Marion had a genius for being happy, and much as the unexpected ball
had amused her, she hurried along the road to Portobello, her cheek
dimpling at the recollection of all that had passed, while she
confidently anticipated one pleasure yet to come from it, the
amusement she knew Sir Arthur would derive from her adventure; for
never did two individuals, when together, seem to converse more in
accordance with Dr. Johnson's rule, than Marion and her uncle, that
"the aged should remember that they have been young, and the young
that they must yet be old."
As Marion arrived within sight of the cottage, her step became more
buoyant, and her thoughts more joyous, when, seeing Sir Arthur at his
open window, she waved her handkerchief to him; and Henry, leaping out
from a height of about ten feet, ran laughing to meet her, his rich
brown hair waving in the wind, his color heightened by the exercise,
and his eye sparkling with the joy of this very unexpected meeting.
While Marion poured out the tea, and poured out, at the same time, a
whole flood of recollections and circumstances connected with the
ball, Sir Arthur equalled her utmost hopes, in being amused and
enlivened by the description, while he said, in a rallying tone,
looking fondly at her bright, happy countenance, "My dear Marion, you
will never get on in the fashionable world! You look too pleased and
happy, like a girl in the Christmas holidays. That will never do. It
is the fashion to be exceedingly fastidious and discontented. You must
positively give yourself some airs, or I shall have to be angry at
you."
"You, uncle Arthur! Do let me see you angry! I cannot fancy such a
thing. But pray, publish a volume of advice to young ladies on their
first coming out. It would be a great pity for the rising generation
not to benefit by your remarks," said Marion, gaily seating herself at
the window. "I feel this morning as cheerful as that view of yours
from the window, where the waves are dancing in sunshine, the ocean
one liquid diamond, the sands all sparkling with gladness, and the
white-winged vessels gliding joyfully along."
"External things take their expression from the feelings with which
they are looked at," replied Sir Arthur, with sudden emotion. "That
wide desert of sand seems to me this morning boundless as human
wishes, and barren as their reality. I would not willingly throw a
cloud over your happy face, Marion; but it must be! How strange, that
even you, young and joyous as you are, must be doomed, like all the
children of man, to sorrow! The delight of seeing you here, my very
dear girl, had banished all care from my mind for a time; but it is on
your account, far--far more than my own--that I feel anxious and
melancholy."
Marion put her arm gently within that of Sir Arthur, and looked
affectionately, but silently, in his face, while he continued, in
accents of manly regret and indignation, while there was a mournful
tenderness in the look he turned on his niece,
"You have not heard, Marion, that the little I ever had has been made
less by a mean transaction of my nephew's. For my own part, this
matters little, as it is not in the nature of things, that with all my
accumulated infirmities, I should live as much as a couple of years.
My sight has almost entirely failed, my general health is equally bad,
and my long-faded spirits owe their best support to religion, and to
the affection of yourself and Henry."
Marion silently and tearfully kissed her uncle's check, and pressed
his hand more closely in her own, while he proceeded, in accents of
increasing emotion,
"My boy here wishes, as he ought, to pursue a profession, and Henry
will be an honor to any one he enters. He has never cost me an anxious
thought, nor a single shilling. I trust his anonymous annuity will be
always continued, and that on his account I need not lament my
impoverished circumstances; but my chief earthly care is for you,
Marion. Though Agnes, too, shows me little attention, and no kindness,
I cannot forget whose child she is, nor think of her future life
without anxiety. I had hoped to have the means of being useful to both
of you while I lived--to have offered you a shelter here, in case, as
I expect soon, there should be no other for you--and to have left you
both at last above absolute penury, when I am at rest in the grave. It
is for your sakes only that I would now cling to the tattered shreds
of my worn-out existence; but this is a difficult world for
unprotected, portionless girls, in which to buffet their way onwards.
Remember, dear Marion, it is my misfortune, not my fault, if death now
overtake me before I can do anything for my brother's children."
Marion clasped her arms round Sir Arthur's neck, and wept in silence.
There was a weight of grief in all he had said, for which she was
totally unprepared, and which she felt in every fibre of her heart.
Sir Patrick's disgraceful conduct, and the impending departure of
Henry, so long her companion and friend, were afflictions for which
she was in some degree prepared; and they seemed as nothing, compared
with what her venerable uncle said, for the first time, of himself. He
was a strong-minded man, unwilling to obtrude his infirmities and
feelings on the notice of any one, anxious always rather to borrow
cheerfulness from those around, than to cause anxiety or grief; but a
sense of its absolute necessity had induced him to show Marion, in
some degree, her real position, and in doing so, had obliged him for
once to speak of his own pecuniary losses and growing frailty. Long as
the Admiral had been threatened with blindness, brought on by the
pernicious climates in which he had served, the apprehension of
actually losing him had hitherto been so far from Marion's thoughts,
that she frequently pleased herself with anticipating the time when
she might herself supply, by reading to him and walking with him, the
place of that gloomy and spectral-looking Mr. Howard, one of the few
people in the world whom Marion disliked, at the same time that she
almost envied him for being so constantly in the society of Sir
Arthur, and for being so indispensably useful to him.
Marion felt that all the world would be cold and bleak to her indeed,
as if the sun had left the firmament, if she lost the warmth of
affection and kindness to which, from infancy, she had been
accustomed, in the house of her beloved uncle, the only parent she had
ever known. If such a misfortune were to come, who would then advise
her--who would then be interested in her feelings--who would believe
in the sincerity of her affections--who would be happy when she
appeared, and grieved when she departed? All this rushed upon Marion's
young mind when she arose to depart, while bitter tears coursed each
other down her cheeks, and large drops stood in the nearly blinded
eyes of Sir Arthur, which he endeavored to hide, as he affectionately
embraced her, saying, in a tone of dignified, but melancholy
composure,
"Come back soon, my dear girl! Let me see that face often, while I can
see at all! You are the ivy giving life and cheerfulness to a blasted
tree."
"Let me remain with you always!" whispered Marion, in a tone of the
deepest earnestness, "dear uncle Arthur! It is impossible to tell how
happy I could be with you, but I have an abhorrence now, not to be
expressed, of my present situation. It seems little short of swindling
even for me, to live as I do, with all our debts unpaid. When I sit
down at my brother's table, or wear the dresses he gives me, I cannot
but feel myself an accomplice. It is degrading to my very heart, and I
would not willingly do it. Take me home, dear uncle, to the best home
I have ever known. Let me read to you, write for you, walk with you,
and we shall be so happy--so very happy together."
"It may come to that too soon, dear Marion, and when it does, no
parent ever received his own child with more pleasure than I shall
welcome you. Even with all my shame and sorrow, then, for your
brother, my very heart shall rejoice to see you, but not yet. Patrick
is your guardian--a most unfit one certainly;--but while he is able
and willing to receive you, which cannot probably be long,--it would
ill become me to interfere. In remaining with him, you fulfil your
father's will, who bequeathed you to his care,--a trust he has but
little deserved. Remain with him, however, at present, and do not feel
answerable for his actions or circumstances, over which you have no
control."