CHAPTER I. THE GARDEN AT THE “PEACOCK.”

LOVER AND HUSBAND

A Novel

BY ENNIS GRAHAM

“The history is a tragedy as all human histories are.”

CARLYLE'S MIRABEAU.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOLUME I.

LONDON:

CHARLES J. SKEET, 10, KING WILLIAM STREET

CHARING CROSS

1870

(All Rights reserved.)

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

CHAPTER

I.ANTECEDENTS

II.ACROSS THE CHANNEL

III.BLUE SKIES

IV.A FRIEND IN NEED

V.AU LION D’OR

VI.FLORENCE

VII.THE LITTLE GOVERNESS

VIII.BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

IX.“DE CAP A TU SOY MARION”

X.A SUDDEN RECALL

XI.THE LAST AFTERNOON ON THE TERRACE

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

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

CHAPTER

I.THE GARDEN AT THE “PEACOCK.”

II.THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH

III.THE END OF THE HONEYMOON

IV.“AT HOME”

V.A WIFELY WELCOME

VI.A CRISIS

VII.A FRIEND IN DISGUISE

VIII.COTTON CHEZ SOI

IX.“GOODBYE AND A KISS”

X.LITTLE MARY’S ADVENT

XI.MARION’S DREAM

XII.GEOFFREY’S WIDOW

CHAPTER I. ANTECEDENTS.

“———The children of one mother,

You could not say in one short day,

What love they bore each other.”

WORDSWORTH.

LONDON in September. A dull, close, airless day. The streets would have

been dusty enough too, no doubt, had there been a breath to stir the

dust, which one felt instinctively, was lying there in masses, ready

on the slightest provocation to rise in choking clouds. A day when one

longed for the sea, or failing that, for a breeze of fresh air. A day

when one could hardly believe in the reality of cool green fields, or

babbling, trickling brooks. Not that it was so much hot, for there was

little sun, as dry, and heavy, and intensely dull. Dull everywhere, but

especially so in one of the somewhat old-fashioned, but unmistakably

respectable squares of which there are not a few in London, so much

resembling each other as to require no special description. The

square at this season looked its very dullest and ugliest; under these

circumstances, I should suppose, the more nearly fulfilling the aim, as

regards outward appearance, of the melancholy architects who planned

it. Half the houses were shut-up, and of the remainder, several were

evidently shortly about to be so, for in some, hot and dusty housemaids

were to be seen pulling down window curtains, and in one or two more

an acute observer, by dint of a little peeping, might have discovered

business-like trunks and carpet-bags ready packed and strapped for

starting, or else gaping open while undergoing the mysterious process

called “airing,” in some of the lower regions where such domestic rites

are usually performed.

In one of the dullest of the dull houses, in a sort of library or

morning room on the first floor, a young girl sat alone. The room

was not a pretty one. At the best of times it might have been called

comfortable, but nothing more for its furniture, though solid and

good of its kind, was like the rest of the house, heavy, dark, and

ungraceful. On this day the room looked especially uninviting, for there

was about it that peculiar look of business-like disorder, which, even

in the neatest of households, inevitably accompanies preparations for

“leaving home.” Torn letters, bits of string, and address labels, a

work-basket half emptied of its contents, all told their own tale.

The only pretty thing in the room was its occupant. She was certainly

not beautiful, but like many people to whom that word, in its ordinary

and superficial sense, could not be truthfully applied, she was most

thoroughly pleasant to look upon. Possibly a thought too thin, and

hardly rosy enough for what one likes to see in a girl of nineteen, but

with no lack of health and vigour in her firm, well set frame, and pale,

though not sallow complexion. And with no want of intelligence or quick

perception in her grey eyes, as a glance from them would soon have told.

A good, gentle, pretty girl, just such, I think, as one would like

to see one’s own daughter, though with rather more thoughtfulness of

expression than seems quite natural in so young a creature. This came,

however, from her rather too quiet and solitary life, and from no

original dearth of the bright hopefulness and gaiety of spirit hardly in

theory to be separated from the idea of healthy youth.

The girl sat at her writing-table, but not writing. Rather wearied with

all her little preparations, she felt glad to sit still doing nothing,

and though looking very thoughtful, as was her habit, still, to tell

the truth, she was thinking of little in particular. There was perfect

silence through the house, and the occasional roll of wheels in the

neighbouring streets sounded rumbling and heavy through the still,

drowsy air. Marion, I think, was very nearly on the point of succumbing

to these various influences by falling asleep outright, when her

reveries were disturbed by a sharp, sudden ring at the hall-door. She

started up, but sat down again lazily, saying to herself,” Oh, I forgot,

it will be only Cissy.” “Cissy,” evidently not being a person to be

treated with much ceremony. But a second start was in store for

poor Marion’s nerves, had she been conscious of possessing any such

undesirable things. A moment’s interval and then came the sound of hasty

feet up the stairs; the door opened suddenly and an unexpected visitor

entered. A boy of course. No one but a boy, and one too in a hurry,

could have come up stairs in that three-steps-at-a-time sort of way, or

opened the door with that indescribable sort of fling, neither bang

nor jerk, though partaking of the nature of both. Though, after all,

perhaps, it is hardly fair to this particular boy, to introduce him as

so thoroughly one of his rather objectionable class; for when he was

not in a hurry or very unusually out of temper, Harry Vere, my Marion’s

brother, did not by any means forget the small proprieties of life. A

good boy, in the main; certainly neither a sneak nor a bully. His looks

would have belied him had he been either. He had a fair, open, honest

face, with, however, much less strength than his sister’s, and also

less promise of future development. He hurried in, looking flushed and

travel-stained, and anxious too, as the girl’s quick observation was not

slow to discover.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, “you here! How did you get off, and what is

the matter? Is anything wrong?” asking, after the manner of people in a

hurry to get an answer, three questions, where one would have served the

purpose.

“No, no, nothing is wrong,” said the boy “at least, nothing much. I have

not been expelled, or broken my legs, as you can see for yourself. Don’t

get into a fuss. I only came up because I wanted so much to see you

before you go. You shall hear all about it in a minute; but first tell

me one thing. My father is still away? There no fear of his seeing me

today?”

“Oh no, not the least,” replied the girl, evidently by no means

surprised at the unfilial spirit of the question; “he has been away

since Monday, and won’t return till the day after tomorrow. But I am

leaving tomorrow, you know. When I heard your ring I thought it

was Cissy Archer, for I am expecting her this afternoon, to settle

definitely about our train. I see though,” she added, glancing at the

time-piece, “she won’t be here for an hour yet, so we have plenty of

time for a talk.”

“Not so very much,” said Harry, “for I must have some luncheon, as I

can’t get back to school till late, and my train goes in an hour and a

half. You can fancy how very much I wanted to see you, Marion, for even

though I came second-class, my fare will all by clear me out; and I

can’t now get leave to be away again before Christmas, so I shall miss

the match at Barrow next week.”

Before answering Marion rang the bell and ordered some cold provisions

in the way of luncheon for her brother. As the servant was leaving the

room Harry said to him rather awkwardly and hesitatingly, “Brown, you

needn’t say anything to your master about my having come up to see Miss

Vere before she goes.”

Brown being fortunately of the order of discreet domestics, answered

simply:

“Very well, Sir, I will take care that your wishes are attended to;”

muttering however to himself as soon as he was outside the door, “Lucky

for poor Master Harry that none of them other chattering idiots saw him

come, and that I got the cold beef and bread unbeknownst to cook.”

When Harry was comfortably seated at his repast, Marion repeated her

request.

“Now, Harry, tell me all about it.”

“Well, Marion, the long and the short of it is, I’ve got into a scrape.

Not a bad one though,” added he hurriedly, seeing the increasing anxiety

in his sister’s eyes, “nothing disgraceful or ungentlemanly. You would

never fear that for me, May? It was a good while ago; but I did not tell

you about it at Midsummer, because I thought then I should be able to

set it right, but now it has got worse. I know I was a fool for my pains

to hide it from you. Several months ago, one holiday at school, I hired

a horse. Of course it is against the rules but lots of follows do it. I

am really very fond of riding, though I don’t know about it, but I don’t

think I should have been tempted to do it in this underhand sort of way

if my father had sometimes let me have a little in the holidays. But

then—you know as well as I how he thwarts me; but that’s an old story.

Well, as ill-luck would have it I lamed the beast. I am no judge of

horses, but still I think it was above the average of a livery stable.

The man made an awful row, said he had that morning refused sixty pounds

for it, and it was now worthless. He threatened to complain to the

head-master. I don’t know what is the law in such matters, but I was in

such a fright that he would really tell on me, that I made on the spot

the best terms I could with him, which were to pay him twenty pounds

down the next morning; though when I promised this I had not the least

idea where to get the money. I went straight to Cuthbert, my great chum,

you know, Marion, and told him all about it. He begged me not to make

a fuss, and I should have the money in time. And sure enough by next

morning he had it for me, and I paid the man, as I had promised.”

“But Cuthbert!” said Marion, in amazement, “how could he get it, Harry?

His people are not at all rich, and I should think he has even less

pocket-money than you.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Harry,” there’s the pull. Cuthbert knew I would

pay him as soon as I could, and he has been awfully good about it. But

only last week he came to me in great distress and told me the whole

affair. It seems he got the money in his own name from a wretched Jew

at a hideous rate of interest, trusting to my being able to pay him, in

part, any way, last mouth; as I quite hoped I should have got something

from Aunt Tremlett on my birthday. Of course she was ill and sent me

nothing. Now poor Cuthbert must pay it before the 15th of October,

and this wretch has made it somehow or other come to thirty instead

of twenty pounds. The exposure would utterly ruin Cuthbert. That’s the

horrible part of it; to think what my folly has brought him into,

good fellow that he is. Why he never spends a sixpence he can help on

himself! Now Marion what can I do? How ever am I to get thirty pounds

before the 15th of October?”

“If only I had it,” sighed poor Marion, “but you know I never have five

pounds in my own hands, much less thirty.”

“I know that quite well. I never had the least idea of getting it from

you, May. All thought of was, that as two heads are better than one

you might help me to find out some way of getting it. Of course, if the

worst comes to the worst, rather than let Cuthbert suffer I will go to

my father. He would pay it. I have no doubt, but would probably never

speak to me again. Any way all chance of my going into the army would

be over, and just when I am so close upon it too: leaving school at

Christmas for good. Oh, what a fool I was! But for both your sake and my

own, May, I would rather do anything than speak to my father. It would

be perfectly horrible to have to do it. I declare I would rather run

away, if only I could beg, borrow, or steal the money in the first

place.”

“Hush, Harry,” said his sister, “don’t talk nonsense, but think

seriously what to do. If only Aunt Tremlett had not been so ill, she

might have helped us.”

“Not she, indeed,” replied the boy impatiently, “or if she had even

agreed to do so, she would have been pretty sure to discover that it was

her duty to tell my father. Old idiot that she is.”

“You need not waste your time in abusing her, Harry, for as things are,

she is out of the question. But Harry, dear,” she added anxiously, as

the sound of the clock striking caught her ear, “I fear your time is

almost up?”

“All but,” said the boy, with a rather poor attempt at a laugh, “so

Marion you don’t see any way to helping me out of my trouble? And think

what a time it will be before we see each other again! You are to be at

Altes with Cissy Archer for six months, didn’t you say?”

“Six months, certainly, I believe,” said his sister, “I should like the

thoughts of it exceedingly, but for the one drawback of not seeing you

in the holidays. But that can’t be helped! And now about this trouble

or yours, Harry. Do nothing just yet. Wait, any way, till the end of the

month; that will be a fortnight from now, and I will see if by then

I can hit upon any plan to prevent your having to tell Papa; for that

would really be too dreadful. Not so much the disagreeable of it as the

after consequences, for he would never forgive it, or trust you again.”

“Never,” said Harry, emphatically. “But Marion, I must go. Thank you,

dear, for being so kind about it. Many a sister would have scolded or

preached, but I am far more sorry than if you had done either. Well,

then, you’ll write within a fortnight and send your address. I suppose

you don’t know it yet? Good bye, and mind you don’t fuss about me more

than you can help.” And with a more affectionate parting hug than he

would perhaps have liked Brown major or Jones minor, to be witness

to, Harry departed, his heart considerably lighter, as is the way with

selfish mankind, for having shared its burden with another.

Marion, poor child, sat down again where he had found her, burying

her face in her hands as she vainly tried to solve the problem so

unexpectedly placed before her: “Where to find thirty pounds?” She had

never before actually cared about the possession of any sum of money,

for though by no means luxuriously brought up, still, as is the case

with many young people, the comforts of life had, as it were, “grown for

her.” Her father’s peculiar ideas as to the inexpediency of treating

his children as reasonable or responsible beings, had left her, in many

practical respects, singularly inexperienced. She had certainly often

wished, like all young people in a passing way, for things beyond her

reach; but still, whatever was really necessary to her comfort, or

suitable for her position, Mr. Vere had provided and paid for. In

proportion, therefore, to her previous exemption from anything in the

shape of financial anxieties, were her alarm and consternation at the

present difficulty. And terrible, indeed, appeared the alternative of

laying the matter before her falter. Sad perversion of what should

be the most tender and trustful of relations; that between parent and

child, when, in his distress and perplexity, or even in his shame and

remorse, the child’s first impulse, instead of being to fly for counsel

or comfort to the one friend who should never refuse it, is, at all

costs, to conceal his trouble from the parent who has indeed succeeded

in inspiring him with fear and distrust,—but alas with nothing more! And

this is done every day, not by hard or indifferent fathers only, but by

many who, according to their light, honestly enough desire to do their

best by the young creatures committed to their charge.

Mr. Vere, the father of this boy and girl, was perhaps less to be blamed

than some parents, for the fact that his children did not regard him as

their friend. An extreme natural reserve of character and manner had,

in his case, been so augmented by the unhappy circumstances of his life,

that to his children from their earliest years, he had never appeared

otherwise than hard, forbidding, and utterly unsympathising. Yet in

reality he was a man of deep feeling, and capable of strong and lasting

attachments; but along with these healthy characteristics were to be

found in him a large amount of morbid weakness on certain points, and

a peculiarity which I can best describe as narrow-heartedness. The one

passion of his life had been his love for his wife, a lovely, silly,

mindless baby, whose early death was certainly not the bitterest

disappointment she caused him. Their carried life was short, but it

lasted long enough for the freezing, narrowing process to begin in the

husband’s heart. He lost faith in affection, or at least in his own

power of inspiring it. The want of breadth about him prevented his

seeing that though he had been so unfortunate as to make the one “grand

mistake,” an uncongenial marriage, it did not necessarily follow that

every other relation in life was, for him, to be in like manner a

failure. He made up his mind beforehand, that were he to allow himself

to seek for consolation in the love of his children, in that, too, he

would but be laying up fresh disappointment for himself. And therefore

he was weak and cowardly enough to stifle, so far as he could, the

natural outflowings of fatherly affection. He did not altogether succeed

in this, for his heart was still, in spite of himself, sound at the

core; but, alas, as time went on it proved no exception to that law of

our nature, by which all unused members gradually contract and wither.

From his children’s earliest years, as I said, Mr. Vere checked in

himself all outward demonstration of affection, and this, of course,

quickly reacted upon them. Little people are not slow to understand

when they and their innocent caresses are unsought, if not unwelcome.

Fortunately, however, for these poor little things, they had each other;

and the affection of two as honest, loving little hearts as ever beat,

refused vent in one direction, only flowed the more vehemently in the

remaining one. And to give the father his due, he certainly was not

unmindful or careless of their actual comforts and requirements. They

had everything to be desired for their health and happiness, except

their father’s love. As they grew older, time brought no improvement to

the state of matters. Extreme strictness, not to say severity, was the

basis of Mr. Vere’s theory of education. This, and the fact that he

never in the slightest degrees confided in his children, or appeared

to consider them as reasonable and intelligent companions, extended the

already wide gulf between them. Yet he continued, solicitous about their

health and comfort, and was even scrupulously careful in his choice

of their teachers, books, and the few companions he thought it wise to

allow them. Had any one taxed him with not fulfilling to the utmost his

duties as a parent, he would have been utterly amazed and indignant; for

so one-sided and warped had his whole being become through the one great

mistake of his life, that it simply never entered his imagination that,

by not loving his children, he was denying to them the first of their

natural rights; or that his systematic coldness could possibly be to

them an actual injury and injustice.

For himself, he came in time to be so absorbed in other interests, those

of a political life, as not in the least to miss the affection he had

so deliberately stifled in its birth. In a rather narrow way a clever,

though never a brilliant man; accurate, painstaking and calm, he

gradually became very useful to his party. And thus, contentedly enough,

he lived his life, rather congratulating himself than otherwise, on

what he had made of it, and on the strength of character which had so

thoroughly thrown off and outgrown the bitter disappointment of his

early manhood.

The childhood and youth of Marion and her brother had not, however, been

on the whole desolate or unhappy. Indeed, it takes a great deal, thank

God, to crush the happiness out of healthy children I And they don’t

miss what they have never known.

The first great sorrow was Harry’s going to school; but at the Name

period, a kindly disposed and very terrible governess appearing on the

scene, Marion’s life was by no means solitary and loveless as she had

anticipated. The happiest times they remembered, poor children, were the

summer months, Harry’s holidays, which with this kind Miss Jervis, they

every year spent in Brentshire, their father’s native county, and where

he still owned, near the little village of Bradley, a pretty cottage

and a few acres of land—the remains of a once considerable property. In

Brentshire, too, at the dull little town of Mallingford, lived the

old Aunt Tremlett, Harry’s godmother, from whom they learned the few

particulars they ever knew of their pretty young mother and her early

death.

Their father never accompanied them to Brentshire. He still shrank with

a morbid horror from ever revisiting the place where he had first met

his wife, and where, so few years after, she was buried.

The Veres had in past days been people of no small consideration in

their own county, and though for two generations the head of the family

had been settled in a different part of England, there were still

plenty of people about Mallingford to whom the name in itself was a

recommendation to show kindness to the two children who bore it. And as

they were loveable and engaging, they soon gained hearts on their own

account. There was old Mr. Temple, the clergyman, who had married their

parents, and seen the sad end of that story, and his two young-lady

daughters, in particular Miss Veronica, who played the organ on Sundays,

and sometimes invited May or Harry as a great treat to sit up in the

loft beside her, Then there was jolly old Mr. Baldwin, of the Bank,

always so merry and hearty; and Geoffrey, his son, the great tall

schoolboy, who used to carry both children at once, when they were very

small, one perched on each shoulder. He came to see them one Christmas

in London, and told them of his kind father’s death, looking so sad

and lonely that both Marion and Harry cried when he went away. That was

several years ago, but they had never seen Geoffrey Baldwin since; for

as they grew older, their visits to Brentshire became fewer, and at

last ceased altogether. Their father sold the cottage, and the Midsummer

holidays were now spent in London, with the exception of a fortnight

or so at the seaside, if it happened to strike Mr. Were that town was

unhealthy in hot weather for young people.

I think there is very little more to tell of Marion’s early life. Simple

and uneventful enough it had been, and with but few of what are usually

considered young girls’ special privileges and pleasures. But, on the

whole, by no means an unwholesome training for a rich and vigorous

nature, though it might have crushed and stunted a poorer one. Such

society as, since she grew to womanhood, she had seen at her father’s

house, had been almost confined to that of the few friends whom he now

and then invited to a somewhat ponderous dinner. Clever men, all of

them, in their different ways; interested, if not absorbed, in topics,

much of which Marion hardly understood, but from which, not being a

common-place young lady, her quick intelligence led her to glean much

material for quiet thought and speculation, which certainly did her no

harm, and probably more good than the “finishing” touches she would

at this period have been undergoing, had her education been more in

accordance with prescribed rules.

That anything in the shape of a “coming-out,” so called, was necessary

or even advisable for his daughter, had never occurred to the

pre-occupied mind of Mr. Vere; but as some of his friends took a kindly

interest in the girl, she had not been quite without an occasional

glimpse into the doings of the gay world. And now a very unexpected

treat was before her, in the prospect of spending several months at the

far-famed wintering place of Altes, under the care of the pleasantest of

chaperons, the aforesaid Cissy Archer.

Six or seven years before this, when Marion was a thin, shy little girl

of twelve or thereabouts, this cousin, then Cecilia Lacy, had been to

her a vision of beauty and loveliness such as she could hardly imagine

excelled by any even of her favourite fairy princesses. And this

childish admiration had not been misplaced. Cissy had been an

exceedingly pretty girl, and now at eight-and-twenty was an exceedingly

pretty woman. A good little soul, too, as ever lived. Possibly not

exactly over-flowing with discretion, but so thoroughly and genuinely

amiable, bright and winning, that it was utterly impossible to wish her

in any respect other than she was. She had married happily. Her husband

was considerably older than herself, and by his rather overwhelming

superabundance of discretion, good judgement and all other model

qualities of the kind, more than atoned for his pretty, impulsive wife’s

deficiencies, if indeed they could be called such. There were people who

called Colonel Archer a prig, but it was well for them that loyal little

Cissy never heard the sacrilege; for, dissimilar as they were, yet the

two were entirely of one mind in the most important respect, of each

thinking the other little short of perfection. The greater part of their

married life had been spent in India, where their only trouble had been

Mrs. Archer’s extremely delicate health, which at last, about a year

before this time, had obliged her to return home to try the effects

of the long sea voyage and English air. The experiment had in a great

measure proved successful, and Cissy, now hoped to be able, before very

long, to rejoin her husband. The one winter, however, which since her

return she had spent in England, had rather tried her strength, in

consequence of which she had been advised to spend the coming six months

of cold weather in a milder climate. She was now, therefore, on the

point of starting for Altes, accompanied by her only child, a very

small boy known as Charlie, and also, to her great delight, by her young

cousin, Marion Vere. A pretty stout battle Cissy had fought with the

awful Mr. Vere, before obtaining his consent to his daughter’s joining

the little party, but Mrs. Archer had what the old nurses call “a way

with her,” and the uncle had rather a weakness for his captivating

niece. She was the child of his dead sister, whom not so very long ago

he remembered just as bright and happy as her daughter was now. So the

end of it was as might have been expected. Mr. Vere gave in, and Cissy

came off triumphant.

Master Charlie, at the age of five and a half, was already one of that

devoutly-to-be-avoided class—enfants terrible. Frightfully spoilt by his

mother since he had had the misfortune to be under her exclusive care,

and yet a loveable little monkey too, for the spoiling had principally

resulted in making him preternaturally sharp, rather than selfish

or exacting. He was a chivalrous mite in his way. He firmly believed

himself to have been entrusted by his father with the exclusive care of

his mother, and thought it simply a matter of course that his opinion

should be asked before any important step could be decided upon. His

extreme views on the subject of “Mounseers” had for some days caused the

journey to Altes to remain in abeyance; but a bright suggestion of his

nurse’s, that he might turn his experiences to profit by writing a book

about these objects of his aversion and their queer ways, had carried

the day triumphantly.

His deficiencies in literary respects, for he had not yet succeeded

in mastering the alphabet, fortunately presented no insurmountable

difficulties; as he had already engaged the services of Miss Vere as

amanuensis, at a liberal rate of a penny a week, provided she was “very

good, and wrote all the book in red ink with a gold pen.”

CHAPTER II. ACROSS THE CHANNEL.

“Besides ‘tis known he could speak

Greek, As naturally as pigs can squeak.”

BUTLER’S HUDIBRAS.

AS Harry Vere turned the corner of the square, a carriage drove past

him, in the direction of his father’s house. It passed quickly, but not

before he had recognised the lady seated in it.

“What a blessing,” thought he to himself, “that Cissy was looking

the other way, or as sure as fate she would have stopped, and

cross-questioned me in that chatter-boxing way of hers. People all say

she is so lively and charming. I dare say she is, but all the same I

think Marion is worth a dozen of her.”

And so thinking, the boy hailed a passing hansom, and was quickly

whirled off to the railway station.

Marion sitting alone, meditating sadly enough on Harry and his troubles,

was soon interrupted. A soft rustle outside, the door gently opened, and

her cousin entered.

“Oh, Marion, dear,” said she, as she kissed her, “I am in such a

terrible fuss, and have been so busy all the morning that I have not got

half my shopping done. So if you don’t mind, instead of my staying home,

will you come out with me and help me to finish it, and we can settle

all our plans on the way.”

“By all means,” replied Marion, “I shall be ready in two minutes,”

and so she was, being in certain respects somewhat of an exception

to young-ladyhood in general. There are, I think, by-the-way, some

advantages to a girl in being brought up in a masculine household. With

no sisters to back her small delinquencies, she is pretty sure, sooner

or later, to discover that it is really much better and more comfortable

to follow the example of the menkind about her, in such trifles as

punctuality and other “minor morals” of the kind; adherence to which

women in general seem to consider by no means an addition to their

charms.

Hardly was Mrs. Archer again seated in the carriage when she commenced

to pour into the sympathising ear of her cousin the recital of her many

and all but overpowering afflictions.

