"Yes, friends may be kind, and vales may be green,
And brooks, may sparkle along between;
But it is not friendship's kindest look,
Nor loveliest vale, nor clearest brook,
That can tell the tale which is written for me
On each old face and well known tree."
R. H. FROUDE.
It was a happy day for both Agnes Wortley and Marian Arundel when they
again entered Devonshire. Agnes seemed to feel her four weeks as serious
an absence as Marian did her four years, and was even more rapturous in
her exclamations at each object that showed her she was near home.
They walked up the last and steepest hill, or rather bounded along the
well known side path, catching at the long trailing wreaths of the
dogrose, peeping over the gates which broke the high hedge, where
Marian, as she saw the moors, could only relieve her heart by
pronouncing to herself those words of Manzoni's Lucia, "_Vedo i miei
monti._" ("I see my own mountains.") She beheld the woods and the
chimneys of the Manor House, but she shrank from looking at it, and
gazed, as if she feared it was but a moment's vision, at the rough
cottages, the smoke curling among the trees, the red limestone quarry,
and the hills far away in the summer garb of golden furze. It was home,
her heart was full, and Agnes respected her silence.
Down the hill, along the well-known paling, past the cottages, the dear
old faces smiling welcome; the Church, always the same, the green rail
of the Vicarage garden, the paint was the only thing new; the porch,
with roses hanging thicker over it than ever; Ranger, David Chapple,
Jane, the housemaid, all in ecstasy in their different ways.
That first evening was spent in visiting every nook of the garden with
Agnes, and hearing the history of each little innovation; then, after a
slight interval of sleepiness, came those fond, cordial "good nights,"
which dwell no where but at home.
She woke to the reality of a Fern Torr Sunday, not to shake off with
disappointment and wearinesss, the dream of such a day. There was the
pinkthorne, dressed in all its garlands, before her window, the dew
lying heavy and silvery on the grass; the cart-horses enjoying their
holiday in the meadow, the mass of blossom in the orchard, the sky
above, all blueness, the air full of a delicious quietness, as if the
sunshine itself was repose, Marian leant out at her window, and wondered
if it was possible she should have been so long away, so familiar, so
natural did it all seem.
The hurried breakfast, the walk to school, the school itself, how well
she knew it all, and within the school how old a world it was, and yet
how new! The benches, the books, the smiles, the curtsies, the very
nosegays, redolent of southernwood, were unchanged, but all the great
good girls of her day, the prime first class, where was it? Here was the
first class still, Agnes' pride; but, behold, these are the little ones
of her day, and the babies for whom she had made pink frocks and frilled
caps, now stared up in her face responsible beings, who could say more
than half the Catechism. Her own little pets of school-days were grown
out of knowledge into the uninteresting time of life, the "old age
of childhood," and looked as if they found it equally difficult to
recognize "little Miss" in a lady taller than Miss Wortley. Next
followed the walk to Church, full of meetings and greetings, admiration
of her growth, and inquiries after Sir Gerald.
Yes, Marian did feel like the old self: her four years' absence was like
a dream that had passed away, and was nothing to her; she could think
only of home, home thoughts and home interests; the cares and the
teasings, the amusements and the turmoils of Oakworthy and London, were
as things far distant, which had never really concerned her, or
belonged to some different state of existence. She was at home, as she
continually said to herself; she felt as if she was in some way more in
the presence of her parents, as if their influence was sheltering her,
and shielding her from all external ill, as in the days of yore. Happy
they who can return after four years' trial as Marian did.
She was preparing for Confirmation; for, to her great joy, she was in
time to form one of Mr. Wortley's own flock, He gave her half an hour
every other morning; and now it was that all the difficulties raised
in her mind in arguments with Caroline, doubts with right or wrong, or
questions why and wherefore, were either solved or smoothed down. Her
principles were strengthened, her views were cleared up; she learnt the
reasons of rules she had obeyed in ignorance, and perceived her own
failures and their causes.
These were her graver hours. At other times she read, drew, and studied
German with Agnes, who gladly availed herself of the aid of one well
crammed by London masters, and who could not but allow, even to the
credit of her enemies, that they had made Marian very accomplished.
