AH, yes! What of Ralph? Through all these months, to Marion so weary with suspense and ever-recurring disappointment, what had he been about? How came it that he, whom we have heard vowing to himself thatherhappiness should be his first consideration, had allowed her thus to suffer, when, as we know, a word from him at any moment would have set all right, would have made the world rosy again, and filled with sunlight even the grim old house at Mallingford?
To explain it all, to show what a strange chain of commonplace mistakes and cross-purposes had, coupled with one small act of deliberate malice, effected all the mischief, tortured with doubt and misgiving two true hearts, and altogether changed the course of two, if not three, lives—to make all this clear, we must step back some way: to the very time, indeed, we last heard of Ralph. Heard of him, only, incidentally, as having been successful in obtaining the promise of Sir Archibald, or rather, through his influence, that of the powers that be in such matters, with respect to the expected consular vacancy at A—.
That was the last, I think, that we know of him thus far, excepting, by-the-by, an instant’s peep of him more recently in his mother’s Swissmaison de campaigne, where the Severns were domesticated for the summer. To return, however, to the day in March, on which, hopeful and elated, as I think I said, Ralph set out again for Altes, having succeeded in the mission which had brought him across the water.
The journey back was a much more cheerful affair than had been that to England.
Ralph was not naturally by any means given to over-anxiety about money matters—in fact his actual experience of limited means had been but small, for he had always had enough for moderate requirements. But he was a thoroughly conscientious man. Many would say morbidly so, and I daresay there might be nothing exaggerated or unreasonable in such an opinion.
Very quiet and reserved people are apt to become morbid on some point. They get hold of a notion, and turn it round and round in their minds, till a sort of mental dizziness, very adverse to clear judgement, results. It is a grand thing now and then to get a fresh, outside opinion on matters about which we are deeply interested. Nor is the soundness of that opinion of as much moment as might be imagined. Its freshness is the great thing; for assuredly, thoughdirectlyit may not influence our eventual decision, our own powers of judgement will, by its breezy rush through our cobwebbed brain, become marvellously invigorated, and braced for the work, which, after all, to be well done, must be their own, and no one else’s!
Such had been on Ralph the effect of his rare confidence in another—that other, as will be remembered, having been the sensible, middle-aged, but nevertheless quite sufficiently “romantic,” Mr. Price. From the date of his long talk with his odd tutor, the young man’s bewilderments, fors and againsts, conflicting duties and inclinations, ranged themselves with wonderful order and celerity. It was all nonsense, “morbid humbug,” he soon learnt to call it, about his being different from other men, cut off by peculiar circumstances from what, after all, in plain, honest English iseveryman’s birthright—liberty to please himself in the choice of the helpmeet, without which Providence certainly never intended him, or any other able-bodied young man, to go through life! Provided, of course, the prospective helpmeet saw things in the same way as he; of which, Heaven be thanked, he had no reasonable grounds to doubt.
What he could do, without too much going out of his way, or any approach to unmanly subservience, to conciliate his mother, he would. But beyond a certain point he now saw clearly it was not his duty to defer to her. Should she show herself inclined to be reasonable, which state of things, however, he at present felt far from sanguine about: he would be only too ready to meet her at any point on the friendly road, he would, in any case, swallow his pride, to the extent of accepting from her whatever amount of pecuniary assistance she saw fit to afford him. Pride, indeed, was hardly the word for it, for in a sense the property was his own, though at present, unfortunately, not to be obtained but by her good-will. And if she took it into her head to stand out and refuse him anything? Well, then, he had the appointment at A—— to fall back upon, the securing of which, his practical good sense and Mr. Price’s advice, had shown him to be the one distinct duty before him; without which as a certainty, however small, he had no right to allow the fortunes of another to be joined to his.
What he had said to Marion, before leaving Altes, had not been on impulse. Each word, each look and gesture, that last evening when she had shown him in her innocence, the whole depths of her pure, loving heart, and tempted him sorely to say but one word more, to press her if but for an instant to his breast—each word and glance that evening he had rigidly controlled, and acted throughout implicitly as he believed to be for the best. From the light of after results, we now may question if he did wisely; if, after all, it had not been better to have gone further, or not so far? From the top of the hill it requires no great wisdom to look back and say which would have been the best road up: but this is not how we are meant to travel our life-journey. Slowly and toilfully, with but little light, and what there is often dazzling and deceptive, with bleeding feet and trembling limbs we creep along—one step beyond, often the limit of our darkened view. This is how the Allwise sees fit to train us. Doubt not and judge not. When at last we climb beyond the mists and fogs, though that time may be still a far way off, we shall see that it was for the best.
But no misgiving of this kind came to torment Ralph on his way back, as he thought, to the woman, from whom no reasonable barrier now divided him.
“For to put it in its very worst light,” said he to himself (a feat by-the-bye your very conscientious people are strangely fond of performing), “even if my health gives way and I have to throw up the A—— appointment, my mother is not so utterly devoid of natural affection as to let us starve while she is rolling in wealth. And even if I were to die and leave my darling alone, why, we should have had our little hit of happiness, which surely is better than to have had none at all. And if my Marion had a child, or children,” he murmured to himself softly, “it would force my mother to take an interest in her for the old name’s sake. It would not seem quite so bad to leave her if she had boys and girls about her! She seems so very lonely, poor child, except for Mrs. Archer, who after all is only a friend. Though I really don’t know why I should think myself likely to die. I am perfectly healthy, though not very robust. John’s death, I think, put it into my head that I should not live to be old.”
