs. Appleby fancied, -that she grew frightened: and when a young man from Baxter Brothers -called to ask if Mr. Baldwin were ill, she sent by him a note to the -same medical man who had attended Mrs. Baldwin, and a request to some of -the gentlemen at the office to telegraph to Mr. Allen at Sandbeach. - -“Had the doctor been?” - -“Oh yes,” and was to call again in the afternoon. - -“I will wait till he has been,” said Mr. Allen decidedly. And when -Marion began to make some piteous apology for so trespassing on his -kindness: “My dear,” said the little man, drawing himself up to his -full height of five feet five and a half. “My dear, do you take me for a -monster---a monster,” he repeated, “in human form? No, no, as sure as -my name is ’Enery Hallen, I. feel towards you, my dear, as a daughter in -this time of trouble. Now run away to your ’usband, poor fellow, and -do your best to be calm. I shall do very well here till I have seen Dr. -’Amley. This good lady, I have no doubt,” with a gallant inclination -towards Mrs. Appleby, which forthwith gained the worthy landlady’s -heart. “This good lady will get me a chop, and shall still have time to -catch the last train to Sandbeach. Now don’t think any more about me. -Run away to your ’usband.” - -She needed no second bidding. But, alas! when she stood by Geoffrey’s -bedside, laid her cool hand on his forehead, called him by every -endearing name, he no longer knew her! He lay in a sort of stupor, -perfectly quiet, not apparently suffering. His eyes were open, but -for her, sightless. He stared at her, evidently without the slightest -recognition. It was fearful! She had never before come in contact with -this sort of illness, rarely indeed with serious illness of any kind: -and she crouched down by the bedside and sobbed her very heart out. - -Suddenly she fancied she heard him speak. He was only muttering to -himself. “The letter,” he said, “I must put it where she will be sure to -see it—at once, as soon as ever it is all over. Veronica will be good to -her at first.” - -He spoke so rationally, though the words made her shudder, that she -fancied he must be recovering his consciousness. - -“Yes, dear Geoffrey,” she said, “I am here. Shall I fetch the letter?” -But he only stared at her vacantly, and repeated, “She will be to see -it—yes, sure to see it, when all is over.” - -Then he dozed off again, and for an hour or more she crouched beside him -in her desolation of misery. - -At the end of that time came Mrs. Appleby, to tell her that Dr. Hamley -was below, and to entreat her to take some nourishment. - -“For the dear baby’s sake, ma’am;” which reminder had the desired -effect. - -Marion could not succeed in obtaining much satisfaction from the doctor. -At that early stage in an illness of the kind, he said to her, it was -impossible to give an opinion. No doubt it was likely to be serious; but -Mr. Baldwin was young, had an excellent and unimpaired constitution, and -with care and patience they had every reason to hope the best. She must -take great care of herself, he added, as a parting injunction—for every -sake, baby’s of course in particular. - -“Oh yes,” replied Marion, “you shall see how reasonable and sensible I -shall be, Dr. Hamley, if only you will let me nurse him myself.” - -“Not unassisted? Indeed, my dear young lady, it would be quite out of -the question,” said the doctor. “For a short time you really must have a -nurse. It is a case in which everything depends on constant, unflagging -care and watchfulness. I shall look out a nice nurse myself and send her -this evening. - -“Thank you very much,” faltered Poor Marion, as he left her, promising -to call again early the next morning. - -To Mr. Allen, whom he saw alone on his way out, Dr. Hamley was much more -out-spoken and explicit. “He is terribly ill, poor fellow,” he said. -“It will be at best a touch-and-go case. You see it has been coming on -evidently for some time. A sort of break up it is in fact; resulting -from all he has undergone, and the complete change in his life and -habits since coming here. If he recovers, a return to a country life -will be his only chance. But it will be some weeks before we can venture -to talk of him and recovery in the same breath! I only hope that poor -girl’s strength may keep up.” - -“Poor thing, poor thing,” said Mr. Allen, sympathisingly. Then he added -with some little embarrassment, button-holing Dr. Hamley as he spoke: -“They are very poor, Doctor, and illness is expensive. You will know -where to apply to if there is any difficulty of this kind? I must hasten -to catch the next train, but with you I feel that I leave them in good -hands. You will see that they want for nothing that a little ready money -can supply?” - -“All right, my dear Sir,” replied the doctor cordially, and