There were long walks to every well-remembered hill and dell, with
further expeditions planned against the return of the boys, and numerous
visits to old friends at the cottages to present Marian's gifts, which
had fairly overpowered Saunders' powers of packing. Delightful walks,
how different from the parade on the chalk roads, over high hedges,
through gaps doubly fenced with thorns, scrambling, at the risk of
neck us well as of dress, over piles of fern and ivy-covered rocks, or
hopping across brooks on extemporised stepping-stones, usually in the
very thick of some _mauvais pas_, discussing some tremendous point of
metaphysics or languages and breaking off in it to scream at the beauty
of the view, or to pity a rent muslin.
Marian and Agnes talked considerably now, and, allowing for the
difference in age, just as they used to do. Marian's fears of her own
coldness and doubts of her confidence in Agnes had all melted in her
native atmosphere, and were quite forgotten. She could speak of the
Lyddells now, though still she did not find fault with them, nor make
complaints; indeed, it was Agnes' abuse of them that made her first
discover that she had a regard for them.
This prejudice, as she began to call it, seemed to her unaccountable,
since she had never written complainingly, until she found at last,
(which made her inclined to treat it with more respect,) that it
was founded on what Edmund had reported. He had come to Fern Torr
immediately after his visit to Oakworthy, very much out of spirits, and
had poured out his anxieties to his friends, talking of Mr. and Mrs.
Lyddell with less caution than he had used with Marian, and lamenting
over the fate of his poor little cousins like something hopeless. Marian
thought of Gerald, and her heart failed her, then she hoped again, for
Gerald was coming home, and then she understood what Edmund had thought
of it all, and knew that it was perfectly consistent with his last
conversation with her. So she said that was four years ago, and that
Edmund was very kind.
The time of Gerald's arrival came. Charles and James Wortley preceded
him by about a fortnight, and all that Marian saw of them made her
rejoice in such companionship for him. Mr. Wortley drove her to meet him
at Exeter, and never was greeting more joyful. Lionel had sent her a
message that Oakworthy would be as dull as ditch water without her,
and if she did not come back before the end of the holidays, he should
certainly be obliged to go back to Eton again to find something to do.
Having delivered this message, Gerald made both his companions laugh by
gazing about as if surprised to find Exeter still in the same place, and
wondering at reading all the old names over the shops.
Marian was delighted that he recognised all the torrs on the drive home,
and very proud of his height, his beauty, and his cordial, well-bred
gentlemanlike manners, which gave the Wortleys general satisfaction.
The first thing he did was to go out and visit his old pony in the
paddock, patting it very affectionately, though he seemed much surprised
that it was so small.
In the evening they went to the Manor House. Marian had spent many hours
there, sat in the empty rooms, wandered in the garden, and mused on past
days, or dwelt on them with Agnes, and she had looked forward with great
pleasure to having her brother there.
She wished to have had him alone, but he asked Agnes and the boys to
come, and they all set out together up the rocky steps, Gerald far
before the rest, and when Marian came up to him he was standing on the
lawn, at the top of the steps, looking at the house.
"I thought it was larger," exclaimed he.
"But, Gerald, see how high the magnolia has grown, and how nice and
smooth old Lapthorn keeps the lawn. Does it not look as if we had gone
away only yesterday?"
"Yes, and there is the little larburnum that we planted. How it is
grown! But how very small the house is."
By this time the door had been opened by the old housekeeper, and
Marian, running up to her, exclaimed, "Here he is, Mrs. White! Come,
come, Gerald, come and speak to Mrs. White!"
Gerald came, but with no readiness of manner. His "how d'ye do?" was
shy and cold, and not at all answerable to her eager, almost tearful,
"Pretty well, thank you, Sir. It is something to see you at home again,
Sir Gerald; so tall, and looking so well. 'Tis almost old times again,
to see you and Miss Marian."
He stood silent, and Agnes spoke, "Yes, Mrs. White, is not he grown? It
does not seem to be so very long before we shall really have them here
for good."
"Ah! Miss Wortley, that is what I have always wished to live for; I have
always said, let me only live to see Sir Gerald come back, and find
things in order as he left them, and then I would die contented."
"No, no, live to keep his house many more years," said Marian. "It is
four years less now you know, Mrs. White; only eight more before we
shall be able to live here. For, I suppose you would like to have me
back too."
"I don't know Miss Marian; you will he married long before that, such a
fine young lady as you are grown to be."
