“O Erd, O Sonne!O Glück, O Lust!O Lieb. O Liebe!So golden SchönWie MorganwolkenAuf jenen Höhn.”
GÖTHE.
RALPHcalled early the next morning, as he had promised. He was relieved to find, by Marion’s account, that Sybil was fairly well, and that there appeared no necessity for sending for Dr. Bailey. At Sybil’s earnest request her uncle went in to see her, and remained with her some time. When he returned to the drawing-room, he gave Marion and Mrs. Archer, who had just made her appearance two hours earlier than usual, thanks to her curiosity, a full account of the whole mysterious affair, which, with the additional light thrown upon it by Sybil’s communications this morning, he said he had now got to the bottom of.
This was what he had to tell.
Immediately on the receipt of Marion’s letter (thispart of the story was not revealed to Mrs. Archer) he prepared to leave Paris. Some delays arose however, in consequence of which it was not till the evening the eighth day after receiving her summons that he found himself again at Altes. He drove straight to the Rue des Lauriers, where he had to wait some time at the door, without any one coming to open it.
Growing impatient, and rather uneasy, for his mind was full of what Marion had written to him about Sybil, he suddenly bethought himself that, as likely as not, the window-door in the drawing-room, which opened on to the garden, might be unlatched. He left the court-yard, and returned to the street, told the driver of the carriage which had brought himself and his luggage from the coach office, to wait a few minutes; and then made his way to the garden at the top of the hilly street, on which opened the drawing-room. The garden gate was fastened, but he easily climbed over the railings, and hastened to the glass door. The blinds were down, but the light inside was low. Evidently no one in the room to be started by his unceremonious entrance! More and more alarmed, he quickly tried the door, found it, as he expected, unlatched; and in another moment was in the room.
The lamp was burning feebly, the fire all but out. What could be the meaning of it all? Thinking of nothing but Sybil, it rushed into his mind that perhaps the child was very ill, dying it might be, and he too late to save her. Half expecting to find the whole house-hold assembled in mournful vigil round her bed, he made his way softly to her room.
As he passed the chamber occupied by Miss Vyse he noticed that the door was open and a light on the table. He peeped in but there was no one there. But on the pillow lay as mass of golden curls, all but hiding a round, rosy childish thee, which he soon identified as Dotty. Fast asleep, the picture of health and comfort! Somewhat relieved in his mind, but nevertheless surprised at the change in the domestic arrangements which had thus separated the two little sisters, he stepped softly to the other end of the long passage, up from which again a short staircase led to the little vestibule, on to which opened the nursery apartments. All was quiet. There was very little light, only what found its way up from the lamp in the long passage below. The door of the children’s bedroom was nearly closed. He entered the room. The first thing that struck him was that the doors of a large hang-press, close to the entrance of the room, stood wide open, disclosing a row of dresses, evidently the property of Mdlle. Emilie; which, in the faint light, bore a startling resemblance to the headless occupants of the far-famed Bluebeard chamber.
Half smiling at his own fancy, Sir Ralph approached the little bed which he knew to be Sybil’s. But the smile quickly faded from his face at what met him there. At first sight he thought there was no one in the bed. But, looking more closely, he distinguished the outlines of a little form, lying perfectly motionless under the coverings. Huddled up together in a sort of heap it seemed to be.
Ah! How thankful he felt that it lay thus, instead of straightened out into that awful length and stiffness under the white sheet which, once seen, is never, never again forgotten!
Still, though, not so bad asthat, there was cause enough for alarm.
“Sybil,” he said, gently, “Sybil, dear, are you asleep? Put down the clothes and look at me. I have got your letter, and have come from Paris as fast as I could.”
But there was no answer, no movement. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dim light and he could have distinguished the least quiver in the little figure. He looked round. An unlighted candle and matches stood on the table. He struck a light, and again spoke to the child. But it was no use. So he tenderly removed the clothes and raised the face, which was turned round on to the pillow. It was indeed Sybil, but what a Sybil to greet him on his return! She was perfectly unconscious. In a dead swoon or faint, which for all he knew might already have lasted so long that recovery might be impossible. But he had known her faint before, poor little girl, and was at no loss what remedies to employ. He took her in his arms, chafed her cold hands and feet, bathed her forehead, and tried hard to revive her with strong smelling salts, which he found, after a search, in Miss Vyse’s sanctum. He would not, as yet, ring for assistance. He was so sure the child would best recover were she, on regaining her senses, to find herself alone with him.
In a few minutes she began to show signs of returning consciousness. At last she opened her eyes, raised herself in his arms, and looked about her with that dazed look peculiar to people when recovering from a state of insensibility. He was on the alert for this moment.
“Are you awake now, Sybil dear?” he said. “Are you pleased to see me come back?”
She turned to see his face. Oh! what a look of relief and happiness overspread her poor pale drawn features!
“Uncle Ralph,” she whispered; “dear Uncle Ralph, will you send them away?” she went on with, with a thrill of agony in her voice. “Oh, will you send them away?”
“Who, dear? What?” he asked, eagerly.
“Those dreadful people. Those ladies without any heads. They were cut off long ago, down there, in the courtyard, with that dreadful big cutting thing. And they walk about the house at night. And they come to the side of any little girl’s bed if she doesn’t go to sleep quick. And to-night they came again. And, oh! uncle, they’re coming now!” she screamed, as, happening to turn round, she caught sight of the row of headless dresses in the cupboard. And before Ralph could soothe or explain away her terror, the little creature was torn with terrible hysterics, screaming and shaking in a way pitiful to see, till she again subsided into the death-like faint from which he had but just restored her.
Now he was obliged to summon assistance. In five minutes the house was in a ferment. Such servants as had not taken advantage of their mistress’s rare absence to amuse themselves elsewhere (among which wasnotMdlle. Emilie), were immediately rushing about, some suggesting one thing, some another, till Sir Ralph wished he had managed the child by himself. At last, among them, they succeeded in reviving her. This time her uncle took care to have the cupboard doors shut before she opened her eyes; and he was only too thankful to agree, notwithstanding the amazement of the scandalized servants, to her proposal that he should take her away to Miss Freer’s house, where “those dreadful people could not come.”
This was the history of the previous night’s adventures up to the time when Sir Ralph arrived at Mrs. Archer’s door with Sybil in his arms.
Cissy and Marion listened in silence to his recital, but when, having got so far, he stopped for a moment to take breath, the former had a host of questions ready for him.
“But what in the world did the child mean, Sir Ralph?” she inquired, eagerly. “ ‘Dreadful people without heads’—‘cut of in the court-yard.’ I can’t make it out in the least. And if, as May here suspects, Emilie, the maid, is at the bottom of it, what could be her motive? What good could it do her to frighten the child to death, as she nearly did? No, I can’t make it out.”