“Only think, Marion,” said she, with the most self-pitying tone,

“this whole day have I been rushing about in this carriage to one

register-office after another, only varied by frantic dives into

institutions for finding, or rather not finding unexceptionable

governesses. Me, of all people on earth, to be entrusted with the

selection of a model governess as if I hadn’t long ago forgotten every

thing any of mine ever taught me. Though I must say, looking for nurses

is almost as bad. And with the horrible feeling on me all the time, of

how this carriage hire will be running up. It is really too bad of

that tiresome old lady and that stupid girl. Just when I meant to be

so economical too, and clear off all my bills before going away; for

I really owe such a dreadful amount. I declare, Marion, I have a great

mind to set off for India at once, instead of going to Altes.”

All this medley of grievances little Mrs. Archer ran through in such

a hurry, that but for being pretty well accustomed to her rather

bewildering way of talking, Marion would have been utterly at a loss to

make sense or it. Knowing by previous experience that it was useless to

attempt to put a word, till Cissy stopped from sheer want of breath, she

patiently waited till this occurred; and then said quietly,

“Really, Cissy, you should have some pity on my dullness of

apprehension. Why have you been running about to register-offices? I

heard nothing of all this last night, when I saw you. I haven’t the

slightest idea what tiresome old lady and stupid girl you are talking

about. Nor can I see how going to India would pay your debts?”

“For goodness sake, Marion, don’t be so precise and methodical, or I’ll

shake you,” replied Cissy, “how could I have told you last night what I

didn’t myself know till this morning. And as to my bills, of course I am

all right in India, as George looks after me there. He is so dreadfully

particular never to owe anything, and not to spend too much and it is

knowing this that makes me hate so not to manage with what he sends me,

for I know it is the very utmost he can afford. I suppose I am one of

those people Aunt Tremlett always speaks of as ‘very deficient in good

management, my dear.’ But I really can’t help it. I’m too old to learn.”

“Well, we shall be very economical at Altes, Cissy,” said Marion,

cheerfully; “I won’t let you buy anything. Not even velvet suits for

Charlie! Though I’m sure you can’t want money more than I do,” she

continued, with a sigh.

“You, child. What nonsense!” exclaimed her cousin, “if you don’t get

money itself you get money’s worth, and no trouble of bills or any

thing. You are talking rubbish, Marion. Wait till you are married, and

the cares of life are upon you, before you talk wanting money.”

“It’s true, nevertheless,” maintained Marion; “but never mind about that

now. You haven’t yet explained about the nurse and governess difficulty.

Whom are you looking out for? Not for yourself? I thought you were so

pleased with the maid you had engaged; and you don’t want a governess

for Charlie?”

“Of course not; but that reminds me that I promised to buy him a bottle

of red ink. Don’t let me forget. And also a wedding present for him to

give to Foster, for she is a good soul really. She has put off her visit

home till next week, so that she will see us safe off from Paris. It

was only this morning I heard that the maid I had engaged can’t possibly

come. She is ill or something. It is impossible to get one in her place

at such short notice, so I have made up my mind, as Foster can go so far

with us, to wait till we get to Altes, and get a French girl there

to look after Charlie. It will be just as well, for she can teach him

French. Provided he does not take it into his head to hate her for being

what he calls a ‘Mounseer.’ ”

“Not a bit of him, if you tell him it would be rude and silly. I wish

however that I could have helped you by taking my maid. But you see, I

can’t do so, unless it had been arranged before, for mine, you know, is

a rather venerable individual, and acts housekeeper to some extent. Tell

me now about the governess mystery.”

“Oh!” said Cissy, “it was a letter I got this morning from old Lady

Severn. They have just returned to Altes from some place or other where

they have been during the summer, and she is in a great state to get a

good English governess, for the very few daily governesses there have

as much as they can do. So hearing accidentally of my going there,

she write to ask me if I can hear of one, as it would be so much more

satisfactory for me to see the unfortunate young lady in the first

place. I daresay it would! But where the being in question is to be seen

I haven’t yet discovered. I have got the names and addresses of two

or three to tell her about, but I don’t think they seem particularly

promising.”

“But what does an old lady want with a governess?” asked Marion; “didn’t

you say Lady Severn was old?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Archer, “sixty or seventy, or eighty

for all I know. A regular old lady. But that does not prevent her having

grandchildren, does it? Surely, though, Marion, you have heard of the

Severns? Lady Severn is a step-sister of Lord Brackley’s in Brentshire.

Did you never hear of them there?”

“No, not that I remember,” said Marion thoughtfully; “but you know I

have not been there for several years. How is it the grand-children live

with Lady Severn? Are their parents dead?”

“Yes, both,” replied Cissy, “and that’s how we know them. I mean,” she

went on, “it was owing to George and these children’s father, the eldest

brother, having been great friends at school and college. Old Lady

Severn was devotedly attached to this son, Sir John, (the father died

many years ago) and she has always kept up a correspondence with

George for his sake. She and I have never met but she has written very

cordially several times, and I was quite pleased to hear this morning

of their being at Altes. I should have got her letter sooner, but not

knowing my address, she sent it to George’s mother at Cheltenham to

forward to me, which has, you see, caused all this hurry and fuss about

a governess at the last minute.”

“How many children are there?” asked Marion.

“Two, both girls, ten and twelve, I think, their ages are. Their father

died two years ago, so their uncle, Ralph Severn, is now the head of

the family. Lady Severn has never got over Sir John’s death. It was very

sudden, the result of an accident. He was her favourite too. I don’t

fancy she cares very much for Sir Ralph, but, as far as I can judge,

don’t think it is very much to be wondered at.”

“Why?” asked Marion, “is he not a good son?”

“Oh dear, yes,” said Cissy, “unexceptionably good in every respect. In

fact, I fancy he is something of a prig and not half so attractive as

his brother was. And besides, Sir Ralph has not been very much with his

own family. John Severn was splendidly handsome, George has often told

me. A grand, tall, fair man, and with the most winning manners. The sort

of man who did everything well; riding and shooting and all those sorts

of things you know. No wonder his mother was proud of him! Whereas Ralph

is quite different, quite unlike his family, for they are all remarkably

handsome people, and he is not at all so, I should say. Dark and sallow

and gloomy looking. Horribly learned too, I believe. A great antiquary,

and able to read all the languages of the Tower of Babel, I’ve been

told. So he’s sure to be fusty and musty. He spent several years poking

about for all manner of old books and manuscripts somewhere in the

East.”

“How do you happen to know so much about him? Did you ever see him?”

enquired Marion.”

“Yes, once, on our way to India, he met us at Cairo. He had been

vice-consul somewhere, I think, but when I saw him he was in the middle

of his poking for these dirty old books. I thought him a great bore, but

George rather liked him. He had not the slightest idea then of getting

the title, and I believe he hates having it. But I declare, Marion, we

have been chattering so about the Severns that we haven’t said a word

about our plans.”

Whereupon ensued a Bradshaw and Murray discussion, in which Cissy,

having previously crammed for the occasion, came out very strong. Marion

felt dull and depressed, but glad that her cousin’s pre-occupation

prevented her observing that she was less lively than usual.

The shopping was at last satisfactorily executed. Just as they were

about to separate at Mr. Vere’s door, Marion remembered a message which

her father had charged her to deliver to Mrs. Archer.

“Oh, Cissy!” she exclaimed, “Papa said I was to tell you that instead of

leaving money with me here for my expenses, he has sent some to Paris,

so that you won’t have any trouble about the exchange. I was to ask you

when we got there, to call at somebody or other’s bank, I have the name

written down, and there you will find fifty pounds waiting for you to

use for me. And then Papa wants you, after getting to Altes, to make

a sort of calculation as to what my expenses will be, and he will send

whatever sum you need.”

“Awful prospect!” exclaimed Cissy. “Imagine me drawing out a set of what

do you call them?—statistics, isn’t that the word?—for Uncle Vere, as to

the average prices and probable amount of bread, meat, fruit, &c, likely

to be consumed by a young lady with a healthy appetite in the course of

six months. I declare I can’t do it, Marion, but we’ll see when we get

there. So good bye till tomorrow morning. I needn’t impress upon such a

model as you the expediency of being ready in time, and not forgetting

your keys.”

And so saying she drove away.

The next morning saw our little group of travellers fairly started on

their journey. Mrs. Archer in a violent, but amiable state of fuss;

Charlie, thoughtful and meditative, as became a would-be author,

but perfectly ready, nevertheless, to take the whole party, luggage

included, under his small wing, and inclined also to be severe and

cutting to his nurse on the subject of her lachrymose condition, owing

to the fast approaching separation from her darling.

“It’s what I’ve told you thousands of times, Foster,” he observed; “if

you love me better than Mr. Robinson, then marry me, and we shall never

be parted no more; but if you do marry him I won’t be angry, and come

and have tea with you on Sundays if you’ll let me spread my own toast.”

Marion was standing by the book-stall, idly eyeing its contents, when

the sound of a voice beside her, enquiring for a newspaper, struck

her with a half-familiar sound, and involuntarily she glanced at the

speaker. He was quite a young man, six or seven and twenty at most he

appeared to be. The momentary glimpse of his face, before he turned

away, gave her the same vague impression of having met him before,

though where or when she had no idea. A very pleasant face, any way it

was. Somehow Cissy’s words, when describing Sir John Severn to her the

day before, came into her mind. “A grand, tall, fair man, with the most

winning manners.” Of which last, in the present case, she had soon an

opportunity of judging, for at that moment Charlie, running up to her

eagerly, stumbled and fell, poor little fellow, full length on the hard

platform. The blow to his dignity was worse than the bump on his head,

and his mingled feelings would, in another moment, have been beyond his

control, had not the stranger in the kindest and gentlest way lifted the

child from the ground, holding him in his arms while he carefully wiped

the dusty marks from his face and hands.

“There, that’s all right again. Nothing for a brave little man like you

to cry for, I’m sure,” said he brightly, at which well-timed exhortation

Charlie was speedily himself again.

“Thank you very much,” said Marion. “Now Charlie, we’ll go hack to your

mamma.”

But at the sound of her voice the stranger started.

“Surely,” he began, but the sentence was never completed, for at that

moment went the bell rang, and Mrs. Archer hurrying up, swept them

all off in her train, leaving the young man standing with a puzzled

expression on his face, as Marion, involuntarily smiling at their mutual

perplexity, half bowed in farewell as she passed him.

“Who could that be, Cissy?” said she, when they were at length

satisfactorily settled amidst railway rugs and shawls, and Charlie

having related his misfortunes to his mother, had been further consoled

by a biscuit.

“Who could it be?” she repeated, “that tall, fair man who picked Charlie

up so kindly. I am sure I have seen him before.”

But Cissy had not observed him, and though Marion amused herself by

trying to guess the riddle she not succeed in doing so. The incident,

however, was not without its use, for during the long journey to Paris,

it took her thoughts a little off what had been engrossing them to an

undesirable extent—her brother’s troubles.

Thinking seemed to bring her no suggestion as to any way of obtaining

the thirty pounds, so she at last made the manful resolution for a time

to dismiss the subject from her mind, and when arrived at Altes, if no

other idea should strike her, to consult with Cissy, who was certainly

quick-witted enough, and also thoroughly to be trusted once she really

understood the necessity for silence on any particular subject.

The journey to Paris, including that horror of mild voyagers, crossing

the channel, was safely accomplished. A day or two in the Paradise of

milliners, during which time Cissy underwent torments, compared to which

those of Tantalus were as nothing, from the sight of palaces of delight,

yclept “magasins de modes,” into which she dared not venture, and from

which her only safety was in flight.

A heartrending parting scene between Foster and her beloved Master

Charlie, whose heroic fortitude gave way at the last; and again the

little party, now reduced to three, are off on their travels.

“Now my dear Marion,” said Cissy, with the air of a very small Jeanne

d’Arc about to lead an army into battle, “now our adventures are about

to begin. Behold in me your only pillar of defence, your only refuge in

danger, and—all that sort of thing, you know. Do be quiet Charlie; what

is the matter with you?”

“Foster promised to buy one a gun in case we meet wobbers and fiefs,”

said Charlie dole-fully, “and she forgot.”

“Never mind, child, I’ll get you one at Altes. I only wish we were

there!” said his mother.

“By-the-by, Cissy, have you heard any more about our lodgings at Altes?”

enquired Marion.

“Oh dear yes, I got an answer to any letter just as we started this

morning, but I’ve hardly read it yet,” and as she spoke, Mrs. Archer

drew it from her pocket. “Yes, that’s all right. It is from Bailey, the

English doctor at Altes, to whom mine at home gave me an introduction.

It’s really very kind. He says he has engaged a charming apartement

for me, and cheap too, and that the daughter of the somebody—who is

it, Marion? Oh, I see, the propriétaire. Yes, the daughter of the

propriétaire, Madame Poulin, will be very happy to act as maid and look

after Charlie. That’s a blessing. And he, that’s Dr. Bailey, will send

some one to meet us on our arrival, so after all, Marion, we need not be

afraid of meeting with much in the way of adventures.”

“Is inventures fiefs, Mamma?” asked Charlie, “for if they are, you

needn’t he afraid. I can pummel them even without a gun. And take care

of you too, May, if you’re good.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Marion, laughing, “I’ll not forget your

promise.” And then, turning to Cissy, she asked if she knew anyone else

at Altes besides Lady Severn.

“I had one or two introductions,” Mrs. Archer replied, “but I know no

one personally, except old Major and Mrs. Berwick, who are residents

there. They used to live at Clifton, and one of the daughters was at

school with me. She can’t be very young now, for she was some years

older than I.”

And so, chatting from time to time they beguiled the weariness of a long

day shut up in a railway carriage. Charlie fortunately was very good,

and when he got tired of looking out of the window, had the good sense

to compose himself for a little siesta, which lasted till they were

close to the town where they were to stay for the night. This they spent

in a queer, old-world sort of hotel, where the windows of the rooms

all looked into each other, and the beds were panelled into the wall,

something like those in old Scotch farmhouses. I write of some few years

ago. No doubt imperial rule has by this time “changé tout cela,”

and, travelling in France is probably fast becoming as commonplace as

anywhere else. The rest of the journey, which occupied two long days,

was performed en diligence, an irksome enough mode of procedure, as

those who have had the misfortune to be shut up in a coupé for twenty or

thirty hours it a stretch cam testify.

The country for some distance was fertile, and here and there, when one

got rid of the poplars, even picturesque. But halfway to Altes on the

last day, it altogether changed in character, becoming utterly waste and

sterile. Now, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen on

either side of the road, but long stretches of bleak, barren moorland.

Hardly, indeed, correctly described by that word, for our northern moors

have a decided, though peculiar, beauty of their own, wholly wanting

in the great, dead-looking wastes of this part of France, known as “les

landes.” To add to the gloomy effect of the scene, a close drizzling

rain began to fall, and continued without the slightest break, the whole

of that dreary afternoon.

Marion, though neither morbid nor weak-minded, was yet, like all

sensitive and refined organisations, keenly alive to the impressions

of the outer world. A ray of sudden sunshine; a tiny patch of the

exquisitely bright green moss, one sometimes sees amidst a mass of dingy

browns and olives; or the coming unexpectedly towards the close of a

dusty summer ramble on one of those fairylike wells of coolest, purest

water all shaded round by a bower or drooping ferns and bracken,—these,

and such things as these caused her to thrill with utterly inexpressible

delight. But on the other side she, of necessity, suffered actual

pain from trifles which, in coarser natures, waken no sense of jar or

discord.

I do not, however, believe that this latter class of feelings is ever

roused by nature herself, except where she has been distorted, or in

some way interfered with. Even in her gloomiest and wildest aspects, the

impression she makes upon us is of awe, but never horror; of melancholy,

but never revulsion of pain, in some mysterious way so far transcending

pleasure, as to be, to my thinking, the most exquisite of all such

sensations.

In a half-dreamy, half-pensive mood sat Marion, this dull September

afternoon, in the ugly, dingy old French diligence, intently gazing as

if it fascinated her, on the far stretch of grim, brown waste all round;

the rain dripping and drizzling, and the poor tired horses patiently

splashing on through the mud, now and then encouraged by the queer

outlandish cries of the driver. At last, the girl glanced round at her

companions. Both fast asleep. There was nothing else to do, so she again

betook herself to the window, and yielded to the gloomy fascination of

the moor and the rain. It began, at last, to seem that her whole life

had been spent thus, that everything else was a dream, and the only

realities were the great trackless desert, and the diligence rumbling on

for ever, where to and where from she seemed neither to know nor care.

Then, I suppose, she must have fallen into a doze, or perhaps asleep

outright. However this was, she must have shut her eyes for some time,

for when she next was conscious of using them, all was changed.

Still the wide-stretching moor all round; but no longer brown and grim,

it now appeared a field of lovely shades of colour; for far away at the

horizon, the beautiful sun was setting in many-hued radiance, and the

rain had all cleared away, except a few laggard drops still falling

softly, each a miniature rainbow as it came. Marion watched till the sun

was gone. Then the golden light grew softer and paler, the clouds melted

from crimson and rose, to the faintest blush, and at last all merged in

a silvery greyness, which in its turn gradually deepened again to the

dark, even blue of a cloudless night. And one by one the stars came out,

each in its accustomed place; all the old friends whom Marion had

first learnt to call by name from the windows of the little cottage at

Brackley. Somehow the strangeness and the loneliness seemed to leave her

as she saw them, and a feeling of tranquil happiness stole over her. But

this solitary evening in the old diligence was never forgotten, for

it became to her one of those milestones in life, little noticed in

passing, but plainly seen on looking back.

Soon, a rattle on the stop y, and lights of another kind from those

overhead, told the travellers that their wearisome journey was ended at

last. Cissy woke up brisk as ever; for whatever weak points Mrs. Archer

may have had, she was certainly strong that of being an agreeable

travelling companion. It is a trite saying, that there is no trial of

temper equal to that afforded by being shut up together for weeks in

a ship, or for days in a railway. But both of these tests Cissy’s

amiability had stood triumphantly. Now rubbing her eyes as she sat up

and looked about her, she exclaimed brightly, “Here we are, I declare,

and now we shall soon be able to put this poor little fellow to bed

comfortably,” glancing at still sleeping Charlie. Then, in the sudden

inconsequent manner peculiar to very impulsive people, added hastily:—

“Marion, do you know it has just this instant struck me that I quite

forgot to answer Lady Severn’s letter. How very stupid and careless of

me! I shall have to go to see her to-morrow to explain about it.”

As she spoke, they drove into a covered courtway. The diligence drew up

at last with a squeak and a grunt, as if it sympathised with the tired,

cramped travellers it had brought so far. A jabber outside, and the

conducteur jerked open the door, enquiring if Madame Archère were the

name of “une de ces dames.”

“Archère. Archer,” repeated Cissy “yes, certainly, by all means. Now

Charlie, my boy, wake up;” and so alighting from their coupé, they found

that the very obliging Dr. Bailey had sent a man-servant and carriage to

convey them to their apartement at the other end of the queer, rambling,

up-and-down-hill little town.

It was not so very late after all, though past poor Charlie’s bedtime,

when they found themselves installed in the pretty little suite of

rooms, which for several months to come they were to consider “home.”

The first thing to be done, of course, was to get the small gentleman

of the party safely disposed of for the night. He pronounced himself

too sleepy to want any supper; but brightened up in the most aggravating

manner at the sight of pretty Thérèse Poulin, already prepared to

commence her new duties as his personal attendant.

“Little Miss Mounseer,” said he deliberately, seating himself on a stool

and staring lap in her face, “tell me what your name is.” To which, on

Marion’s interpretation, the girl replied smilingly:

“Thérèse, mon cher petit monsieur. Thérèse Poulin.”

“Trays,” repeated he meditatively; “Trays, very well then, Trays. I’ll

let you undress me if you’ll always let me spread my bread myself.”

Delighted at the promising aspect of the much-dreaded new nursery

arrangements, Cissy and Marion made their escape to the little

salle-à-manger, where Madame Poulin, a cheery active old body, had

providently prepared tea à l’ Anglais, as she phrased it, for their

refreshment.

Happening to ask, as she left the room, if the ladies had any messages

they would like executed that evening; any letters to be posted for

instance, a thought struck Cissy, and she enquired if the post-office

were near at hand. To which Madame Poulin replied briskly, that it was

in the very next street, just round the corner.

Then,” said Mrs. Archer, “pray send some one to ask if there are any

letters lying there for me, for,” she added, turning to Marion, “it is

quite possible there may be, as I gave no address, but, poste restante,

and all yours will come under cover to me, as we agreed would be best.”

Five minutes later, Thérèse entered the room with two letters for

Madame, which had been waiting her arrival since the day before. Tearing

one open an enclosure fell out, addressed to Miss Vere, who seized it

eagerly.

“From Harry, I see,” said Mrs. Archer, “what a model brother to write so

quickly!”

But Marion did not respond with her usual brightness to her cousin’s

remark, for before opening the envelope a misgiving came over her that

its contents would not be of a cheerful nature. Nor, alas, were they!

Poor Harry wrote in sore trouble. It appeared that the money lender, the

“wretched little Jew,” of the boy’s story, had begun to have fears about

obtaining from Cuthbert the sum he declared to be owing to him. The very

day Harry had seen his sister in London, the man had stopped Cuthbert in

the street, and had loudly threatened him with exposure unless the money

were speedily forthcoming. The distress and anxiety all this was causing

his friend, Harry very naturally felt must be put a stop to, and he

wrote to say that he only waited for Marion’s reply, in the faint hope

that some idea might have struck her, before making up his mind to risk

all, and boldly apply to his father.

Marion shuddered at the bare thought. She was tired too, and

over-excited by her several days’ travelling. Cissy was engrossed by her

own letter, and did not for a moment or two notice poor Marion’s face of

despondency and distress.

Suddenly looking up to tell some little piece of news, in which her

young cousin might take interest, she was startled by the girl’s

expression. “May, my dear child, whatever is the matter? Have you had

news from home?” enquired she anxiously.

“Oh, no,” answered Marion, “at least, not exactly. Nothing but what I

knew before.”

But the ice once broken, the impulse to confide her trouble to kind,

sympathising Cissy, was too strong to be resisted, and in another minute

Mrs. Archer was in possession of all the facts of the case.

She listened attentively, only interrupting Marion by little soft

murmurs of pity for her anxiety. And when she had heard the whole she

agreed with her cousin that it certainly would be very awful to have

to apply to Mr. Vere, only she “really didn’t see what else was to be

done.”

“If only, I could possibly spare the money,” she said, “but alas—”

“Cissy, you know I wasn’t thinking of that,” interrupted Marion; “I know

you are rather short of money yourself, just now.”

“Indeed, I am,” said Cissy dolefully; “but now, May dear, you must go

to bed and try to sleep. I promise you I’ll cudgel my brains well, and

we’ll see by to-morrow if we cannot somehow or other help poor Harry out

of his scrape.”

With which rather vague consolation, Marion, for the present had to be

satisfied. And with an affectionate “good night,” the cousins separated.

CHAPTER III. BLUE SKIES

“To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

WORDSWORTH.

“They order,” said I, “these things better in France.”

STERNE.

THE next morning was bright and sunny. Marion woke early, feeling,

thanks to her eighteen years, perfectly rested and refreshed. Under

these circumstances too, as might be expected, her spirits were

considerably better than they had been the previous night, when she

cried herself to sleep in her fatigue and distress.

She lay quietly for a few minutes, hazily glancing round at the quaint

little room, exquisitely clean and fresh, certainly, for Madame Poulin

was a model housewife, but looking somewhat bare to Marion’s thoroughly

English eyes. Still, the very strangeness was pleasant, and the sunshine

pouring in through the uncurtained window, was bright enough to fill

even this plain little room with light and beauty.

Feeling buoyant and cheerful, Marion sprang up, and was nearly dressed,

when a small tap at the door, and the request, “May I tum in?” announced

the presence of Master Charlie. His tidings were not of the cheeriest.

“Poor Mamma was very tired and couldn’t get up, and May was not to wait

breakfast.” It was really not to be wondered at, for Cissy was by no

means a robust person, though fortunate in the possession of a most

cheerful disposition and a wonderful amount of energy and spirit.

Notwithstanding, however, all the good will in the world, she was now

forced to confess herself on the point of being very thoroughly knocked

up; so Marion breakfasted alone. But for the remembrance of Harry’s

letter, she would have felt very bright and happy this first morning at

Altes. The weather was exquisitely beautiful. From the little terrace

on to which opened most of their rooms, there was a lovely view of the

mountains, standing out sharp and clear against the intense, perfect

blue of the sky. What a colour! How utterly indescribable to those

who have never chanced to see it! How different from the bluest of our

northern skies is this rich intensity of azure! In the reaction of the

present clay against exaggeration of sentiment or language, it has,

I know, become the fashion to disbelieve and decry many “travellers’

stories” that used to be undoubtingly accepted. Still, as all reactions

do, this one has gone too far, and a spirit of cynical scepticism is

fast undermining much of the pleasure simple-minded stay-at-home people

(certainly a very small minority now-a-days) used to derive from the

descriptions of their more fortunate sight-seeing neighbours.