Marian laughed and passed on into the house, sorry that Gerald had taken
no part in the conversation. They went into the drawing-room, that room
where he had wept so bitterly the day before his departure. Again his
observation was, "I thought this room was twice the size. And so low!"
"You have been looking in at the large end of a telescope lately,
Gerald," said his sister with some sorrow in her tone, as she sat down
on one of the brown holland muffled sofas, and looked up at her father's
portrait, trying to find a likeness there to the face before her. There
was the same high brow, the same dark eyes, the same straight features,
the same bright open smile. Gerald was more like it, in some respects,
than he had been, but there was a haughty, impetuous expression now
and then on eye, brow, and lip, that found no parallel in the gentle
countenance which, to Marian's present feelings, seemed to be turned
towards him with an air of almost reproachful anxiety.
Perhaps he saw some of the sadness of her expression, and; always
affectionate, wished to please her by manifesting a little more of the
feelings which really still existed. He came and stood by her, and
whispered a few caressing words, which almost compensated for the
vexation his carelessness had occasioned. He looked earnestly at the
picture for a few moments, then, turning away, suddenly exclaimed, "I
should like to see the old dressing-room."
This was Lady Arundel's morning room, where many a lesson had been
repeated, many a game played, and where, perhaps, more childish
recollections centered than in any other part of the house. The brother
and sister went thither alone, and much enjoyed looking into every
well-known corner, and talking of the little events which had there
taken place. This lasted for nearly a quarter of an hour, when they
rejoined their companions to make the tour of the garden, &c. All was
pleasant here, Gerald recollected every nook, and was delighted to find
so much unchanged.
"Let us just look into the stable yard," said he, as they were coming
away. It was locked, but a message to Mrs. White procured the key, and
they entered the neat deserted court, without one straw to make it look
inhabited, though the hutch where the rabbits had lived was still in its
place; and even in one corner the reversed flower-pot, which Gerald
well remembered to have brought there to mount upon, in order to make
investigations into a blackbird's nest, in the ivy on the wall.
He now used the same flower-pot to enable him to peep in at the hazy
window of the stable, and still more lamentable was his exclamation,
"Can this be all! How very small!"
"Nothing but low and little, you discontented boy," said Agnes.
"Why, really, I could not believe it was on such a small scale," said
Gerald. "Marian, now is it possible there can be only six stalls here?"
"Why, what would have been the use of more?" said Marian.
"Ah! why to be sure, there was no one to ride much," said Gerald. "But
yet I can hardly imagine it! What could my father have done in his
younger days? Only six stalls! And no loose box. Well, people had
contracted notions in those days! And the yard so small! Why, the one at
Oakworthy would make four of it."
"And you had really managed to persuade yourself that this was a grander
place than Oakworthy?" said Marian.
Gerald made no answer; but after walking backwards till he had a
full view of the stable and surrounding regions, broke out into the
exclamation, "I see what is to be done! Take down that wall--let in
a piece of the kitchen garden--get it levelled--and then extend it a
little on the right side too. Yes, I see."
"You are not talking of spoiling this place!" cried Agnes, in dismay.
"Spoiling! only making it habitable," said Gerald. "How can a man live
here with a stable with six stalls, and nothing like a kennel?"
The utter impossibility of such an existence was so strongly impressed
on the mind of the young baronet, that as soon as tea was over he
commenced a sketch of his future stables, adding various explanations
for the benefit of Charles and James. There was almost a daily quarrel
on the subject with Agnes, and much laughing on each side; but Marian,
afraid of making him more determined, took no part in it.
Much might happen in eight years to make him change his mind, and this
stable in the clouds might be endured, if everything else had been fully
satisfactory.
Very happy were the boys next morning, setting off to the woods to study
the localities of the game; very happy were they fishing and rabbit
shooting; very happy, galloping over the country by turns on the two
ponies; very happy were the whole party in pic-nic expeditions, and in
merry evening sports; but these could not take up every hour and every
minute; and Marian could not help observing, that while Charles and
James could always find some work on which to be employed in the
intervals, Gerald was idle and listless. There were hours in the morning
when they had their Latin and Greek to study, while Gerald was usually
loitering in the drawing-room. That he should voluntarily touch Latin
or Greek in the holidays was perhaps more than mortal could expect;
but that he should not read anything was disappointing. The vicarage
afforded no periodical novels, no slang tales of low life, no manuals
of sporting. The Waverley novels he had read long ago, and nothing of
a more solid description would he touch; so his mornings were chiefly
spent in drawing caricatures, and chattering to his sister and Agnes. He
was indeed very amusing, but this was not all that could be desired. Now
and then there were stories of feats which did not seem likely to be
those of the best and wisest set of boys; and his idea of the life of
a boy, if not of man, was plainly that it was to be spent in taking
pleasure and shirking work. Then he took in a sporting paper, and used
to entertain them with comments on the particulars of the races, and of
bets, which no one in the house understood but himself; but these were
never in the presence of either Mr. or Mrs. Wortley, where he was on his
guard.
