is something in this letter—this old letter, which you say I read so
often—that I have never told you. But, to-night, dear husband, with that
sunset drawing near, and all our life seeming to soften and become hushed
with the departing day, I cannot keep it secret.’
‘What is it, love?’
‘When Marion went away, she wrote me, here, that you had once left her a
sacred trust to me, and that now she left you, Alfred, such a trust in my
hands: praying and beseeching me, as I loved her, and as I loved you, not
to reject the affection she believed (she knew, she said) you would
transfer to me when the new wound was healed, but to encourage and return
it.’
‘—And make me a proud, and happy man again, Grace. Did she say so?’
‘She meant, to make myself so blest and honoured in your love,’ was his
wife’s answer, as he held her in his arms.
‘Hear me, my dear!’ he said.—‘No. Hear me so!’—and as he spoke, he
gently laid the head she had raised, again upon his shoulder. ‘I know
why I have never heard this passage in the letter, until now. I know why
no trace of it ever showed itself in any word or look of yours at that
time. I know why Grace, although so true a friend to me, was hard to win
to be my wife. And knowing it, my own! I know the priceless value of the
heart I gird within my arms, and thank GOD for the rich possession!’
She wept, but not for sorrow, as he pressed her to his heart. After a
brief space, he looked down at the child, who was sitting at their feet
playing with a little basket of flowers, and bade her look how golden and
how red the sun was.
‘Alfred,’ said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. ‘The sun
is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.’
‘You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,’ he answered.
‘All the truth,’ she said, imploringly. ‘Nothing veiled from me, any
more. That was the promise. Was it not?’
‘It was,’ he answered.
‘Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred?
It is sinking fast.’
He put his arm about her waist, and, looking steadily into her eyes,
rejoined:
‘That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to
come from other lips.’
‘From other lips!’ she faintly echoed.
‘Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that
to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the
time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a
trial—a surprise—a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.’
‘What messenger?’ she said. ‘And what intelligence does he bring?’
‘I am pledged,’ he answered her, preserving his steady look, ‘to say no
more. Do you think you understand me?’
‘I am afraid to think,’ she said.
There was that emotion in his face, despite its steady gaze, which
frightened her. Again she hid her own face on his shoulder, trembling,
and entreated him to pause—a moment.
‘Courage, my wife! When you have firmness to receive the messenger, the
messenger is waiting at the gate. The sun is setting on Marion’s
birth-day. Courage, courage, Grace!’
She raised her head, and, looking at him, told him she was ready. As she
stood, and looked upon him going away, her face was so like Marion’s as
it had been in her later days at home, that it was wonderful to see. He
took the child with him. She called her back—she bore the lost girl’s
name—and pressed her to her bosom. The little creature, being released
again, sped after him, and Grace was left alone.
She knew not what she dreaded, or what hoped; but remained there,
motionless, looking at the porch by which they had disappeared.
Ah! what was that, emerging from its shadow; standing on its threshold!
That figure, with its white garments rustling in the evening air; its
head laid down upon her father’s breast, and pressed against it to his
loving heart! O God! was it a vision that came bursting from the old
man’s arms, and with a cry, and with a waving of its hands, and with a
wild precipitation of itself upon her in its boundless love, sank down in
her embrace!
‘Oh, Marion, Marion! Oh, my sister! Oh, my heart’s dear love! Oh, joy
and happiness unutterable, so to meet again!’
It was no dream, no phantom conjured up by hope and fear, but Marion,
sweet Marion! So beautiful, so happy, so unalloyed by care and trial, so
elevated and exalted in her loveliness, that as the setting sun shone
brightly on her upturned face, she might have been a spirit visiting the
earth upon some healing mission.
Clinging to her sister, who had dropped upon a seat and bent down over
her—and smiling through her tears—and kneeling, close before her, with
both arms twining round her, and never turning for an instant from her
face—and with the glory of the setting sun upon her brow, and with the
soft tranquillity of evening gathering around them—Marion at length broke
silence; her voice, so calm, low, clear, and pleasant, well-tuned to the
time.
‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again—’
‘Stay, my sweet love! A moment! O Marion, to hear you speak again.’
She could not bear the voice she loved so well, at first.
‘When this was my dear home, Grace, as it will be now again, I loved him
from my soul. I loved him most devotedly. I would have died for him,
though I was so young. I never slighted his affection in my secret
breast for one brief instant. It was far beyond all price to me.
Although it is so long ago, and past, and gone, and everything is wholly
changed, I could not bear to think that you, who love so well, should
think I did not truly love him once. I never loved him better, Grace,
than when he left this very scene upon this very day. I never loved him
better, dear one, than I did that night when I left here.’