People are told that it is all humbug and nonsense about southern skies

having a richness and depth of colour unknown in those of the north.

That the Mediterranean is just like any other sea, and the tints of its

waters not one whit more varied or brilliant than may be seen at any

English coast on a sunny day. Doubtless, the north has its own peculiar

and precious beauties, and well and fitting it is that its children

should appreciate and prize them. But why therefore set ourselves to

ignore or make light of the more vivid and striking loveliness we must

turn southwards to see? For my part I can only tell of things as they

seemed to me; and I come too of an older generation; one in which

people were not ashamed to wonder and admire, heartily and even

enthusiastically. No poor words of mine could ever in the faintest

degree picture the marvellous perfection of those blue skies of the

south, at which I gazed with a very ecstasy of delight, or of the waves

like melted emeralds and sapphires lapping softly the silvery sparkling

sands. They come to me in my dreams even now, and I wake with a vain

longing to hear their gentle murmur.

Think, in contrast, of the faint, sickly hues brought before us by

our English words “sky-blue “and “sea-green!” Assuredly those who love

chiefly beauty in colour, must not look for it hereabouts.

Marion stood on the terrace for some little time in perfect enjoyment.

She was just at the age to take unalloyed pleasure in the loveliness of

the outer world. It woke no painful remembrance, stirred up no bitter

association or fruitless longing. Alas, alas, that there should be so

few, so very few, to whom, in later years, the beauty of this beautiful

world, if not altogether hidden by the thick veil of past sorrows,

is truly what is always meant be, a delight, a refreshment, “a joy

forever.”

Surely it is more or less in our or power keep or make it so? At least,

one cheering thought might be drawn from it by even the most weary

and heavy-laden spirit. It tells us that we and our sorrows are not

forgotten, for there, before us in every leaf and blade of grass

the Universal Beauty reveals to us the Universal Love. But a girl at

eighteen does not stop to analyse the sensations of pleasure aroused

by a beautiful landscape. Marion only thought that it was lovelier than

anything she had ever imagined, and well worth corning so far to see.

She was fortunate in being so fresh to such scenes. It seems to me most

mistaken kindness to take young children sight-seeing, even of nature’s

sights. They become familiar with beauty of these noblest kinds long

before it is in the least possible that they can feel or appreciate it.

And this familiarity ends generally in utter indifference; ignorance

in short that there is anything to admire. Not that children should be

brought up among dinginess and ugliness. The prettier and sweeter their

surroundings the better. But oh parents and teachers, do leave the

little creatures simple and fresh! To my mind a child of ten years old,

who has been half over the continent, and chatters pertly of Switzerland

and Mont Blanc, Naples and Mount Vesuvius, is in-finitely more to be

pitied than we children of long ago, who talked to each other with

bated breath of these wonders we should see “when we grow big,” and who

believed implicitly in Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss family, if not in

Liliputland and Hassan of Balsra!

Some time passed, and then Marion reluctantly withdrew from the terrace

and re-entered the little salon. It looked quite dark from the contrast

with the flood of light outside; and as the girl’s eye fell on her

little writing-desk which she had set on the table intending to write to

Harry, it seemed as if the darkness had entered her heart too.

“What can I say to him?” thought she, “and poor Cissy ill and tired. I

can’t even talk to her!”

And then there came before her a picture of Harry compelled to

confess all to his father. A terrible scene of parental reproaches and

harshness. Harry cast of for ever, perhaps running away to sea, and

his life utterly separated from hers, and from all happy and wholesome

influences. It was too dreadful to think of! Very foolish and

exaggerated no doubt. Still such things have been! Then too, there

was great excuse for Marion’s anxiety, even if carried too far. Harry,

though little more than two years her junior, had been almost like a

son to her as well as a brother. She was naturally stronger in character

than he, and also much more thoughtful and considerate. And then to a

gentle unselfish girl it comes so naturally to act a mother’s part at

almost any age. I think as I write of a tottering nursemaid of six or

seven, all but overwhelmed by the baby in her arms, at first glance

quite as big as herself. A cold day and the clothing of both babies of

the scantiest. Of course the small nursemaid has a tiny shawl. Small

nursemaids always have. Her charge at last succumbs to cold and sets up

a dismal howl. Then see the poor little woman, poor baby that she

is, untaught, unkempt, uncared for. With what sweetest tenderness she

soothes the crying infant, seating herself with infinite pains on a door

step, and wrapping round the other the poor little rag of a shawl which

was the only protection of her own shivering shoulders. Dear, good

little girl. True-hearted, unselfish child. How many such as these are

in our streets! Ugly, dirty little creatures we shrink from them as we

pass, who yet are already fulfilling nobly, in utter unconsciousness,

their part of woman’s work.

As Marion’s dismal imaginations had reached their height, she was again

interrupted by Charlie.

“Mamma is awake and wants to speak to you,” was his message, which

Marion was very glad to hear.

“May,” said Cissy, after assuring her cousin that she was much less

tired now and would be quite herself by the afternoon, “May dear! do you

know I’ve been thinking ever so much in the night about this affair of

Harry’s. Don’t think me hard or cruel for what I am going to say, for

I’m sure I don’t mean to be; but I can’t help having a sort of feeling

that perhaps after all it would be best for you to advise Harry to

tell all to your father. Though he is stern I don’t think he is

really hard-hearted. And then it is such a pity for a boy to begin any

concealment from his father. Don’t you think so yourself, dear?”

“As a rule certainly I do,” said Marion, “but in this case it is so

different. Cissy, you don’t know Papa. It is not the harshness at the

time that I so dread for Harry, though that would be bad enough. It

is the thought of the dreadfully galling way he would be treated

afterwards. Papa would make him feel that he had utterly lost confidence

in him. He would run away before long, I am sure. And think what might

become of him! No, Cissy, I can’t advise him to go to my father if there

is any possible way of avoiding it.”

“Well, dear, I suppose you know best,” replied Mrs. Archer, “only

thinking it over last night it seemed to come before me that it would be

right for Harry to confess his fault (for after all it was undoubtedly

his own fault), to Uncle Vere, and take his reproaches manfully as a

merited punishment. Not that I do not feel very sorry for him, poor

fellow, for after all it was a mere piece of boyish folly.”

“And folly which he bitterly repents, I assure you,” said Marion;

“but oh, Cissy, can’t you think of any plan to help him? I must write

to-day.”

“I can help you so far,” said Cissy. “I can lend you the money for two

or three months. You see we are sure to be here for six months, and I

can let some of my bills, the rent, I dare-say, run on till Christmas

any way. So there will be no fear of our running short. I only wish

I could clear poor Harry of this horrible debt altogether. But if the

worst comes to the worst I can write to George and he will only think I

have been rather more extravagant than usual.”

“That you certainly shall not have to do, dear Cissy,” exclaimed her

cousin; “rather than that, I would face Papa myself and risk the worst

he could say or do to me, for he should never know it had been Harry’s

debt, though I fear he would suspect it; but if you can really lend me

the money, Cissy, I promise you I shall find some way of repaying it

before we leave Altes. I shall not tell Harry how I have got it, as he

would be dreadfully hurt at my having told you, and still more ashamed

of my having borrowed it in this way, so remember it is my debt and not

his, and if I don’t pay, it you may put me in prison,” he added, gaily,

so great her relief at the thought of Harry’s safety.

“Very well, you may be quite sure that I shall do so,” replied Cissy,

“and now run off and write your letter. I will give you three ten pound

notes, so that you may send the first halves of them to-day.”

Gratefully kissing the kind little woman, Marion obeyed. Her high

spirits lasted till her letter was written, and with its precious

enclosure carefully posted with her own hands. Then as she walked slowly

homewards a little of the weight returned to her mind. How was she

now to repay Cissy? That her cousin should suffer more than the mere

temporary inconvenience of having advanced the money she was determined

should not be the case. Certainly there was no immediate hurry about the

matter, but Marion was not one of those people who think it quite time

enough to face a difficulty when it is close at hand, and her active

imagination at once set to work on all manner of possible and impossible

schemes.

She would take in fine needlework and get up at unearthly hours to do

it without Mrs. Archer’s knowledge, She would paint same exquisite

landscapes that would be sure to sell.

On reflection, however, she saw obstacles in the way of executing

either of these projects. She was not, in the first place, remarkably

proficient with her needle, nor was she conceited enough to think that

her water colours were much above the average of most young-lady-like

productions of the kind.

And in the second place, supposing she had anything to sell how could

she, an utter stranger in a foreign town, find a purchaser?

And so one after another or half-a-dozen promising looking schemes was

passed in review and rejected by her common sense as impracticable.

Still on the whole she was rather amused than distressed. Her mind at

ease about Harry, all other considerations seemed trifling. There was

even something, exciting and exhilarating about the novelty of the

idea. And she was young and strong, and to such the grappling with a

difficulty has a curious charm of its own. Even about such a sordid

matter as the making or earning of thirty pounds! That in some way or

other her voluntary promise to her cousin should be redeemed she was

determined. And the girl was not one to undertake what she would not

fulfil.

It was too hot to leave the house for some hours after noon. Cissy

herself on a sofa in the coolest earner, declaring it felt

something like India, and then suddenly remembered her housewifely

responsibilities, rang for Madame Poulin, and entered, somewhat vaguely

it must be confessed, on the subject of dinners. All, however, was

charmingly satisfactory. Though not professing to do much cooking

herself, the good lady assured Madame all could be agreeably arranged,

for her brother was the head of the best hotel in Altes, but a two

minutes’ walk beyond the post-office, and would supply regularly a

dinner for any number from two to a dozen, at a really moderate price.

Or if ces dames would prefer a little variety now and then, there was

the table d’hôte at this same hotel every day at five, where the choice

of viands would be greater and the company of the most select.

“That would be rather amusing now and then for a change” observed Mrs.

Archer.

Marion preferred the idea of a private repast, but agreed that they

might go and “see what it was like.”

For to-day, however, Madame Poulin was requested to order a comfortable

little dinner in their own quarters, and after some further conversation

on the subject of Charlie’s tastes, the pleasant old lady retired,

leaving behind her a decidedly favourable impression, which longer

acquaintance only confirmed.

A few minutes passed in silence till it occurred Marion that it would be

as well for her to write her father announcing their safe arrival. This

task accomplished, and Cissy declaring she was too tired to go

out, Marion settled herself in a snug corner by the window with an

interesting book, which she had read half of on the journey. But alas

for her pleasurable intentions! Hardly had she opened the volume when an

interruption appeared in the person of Charlie in a state of tremendous

eagerness to write a letter to Foster. The poor little fellow had

really been very good all day, doing his best to get on pleasantly with

Thérèse, who was certainly good nature itself, and had been making,

on her side, super-human efforts to amuse her small charge and to

understand his observations. Still as she was us wholly innocent of

English as the child of French, it was rather trying work for both.

Marion felt that, Charlie deserved some reward, so she laid down her

book and established him on her knee with a sheet of note-paper before

him and a pencil in his hand.

The nature of their occupation being a very engrossing one Marion did

not hear the sound of a carriage drawing up at the door below the little

terrace, nor did she pay attention to the slight bustle of bell-ringing,

enquiries made and answered, which ensued.

In another moment, however, the door of the room opened and Thérèse

ushered in a visitor, whom Cissy started up to receive. Marion was

reluctant to disturb Charlie, and being almost hidden by the curtains

sat still, quietly observing the new corner who, cordially greeting Mrs.

Archer, had evidently not noticed that there was anyone else present.

The visitor was an elderly lady, tall, and well dressed, with some

remains of former beauty, of a pleasing, though not very striking, kind.

Her expression was gentle, but somewhat anxious and uneasy, which was

soon explained, by her announcing herself to be very deaf.

“Very deaf, indeed, my dear,” she repeated to Mrs. Archer in her fussy

way. Whereupon poor Cissy, of course, set to work shouting in a shrill,

high-pitched tone, of all others the most impossible for a deaf person

to catch the sound of.

After one or two trials, however, she got on a little better, and

succeeded in explaining to Lady Severn, as Marion had already guessed

her to be, her regret at having failed in meeting with a desirable young

lady as governess, owing to the delay in the letter’s reaching her which

contained her friend’s request.

Lady Severn was evidently disappointed, but consoled herself by entering

at great length into her troubles and anxieties with respect to her

grand-daughters’ education. Mrs. Archer listened sympathisingly, as was

her wont. But so absorbed was the elder lady by her own recital, that it

was not till she rose to go, that she remembered to make enquiry for her

hostess’s child, or children, and for the last news of Colonel Archer.

The satisfactory state of her husband’s health having been communicated,

Cissy, suddenly remembering that, in the confusion of Lady Severn’s

unexpected entrance, and the subsequent discovery of her deafness, she

had not introduced her young cousin, turned to look for her. There the

pair was still seated in perfect content. Charlie, perched on Marion’s

knee, as quiet as a mouse, had found ample amusement in peeping from

behind the curtains at the funny old lady whom Mamma was shouting to.

But now, at a sign from his mother, he slipped down and ran forward to

be kissed and admired as a fine little fellow, and “so like his papa was

when I first remember him,” said Lady Severn, adding in an undertone,

as a tear glistened in her eye, “They were two such fine boys, my dear,

your husband and my poor John. And he left no son to succeed him,

you know. Only the two little girls. Not but what they are very dear

creatures, but I can’t help wishing there had been a boy. And so does

Ralph himself, for that matter! But it can’t be helped.”

Marion listened with some curiosity to these allusions to the family

history she had already heard. Half unconsciously stepping forward into

the room, Lady Seven’s glance at last fell upon her, and Cissy hastened

to apologise and explain. Unfortunately, however, in her eagerness to

introduce her pretty guest, Mrs. Archer pitched her voice badly, and the

result was that the old lady caught no words of the sentence but the two

last.

“Miss Vere,” Cissy had ended with.

“Miss Freer,” repeated Lady Severn with satisfaction at her own

acuteness. “Miss Freer, I hope you will like Altes. And you, too, my

dear little fellow”—to Charlie—“there are some lovely walks in the

neighbourhood, which I do not think Miss Freer will consider too far for

these sturdy little legs.”

“Vere,” ejaculated Cissy, “my cousin, Miss Vere.”

“Miss Vere,” again repeated Lady Severn with perfect satisfaction;

“oh yes, I caught the name, thank you. I am generally rather clever at

catching names correctly. Besides, it is familiar to me. It is the name

of our much-respected surgeon at Medhurst. Perhaps he may be a relation

of yours, Miss Freer? It is not a very common name.”

Marion replied, with malicious calmness, that she was not aware that

she had any relations at Medhurst. But, by this time, Cissy was beyond

attempting further explanations. She controlled herself sufficiently

to accompany Lady Severn to the head of the stairs, where the good lady

favoured her with some further remarks still more distressing to her

gravity, on the subject of Miss Freer; and then she rushed back into

the room, scarlet with suppressed laughter, though, at the same time

considerably annoyed.

“Marion, how could you,” she exclaimed, “standing there in that demure

way, and answering that you had no relations at Medhurst? Do you know

that the old goose thought you were my companion or Charlie’s governess?

I am not sure which. Imagine Uncle Vere’s face, if he had seen it! She

told me, as she said goodbye, that she only wished she could meet with

just such a young lady for her two dear creatures. I tried to explain,

but it was hopeless. Really, you might have helped me.”

“Truly, I don’t see how,” said Marion: “would you have had me confuse

the poor lady still more by shouting my name into her one ear while you

were doing the same into the other? And she was so pleased at her

own cleverness. It would really have been a shame to undeceive her.

Besides,” she went on more seriously, “I truly don’t see what harm it

does me for Lady Severn, or anybody else, to take me for a governess.

Don’t vex yourself about it, Cissy. It really doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” said Mrs. Archer almost angrily, “and it was all my

own stupidity, too, in not introducing you properly at first. But I was

all but asleep when she came in, and then I couldn’t make her hear.”

“But how does it matter?” asked Marion gently, seeing that her cousin

was really annoyed.

“In a hundred ways. I want you to enjoy your visit here, and have a

little more variety than in your dull life at home. I want you to make

some nice acquaintances, and to be admired, and all that sort of thing,

you know. And what a stupid beginning, to be mistaken by our only

acquaintance for a governess!”

“Governesses are not altogether debarred from all the pleasant things

you name, are they?” said Marion, “I really can’t see anything dreadful

either in the mistake or the reality, had it existed. But seriously,

Cissy, leave off thinking about it, do.”

This incident, however, or something, gave Marion herself ample subject

for reflection; for she was unusually thoughtful and silent all the

afternoon. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Archer received a note

from Dr. Bailey, apologising for not having already called to see her,

and expressing hopes that, when she had got over the fatigue of her

journey, Mrs. and Miss Bailey might have the pleasure of making her

acquaintance.

“He must be a civil, kindly old man,” said she after reading it, “but

I don’t exactly see the necessity of a friendship with Madame and

Mademoiselle. I wonder how they know anything about me, unless they call

in a semi-professional sort of way on all the papa’s lady-patients.”

“I should hardly think they could find time for that,” said Marion “but

perhaps they have heard about you from some one.”

“Oh, yes, by-the-bye,” exclaimed Cissy, “I remember Lady Severn said

she had got my address from the Baileys. Really, Marion, it was horribly

rude of me not to answer her letter! I suspect it was her eagerness

on the governess question that brought her to call so quickly. But I

daresay she’s very good and kind. Indeed, I know she is, for George says

she was almost like a mother to him, long ago, when his own mother was

in India.”

“Lady Severn doesn’t look particularly delicate,” remarked Marion, “do

they always spend the winter abroad?”

“Oh dear no. She’s not delicate, if by that you mean a consumption, or

anything of that kind. I daresay she is not remarkably strong, and then

she is no longer young. Sir John’s death aged her terribly, I believe.

But it is principally on account of one of the little girls, that they

have spent the last two or three years on the Continent. The younger

one, I think—Sybil she is called—who was very ill soon after her

father’s death, and her grandmother thought she was going to die, and

came abroad in a fright. The child’s all right again now, but I suppose

Lady Severn is over anxious and fussy. I fancy, too, she dislikes the

idea of returning to Medhurst, for it was there her son died.”

“I can’t help thinking,” said Marion, after a minute or two’s silence,

“that there is some-thing unnatural in Lady Severn’s devotion to the

memory of the one son, and apparent indifference to the other. Even what

she said to-day, about regretting that Sir John had left no boy, struck

rue as a curious thing to say, considering that Sir Ralph is her own

son. Unless, indeed, he is peculiarly unlovable, or has, in some way or

other, forfeited his mother’s affection by his own fault?”

“Well, it does seem queer,” replied Cissy, “but still from what I have

heard, I can understand it in a sort of way. You see from boyhood John

Severn was looked upon as the heir, and Ralph was so different. Quiet

and grave, and not the sort of character to be much noticed in any

way. Whereas Sir John must have been a splendid fellow really. I don’t

suppose it ever occurred to any one that Ralph could become the head of

the house! But if you are interested in the family, May, I dare say

you will have opportunity enough while here to study their various

peculiarities.”

“What is the other child called?”

“I don’t know, or if I ever did I’ve forgotten. Girls of ten and twelve

don’t interest me particularly; though I liked you, May, when you were

a little girl,” said Mrs. Archer, affectionately; “you were such a

dear, shy little thing, and you had such funny, quaint ways. I never can

believe you are the same. You seemed to me to become grown-up all in a

minute. With my never seeing you all these years after toy marriage,

I kept fancying in that silly way that I should come home and find you

just as I left you.”

“Then you don’t think me very childish now, do you?” asked Marion,

rather anxiously, “do I look much younger than I am, do you think,

Cissy?”

“What has put that in your head all of a sudden?” said Mrs. Archer,

laughing. “I thought you were far too wise ever to think about outward

looks at all. That’s the very thing about you that is so unlike most

girls. You are such an indescribable mixture of extreme girlishness and

preternatural wisdom. You look such a perfect child sometimes, at

the very moment that I am shaking in my shoes before you, and your

dreadfully good advice. You certainly would make a capital governess,

Marion, if you kept your pupils in as good order as poor me! Only you

are fa too pretty. All the big brothers and gentleman-visitors would

fail in love with you to a certainty.”

“Don’t Cissy, please don’t joke in that sort of way. I want to ask you

seriously; do you really think I should make a good governess?”

“Of course you would. I believe you might make a good anything you

chose. You are certainly clever enough to manage me in a way that

fills me with amazement and admiration. But do think of something more

interesting than governesses. Thank goodness there’s no fear of your

ever having to be one.”

“Isn’t there? Well, I don’t know. Stranger things happen every day. Why

Papa might loose all his money, and I might have to earn my bread like a

model young lady in a story book.”

“You might, undoubtedly, but also you might, not,” answered her cousin,

carelessly, and then changing the subject, she continued: “What should

you say to our dining at the table d’hôte to-morrow? Wouldn’t it be

rather amusing?”

“If you like,” replied Marion, “though it would be pleasanter if we

knew anyone likely to be there. Didn’t you, say you knew another family

there?”

“Oh, yes, the Berwicks. I must, look them up, I suppose, for they are

old friends, and they don’t know I’m here. But I’m getting sleepy,

Marion. Are you ready to say good night? I hope you won’t mind

breakfasting alone again, for I want to be quite rested by to-morrow

afternoon, so that we may go a walk or a drive. I’m afraid it has been

very stupid for you today.”

“But it would be much more stupid if you were to get ill, Cissy dear,”

said Marion, “so rest by all means. I shall have breakfast early

and perhaps go out a little walk on my own account, with Charlie and

Thérèse, before you are up.”

As she spoke her eye fell on a calling-card lying on the table. It

was that of Lady Severn, which, Thérèse being rather untaught in such

matters, had followed instead of preceding her into the room. Marion

took it up and looked at it closely. In the corner was written the

temporary address: “Rue des Lauriers, No. 5.” A trifle, but it decided

a good deal. “Now that I know the address,” thought the girl, “I can go

there in the morning before Cissy is up.”

CHAPTER IV. A FRIEND IN NEED

“Sweet fickle Love, you grow for some,

And grip them to their grief,

As sudden as the redwings come

At the full fall of the leaf.

“And sudden as the swallows go,

That muster for the sea,

You pass away before we know,

And wounded hearts are we.”

W. P. L.

“Rue des Lauriers, No. 5:” last thought in her head at night, first when

she woke in the morning. In her dreams too the words had been constantly

before her: “No fear of my forgetting the address,” said Marion to

herself.

Breakfast over, she arranged with Thérèse and Charlie, to accompany them

in their morning walk about twelve o’clock. And then she fidgeted about,

unable to settle to anything; rather frightened, if the truth must be

told, at the thought of what she was about to do.

It is a crisis in our lives, when, for the first time, we take what we

believe to be an important step, entirely on our own responsibility.

Well for us when this crisis does not occur too soon. Well too, when it

is not deferred too late. Of the two extremes, doubtless the latter

is the more to be dreaded. Better some sad tumbles and bruises; better

indeed a broken limb, than the hopeless feebleness of members, stunted,

if not paralysed for want of natural use. Experience is truly a hard

schoolmaster, but we have not yet found a better one. Some day we must

be self-reliant, or else be utterly wrecked and stranded. So, if for no

higher motive than mere prudence and expediency, it is well not to delay

too long the testing of our own powers, the trial of our individual

strength.

Cissy had said truly that Marion was a curious mixture of simplicity and

wisdom, child and woman. I wonder if in this lay her peculiar charm? But

this, indeed, I cannot tell. The charm I have felt, deeply too, but like

other sweet and beautiful things, I endeavoured in vain to analyse or

define it.

The girl tried to read, or write or work; but all her attempts were

useless. Like a naughty schoolboy, who has resolution enough to plan it

truant expedition, but fails to conceal his excitement beforehand, so

Marion was on the point a dozen times that morning, of betraying her

strange intention. Had Cissy not been tired and sleepy when Marion

peeped in to wish her good morning, she would infallibly have detected

some unusual signs of excitement in her young cousin’s manner. A word

from her and the whole would have been in her possession, and then —

Marion’s life might have been more happily common-place, and this story

of it would, in all probability, never have been written.

However it was not so to be. Twelve o’clock came at last, and with her

little cavalier and Thérèse as escort, Marion sallied forth. The Rue

des Lauriers she learnt from Thérèse, was about a quarter of a mile only

from the street in which Mme. Poulin’s house was situated. Anxious that

Charlie’s walk should not be curtailed on her account, and perhaps not

sorry in her secret heart to delay, if only for half-an-hour, the task

she had set herself, Marion proposed that they should in the first

place take a stroll beyond the town. The day was much cooler than the

preceding one. Indeed, it was cloudy enough to suggest the possibility

of not far distant rain. Marion’s beautiful mountains were all but

hidden in mist, and it was difficult to believe in the blue sky of

yesterday. Still there were now and then breaks in the mist and clouds,

showing that the loveliness was veiled only, not destroyed, Charlie’s

remarks apropos of everything, from the fog-covered bills to the sisters

of charity with their enormous flapping caps, were amusing enough. But

Marion was too engrossed by her own thoughts to listen with her usual

attention. As they reached the end of Rue des Laurier’s, a slight

drizzle began to fall and Marion told Thérèse to hasten home with

Charlie, as she herself had a call to make some little way up the

street.