In these intervals of idleness, Marian tried to persuade him several
times to write to Edmund, who would be glad to have a report fresh from
home. He always said he would soon set about a letter, but the time
never came, though she more than once arranged pen, paper, and ink in
readiness for him. He had recently received a letter from his cousin,
but he had torn it up, and could not remember anything about the
contents.
Something between bashfulness and pride produced conduct which could
not but appear like arrant haughtiness to the villagers, who had looked
forward eagerly to seeing their young landlord. If Marian tried to
bring him to speak to some poor old man, his answer was, "Give him this
half-crown, then, that will do just as well!" and he walked off out
of reach, while she remained to present the gift, and hear in answer,
"Thank you kindly, Miss; I should like to see the young gentleman
himself, but I daresay he does not like poor people."
If this was the feeling where there was half-a-crown to sweeten the
neglect, what was it where such a propitiatory offering was out of the
question, and where the original connection had been closer, among the
old servants, the dependants and tenants? His lofty acknowledgment
of their bows,--his short, reluctant "Good morning," when forced to
speak,--and his willingness to escape from their presence, contrasted
ill with the cordial greetings with which his cousin Edmund had always
hailed each Fern Torr person as a friend. Indeed, "that nice young
gentleman, Master Edmund," began to be recollected with regrets, which,
had the Manor been a kingdom, might have amounted to treason towards the
young heir.
Marian grieved at this behaviour, and would have attempted to argue
him out of it, but he gave her scarcely any opportunity of a serious
conversation; and Mr. Wortley gave him more than one hint, which, though
be took it with perfect courtesy, never mended matters. Yet with all
this, he was so agreeable, so good-natured and gentlemanlike, so
pleasant a guest, and so affectionate a brother, that Mr. and Mrs.
Wortley could not help liking him very much; and if they saw anything
amiss, they did not pain his sister by speaking of it. Her misgivings
were too vague and undetermined for her to be willing to consult
Mr. Wortley; if she thought at one time that she would, she grew so
frightened and reluctant whenever an occasion came, that she let it pass
by; and she was divided between blame to herself for doing nothing, when
a few words might be the rescue of her brother, and self-reproach for
doing him cruel injustice.
Nay, she even defended him more than once, when Agnes was shocked. She
protected a shirt, illustrated by his own hand, in marking-ink, with
cricketers, which caused infinite scandal to the washerwomen of Fern
Torr. She defended slang words, which Agnes, from not understanding
them, fancied worse than they really were; and she never failed to say
he did not mean to be unkind, whenever he was neglectful of the poor
people. She was displeased with herself afterwards for speaking in
favour of these things, for she well knew them to be only parts of the
whole system which grieved her; but still she could not help it.
These thoughts were suspended by the solemn time approaching. Her
confirmation-day came, and she stood among the maidens of her own home
and village, who had been baptized in the same font, and shared with her
the same instructions. Simultaneously with them she pronounced her vow;
and perhaps it was a repining thought which crossed her mind,--"Why am
I not like these, to remain in this peaceful nest, not sent forth to
be wearied and tried by that glittering world of unrest, which I thus
renounce?"
She knelt to receive the blessing, which brought with it the trust that
the peace of that moment might dwell with her, refresh her, and shield
her "as oft as sin and sorrow tire." And when her eye fell on her
brother, it was with more hope, for now she could better pray for him.
Whatever might happen, it could never hurt the memory of that awful
yet soothing hour, nor of that first Communion when she knelt near her
parents' graves between Mrs. Wortley and Agnes; the whole air filled
with the prayers of those on earth and in heaven who loved her best; nor
of her walk in the garden afterwards with Mr. Wortley, when he plainly
spoke to her of her life as one of peculiar trial and temptation, and
warned her how to be in the world, and yet not of the world.