And then in thought he wandered off to picturing to himself where and when he could best manage to see Marion alone.
“I wonder if she thought me cold,” he said to himself; “I must have seemed so. But still I am sure she understood me. She has a wonderfully quick and delicate sympathy. Yes, I am certain she understood me or she would not have trusted me so. The only unsatisfactory remembrance I have of our conversation is of her sudden distress when she bethought herself of what she hinted at as a barrier on her side. What could it be? Some disgrace in her family. Something connected with her father. But that will soon be explained and set straight. Nothing not actually affecting herself could conic between us.”
So he whiled away the many hours of his journey, tedious only in so far as the days seemed long till he could see her again, hear repeated by her own lips the sweet assurance, which, had he been a vainer or more conventional man, he would have read many a time ere now; in her changing colour, the varying tones of her voice, the childlike trust and appeal in her innocent eyes when she raised them to his.
I don’t know that ever Ralph Severn was happier than during this journey back to Altes. Truly, this falling in love of his had done great things for him: sunnied his whole nature, and for the first time revealed to him the marvellous beauty there is in this life of ours; the light and joy which underlie it, our intense powers of happiness no less than of suffering. All which things being real and true, whatever be the dark mysteries for the present on the other side; it was, I doubt not, well for him to have had a glimpse of them, an actual personal experience of happiness, however short-lived. We speak fluently of the discipline of suffering? Is nothing to be learnt from its twin sister, joy? Or is she sent but to mock us? I cannot think so. Her visits may be short and rare, but some good gift of enduring kind she surely leaves behind, if only, blinded by the tears we shed at her departure, we did not fail to see it.
Such, however, it seems to me, is not the case with the highest and deepest natures. To them, I think, all life experience is but as fresh and precious soil in a garden where all is turned to good account sooner or later. There may be ugly and unsightly things about; the flowers, when withered, may seem to pollute the air and cumber the ground; but only to our ignorance does it appear so. Under the great Master-hand all is arranged, nothing overlooked. Every shower of rain, every ray of sunshine, has its peculiar mission. All influences tend to the one great end in view, the ultimate perfection of the work. If only the gardener be humble and willing, patient, and, withal, earnest to learn. Then even from his mistakes he shall gain precious and lasting fruit.
Ralph Severn’s character was no shallow one. His love for Marion was, as I have said, the one great affection of his life. And something his nature gained from its present happiness that it never afterwards lost. Something indefinite and subtle. But an influence for good.
It was late in the evening when he reached Altes. His mother and Miss Vyse, ignorant of the precise hour at which his arrival might be expected, were just about leaving the drawing-room for the night. The children, of course, were in bed; but, in the fulness of his happy heart, Ralph went and kissed little Sybil as she lay asleep.
How forcibly it reminded him of his last return to the Rue des Lauriers!
He only saw Lady Severn and his cousin-by-courtesy for a very few minutes; but even in that time his quick perception revealed to him some slight change in the manner of both. In Florence it was the most marked. Her tone seemed to him more natural because more unrestrained. A sort of contemptuous indifference to him, united to something of triumph and secret satisfaction, peeped out in her carelessly good-natured, rather condescending greeting. She was looking very well too, exceedingly radiant and handsome. Her white skin appeared positively dazzling, her clear black eyebrows in their faultless curve, relieving what might otherwise have been too marble-like for attractive living beauty; her glorious hair, in which nestled a cluster of crimson roses (of a peculiar and carefully-selected shade, by contrastbrowningthe surface they lay on) shone a mass of burnished gold; for by candlelight the tinge of red only intensified its lustre and richness. She stood thus for a moment, under the full glare of the lamp—a rash thing for any but a perfectly beautiful woman to do; but Florence knew herself to be one of the few whose charms are immensely increased by such an ordeal—her eyes cast down—fortunately so, if she were challenging the young man’s admiration, for wonderfully fine as they were Ralph never could succeed in admiring them, nor her, when he felt them fixed on his face. She was dressed in black, something soft and sweeping, but yet intensely black; and from out of its midst curved her round white arms, rose her beautiful, dazzling neck and throat, on which lay some heavy coils of dull, red gold chain, or beads. A golden rope was the appearance they presented at a little distance, or “rather,” thought Ralph, as in his moment’s glance he saw the coils heave slightly as she breathed, “are they like some magical snake she has bewitched to serve her purpose?”
It was a silly fancy, but it dispelled the momentary impression of her great beauty; which, not to have been struck by, one must needs have been less or more than human.
“What can she be after now?” thought Ralph, with some misgiving. “All this very effective get-up must have been done with a purpose. And her uncommonly cool tone! Rather a change from the oily manner she used to favour me with, though upon my word I think it’s an improvement. Can she be intending to try to pique me? No, she would never be so silly. Besides, they did not know I was coming to-night. I declare I believe she has got hold of some one else. How I pity the poor devil! All the same, from personal motives, I can’t refrain from wishing her success.” And half puzzled, half amused, he turned to his mother.
“How well you are looking, Ralph!” broke from her involuntarily. And it was very true. For all that he was tired and travel-stained, for he had come in to see his mother before changing his clothes, the young man certainly looked his very best. There was a healthy brown flush under his somewhat sallow skin, which improved him vastly, and showed to advantage the dark, rather too deep set eyes, whose colour I never could succeed in defining. His figure, always lithe and sinewy, seemed to have gained in vigour and erectness. He looked both taller and stronger; his whole carriage told of greater heartiness and elasticity, a quicker and healthier flow of the life-blood in his veins.