“Nor could I, Mrs. Archer,” replied Sir Ralph, “till I heard what Sybil had to say this morning. During the Revolution it is perfectly true people’s beads were cut off in our court-yard, for there stood the guillotine. This is a fact sure enough, and well known at Altes. And I now perfectly remember it’s being mentioned to us when we first came here. Sybil, it appears, heard it too, and from the first it made a strong impression on her sensitive imagination. She tells me she never could bear to look out on the courtyard after it grew dark at night; for then this wicked Emilie told her the decapitated victims might be seen promenading about. Some, Emilie told her, with a view to heightening the dramatic effect of her story, might be perceived grubbing about among the stones with which the yard is paved for the lost heads supposed there to be buried. Others, again, would be seen marching along triumphantly like St. Denis, with their heads reposing under their arms. It is really too absurd,” he said, laughing, “though hideous enough to the imagination of a nervous little creature of eight years old.”
“But what in the world did Emilie tell her all this for?” asked Marion, speaking for the first time.
“You may well ask,” he replied “but as far as I can make out she did it, in the first place, simply out of a spirit of low mischief; for the pure pleasure of teasing the child, whom she evidently does not like, and amusing herself with her terrors. Before long she must have discovered that she could turn Sybil’s fears to useful account. For some time past it appears Miss Vyse has taken it into her head to have Lotty domiciled in her own room. Before this Sybil was comparatively happy; Lotty’s substantial presence appearing to her a sufficient safeguard against ghostly visitants. But when she was left alone in the room at night, her terrors increased so that she could not go to sleep. She begged my mother to let her have a light in the room till Emilie came to bed, but this request was refused, my mother having a notion that it would be bad for the child’s eyes. To make up for this however, Emilie was ordered to sit by Sybil every evening till the child fell asleep. Not the pleasantest of duties apparently, for Emilie regularly shirked it. Two or three times, on being thus left to herself, Sybil jumped out of bed and ran down stairs to fetch Emilie; conduct which that young person much resented, as it interfered with her more entertaining way of spending the evening, and also very nearly, more than once, brought her into disgrace with the authorities below stairs. So she hit on the ingenious expedient of telling Sybil that the headless spectres were said to have a special predilection for the long passage leading to her room. ‘They come along there every night,’ Sybil informed me, ‘and if they find any little girl awake, they come to the side of her bed and stand in a row.’ Isn’t it really frightful to think of the lonely little creature’s agonies?”
“Horrible!” said Marion, “but what about the dresses hanging up?”
“Oh, that was another clever dodge of Emilie’s, evidently. I asked Sybil how ever she could be frightened at dresses hanging on pegs, but she assured me she did not know there were any dresses there; so I suppose Emilie keeps the cupboard locked in the day-time, and opens it at night to prevent Sybil’s venturing to rush past the dreadful row of spectres at the doorway.”
“But another thing, Sir Ralph,” said Marion, “why was Sybil afraid to tell me?”
“She was afraid to tellany one, I think,” answered he, “except me, because, as she expressed it, I was ‘big and strong’ and ‘they’ couldn’t hurt me. One day, it seems, when much provoked by her complaints, Emilie gave a garbled account of the affair to Miss. Vyse; who, Sybil says, for reasons of her own, was very unkind to her, and defended Emilie. Sybil would told you, Miss Freer, but one day when, she was on the point of doing so, Emilie, perceiving, I suppose, that the child’s powers or endurance were all but exhausted, terrified her into not confiding in you, by vague hints of injury that might result to you from her so doing. Sybil is rather misty as to what exactly Emilie said; but it seems to have been to the effect that if Sybil set you against her by complaints of her nightly neglect of her duty, she, Emilie, could easily be revenged on you by certain information about you in her possession, which Sybil says ‘if Grandmamma knew would have made her “chasser” Miss Freer away.’ I am not clear about it myself. I only tell it you to warn you to have nothing to say to the girl, out of pity, or any other kindly motive.Sheshall be ‘chasséed,’ and that very quickly. But first I shall make her explain her insolent words,” he added, with a dark frown on his face.
But just then the clock struck eleven. Sir Ralph jumped up.
“I must be going,” he said, “I want particularly to be home before my mother and Miss Vyse are visible. I forbade the servants to say anything to them last night, and this morning I counted on their not being very alert after last night’s dissipation.”
“I was just wondering what Lady Severn would think of it all!” remarked Mrs. Archer.
“Iknow what she shall think of it all,” replied Sir Ralph, “that is to say at least, if I have any spark of influence left,” he added in a lower tone. “In the meantime, Mrs. Archer, will you be so very kind as to keep Sybil her till I have set things straight again at home?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied heartily. And then he left them. Just as he was outside the room, she exclaimed, “Bye-the-by, Sir Ralph, you must get some one to pack up and send her some clothes.”
But he did not hear her, and Marion ran, after him to repeat the message.
“Very well you thought of it!” he said laughing, and then he stood for a moment if expecting her to say something more.
“Sir Ralph,” she said, “will you do me a favour?”
“What would I not?” he exclaimed.
“Will you be so good as not mention my name at all to that girl, Emilie?” she asked, “never mind if says rude or impertinent things about me. Let them pass. Only don’t set her more against me. I don’t like having enemies.”
“Very well,” she replied, “as you wish it, I will endeavour to do as you ask.” But he looked rather surprised.
“I daresay you think me very silly,” she said, “but”——
“But nothing,” he interrupted, “make your mind quite easy. You are only too good, too gentle.”
“No, indeed, I am not,” she said with a little sigh. “My motive is a selfish one. I cannot afford to have enemies.”
He looked at her searchingly but very kindly, saying however nothing. The thought passed through his mind, “It must be some family disgrace. Something connected with that father. My poor darling, if only I were free! Can she think anything of that sort would influence me? But I am forgetting. She will have some one else soon to fight her battles. Just as well, perhaps, for her chances of happiness that she will be out in India! As well for her—better in every way. But—for me!”
As Marion returned to the drawing-room she said to Cissy anxiously—
“Do you think it possible that that Emilie has found out about me, Cissy?”
“Found out about you,” repeated Mrs. Archer. “How? What do you mean?”
“That Freer is not my real name, and all about it,” answered Marion.
“Nonsense, child. How couldsheknow anything of the sort? Don’t be so silly. Besides, if she did! You speak as if it were a disgrace. I declare, Marion, you provoke me. I wish most sincerely that every one in Altes knew your real name, be the consequences what they might.”
“Oh, Cissy!” said Marion reproachfully; for Cissy had spoken crossly and pettishly. But Cissy was not repentant.
“It’s not good your saying, ‘Oh Cissy’ in that way, Marion. I repeat what I said before. I wish every one in Altes knew the true state of the case.”
Her tone was a trifle sharp and unkind, but her heart was full of anxious affection. Of late certain misgivings had begun to assail her, and she had spoken the truth as to her wish that the whole were known. “That would indeed be carrying it too far,” she said to herself, “risking her life-happiness for the sake or concealing that boy’s misdemeanours. No indeed! Rather than that I would brave anything or anybody.”
But she was too much in awe of Marion to utter any of these thoughts aloud.
When Sir Ralph returned to the Rue des Lauriers morning, a council of state—war, rather—was held in his mother’s drawing-room; at which for once in his life, Ralph Severn distinguished himself by proving beyond dispute that he had a will, and a very strong one too, of his own.