“Tell your mamma, Charlie,” she cried, as they separated, “if she wants

me, that I shall be home in a very little while.”

No 5 was at the other extremity of the street, avenue almost it might

have been called; for it was prettily planted with trees at each side,

and the gardens of the houses, standing, many of them, detached or

semi-detached in villa fashion, were bright and well kept. Those at the

upper end were evidently of older date. No. 5 especially had a somewhat

venerable air. It was built round three sides of a court laid out with

turf and flower-beds, in the centre of which a little fountain was

playing lazily, A damp, drizzling day, however, is hardly the occasion

on which such a place is seen to advantage, and Marion decided mentally

that she would have been sorry to exchange the little terrace on to

which rooms opened, for the quaint old court-yard, however picturesque.

She rang bravely at what appeared to be the principal door, which to her

surprise was opened by an old woman who informed her that the apartment

of Miladi Severn was on the other side, au premier. The entrance

opposite was open, so Marion ascended a flight of stairs and rang again

at the first door that presented itself. This time she felt sure she was

right, for a man-servant in English-looking attire appeared in answer

to her summons. In reply to her enquiry as to whether she could see Lady

Severn on a matter of business, he said that he would ask, and ushered

her into a very pretty sitting room, opening, to her surprise, on to a

pleasant garden. The mystery as to how she found herself again on the

ground floor without having descended any steps, was explained, when she

remembered that the Rue des Lauriers was built on a steep hill, at the

upper extremity of which stood No. 5. How it came to be number five

instead number one was a problem never satisfactorily solved.

Marion waited a few minutes and then the servant re-appeared, to

say that Lady Severn would be ready to see the young lady almost

immediately, if she would be so good as to give her name.

Here was a poser! Marion could not, yet bring herself to say “Miss

Freer.” But a lucky compromise occurred to her.

“I have no card with me,” she said, “but Lady Severn will know who I am

if you say I have come from Mrs. Archer’s.”

The name apparently was all required, for in another moment Lady Severn

entered the room. She came in looking rather puzzled, but shook hands

kindly enough with Marion, saying, as she did so, that she hoped.

Mrs. Archer was not feeling ill or that anything was wrong with little

Charlie.

“Oh dear no, thank you,” said Marion, “they are both very well. At

least, my cou—Mrs. Archer is only a little tired still from the long

journey. I should have remembered that you would be surprised at my

calling so early, but I trust you excuse my having done so. The truth is

I called on my own account, not on Mrs. Archer’s.”

“Indeed!” Lady Severn, looking still more puzzled, when a bright idea

suddenly striking her, she exclaimed “oh, perhaps you have some friend,

Miss Freer, who you think might suit me as governess for my little

girls. A sister possibly,” she continued, for the expression of the

girl’s face did not seem to contradict her assumption.

Profiting by Cissy’s dire experience of the day before, Marion took care

to speak in a natural, regular tone, which she was pleased to find her

companion heard perfectly. Probably her voice was rounder and fuller

than Mrs. Archer’s, but however this may have been, the result was

eminently satisfactory, and very possibly, still further prepossessed

Lady Severn in her favour.

“Not exactly that,” she replied, “I have no sister. But what I have to

propose is myself, as governess to your grand-daughters.”

“Yourself, my dear Miss Freer,” exclaimed lady Severn in amazement, “but

how can that be? Are you not engaged already to Mrs. Archer? I supposed

that you had accompanied her from England. And, excuse me, Miss Freer,

but I should think on no account of interfering with any arrangements

Mrs. Archer may be depending upon, even though you may not consider

yourself exactly bound to her. You must not mind my speaking plainly,

Miss Freer. Young people, and you look very young, are not always as

considerate in these matters as they should be.”

In spite of herself, Marion felt a little indignant. This was the

first slight taste of the disagreeables and annoyances (“insults,” a

hotter-tempered and less calm-judging girl would have called them) to

which, by the strange and almost unprecedented steps she had taken,

she had exposed herself. What is commonly called “a dependent

position,”—though whose are the independent positions I have not yet,

in the course of is long life, been able to discover,—has, I suppose,

peculiar trials of its own. Yet I am anxious in the present case not

to be misunderstood as exaggerating or laying undue stress upon those

attendant upon governess life. Much harm has been dome already in this

way, and were I desirous of entering at all upon the subject, I would

much prefer to draw attention to the bright side of the picture; side

which, I am happy to say, my own personal experience call vouch for us

existing. It is a false position which is to be dreaded, and which is,

in the evil sense of the word, a dependent one.

Marion seldom, if ever, blushed. But now, when this speech of Lady

Severn’s roused her indignation, she felt the strange tingling sensation

through all her veins, which agitation of any kind produced upon her,

calm and self-possessed as she appeared. She replied quietly:

“If I were capable of behaving in any dishonourable way to Mrs. Archer,

I should not think myself fit to be entrusted with the care of your

grand-daughters, Lady Severn. But I assure you there is no such

objection to my proposal. I only came from England with Mrs. Archer as

a friend. We are indeed very old friends. I should not think of leaving

her for more than a part of the day. What I was going to propose was

that I should be the little girls’ daily governess—morning governess,

I should say, for I should require to spend all my afternoons with Mrs.

Archer.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Lady Severn. “You must pardon my not having quite

understood the state of the case at first. What I wished, however,

was to meet with a residential governess for the young ladies, my

grand-daughters.”

Marion winced again, but pulled herself up in a moment. “Certainly,”

thought she, “it must sound rather free and easy my speaking these

children, whom I have never seen, as the little girls.” So she answered

demurely,

“I understood that a residential governess was what you wished for the

young ladies, but my idea was that in the meantime, while you have not

succeeded in meeting with one, I might at least be able to employ

the morning hours profitably. I think any rate I could kelp them from

forgetting what knowledge they have already acquired.”

“Certainly, certainly,” replied Lady Severn graciously. “I have no doubt

you could do far more than that, and I really think your idea, a very

good one. I should, however, like to consult with my niece, Miss Vyse,

before deciding anything. She takes a great interest in her little

cousins, and is herself most highly accomplished. And as to terms, Miss

Freer. Have you thought what you would wish to have as compensation for

your morning hours?”

Wince number three! “How silly I am!” thought Marion, and answered

abruptly:

“Thirty pounds; I mean,” she added hastily “if I were staying at Altes

six months, and I taught the lit—the young ladies all that time would

fifteen pounds a quarter be too much?”

Something in the child-like wistfulness of the sweet face appealing

to her, so timidly and yet so anxiously, touched a chord in the not

unkindly, though somewhat self-absorbed nature of the eider lady, and

she exclaimed impulsively,

“Fifteen pounds a quarter too much, my dear? No, certainly not. I should

much prefer making it twenty. But, my dear, you are so very young. Are

you sure this is a wise step for your own sake? Would not your friends

prefer your making a real holiday of this little time abroad with Mrs.

Archer?”

“My friends are not likely to interfere,” said the girl, adding sadly,

“I have no mother.”

How much those few words left to be inferred! They came very close home

to Lady Severn’s heart. “No mother!” A sad little picture, as far as

possible removed from the truth, but none the less touching on that

account, rose before her mind’s eye of this motherless girl’s probable

home. But though somewhat curious to hear more, she made no enquiry,

which for aught she knew, might have touched some tender spot. She only

said very gently:

“Poor child,” and then went on more briskly, “Well then so far there

appears no difficulty. The sum I named would quite satisfy you, Miss

Freer? Twenty pounds each quarter.”

“Twenty,” repeated Marion; “that would be forty pounds in six months. Oh

no, thank you. I would much rather have only fifteen. Truly I don’t want

more,” she added earnestly.

“But my dear, do you know you will never get on in the world if you

are so very—the reverse of grasping?” remonstrated the old lady, half

laughing at this very eccentric young governess; “your friends, even if

they do not interfere with you in general, would certainly disapprove

of your not taking as high a salary as is offered you, and which indeed

from what I see of you, I feel sure you would do your best to deserve.

Besides I should look to you for a good deal. My grand-daughters” (they

were no longer the young ladies) “have several masters, for music,

drawing, German, and so on. But I should wish you to superintend their

preparations for their masters, as much at least as you found time for,

besides yourself directing their English studies. You would feel able to

undertake all this I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” said Marion. “I think I could do all that would be required

by girls of their ages. I can play pretty well, I believe,” she

said, with a pretty little air of half-deprecating any appearance of

self-conceit—“at least I was well taught. I don’t draw much, but I could

help them to prepare for their master, and I have studied German a good

deal and Italian a little.”

“Do you sing too?” asked Lady Severn. “You should do so, and well, to

judge by your voice in speaking which is peculiarly clear. Indeed, it

is very seldom I can hear anyone as easily as you. I should like the

children to sing a little now and then. Not much, of course. Not so as

to strain their voices while they are so young, but I should like them

to learn a little. Some of the simpler parts of glees, for instance.

Their uncle, Sir Ralph Severn, is very fond of music, and has a

remarkably fine voice. We often have little concerts among ourselves in

the evenings, and it would be nice for Charlotte and Sybil to be able to

join in them.”

“I do sing,” said Marion. “Not very much, though. But I could teach them

in the simple way you wish, I am sure.”

“Then this terrible money appears the only obstacle?” said Lady Severn,

smiling; “but, my dear, you must really think what your friends would

say.”

“I assure you,” replied Marion, “l am quite free to judge for myself.

Indeed, when I came to Altes I had no intention of making any money

in this way. It was only hearing of your difficulty in meeting with a

governess; it struck me I might do temporarily, for I was very anxious

to make thirty pounds while here. Not more, truly. My friends could not

object, for it was—” she went on hesitatingly, feeling she was getting

on unsafe ground, “it was for one of them, the nearest of them, that I

so much wanted the money at present.”

“Very well, then,” said Lady Severn, “very well. As you wish it, we

will leave it so at present:” adding to herself, “though you shall be no

loser by it in the end, poor child,” And then aloud, “If you will

call here to-morrow at the same time, I will give you my decision, and

introduce your pupils to you. As to references, there need be no delay,”

(fortunate that Lady Severn was thus easily satisfied, for references

hail never entered poor Marion’s head) “for your being a friend of Mrs.

Archer’s, is quite enough. And at your age, you cannot have had much

former experience of teaching.”

“No,” replied Marion, “I never taught anyone regularly before.”

“I thought so, but I do not regret it. The children will probably be all

the happier with you, than if you had been older and more experienced.

And, for so short a time, it will be no disadvantage.”

So, with a cordial good morning from Lady Severn, and a kindly message

or remembrance to Mrs. Archer, Marion took her departure. With a curious

mixture of feelings in her heart, she slowly descended the flight of

stairs to the courtyard, so wholly absorbed in her own cogitations, that

she all but ran against a gentleman just entering the doorway, whose

attention on his side was engrossed by the endeavouring to shut a rather

obstreperous umbrella. A hasty “Pardon,” and he passed her, quickly

running up the stair. She noticed only that he was slight and dark, and

that he had on a very wet “Macintosh;” in those days, when but recently

invented, not the pleasantest of attire, unless one had a special

predilection for the odour of tar and melted India-rubber combined. “How

can anyone wear those horrible coats?” said Marion to herself. But very

speedily she was forced to confess that she would not be sorry were

she to find herself magically enveloped in such a garment; for it was

pouring, literally pouring, with rain. No longer drizzle, but good,

honest, most unmistakable rain; and, of course, with her head full of

blue sky and brilliant sunshine, as the normal condition of weather at

Altes, she had brought no umbrella. There she stood, rather despondently

staring at the fountain, which seemed to her in a much brisker mood

than when she had observed it on entering. As far as she herself was

concerned, Marion really was by no means afraid of a wetting, but then

she knew the sight of her with drenched garments would seriously annoy

Cissy, whom at this present time she was most especially anxious to

conciliate. She thought of turning back and borrowing au umbrella from

Lady Severn, but she felt rather averse to doing so, and had just made

up her mind to brave it when a voice behind her made her start.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” it said, “il parait que vous n’avez pas de

parapluie, et il pleut à verse. Permettez moi de vous ofrir le mien.”

The French was perfectly correct, the accent irreproachable, but yet a

certain something, an undefinable instinct, caused Marion to hesitate

in her reply, as she turned towards the speaker. She stopped in the “je

vous remercie” she had all but uttered, and for it substituted a hearty

“thank you,” as her glance fell on the gentleman who had a few minutes

before passed her on his way in.

“Thank you,” she repeated, “you are very kind indeed.”

“Ah,” he said, with, she fancied, a slight expression of amusement on

his quiet, grave face, “my accent still betrays me, I see. But I am not

sorry it is so in the present ease, as nothing is more ridiculous than

forsaking one’s native tongue unnecessarily. I think,” he added, “my

umbrella is a good-sized one, and will protect you pretty well, opening

it he spoke. This was more easily managed than the shutting had been,

and, with repeated thanks, Marion had turned to go, when suddenly

recollecting that she was in ignorance of the name and address of the

owner of the umbrella, she stopped and asked if she should return it to

number five.

“Yes, if you please,” he replied, “I live here. You will see my name on

the handle. But do not trouble about sending it back at once. Any time

in the next few days will do. I believe I have another somewhere. And,

indeed, I much prefer being without one. These charming coats are

much better things,” he added, regarding his attire with supreme

satisfaction.

“Charming they may be to the wearer, but assuredly not becoming, Mr.

Whatever-your-name-is.” said Marion to herself, as she crossed the

courtyard under the shelter of the friendly umbrella. “I do think it was

very kind of him, though, to lend me this, so I should not laugh at his

queer appearance in that hideous coat, By-the-bye, I wonder what his

name is.” By this time she was in the street, and stopped for a moment

to decipher the letters on the handle: “R. M. Severn.”

“How funny!” thought she, “really my introductions to this family are

rather peculiar. How amused Cissy will be!”

But, with the thought of Cissy, came hack rather uneasy sensations.

Marion’s satisfaction at the success of her visit to Lady Severn, had

for the moment caused her to forget the still more awful business before

her: the confessing all to Cissy, and extorting from her a promise of

co-operation, without which her scheme must infallibly fail. The part of

the whole which she least liked to think of, was the being known under

a false name. And yet this very mistake of Lady Severn’s had been one of

the strongest inducements to her to offer herself as governess to these

children; for, as Miss Vere, she felt that she could not have ventured

on so bold and unusual a proceeding. Now, however, that the Rubicon was

passed, it appeared to her that the turning back would entail greater

annoyances and mortification on both herself and her cousin, than they

could possibly be exposed to by perseverance in her intention. This

she hoped to be able to demonstrate to Cissy, and thus to induce her to

refrain from opposition. But the more she thought of it, the more she

dreaded the coming interview. No use, however, in delaying it. She

had hardly made up her mind as to how she should enter upon the awful

disclosure, when she found herself at their own door, which was standing

open, Cissy anxiously looking out for her.

“Oh, Marion,” she exclaimed, “how very naughty you are to stay out it

the rain! I have been in such a fuss about you.”

“Oh, Cissy,” replied the delinquent, “how very naughty you are, to stand

at the door catching cold!”

“Don’t be impertinent, Miss, but come in and take off your wet things,

and then tell me what you have been about. Oh, I see, you had an

umbrella. What a great, big one! Is that your own one?”

“No I got the loan of it,” said Marion hastily closing the conspicuous

umbrella before Cissy had time to observe it more particularly. “Go into

the drawing-room, Cissy, and I’ll be with you in five minutes, and tell

you all my adventures in the rain.”

The five minutes had hardy elapsed when Marion rejoined her cousin. The

damp day had rendered a tiny fire acceptable. Cissy was seated near it,

and Marion knelt down on the rug before her, looking up into her face

with a curious, half-anxious expression on her own.

“What is the matter, May? Have you really any adventures to tell me?”

asked Mrs. Archer.

“Yes,” replied the girl quietly, “at least I have a confession to make

to you. What do you think I have done, Cissy?”

“What do I think you have done? How can I think till I know? Don’t

frighten me, May: tell me quickly what you mean.”

“Well, then, I will tell you quickly, Cissy. What I have done is this: I

have engaged myself as daily governess to Lady Severn’s grand-daughters,

for three months certainly, and, if possible, for six.”

“Marion,” said Cissy excitedly, “you are joking. You don’t mean that you

have really done such a mad, unheard-of thing. You, Marion Vere, a daily

governess! You Uncle Vere’s daughter! No, nonsense, you can’t be in

earnest.”

“Yes, Cissy, I am, thoroughly and entirely in earnest. It came into my

mind yesterday, when Lady Severn mistook me for Charlie’s governess. I

saw before me a simple, easy way of making the money I required to pay

back poor Harry’s debt, and I determined to carry out my scheme without

telling you of it till it was done.” And then she gave her cousin a

full account of her interview with Lady Severn, and the arrangements

proposed; and without giving Cissy time to make any remarks, or to urge

any objections, she went on to show her how easily and naturally the

thing might be managed without anyone’s ever being in their secret. How

Lady Severn’s mistaking her name, and the fact of her being a perfect

stranger in Altes, would effectually prevent her identity with the

daughter of the well-known Mr. Vere ever being suspected.

“And after all,” she continued, “it is such a very thrilling thing.

I shall only be away for a few hours in the morning, and often indeed

shall be home almost before you are dressed. The work itself, such as

it is, will be exceedingly good for me in every way. I am really looking

forward to it with the greatest pleasure.”

“It is not that part of it I am thinking of so much,” said Cissy

gravely, “it is the disadvantage it may be to you in a hundred indirect

ways, which you are too childish to think of. Even supposing, as may

be the case, that the truth is never suspected, there is something very

anomalous and undesirable about the whole affair. Especially the being

known under a name that is not yours. Fancy, in after life, if it came

out in the queer way that things do, that you had spent six mouths

abroad under an assumed name! You must own, Marion, that it is enough

to startle me to think of what you may be exposing yourself to; and to

think it is all for the sake of that wretched money! As if I would not

twenty times rather have lent you six times as much, whether you ever

repaid it or not.”

“But Cissy, you couldn’t, and that settles the matter. You couldn’t have

lent it, and I certainly wouldn’t have borrowed it without repaying it

properly. The choice lay between my doing what I have done, or applying

to Papa; and rather than go to him for it, I really think I would be

a governess all my life. Besides,” she added, “seeing that so much is

done, can it be undone? It seems to me the attempting to undo it,

would entail all manner of disagreeable things; explanations of private

matters to Lady Severn, a perfect stranger to me, and personally hardly

better known to you. One thing I am quite sure of, and that is, that she

would not forgive the part I have acted in the matter. Indeed I myself

should feel dreadfully small! As far as my chances of enjoying my visit

to Altes are concerned, which you, dear Cissy, think so much of, I

assure you I am more likely to do so, as Miss Freer, Lady Severn’s daily

governess, than as Marion Vere. I couldn’t get over the mortification,

at having appeared so cunning. If I really earn the money, I shall feel

that I am working for Harry, and somehow that prevents my feeling as if

I were deceitful or scheming.”

And the more they talked it over, the more awkward appeared the

complication. Or at least, Marion talked Cissy into thinking there was

nothing for it but to go on with the plan.

“For indeed,” said Marion, by way of triumphantly summing up her

argument, “I am under promise to Lady Severn to undertake the post, if

she thinks me suitable. And I couldn’t go back from a promise.”

So, tired of discussion and rather bewildered by Marion’s eloquence,

poor Cissy gave in, sorely against her will.

“It really will be great fun, putting every thing else aside,” said

Marion. “Remember, Cissy, you must never call me ‘my cousin,’ or ‘Miss

Vere.’ Fortunately we have no English servants with us, and Charlie

always calls me May. Then all my letters, which won’t be many, come

under cover to you. It will all answer beautifully.”

”I am sorry I can’t join you in seeing anything beautiful about the

whole affair from beginning to end,” said Cissy,” but having given in, I

must not be cross about it. I know you did it from the best of motives,

but all the same it was fearfully rash. I believe it’s leaving off

raining,” she added, as a sudden gleam of sunshine entered the room,

“that reminds me, May, where did you borrow that great umbrella? Did

Lady Severn lend it you?”

“No,” replied Marion, and then, not sorry to distract her cousin’s

thoughts, she related her little adventure.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Archer, “that must certainly have been Sir Ralph. But

don’t feel flattered by his civility, Marion. At this moment I have no

doubt he has not the slightest idea if the person he lent it to was an

ugly old woman or a pretty young girl. Very probably he would have lent

it all the more heartily had you been the former.”

“Very likely,” said Marion, laughing, “outward appearance evidently does

not trouble him much.”

And then, as it had really cleared up wonderfully, they set of for a

walk.

“Remember, Cissy,” said Marion, “that Dr. Bailey is coming this

afternoon.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Archer, “I had not forgotten it. But Marion, if I

give in to this mad scheme of yours, you must instruct me what I am

to do. Must I introduce you on all occasions in this new character of

yours?”

“There will very seldom be any necessity for introducing me at all.

You can speak of me and to me as you always do, which will seem quite

natural. I told Lady Severn we were very old friends, and that I had

just come abroad with you for the pleasure of the visit.”

“Very well,” said Cissy, “you shall hear me introduce you to Dr. Bailey,

as a deserving young person whom I have a very good opinion of.”

But this introduction proved to be unnecessary. Dr. Bailey had hardly

sat down before he remarked to Mrs. Archer, how pleased he was to hear

that her young friend had undertaken, temporarily, the charge of the

studies of the little Misses Severn. “An excellent arrangement,” he

pronounced it, “your new pupils, Miss Freer,” (he had heard the name

even!) “are charming children. The younger one especially is a great

friend of mine. She has been far from strong, poor child, but is now

much better. I should not, however, advise her being pressed forward in

her lessons. Time enough for that, time enough.” And so he chattered

on in a kindly, uninteresting way; told Mrs. Archer the names of the

principal families, English, French, Russians, and Germans, who intended

this year wintering at Altes; advised her by all means occasionally to

dine at the table d’hôte of the “Lion d’Or,” as the variety would be

good for her and the cooking excellent; and then took his leave with the

promise of a speedy visit from the ladies of his household.

CHAPTER V. AU LION D’OR

“A feast was also provided for our reception,

at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the

conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter.”

VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.

“YOU HAVE no objection to dining at the table note today, have you,

Marion asked Cissy when Dr. Bailey had taken his departure.

“Oh dear no,” said Marion, “I am perfectly willing to go if you like.”

So when the dinner hour drew near, the two sallied forth to the “Lion

d’Or.” They were ushered into a good-sized room, where a long table

stood prepared for a considerable number of guests, of whom, however,

only a few had as yet made their appearance. As strangers, Mrs. Archer

and Marion found themselves placed at the lower end; the younger lady’s

seat being at the corner, at the right of what in a private house would

have been the host’s chair, commanded an excellent view of the whole

table. The persons already assembled did not strike Marion as in any way

interesting. There were several English, mostly elderly and common-place

in the extreme. A rather stout German lady with a very stupid, though

not unamiable-looking daughter, and a couple of awkward half-grown

sons. Just as Cissy had, in a low voice, confided to her cousin, that in

future she thought it would be nicer to dine at home, the door opened

to admit several other guests. A little group of three persons,

seating themselves on the vacant chairs beside Mrs. Archer, immediately

attracted that observant lady’s attention. They were evidently

father, mother, and child, the last a nice little girl of fourteen or

thereabouts. The mother, still young and bright-looking, was decidedly

prepossessing in appearance, and her devoted attention to her husband,

evidently the invalid of the party, touched a wifely chord in Cissy’s

affectionate little heart. Mrs. Fraser, for so her neighbours soon

discovered that she was named, happened to sit next to Mrs. Archer, and

but a few minutes elapsed before the two somewhat congenial spirits were

in friendly conversation.

Marion, by her position at the table slightly separated from them, felt

herself at liberty to sit silent and amuse herself by observing her

companions. Of these the liveliest and most conspicuous were some six or

seven gentlemen, who had entered the room immediately after the Fraser

family. They came in together, talking and laughing, though not noisily,

and evidently belonging to one party. Marion soon gathered from their

conversation that some excursion was in question, preliminary to which,

they had all met to dine at the “Lion d’Or.” She found them an amusing

study, as from time to time she glanced at them demurely. In the little

group of six or seven young men, several nations were represented.

First came John Bull, in the shape of a good natured, substantial,

rather handsome man, apparently about thirty years of age. Then

a lively, energetic little Frenchman, brisk and amusing, but with

something unquestionably refined about him too. Next to him sat an

exceedingly conceited young man, fair, and with good features, of which

the most striking was exaggeratedly Roman nose. The nationality of this

individual somewhat puzzled Miss Vere, as did also that of his immediate

neighbour on the left, a very young man, a boy almost, whose handsome

face and thoroughbred air rendered him the most attractive of the party.