added as he -shook hands with Mr. Allen, “They are fortunate in having such friends -as, I know of old, your worthy lady and yourself are sure to prove in -time need.” - -The nurse arrived before night and was installed in her place. - -Then began the weary monotony of a long and dangerous illness; to those -who have not come directly in contact with it, so indescribable; to -those who have themselves watched for weeks in a sick room, so painfully -familiar. - -It proved indeed, as Dr. Hamley had prophesied, a close race between me -and death. For many days none could have said which was the more likely -to win. - -Of acute suffering there was little; for the occasional paroxysms of -fever and delirium alternated with long fits of death-like stupor, -during which for hours together, Geoffrey Baldwin neither moved nor -spoke. When delirious, his thoughts appeared chiefly to run on the -letter to which he had alluded in the beginning of his illness. Marion -got accustomed to his speaking of it, and came to think it must be -merely a dream, for though she looked in every direction, in likely and -unlikely places, she found no letter to which his broken sentences could -refer. She soothed, or tried to soothe, his anxiety on the subject (for -she was never sure if she understood what she said) by assuring him she -had read the letter and would attend to all its injunctions. “When all -is over?” he asked her once, wistfully gazing in her face. But not -even to satisfy him could she bring herself to repeat the dreadful -words—“Yes, when all is over.” - -All through the weary weeks she watched him, as if with the concentrated -devotion of mother, sister and wife. She did not allow herself to think: -had she done so her strength must assuredly have failed; as it was, it -stood the test in a way that astonished all about her. - -“You do not know how wiry I am,” she said one day to Dr. Hamley, and she -judged herself correctly. - -At last, at last—when June had grown into July, and the leaves on the -few trees in Brewer Street were already, poor stunted things, brown -and shrivelled by Millington dust and smoke, and seemingly inclined in -disgust and disappointment to drop off in premature decay—at last, after -the long waiting, the heart sickness of hope deferred till it had all -but become despair, Marion had her reward. - -“He has got the turn, my dear,” said Dr. Hamley. “He has got the turn, -and if we can now keep up his strength and spirits, we shall, by God’s -blessing, pull him through.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. GEOFFREY’S WIDOW. - -“One law holds ever good, -That nothing comes to life of man on earth -Unscathed throughout by woe.” - PLUMPTRE’S SOPHOCLES. - - - -SHE had thought the worst over, but it hardly proved to be so. He lay, -indeed, peaceful and calm, her own Geoffrey again, restored to himself -in mind and spirit, no longer tossed by the anguish of delirium, or -deadened by unrefreshing stupor. But he did not gain strength. From day -to day no progress was made. Dr. Hamley was nonplussed. - -“He doesn’t seem to wish to get better,” he said to Marion. “I can’t -understand it. I have tried every argument to rouse him, but he only -says he is perfectly comfortable, and begs to be left undisturbed. I -have told him if he goes on like this he will never get well, but he -doesn’t seem to care. He smiles and thanks me with that sweet voice of -his till I feel ready to shake him.” - -And Marion at last began to lose heart. - -One evening—it was growing late, Geoffrey was already settled for the -night—she sat alone in the little parlour, very weary and very sad, when -her glance fell on her husband’s old Bible, lying on the side table. -It was the one they had always used at family prayers, in the days when -they were the centre of a household, and it had accompanied them -to Millington, but during the last few weeks, spent principally in -Geoffrey’s bedroom, it had not been opened. Half mechanically now Marion -drew it towards her, and opened it at one of her favourite chapters, -some few verses of which, sweet words of comfort and support, she read -with silent, but not the less fervent appreciation. As she lifted the -book to replace it, a letter fell out. She started and shivered as the -superscription met her eyes. “To be read by my widow when all is over -with me.” And in the corner the initials, “G. B.,” and the date, “June -14th,” the eve of the day on which Geoffrey had been taken ill. - -After a moment’s consideration she deliberately broke the seal, drew -forth and read the paper it contained. - -It was letter, addressed to herself, and ran as follows:— - -“MY DEAREST WIFE, - -“I feel that I am going to be very ill, and I have a strong belief that -I shall not recover from the illness which is coming upon