The nest event of the visit to Fern Torr was Saunders' wedding. Saunders
did not love Oakworthy, still less Mrs. Lyddell, and least of all Mrs.
Price, the ladies' maid; and when she found herself at Fern Torr again,
and heard Mr. David Chapple renew his tender speeches, the return
thither became more and more difficult; and one day, while plaiting her
young lady's hair, she communicated to her with a great gush of tears,
that, though she could not bear to think of leaving her, and would not
on any account cause her any inconvenience, she began to think it was
time to think about her marriage.
It was a stroke to Marian to hear of losing any old familiar face, and
her look of dismay was a great satisfaction to Saunders; but she could
bear it better than she could once have done, and there were reasons
which made a change not so very much to be regretted even by her.
The quarrels between Saunders and the rest of the household were not
agreeable, and what she now felt to be a serious evil, was that habit of
complaining to her, and telling her stories against the family, of which
Edmund had warned her long ago. She had tried to discourage it, but,
once begun, it had never been entirely discontinued; and Marian felt it
to be wrong in every way.
She made up her mind, therefore, with greater philosophy than could have
been expected, to the loss of Saunders; and was further consoled by
finding it gave hey an opportunity of promoting a nice young Fern Torr
damsel, too delicate for hard work, who had been taught dressmaking, and
whom Saunders undertook to instruct in the mysteries of the hair, quite
sufficiently to carry her on till they went to London, and she could
take lessons from some grand frizeur.
Mrs. Lyndell was written to, and gave her consent to the hiring of
Fanny, and Marian and Agnes were so delighted at the opening thus made
for her, that Saunders would have been jealous if she had not been too
happily engaged in her own preparations.
As to Gerald he made a dreadful face when he first heard of Saunders'
intentions; but as her going made no difference to his comfort, he soon
became resigned. David was an old acquaintance, whom he liked because
he belonged to the genus groom; so he made no objection to his sister's
attending the wedding. He presented the bride with a tea-set, splendid
with gilding, and surprised every one by walking into Mr. Wortley's
kitchen in the midst of the bridal entertainment, and proposing the
health of the happy pair.
Marian was to return under Gerald's escort, at the end of the holidays.
He was to go on to Eton, leaving her at the railway station, where she
was to be met by the Lyddells' carriage. The last letter arrived,
in which arrangements respecting time and train were to be finally
confirmed. It was, as usual, from Caroline; and as she opened it, Marian
gave a sudden start.
"Eh?" said Gerald, "whose mare's dead? Not Elliot's Queen Pomare, I
hope!"
"No, but Miss Morley is going."
"O!" cried Gerald, "I hope she has been reading some more letters."
"Not quite," said Marian smiling.
"Well, but is it directly? I suppose you did not think she was to stay
there for life? Has she been in any mischief, that you look so shocked?"
Marian really could not help discovering that she was not without
tenderness of feeling for Miss Morley, and did not like to proclaim, in
Caroline's strong and rather satirical language, across the breakfast
table, that Mrs. Lyddell had discovered by accident that she and her
pupil were in the habit of amusing themselves with novels which were
far better unread. After reading quickly to the end of the letter, she
answered, "O, she has been reading books with Clara that Mrs. Lyddell
did not approve."
"A triumph! a triumph!" cried Agnes. "Now Marian will never attempt to
defend Miss Morley again."
"What, not the poor unfortunate faithful? How can you think me so base?"
returned Marian. "Besides, poor thing, she really is very kind-hearted,
and has very little harm in her. I dare say it was more Clara's fault
than hers,"
"Well done, Marian, striking right and left!" observed James Wortley.
"How long has Miss Morley been at Oakworthy?" asked Mrs. Wortley.
"She came about a year before we did," replied Marian.
"Her predecessor, Miss Cameron, must have been a very different person;
Caroline and Walter always speak of her with such respect."
"Poor unfortunate!" broke out Gerald. "Well, if it had not been for
Marian's letters, I should not have hated her so much. When one was
making a row, she never did anything worse than say, 'Now Sir Gerald!'"
which he gave with her peculiarly unauthoritative, piteous, imploring
drawl.