He looked pleased at the gratification involuntarily displayed in his mother’s tone, for till then her manner had chilled and perplexed him. She was more cordial than when he had left her, but she looked uneasy and depressed, and received him with the manner of one almost against her convictions, allowing to return to favour a but half-penitent culprit. Her “So you are back again, Ah, well!” had something rather piteous in its tone of reproach and resignation, but was, at the same time, exceedingly irritating. “Let bygones be bygones,” it seemed to say. “You have been an undutiful son, butIam the most magnanimous and long-suffering of mothers.” Underlying all this, however, was a different feeling, an evident anxiety as to his well-being, evinced by the heartiness of her exclamation as to his satisfactory looks. And besides this, he felt convinced she was concealing something which she believed would distress him; for, with all her worldly-mindedness and class prejudice, Lady Severn was the most transparent and honest-intentioned of women. He could not make it out, nor ask to have it explained; for, joined to his constitutional reserve, his mother and he were not, never had been, on such terms as to allow him frankly to beg her to confide to him the cause of her evident uneasiness. So they separated for the night. He, happy man, to forget all mysteries and misgivings in the thought of tomorrow’s meeting with Marion. Poor Ralph!
The morning came only too soon to dispel his dream. He did not see the children at breakfast as usual, and on expressing his surprise was told by his mother that they now breakfasted separately, as otherwise it made them too late for their lessons.
“Then does Miss Freer come earlier now?” was on his tongue to ask, but something in the air of satisfaction with which Florence was sipping her coffee, stopped his intention.
“I shall not mention my darling’s name beforeher,” he said to himself.
A few minutes later Lotty and Sybil ran in “just for one moment, Grandmamma,” clamorous in their welcome of their truant uncle. While they were still busy hugging Sir Ralph, the bell rang.
“Oh come, Lotty, do,” said Sybil the virtuous, “that will be Miss Brown.”
“Miss Brown,” quoth Ralph, in haste, “who the—who on earth is she?”
“Our governess, since Miss Freer left,” replied Lotty, (Sybil was as yet incapable of approaching the subject of Miss Freer’s departure without tears, and therefore was wise enough to leave the explanation to Lotty’s less sensitive tongue). “Didn’t you know, Uncle Ralph, that Miss Freer had left? She went away with Mrs. Archer, but she would have left off teaching us at any rate. Grandmamma thought she was not ‘inexperienced’ enough for us now we are getting so big. Not instructed enough, though she was very kind. Miss Brown plays far grander on the piano. You can hear her quite across the street. Just like the band on the Place. And she——.”
“Lotty,” said her grandmother sharply, “you talk much too fast. It is not for little girls like you to discuss their elders. Go now, both of you, at once, to Miss Brown, and be good girls.”
Lotty disappeared instantly. Sybil lingered one little short moment to kiss her uncle softly once more, and then followed her sister. What had the child-heart read of the sorrow, the sudden, sharp pang of bitter disappointment that thrilled through the strong man, in whom her innocence, she instinctively wished to comfort?
For once in his life Ralph felt thankful for Lotty’s tongue. Its chatter gave him an instant in which to recover himself, to rally his scattered forces and decide on his present course. Perfect silence! He was not in the habit of betraying his feelings, and certainly his powers of self-control must not fail him now, for the gratification of the heartless beauty at his mother’s board.
His first impulse had been to rise in the strength of his wrath and indignation, to have done, for once in a way, with conventional restrictions, and to hurl bitter, biting words at her, who in his inmost heart he believed to be the author of all this. It was well he did not do so. Florence was prepared for it, would have enjoyed it immensely, and would certainly have remained mistress of the field. His heroics would have been altogether out of place, as a very few minutes sufficed to show him, and would but have exposed himself and another to ridicule and derision. For what would Florence have answered? She had the words all ready.
“My dear Ralph, whatdoyou mean? My dearest aunt, has your son gone out of his mind? How can I, of all people, be responsible for Mrs. Archer’s having been called to India to nurse her husband, or to the movements of the young lady visiting her? Truly, Sir Ralph, you must excuse me, but just ask yourself—why should I be supposed to take so extraordinary an interest in every young lady my aunt sees it to engage to teach your nieces? And still more, what possible reason could I have for supposing this particular young lady to be an object of interest toyou? It is not usual, to say the least, for the gentleman of the house, to have an understanding with the governess?”
Which memorable speech however was never destined to be uttered.
Ralph thought better of it, and decided to nurse his wrath and keep his own counsel.
There is a great deal of nonsense spoken and written about truth, and truth tellers. The most exalted characters in a certain of class fiction can never bring themselves without a tremendous fuss, either to utter or act a falsehood, and if they ever attempt either, they are sure to bungle it: spite of themselves “their ingenuous nature betrays itself,” “their lips scorn to descend to the meanness,” &c. &c. It is not so in real life. I know of no persons who, when they are put to it, can tell a falsehood better, or act it more cleverly, than essentially truthful, because truth-loving natures. The reason, I fancy, lies somewhere in this direction. It takes some strength, some resolution, to do something they thoroughly dislike, and so they, having “gone for it,” feeling the necessity of the disagreeable action, do it to the best of their ability, set their shoulder to the wheel and go through with it with a will. This is how, to my experience, really thorough people tell stories!
Ralph did his bit of falsity very neatly. All the same, alas, Florence saw through it! He did not over-act it. He looked up with a sufficiently concerned expression, saying to his mother:
“Dear me! I am sorry to hear Mrs. Archer has left. And Miss Freer too! It must have been a sudden movement.”