me. I have -felt it coming on for some time, but I had hoped to keep up a little -longer till I had been able to make better arrangements for your -comfort. What I could, I have done. Within the last day or two I have -received the two thousand pounds due to you as creditor, by the old -bank. I have made it over to the care of Mr. Framley Vere. He will, -I trust, prove a better trustee than I did, my poor child. Some other -matters I have also explained to him—as to the guardianship of our -little daughter, &c. I have also for some time past had a promise from -Veronica, that so long as you require it, the shelter of her home shall -be open to you. I think you will be happy with her for a time. She -wishes to have you and the baby with her very much. But it is not so -much about these matters I wish to write to you. It is about yourself, -my own darling! You have been the dearest and best of wives to me. You -pained me once, terribly, how terribly I trust you may never know, but -it was not your fault. I had brought it on myself by my own selfishness, -my headstrong, presumptuous determination to have you for my own at all -costs. But that pain is past. Your devotion to me of late has more than -effaced what indeed I never blamed you for. I think God that I am not -to be a life-long burden to you, generous, unselfish woman that you are. -For, my dearest, you must not from any mistaken regard to my memory, any -morbid wish to atone for the pain you could not help once causing me, -refrain from accepting the happiness which, sooner or later, will, I -feel sure, be yours to take or refuse. His name I do not know. I know -indeed nothing but what you yourself told me. I have never sought to -know more. But long ago you told me he was good and noble, otherwise, -indeed, how could one so pure and sweet as you have given him your -heart? I gathered, too, that he was rich, and of good position, -socially; so there will be no outward difficulties in the way. I have, -too, an instinctive belief that he has been constant to you. Once, -indeed, you said as much yourself to me. Quite lately some words of -yours dropped half unconsciously—I think it was the day we dined at the -Baxters’; you were sitting by the fire late that evening on our return, -and you did not know I was in the room—gave me to understand that he had -not married any one else. (I am getting so tired, I can hardly hold my -pen.) I had meant to say a great deal more. But I can sum it up in a few -words. Show that you forgive me, dearest, for the cloud I have brought -over your life, by being happy in the future, as but for me you would -have been long before this. For your goodness to me, your great and -tender pity, the devotion all the more wonderful because of its utter -unselfishness—for all you have given me, all you have been to me, for so -much affection as you could give me, I would thank you if I had words to -do so. I cannot express half I feel, my own love, my darling! I am not -sorry to die young, for, my dearest, there was one thing you could not -give me, and without it I own to you the thought of life—long years of -fruitless longing on my side, of almost superhuman effort on yours to -make up for what could not be made up for is less attractive to me than -that of death. You will always, I know, think tenderly of me. When all -is over with me, no bitterness will mingle with your remembrance of me. - -“Yours most devotedly, - -“GEOFFREY.” - -She read every word of it without moving. When she had finished it, she -folded it reverentially and replaced it in the envelope. Then she sank -on the ground beside the chair on which she had been sitting, and hiding -her face in her hands, knelt there in perfect silence for a long time. - -The night was far advanced when at length she crept upstairs to her -husband’s room. By the faint night-light she saw that he was lying -perfectly still, his eyes closed. She thought he was asleep. - -In a few minutes he moved slightly. - -“Marion,” he said, “is that you?” - -“Yes,” she answered softly. “I thought you were asleep.” - -“Is it not very late for you to be up?” he asked. “I won’t keep you, but -I want to say one thing to you which has been troubling me. When I was -at the worst, Marion, delirious, I mean, did I not speak about a letter? -It was one I wrote the night before I was taken ill, and I cannot -remember where I put it. I should not like it to be lost, and yet I am -afraid it would vex you, startle you, if you found it just now. If only -I could get up and look for it!” - -“You need not wish that, Geoffrey,” she said in a very low voice. “I -have found the letter. It slipped out of your big Bible that lies on the -table downstairs.” - -He started. “You have found it?” he repeated. - -“Yes, found it, and—don’t blame me, Geoffrey—I