Lady Severn was amazed, indignant, but finally submissive; repentant even, for having, as her son phrased it, “allowed such goings-on without finding them out.”
“Rather an Irish way of putting it certainly,” he said with a laugh, for he could afford to now that he was victorious. He was a man who could fight, and bravely too, for any one in the world but himself!
Miss Vyse escaped scot-free of course; expressing the greatest surprise and disappointment at Emilie’s “shocking behaviour.”
“A girl we all thought so well of,” she said, with an air of most virtuous indignation, “to have deceived us so grossly! To think how, all this time, she has been making our poor darling Sybil suffer! Why if I had only known she grudged sitting beside the dear child in the evenings how gladly I would have done so myself!” (Florence quite thought she was speaking the truth.) “Oh, Sir Ralph,” she continued, “how fortunate it was you returned last night in that unexpected way! More than fortunate indeed; providential, I may call it.”
“Particularly so,” replied Ralph dryly; “also that you and my mother were out at a ball. By the way, how did you enjoy it?”
“Pretty well,” replied Florence, not quite sure if he had been laughing at her or not. “I missed your waltzing, Sir Ralph. Indeed, I don’t think I have enjoyed any of the balls so much as the second one—the one, you remember, before you went away so suddenly. Still I believe last night’s was considered a good one. It was well attended.”
“So I heard,” said Ralph carelessly.
“So you heard!” said Lady Severn; “news travels fast, it appears. It only took place last night, and you have seen no one this morning, except Mrs. Archer, and she wasn’t at it.”
“No,” he replied; “but I met young Nodouroff this morning on my way to inquire about Sybil. By the by, I wonder why Mrs. Archer wasn’t at it.”
“Oh,” said his mother, “she only went for the sake of that girl, Miss Freer.”
“And she, I suppose, didn’t care about going again,” observed Florence; “she only went to the one. Certainly most of the people they know best have left. The Frasers, and Captain Berwick; he has been away for two or three weeks, but his sister said last night that he is coming back in a week or two.”
“Oh indeed!” said Lady Severn, whereupon the conversation dropped.
Emilie was dismissed on the spot. She at first attempted some vindication of her conduct, which, however, Sir Ralph very quickly put a stop to; and further astonished her by some observations on her own behaviour more truthful than agreeable.
“Who would have thought so quiet a gentleman could fly out so like?” observed Taylor, the leading authority below stairs.
Of course, as soon as the culprit was “found out,” and punished, the whole of the servants were down upon her. One had “never liked her ways,” another had “always thought as much.” In short, not one of them, by their own account, but had possessed evidence enough against her to have led to her dismissal months before; and thus saved an innocent child many weeks of agony, ending in imminent risk to her reason, if not to her life.
“So young Berwick has been away! “thought Ralph “and for this reason Miss Freer was supposed not to care about going to the ball. All well, so be it!”
Sybil remained some days at Mrs. Archer’s, by no means to her grandmother’s delight. Indeed, but for Ralph’s unwonted, but none the less strenuous opposition, the child would have been sent for home that same afternoon. He took the whole responsibility, blame if there were any, on himself; religiously refraining from mentioning Miss Freer as having had any share whatever in the affair; though dwelling strongly on the ready kindness and hospitality of Mrs. Archer in the emergency. Yet, notwithstanding all his care, the fact of Sybil’s flight annoyed Lady Severn exceedingly, naturally so perhaps. From that time, also, her growing dislike to the young governess increased rapidly, which Miss Vyse was quick to perceive and to rejoice at.
Its seed was of her own sowing, and had been fostered with the greatest care. It was to be expected, therefore, that the sight of its strength and vigour should fill her with gratification.
The week that Sybil spent with her kind friends was the happiest she had ever known. Lessons at the Rue des Lauriers were suspended for the time; Lotty was allowed, by her uncle’s intercession, to spend some afternoons with her little sister. She was sorry for Sybil, and anxious to make up to her for her roughness and unkindness.
The two little sisters appeared to cling to each other more fondly and closely than had been the case for long; a state of things the good influences about them were not likely to discourage. With much care Marion and Sir Ralph endeavoured to efface from poor Sybil’s mind the recollection of her midnight terrors; and to some extent succeeded. Though so vainly nervous and impressionable, the child was also sensible, and by no means deficient in reasoning powers. By the end of the week she perfectly understood and believed that no real grounds for her alarm had existed; though at the same time, she begged that she might not again be asked to sleep in the room where he had passed so many hours or misery. This request was of course acceded to, and her future comfort further ensured by a kindly; and trustworthy young woman, an elder sister of the amiable Thérèse, being engaged in the place of the objectionable Emilie.
During this week Sir Ralph was naturally good deal at Mrs. Archer’s house, which, as might have been expected, did not tend to increase his peace of mind. The state of calm equability which, during his absence from Altes, he believed himself to have attained, lasted only till he was again in Marion’s presence. After much resistance, many struggles, he gave in; resigning himself to his fate and to the intense enjoyment of the present.
“After all,” thought he, “I suppose it’s not much worse for me than for other people. I am certainly not likely to go in for this sort or thing twice in my life, and I may as well take the wretched little taste of happiness that has come in my way, for the very short time it can last.”
“For happiness it was, though certainly of curious kind. He perfectly believed her to be engaged to marry another man, one too, whom he could quite imagine it possible that she cared for sincerely, though not perhaps to the full extent that a nature such as hers was capable of. He believed, too, that under any circumstances, it would have been impossible for her to care forhim, the man Ralph Severn, to even this same small extent; besides which his circumstances were such that he considered marriage, at least for many years to come, as all but out of the question for him. He knew all this, he repeated it over to himself a dozen times a day—and yet—and yet—he could not stay away from her; it was happiness even to be in the same room with her. She was so sweet, so gentle; and yet so bright and intelligent! A merely sweet and gentle woman would not have contented Ralph Severn; would not, though her beauty might have ten times exceeded that of Marion Vere, have made him feel, as she did, that here indeed was one who suited him—yes, “to the innermost fibre of his being.”
So he went on, playing, alas, with edged tools; knowing full well that the day was not far distant when they would cut him, and deeply too. But thinking not, be it remembered in his defence, that there was the slightest danger of their wounding another as well as himself. Another, not perhaps capable of deeper suffering than he, but a gentle, tender creature. One to whom such suffering would be hard and strange; who would not, improbably, sink altogether beneath it. And one, too, whom he loved—this strong, brave man—loved, though as yet he hardly knew it, so entirely, so intensely, that to save her, he would gladly have agreed to bear through life the burden of her sorrow in addition to his own.
But for this little space, he went dreaming on. There was not just yet anything exactly to awaken him. Besides, he thought himself so particularly wide awake! The remembrance of Frank Berwick’s existence was never absent from him. He looked upon it as a sort of charm, a safeguard against any possible imprudence. Every now and then he used to give himself a little prick with it, as a sort of wholesome reminder, as it were. He noticed certainly that the young man was seldom, if ever, named by either Mrs. Archer or Marion; but that, under the circumstances, was not to be wondered at.