“Very sudden indeed,” replied his moving, most completely taken in, and evidently not a little relieved and delighted, “Mrs. Archer was in dreadful distress. She is to sail almost immediately. She would have gone straight to Marseilles from this, but she had some business she was obliged to attend to personally in England.”
“But,” said Ralph, “I don’t understand. What is all the dreadful distress about?”
“Oh,” exclaimed his mother, “I thought you knew. Had you not heard of poor George. Archer’s illness?” Launched on which topic, she sailed away calmly for some minutes.
“And did she take the child with her?” asked Ralph, “the little boy—and the young lady, Miss Freer, did she go too? Are they going to India together?”
“I really don’t know,” said Lady Severn, “I forget, I’m sure, if little Charlie is to go. And as to Miss Freer, I know still less. She was a peculiar young woman, never even mentioned where her home was in England.”
“I always understood,” began Florence, but on Lady Severn’s pressing her to tellwhatshe had “always understood,” she, to use a very charming schoolboy phrase “shut up,” and could not be prevailed on to say more. Murmuring something about “not liking to repeat gossip,” she rose gracefully from table, and the little party separated.
Later in the morning Ralph sauntered into the drawing-room where the two ladies were sitting.
“It is rather tiresome,” he said, “Mrs. Archer’s having left before I returned. I had something to send to her husband. I think my best way will be write to her at once and ask directions for sending it to her. Do you, happen to know her address?”
“Oh yes,” said his mother, unsuspiciously, “she gave it to me the last day I saw her. I gave it to you, Florence, my dear, but I remember it. I have a good head for addresses. It is—
Mrs. George Archer,
Care of Mrs. Archer, sen.,
23, West Parade,
Leamington.
That is it, I know. I am right, Florence, my dear, am I not?”
Miss Vyse did not answer for a moment. Then she said slowly, sulkily, it seemed to Ralph, which confirmed him in his opinion that the address was correct, “Yes, Aunt, you are quite right. But I have the address upstairs; if you wish I can run up and refer to it.”
“No, thank you,” said Ralph, “I am quite satisfied.
23, West Parade,
Leamington.
I shall not forget it,”
“A good thing,” he thought to himself, “that my mother really has a correct memory for addresses. Even if that girl showed me an address in Mrs. Archer’s own writing I should not believe it was correct if it had passed through her hands.”
The greater part of that day he spent in writing to Marion. It was all he could do, and he did it thoroughly; entering without reserve into all his hopes and plans, only passing by, rather more slightly, the probable opposition, his marriage might meet with from his mother, and inferring that any mischief to be apprehended on this score was already done by his having, months before, refused to marry as she wished. He impressed upon Marion that he was far from rich, that indeed for many years to come their life might be a struggling one, and told her the object and success of his visit to London.
He begged her to reply at once, and to confide to him the “imaginary” (he called it) obstacle on her side, the remembrance of which had so distressed her. That it was imaginary only, he told her he felt assured, for nothing not affecting her personally would he allow to come between them. Whatever it was, he begged her to tell it to him. Lastly, he entreated her to send him word where and when he might see her. At any moment, he wrote, he would hold himself in readiness to set off for England, to see her in her own home, or wherever else she might appoint.
One possibility only he did not allude to, for as yet it had not seriously occurred to him, that of her perhaps having determined on accompanying Mrs. Archer to India. Later, he wondered at its not having struck him.
So he wrote his letter, and enclosed it to the care of Mrs. George Archer, to be by her forwarded, or delivered immediately. And having posted it with his own hand, he felt rather lighter of heart than had been the case with him since his grievous disappointment of the morning. He tried to reason himself out of his excessive depression. “After all,” thought he, “it is nothing to be so miserable about. It is merely a question of a week or two’s delay. And now I can console myself by counting the days till her answer can come.” But it was not much use. From the first moment that he had heard her departure carelessly alluded to, he had somehow lost hope, felt an irresistible conviction that she was altogether and for ever gone from him. “It was very childish,” he said to himself, “childish and unreasonable.” But he could not help it. Still he did not allow his depression to paralyse or weaken his efforts to obviate the harm, too likely, in one form or another, to have been caused by Marion’s sudden and unlooked-for departure.
More he would gladly have done; for once his letter was written and despatched, the forced inaction and miserable suspense tried him terribly. Many times in the course of the next few days he was on the point of starting off again for England, but on refection he always discarded the idea. He was so utterly without knowledge of Marion’s past history and present circumstances. What, where, or who her friends were, he had no idea. Of everything in fact, save herself, her own sweet personality, he was entirely ignorant. Were he to find his way to her by means of his only clue, the address of the senior Mrs. Archer, it might do more harm than good, might injure his cause irretrievably. The father, to whom she had all alluded with more dread than affection, concerning whom there was evidently some sad or shameful page in her young history, what might he not be? How might not Ralph’s unlooked-for appearance irritate or exasperate him, how might it not pain or distress her, whose peace and well-being were truly, as he had said, his first consideration? There was no question of it, he decided, calmly and dispassionately; he had done well to write to her in the first place, and till he received her answer, he must take no more open or decisive steps.It might be, though hardly to himself would he own the dreadful doubt, yetit might bethat on her side the obstacles would prove stubborn, even altogether insurmountable. In that case, with the terrible possibility before him, he would do well, for her sake, far more than for his own, to guard his secret, to save her name from even a breath of coarse innuendo or reproach, which, once under the acknowledged shelter of his love and protection, would fall harmless; but might, should it attack her without such defence, wound and sting her through all her pure, guileless innocence of thought and deed. To know that she was spoken of as “that Miss Freer who tried her best to catch Sir Ralph Severn, but who found it no use, as Lady Severn discovered that so-and-so, or such-and-such was the case,” would be too horrible! From this at least he could save her.
