Events come in clusters; and the very same day on which Henry was
publicly recognised as Marquis of Doncaster, Marion received a letter
from Sir Patrick, announcing his intention immediately to return home.
He alluded, with a degree of feeling which surprised and deeply
affected her, to the death of Sir Arthur, and spoke of happy days yet
to come, when he hoped she might, at length, be united to "the man
whom, above all others on earth, he esteemed the most, and liked the
best." In reading these words, Marion felt a pang of melancholy
sympathy for her brother, believing, of course, that they alluded to
his friend Captain De Crespigny; and deeply did she deplore the grief
he was about to suffer, when first he should hear of that appalling
event which had filled every heart with grief and consternation.
It was on a gloomy evening in the month of February, when the sun,
having all day failed to disperse a thick fog, had sunk into darkness,
that Marion, expecting her brother's return, used all the little
ingenuity of affection to render his reception cheerful. The fire
blazed brightly; the tea urn was on the table, and she herself had
taken more than usual pains with her dress, besides having decked her
face with unwonted smiles for the occasion.
When Sir Patrick at last arrived, there was a tone of unusual kindness
in his manner to both Agnes and Marion, who were surprised by the
genuine warmth with which he expressed his happiness on seeing them
again, and at the subdued melancholy in his voice. The fatal news of
Captain De Crespigny's death had reached him on the road, and there
appeared a profound solemnity in his manner when he alluded to it, more
affecting than the loudest expressions of grief; but it was a subject
on which he seemed incapable of speaking; while Marion scarcely thought
a human countenance could have expressed so much anguish. While Agnes
preserved an almost statue-like silence, Marion took her brother's hand
in her own, and endeavored, by every affectionate endearment, to
testify her sympathy, till at length he clasped her in his arms,
saying, in accents almost choked with agitation, "Your sisterly
kindness, Marion, has survived all my neglect and misconduct. Let me
thank you for that; but could it survive if I were to tell you of a
cruel and heartless treachery?"
"It can survive anything--everything," whispered Marion, earnestly.
"Say nothing that distresses you, Patrick! Never think of it again!"
"I must not only think of it for ever, Marion, but show my regret by
telling you all," replied he, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling.
"But not now, Marion; not yet! I could not bear to do so in the full
tide of our happiness at meeting. You deserve to be loved as you are
loved by one who is every way worthy of you."
The color rushed over Marion's countenance, and vanished as rapidly
again; but her eyes, which had been fixed on those of Sir Patrick with
sparkling affection, now fell sadly to the ground, while she made no
reply, evidently trying to avoid her brother's notice, who seemed bent
on reading her thoughts.
"Marion," said he, gravely, "to what do you attribute Richard
Granville's strange and unjustifiable silence?"
"It is strange, Patrick; but I could pledge my life it is not
unjustifiable," replied Marion, in tremulous accents. "When I gave him
my heart, it was with a perfect conviction that he is incapable of
deceit or dishonor, and I believe him so still. I trust him as I would
be trusted myself. In this world or in another we shall understand each
other again."
Marion's features kindled as she spoke; bright and beautiful tears
gathered in her eyes; her manner became more energetic; her whole heart
seemed on her lips, and the deep melody of her voice was eloquence
itself, as she advocated the cause of her absent lover.
"But surely, Marion," said Agnes, turning round, as she was about to
leave the room, "there are pen, ink, and paper to be found on the
Continent, if he pleased to use them."
"Yes," added Sir Patrick; "and if Granville ever returns, Marion, you
will of course receive him coldly, give yourself all the airs of
injured merit, and, in short, treat him from the very first as a
flagrant criminal."
"Not at all, Patrick!" replied Marion, surprised at the lurking smile
she traced on her brother's countenance. "I place no dependance on my
own attractions, or I might indeed despair; but my reliance rests on
the consistency and generosity of Richard himself, in which I cannot be
mistaken. The features of his character, like the features of his
countenance, are unalterable; and I could not believe in his identity,
if he were deficient in honor and truth. Even at the worst, Patrick,"
added Marion, while her glittering, wet eye-lashes drooped on her
glowing cheek, "where we love it is a pleasure to forgive; but my
confidence as yet is unshaken."