The engagement was not as yet a formally announced one, though he had heard it alluded to, two or three times in other quarters. Frank’s absence was probably connected with arrangements he might be making in preparation for his marriage. In short there were a hundred reasons why they should not care to talk about him. No doubt it was decidedly pleasanter for Ralph that they should not do so. He fancied himself quite prepared for it at any time; but, in point of fact, pricking oneself now and then, in a gingerly manner, by way of testing one’s powers of endurance, is a very different thing from the relentless cut of a doctor’s lancet or the deep, piercing stab of an enemy’s poniard!
Still now and then he felt puzzled. Marion herself puzzled him. In some way she was changed from what she had been when he first knew her. She had never seemed robust though perfectly healthy, but now she looked at times strangely fragile. Her spirits were less equable. Her colour went and came in a way he did like to see. She was always sweet and cheerful, never more so than now; but it sometimes seemed to him that it cost her an effort to appear so. Then, again, she would be so unaffectedly bright and merry, so almost childishly gay and light-hearted, that all his misgivings, so far as she was concerned, vanished as if by magic. And then he found himself back again in his old place, “middle-aged and dull and dried-up,” utterly unsuited to this happy young creature, whom yet, in all her moods, he found so inexpressibly winning and attractive. She liked him—he was sure of that—liked and trusted andrespectedhim, he said to himself, with a mental wry face. “I’m not sure but what I would rather she hated me!” he thought more than once.
And then one day came the rude awakening. All the ruder because he did not know he had been dreaming; or, rather, how unconsciously he had come to live in his dreams, to care more for them than for aught that passed in world of realities!
It was one lovely spring afternoon, early in March, a week or two after Sybil had returned home, and everything in the little world of Altes appeared, for the time being, to be jogging on in its usual course.
Sir Ralph had sauntered into Mrs. Archer’s; a not unprecedented occurrence, for her little drawing-room was a pleasant place to spend an hour or two in, these hot afternoons.
Spring, to our northern ears, hardly expresses the warmth and brilliancy of some of these exquisite first tastes of the coming summer in the south of France. The loveliest time, indeed, of all the year thereabouts; while the green below, still fresh and radiant, matches in brilliance the blue above. Later on in the season trees and herbage look sun-dried and scorched, and one turns with relief to the thought of our less intense summers at home.
It was very hot already at Altes. Though every one was prophesying a week or two of rain before the warm weather should finally set in. This afternoon when Ralph came in, he found both Mrs. Archer and her friend on the terrace, under the shade of the large, over-hanging sun-screen, attached to the windows outside. Soon, however, Cissy got tired, and ensconced herself on her favourite sofa in the coolest corner of the drawing-room. Marion, however, stayed outside. She was busy about some piece of work she seemed to be greatly interested in, and Ralph established himself on the ground near her with a book in his hand, which he professed to be reading; now and then favouring his companions with choice bits which struck his fancy. But, in reality, most of his attention wag given to Marion. He watched her from behind his book, and thought how pretty her hands looked, glancing in and out of the bright mazes of the many-coloured wools she was working.
It was a deliciously lazy afternoon! Hot enough to excuse one’s not feeling much inclined for exertion; and yet with all the freshness and novelty of spring about it too. They were all very happy. Marion, in her own way, enjoying the present, and Ralph, all his pricks forgotten for the time, in a state of perfect content. He had actually got the length of talking nonsense; he, the learned Sir Ralph Severn, the polyglot, the antiquary, the “everything-fusty-and-musty-in-one,” as Cissy was impertinent enough to describe him that day—long ago it seemed now—when his name was heard by Marion Vere for the first.
Suddenly there came a little pause, which was broken by Cissy, whose ideas seldom ran in one direction for five minutes together.
“Marion,” she exclaimed from her sofa, “isn’t it to-day that Frank Berwick is expected back? I hope it is, for I am most anxious to see how he has executed our commissions.”
“Yourcommissions, you mean, Cissy?” said Marion. Something in the tone struck Ralph as unlike the girl’s usual voice. Something slightly sharp, ungentle—he hardly knew what. But he did not look at her just then.
“Nonsense, child,” persisted Cissy, who, in spite of all her quickness, was sometimes marvellously dull; and who, too, like many otherwise most amiable people, would sometimes, to prove her in the right, talk far from cautiously or advisedly; “nonsense, child. It is ridiculous of you to speak that way. Whether they are actually your commissions or mine you know very well it was to obligeyou, Frank Berwick offered to execute them. Indeed,” she went on recklessly, “if it was any other girl than you, I should call it very affected of you, trying to make out that—”
“Cissy!” said, Marion.
Then Ralph looked at her. From where she sat Mrs. Archer could not see her cousin, but the tone of Marion’s voice stopped her in what more she was going to say, and she muttered some half apology, carelessly, and took up a book that lay beside her. So the sudden silence that followed was never explained to, and, indeed, hardly observed by Mrs. Archer.
Ralph looked up at Marion. For an instant her eyes met, but immediately she turned away. But he had seen enough. She rarely, as a rule, changed colour. The more tell-tale, therefore, appeared to him the flood of crimson which now overspread her face. Not face only. Neck, throat, all of the fair, white skin that was visible changed to deep, burning red. Not a merely passing girlish blush, but a hot over-whelming crimson glow, that, to Ralph, told of deep, heart emotion. He was right. But was it all for Frank Berwick?
“Oh,” thought poor Marion, “What a fool I am! Now, if even never before, he is sure to think it is true; to believe those mischievous reports.”
Ralph’s glance only rested on her for a moment. Then he looked away, looked out beyond the little terrace where was spread before him as lovely a view as mortal eyes could wish to behold. The bright smiling landscape in front, of trees and fields and gardens; here and there dotted with graceful villas or pretty cottages: and far away beyond, the still snow-clad mountains, serene and grand in their dazzling purity, their tops melting away in the few soft grey clouds which there alone, at the horizon, broke the deep even azure of the sky.
Two minutes before, Ralph had been admiring all this intensely. What had come over it now? The brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of the sunlight, there was a dull grey look over all. What was it that had thus changed the world to him? Ah! what was it?
He knew it now. Knew for the first time fully and clearly, not merely that he loved this girl beside him, but far more than that, knew now in the depth of the agony which it cost him to realize that he must lose her, knew for the first time,howhe loved her.
For a minute or two no one spoke. Ralph could not have uttered a word had he tried. A curious feeling, almost of suffocation, for a few moments oppressed him. But it gradually passed off. Then he rose, said something of it’s being later than he thought, shook hands with Marion, now busy again with her substantial rainbow, and left the little terrace.
As he passed through the drawing-room there lay Mrs. Archer on her comfortable sofa, fast asleep!
END OF VOL. I
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER
I.AN EVENTFUL RAMBLE
II.MORE THAN HALF WAY
III.“FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND”
IV.THE END OF SEPTEMBER
V.ORPHANED
VI.MALLINGFORD AND AUNT TREMLETT
VII.GREY DAYS
VIII.AND RALPH?