He and his Roman-nosed friend, soon proved themselves to be famous

linguists, for in the course of less than half an hour, Marion heard

them speak English, French, German, and a word or two incidentally, of

Italian, each, so far as her ear could discover, with perfect ease and

fluency. The rest of the party consisted of a frank-mannered young

man, an English officer home from India; and a half clerical-looking

individual, middle-aged and stiff, whom Marion decided and rightly,

to be the tutor of the handsome cosmopolitan. Snatches only of their

conversation reached her, but enough to amuse and interest her. The

whole party was full of the anticipated enjoyment of the mountain

expedition. As far as she could gather they intended starting that

evening, driving a considerable distance and ascending to a certain

point in time to see the sun rise.

“Not that I care much about seeing the sun rise,” said the heavy

Englishman, shivering at the thought; “but I daresay it will give us

good appetite for breakfast.”

“After which think you, my friend, to mount still higher?” asked the

Frenchman, “or will you that while you repose we then ascend? In this

case can we again find you as we recome.”

“You don’t mean to say, De L’Orme,” interrupted the young officer, “that

you ever dreamt of Chepstow’s getting to the top! By all means, leave

him half way. We should certainly have to carry him the best part of the

way up, and he’s no light weight, remember.”

“Nonsense,” said the substantial Chepstow, there’s no reason why I

shouldn’t get to the top.”

“Not the slightest, my dear sir, why you should not both get to the

top and stay there if you find it agreeable,” observed the Roman-nosed

gentleman, with what seemed to Marion a rather impertinent sneer in his

tone.

Mr. Chepstow, however, being one of those happily self-satisfied,

matter-of-fact people to whom the possibility that they are being made

fun of, never occurs, commenced a ponderous speech to the effect that

his friend had misunderstood him in supposing that he had any wish

to settle for life on the summit of the “pic noir;” which speech

unfortunately was destined never to be concluded, for the person to whom

it was addressed, taking not the slightest notice of it, turned to his

neighbour on the other side, “the handsome boy,” as Marion had mentally

dubbed him, saying:

“How is it, my dear —” (she could not catch the name) “your hero has

then disappointed you? We are not to be honoured with his company after

all? Ah, what a loss! Think only how we might all have profited by

twenty-four hours in the company of so learned an individual. You,

especially, Chepstow,” he added, turning sharply to that gentleman,

hardly yet recovered from the surprise of finding himself not listened

to.

“Not so fast, Erbenfeld,” replied the younger man, “I still hope for my

friend’s company. Mr. Price met him this afternoon, and at that time

he spoke of joining us. Did he not, Mr. Price?” he enquired of the

semi-clerical gentleman.

“Certainly, he did,” answered the person addressed. But just then the

little Frenchman broke in with a vivacious description of something or

other, and Marion lost the thread of the conversation.

All this time Cissy had been chattering busily to her new acquaintances;

but though from the position or her seat, she had not so good a view as

her cousin of the party of young men, it must not be thought that they

had escaped her observation. Far from it. She had been making good use

of her time, by extracting from her lively and communicative companion

quite a fund of information respecting the little world of Altes

society. Before the end of dinner she was perfectly informed respecting

the names, rank, antecedents, and expectations, of the several gentlemen

composing the group at the other end of the table; and now with a smile

of satisfaction she whispered to Marion that she had lots to tell her

when they got home.

Poor Cissy! I am afraid it must be admitted that she was something of

a gossip; but after all, if no one ever said worse of their neighbours

than she did, the world at large would be in a considerably more

amicable state of mind than it is at present.

Half way through the meal there was a new arrival. A gentleman, who came

in quietly and made his way to the head or the room where the party of

young men was seated, and before taking his place said a few words in a

low voice to Mr. Chepstow; of apology for his tardiness, Marion fancied,

thereby confirming her guess that the substantial Englishman was in the

present instance the entertainer of the others.

The appearance of the new-corner seemed to affect the members of

the group variously. Mr. Chepstow shook hands with him in a hearty,

hospitable way, that would have seemed more in place in an English

dining-room than at a French table d’hôte. Erbenfeld greeted him with

the slightest possible approach to a bow, which, however, he could not

succeed in rendering haughty or dignified as he evidently intended; the

Frenchman was airily cordial; and the young officer looked sulky and

rather disgusted, as if he thought the jollity of the party had received

its death-blow. But over the thin, careworn face of Mr. Price, there

crept an expression of pleasure touching to see, and the handsome boy,

his pupil, started up with a bright smile of welcome which made Marion

think of her own Harry at home.

The stranger’s face had not yet been fully turned in her direction, but

the sound of his voice was slightly familiar. That voice, had he known

it, was his strong point. Not too deep, though round and mellow; in no

wise weak, though it could be gentle as a woman’s; firm and penetrating,

without a shade of hardness. And above all it was a voice that rang

true. When at last he sat down and Marion saw him distinctly, the

familiarity of the voice was explained. It was the hero of the umbrella!

As he glanced round the table she half fancied that his eye for a second

rested upon her, with the slightest possible expression of recognition.

But very probably this was only a trick of her imagination. She was

glad when he entered into an evidently interesting conversation with Mr.

Price and his pupil; as he then turned slightly aside and she ventured

now and again to glance at him. No, Cissy was right; he was most

certainly not handsome. And yet not exactly plain-looking either. A

certain quiet, self-contained gravity of expression attracted her. She

knew him to be an unusually clever man, but had she not known this from

hearsay, she fancied she would have discovered it for herself. The brow

was good, the eyes too deeply set for beauty, the nose passable, the

mouth well-shaped, but with lines about it that would have made it

hard, had it not been for a gentler expression, half of humour, half

of melancholy, which went and came, now brightening, now saddening, but

always softening all the features of the dark, quiet face. Knowing, as

she aid, nothing of his history and character, it seemed to Marion that

it would not be difficult to understand this man; if not to like him, at

least to respect and be interested by him. I think it was what she had

heard of his somewhat isolated and solitary life, that inclined her to

feel already a sort of regard, pity almost, for him. Her life had not

been so bright and full, but that she had some knowledge of lonely hours

and lonelier feelings. How easily she could picture him to herself as

a boy, shy and backward beside his more brilliant brother. How well she

could enter into the little understood suffering carelessly alluded to

in those few words of his mother’s when expressing her wish that

Sir John had left an heir, “and so does Ralph himself wish, for that

matter.”

Marion sat dreaming thus to herself, and half started when a question

from Cissy as to what in the world she was thinking of, drew her into

conversation with her cousin and Mrs. Fraser. Dinner was about over

and in a few minutes the whole party dispersed. Mrs. Archer greatly

delighted by Mrs. Fraser’s request that she might call to see her the

next day.

“She is really a very nice little woman, isn’t she, May?” said Mrs.

Archer, as they were walking home. “Mrs. Fraser, I mean.”

“In the first place, my dear Cissy, she is at least half a head taller

than you. As for her niceness I hadn’t much opportunity of judging; she

was so busy talking to you. She is certainly very nice-looking, and I

like her husband’s face too.”

“Yes, poor man, but how dreadfully ill he looks! There isn’t a chance of

his living long,” said Cissy, briskly.

“Indeed! Was that part of his wife’s very entertaining communications?”

enquired Marion, drily.

“May, for shame! Of course not. I could see it for myself in half a

minute. You do take one up so for whatever one says,” exclaimed Mrs.

Archer, indignantly. “But I was going to tell you all I heard about the

people here. Mrs. Fraser knows the Berwicks, slightly that is to say.

At least she knows the ladies of the family and the old major. By-the-by

that sunburnt young man among those gentlemen at the head of the table

was the son, young Berwick. Captain, I think he is now. He is home on

leave for two years. I never saw him before, but George knows him a

little I think. Mrs. Fraser says he’s rather nice by all accounts. Mrs.

Berwick and the eldest daughter, Blanche, are rather stupid. Blanche

always ill and the mother fussing about her. The younger daughter,

Sophy, is good-natured and lively, but is allowed to run rather wild,

I fancy. She had a great flirtation with that fair young man with the

queer nose. Erbenfeld is his name; a Swede. But he found out in time

that she had no money; all this happened last year and so it came to

nothing.”

“Really, Cissy, your new friend must be a regular gossip.”

“Not at all, Marion, you don’t understand,” said Mrs. Archer, with a

slight shade of annoyance in her tone. I am very glad to have got to

know something of all these people in this sort of way. There was no

harm whatever in Mrs. Fraser giving me a little information about them.

She saw I was a perfect stranger in the place, and I told her I should

like to know something about the society here. Perhaps it was a little

rash of us both, but I know that she is a nice person. I felt it

instinctively, and perhaps she felt the same towards me. Her husband was

laughing at her a little for gossiping, but he said she made a point

of collecting all the stories she could to amuse him with, for often

he can’t leave his room for days together. But if you would rather not

listen to my ‘gossip,’ Marion, I’m sure you needn’t hesitate to say so.”

“Nonsense, Cissy, I was only teasing you. Well, what more about Mr.

Erbenfeld?”

“About Mr. Erbenfeld? Oh, there’s not much to tell about him. He’s a

sort of adventurer, I should say. He has spent the two last winters here

on pretence of his health, but really, they say, because he hopes

to pick up a rich English wife. He is rather clever—accomplished, at

least—and visits all the best people here, being fairly good-looking

and gentlemanlike. But Mrs. Fraser says he is a good deal laughed at

on account of the airs he gives himself about his old family and grand

relations in Sweden.”

“I though he was very rude indeed to Mr. Chepstow,” remarked Marion.

“Oh, yes, that’s the stout, big man. How did you hear his name?”

“I heard that Mr. Erbenfeld mention it. ‘Shepstow’ he pronounced it. But

what can a man like Mr. Chepstow be doing here? I am sure he does not

look as though he were an invalid.”

“But, my dear child, do get it out of your head that everyone at Altes

is an invalid. It is quite a mistake. At least half the people here

simply come for amusement. Mr. Chepstow, as it happens, is here to

recruit his spirits, for his wife died a few months ago, and he found

his home so miserable without her that he couldn’t bear to spend the

winter there. He’s an enormously rich man, Mrs. Fraser said.”

“Did you notice the gentleman who came in when dinner was half over?”

asked Marion.

“Not particularly. I don’t think Mrs. Fraser knew him—at least she made

no observations about him.”

“You should have him, though,” said Marion.

“I; why?” exclaimed Cissy. “But now I think of it, by-the-by, his face

did strike me as familiar in a sort of misty way. I know,” she went on,

eagerly; “Yes, I know now. It was Sir Ralph Severn.”

“So I supposed,” said Marion; “for it was certainly the gentleman who

lent me the umbrella this morning.”

“How stupid of me not to recognize him,” said Cissy; “but I might just

as well say how stupid of him not to recognize me! He is a good deal

changed, naturally, for it is seven years since I saw him at Cairo, and

then only for a few hours. He is more manly-looking, but even graver

than he was then. But what a handsome young man that Russian was! Didn’t

you think so, Marion?”

“Yes, I liked his face exceedingly,” she replied. “Ah! that explains

his speaking so many languages—his being a Russian, I mean. What is his

name?”

“Count Vladimir Nodouroff, or some name like that,” answered Mrs.

Archer; “his family comes here every winter. He has a beautiful sister.

That stupid-looking man was his tutor. The little Friendship’s name

is Monsieur de l’Orme. Mrs. Fraser knows him a little, and says he is

charming. They are all setting off on a mountain excursion tonight.”

“Yes, I heard them alluding to it,” said Marion; “so after all, Cissy,

your Sir Ralph can’t be such a very unsociable person.”

“I never said he was,” answered Cissy; “I only said he was much less

popular than his brother. Indeed, I know very little about him; but

those learned people are always stuck-up and disagreeable. But oh, May,

how I hate this governessing scheme of yours! Mrs. Fraser asked me if

you were my sister, and when I said ‘no,’ I, as nearly as possible,

added that you were my cousin.”

“Poor Cissy! What did you say? I saw you looking at me rather

uncomfortably.”

“I said you were a great friend of mine, and that not being particularly

wanted at home, I had persuaded your friends to let you come abroad with

me. Thinking it was as well to get accustomed to my rôle in this farce,

I went on to say that, rather against my wishes, you had determined on

accepting a situation as daily governess while at Altes, rather than

be idle. Mrs. Fraser said, ‘Poor girl; well, if she has to do it,

the sooner she begins the better?’ I felt such a hypocrite, Marion. I

managed to avoid naming you, though. I really couldn’t have called you

Miss Freer.”

“But you will have to do so, sooner or later, Cissy; though, I confess,

it’s the part I least like of the affair myself. Did you bear anything

of the Bailey family from Mrs. Fraser?”

“Yes; she says they are plain, good sort of people. The mother is gentle

and amiable, and the daughter takes after her. Mrs. Fraser was here all

last winter too. She says there are excellent subscription balls. They

are kept very select indeed. You can only get tickets by giving your

name to one of the committee. Major Berwick is on it so there will be

no difficulty for us if we feel inclined to go. Somehow I don’t think

I shall like the Berwicks much. Mrs. Fraser was cautious in her way of

speaking about them, but I gathered that old Mrs. Berwick is rather a

mischief-maker, though she professes to live quite out or the world, on

Blanche’s account. Poor Blanche! At school, I remember, she promised to

be a very pretty girl. But she was always delicate.”

An hour or so later, as Marion and Cissy sat quietly reading and

working, they heard the sound of several carriage wheels passing

quickly. Strolling on to the terrace they caught sight of the party of

gentlemen setting off on their expedition. It was a lovely evening after

the rain, the moon just appearing as the daylight began to fade. The

young men’s voices sounded cheerfully as they drove past, just below the

terrace.

“How I envy them!” said Cissy “don’t you, Marion? Think how delightful

it would be to drive ever so far in the moonlight!”

“Yes,” replied Marion, with a sigh, “yes, it would be very delightful.”

And as she spoke a sort of childish discontent with her quiet humdrum

life came over her. She wished that she was very rich and very

beautiful, and free to enjoy some of the many pleasant things that there

are in the world. And then her mood gradually altered. A feeling stole

over her that a change was impending, what or how she could not have put

in words. A vague presentiment that she had reached the boundary of her

simple, unruffled girl-life, and that womanhood, with its deeper, fuller

joys—but also, alas! its profounder sorrows and gnawing anxieties—was

before her. A voice seemed to warn her, to ask her not to be in haste

to leave the careless, peaceful present for the unknown, untried future.

But he answered in her heart defiantly, “I am not afraid to meet my

fate, to take my place in the battle; the sooner the better. I am strong

and ready to do my part, and bear my mead of suffering. Only give me my

woman’s share of life. Let me feel what it is to live.”

Poor child! Poor little bird, eager to try its newly-fledged wings,

little knowing how tossed and torn, how very weary, they would be before

they were again folded in rest!

But, thank heaven, there are many bright days in young lives, and of

some of these we must tell.

CHAPTER VI. FLORENCE

“With every pleasing, every prudent part,

Say what can Chloe want?—she wants a heart.”

POPE.

FIVE minutes after Marion had left Lady Severn’s drawing-room that rainy

morning, another young lady entered it. A tall, handsome girl. Beautiful

almost; at least, to those who define beauty as material perfection of

form and colour, not troubling themselves too much about the nature of

the soul within. That in appearance she was what is called “striking”

no one could have denied. Well-made, in a certain sense graceful, and

thoroughly well-dressed, her figure would have stood the test of pretty

sharp, even feminine criticism.

As to complexion, exquisitely fair; of which, however, she paid the

penalty, if such it be, in the colour of her hair, which though fine,

soft, and abundant, was undoubtedly red. A deep, warm red, however—in

itself, a lovely shade, though, probably, few would admire it as that of

hair. But now comes a surprise. The eyes were good, hazel, I think; but

whatever their precise tint they always looked deep and lustrous, for

they possessed the inestimable advantage—little to be looked for

in conjunction with such hair—of dark, almost black, lashes, and

clearly-defined, slightly arched, eyebrows to match.

Oh! what ill-natured things were said about those eyebrows and

eyelashes! How the sandy freckled Misses Macdonald, husband-hunting at

Altes, whispered, about, “What a pity, is it not? Still quite a young

person, and really not bad-looking, if she would only leave herself

alone.” Each sister, all the same, secretly experimenting in the privacy

of her own chamber, with “bâton” and “bandoline;” nay, for aught I know,

with camel’s hair-brushes and “lamp-black,” alias “noir velouté;” in the

vain hope of rivalling the beautiful Florence. Vain hope truly, for as

to eyebrows and eyelashes, the girl was indebted to nature only; and,

indeed, had she been less gifted than she was in these respects,

I question much if such expedients would have occurred to her, so

perfectly satisfied was she with her outward appearance. Naturally so,

it must be allowed. The youngest and fairest of the three daughters of a

widowed and struggling mother, her surpassing beauty had, from earliest

childhood, been impressed upon her as the great fact of her existence. A

fact utterly impossible to question or dispute.

That this same beauty was to be turned to the best account in the

matrimonial market, followed naturally enough, as the second article of

belief in the poor girl’s creed.

Of the two plainer sisters, one, the elder, was married respectably,

though by no means brilliantly, to a young curate, over-worked and

under-paid; in these particulars, I fear, no exception to his class. The

other was hopelessly engaged to a lieutenant in the navy, dependent on

his pay, which had hitherto barely sufficed to keep his own head above

water, and whose only prospects consisted in a vague talk of far distant

“promotion.”

But the there was Florence! Florence the beautiful, whose brilliant

marriage was to be the turning point in the fortunes of her family:—to

obtain a comfortable living for her older brother-in-law; and in some

mysterious way to bring the Admiralty to a sense of what was owing to

the meritorious but unappreciated lieutenant.

Hardly was the girl out of short frocks and pinafores, before the

anxious, scheming mother set to work to plan her future and obtain for

her the desired opportunity. Nor must we judge her harshly. Poverty,

and above all poverty of the striving, pinching, keeping-up-appearances

kind, is not an influence likely to exalt or refine the character,

and poor Mrs. Vyse, no lofty-minded woman to begin with, sank and

deteriorated beneath it, as many better people have done before and

since.

In one direction her efforts met with success.

It happened thus. Among the few friends, who in the long weary years

of her widow-hood and adversity, still remembered Mrs. Vyse, none was

kinder, or showed her more substantial proofs of good will than Lady

Severn, her husband’s cousin by marriage. No very near connection

certainly, but there was another reason for this kindness to the poor

widow and her fatherless children. The history of Dame Eleanor Severn,

like that of most people in this world, had begun with a first volume,

or which the hero was not her lamented and much respected husband, the

late Sir Ralph Severn, but a certain harum-scarum sailor cousin of his,

a handsome auburn-haired boy, with beautiful black-fringed eyes: Gordon

Vyse by name. Of course it was “utterly out of the question.” She

was, an heiress, consequently it would never have done for her to have

married a prospectless younger son. In time, suppose, she herself was

brought to see the thing in this rational light. Any how she married

Sir Ralph, her own cousin, and (she being an only child), heir to her

father’s title, though not to his wealth, which was all settled on

Eleanor Severn herself. So title and wealth were re-united by this

marriage; a highly satisfactory arrangement in the eyes of the family

and the world at large. Nobody troubled him or herself much about poor

Gordon; who before long consoled himself by marrying, considerably

beneath him, a rather pretty, inferior-minded, managing little woman,

who made him as good a wife as she knew how, and after his death did her

poor best by the three daughters left to her care. They got on somehow.

Florence seemed the most fortunate, for Lady Severn saw her as a

child, took a fancy to her, and paid for her education at a fashionable

boarding school. Questionable good fortune; but the girl was capable of

gratitude, and honestly loved her mother and sisters. So she made what

she truly believed to be best use of her educational privileges, devoted

herself to accomplishments, including the art of dressing, and arranging

her magnificent hair to the best advantage; and so succeeded as become,

before she left school, the show pupil of the establishment. The thought

of furnishing the inside of her head with any knowledge really worth

acquiring, never occurred to her. And indeed it is difficult to say if

she could ever have succeeded in doing so, for the cleverness which she

certainly possessed, was of that self-conceited, essentially superficial

kind, to teachers far more hopeless to deal with than any extreme of

good, honest, modest, stupidity.

Grown up at last, ready in every sense, of the word to “come out,” had

there been any one to introduce her, for a tiresome year or two the

beautiful Florence languished at home. For some time the distress in the

Severn family put a stop to all hopes of a helping hand in that quarter.

At last, however, Mrs. Vyse plucked courage. A gratefully expressed and

judiciously timed letter to Lady Severn, resulted in an invitation

to Florence to visit her abroad for a few weeks. So well had the girl

profited by her mother’s instructions that the few weeks lengthened into

months, and the latter had already numbered more than twelve, and still

there was no talk of Miss Vyse returning home. She knew how to make

herself useful her hostess, who, on her side, treated her with the

greatest generosity; for she was proud of her handsome young relative,

niece as she preferred to call her, though in point of fact the

connection was much more remote. Every where Miss Vyse was admired and

made much of, and on the whole she had spent a very agreeable year.

Still, the great object of her ambition, a wealthy husband, had not been

attained, and for some time past this consideration had caused her no

little anxiety.

There were difficulties in the way. Lady Severn’s continued mourning

and Sir Ralph’s indifference to society, caused their life to be a very

quiet one, which to Florence was the more provoking, as she saw plainly

that wherever they went, it only rested with themselves to have the

entrée of the most select portion of the fashionable world. On coming

to Altes this winter, Lady Severn had kindly volunteered to relax little

from her usual seclusion on her young friend’s account. Pleasant news

for Florence! She was, however, too far-seeing to hope for very much in

the way of gaiety, considering the habits of her entertainers; and she

was far too prudent to take advantage of Lady Severn’s promise in any

but the most careful and moderate manner, fearing lest the slightest

appearance of discontent with their somewhat monotonous life, should

weaken the influence she had gained over the mother, and, equally

important, the favour she hoped to acquire in the eyes of the son.

For it had come to this! Gradually, but steadily, for some months past,

Florence’s thoughts had been concentrating to this point. True, Sir

Ralph himself was far from rich, but then there was considerable wealth

in the hands of his mother, of which, even during her life, were he to

marry to please her, Florence had every reason to believe a fair potion

would be his.

It was rather a bold idea; but she was not burdened with over-delicacy

or scrupulosity, and on the other hand, was by no means deficient

in tact, and possessed besides the inestimable of supreme, unruffled

self-confidence. And, to do her justice, poor girl, she was strengthened

by the thought of the happiness the news of such a marriage would

diffuse over the dear, care-worn faces at home!

Two distinct objects lay before her to achieve. In the first place there

was Lady Severn to be won over, unconsciously, to her side. Liking must

be deepened to affection, esteem, and admiration judiciously heightened;

till one day it should suddenly break upon the good lady, entirely as

an idea of her own, that here, beside her, in the person of her young

favourite, the daughter of her own, never-forgotten, first love, was the

very wife for her son; the woman of all others, beautiful, sensible, and

cheerful, whom she would choose as a helpmeet for the dreamy, studious,

unpractical Sir Ralph. So thought Florence for Lady Severn, and so, ere

long, the unconscious lady was made to think for herself. For, though

no plain words had as yet passed between them on the subject, Florence

believed, and rightly, that the first of her designs was in a fair way

towards being accomplished.

But with the contemplation of the second came the “tug of war.”

Florence with all her self-belief, with all her happy confidence in the

irresistible nature of her charms, felt at a loss. “Tug of war” is not

a happy quotation in this instance, for it was no case of Greek versus

Greek, but the involuntary repulsion of an utterly alien nature, which

so baffled this girl in all her efforts. Ralph puzzled her. There were

so many things about him which he could not understand. No wonder! For,

if only she had known it, it would have been nearer the truth to say

that there was hardly one thing about him; which, with all the good-will

in the world, all the capacity for lending herself to his peculiarities

on which she prided herself, she could ever have come to understand.

Her opinion of human nature in general was by no means an exalted one.

Disinterested goodness, in the highest sense, was to her incredible, or

rather inconceivable. Strange, at first sight, this may appear. Strange

in so young a girl, for Florence was little more than twenty, and her

actual experience of the world had not been very extensive. Strange, and

no less sad, for the disbelief, or slowness to believe, in the truth

and goodness of our fellows, which is almost excusable in a soured and

world-tried man or woman of middle age, revolts and repels us in a very

young person. Meeting with it we cannot but suspect some terrible defect

in the early up-bringing of such an one, if not some crooked tendency of

peculiar strength innate in the character itself.

So, as I said, Ralph puzzled Florence. His devotion to study for its own

sake, utterly indifferent to its bringing him name or fame; his distaste

for society, in which, nevertheless, his rank and prospects would have

insured him a cordial reception; his goodness itself; the union of

strength, with gentleness which to her seemed almost weakness; nay,

more, his very faults—his whole nature, in short—baffled her utterly.

And, above all, his indifference to her charms! For in this last there

was a certain amount of inconsistency. Not in his being always kind and

attentive to her; that went for nothing, she knew he would have been so

to any woman. But, over and above this, she saw that he admired her. In

a quiet, cold sort of way, as if she had been a picture or a statue.