have read it.” - -“When?” he asked. - -“This very evening. An hour or two ago.” - -There was a dead silence for some minutes. - -Then the wife bent over her husband. She wound her arms round his neck, -she buried her face in his breast, so that he could not see the tears -that rushed at last to her eyes, could scarcely hear the words, the -pleading, earnest words that rose to her lips. - -“Geoffrey,” she said, “my own Geoffrey. I have read the letter. It is -generous and beautiful and unselfish. It is like you. But for all that, -don’t you see, don’t you feel, Geoffrey, it is all a mistake?” - -“Yes,” she replied; “a mistake. It was all true that I told you, of -course. True that I loved that other with a girl’s passionate first -love, and I suffered fearfully that day—soon after we were married, -Geoffrey, before I had learnt to know you—when I met him, and the sight -of his face, the sound of his voice, most of all my agony of pity for -his terrible sorrow, revived it all for the time. Not merely for the -time in one sense; for I shall always honour and care for him, love him -even, with the sort of tender, reverential love we give to the dead; but -it is all different from now, that love is softened and sacred, and as -if—yes, that is the only way I can say it—as if he had long been dead. -But you, Geoffrey, you are my own dear living husband, the father of my -little child, the dear Geoffrey that has suffered so, and been so brave -and patient. You need me. Geoffrey. I belong to you as I never did to -him. And I need you. We have grown into each other’s lives and beings, -and we can’t be separated. If you die and leave me, I can’t stay behind. -Not even for baby. Oh, say you won’t die. Don’t, don’t say you want to -leave me.” - -“Want to leave you?” he repeated in a broken voice. “My darling, my -darling, if this wonderful thing you tell me is true, how could I ever -want to leave you? How can I ever find words to tell you the wonderful -perfection of happiness you have brought me? But is it true? You would -not, you could not deceive me, Marion, lying here, till five minutes ago -believing myself a dying man. Before God tell me, Marion, my wife, it is -not out of pity you have spoken thus to me—not out of pity you have told -me that you love me?” - -He raised her head so that he could see the expression of her face, the -truth and earnestness in her clear deep eyes. - -“It is true, Geoffrey,” she said solemnly. “It is thoroughly and utterly -true. No pity could have made me say what I have said just now. It is no -new thing this love of mine for you. Long, long ago I felt it growing, -quietly and steadily and firmly. Only then I thought it had come too -late. My worst sufferings at the Manor Farm were when I thought this.” - -He said no more; he was perfectly satisfied. He kissed her brow, her -mouth, her eyes, as if to seal the blessedness of his new found joy. -Then he lay back, and closed his eyes, for he was weak still, weak -almost as an infant. And the sun, when it rose that morning above the -smoke and heavy, dusty air surrounding the great city, might have seen -one pleasant sight, the sweet sleeping face of Geoffrey Baldwin, a man -to whom, after bitter disappointment and sore trouble, manfully met -and patiently borne, God in His goodness had sent new life and little -looked-for happiness. - -From this time forth, as might have been expected, Geoffrey made steady -progress towards recovery. It was still, of course, but slow work; there -were days on which both he and Marion felt sadly disheartened, but Dr. -Hamley kept up their spirits by assuring them that all was going on -well; as well, that is to say, as could be expected after so serious, so -nearly fatal an illness. - -And at last they grew satisfied that his opinion was correct, for by the -end of August Geoffrey was going about again, and beginning to speak of -ere long resuming his daily duties; for thanks to the representations -of that monster in human form, the worthy Mr. Allen, Mr. Baldwin’s -situation in the counting-house of Messrs. Baxter Bros. had been kept -open for him. - -But there was a great hole made in the three hundred pounds of ready -money they had been hoping by this time to furnish a little house with! - -On one point Marion was resolute. Before Geoffrey should “dare to allude -to such a thing as going back to business,” he must have a little change -of air. To which he offered no great objection provided she would go -with him. “She,” of course, including baby Mary and her nurse. So to -Sandbeach they went for a week, thereby making a still greater hole in -the little nest-egg, but enjoying themselves amazingly nevertheless. - -Back again at Millington, there was no help for it. Geoffrey must no -longer delay presenting himself at Mr. Baxter’s