IX.RALPH (continued)
X.THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XI.VERONICA’S COUNCIL
“I did never think to marry.”“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?”
MUCHADOABOUTNOTHING.
SIR RALPHdid not go to Mrs. Archer’s the next day. Nor for several days after that. How he got through them he could not have told; though probably none of those about him saw in him any change, or traces of disturbance of any kind. He heard Florence, speaking to his mother, mention that Captain Berwick had returned, and he fancied there was a hidden meaning in her tone as she said it. But yet it did not somehow interest him. It seemed already a long time ago since that afternoon on the terrace; and he was so utterly absorbed and engrossed by his own feelings just at this time that outward things did not readily come home to him. He felt as if it were already all over. The same moment which revealed the depth of his love for Marion had burnt into him the conviction that she was lost to him. He knew that his staying away for three days, from the house which had of late become an almost daily resort to him, could not but be observed and commented upon; but he did not care. Just now he was suffering too newly and acutely, to be very sensitive to lesser annoyances, and it seemed a matter of small consequence that his behaviour should appear inconsistent or eccentric.
As it happened however, his conduct was not discussed or in any way commented upon by Mrs. Archer and her young friend. Cissy had been ill for two or three days; so ill as to be unable to leave her room, and though all Marion’s time, out of school hours, had been spent in nursing her, they had neither of them felt inclined for much conversation.
Ralph heard of the poor little woman’s illness quite accidentally.
At luncheon on the third day since his memorable visit, Sybil asked if she might go round by the market in her walk, to buy some fresh flowers.
“It’s too late for fresh flowers to-day,” said Miss Vyse.
And “What do you want them for?” asked Lady Severn.
“For the little boy’s mamma, Grandmamma,” answered Sybil, “she has been ill for two days, and Miss Freer said she was going to get up this afternoon, and she wanted to get some flowers to make the drawing-room pretty, but she hadn’t time to go round by the market.”
“And so she left orders with you to do so!” said Lady Severn, sarcastically, “Really, I must say Miss Freer’s ideas of what is fitting and becoming are peculiar, to say the least. To think of my granddaughters being sent all over the town to execute her commissions!”
“Oh, Grandmamma,” exclaimed Sybil, on the point of bursting into tears, “it wasn’t that way at all.”
“No, indeed,” added Lofty, coming to the rescue; “it was Sybil herself thought of it, and I said I would ask, but she said she would, because when we looked at our money, I had only my gold Napoleon and no little money. And she had two half-francs. So we fixed she should be the one to buy them.”
“You are very rude to interrupt in that way, Charlotte,” said her grandmother severely, “both you and Sybil are by no means changed for the better lately in your manners.” At which Lotty looked resentful, but far from penitent.
“If you both get up early to-morrow I’ll take you to the market myself before breakfast,” said Ralph, “then the flowers are sure to be fresh.”
This proposal was received with delight by both children, who scampered off to consult the equally amiable sister of Thérèse as to the best means of ensuring their waking by sunrise.
Then Ralph roused himself and set out for a solitary walk. He went first in the direction of Mrs. Archer’s house, intending to enquire at the door if she were better, without going in. But as he entered the street in which it was situated, he met Charlie and Thérèse, from whom he obtained the information that Madame was much better, so much better that Mademoiselle was going to let her get up this afternoon.
Sir Ralph expressed his gratification at the good news.
“Be sure you tell your mamma, Charlie,” said he, “that I was coming to ask for her, when I met you. And give her my very kind regards, and say I hope she will soon be quite well.”
“I’ll remember,” said Charlie, “werry kind regards, and hopes she’ll soon be well. And what am I so say to Madymuzelle, that’s May, you know? What am I to say to her? Best love, that’s prettier than kind regards. I always sendmybest love.”
“Do you?” said Ralph, “but you see you’re a little chap. Best love isn’t half so pretty when people are big.”
“Isn’t it?” said the child dubiously. But Ralph patted his cheek, and walked on.
As he drew near Mrs. Archer’s house he saw a gentleman come out of it, and walk on in front of him. It was Captain Berwick. He had only been leaving some books at the door, which his sister had sent to amuse the invalid, but this, of course, Ralph could not know; and, though he thought he had suffered in these two days all that was possible to endure, he found that the sight of his successful rival’s quitting the house after enjoying, in all probability, a tête-à-tête with Marion, added a fresh pang to all he had already undergone.
Frank had not seen him, and he might easily have escaped his notice, but a strange impulse urged him forward. He walked rapidly, and overtook him just as he reached the corner of the street. The young man looked surprised, but responded cordially enough to his greeting.
“So you’re back again at Altes,” said Ralph, for want of anything better to say.
Frank did not deny the fact.
“Yes,” he replied; “the day before yesterday I turned up again. You’ve been away too, I hear?”
“Oh dear, yes; for ever so long. I left before you did. Indeed, I did not know till my return that you had not been here all the time.”
“We seem wonderfully interested in each other’s movements,” observed Frank, as they walked on, with rather an awkward laugh. He evidently, for some reason or other, did not feel particularly comfortable in his present society.
Ralph did not reply, and for a minute or two there was silence. Suddenly the same uncontrollable impulse again seized him, and he did not resist it.
“It’s absurd,” he thought, “going on in this way. It will be a ghastly satisfaction to hear it confirmed by his own lips.”
He turned to Frank.
“Excuse me, Berwick, if I am premature—I have certainly not yet heard it formally announced—but—I am right, am I not, in congratulating you?”
Frank looked confused and exceedingly surprised. A cloud of not small annoyance began to creep up over his handsome face.
“You must excuseme, Severn, but I haven’t the remotest idea what you are talking about. ‘Congratulate me.’ On what, pray?”
It was intensely disagreeable for Ralph. The last man on earth to pry into, or gossip about his neighbours’ affairs; who, indeed, carried to such an extreme his sensitive horror of intrusion, his shy avoidance of all matters of personal interest, that, in a general way, his nearest friend might have lost a fortune or gained a wife without his appearing to have heard of the event. He would have given worlds to have made some half apology, to have shuffled out of it with some muttered words of “must have been a mistake,” or “only a piece of the usual Altes gossip, which Captain Berwick must excuse.”
But he was determined to have done with it and drove himself on remorselessly.
“On your marriage,” he said quietly, “or, rather, I should say on your engagement to be married.”
“To whom?” asked Frank, in a constrained voice.
“To Miss Freer,” replied Ralph.
“And who told you?” asked Frank again.
“No one in particular,” answered Ralph, beginning to chafe under all this cross-questioning; “I heard it in several quarters, and you may be sure I felt no doubt of the truth of the report, or I certainly would not have motionedanyyoung lady’s name, as I have just now done.”
He spoke stiffly. He could not understand Frank’s behaviour. But his bewilderment changed to utter astonishment, when suddenly Captain Berwick turned round upon him.
“ ‘No one in particular;’ you say Sir Ralph Severn, told you this piece of News. Then perhaps you will be so good as till this friend of yours ‘no one in particular,’ that he or she will do better in future to refrain in the first place from believing, and in the second place from circulating, such idle and mischievous tales, for which there is no foundation whatever in fact. As to whether this piece of advice may not with peculiar propriety be extended to yourself, I leave you to judge.”