Her sister, bending over her, could look into her face, and hold her
fast.
‘But he had gained, unconsciously,’ said Marion, with a gentle smile,
‘another heart, before I knew that I had one to give him. That
heart—yours, my sister!—was so yielded up, in all its other tenderness,
to me; was so devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its love away, and
kept its secret from all eyes but mine—Ah! what other eyes were quickened
by such tenderness and gratitude!—and was content to sacrifice itself to
me. But, I knew something of its depths. I knew the struggle it had
made. I knew its high, inestimable worth to him, and his appreciation of
it, let him love me as he would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had its
great example every day before me. What you had done for me, I knew that
I could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I never laid my head down on my
pillow, but I prayed with tears to do it. I never laid my head down on
my pillow, but I thought of Alfred’s own words on the day of his
departure, and how truly he had said (for I knew that, knowing you) that
there were victories gained every day, in struggling hearts, to which
these fields of battle were nothing. Thinking more and more upon the
great endurance cheerfully sustained, and never known or cared for, that
there must be, every day and hour, in that great strife of which he
spoke, my trial seemed to grow light and easy. And He who knows our
hearts, my dearest, at this moment, and who knows there is no drop of
bitterness or grief—of anything but unmixed happiness—in mine, enabled me
to make the resolution that I never would be Alfred’s wife. That he
should be my brother, and your husband, if the course I took could bring
that happy end to pass; but that I never would (Grace, I then loved him
dearly, dearly!) be his wife!’
‘O Marion! O Marion!’
‘I had tried to seem indifferent to him;’ and she pressed her sister’s
face against her own; ‘but that was hard, and you were always his true
advocate. I had tried to tell you of my resolution, but you would never
hear me; you would never understand me. The time was drawing near for
his return. I felt that I must act, before the daily intercourse between
us was renewed. I knew that one great pang, undergone at that time,
would save a lengthened agony to all of us. I knew that if I went away
then, that end must follow which _has_ followed, and which has made us
both so happy, Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for a refuge in her
house: I did not then tell her all, but something of my story, and she
freely promised it. While I was contesting that step with myself, and
with my love of you, and home, Mr. Warden, brought here by an accident,
became, for some time, our companion.’
‘I have sometimes feared of late years, that this might have been,’
exclaimed her sister; and her countenance was ashy-pale. ‘You never
loved him—and you married him in your self-sacrifice to me!’
‘He was then,’ said Marion, drawing her sister closer to her, ‘on the eve
of going secretly away for a long time. He wrote to me, after leaving
here; told me what his condition and prospects really were; and offered
me his hand. He told me he had seen I was not happy in the prospect of
Alfred’s return. I believe he thought my heart had no part in that
contract; perhaps thought I might have loved him once, and did not then;
perhaps thought that when I tried to seem indifferent, I tried to hide
indifference—I cannot tell. But I wished that you should feel me wholly
lost to Alfred—hopeless to him—dead. Do you understand me, love?’
Her sister looked into her face, attentively. She seemed in doubt.
‘I saw Mr. Warden, and confided in his honour; charged him with my
secret, on the eve of his and my departure. He kept it. Do you
understand me, dear?’
Grace looked confusedly upon her. She scarcely seemed to hear.
‘My love, my sister!’ said Marion, ‘recall your thoughts a moment; listen
to me. Do not look so strangely on me. There are countries, dearest,
where those who would abjure a misplaced passion, or would strive,
against some cherished feeling of their hearts and conquer it, retire
into a hopeless solitude, and close the world against themselves and
worldly loves and hopes for ever. When women do so, they assume that
name which is so dear to you and me, and call each other Sisters. But,
there may be sisters, Grace, who, in the broad world out of doors, and
underneath its free sky, and in its crowded places, and among its busy
life, and trying to assist and cheer it and to do some good,—learn the
same lesson; and who, with hearts still fresh and young, and open to all
happiness and means of happiness, can say the battle is long past, the
victory long won. And such a one am I! You understand me now?’
Still she looked fixedly upon her, and made no reply.
‘Oh Grace, dear Grace,’ said Marion, clinging yet more tenderly and
fondly to that breast from which she had been so long exiled, ‘if you
were not a happy wife and mother—if I had no little namesake here—if
Alfred, my kind brother, were not your own fond husband—from whence could
I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night! But, as I left here, so I have
returned. My heart has known no other love, my hand has never been
bestowed apart from it. I am still your maiden sister, unmarried,
unbetrothed: your own loving old Marion, in whose affection you exist
alone and have no partner, Grace!’
