SHEdid 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 abona-fideinvalid; 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, inexpressiblesomething—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,lovedher! 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 hadevercared 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,youknow 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, notsofavourably—not, in short, in thewaythat 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 amsolonely. 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 Ican’tgo 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 isveryhonest 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 youcangive 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. Ican’tstay 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 Imustgo 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,hadloved 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 youstilllove him, Marion? I do not ask or expect you to say you couldevercare 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 youstilllove him?”
And Marion the second time made the answer, “As I know myself I donotlove 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 notdislikeme?
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
“Ich ginge im WaldoSo für mich him,Und nichts zu suchenDas war mein SinnIm Schotten sah ichEin Blümchen stehnWie Sterne leuchtendWie Aüglein schön.Ich wollt’es brechenDa sagt’es fein,Soll ich zum WelkenGebrochen sein?”—
GÖTHE.
THEYwere 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 atrousseau, 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——.
“MYDEARSEVERN—
“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, butnotfolded or addressed. On the contrary, the letter I sent you I foundfolded 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,
“GEORGEARCHER.”
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.Thisthen had been the poor child’s secret,thisthe reason of all the mistakes and cross-purposes! His Marion after all was no poor little struggling governess, on whom thoughhewould 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 awiseproceeding, 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 alady?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. “Sheisa 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, “youwererather 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 sheisa 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 thatcannotlive 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, withnohope 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, youshall!”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 marryyou, 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, anditwas on a Wednesday. I am not Marion Vere now.Hisname 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.
“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 rushUpon 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 ANDDUTY.