"There was something in that title of 'poor unfortunate,' peculiarly
appropriate," said Marian, laughing, "as I am afraid that it is now,
poor thing. She is to leave Oakworthy immediately, and I do not know
that she has any relation but an old aunt."
Mr. and Mrs. Wortley agreed with Marian that it was a melancholy case,
but the others were too triumphant to be compassionate; and Gerald
amused Agnes half the morning with ludicrous stories of her
inefficiency.
Marian was thoughtful all day; and at last, when sitting alone with Mrs.
Wortley and Agnes, exclaimed, "Poor Miss Morley! I really am very sorry
for her; I did not know I liked her so well."
"Absence is the great charm with Marian," said Agnes, laughing; "we
learn now what makes her so affectionate to us."
"No, but really, Agnes, when one has been living in constant intercourse
for four years, and often receiving kindness from a person, is it
possible to hear of her being sent away in disgrace and poverty without
caring about it?"
"O yes; I know; after having lived in the same house with a kitchen
poker for four years, you get so attached to it that it gives you a pang
to part with it. No, but the comparison is no compliment to the poker;
that is firm enough, at any rate,--a down cushion would be better."
"An attachment to a down cushion is nothing to be ashamed of, Agnes,"
said her mother.
"And Miss Morley did deserve some attachment, indeed," said Marian. "She
was so ready to oblige, and she really did many and many a kind thing by
the servants; and I believe she quite denied herself, for the sake of
her old aunt. She was not fit for a governess, to be sure; but that was
more her misfortune than her fault, poor thing."
"How do you make that out?" said Agnes.
"Why, she was obliged to got her own living; and what other way had
she? She was educated for it, and had everything but the art of gaining
authority."
"And high principle," said Mrs. Wortley.
"But," said Marian, growing eager in her defence, "she really did know
right from wrong. She would remonstrate, and tell us things that were
every word good and true, only she did it with so little force, that
they were apt not to mind her; and then it was no wonder that she grew
dispirited, and sunk into poor unfortunate."
"Yes," said Agnes, "I can understand it all; she was in a situation that
she was not fit for, and failed."
"She would have been very different in another situation, most
probably," said Mrs. Wortley, "where she and the children were not so
much left to each other's mercy."
"Yes; Mrs. Lyddell never mended matters," said Marian. "She did not back
up or strengthen her, but only frightened her, till she was quite as
ready to conceal what was amiss as her pupils. And that intimacy with
Clara was a very unlucky thing; it drew her down without drawing Clara
up."
"I suppose that was the origin of the catastrophe," said Mrs. Wortley.
"I should think so; they have been more alone together lately, for I am
sure this could never have happened when Caroline was in the schoolroom.
And her making a friend of Clara was no wonder, so forlorn and solitary
as she must have been." And Marian sighed with fellow-feeling for her.
"An intimate, not a friend," said Mrs. Wortley.
"And I could better fancy making a friend of Miss Lyddell," said Agnes.
"I can't say my tête-à-tête with Miss Clara made me desire much more of
her confidence."
"Clara is more caressing," said Marian. "I think I am most fond of her,
though Caroline is--O! quite another thing. But what I wanted was to ask
you, Mrs. Wortley, if you thought I might write to poor Miss Morley, and
ask if there is anything I can do for her. I can't bear to think of her
going away without wishing her good-bye, or showing any feeling for her
in her distress."
"How very right and kind of you, Marian," exclaimed Agnes, "after all
her injustice--"
"I do not think it would be advisable, my dear," said Mrs. Wortley; "it
would seem like putting yourself in opposition to Mrs. Lyddell, and
might be pledging yourself, in a manner, to recommend her, which, with
your opinion of her, you could not well do."
"O, no, no, except in some particular case. Yes, I suppose you are
right; but I don't feel happy to take no notice."
"Perhaps something may occur on your return, when you understand the
matter more fully; or, at any rate, if you are writing to Oakworthy, you
might send some message of farewell, kind remembrances, or love."
"Those are so unmeaning and conventional that I hate them," said Marian.
"Yes, but their want of meaning is their advantage here. They are merely
kindly expressions of good will."
"And they will mean more from you," added Agnes, "as you never have the
civility to use them on ordinary occasions."
"Well, I will take your advice," said Marian, "and thank you, Mrs.
Wortley; I only wish--"
The wish ended in a sigh, as Marian sat down to commence--"My dear
Caroline."