Sometimes it struck him as hard that she had left no message for him, no farewell greeting or word of remembrance. But then again, when he recalled the particulars of their last conversation, the extreme reserve and guardedness with which purposefully he had referred to his plans and intentions, the fears he had expressed that his efforts might be in vain—all this, to which he judged it right to confine himself, so that in case of adverse results she might in no wise consider herself bound to him—he could not find it in his heart to blame her. No girl, in her place, could have been expected to do more. Few, very few, would have trusted him as she had done.
So he waited, to outward appearance patiently enough, for the coming of the earliest day on which he might reasonably expect an answer to his letter.
During these days the mystery of Miss Vyse’s altered manner, and continued succession of gorgeous “gets-up” was to some extent explained.
She had really succeeded in attaching another string, and that other by no means a despicable one, to her bow!
The first day of his return they dined, as usual, alone. Florence complained of being tired, and left the drawing-room early. The following morning Lady Severn informed her son that dinner was to be half-an-hour later, that day, as she expected a guest.
“A gentleman,” she added, as if she wished Ralph to enquire further. But he was too profoundly indifferent to do so; and forgot all about the matter till just before dinner-time, when, to his amazement, on entering the drawing-room, he descried, seated side by side, on a sofa, in very suspicious proximity, Florence the magnificent, and our old friend the substantial and inconsolable widower, Mr. Chepstow!
“So he is the poor devil I was pitying in anticipation,” thought Ralph, “On the whole I think the sentiment is uncalled-for. His back is broad enough, and his susceptibilities not too acute. Besides which, he is the kind of man that must be ruled, and perhaps when he is incorporated as a part of her precious self, Florence may not treat him badly. She will have no more need for plotting and planning on pecuniary grounds, anyhow.”
Mr. Chepstow was all beaming with the effulgence of prosperity and good-humour, delighted to see Sir Ralph again, hoped he had enjoyed his visit to England, etc., etc.
Ralph felt rather at a loss how to demean himself. The thing was so very palpable, he wondered if he was expected to congratulate the happy pair forthwith. But as there had been no announcement made to him, he decided that it was better to be on the safe side, and risk no premature good wishes.
It was a very tiresome evening. Mr. Chepstow bored him inexpressibly; the more so, that being his mother’s guest, he felt bound to be civil to the good-natured millionaire. After dinner he was doomed to a very exhausting tête-à-tête, in the course of which the stout widower unbosomed himself, described in glowing terms his admiration for Miss Vyse, and ended by expressing his hopes that Sir Ralph would look favourably on the proposed alliance.
“I am very happy to hear of it, I assure you, Mr. Chepstow,” replied Ralph. “But you are mistaken in thinking my approval has anything to say to the matter. Miss Vyse is very distantly related to me, and though she has been staying with my mother for some time, I am very slightly acquainted with her. She is, I believe, quite her own mistress. It think her fortunate in the prospect of a kind husband; and you, on your side, I need not tell you, will have an exceedingly handsome wife. May I ask when the—what do you call it?—happy event, isn’t that the proper expression, is to take place?”
Mr. Chepstow’s rosy completion visibly deepened in hue.
“We have not exactly fixed. In fact, my dear Sir Ralph, Miss Vyse is a young lady of such exceedingly delicate feeling—I had wished her to name an early day, but she rather objects to our marriage taking place till the anniversary of the late Mrs. Chepstow’s death has passed.
“Oh indeed!” said the younger man; “then that anniversary falls about this season, I suppose. Ah well, a few weeks’ delay will give you time to know each other better! I forget by-the-bye how many years you have been a widower.”
Mr. Chepstow looked still more uncomfortable.
“My late wife, Mrs. Chepstow,” he said, “died in June. I thought I mentioned that Miss Vyse wished to postpone matters till after the anniversary was passed.”
“Your late wife only died last June then?” exclaimed Sir Ralph, feeling considerably disgusted. “Then I certainly agree with Miss Vyse as to the propriety of deferring the present affair a little longer.”
This was rather a damper even to the obtuse Mr. Chepstow. He looked rather ashamed of himself, and appeared glad to agree to his host’s proposal that they should return to the drawing-room.
“I wonder what sort of a person the first Mrs Chepstow was?” thought Ralph somewhat cynically, as he observed the devotion of the fat lover, the cool affectation and airsde grande dameof the beautiful fiancée. It was amusing to watch the change in her manner already. She had altogether thrown aside her gentle deference and fawning amiability, and seemed to go out of her way to seek for opportunities of covertly sneering at Sir Ralph, or annoying him with ingeniously impertinent innuendoes, and his real, unaffected indifference to it all galled her not a little.
“How can it be,” thought he, “that two women can exist, so utterly, so radically different as this girl and my Marion?” And as the thought passed through his mind, he glanced at Florence. She was looking at him, with a strangely mingled expression on her face. Regret, remorse, even a shade of pity, seemed to cross her beautiful features. But for a moment, and then she hastily turned aside and began chattering nonsense to Mr. Chepstow. But a new direction had been given to Ralph’s mediations.
“Why does she look at me in that way?” he asked himself: “she has doubtless discovered my secret. Can it be that after all she is possessed of something in the shape of a heart that is capable of pitying my bitter disappointment? It is possible, I suppose. Moralists say there is a spark of good in the worst of us.”