She was pleasing to him as a beautiful object, for his perceptions were

refined and correct to a fault. And even she felt, and truly, that to be

thus admired by him was worth all the coarser adulation of the many—the

vulgar triumph of reigning as a ball-room belle.

But this was all! Beyond this point she could not succeed in impressing

him. At last, after much cogitation, she decided in her own mind that

he, a student, if not already a “savant,” must be of a different nature

from other men, and she must content herself accordingly. One comfort

certainly was hers. She need fear no rival, past, present, or future.

His never having been specially attracted by any young lady had become,

as it were, a proverb in the family. And as for anything else—. No; she

felt instinctively there was nothing to fear. No awkward entanglement

which might have precluded the idea of matrimony, or engendered a

distaste thereto. And she was right. The life of this man, from earliest

boy hood to the present time, would have stood the strictest scrutiny.

He must have always been, she decided, just the same peculiar being she

found him now. It was simply not in him to fall in love, “to lose his

head about anyone,” as she phrased it to herself. The best she could

hope for was, that he should become, as it were, accustomed to her,

regard her with quiet friendliness and respect, feel a certain amount of

pleasure in her society; so that when his mother should one day make

the proposition to him, for which Florence was thus carefully paving the

way, the idea should not, at least, be repugnant to him. He would

marry her, no doubt, if his mother wished it, provided it could be done

without much trouble or interference with his usual habits. Still, it

was mortifying to think of, that with this faint, colourless sentiment

she must be content. For though herself too cold, or perhaps too

thoroughly selfish, ever to experience the all-absorbing, self-devoting,

uncalculating intensity of a genuine love, she was yet by no means

insensible to the extreme gratification, the agreeable triumph of

awakening such a feeling in all its depth towards her in the bosom

of another. She had all the elements that go to the making of a

thorough-paced coquette; but she was wise enough to see that, in her

critical position, the exercise of any such arts might result in the

direst misfortune to herself; and, through her, to the only three people

in the world she really cared about.

The one consolation to her wounded vanity—Ralph’s evident admiration

of her beauty for its own sake, she sedulously cultivated. She

was perfectly aware that it was merely the gratification an artist

experiences when brought into relation with harmony of any kind. An

utterly different feeling from that, happily far more common-place one,

by no means confined to artist natures, which makes the outward form

precious for the sake of its owner. The feeling which made makes

Rochester declare that “every atom or Jane’s flesh” would, must be,

dear to him, in pain, in sickness—yes, even in the wild paroxysms or

insanity. The feeling so exquisitely described in another sense, in that

lovely picture or motherhood, when Heather tells how precious to her is

every freckle on her little Lally’s snub nose.

Well aware that Ralph’s admiration for her sprung from no root of this,

kind, Florence found it the more necessary to nurse and cherish, with

the utmost care, the delicate plant.

Never, in all the months they had been members of the same household,

had Ralph seen her in any but a perfectly well-chosen and tasteful

“toilette.” Unless, indeed, on one or two occasions when he had

“accidentally” caught sight of her in the most becoming of studied

“negligés.” Her magnificent hair escaped from its trappings perhaps,

or decorated with a wreath of flowers to please her little cousins in

a game of play, which had flushed her usually pale cheeks with an

exquisite bloom.

This sort of thing, she imagined, kept up with Sir Ralph her character

of gentle artlessness, somewhat subdued by the trials of her past life.

Whereas, in reality, she neither sat nor moved, looked nor spoke,

when in his presence, save with the one purpose of strengthening and

increasing his admiration.

This girl, then, as I have shown her, this Florence Vyse, was the young

lady who entered the room that rainy morning, just as Marion had left

it.

“Oh, Florence, my love,” said Lady Severn, as she came in, “I am so

sorry you did not happen to come before. Such a nice young person

has been here applying as daily governess. Really, quite a superior,

lady-like girl. Evidently well brought up. I should fancy, from what she

said, that her family must be in reduced circumstances. I wish you had

seen her; I should have liked your opinion.”

“I am sorry I did not know you wanted me, dear Aunt,” replied the young

lady, seating herself on a comfortable low chair, near enough to Lady

Severn to be heard without the disagreeable exertion of raising her

voice. “I am very glad to hear of a suitable governess for the dear

pets,” which, indeed, she was from the bottom of her heart; having,

of late, had sundry most uncomfortable misgivings, that unless such a

person appeared she would before long, for the sake of her character of

unselfish amiability, be obliged to offer her services temporarily

at least, as instructress. Mentally resolving that this unexpected

deliverance must be accepted, even though the candidate for the

undesirable post should be a suspected tool of the Jesuits, or something

equally objectionable, she proceeded to cross-question Lady Severn on

the subject, and had got the length of hearing that Miss Freer was a

friend and guest of Mrs. Archer’s, when the door opened and Sir Ralph

entered.

“Oh, Ralph,” said his mother, “I was just telling Florence what a nice

governess I have all but engaged for the children.

“Indeed,” replied he; “she must have dropped from the skies to

oblige you, for at breakfast this morning Florence was bewailing your

disappointment that somebody or other—Mrs. Archer, wasn’t it?—had not

succeeded in finding some unfortunate lady willing to torture herself

and the children for so many hours a day. Really, mother, I think you

might leave them alone for a while. Sybil is too delicate and Lotty too

flighty to do much good at lessons.”

“I must beg you, Ralph, not to speak in that foolish way. How can you

possibly be able to judge about the education of young girls? Florence,

who really may be allowed to have an opinion on the subject, agrees with

me that they have been running wild far too long.”

“Oh dear Aunt, pray don’t speak as if I would dream of interfering,”

interrupted Miss Vyse, “I only happened to say the other day that I

wished I had my school-days over again, now that I saw to how much

better profit I might put them. Though, perhaps, after all it would not

be much use; for I am so stupid. And being with minds I can really look

up to, has made me of late painfully conscious of my own deficiencies!”

she added, with a gentle little sigh.

She wanted Sir Ralph to say that he hated learned women, but he took no

notice of her self-depreciation. “He is really horribly boorish,” she

thought to herself, as after waiting till she had finished her pretty

little speech, he turned to his mother and enquired, “Where and how have

you heard of a governess then, mother? Of course if she is a desirable

person it will be a good thing for the children. I am quite aware such

things as lessons are unavoidable, sooner or later.”

For the second time Lady Severn related the history of the lucky

coincidence that had brought Miss Freer as an applicant for the post.

She ended by saying that the young lady (she had called her “a young

person” to Florence, but “Ralph had such queer notions”) had only just

left her. “Ah then,” he said, “I must have seen her as I came in. I lent

her my umbrella.”

“Lent her your umbrella, Ralph. What for?”

“To keep off the rain,” he answered, quietly.

“Pray, Ralph, do not answer my questions in that ridiculous way. You

know what I mean, perfectly. You are not in the habit or lending your

umbrella to the first person you happen to meet in the street.”

“Certainly not, mother. And as it happens I did not meet this protégée

of yours in the street at all. I saw her as I came in, standing at the

foot of the stairs, looking out at the rain rather disconsolately. It

never occurred to me till I had run up stairs that perhaps she had no

umbrella, and so I ran down again to see. I had no idea who she was.

Young or old, ugly or pretty. I passed her quickly, thinking of other

things; which was stupid enough, for I might have thought a lady would

not be standing, staring at the rain for any pleasure in the prospect.”

“And when you ran down again did you see her, Cousin Ralph?” asked

Florence, softly.

“Yes, Cousin Florence,” he replied jestingly; “but I am afraid I can’t

tell you much about her. I only saw a young girl with pretty brown hair,

for she was standing with her back to me, and hardly turned round to

thank me, so eager was she to run off as soon as she had the umbrella.”

He did not add that as the girl had retraced a step or two to ask his

address, her veil had flown back and revealed a pair or grey eyes, which

the word “pretty” would not have adequately described. But “pretty brown

hair!” What evil genius prompted Ralph to use the expressions? The

first seed sown of many, that were in time, to yield a harvest of bitter

fruit. The first small prejudice planted in the heart of a jealous and

scheming woman. Pretty brown hair, indeed,” said Florence to herself,

and she never forgot the words. Ralph so seldom seemed to notice

anything, pretty or ugly, about a woman, that the slightest expression

of admiration at once caught her attention. And in the present case

another feeling was aroused. Notwithstanding all her self-satisfaction

Florence was, to tell the truth, touchy about the colour of her hair.

She thought it, really and truly, the loveliest that ever grew on

a woman’s head, but yet she was aware that there was a diversity of

opinion on the subject. Vulgar people, uneducated eyes might call it a

defect. Spiteful people might say spiteful things about it, were they

so inclined. She was sure that Ralph admired it, for under none of these

heads could be classed. He, whose taste was refined and cultivated in

the extreme, must, could not but think it beautiful; but yet — she could

not endure him to speak of another woman’s “pretty brown hair.”

They went in to luncheon. As they were taking their seats at table they

were joined by the two grand-daughters, “the children,” Florence’s “dear

pets.” Charlotte, the elder, was a tall, well-grown child. Handsome

already, and with promise of considerable beauty of the large, fair

type. “Quite a Severn,” as her father had been before her, and already

well aware of the fact.

Sybil was as unlike her, as in childhood, Ralph must have been unlike

his handsome brother. A quiet, mouse-like little girl, with a pale

face and straight, short-cut, rather dark hair. Sweet eyes though; and,

indeed, far from plain-looking, when one examined the features more

critically. Few, probably, were ever at the pains to do so, for she was

precisely the sort of child that gets little notice; partly, perhaps,

because she never seemed to expect it. She was rather an unsatisfactory

child. Her grandmother loved her and cherished her, but yet somehow

she did not, or could not, understand her. Her great delicacy and the

constant care and indulgence it necessitated, would have utterly spoilt

most children; but it had not done so with Sybil. Not, at least, in the

ordinary way.

Lotty, one could see at the first glance, was tremendously spoilt. But

she was by nature honest and hearty, though selfish, headstrong, and

conceited. Conceited, however, in a childish, innocent sort of way.

Laughable enough now and then. After all I hardly think the conceit was

indigenous in her. I suspect Miss Vyse had had a hand in the sowing of

it. Lotty was her avowed favourite, and on the whole had not improved in

character since Florence had taken up her residence among them.

Lotty burst into the room and seated her-self opposite her cousin,

without any of the gentle, half appealing air so pretty to see in a girl

of her age.

“Soup” she said, coolly, in answer to her grandmother’s question as to

what she would take; “that’s to say if it isn’t that horrid kind we had

yesterday.”

But observing a look of gentle reminder on the face of Miss Vyse, who

intended Sir Ralph to see it too, she added—

“I beg your pardon, Grandmamma, for calling it horrible, but Florence

and I both think—”

“Never mind what we both think, Lotty,” interrupted Miss Vyse,

smilingly. “Sybil, dear, will you have some or this?”

Little Sybil was sitting quietly by her uncle; her favourite place,

for though frightened of him, she was always pleased to be near him.

He stroked her smooth, soft hair, and she looked up in his face with a

smile.

“Are you going up the mountain to-day, Uncle Ralph?” he asked.

“Not to-day exactly, but very early to-morrow,” he replied.

“What you going to do early to-morrow?” asked Lady Severn, who had not

heard Sybil’s question.

“I am going to ascend the ‘Pic noir’,” he answered. “I think I mentioned

it some days ago. There is a whole party going; rather more than I care

about, but poor Price and Vladimir Nodouroff were very anxious for me

to join them. We dine at the Lion d’Or today, and start this evening,

if fine. I shall not be back till the day after to-morrow, but I suppose

that will make no difference to you?”

“Oh, dear no,” his mother, “but by-the-by, do not stay away longer than

that. I want you on Friday to take us all to Berlet. It is rather too

far to go without a gentleman, but the view, I hear, is lovely.”

“I shall be very glad to take you,” said Ralph, quite pleased at Lady

Severn’s wish for his company; “you must all come. The children, too,

may they not?”

“We shall see,” was the reply. Oh, how provoking a one to childish ears.

“By-the-way,” said Ralph, “a Mr. Chepstow has arrived here lately, who

is anxious to make your acquaintance, mother. He is a friend of the

Bruces, at Brackley, they told him of our being here. He has lately lost

his wife. He seems an honest, stupid sort of man. Shall I tell him you

hope to see him? He is going with us tonight.”

“Any friend of the Bruces, of course, I shall be glad to see,” said Lady

Severn, in a rather formal voice—(in her heart she disliked the Bruces;

her eldest son’s wife had been one of them)—“but I must say, Ralph, you

manage to describe people and things in a most peculiar way.”

“In a most characteristic way, I should say,” murmured Florence, as just

at that moment her aunt rose from table and led the way from the room.

She could not tell if Ralph heard the little compliment. He gave no sign

of having done so. Truly, his manners were very objectionable!

CHAPTER VII. THE LITTLE GOVERNESS.

“’Twas frightful there, to see

A lady richly clad as she,

Beautiful exceedingly.”

CRISTABEL.

“Here’s metal more attractive.”

HAMLET.

AS she had promised, Marion called the next day to hear Lady Severn’s

decision.

She had not much fear of its being unfavourable, and from the readiness

with which the servant threw open the drawing-room door, announcing her,

unprompted, as Miss Freer, she felt little doubt but that the fact of

her new honours had already transpired to the retainers of the family.

Lady Severn was not in the room. Only Miss Vyse. She was lying on the

sofa as Marion entered, but rose and came forward to meet her. For half

a moment, one of those strange half-moments that seem so long, the two

girls looked at each other. Florence was mentally measuring this little

governess with the pretty brown hair. Measuring and weighing her; and

she did it correctly enough so far as her weights and measures went.

“Not pretty, but pleasing. Not striking, but with a something that

might develop into a certain kind of attractiveness. Well-bred looking,

certainly, and as to character—well, not exactly a goose, but by no

means a person much to be dreaded. Far too ingenuous and transparent.”

Florence felt relieved, and inclined to be amiable and patronising;

which agreeable sensation increased when in Marion’s grey eyes she read

evident admiration for herself. More than admiration. Marion’s first

glance at Florence actually dazzled her. She had forgotten all about

the existence of such a person as Miss Vyse, and had entered the room

expecting to see only Lady Severn, when this radiant creature rose to

greet her. In her gracious mood, Florence spoke courteously and kindly,

yet with a certain inflection of condescension, some few words of

apology for Lady Severn’s absence.

“My aunt was obliged to go out this morning,” she said; “she asked me

to see you instead, and talk over a little the plans for my cousins’

lessons; the hours, and so on. So pray sit down, Miss Freer. Lady Severn

may perhaps come in by the time I have given you a little idea of what

she wishes.”

“Thank you,” said Marion. And as Miss Vyse seated herself gracefully,

she thought again, “How very beautiful you are.” But, somehow, she

did not think it quite in the same way since hearing Florence speak.

Something in her voice repelled her. Not the tone of condescension, that

was simply rather laughable; and irritating, perhaps, for the moment. It

was no incidental inflection that she disliked. It was something in the

voice itself: or, rather, it seemed to her something wanting in it. An

absence, not of depth nor refinement, nor sweetness; of no one of these

exactly, but of something including and yet surpassing them all. And, in

a strange way, it seemed to her as if her immediate perception of a want

in the voice revealed to her at the same moment an equally indefinable

want in the whole being of the woman before her. And yet she was so

beautiful! If only she had been a picture instead of a living being,

Marion felt that she could have admired her with perfect satisfaction!

But she was brought back from these fancies by Miss Vyse’s proceeding

to inform her that Lady Severn was anxious to know if she could commence

her new duties as soon as the following Monday.

“Oh, yes,” said Marion; “I am sure Mrs. Archer will be able to spare me

by then. She only asked me to be as much with her as possible this week,

as I can help her in arranging things a little.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Vyse; “and then as to hours. Can you be here

regularly by half-past nine?”

To which proposal also Marion agreed; and had next to listen to a

dissertation from her companion on the subject of the studies to which

Lady Severn especially desired her to direct her grand-daughters’

attention. Miss Vyse had rather got herself up for the occasion, and

talked so fluently about books and methods, the system on which she

herself had been educated, &c., &c., that she ended by frightening

Marion far more than Lady Severn had done the previous day. She was just

beginning to wonder if Miss Vyse would ever leave of talking, when, to

her great relief, their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the entrance of

Lady Severn and her two grand-daughters.

“Good morning, Miss Freer,” said the elder lady. “I was quite obliged to

go out early this morning with my grand-daughters, but I have no doubt

Miss Vyse will have said to you all I wished. I am glad you are still

here, as I can now introduce these little girls to you. Charlotte, my

dear, this is Miss Freer, who has kindly undertaken the charge of your

studies.”

Charlotte came forward frankly enough, shook hands with Marion in

an easy, careless sort of way, and then, turning to Miss Vyse, began

eagerly to relate to her the event of the morning—a visit to the

dressmaker; not seeming to think it necessary to bestow any more

attention on her prospective governess.

Little Sybil put her hand in Marion’s, shyly, glanced up half wistfully

in her face, and there, evidently reading encouragement, drew closer and

held up her mouth to be kissed. Marion’s heart was, of course, won on

the spot, and she began talking pleasantly to the child. Sybil answered

timidly, but at last, gathering fresh courage from Marion’s gentle

manner, became, in her childish way, quite communicative and

confidential.

“We are going a beautiful drive on Friday,” she said, “all the way to

Berlet, and we are to have tea in a cottage at the top of the hill. Will

you come too?”

“No thank you, dear,” said Marion, “but you will tell we all about it on

Monday.”

“Yes, but I would like you to come. Grandmamma, will you please let Miss

Freer come to Berlet?”

Marion felt rather annoyed at the child’s pertinacity, but the

suggestion appeared strike Lady Severn in a different way.

“I should really be very glad if you would come, Miss Freer,” she said,

cordially, “it would be an excellent way of making acquaintance with the

children. And Mrs. Archer too. Do you think she would care to be of the

party? We shall have two carriages, so there will be plenty of room.”

Marion thought it very probable that Mrs. Archer would enjoy the little

excursion, and promising to let Lady Severn know their decision by the

following day, took her departure, after another kiss from Sybil, a

graceful bow from Miss Vyse, and a rather cross shake of the hand

from Lotty, when interrupted by her grandmother, in the midst of her

conversation with her cousin.

“How I wish Sybil were to be my only pupil!” thought Marion, as she

walked home, “though Lotty seems a frank sort of child. But I am sure

she is dreadfully spoilt. I can’t make up my mind about Miss Vyse. How

very handsome she is, and yet I don’t think I like her. I wonder if I

should have liked her better had we met as equals, instead of my being a

governess. I wonder how she and Sir Ralph get on.”

And so she wondered on till she got home, and then amused Cissy by her

morning’s adventures. Mrs. Archer had never heard of Miss Vyse, and from

Marion’s description of her felt curious to see her. She readily agreed

to join Lady Severn’s party to Berlet, and evidently was beginning to

think better of her cousin’s masquerade, as she called it; seeing that

its results so far, had been by no means disastrous. That afternoon and

the next brought quite an influx of visitors to Mrs. Archer’s pretty

little drawing-room. Mrs. Fraser, who proved on further acquaintance to

be really an intelligent and agreeable woman. Mrs. and Miss Bailey, the

former a good motherly creature, and the latter a pretty childish girl,

incapable of inspiring, very vehement feelings of any kind. Her chronic

insipidity was increased at the present time by her imagining herself to

be the victim of unrequited affection, in which melancholy condition

she fancied it suitable and becoming to sit with her head on one side,

staring before her in a vacant and slightly imbecilic manner. She took

it into her head to form a sudden and vehement friendship for Miss

Freer, who was rather puzzled by her at first, not being behind the

scenes of the silly Dora’s heart. Marion’s want of responsiveness,

however, did not appear to chill her in the least. She grew more and

more communicative, and by the end of the half hour’s visit had all

but confided to her patient listener the name of her cold-hearted hero.

Fortunately Mrs. Bailey rose to go before this juncture; greatly to

Marion’s relief, for her experience of the gushing order of young ladies

had been extremely limited. Friday brought the Berwick family en masse

with the exception, that is to say, of the invalid, Blanche. Major

Berwick was an old Indian, which expresses a good deal. His wife was

sharp and fussy, and evidently perfectly ready to gossip on the smallest

provocation. Sophy, a rough and ready sort of girl, impressed Marion

rather more favourably than the rest of the family. Her strong affection

for her brother, “Frank,” the good-looking young officer of the table

d’hôte party, inclined Marion’s sisterly heart towards her. Before the

end of the visit, Captain Berwick himself appeared. He was full of the

adventures and amusement they had met with in their mountain expedition,

which, he declared, had turned out famously.

“Our party was capitally arranged,” he said, “just the right number, and

all well up to the work. Excepting Chepstow,” he added, to his sister.

“Poor man,” said she, “what did you do with him?”

“Left him half way,” he replied, “but he really is an awfully

good-natured fellow. It is too bad the way that conceited Erbenfeld

makes fun of him.”

Sophy coloured:

“I don’t think Mr. Erbenfeld is half as conceited or disagreeable as Sir

Ralph Severn,” said she.

“Indeed,” said Cissy, “I am sorry to hear Sir Ralph is so undesirable

a companion; for we are going to drive to Berlet with the Severns

tomorrow. “

“Sophy is very foolish, Mrs. Archer,” said her brother. “Sir Ralph is

much nicer when one comes to know him. I, myself, did not at first take

to him at all, but now that I have seen a little more of him I really

like him.”

Sophy looked rather annoyed:

“Next time you intend to change your opinion of any one in such a hurry,

I wish you would give me notice, Frank,” she said; and then turning to

Mrs. Archer, she began a rattling conversation on every subject under

the sun, making fun of all the people it Altes, one after another.

Marion felt disappointed. Something in the girl had attracted her, but

this sort of talk wearied and repelled her. She much preferred hearing

from Captain Berwick a more detailed account of his mountain expedition,

which he, pleased at the interest this pretty girl took in his recital,

was nothing loth to give her. He several times alluded to the young

Russian, Nodouroff.

Marion asked who he was.

“Oh, they’re rather grand people, I believe,” said young Berwick; “the

father is an official, of course, something about the court. The mother

and daughter come here almost every winter. The daughter, Countess Olga,

is the most beautiful girl here. At least, in my opinion. Some people

admire Miss Vyse, Lady Severn’s niece, more. Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” said Marion “I think her very beautiful.”

“So she is undoubtedly; but the Countess Olga’s expression is much

more to my taste. I am sure you would think so too. There is something

melancholy about her face. I don’t know if she is really so, for I have

never spoken to her.”

“But beautiful people always look more or less melancholy, don’t you

think?” asked Marion.

“No, not all. Miss Vyse doesn’t look melancholy, though she tries it,

now and then,” said Captain Berwick; “but her face is too hard for that

sort of thing, I hate a hard expression. Even a goose like Dora Bailey

is more to my taste than a beauty like Miss Vyse.”

“Who is the English gentleman with Count Vladimir?”

“Oh, his tutor, Mr. Price, you mean. He used to be Severn’s tutor. Poor

wretch! I do think tutors are more to be pitied than any order of human

beings, except governesses. Do you remember, Sophy, how fearfully you

bullied yours?”

A frown from Sophy revealed to the unfortunate Frank that he had made a

terrible blunder.

Marion pitied him, though not a little amused at his confusion. She said

quietly:

“I don’t think all governesses are to be pitied. Not, at least, those

like me who live at home and only give daily lessons. You don’t think I

look very wretched, do you, though I am daily governess to Lady Severn’s

little girls?”

“Pray forgive me, Miss Freer,” said the young man; “and pray believe I

am the very last fellow on earth to—“

“To say anything to hurt any one else,” suggested Marion,

good-humouredly. “Yes, I assure you you are quite forgiven, Captain

Berwick.”

But the young soldier did not forget the little incident, nor did

it tend to lessen the favourable impression left on his mind by Mrs.

Archer’s pretty friend.

As Mrs. Berwick took leave she expressed a hope that they should “see a

great deal of Mrs. Archer.”

“You must always come to us on Thursdays,” she said. “By-the-by, what

day are you going to choose for receiving your friends?”

It had not occurred to Mrs. Archer that any such formal arrangement

would be necessary. But Mrs. Berwick and Sophy hastened to explain

that every one had an “at home “day at Altes. The English society being

limited, people found it necessary to make the most, of it; and, as

Sophy said, “It was very provoking to spend an afternoon in calling on

one’s friends, and to find them all out. And then, on getting home, to

find that half of them had been calling on us.”

So Cissy told her always to come to see her when she could find no one

else at home.

“We shall not be such gad-abouts as other people, Miss Berwick, for we

have not a great many acquaintances, and besides I am not very strong,”

she said.

“Oh, within a fortnight you’re sure to know every one here,” said Sophy:

“and I assure you you had better fix a day.”

“Well, then, you choose one for me.”