So saying he bowed stiffly, his face flushed with excitement and indignation, and turning sharply in an opposite direction, left Ralph to pursue his walk alone.
The whole interview had passed so rapidly that Ralph felt thoroughly confused. Frank had left him no time to reply to his extraordinary outburst, and indeed, had he done so, Ralph would hardly have known what to say. He did not feel angry, and would have been ready enough to apologise for however unintentionally, hurt or annoyed his hot-blooded companion: though really it was difficult to see in what way he had done so! As he walked on slowly his thoughts began gradually to emerge from their bewilderment, and to take the only form by which it appeared to him that the riddle could be explained.
Frank was ashamed of himself! He had gone too far with Miss Freer, and at the last had dishonourably withdrawn. No wonder the mention of this report put him in a passion. No wonder indeed. Ralph ground his teeth, as for one passing moment he wished he were Marion’s brother. This explained it all. Her altered looks, her variable spirits, her painful agitation at the mention if Captain Berwick’s return. Poor little governess! This then was the price she had to pay for her womanly self-denial and honest independence of spirit. (For Ralph had gathered from Cissy’s remarks that during her stay at Altes there had been no positive necessity for Marion’s exertions, but that she had “too great a notion of independence.”) It must have been that mother and sisters of his! Looking down upon her because she was a daily governess. Looking down onher.
“Oh,” thought Ralph to himself, “if only I could set ever thing at defiance and brave the future, even now I feel as if I should like to snatch her away from all those horrid people and devote my life to making her happy. But,” and with the ‘but’ his mood changed, “she doesn’t care forme. Oh, Frank Berwick, what a weak, contemptible fool you are! For he did care for her—I am sure of that.”
But hardly had his reflections reached this point when they were interrupted. Hasty steps behind him which his absorption had prevented his hearing as they drew nearer, and in another moment there stood Frank Berwick beside him. His face still flushed, but more now from eagerness than annoyance, and with a look of resolution about it too.
“Severn,” he began abruptly, “I behaved like a fool just now; but I was most intensely annoyed, as you will understand when you hear what I have got to say. I want to tell you something. It’s rather a queer thing to do, I know, but it seems to me we have all been playing at cross purposes, and I shall feel better satisfied if I tell you. There is not another man living, I don’t think, that I would trust, as I am going to let you see I trust you.”
He stopped, rather awkwardly, for Ralph had not by glance or gesture encouraged him to proceed. Now, however, he could hardly avoid saying something.
“If I can be of use to you, Captain Berwick,” he said, coldly, “I shall be glad to do what I can. But, remember a stranger can seldom do much good by meddling among relations, if that, as I suspect, is what you want of me.”
Frank smiled.
“I see what you’re driving at,” he said, “and that confirms me in resolving to set you right; for my own sake, if for no other. You think, Severn, I see plainly, that my very evident admiration—to use no stronger word—for the young lady you mentioned a short time ago, would—nay,should— have resulted in what you rather rashly congratulated me upon just now, had it not been for some backwardness on my part. Fear of my people’s opposition, or some such obstacle. You are quite mistaken. I am in no way dependent on my parents. I have a good appointment in India and need consult no one as to whom I marry. Nor, indeed, would my people have opposed me in this. Of that I am quite sure. Did it never strike you, Severn, that there might be another way of accounting for the present state of affairs, which you evidently don’t think satisfactory? You have been blaming me; suppose you find I am more to be pitied than blamed. It’s not a pleasant thing to tell, Severn, but this is the actual state of the case. Ididoffer myself and all that I had in the world to Miss Freer, most distinctly and unmistakeably. It certainly was not much to offer, but such as it was it was most honestly laid before her, to take or leave. And she chose the latter.”
“The latter?” repeated Ralph, as if he hardly understood what Frank was saying.
“Yes, the latter. In plain English, Severn, she wouldn’t have me. Refused me out-and-out. Decidedly, unmistakeably, but all the same, she did it in such a way that, though rejecting me as a lover, she kept me as a friend. And that’s a feat few women can perform. Her friend, indeed. She has none truer.”
“It does honour not only to her, Berwick,” said Ralph, warmly, “but still more to you. But when did all this happen?” he asked eagerly, adding in the same breath, “forgive me. I have no right to ask such questions.”
“You are perfectly welcome to the whole story,” said Frank, too much in earnest to stand on much ceremony; “in fact, that you should hear the whole story was my object in telling you any. When did it happen? Oh, ages ago! I thought I had begun to get over it a little, till you touched the tender place just now. It was on the night of the second ball. You remember? The day before you went away.”
Did he not remember?
“But now comes the part of the whole I most want to tell you,” went on Frank; “and yet the hardest to, even hint, to you. I fervently hope I am not doing wrong, but I am sure I can trust you, Severn. Just now when I lost my temper, it was not merely mortification and all that sort of thing; it was indignation against you.”
“But what on earth for?”asked Ralph in amazement.
“Don’t you see? But of course you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t require me to tell you. I was furious at you, very much in the same way that you were furious at me. I declare, Severn,” he broke out, half smiling, but impatiently, seeing that the look of bewilderment did not in the least clear from Ralph’s face. “I declare you are very dense. I know you’re very learned and clever, but I must say you are uncommonly stupid too. Don’t you see?” he repeated. “You were indignant with me, thinking I had been trifling with the best and sweetest girl in the world. Well, I was angry because I thought the very same thing of you.”
The light began to break on Ralph, but very faintly as yet.
“I understand you to some extent,” he said; “but surely I, so much older and graver than you—surely Altes gossip might leave me alone.”
“That it won’t,” said Frank;” but it isn’t Altes gossip I am talking about. To speak plainly, Severn, for you drive me to it. When Severn she, you know who, refused me, it did not require much penetration to discover she had the best of reasons. She is no coquette, and she is very young. Only one thing had blinded her to my feelings towards her, otherwise she would never have found it in her gentle heart to let them go so far unchecked. And this thing was her own devotion to another. Don’t you see itnow, Severn? No wonder I blamed you. You, the luckiest man on earth! For I knew she was not the sort of girl to have given her affection unsought. And that night, when you came to tell her you were leaving Altes, in that sudden, cruel way, I could have done I don’t know what to you, Severn. Till to-day, I never doubted you knew it. You see you went there pretty often, and that, for you, said a good deal. Altogether, no one but yourself could have made me believe you were so blind. If I have been mistaken, Severn, in believing that you cared for her, for heaven’s sake do not misuse what I have confided to you, by amusing yourself at her expense. Though, after all, I cannot quite believe Ihavebeen mistaken he added anxiously.
“You deserve my secret, Berwick,” said Ralph, in a voice that was husky in spite of his efforts. “You are a good fellow, and I see your motive. You shall have my secret. You werenotmistaken. There now, remember that, however strange my after conduct may seem to you. I shall, whatever I may be forced to do, think more ofherhappiness than of my own. Goodbye, for the present and thank you,” he said, earnestly, as they shook hands hastily, and separated.