Florence, by-the-bye, scolded Mr. Chepstow furiously when she discovered that he had confessed to Sir Ralph that the first anniversary of her predecessor’s death was not yet past!
Henceforth there was nothing but Chepstow. Morning, noun, and night it seemed to Ralph he never entered his mother’s drawing-room without coming upon that worthy there ensconced. He grew very tired of it; but finding at last that the millionaire never took offence at anything, came to treat him somewhat unceremoniously, and found it rather convenient to shuffle on to his broad shoulders some of the gentleman-of-the-house duties so unspeakably irksome to his unsociable self.
The day came on which an answer to his letter was to be expected. It passed, bringing him nothing. Likewise its successors, one, two, and three, and Ralph began to be very miserable. He waited a few days longer, then thought of writing again; but to what purpose? Why should a second letter fare better than its predecessor? Suddenly a new idea struck him. He was walking near the Rue St. Thomas at the time, and acted at once on the notion.
Hitherto he had avoided passing Mrs. Archer’s house. He dreaded the sight of it, and especially of the little terrace; a corner of which was visible from the street.
As he stood now at the door after ringing the bell, he heard merry voices above. He stepped back a little and looked up. On the terrace he saw the figure of a young girl about Marion’s height, playing and laughing with some children. They were utter strangers to him; happy, innocent creatures, but at that moment he felt as if he hated them.
He was recalled to himself by the voice of Mme. Poulin at the door. She recognized him, and enquired civilly how she could serve him.
“Do you happen to know Mrs. Archer’s address?” he asked. “Did she leave it with you before she went? I have some letters of importance to forward to her.”
“But yes, certainly,” replied the brisk old woman; “Monsieur shall have it at once. It is mademoiselle that gave it to me. Already have I sent letters, a little bill by example, that madam, in her distress, failed to pay. And I have received the answer with an order for the money. ‘Ces dames étaient gentilles, mais bien gentilles. Cette pauvre Thérèse a bien pleuré leur départ! Eh le petit, ah qu’il était mignon.”
“But the address,” reminded Ralph.
“Ah yes, the address! I go to seek it.”
And she disappeared, in another moment returning with two or three ready directed and stamped envelopes in her band, on each of which was written in a clear girlish hand—
“Mrs. George Archer,
23, West Parade,
Cheltenham.”
“Cheltenham!” exclaimed Ralph, “by Jove, and I put Leamington. My mother’s mistake, evidently, and that snake of a girl suspected my secret and encouraged my mistake. Heaven forgive her, forIcan’t. And now—
Mme. Poulin saw that something was wrong.
“Monsieur fears then that this address will not reach ‘ces dames.’ It is true, they were soon to departpour les Indes. Mais il faut éspérer—-”
“Pour les Indes,” interrupted Ralph, eagerly, “were then both the ladies going there? The young lady, too?”
Mme. Poulin looked puzzled.
“Mais oui,” she said, “that is to say at least, I have always thought so.” Evidently the contrary had never occurred to her. But a bright idea struck her. “I go to ask Thérèse,” she said; “she spoke much with Mademoiselle. Without doubt Mademoiselle will have told her if it were not so.”
And the old woman disappeared for the second time. In a few minutes she returned, bringing her daughter to assist at the consultation. Ralph heard their voices chattering shrilly along the passage, and a few words reached him. “Aux Indes,” “la petite demoiselle,” “Mais non, ma mère, assurément,” and so on. Those few moments seemed hours to him!
Thérèse’s opinion to some extent relieved him of this new terror. Though on close cross-examination she did not appear to have very certain grounds for her belief, yet the impression she had received while the little family was with them, was evidently that the young lady wasnotgoing to India, was not, in fact, a permanent member of Mrs. Archer’s household.
“That I am aware of,” said Ralph; “all I want to know is, did she ever allude in any way to India, or to her perhaps going there?”
But Thérèse could not remember that she had ever done so. So with this negative satisfaction, Ralph was forced to be content, and thanking the mother and daughter for their good-nature, went his way, the precious envelope in his hand, to think over what next to do.
After all he decided, there was nothing for it but to write again. This time, of course, to the right address. The same objections remained in full force against his going to England and trying there to find Marion for himself. So he wrote at once. Two letters. One to Mrs. Archer, enclosing, as before, another to Marion. Then, unfortunately, he changed his mind, and sent them separately. That to Miss Freer, to the care of Mrs. Archer, &c. That to Cissy, merely a few words, begging her at once to send him Miss Freer’s address, or if by any possibility she were actually accompanying Mrs. Archer to India, to let him know whence and how they were going. If from Marseilles, he would start at a moment’s notice to meet them there on their way.
This letter reached Cheltenham a few days after Cissy had left. It lay for some time in the senior Mrs. Archer’s house, that lady being ill or away from home, and was then sent on to India, where Cissy received it by the same mail as another letter from Ralph sent to India direct, which we shall hear about presently.
The other letter, that directed to Miss Freer, never reached its destination, never, at least, as we have seen, came to Marion’s hands. Its history was never known. Probably enough it arrived at Mrs. Archer’s house, and some stupid or officious servant, seeing the unfamiliar name, may have said, after the manner of her kind, it was “not for us,” and sent the poor letter adrift again.
“Which when his mother saw, she in her mindWas troubled sore, ne wist well what to weene;Ne could by search nor any means out findThe secret cause and nature of his teene.* * * * * *Unto himself she tame and him besought,If aught lay hidden in his grieved thought,It to reveal: who still her answered there was nought.