“Let in see,” considered Sophy; “ours is Thursday. Then on Wednesday the

band plays, and I know several people have Mondays and Tuesdays. Suppose

you take Fridays?”

“So be it,” replied Cissy; “then on Fridays, if you have nothing better

to do, I shall hope to see you here, to join Marion and me in our

afternoon tea, which, when it is fine enough, we can partake of on the

terrace. I haven’t much of a garden, but what there is looks pretty

enough from the end of the terrace. “

“That’s a capital idea, Mrs. Archer. Tea on the terrace. You may expect

to see Sophy and me every Friday without fail,” said Captain Berwick.

And then the visitors departed.

“Oh, how tired I am, May, “exclaimed Cissy, curling herself up in a

corner of the sofa. “I am not in love with the Berwicks. I like the son

the best. Ring for tea, Marion. I must have a cup, or I shall faint.”

So they consoled themselves for the fatigues of the afternoon.

Before-dinner tea was as yet hardly a domestic institution; but Cissy,

be it observed, had a mind in advance of the age.

“How I hate old Indians!” she exclaimed. “Marion, if ever you catch me

talking Indian ‘shop,’ I give you leave to cut my acquaintance.”

Friday came, but in clouds and rain. So the Berlet excursion was given

up, and Marion’s becoming better acquainted with her pupils had to be

deferred till Monday, when her new duties began.

The first morning’s lessons passed off better than the inexperienced

governess had ventured to hope. Charlotte was marvellously docile

and attentive, though evidently totally unaccustomed to anything like

regular study. The secret of her good behaviour transpired in the course

of the morning, when the children informed Miss Freer that if they

were very obedient and industrious at lessons up to Thursday week—which

happened to be Sibyl’s birthday—on that day the Berlet expedition was

to take place, on a much grander scale than had been originally

contemplate.

“And you are to come, Miss Freer, and that lady where you live,” said

little Sybil, launching out into such enthusiastic descriptions of all

they should do and see, that Marion was obliged to remind her that by

too much talking in school-hours they might be in danger of breaking

their grandmother’s condition.

“Little girls can’t he industrious at lessons if they’re thinking of

birthday treats all the time, you know, Sybil.”

So the child dutifully set to work again, labouring hard at words of two

syllables, which was the stage she had reached in her spelling-book.

She was very ignorant for ten years old; and, indeed, the little she did

know, had been imperfectly and irregularly acquired. She was naturally

slow, though by no means stupid. There were strange, fitful gleams of

decided originality about her; a delicacy of perception, and an almost

morbid sensitiveness, which would have suffered terribly in the hands

of many teachers. But Marion, though herself so young and inexperienced,

understood the child instinctively. Still, the spelling-book was hard

work, and but for the extreme docility of the pupil, and the patient

gentleness of the teacher, would have been the cause of no little

irritation to both.

Lotty was decidedly clever when she chose to exert, or rather, I should

say, to concentrate her powers. Strong and healthy, quick-witted and

warm-hearted, under good management, she promised to turn out a sensible

and intelligent woman. But, hot-tempered and self-willed, fond of

admiration and amusement, the risk to such a nature from injudicious

training was far greater than to that of her little sister. That Lotty

would develop rapidly for good or evil was evident. Sybil, on the

contrary, might be stunted or withered, but would never run wild.

But they were both interesting children; and Marion was very happy this

morning in the receipt of a grateful letter from Harry. A letter which

cheered her about him in every way. He had “had a good lesson,” he

said, but, thanks to her, had incurred no disgrace; and he begged her to

believe that never again would he cause her such sorrow and anxiety. “I

won’t make grand promises,” he wrote, “but I think the future will show

that I mean what I say. I shall always feel that but for you, dear May,

my whole life might have been spoilt. As you ask me not to tease about

where you got the money I won’t do so, but I do trust it has not greatly

inconvenienced or harassed you.”

So the morning’s studies passed off prosperously, and Marion wrote

on two slips of paper her report of her pupils for Lady Severn’s

edification.

“Charlotte: obedient and attentive.”

“Sybil; very painstaking.”

For which she was rewarded by a hug from Lotty, and an affectionate kiss

from Sybil.

That afternoon, as Cissy was resting on the sofa, after walking with

Marion to return some of the visits paid them the previous week, they

were surprised by the entrance of Sir Ralph Severn.

He seemed pleased to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Archer, and

apologised for not having recognized her at the table d’hôte.

“Your not knowing me was very excusable, I think,” said Mrs. Archer;

“remember, it is seven years since we met at Cairo.”

“Seven years only,” said he; I could fancy it was fifteen.”

“Do I look such an old woman already?” asked Cissy, maliciously.

Sir Ralph looked confused.

“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Archer,” he exclaimed. “I am sure I have

said so. Indeed, I doubt if I was ever anything else. My remembrance of

you at Cairo is that you then looked very, very young. A mere child, I

was going to say, but I am not at all sure that such an expression would

not be as bad as the other was.”

“Supposing we take the middle course, then,” said Cissy; “being neither

an old woman nor a mere child, I may consider myself as somewhere

between the two. But seriously, Sir Ralph, though you needn’t call me an

old woman, I hope, for my husband’s sake, you will consider me as an old

friend. George will be really pleased to hear of your coming to see me;

and if you don’t find the company of two ladies unendurably stupid, I

hope now and then you will look in when you have nothing better to do.”

Sir Ralph seemed pleased.

“You are very good, Mrs. Archer. I shall like to come and see you now

and then. I should like to hear about George—Colonel Archer, I should

say. You don’t know how kind he was to me long ago. Indeed, I have more

to thank him for than any one knows. I may as well tell you what I mean,

for I should like you to tell him about it some day. It was long ago,

before you were married. An unlucky, stupid misunderstanding had arisen

between my brother, his friend, and me. John was, naturally enough,

provoked at me, and I, utterly mistaking him, was in a wretched state

of wounded pride and mortification. My mother tried to set it right, but

failed. I was on the eve of going abroad, with all this miserable cloud

between us, when, luckily, George Archer came to Medhurst. It is

a thankless task meddling between relations, but he braved it, and

succeeded, as he deserved. John and I parted the best of friends; and

you will understand how doubly grateful I felt to Archer, when I tell

you that I never saw my brother again in life.”

Cissy’s warm little heart was won.

“Thank you, Sir Ralph,” she said, “for telling me. But have you never

seen George since then?”

“Oh, yes, at Cairo, you remember? But that was very soon after all this

happened. And at that time I little thought that my farewell to John

(thanks to Archer, a friendly one) was indeed a farewell for ever in

this world. Yes, I should much like to see Archer,” he added, dreamily.

“I think he would enter into some of my feeling’s, for he was very fond

of John. Those poor little girls! Have you seen them, Mrs. Archer?”

“No, not yet; but I have, of course, heard a great deal about them from

Marion. Marion, dear,” she went on, but looking round no Marion was to

be seen.

“Ah—Miss Freer,” said Sir Ralph. “How stupid I am! I have frightened her

away by engrossing you in my selfish conversation. Pray, Mrs. Archer,

ask her to return. I really want to thank her for her kindness in

undertaking to teach those dreadfully ignorant children.”

Charlie, at that moment appearing most opportunely, was sent to recall

the truant.

“May!” he shouted, “that gentleman wants you, this minute.” Which

intimation or her presence being desired, did not by any means hasten

the young lady’s movements.

When she re-appeared she was greeted with reproaches from Cissy and

apologies from Sir Ralph.

“I thought you had a good deal to talk about,” she said.

“Nothing, I am sure, that Sir Ralph would have minded your hearing,

May,” said Cissy; “he has only been making me more conceited than ever

about my husband.”

“The surest way to winning Mrs. Archer’s favour, I can assure you,”

observed Marion.

It had been on his lips to say something to her of his satisfaction that

she had undertaken the charge of his nieces; to give her even, should he

have an opportunity, a little advice about these children. But something

in her manner made it impossible for him to carry out his intention.

A certain unconscious taking-for-granted of perfect equality in their

positions. An utter absence of anything like the feeling of dependence

in her whole air and bearing. Nothing presuming, nothing affected. She

was evidently quite at her ease, and accustomed to feel so. Anything

more unlike the shrinking, modest young governess he had, from his

mother’s description, expected to meet, it was utterly impossible to

imagine. He could not make her out.

“Whoever she is she cannot have been brought up with the idea of

occupying a dependent position,” he said to himself, and then thought

no more about it; but gave himself up to the, to him, rare pleasure of

spending an hour with two agreeable women, one of whom was lively and

amusing, and the other something more than either. What he could, not

exactly say. Not beautiful, not brilliant, not fascinating. What then?

Something that suited and interested him, something original, unlike

what he had seen in other women; and so unconscious, so artless, so

thoroughly womanly. Over and over again he found himself asking, “Where

lay the charm?” Grey eyes, brown hair, sweet voice, sweeter smile, which

of you all has to answer for it? None, yet all. A something including

and surpassing all these, a something so subtle and indefinable, that

not in all the long roll of years since this old world began, has poet

breathed or minstrel sung, words, which, to those who have never felt

it for themselves, can in the least picture or describe this strange,

sweet, sad mystery.

Poor Ralph! It was only the beginning of the old, old story, after all,

little though he thought it, that pleasant afternoon, when he sat in

Mrs. Archer’s pretty drawing room, talking lightly and merrily even,

with these two. Of books and flowers and music; of all manner of things

under the sun, it little mattered what. Marion somehow had a knack of

understanding one’s words almost before they were uttered. She said

the right things in the right way. At least, when she felt she was with

those who, on their side, liked and understood her. How they all three

talked and laughed, agreed and argued!

Ralph, walking home, thought what a pleasant, refreshing afternoon be

had spent. After all he was glad to find he was not yet so old and

stiff but that he could now and then unbend a little. Of course, when in

company with younger and more brilliant men, he could not expect to be

so made of and entertained as he had been today. But for once in a way

it was a pleasant change. And then he fell to thinking how strange it

was that he should be so different from other men.

“Why have I always lived so lonely and apart? Why have I never cared,

when I was younger and in the way of such things, for any sweet, gentle

woman, who might in time have learnt to care for me?”

Surely it was very strange! It never occurred to him that after all it

was not yet too late for the tree of his life to bear the fruit of love;

all the richer and fuller, perhaps, for having been somewhat late of

maturing.

He imagined himself altogether beyond the pale of such things. Too hard

and dry, too naturally unimpressionable. Might he not think so? He had

escaped heart-whole from much fascination, for his life had not been

altogether spent in a study or a cell. He had seen beauty in all its

forms. He had even, most unanswerable of all, been unimpressed—nay,

rather revolted than, attracted—by charms displayed expressly for his

benefit. Those of the beautiful Florence Vyse.

CHAPTER VIII. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST MARGARET.

“For this reason I should wish never to be in love all the days of my life.

The loss would grieve me to death.”

MEPHISTO. “Joy must have sorrow, sorrow joy.”

HAYWARD’S FAUST.

THE lessons went on fairly enough. There were days on which Lotty’s

conduct could not be truthfully described as “obedient and attentive;”

days, too, on which poor Sybil was provokingly absent and dreamy.

Still there was nothing of sufficient importance to risk the children’s

forfeiture of the promised treat.

Sybil, indeed, was not deserving of blame for the sleepy, stupid moods

that occasionally over-powered her. As Marion learnt to know her better,

she found that these always preceded periods of sharp suffering for the

poor child. Some hours of headache, almost maddening in its intensity,

and invariably followed by prostration and weakness painful to witness.

It seemed to Marion, anxious for the child’s peace and comfort, that

there must be some cause for these attacks, for they evidently had to

do greatly with her mental and nervous condition at the time. She tried

gradually to gain the little girl’s confidence, for that there was

something to tell she felt convinced; but whenever she thought that

Sybil was on the verge of disclosing her secret distress, the child

seemed to grow frightened again, and would say no more.

The days passed on smoothly and pleasantly.

The acquaintances Mrs. Archer had already made, were increased by a few

more, so that every day brought its own little plan or amusement. Some

one to call on, the band playing on the “Place,” and on Fridays their

own miniature reception on the terrace. Captain Berwick was as good as

his word, and unfailingly made his appearance. He asked and obtained

Mrs. Archer’s permission to introduce to her his friend, Mr. Chepstow,

who was certainly fully deserving of the epithet of “the most

good-natured fellow living.” Notwithstanding his condition of

inconsolable widowhood, he managed to get on very comfortably, every

house in Altes was open to the reputed millionaire; whose endless

variety of carriages and horses was always at the disposal of his

friends. He entreated Mrs. Archer to consider as her own a charming

pony-carriage, which she was one day rash enough to admire. The offer

was made in all sincerity and kind-heartedness, but Cissy had too much

good sense to avail herself of it to any great extent. Not so, Sophy

Berwick. She, notwithstanding her brother’s remonstrations, drove Mr.

Chepstow’s ponies, rode Mr. Chepstow’s horses, whenever the inclination

seized her for either of these amusements. And this at the very time

that she was making fun of him in all directions.

“Vulgar old cotton-spinner, that he is,” she said one day to Marion,

when they happened to meet at Mrs. Fraser’s, “Frank is always going on

at me as if one should be as particular with those sorts of people as

with one’s equals. He is certainly very good-natured, otherwise I would

not put myself under an obligations to him. But seriously, he may be

very much obliged to me for exercising his horses. He is so fat, the

pony-carriage would break down if he got into it, and he is far too

frightened to attempt to ride. Don’t you agree with it Miss Freer?”

“I would, much rather you did not ask me, Miss Berwick,” replied Marion.

“As if I didn’t know what that means!” exclaimed Sophy; “I can see you

don’t like me, Miss Freer. I am too noisy and rattling for you. But

truly I am very good-tempered, and I would really like you to tell me

what you think. I won’t be a bit offended, I assure you.”

“Well, then, if you will have, it, Miss Berwick,” said Marion, “I do

think your brother is quite right. In the first place it would to me

be very disagreeable to put myself tinder an obligation to any one,

a gentleman especially, who was not much more to me than a mere

acquaintance. And in the second place it would be to me not merely

disagreeable, but actually impossible, to receive benefits from a person

whom I looked upon with the contempt which you appear to feel for Mr.

Chepstow. More than contempt. You ridicule and deride him constantly,

make fun even of his personal peculiarities on all occasions. I don’t

like it at all, Miss Berwick, though I should never have said this

unless you had asked me.”

Marion spoke indignantly, for she really felt so.

“Vulgar,” Sophy had called Mr. Chepstow. Strange perversion, that she

should be so sharp to perceive the outward deficiencies in speech or

manner of the honest, good-hearted millionaire, and yet be so utterly

blind to the far more repulsive vulgarity of her own speech and

behaviour.

Sophy did not answer. Marion began to fear she had really offended her,

when looking up she saw that the girl’s face, though grave, bore by no

means an angry expression.

“Miss Freer,” she said at last, “I think I deserve what you say. I have

got into reckless, careless sort of way of going on. To tell you the

truth, I am not very happy at home, and so long as I can get something

to amuse me; riding or driving, or making fun of people, it does not

much matter which, I fear I think very little about how I get it. Frank

is the only person who cares about me at all, and even he gives me

credit for very little good. One thing I will promise you, and that is,

to leave of making fun of poor old Chepstow, so long, at all events, as

I continue to use his horses. There now, Miss Freer, isn’t it true that

I am good-tempered?”

“Yes, indeed it is,” said Marion heartily.

“And even more amiable than you think,” Sophy went on; “I don’t believe

any other girl with a favourite brother would have tried to make friends

with a girl that same brother is always praising up to the skies, and

holding up as an example sister to follow! You will let me make friends

with you, Miss Freer, won’t you?”

“Don’t you think I have done so already?” asked Marion. “I assure you I

wonder at myself for speaking so plainly as I did. I could not have done

so to a person I had not a friendly feeling for.”

“Thank you,” said Sophy, “that is a very pretty way of taking out the

sting of your very decided home-thrust.”

And then, girl-like, they rambled on to other subjects. The excursion

to Berlet, in which the Berwicks were to join, the balls Sophy was

anticipating, and some few allusions to the home-troubles she had hinted

at. Her father’s irritability, her mother’s overweening partiality for

Blanche, Blanche herself, with her everlasting ailments:

“And yet with all, I think I could be very fond of her if she would

let me,” said Sophy “she is really sensible and satisfactory when she

chooses; and long ago, Miss Freer, she was so pretty.”

“So I have heard,” said Marion, not however encouraging further

revelations of Sophy’s home secrets.

The girl was really not without many good qualities. Wanting in delicacy

no doubt, far too self-confident and pronouçée; but affectionate, and

open to good impressions. And above all thoroughly honest and true. This

was the reason of the liking Marion felt for her. This was why she

so much preferred Sophy, rough, and even in a sense unrefined, to the

graceful, faultlessly lady-like Florence.

Sir Ralph’s call was not repeated for some little time. Cissy and Marion

met him one day, and when the former reproached him for not having come

again to see her, he confessed that he had been on his way thither the

Friday previous, but meeting Captain Berwick and hearing from him that

this was “Mrs. Archer’s day,” had thought better (“or worse,” Cissy

suggested) of it, and turned back.

“Well, then, I think you very silly and provoking,” was all the sympathy

he got Cissy.

“Particularly provoking,” she added, “for we had quite a little concert,

and I know you like music. Indeed a little bird once told me you sang

yourself. Bye-the-by, we are short of a gentleman’s voice for that

pretty glee, Marion,” turning to her; “I wonder if Sir Ralph would take

that part.”

Sir Ralph looked any thing but inclined to do so:

“Truly, Mrs. Archer,” he said, “you give me credit for powers I do

not possess. Little birds at Altes, I am sorry to say, as well as in

England, tell a great many stories. My singing is a thing of the past,

not that it ever was much of a thing at all.” And then, as if anxious

to change the subject, he turned abruptly to Marion. “Do you sing then,

Miss Freer?” he asked.

“A little,” replied she, and then smiling at herself, she added, “you

must not laugh at my very young-lady-like answer. In my case it is

simply the truth.”

“I should like to hear you, and then I can judge,” he said.

And without giving Cissy time to invite him to come to her house, for

the purpose of criticising her guest’s singing, he exclaimed hurriedly,

“I really must not keep you standing. Good morning, Mrs. Archer, I am

sorry I have forfeited your good opinion.” And so left them.

“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, “though I thought him so nice the other day,

I cannot say that I think so now. He is very rough and ill-tempered.”

“But Cissy, you teazed him on purpose. I think you deserved what you

got.”

“You are an impertinent little cats Miss Freer,” replied her cousin.

After which relief to her feelings, Mrs. Archer recovered her good

humour, and they spent an amicable evening. This was the day before

Sybil’s birthday. There had been some slight discussion, consultation

rather, between Lady Severn and her niece, as to the advisability of

inviting the daily governess to make one of the party to Berlet. But as

Lady Severn wished to pay some attention to Mrs. Archer, and it would

have been awkward to invite that lady without the young girl whom she

evidently looked upon as a valued friend and guest, it was decided

that the invitation should include Miss Freer. The children would have

rebelled had their dear Miss Freer been left out; indeed they would

naturally enough have looked upon such an omission as a gross breach of

promise, as their governess had been asked to make one of the previous

expedition, which the weather had put a stop to.

“Still, dear aunt,” suggested Florence the sensible, “I think for every

sake, her own especially, it is well to show that she is invited as the

children’s governess. Of course, had she been governess to any one else,

the mere fact of her staying in Mrs. Archer’s house would not have made

it necessary for you to notice her.”

“Of course not, my dear,” replied Lady Severn; “but how can I draw the

distinction? I quite agree with you about it but I don’t see how it is

to be done.”

“It is difficult, certainly,” said Florence, “that is the worst part

of a somewhat anomalous position, like Miss Freer’s. I am glad she is

coming to-morrow, for I am anxious for the children’s sake to get to

know her a little better. I have gone into the schoolroom now and then,

but I am so afraid of seeming to interfere in any way.”

“It is very kind of you, my dear, to take such an interest in the

children. Miss Freer could not possibly think any such kindness on your

part, interference,” replied Lady Severn.

“Well, I don’t know. It is better not to risk it. Besides, I really

think Lofty and Sybil are getting on very well with her. But do you

know, aunt, I can’t quite make her out. She is inconsistent altogether.

Her manners, her general appearance, her dress even, are not the least

like what one expects in a girl brought up to be a governess.”

“I have not observed any inconsistency of the kind,” said Lady Severn,

“but I dare say my eyes are not so quick as yours. The only time I can

really say I had any conversation with her was the first day she called,

when she appeared a gentle, modest young person. I understood her to say

that her family had met with misfortunes, which had led to her becoming

a governess. These things happen every day you know, my dear, in the

middle classes. Rich one day and poor the next! But to return to our

plans for to-morrow. What arrangement do you think will be best about

Miss Freer?”

“I was thinking,” said Miss Vyse, “that it might be as well if Miss

Freer were to come as usual, at half-past nine, and start from here in

the same carriage as the children. You, dear aunt, might propose to call

for Mrs. Archer on your way past her house, which would save her the

fatigue of the walk here in the first place.”

“Yes,” said Lady Severn, “that will do very well. Knowing that Charlotte

and Sybil are with their governess, I shall feel comfortable about them.

I must consult with Ralph about the carriages. There are our own two,

and Mr. Chepstow has offered any of his we like.”

For Mr. Chepstow had called at the Rue des Lauriers, and been graciously

received by the dowager and her fascinating niece.

It was part of Florence’s worldly wisdom always to be civil to people in

the first place. Time enough to snub and chill them if they turned out

useless, or not worth cultivating further. Easier, far, to do this than

to undo the prejudicial effects of a haughty or freezing manner on first

introduction. And in the present case, that of Mr. Chepstow, if he were

only half, or even a quarter, as rich as report said, he would still

be well deserving of some judicious attentions—according to Miss Vyse’s

scale of judgement on such matters.

Another little téte-à-téte conversation on the subject of the Berlet

expedition took place this same Thursday evening between Mrs. Archer

and her cousin. A note from Lady Severn, explaining the proposed

arrangements for the morrow, brought the subject to Cissy’s mind.

“By-the-by, May,” she said, “what are you going to wear to-morrow?”

“I was thinking about it,” replied Marion, thoughtfully. “I should

like to wear that gauzy dress; white, you know, with rosebuds. It is

deliciously cool, and then my white bonnet matches it so beautifully.”

“Well and why shouldn’t you wear it?” asked Cissy; “it is a perfectly

suitable dress.”

“Suitable, certainly, for Marion Vere, but I am by no means sure that it

is equally so for Miss Freer,” replied Marion.

“What on earth do you mean, child?” asked Cissy.

“Just what I say. As long as I have to act, what you call my farce, I

think I should do so as consistently as possible. And from some little

things Lofty Severn has told me, I am afraid I have been careless. Miss

Vyse, it appears, has remarked, in the children’s hearing, that my dress

is unbecoming to my station; and, of all people in the world, I should

least like her to begin making remarks about me.”

“Why ‘her of all people?’ ” asked Cissy.

“I don’t know,” replied Marion. “I don’t like her, and I don’t trust

her, and that’s about all I can say. No doubt if she were finding out

about who I really am, she might do me great mischief.”

“Of course she might,” said Cissy. “But one thing I must say, Marion:

were it found out that you are not really Miss Freer, I should feel

myself bound, in your defence, to tell the whole story from beginning to

end. I could not consent to screen Harry’s part in it any longer.”

“Harry has had no part in it,” said Marion, eagerly. “You know this

governessing scheme was most entirely my own. No one could be blamed for

it but myself.”

“H—m,” was Cissy’s reply. “I am by no means sure of that. I should most

strongly object to meeting Uncle Vere after he had learnt my part in

it! However, I should bear that, and more too, rather than not let your

conduct be seen in a proper light. But there’s no good talking about it.

I trust, most devoutly, you may continue Miss Freer, as long as we are

at Altes. I have only warned you what I should think it right to do, in

case of any fuss.”

“Very well,” said Marion.

But the conversation was not without its result. With a girlish sigh

of regret, she put away the pretty rosebud dress, and laid out for

the morning’s wear an unexceptionably quiet and inexpensive costume of

simply braided brown-holland.

But I question much if so attired, my Marion was any less winningly

lovely than in the glistening, delicately-painted gauze. The grey eyes

looked out as soft and deep from under the shade of the brown straw hat,

as from among the flowers and fripperies of the dainty Paris bonnet.

Still, she was not so much above the rest of her sex and age but that

this called for some self-denial.

Friday morning was cloudlessly fine. The sky was of that same even,

intense blue, which had so impressed Marion on her first arrival in the

south; and as she walked to the Rue des Lauriers, the girl felt joyous

and light-hearted. She found Lotty and Sybil watching for her. In their

different ways the two children were full of delight at the prospect of

the day’s treat, and Marion felt glad that lessons had formed no part

of the morning’s programme, as such a thing as sitting still would have

been quite beyond the power of her excited little pupils.

By ten o’clock the various carriages assembled. Lady Severn and two

middle-aged friends of hers, the English clergyman at Altes and his

wife, seated themselves in the first, and drove off to pick up Mrs.

