“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”), thatsheis 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 variouspatoisabout 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 ofsomethingoffer 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 ofhername 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 forme!”
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.
“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.”
MIDSUMMERNIGHT’SDREAM.
“La doute s’introduit dans l’âme qui rêve, la foi descend dans l’âme qui souffre.”
THOSEfew 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 herrôleof 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 wasverysure), 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 notalwaysgo 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 neighbouringpatois, 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. Imustsee 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 ifthiswere the beginning of the end? What if he werethusto 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. Imayfail; 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 understandyou. 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 Imustgo. 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 washethinking?
“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. Itmustsucceed.”
And so, full of hope and bright anticipations, he started for England the next morning.
“So, I will lay one kissUpon thy hand, and looking through the lightsOf thy soft eyes, whisper the old wordThat runs before all detail and change, ‘farewell.’”
ORESTES.
ITwas 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 shouldnotspend 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 MissFreer, 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.
“He comes, the herald of a noisy world;News from all nations lumbering at his back.. . . . . Messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some:To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
THETASK.
“Art than dead?Dead? . . . . .Could from earth’s ways that figure alightBe lost and I not know ‘twas so?Of that fresh voice the gay delightFade from earth’s air, and I not know!”
MATTHEWARNOLD.