FAIRYQUEEN,CANTO XII.
BYthis time April was pretty far advanced.
Suddenly, after an interval of some weeks’ temperate weather succeeding the usual spring rains, Altes grew intolerably hot, and every one began to desert the poor little town as if it we plague stricken.
Some weeks previously, Lady Severn had engaged for the six months’ summer, a villa at Vevey, and thither she now decided on removing herself and her rather cumbrous household. Much to Ralph’s disappointment. He was heartily sick of living abroad in this unhomelike fashion, and had been for long hoping that the approaching summer would see Medhurst once more inhabited. But to this wish of his, his mother was as yet unwilling to agree. She still shrank from returning to the place where the light of her eyes, her eldest son, had met his death, and succeeded in persuading herself that on every account, Sybil’s especially, it was better for them all to remain on the continent for another year.
So they left Altes at the end of April.
Sufficient time, however, had elapsed to Ralph to have received an answer to his second letter, but none arrived.
He came at last to a new determination. At all risks, he resolved, after seeing his mother and her party safely established at Vevey, to go to England, and with the help of the Cheltenham address in his possession, seek to discover his lost Marion, and learn the reason of her strange silence.
Mrs. Archer’s not having replied to his enquiries did not surprise him. He began to feel sure that she must have set out on her long journey eastward before his letter had arrived at her mother-in-law’s house. The fear that Marion might have accompanied her to India, he resolutely determined for the present to set aside. Time enough to think of it when he discovered it to be actually the case.
As ill-luck would have it, some considerable time elapsed before he found himself free to turn northwards. Half way on their journey to Switzerland Sybil fell ill—grievously ill, poor little dove–and he could not find it in his heart to leave her, even had he thought it right to do so. It was a very miserable state of things. Their resting-place was a small provincial town near the French frontier, where, as may be imagined, the accommodation was far from luxurious. They succeeded in securing the best rooms in the best hotel, which sounds gorgeous enough, but practically speaking was the very reverse.
The little inn was built round a small courtyard, on to which opened the windows of all the rooms. Considering that in this courtyard were performed all the unsightly, though doubtless unavoidable household duties, such as scouring of pans, washing of cabbages, and killing of chickens; that herein also took place all the gossiping, bargaining, and scolding of the neighbourhood; and that, to crown all, the weather was stiflingly hot, and cleanliness, but a pleasing recollection of the past, it may easily be imagined that it was hardly the spot one would choose to be ill in. The poor child suffered terribly. Her constant cry was for “Uncle Ralph,” in whose arms, at all hours of the day and night, she seemed alone to find ease or repose. And for a whole fortnight they knew not what to think or hope.
Lady Severn was wretched. She, too, in her suffering and anxiety clung closely to her son. It drew them very near together—this time of dread and watching—and did not a little to reveal to the poor lady the true character of her quondam favourite, Florence Vyse. The beauty, as might have been expected, behaved with utter heartlessness and selfish disregard of every one’s comfort but her own; grumbling fretfully whenever she thought Lady Severn could not hear her, at the hardship of being detained in this “odious hole,” and all but saying openly that if only they could get away from this “horrible place,” she cared little whether the child lived or died.
But sweet Sybil’s life-battle was not yet to end. She recovered, and, as is the way with children once they “get the turn,” as it is called, amazed them all by the speediness of her convalescence.
Spite of all the disadvantages of her surroundings, by the latter half of May she was able to be moved, and the end of the month saw them all comfortably established in the pretty Swiss “maison de campagne.” Then at last Ralph began to think of executing his project. But before he had had time to enter into any of its details, the whole scheme was unexpectedly knocked on the head.
The first morning after their arrival in Vevey, he was passing along the principal street on his way to look up the doctor in whose care they had been advised to place Sybil, when, some way in front, he saw a familiar figure advancing towards him.
An Englishwoman evidently, as he could have told by her walk, even had he not known her. Middle-sized and broadset, ruddy-complexioned and reddish haired, coming along with that peculiar swing of mingled hauteur and nonchalance, affected by one type of that curious genus, the fast young lady; there was no mistaking our old acquaintance Sophy Berwick.
Ralph, looked about him nervously for a chance of escape, but on neither side was there any. He was not quite capable of turning round and actually running for it, though he felt not a little inclined to do so.
In another moment she saw him, and he was in for it. Almost before she was within hearing she began to speak, as fast as ever. At the present time his appearance was a perfect godsend to her; she was burdened with the weight of a whole budget of uncommunicated Altes gossip.
“So you are here, Sir Ralph!” was her greeting. “Upon my word, wonders will never cease! The last person I expected to see. I thought you had gone back to England for good. I am very glad to see you though. Fancy what a piece of news we have just heard. Frank is going to be married! You will never guess who the lady is. For my part, I can’t imagine what he could see in her. Little milk-and-water idiot in my opinion. Do guess now who it is.”
It was useless for Ralph to protest his incapacity for ever guessing anything, especially the present puzzle. Sophy had, metaphorically speaking, button-holed him. There was no escape.
“It’s not Miss Freer,” proceeded Sophy; “I wish it were. She had more sense. It’s that doll, Dora Bailey! And, just imagine, it was all settled before Frank left, only they agreed to keep it a secret for three months for reasons best known to themselves. Now confess,aren’tyou surprised?”
Knowing all he did of Frank Berwick’s private history, Ralph could honestly say he was. Having listened to a few more comments from Miss Sophy on this subject, he began to hope he might be allowed to pursue his way, but such was far from the young lady’s intention.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said she; “I’ve lots more to tell you and ask about. Is it true that your cousin is going to marry that jolly old Chepstow? That, too, I heard the other day.”