"Then, Marion, you deserve to be happy--happier than I ever was, or
ever shall be; and never, believe me, had any one a brighter lot in
prospect. Those tears have no business there! They will soon, I hope,
be strangers to your eyes!"
There was a look of joyous emotion in the countenance of Sir Patrick as
he spoke, which made the heart of Marion leap to her very lips with
agitation, while in broken and hurried accents he continued,
"I did intend to give you a long and painful explanation of my
conduct--to tell you of my recent dangerous illness abroad, during
which I was attended by the most inestimable of friends; to describe
how the slow progress of my recovery left me leisure for the counsels
and conversation of the best of men; to say how the death of De
Crespigny has overawed and afflicted me, taking the gloss from my whole
future existence on earth; and to tell you that the loss of Clara
Granville, and the last scene we had together, have put a climax to the
entire change of all my thoughts and feelings in life. I am returned,
Marion, now, to do justice wherever it is due; by years of careful
restriction to discharge the uttermost farthing of my debts, and to
make two persons happy who deserve it."
A bright, quick flush passed across Marion's cheek, and a bewildering
hope darted into her mind, when Sir Patrick smilingly added, with a
thrilling tremor still in his voice,
"A stranger is waiting for me below, who can explain all better than
myself. May he come up? I am too much agitated to be distinct!"
Scarcely had her brother left the room, before Marion heard a light,
springing step on the stairs. The door was flung open; and if joy ever
killed, it would have been now, when Marion, with almost incredulous
astonishment, again beheld Richard Granville; his features lighted up
by the smile of former days; his eyes radiant with joy, and his
countenance almost convulsed with agitation, while, giving an
exclamation of rapturous delight, he presented himself before her.
If Marion's life had depended on her speaking a word, she could not for
some moments have uttered it; but there is a silent eloquence in deep
emotion, more powerful than language; and, giddy with excessive
astonishment, tears and smiles seemed to struggle for the mastery in
her countenance, like the summer light and shade upon an aspen tree.
All was mutual confidence, and mutual affection now, while Richard
Granville rapidly, and almost incoherently, conveyed to Marion's heart
the surpassing felicity of his own, telling her how the long hours of
his absence had each and all of them been counted over with
unimaginable impatience; that, she had never been a moment absent from
his thoughts, and that, having seized the first instant to hasten to
his happiness, he had now returned to claim his promised bride, and in
the sight of heaven and earth, to dedicate to her all his earthly
affections--to make her his own forever.
With a deep sob of gratified emotion, Marion listened; her feelings
were strained to the uttermost; but she frankly received all his joyful
protestations of unchanged and unchangeable attachment, and attempted
not to conceal her own, saying, in low, tremulous accents, as soon as
she could command her voice to speak,--
"I think the more of myself for being loved by you. It will take a
life-time to testify how deeply I value your affection."
"My happiness would be nothing if it could be expressed in words,"
continued Richard, in accents of the deepest tenderness. "But let
future years, my Marion, speak for me. It is said that no man would
willingly consent to live his life exactly over again; but we shall be
so happy in each other, that nothing would make us hesitate except the
hope of a still better life to come."
"And now," said Sir Patrick, entering, with some degree of his old
vivacity restored, "your sails are full set, with a brisk breeze, for
the haven of happiness! May you both obtain everything you have been
disappointed of in former years, and find nothing left to wish for in
the future."
"That would be misery, rather than happiness," replied Mr. Granville,
smiling. "No, Dunbar, for myself, and for my Marion, my still dearer
self, I trust that we shall contentedly see the stream of events flow
on, in sunshine or shadow, without a wish to change them. We shall be
one on earth, one in heaven, and one throughout eternity, confiding in
each other with entire and unalterable affection; while every action of
our lives and every thought of our hearts shall be consecrated by
implicit obedience to that Beneficent Being who has bestowed on us so
much."
Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time can disengage;
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age.
Those ills that wait on all below
Shall ne'er be felt by me;
Or gently felt, and only so,
As being shar'd with thee.
COWPER.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Modern Flirtations, by Catherine Sinclair