She understood her now. Her face relaxed: sobs came to her relief; and
falling on her neck, she wept and wept, and fondled her as if she were a
child again.
When they were more composed, they found that the Doctor, and his sister
good Aunt Martha, were standing near at hand, with Alfred.
‘This is a weary day for me,’ said good Aunt Martha, smiling through her
tears, as she embraced her nieces; ‘for I lose my dear companion in
making you all happy; and what can you give me, in return for my Marion?’
‘A converted brother,’ said the Doctor.
‘That’s something, to be sure,’ retorted Aunt Martha, ‘in such a farce
as—’
‘No, pray don’t,’ said the doctor penitently.
‘Well, I won’t,’ replied Aunt Martha. ‘But, I consider myself ill used.
I don’t know what’s to become of me without my Marion, after we have
lived together half-a-dozen years.’
‘You must come and live here, I suppose,’ replied the Doctor. ‘We shan’t
quarrel now, Martha.’
‘Or you must get married, Aunt,’ said Alfred.
‘Indeed,’ returned the old lady, ‘I think it might be a good speculation
if I were to set my cap at Michael Warden, who, I hear, is come home much
the better for his absence in all respects. But as I knew him when he
was a boy, and I was not a very young woman then, perhaps he mightn’t
respond. So I’ll make up my mind to go and live with Marion, when she
marries, and until then (it will not be very long, I dare say) to live
alone. What do _you_ say, Brother?’
‘I’ve a great mind to say it’s a ridiculous world altogether, and there’s
nothing serious in it,’ observed the poor old Doctor.
‘You might take twenty affidavits of it if you chose, Anthony,’ said his
sister; ‘but nobody would believe you with such eyes as those.’
‘It’s a world full of hearts,’ said the Doctor, hugging his youngest
daughter, and bending across her to hug Grace—for he couldn’t separate
the sisters; ‘and a serious world, with all its folly—even with mine,
which was enough to have swamped the whole globe; and it is a world on
which the sun never rises, but it looks upon a thousand bloodless battles
that are some set-off against the miseries and wickedness of
Battle-Fields; and it is a world we need be careful how we libel, Heaven
forgive us, for it is a world of sacred mysteries, and its Creator only
knows what lies beneath the surface of His lightest image!’
* * * * *
You would not be the better pleased with my rude pen, if it dissected and
laid open to your view the transports of this family, long severed and
now reunited. Therefore, I will not follow the poor Doctor through his
humbled recollection of the sorrow he had had, when Marion was lost to
him; nor, will I tell how serious he had found that world to be, in which
some love, deep-anchored, is the portion of all human creatures; nor, how
such a trifle as the absence of one little unit in the great absurd
account, had stricken him to the ground. Nor, how, in compassion for his
distress, his sister had, long ago, revealed the truth to him by slow
degrees, and brought him to the knowledge of the heart of his
self-banished daughter, and to that daughter’s side.
Nor, how Alfred Heathfield had been told the truth, too, in the course of
that then current year; and Marion had seen him, and had promised him, as
her brother, that on her birth-day, in the evening, Grace should know it
from her lips at last.
‘I beg your pardon, Doctor,’ said Mr. Snitchey, looking into the orchard,
‘but have I liberty to come in?’
Without waiting for permission, he came straight to Marion, and kissed
her hand, quite joyfully.
‘If Mr. Craggs had been alive, my dear Miss Marion,’ said Mr. Snitchey,
‘he would have had great interest in this occasion. It might have
suggested to him, Mr. Alfred, that our life is not too easy perhaps:
that, taken altogether, it will bear any little smoothing we can give it;
but Mr. Craggs was a man who could endure to be convinced, sir. He was
always open to conviction. If he were open to conviction, now, I—this is
weakness. Mrs. Snitchey, my dear,’—at his summons that lady appeared
from behind the door, ‘you are among old friends.’
Mrs. Snitchey having delivered her congratulations, took her husband
aside.
‘One moment, Mr. Snitchey,’ said that lady. ‘It is not in my nature to
rake up the ashes of the departed.’
‘No, my dear,’ returned her husband.
‘Mr. Craggs is—’
‘Yes, my dear, he is deceased,’ said Snitchey.