Frank sailed for India three days after.
Before he went, however, he took pity on the ill-requited devotion of Dora Bailey; pro-posed to her, and was of course, accepted. Poor Frank! He was not altogether of the stuff of which heroes of romance are made, though one deed of his life had, at least according to the world’s standard in such matters, somewhat savoured of the heroic. He made one stipulation, however, with the enraptured Dora: she was to tell no one of the engagement for two months to come; at the end of which time he promised to write to her father, whose consent he did not anticipate much difficulty in obtaining, and to make arrangements for her joining him in India, under suitable escort. It was rather hard upon Dora, but she was too much in awe of him, and too grateful for his immense condescension to dream of opposing him, though she thought to herself, “Howverynice it would have been to announce my engagement before every one leaves Altes for the summer. Particularly to that Miss Freer, who has done her best to lure him away from me.”
She would have had no objection to being married on the spot and setting off with him then and there, which, considering it would have involved the going without atrousseauand all its delightful attendants, proves that she wasverydeeply in love!
“She’s not a bad little thing in her way,” said Frank to himself, “though rather too much of a goose. And certainly a long way better than anything I could have picked up in India. So, on the whole, it’s the best thing I can do, for I couldn’t stand much more of that horrible bachelor life out there.”
But as for marrying her on the spot! No, he was not quite ready for that. Other things as yet were too fresh; though after a time, and a few mouths of unsatisfactory, lonely life in India, he, being domestic in his tastes, hoped to be able to work up to a moderate amount of love for the silly, affectionate baby.
“She’s pretty, and any way I know she cares for me, which is always something. And I’m not likely ever to have a hotter chance, if as good.”
And when the time came to say goodbye, he really felt more sorry to part with her than he could have believed possible; and he whispered to her that the period of separation should not be a long one, if it was in his power to shorten it.
When Frank left him, Ralph still walked on. Mechanically, for he was quite unaware what direction he was following, or how far he had gone. His whole being was shaken to its centre. He could see clearly along no line of thought. All was confusion. What had he done? Whatshouldhe do? Duty and inclination, prudence and generosity, warred against each other. Worse than this, one duty took up arms against another, and which to consider victorious he could not decide. All his past convictions as to what was right and wise forhim, firm and sound as he had thought them, were suddenly uprooted and thrown in his face, by the new claims, not merely on his inclination, but on his honour, which Frank’s communication had revealed to him. His was one of those morbidly conscientious natures which persist in always erecting barriers between the right and the pleasant. Often, no doubt, barriers are planted there already by higher hands than ours, in which case, all we can do is to submit, and make the best of the thorny road. But Ralph and others like him could not feel content with. He could hardly believe that duty sometimes wears an attractive form; that sometimes it is meet and lawful for us to gather the roses blooming by the way, and to saunter for awhile on the suit and inviting pastures, there to refresh our weary, travel-sore feet.
Had he not known and felt how entirely and intensely he cared for Marion, he could, in one way, have decided more easily, he said to himself; though in so thinking he erred. For had he cared for her less, he could have offered her nothing meet for her acceptance! Of one like him, the fullest, deepest love would alone be worthy of the name at all. But the thought of winning her was so unspeakably tempting that he doubted himself:
“It is all abominable selfishness,” he said to himself, “I have no right to think of it. No man has less right to dream of marriage than I. In all probability I should only be dragging her into a life of struggling anxiety. Far worse to bear than her present dependence; for then she might have others to care for, and for whom she would kill herself with anxiety. She is that sort of woman, I know. If I want a wife I should choose a not over sensitive, managing young woman—from which all the same Heaven preserve me!—one who would be good at living on next to nothing, for to all appearances that is about what I should have to offer her.”
All most reasonable and true, if such indeed were his circumstances.
“But,” whispered a mischievous little voice, “supposing it true that this poor Marion loves you—loves you as you love her—have you any right to condemn her too, to the suffering you yourself, for your manhood, find hard enough to bear?”
“And then the battle all began over again, with small prospect of being quickly or satisfactorily concluded. But there came an interruption. This walk was indeed to be an eventful one to Sir Ralph.
He was hastening on, walking faster than usual, as was his habit when agitated or perplexed; when, turning sharply a corner of the road, he came suddenly upon Mr. Price, sauntering along, an open book in his hand, of which he read a little from time to time. How peaceful and at rest he looked! The picture of a calm, emotionless student, undisturbed by the passions and anxieties by which ordinary mortals are tossed and torn. True, so far, for now in his autumn his life was even and colourless enough; but it had not always been so. There were furrows his brow, deep lines round the sensitive mouth, which told that he too had fought his battles, had loved and sorrowed like his fellows!
“Sir Ralph!” he exclaimed, with a bright look of pleasure, “how delighted I am to have met you. Out on a solitary ramble like myself. Have you any objection to my joining you? What a lovely day, is it not? Not nearly so oppressively hot as it has been. But which way are you going?”
“Any way you like,” said Ralph, “it’s quite the same to me. I am merely taking a constitutional, as you see,” with a forced laugh.
“Well then,” said the tutor, on whose quick ears neither the tone nor the laugh fell disregarded, “since you have no choice, suppose we cross the road and return to Altes by that lane opposite. It’s not much of a round. Three to four miles will bring us home, and it’s pleasanter than the dusty highway.”
“Thank you,” replied Ralph, “that will do very well.”
And they walked on for some little time in silence. Suddenly Ralph remembered himself.
“I am afraid, Mr. Price, you won’t find me very good company to-day. I am thoroughly out of sorts, mentally, that is to say. I am wretchedly unhappy because I can’t see my way before me. I want to do right, and I cannot find out which way before me it lies. I couldn’t say as much as this to anyone else, but I know of old how I can trust you. And I don’t want you to think my queer behaviour arise from any other cause.”
“There is no queer behaviour in your treating me as an old friend, my dear boy,” answered Mr. Price. “Do just as you are inclined. If you don’t wish to talk, keep silence. It is a pleasure to me to have a quiet hour with you, whether you talk or not. But at the same time, my dear Sir Ralph, I am an older man by many years than you, and my life has not been all smooth sailing. It is just possible I might be able to suggest something—advise you even, being so much older,” he added apologetically, “if you should think fit to take me into your confidence as to your present perplexity.”
Ralph made no answer. Mr. Price looked penitent.
“I trust you don’t think me officious or presumptuous,” he began. “Believe me, Sir Ralph—”
“Do one thing to please me, Mr. Price,” said his ci-devant pupil, “forget all about that ‘Sir.’ Let me be plain Ralph again for a while, to you at least. It will make it easier for me to confess all my sins to you, as if I were a lad again.”
Mr. Price smiled at his fancy.
“If you have any sins to confess, my dear Ralph,” he said, “it willnotbe like old times. I shall never have another like you—no, never,” he added affectionately.
“Perhaps you won’t call it a sin,” replied Ralph; “if not, so much the better. All the same, forme, if not a sin, it was a piece of inexcusable folly. You would never guess what I have done, Mr. Price.”