office, and resuming -the weary jog-trot of his uncongenial duties. But it was with a lighter -heart than ever he had dared to hope for, that the young man paced the -long stretch of dirty pavement, which in the last fifteen months had -grown so familiar to him. - -Marion was watching anxiously for his re-turn. - -“You are not very tired, Geoffrey?” she asked, as she met him at the -door. - -“Oh no,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve got on very well, and I did eat -some luncheon, Marion, I did, indeed. They were very kind and cordial -to me down there, old Baxter and the rest, hoping I was all right again, -and all that sort of thing.” - -Later in the evening, as they were sitting together quietly, Geoffrey -resting on the sofa, he suddenly exclaimed, “By-the-by, Marion, I heard -rather a queer thing to-day. Last week while we were at Sandbeach it -appears we had a visitor.” - -“A visitor?” she repeated. “What do you mean?” - -“Well, not a visitor exactly. He didn’t come to this house; but -somebody, a gentleman, called at the office and asked if I was there. -They told him of my illness, so he asked to see old Baxter, and made -particular enquiries about me. How long I had been ill, and I don’t know -all what. He didn’t leave his name, at least if he did Baxter won’t tell -it; but the clerks say they are sure he was what they call a ‘swell.’ -(Don’t scold me, Marion, I'm not talking slang.) I should never have -heard of it, but through one of them who saw him come in, and overheard -my name. Old Baxter was uncommonly civil to him, they say; showed him -out himself, and was fearfully obsequious. I wish the sight of my grand -friend, if he is a friend of mine, would make the old screw raise my -salary, I know! But there's no chance of any such luck. I shall never -get on in Millington I fear, Marion. I can’t understand their ways. I -can keep books and so on well enough. I’ve had to do with farm books all -my life; but it’s quite a different sort of thing.” - -“Poor Geoffrey,” she said, sympathisingly. “But it will never do for you -to get low-spirited the very first day you’re back at your work. Let us -talk of something else. Who can this gentleman have been. What was he -like?” - -“Not tall, they said,” answered her husband. “About the middle size and -slight. Not good-looking, but gentlemanlike; very dark, and black hair, -rather grey for his age, for they say he didn’t look much over thirty. -I can think of no one I know answering this description, who would be -likely to be enquiring after me. Can you?” - -“I don’t know,” said Marion, rather dreamily, but any one more observant -than Geoffrey would have thought that for a woman she manifested -singularly little curiosity about the mysterious unknown. - -“Black hair, rather grey for his age,” she murmured softly to herself -more than once that evening. “It had not a thread of silver when I knew -it.” - -A week later came one morning a letter for Geoffrey which, arriving -after he had left for business, excited, not a little, Marion’s -curiosity during the day. It was addressed in a somewhat stiff, -old-fashioned hand, and its postmark was Mallingford. She had more -than half a mind to open it, fearful of the effect of possible bad news -coming suddenly on her husband; but ended by not doing so. Afterwards -she was very glad she had left it for Geoffrey to read first himself. - -It was from old Squire Copley, containing a formal offer to Mr. Baldwin -from Lord Brackley, of his Brentshire agency, unexpectedly made vacant -by the death of the last holder some six weeks before! - -“I need hardly, my dear fellow,” wrote the Squire, “urge your acceptance -of this offer. It is a capital good thing of its kind, the income, one -way and another, very little short of a thousand a year, inclusive of -course of the house, a sweet pretty place for a young couple as one -would wish to see. Brackley has been down here himself for a week -or two, looking into things a bit, and when he told me you had been -recommended to him for the post, and that he was entertaining the idea, -I was as pleased, I assure you, as if you had been a son of my own. ‘The -very man for the place,’ said I. And so say one and all hereabouts, my -boy. Lady Anne and Maggie—Georgie’s in India, you know—will be only too -delighted to welcome you and your wife and the little one I heard of -if I’m not mistaken, back to your old neighbourhood. And I’m not afraid -that you will break your hearts at having to leave Millington, for -you’re Brentshire born and bred, and so in a sense is your wife.” - -Then followed a little local gossip, to which, however, it was hardly -to be expected that Geoffrey or his wife could at this moment pay much -attention. - -They looked at each other with tears in their eyes, but sunshine