‘But I ask you if you recollect,’ pursued his wife, ‘that evening of the
ball? I only ask you that. If you do; and if your memory has not
entirely failed you, Mr. Snitchey; and if you are not absolutely in your
dotage; I ask you to connect this time with that—to remember how I begged
and prayed you, on my knees—’
‘Upon your knees, my dear?’ said Mr. Snitchey.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, confidently, ‘and you know it—to beware of
that man—to observe his eye—and now to tell me whether I was right, and
whether at that moment he knew secrets which he didn’t choose to tell.’
‘Mrs. Snitchey,’ returned her husband, in her ear, ‘Madam. Did you ever
observe anything in _my_ eye?’
‘No,’ said Mrs. Snitchey, sharply. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Because, Madam, that night,’ he continued, twitching her by the sleeve,
‘it happens that we both knew secrets which we didn’t choose to tell, and
both knew just the same professionally. And so the less you say about
such things the better, Mrs. Snitchey; and take this as a warning to have
wiser and more charitable eyes another time. Miss Marion, I brought a
friend of yours along with me. Here! Mistress!’
Poor Clemency, with her apron to her eyes, came slowly in, escorted by
her husband; the latter doleful with the presentiment, that if she
abandoned herself to grief, the Nutmeg-Grater was done for.
‘Now, Mistress,’ said the lawyer, checking Marion as she ran towards her,
and interposing himself between them, ‘what’s the matter with _you_?’
‘The matter!’ cried poor Clemency.—When, looking up in wonder, and in
indignant remonstrance, and in the added emotion of a great roar from Mr.
Britain, and seeing that sweet face so well remembered close before her,
she stared, sobbed, laughed, cried, screamed, embraced her, held her
fast, released her, fell on Mr. Snitchey and embraced him (much to Mrs.
Snitchey’s indignation), fell on the Doctor and embraced him, fell on Mr.
Britain and embraced him, and concluded by embracing herself, throwing
her apron over her head, and going into hysterics behind it.
A stranger had come into the orchard, after Mr. Snitchey, and had
remained apart, near the gate, without being observed by any of the
group; for they had little spare attention to bestow, and that had been
monopolised by the ecstasies of Clemency. He did not appear to wish to
be observed, but stood alone, with downcast eyes; and there was an air of
dejection about him (though he was a gentleman of a gallant appearance)
which the general happiness rendered more remarkable.
None but the quick eyes of Aunt Martha, however, remarked him at all;
but, almost as soon as she espied him, she was in conversation with him.
Presently, going to where Marion stood with Grace and her little
namesake, she whispered something in Marion’s ear, at which she started,
and appeared surprised; but soon recovering from her confusion, she
timidly approached the stranger, in Aunt Martha’s company, and engaged in
conversation with him too.
‘Mr. Britain,’ said the lawyer, putting his hand in his pocket, and
bringing out a legal-looking document, while this was going on, ‘I
congratulate you. You are now the whole and sole proprietor of that
freehold tenement, at present occupied and held by yourself as a licensed
tavern, or house of public entertainment, and commonly called or known by
the sign of the Nutmeg-Grater. Your wife lost one house, through my
client Mr. Michael Warden; and now gains another. I shall have the
pleasure of canvassing you for the county, one of these fine mornings.’
‘Would it make any difference in the vote if the sign was altered, sir?’
asked Britain.
‘Not in the least,’ replied the lawyer.
‘Then,’ said Mr. Britain, handing him back the conveyance, ‘just clap in
the words, “and Thimble,” will you be so good; and I’ll have the two
mottoes painted up in the parlour instead of my wife’s portrait.’
‘And let me,’ said a voice behind them; it was the stranger’s—Michael
Warden’s; ‘let me claim the benefit of those inscriptions. Mr.
Heathfield and Dr. Jeddler, I might have deeply wronged you both. That I
did not, is no virtue of my own. I will not say that I am six years
wiser than I was, or better. But I have known, at any rate, that term of
self-reproach. I can urge no reason why you should deal gently with me.
I abused the hospitality of this house; and learnt by my own demerits,
with a shame I never have forgotten, yet with some profit too, I would
fain hope, from one,’ he glanced at Marion, ‘to whom I made my humble
supplication for forgiveness, when I knew her merit and my deep
unworthiness. In a few days I shall quit this place for ever. I entreat
your pardon. Do as you would be done by! Forget and Forgive!’
* * * * *
TIME—from whom I had the latter portion of this story, and with whom I
have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance of some five-and-thirty
years’ duration—informed me, leaning easily upon his scythe, that Michael
Warden never went away again, and never sold his house, but opened it
afresh, maintained a golden means of hospitality, and had a wife, the
pride and honour of that countryside, whose name was Marion. But, as I
have observed that Time confuses facts occasionally, I hardly know what
weight to give to his authority.