“Should I not?” asked he drily. “Are you quite sure of that?”
“Quite sure,” answered Ralph, “no one would believe it of me. This is what I have done, Mr. Price. I have fallen in love like any unfledged boy; or rather not like that at all, for that would be a passing affair, which, to my sorrow and my joy in one, mine is not. It is very sober earnest with me, Mr. Price. It is indeed. The whole of everything is changed to me, and what to do, how to act, I cannot for the life of me decide.”
“And the young lady?” put in Mr. Price.
“Yes, the young lady. That’s the worst of it, the worst and the best. I am horribly afraid, horribly afraid—and yet, at the bottom of my selfish heart intensely, unspeakably delighted to think so,—afraid I say, that she, my poor dear child, has been no wiser than I. Is it possible, Mr. Price, do you think it possible, that any sweet, lovely girl could care forme? Ugly, stupid and unattractive as I am. I can hardly believe it. And yet—”
It was rather difficult for Mr. Price to help laughing at Ralph’s most original way of making his confession. But in pity to his unmistakable earnestness, he controlled himself, and said gravely,—
“Yes, Ralph, I do think it possible, very possible, that such a girl as you describe may care for you as you deserve to be cared for. And if I am right in what I suppose, I think you a wise and fortunate man. Fortunate in having obtained, wise, in having sought for, the love of that young girl; for she is not one to love lightly. She is a sweet, true girl, and she will be an even sweeter woman! I can’t pity you, Ralph, if your choice, as I suspect, has fallen on Marion Freer.”
“You have guessed rightly,” said Ralph, “though how you came to do so passes my comprehension. But you don’t understand it all yet, Mr. Price. ‘Wise and fortunate,’ you call me. The former I certainly have not been in this matter. To tell the truth I never thought about it, till the mischief was done. Fortunate, most wonderfully so, I should indeed consider myself, were I free to avail myself of this good fortune.
“Free, my dear boy?” exclaimed Mr. Price. “I confess I don’t understand you. Why are you not so? You are of age, your own master to a sufficient extent to marry when and where you choose. It is all very well to think of pleasing your mother, but you and she have not lived so much together as to be in any way dependent on each other in the way that some mothers and sons are. Probably Lady Severn might not consider Miss Freer suitable as to position and all that. But no one can look at her and not see that she is a lady! And beyond that I do not see that Lady Severn is called on to interfere.”
“Nor do I,” said Ralph, “butshethinks she is. But don’t mistake me. It is no over regard to my mother’s prejudices that is influencing me. It is sheer necessity. This is the actual state of the case, Mr. Price—I am utterly and entirely dependent upon my mother. Not one shilling, not one farthing of my own do I either possess at present, or have I any certainty of ever possessing. How then can I think myself free to marry; to involve another in such galling dependence on my mother’s caprices? Though, truly speaking, hitherto the dependence has not galled me particularly. It affected no one but myself, and till now it never occurred to me how terribly it might complicate matters.”
Mr. Price stopped and looked at the speaker with an air of extreme bewilderment.
“Even now, my dear Ralph,” he said, “I don’t clearly follow you. In what is your position different from your brother’s? John married to please himself. As far as I remember Lady Severn did not particularly fancy the Bruce connection, but then she was too sensible to oppose it; knowing as she did that in the end all would be his. You mean, I suppose, that the amount of your yearly allowance depends on her goodwill? But if I remember rightly this was settled permanently when John came of age; and I never before doubted that you were now in receipt, as a matter of course, or what had been his. Besides, in any case the wholemustbe yours eventually. It is only a question of a little time! You seem to be forgetting the entail.”
“Forgetting it,” repeated Ralph, “no indeed; though there is little use in remembering what no longer exists. I will explain it all to you. But in the first place as to my allowance. It is altogether an arbitrary affair. John’s was settled as you say—settled in such a way that he was able to marry to please himself, without having to go on his knees for my lady’s permission. But then he was the heir; and my mother’s favourite. Whereas I, as you know, a mistake from the beginning, in childhood and youth barely endured; in manhood still more unfortunate in becoming the possessor or empty honours I never wished for; can hardly expect now for the first time, to find my mother ready to accede to my wishes; to agree in short to what few mothers in her position could consider other than an immense folly and mistake. No, Mr. Price, I have thought it all over calmly and dispassionately. My mother wouldneverconsent to my marrying a governess. I don’t think she cares about money. To do her justice she is not mercenary. But the thought of my wire having been a governess she couldneverget over.”
“And the entail?” put in Mr. Price, “what about that? You don’t mean to say you consented to its being broken?”
“Yes,” replied Ralph, “I do mean to say so. The entail no longer exists. That part of the affair I have in a sense no one but myself to thank for. This was how it happened. It was soon after John’s death—that horrible time you know, when my mother was really mad with grief, and the whole household shocked and upset by the accident and its dreadful result. I came home just in time to see him die. He was hardly conscious, but he whispered something when they told him I was there. I could not catch the words, but my mother said it was an appeal to me to be good to his children. Very probably it was. Well, after his death, my mother fell ill, and made up her mind that she too was going to die. She was in a frightfully low, nervous state, and her mind preyed on the notion that these children, Lotty and Sybil, were going to be left to my tender mercies, and that, I verily believe, I would turn them out into the streets! Of course they were utterly unprovided for, and as things were could not be made independent. So nothing would satisfy her but the breaking of the entail, to which I, miserable enough at being thus forced into my brother’s place, and at seeing how every one wishedIhad been thrown from my horse instead of him, was only too ready to consent. It was done, and a portion of ten thousand pounds each, was raised for my nieces. Then the estate was resettled, giving back to my mother, of course, her former life-estate according to her marriage-settlement.”
“But only hers for life, Ralph,” interrupted the tutor. “It will all be yours in the end?”
“If I survive her,” said Ralph, “But if not, and if I marry without her approval, what then? Why, my unfortunate widow and yet more unfortunate children would be simply beggars! Not one farthing of all she has, would got to them, save she gave it of free gift. Which thing, Mr. Price, in such a case she would never do. I am not exaggerating the state of the case. I know my mother well—her good points as well as her weak ones—and I am not reckoning without my host. Very lately she has told me her mind on the subject of my possible marriage; told it me plainly enough; and I know what I have to expect. If I marry to please her, she will, I know, act most liberally. If not, all I can look for depends on the contingency of my surviving her. She has not actually threatened to stop my allowanceunlessI marry as she wishes, but she very nearly did so. And I may tell you, Mr. Price,” added Ralph, his dark cheek flushing darker, “that my marrying to please her is utterly and entirely out of the question. She is bewitched I think, but thank HeavenIam not. If had but a certainty, however small, I would marry to-morrow, if my sweet Marion would have me, and leave Florence Vyse to the enjoyment of all she can extract from my poor mother. For that is all she wants. My mother’s money, not me; but unfortunately she sees that through me she might best secure it.”
“But the Whitelake estate?” asked Mr. Price, “that surely is independent of Lady Severn.”