in -their hearts. - -“Oh, Geoffrey, how thankful I am!” she exclaimed. “Now you will have a -chance of getting like your old self again. Now I need not feel anxious -about you any more. How happy, how very happy we shall be.” - -“My darling,” he replied, drawing her towards him, “will you really be -happy in a pretty country home of your own with a stupid old ploughman -like me? Squire Copley is right, it is a dear little place, the house -where we shall live. Much prettier than the Manor Farm, though not so -large. But I am not sorry to begin our new life in a new house. You had -plenty of sorrow in the old one, my dearest. Heaven grant you may have -little in your new home! None at least of my causing.” - -“And only think how delightful it will be to have a garden for Mary to -play in when she begins to toddle about by herself,” exclaimed Marion. - -“And a home to welcome poor Harry to at Christmas,” added Geoffrey. - -Truly there were few, if any, happier people that night in the world, -than Mrs. Appleby’s two young lodgers! - -Late in October that year there came a sort of Indian summer. A week or -two of inexpressible beauty, tinged with a certain mellow tenderness, -a sort of pensive echo of the summer glories past and gone, peculiar to -this lovely “été de Saint Martin,” of which we so seldom see anything in -our part of the world. - -It was just at this time that the Baldwins, after a week or two spent -at Mallingford with Veronica Temple, took up their quarters in their -new home. A pretty, cosy nest of a place as it was, it could hardly have -been seen to greater advantage than on the day on which Marion first -entered it as its mistress. - -“You are pleased with it, dear?” asked Geoffrey, and the look with which -she answered him said far more than words. - -“I have been rather puzzled by something I heard to day,” Geoffrey went -on after a moment’s pause. “I was speaking to our clergyman, Mr. Brace, -you know, whom I happened to meet in the village. He was congratulating -me on our return. ‘Yes,’ he said to me, ‘it is the very thing for you, -Baldwin. Sir Ralph Severn could not have given you a better proof of his -friendship than by recommending you to his uncle for the post.’ I felt -exceedingly amazed at this, Marion, but I said nothing to Mr. Bruce. -I thought I would first tell you about it. Is it not strange that Sir -Ralph Severn, whom to my knowledge I have seen in my life, whom I hardly -know by name, should have recommended me to Lord Brackley? And it must -be the case, for Bruce evidently had heard it from Lord Brackley, and I -know he is not the sort of man to mention a thing without foundation. -Is it not very strange? Surely there can have been no mistake about it!” -And poor Geoffrey looked perplexed and distressed. - -Marion’s heart beat a little faster, but she felt that the right time -had come. - -“No, dear Geoffrey,” she said gently, “there is no mistake. I have -suspected this before. I guessed who the stranger was that called at Mr. -Baxter’s and enquired all about you and your circumstances. I recognized -him from what you told me of his personal appearance. It was he that got -you Lord Brackley’s offer. Don’t you know now, Geoffrey? Can’t you guess -who Sir Ralph Severn is, and why he did this?” - -For a moment Geoffrey sat silent, still with the look of bewilderment -and anxiety. Then a sudden light broke over his face. - -“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see. I see it all. And from the bottom of my -heart I thank him for his goodness, and I pray God to bless him. But -Marion, my dearest, my own darling,” and as he spoke he drew her towards -him and looked with the tender trust of happy love into the clear sweet -eyes that met his gaze, “I could not—generous and noble as he is—I could -not have said what I have, could not have felt as I do, but for the -remembrance of the sweetest hour of my life, the night when you found -the letter, and told me, my darling, that I need not die—that you had -learnt to love me.” - -Marion hid her face in her husband’s breast and felt that she was at -rest and happy. But tears rose gently to her eyes, as there flashed -across her mind the remembrance of her dream. - - - “Dear, I look from my hiding-place, - Are you still so fair?— Have you still the eyes? - Be happy.” - - -THE END - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lover and Husband, by Ennis Graham - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVER AND HUSBAND *** - -***** This file should be named 60613-0.txt or 60613-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/6/1/60613/ - -Produced by Robert Parr and Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteers - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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