“It is true, certainly,” said Ralph, “that Mr. Chepstow and Miss Vyse are engaged to be married. But whoever told you the young lady was my cousin made a mistake. However, that does not signify.”
“Oh, and about that pretty Mrs. Archer,” pursued the relentless Sophy, “she went off in such a hurry—to nurse her husband, was it not? I heard of her from some friends of mine who knew her, and were going out at the same time. About the middle of April they set off—she and Miss Freer. They will be near their journey’s end now. Only, by-the-by, they were going up to the hills, I believe—somewhere near Simla. I was just thinking how queer it would be if Frank and Marion Freer came across each other again out there, when I heard of his engagement to that stupid Dora. Though I daresay it’s just as well. There’s no doubt Frank was tremendously smitten by her—Marion, I mean—but then she was already disposed of. And I don’t think she was the sort of girl to break off an engagement, even though her heart was not in it. Do you, Sir Ralph?”
From sheer want of breath the girl at last came to a stop. All too soon, however, for her auditor; who, though tortured with anxiety to hear more of the dreadful things the thoughtless rattle alluded to so carelessly, yet could not, for a moment or two, find voice to utter the inquiry on his lips. Fortunately, at this juncture, Sophy’s attention was attracted by something passing in the street. When she turned round again he had perfectly recovered himself.
“It is not pleasant standing here, Miss Berwick,” he said. “I am in no hurry; suppose you allow me to walk so far on your way with you, and we can compare notes about all our old acquaintances.”
“By all means,” replied Sophy, delighted with his unusual urbanity, which confirmed her in her often expressed opinion that ‘Ralph Severn only wanted shaking to be a good fun as any one.’
“What were we talking about?” added she.
“Miss Freer,” he said, carelessly. “I think so at least. You were saying she had gone out to India, were you not? I did not know she lived permanently with Mrs. Archer?”
“She didn’t,” said Sophy. “At Altes she was only visiting her. But she was going out to India to be married. Mrs. Archer told me so herself one day, and Marion was very angry. She wanted it kept a secret. Her husband-to-be is enormously rich, much older than she, I believe. I am almost sure she did not like the idea. Her manner was so queer when it was referred to. I expect she had been forced into it. She was so poor, you know.”
“You don’t happen to know the gentleman’s name, do you?” in a voice that would have sounded startling in a strangeness to any one less obtuse than his companion.
“No,” she said, consideringly. “I did not hear it. Mrs. Archer was just going to tell it me, but Marion got so angry she stopped. She was to be married as soon as she got there. Why, she will almost be married now—in another month any way! Doesn’t it seem funny?”
She looked up in Sir Ralph’s face as she spoke—her bright, good-humoured eyes fixed on his face in all good faith and unconcern. Shethoughtshe was speaking the truth. Ralph looked at her, and saw that she meant what she said.
He accepted it.
Something in his glance struck even Sophy as peculiar. Whispers had once or twice reached her at Altes that he too, the unimpressionable baronet, had at last been “attracted”—if not more. And by whom, of all people in the world, but by that quiet, pale girl, the Miss Freer, who gave daily lessons to his nieces! It was very strange, the Altes magpies said to each other, what there was about that girl that gentlemen found so charming. Very strange and incomprehensible; above all, that Sir Ralph Severn, who might marry “any one,” should think of her. He was odd, certainly, but then there was his mother.Shewould never hear of such a thing! So, as no further material was provided for the growth of the report, it died a natural death, and was quickly succeeded by other and more exciting topics.
Like a dream, the hints she had heard returned to Sophy’s memory. “Could it have been true?” she asked herself, and again she glanced at her companion. He was walking along quietly, his eyes fixed on the ground. In another moment he spoke.
“And what more news have you for me, Miss Berwick?” he said lightly. “Let me see, we have done a good deal of business in the last few minutes. Assisted at three prospective marriages, and made our comments thereupon. The last we discussed seems to me the least satisfactory. That poor girl, Miss Freer, I pity her if she is forced into a mercenary marriage.”
“Yes,” replied Sophy, “I suppose she is to be pitied. “But provided she does not care for anyone else, she will get along well enough with her husband, I dare say. Particularly if he is so rich. It is much easier to keep good friends when there is plenty of money.”
“Do you think so?” said Ralph, indifferently. How the girl’s words stung him! “Provided she cares for no one else.” But he answered so carelessly and naturally that the Sophy was quite deceived, and dismissed as groundless the idea that had occurred to her. They walked on together some little distance; Ralph skilfully drawing her out, but to no purpose. She had evidently told him, and apparently without exaggeration, all she knew on the subject.
He went home. What he thought and felt and suffered, those who have marvelled at themselves for living through similar bitterness and disappointment, will know without my attempting the impossible task of describing it. Those, on the other hand, who have not hitherto passed through such anguish,mayyet have to bear it. And to many, even the feeble words I might vainly employ, would appear exaggerated and unnatural.
The result of that day’s meeting with Sophy Berwick was the following letter to Mrs. Archer, containing an enclosure for Miss Freer. He wrote both letters at once. He could not rest till he had done so; though, by the rule of contrary again, he found when they were written, that he had missed the mail by two or three days only. So they did not go till the following month. And it was July ere Cissy received them, additional delay resulting from their going round by the headquarters of Colonel Archer’s regiment in the first place; the only address which Ralph felt confidence in after his late disastrous experience. This was what he wrote to Cissy:—