Archer. Marion, looking out from the schoolroom window, did not envy

Cissy her long drive in such company! Then came Mr. Chepstow’s

dog-cart, driven, in the height of his exhilaration, by that adventurous

individual himself. Miss Vyse was invited to occupy one of the two

vacant seats, but, in some graceful manner, succeeded in evading the

honour. After a little consultation, Sophy Berwick, nothing loth, took

her place, followed, somewhat unwillingly—(but then, in pleasure parties

the wrong people always get together!)—by her, so gossips said, former

admirer, the cynical Erbenfeld. Next appeared a larger, and evidently

hired, carriage, already occupied by Papa and Mamma Berwick, and a

pale, worn-looking girl, whom Marion rightly concluded to be the invalid

Blanche. No one appearing ambitious of making a fourth in this vehicle,

it drove on.

Now dashed up, what penny-a-liners call, a “perfectly appointed

equipage,” driven by the handsome young Russian Nodouroff. Seated beside

him was his tutor, Mr. Price, who, however, descended, leaving, two

places to spare. Some discussion ensued as to who should occupy them,

which was ended by Captain Berwick hoisting up a laughing, romping girl,

whom Lotty informed Marion, was Kate Bailey, the younger sister of the

languishing Dora.

“She’s only two years older than I am, Miss Freer,” said Lotty,

virtuously, “and yet she goes to all sorts of parties. I’m sure I don’t

know how she ever learns any lessons.”

Vladimir’s horses growing impatient, young Berwick jumped in after Kate,

and off they set. Next drew up a pretty waggonette, belonging to Mr.

Chepstow. Into it, without hesitation, stepped Miss Vyse and Dora

Bailey, followed by the little Frenchman, De l’Orme. But where was the

fourth? In some unaccountable manner this being, whoever he was, had

disappeared. No one but Mr. Price stood waiting to ascend. An angry toss

of the head from Florence, an impatient order to the driver, and they

drove off quickly. Rather lose the chance of the companion she had hoped

for than, by longer delay, run the risk of Mr. Price’s uninteresting

society!

Lotty and Sybil were beginning to think themselves forgotten, poor

children, when a familiar voice sounded at the door.

“Now Lotty, now Sybil old woman, the carriage is coming round, for you.

Ah! Miss Freer, too!” Ralph added, as he saw her. “I beg your pardon;

I thought you were to have been picked up on the road with Mrs. Archer.

But, never mind, we shall pack in.”

As they passed through the court-yard there stood Mr. Price, looking

somewhat disconsolate, not quite sure that he had done right in quitting

his seat by the side of his pupil, which, yet, his shrinking modesty

would not have allowed him to retain, unless all the rest of the company

had been already provided for.

“You, too, still here, Price!” exclaimed Sir Ralph. “I thought you had

been whisked off in the waggonette. However, it’s all the better! If

Miss Freer does not mind a little crowding, that’s to say?”

Miss Freer, in her sensible brown-holland, being happily careless of

crushing or squeezing, the whole party was soon comfortably established

in the roomy carriage.

Sybil’s little face wore an expression of perfect content. Lotty, having

obtained her uncle’s consent to sit beside the driver, was no less well

pleased. Her incipient airs of fine ladyism forgotten for the time, she

became the hearty, happy child nature meant her still to be, chattering

to the coachman in her broken French, and translating his replies for

the benefit of the less accomplished Sybil. Both children really were

their very nicest selves that day; and nice children are by no means a

bad addition to a party of pleasure. For one thing, they are pretty sure

to enjoy it, which is more than can be said or their elders.

What a merry drive they had! Marion hardly recognized the silent,

melancholy Mr. Price in the agreeable, humourous man beside her. Sir

Ralph and he amused her with reminiscences of their younger days, from

time to time saddened by a passing allusion to the brother she had

already heard of. The “John” so affectionately mentioned by Sir Ralph

when speaking to Mrs. Archer.

Now and then the conversation became more general. Subjects of public

interest were broached and commented upon by the two gentlemen, in a

manner which caught Marion’s attention; for such discussions were not

as strange or incomprehensible to her as to most girls of her age. Sir

Ralph had the latest arrived English paper in his pocket. He glanced at

it as he went along, from time to time reading out little bits for the

edification of his companions. Once or twice Marion, half unconsciously,

made some remark in response to his; remarks which showed that she

knew what she was talking about, though, probably, of no great depth or

originality.

The second or third time this happened, Sir Ralph glanced at her with a

slight smile of surprise and amusement.

“Why, Miss Freer,” he said, “you must be a great newspaper reader! You

are certainly better up on that last speech on the education question of

the member for —. Bye-the-by, what place does Vere stand for?” he asked,

turning to Mr. Price, who could not satisfy him on the point. “Never

mind,” he went on “how is it you know so much about it, Miss Freer? As I

said, you are decidedly more at home in it than Price here, and that is

saying a good deal; as I haven’t, in fifteen years, succeeded in finding

a subject he was not at home in.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy,” said Mr. Price. “You will really make me blush,

and that would look very funny on an old man like me. Would it not, Miss

Sybil?”

Oh! how grateful Marion was to the all-unconscious Mr. Price, for thus

opportunely turning the conversation!

The title of some forth-coming new book next attracted Sir Ralph’s

attention, and led to an animated discussion on the previous works of

the same author, in interest of which, Marion forgot her embarrassment.

She little knew how keenly her fresh, bright thoughts and enquiries,

uttered with perfect simplicity and self-forgetfulness, were appreciated

and enjoyed by her two companions. Cultivated, nay even learned men,

that they were, yet not too “fusty and musty,” as Cissy had called it,

to value the clear sparkling of an unprejudiced, but not uneducated

youthful intellect; and better still, the softening, beautifying

radiance of a true, gentle, woman’s heart.

Mr. Price, as he looked at her, wondered if the little infant daughter

long ago laid to rest beside her young mother, in the far of church-yard

on a Welsh hill-side would ever, had she lived, have grown to be such a

one as the sweet, bright girl beside him.

Sir Ralph, as he looked at her, thought to himself a “what might have

been,” had he met this Marion in years gone by, before, as he fancied,

youth and its sweet privileges, were over for him.

And with these thoughts, mingled in the hearts of both her companions,

a manly pity for this young creature, apparently so alone in the world,

and already, at the age when most girls think of nothing but pleasure

and amusement, working, if not for her daily bread, at least towards her

own or her friends’ support. “For surely no girl would be a governess

if she could help it,” thought Ralph, as ever and anon the curious,

indefinable inconsistency struck him between this girl herself and her

avowed position.

“Here we are,” exclaimed he, rather dolefully, as the carriage stopped

at the little inn at Berlet, where all vehicles “arrested themselves,”

a Monsieur De l’Orme called it. The ascent of the hill, from the top

of which was the far-famed view, could only be managed on foot or

donkey-back. Some of the elderly and more ponderous ladies had preferred

the latter safe, though inglorious, mode of conveyance, and had already

set off by a more circuitous path. The younger members of the party,

intending to climb up the most direct way, were just about starting,

when the last carriage, containing our happy little party arrived.

As Marion was stepping out, she heard herself addressed by name:

“Miss Freer,” said a voice beside her, “I cannot understand how it is

that you and the girls came in this carriage. There must have been some

strange mistake, which you should have rectified. Lady Severn is not a

little annoyed at it, for she particularly wished you and your pupils to

come alone,” with a strong accent on the last word.

Marion turned round, her cheeks pale with the paleness that tells of

deeper indignation than quick mantling crimson.

“Miss Vyse,” she said quietly, “I do not understand you. If Lady Severn

has anything to find fault with in me, I am perfectly ready to hear it.

But—”

The words were taken out of her mouth by Mr. Price, who standing beside

her had, unawares, heard the little conversation.

“I think, indeed,” he said, “there has been some mistake. Miss Freer

took her seat in the carriage in which she was asked to place herself.

On these occasions little contre-temps are apt to occur. I myself did

a very stupid thing, for I was as nearly as possible left behind

altogether.”

Instantly Florence turned round, her face radiant with smiles:

“Oh. Mr. Price,” she said, “I hope you don’t think me so silly as to be

cross about a trifle; but you don’t know how particular Lady Severn

is in all arrangements about the children, and I was so afraid of her

thinking either Miss Freer or I had neglected her wishes.”

Mr. Price looked puzzled but said nothing.

However, he resolutely attached himself to Marion; as the party

dispersed into twos or threes, to begin the ascent.

Sybil clung to Marion, who felt some misgivings as to how the little

creature would get to the top, when a cheerful “halloo” behind them made

her glance round.

There was Frank Berwick dragging along a reluctant donkey, which Sir

Ralph was encouraging on the other side to hasten its movements. With a

cry of pleasure little Sybil ran hack to her uncle, who lifted her on

to her steed. Hardly had he done so, when Vladimir appeared with a

pencilled note for Sir Ralph. He glanced at it, and with a clouded face,

turned to the young officer.

“Berwick,” said he, “I must go to look after some or my mother’s other

guests. Will you help with Sybil’s donkey? I any sorry to trouble you,

but unless some one leads it, she could not make it go up this steep

path.”

“Certainly,” said Frank, heartily, “you may trust me to get it safely to

the top.”

So Ralph left them. On the whole, I don’t think Frank would have

regretted if Mr. Price had done the same. But this did not appear to be

that worthy gentleman’s intention. So Captain Berwick consoled himself

by engaging Marion steadily in conversation, and thus obliging her to

walk at the other side of the donkey’s head; for she could not have

been cold or inattentive to one who was showing such good nature to her

little pupil.

At last they got to the top. Most of the party were there before them,

for the donkey’s tardiness had delayed them. There was a sort of terrace

round the cottage, or châlet rather, from which the view was supposed

to be seen in perfection. It was indeed beautiful! If only there had

not been such a crowd of people talking about it! How the young ladies

cluttered and admired, how the gentlemen thought it their duty to agree

with their observations, however inane! All but Ralph. When Marion first

caught sight of him he was standing perfectly silent beside Florence,

who was speaking to him in a low voice, from time to time raising her

beautiful, lustrous eyes to his face, with a look half of questioning,

half of appeal. It was some mere trifle she was asking him about, but,

as she watched them, Marion thought to herself that Sir Ralph

must indeed be strangely almost unnaturally callous, to resist the

fascination of such loveliness.

Somehow she felt glad when the chorus of enthusiastic admiration calmed

down again and, the little groups dispersed. Before long whispers of

“luncheon” began to run through the party, and they all adjourned to a

smooth lawn on the other side of the châlet, where picnic parties were

accustomed to dine.

Marion found herself seated near Cissy, who looked rather tired. She

whispered to Marion: “How nice it would be if all these people were

away!”

Still, it was very amusing, on the whole. There were dignified Lady

Severn and fat Mrs. Berwick, seated on the grass, vainly endeavouring to

preserve the equilibrium of their plates and glasses. Mr. Chepstow, in

a peculiar attitude, looking more like a magnified frog than a portly,

middle-aged Englishman; and insisting, in his exaggerated politeness,

on constantly unsettling himself to fetch something or other which he

imagined some lady beside him to be in want of.

“You have no salt, Mrs. Harper,” he exclaimed to the clergyman’s wife.

“Allow me to fetch you some. I brought some of my own, knowing it is so

often forgotten, I shall get it in a moment. It is in the pocket of my

over-coat. And up he started.

“Stay one moment, my friend,” interrupted Mons. De l’Orme; “here is of

the salt that one has not missed to bring.”

Upon which Mr. Chepstow was, with difficulty, induced to re-settle

himself.

“How charming it is, this scene,” continued the little Frenchman, with

effusion; “it must absolutely that I visit England. All that I of her

see fills me with admiration. Above all these ‘peek-neeks.’ What can one

desire of more agreeable than at the once to enjoy the delights of the

nature, the charms of the society, and the sweet allures of the life of

family.”

“Bravo! De l’Orme,” exclaimed Erbenfeld; “may I ask who assisted you in

the composition of this little oration? I strongly suspect Chepstow had

to do with it. It is in his style. Do you not think so, Miss Sophie?” he

asked of his neighbour, with whom, failing better, he had, in a rather

lukewarm manner, renewed his last year’s flirtation.

Sophy was on the point of replying in the same strain, but, happening to

glance in Marion’s direction, had the self-control to remain silent.

In are opposite corner Marion espied Dora Bailey, looking so

marvellously brisk and lively, that one would hardly have recognized

her. The secret of the change was soon revealed, when looking again,

Miss Freer perceived that young Berwick was her neighbour, for poor

Dora had long before this disclosed his name as that of her chosen hero.

Frank, however, did not appear to be in correspondingly good spirits.

But everybody talked and laughed, and eat cold chicken and drank

champagne, as if they had been in England. So I suppose they all enjoyed

themselves.

After luncheon they dispersed in little parties to ramble about the

hill, one side of which was covered by a charming miniature pine-forest.

Cissy was tired, and went into the châlet to rest. Miss Vyse and the

other young ladies went off to choose pretty “bits” to sketch, followed

by their attendant gentlemen.

Marion, finding them all scattered, proposed to Lotty and Sybil to go a

little way into the forest, and there find a nice seat, where she would

tell them a story.

Her proposal was accepted with delight, Sybil only stipulating that they

should not go far enough into the forest to meet bears or wolves. The

story extended into two or three before the children were satisfied.

Then at last they agreed that “poor Miss Freer must be tired;” and they

amused themselves by discussing the rival merits of her narrations.

“Beauty and the Beast” was Sybil’s favourite, though she shuddered as

she listened to the description of the dreadful, though amiable monster.

Suddenly a quick step approached them, and Sir Ralph appeared. He threw

himself down beside them, exclaiming as he did so:

“I beg your pardon, Miss Freer, but I am so horribly tired. I have been

on duty all this time, and if had stayed longer, I should infallibly

have said something rude to somebody, so I ran away to avoid getting

into a scrape.”

“You’re like the Beast, Uncle Ralph,” said Lotty, oracularly.

“Like a beast!” he exclaimed. “I hope not, Lotty. What on earth do you

mean?”

“I said the Beast. We have been talking about Beauty and the Beast, and

I thought when you came growling so, you were just like him.”

“Thank you, Lotty,” he said; “or, rather, I think I should thank Miss

Freer for the compliment, should I not? That’s what Miss Freer teaches

you, eh, Sybil? To call your poor old uncle a beast.”

Marion laughed, but Sybil looked distressed.

“Oh no, dear Uncle,” she said, “Miss Freer didn’t ever say you were

a beast. Lotty only said it because you growled. But, besides, Uncle

Ralph, didn’t you know that the Beast was very nice, really he was, a

beautiful prince at the end.”

“Really, was he? And how did he come to be so improved?” asked Ralph,

with an air of the profoundest interest.

“Oh, because Beauty—” began Sybil.

“But who was Beauty, in the first place?” interrupted heir uncle.

“Beauty was a pretty, sweet young lady,” replied Sybil.

“Oh, indeed. Like you or Lotty, perhaps?” he suggested.

“No, oh no. Not a little girl. A young lady, Uncle. A big young lady,

like——like——oh, yes! Just like Miss Freer. A pretty, sweet young lady,

just like Miss Freer.”

“And she turned the Beast into a beautiful prince, you say? I wonder how

ever she could do that,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Can’t you guess? Well, I will tell you,” said Sybil, full of

importance. “You see, the Beast was very good and kind, though he was

ugly. And the fairy fixed that whenever any pretty young lady would

love him for being good and kind, and not mind his being ugly, then that

minute he was to turn into a beautiful prince. So the very minute Beauty

said, ‘I do love you, my dear good Beast,’ he turned into the prince.

Isn’t it a pretty story, Uncle, and don’t you think Beauty must have

been just like Miss Freer?”

“A very pretty story, indeed, Sybil,” replied he, to the first question;

but to the second he made no answer. As he lay on the ground, however,

he managed to glance up slyly to see how the “big young lady” took all

these rather personal remarks. But he did not get much satisfaction.

Marion’s face was rather graver than usual, but for all other change in

its expression, her thoughts might have been far away, too far away to

have paid any heed to the child’s chattering.

What was she really thinking?

The old puzzle: “I wonder how Sir Ralph and Miss Vyse get on together!”

And why from the first have I disliked the one and liked the other?”

Ralph seemed suddenly to grow restless. He sat up and looked at his

watch, and then said it was time for them to return to their party. So

they all left their pleasant nook, considerably to their regret.

Sir Ralph stayed beside them till they were close to the edge of the

wood, helping them to climb up the steep, rough paths. Then he hastened

on before them, saying they had better follow at their leisure. Soon

after they had reached the châlet it became time to think of rejoining

the carriages.

They all descended the hill together; an easier managed business

than the ascent; and returned home as they came, except that, by Lady

Severn’s request, Marion took Mr. Harper’s seat in her carriage, that

gentleman occupying her former place, and was set down with Mrs. Archer

at the door of their own house, which was passed on their way to the Rue

des Lauriers.

So ended little Sybil’s birthday pic-nic.

CHAPTER IX. “DE CAP A TU SOY MARION”

“And will thee, nill thee, I must love

Till the grass grows my head above.”

TRANS. OF DES POURINNS BÉARNAIS SONGS.

“Ihre Augen waren nicht die Schönsten die ich jemals sah, aber die

tiefsten, hinter denen man am meisten erwartete.”

WAHRHETT UND DICHTUNG.

THE weeks passed on quietly, and to outward seeming, uneventfully

enough.

Cissy and Marion grew so accustomed to their calm, pleasant, life at

Altes, that save for occasional home letters, they could have fancied

themselves permanently settled in the pretty little southern town.

Harry wrote frequently and very cheerfully, only bewailing, as the

Christmas holidays drew nearer, that they must be spent away from

Marion. At rarer intervals there came paternal epistles from Mr. Vere,

to which Marion always dutifully replied. Cissy, as her share, had

regular letters from her husband, who latterly had alluded to a prospect

before him of obtaining ere long a staff appointment in a part of the

country sufficiently healthy for his wife to rejoin him there without

risk.

Mrs. Archer was in great spirits at this news, and chattered away about

returning to India, as if it were the most easily managed little journey

in the world. But Marion, as she looked at her, felt certain vague

misgivings. She was not satisfied that her cousin was gaining strength

from her sojourn at Altes, for at times she looked sadly fragile. The

slightest extra exertion utterly prostrated her, and yet so buoyant and

high-spirited was she, that Marion found it impossible to persuade her

to take more care of herself. Poor little Cissy! What a baby she was

after all! And yet a difficult baby to manage, with all her genuine

sweet temper and pretty playfulness.

Marion’s governess duties were faithfully, performed, and on the whole

with ease and satisfaction. Certainly it was not all smooth sailing in

this direction, but still the storms were rarer, and less important,

than might have been expected. Sybil caused her from time to time

anxiety, but never displeasure. Lotty, on the other hand, was now and

then extremely provoking; disobedient, inattentive and impertinent. But

Marion had succeeded in gaining the child’s affection, and in the

end these fits of haughtiness were sure to be followed by repentance,

genuine, though somewhat short-lived.

Now and then Miss Vyse favoured the schoolroom party with her presence.

These were the days the young governess dreaded. Not that then,

was anything in Florence’s manner actually to be complained of. She

refrained from the slightest appearance of interfering, and indeed went

further than this; for she paraded her respect for the governess, in

a way that to Marion was more offensive than positive insult or

contemptuous neglect. She it was who always reproved the refractory

Lotty for any sign of disrespect or inattention.

“Oh, Lotty,” she would say, in an inexpressibly mischief-making tone,

“how can you be so forgetful of your duty to Miss Freer! Remember, dear,

what your grandmamma was saying only yesterday. I am sure you were never

so troublesome with me when I helped you with your lessons. And that was

only a sort of play-learning you know. Now Miss Freer is here on purpose

to teach you; you know dear, you must be obedient.”

All of which, of course, further excited the demon of opposition, and

defiance of her gentle governess, in the naughty Lotty’s heart!

Florence managed too to show that she came, in a sense, as a spy on

Miss Freer. Little remarks made, as it were, in all innocence; half

questions, apologised for as soon as uttered: in these and a hundred

other ways she succeeded in making Marion conscious that she was not

fully trusted. And far worse, she instilled into Lotty, by nature so

generous and unsuspicious, a most unsalutary feeling, half of contempt,

half of distrust of the young governess; the being, who of all that had

ever come into contact with Charlotte Severn, might have exercised

the happiest influence on the child’s rich, but undisciplined, nature.

Marion did not see much of Lady Severn, whose civilities to Mrs. Archer

were generally of a kind that did not of necessity include Miss Freer.

A proposal to “sit an hour” with her in the morning before lessons were

over in the Rue des Lauriers, or an invitation to accompany the

dowager in her very stupid afternoon drive: these, and such-like little

attentions she showed her, some of which accepted as a duty, though by

no means a pleasure; to the last day of her stay at Altes, Mrs. Archer

could not succeed in making the deaf lady hear what she said without

ludicrous, and well-nigh superhuman exertions.

One thing in her daily life, for long struck Marion as curious. She

never, by any chance, saw Sir Ralph in his mother’s house. Had she not

been informed to the contrary, she would have imagined he was not a

member of the establishment. The children talked of him sometimes,

indeed Sybil would never have tired of chattering about him, but Marion

did not encourage it. Much chattering would effectually interfered

with lessons, and besides this, the girl-governess had of late begun to

suspect that her discretion in this could not be carried too far; as

she had a sort of instinctive fear that all or a great part of the

schoolroom conversation was extracted from Lotty by Miss Vyse. Not that

she cared about the thing itself; though the feeling of a spy in the

camp, is not a pleasant one, even to the most candid and innocent; and

in her present position, Marion could not feel herself invulnerable. But

it was very trying to her, trying and almost sickening, to see the sweet

child-trustfulness gradually melting away out of Lotty’s nature.

She thought it better to say very little about the children to Sir

Ralph, when she met him in Mrs. Archer’s house. And, indeed, he by no

means encouraged her doing so. The mention of her morning’s employment

always appeared so to annoy him that at last it came to be tacitly

avoided, and really, for the time being, forgotten. For they were at no

loss for things to talk about, those three, in the afternoons, generally

one or two a week, that Sir Ralph spent in Cissy’s drawing-room.

Pleasant afternoons they were! To him indeed there could be no doubt

of their being so, as otherwise he would not have thus sought them

voluntarily. He took care, however, never to come on a Friday. Sophy

Berwick’s chatter, Dora Bailey’s silliness, and Mr. Chepstow’s ponderous

platitudes, all at one time, in one little room, would really, he

declared irreverently, have been too much fox him.

“And so,” said Cissy, “just like a man, you leave us poor weak women to

endure as best we may, what you confess would be beyond your powers.”

“Now, Mrs. Archer,” he replied, “that’s not fair at all. ‘What’s

one man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ I can’t suppose your

drawing-room-full of friends is disagreeable to you, as, to speak

plainly, you have yourself to thank for it. If you don’t want to see all

these people, what do you ask them for?”

“I never said I didn’t want to see them,” said illogical Cissy; “I only

said you might come and help me to entertain them. Besides,” added she

mischievously, “there’s Marion. She didn’t ask them, so she’s not to

blame for the infliction, if such it be. You might come to help her to

get through the afternoon.”

“Great use I should be!” he said, lightly, and then went on more

seriously, “Besides, do you know, Mrs. Archer, I am really busy just

now.”

“Busy; what about?” she asked coolly.

“Oh, things that you would think very stupid. Hunting up specimens of

the old language and dialects once spoken about here. I’m doing it for a

friend who is taking up the subject thoroughly.”

“I should think that very interesting work,” said Marion.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied warmly; “indeed, interesting is no word for

it. It has quite reconciled me to spending the winter here. A prospect

that was dreadful enough to few months ago, I can assure you.”

Just at that moment Charlie appeared with a whispered message to his

mother, who, thereupon, left the room, saying as she did so, that she

would return in a few minutes, and that in the meantime, Sir Ralph might

amuse himself and Marion by giving her some specimens of the ancient

language he was so interested in.

Charlie followed his mother, but stopped for a moment as he reached the

door, to announce in a stage whisper, with a confidential nod:

“It’s only the dressmaker!” which piece of impertinence was audibly

punished by a box on the ear from his indignant mamma.

“Is your name, Miss Freer—the name Marion, I mean—spelt with an A or

an O?” asked Sir Ralph, somewhat irrelevantly, it appeared to the young

lady.

“With an O,” she replied.

“Oh, I fancied so,” he said, with satisfaction. “Mrs. Archer told me to

amuse you with specimens of the old dialects just now, but she would

be surprised if I told her that there is an old song, old though not

ancient, actually dedicated to a lady who must have borne your name.”

“Is there, really?” exclaimed Marion. “I had no idea my name was to be

found anywhere out of England, or Great Britain, I should say, for there

are plenty of Scotch Marions. Oh, tell me about the song, Sir Ralph; or

can you show it to me? Is it pretty? And has it been set to music?”

“It has been set to music, and I think it very pretty,” he replied. “I

could show it to you, for I have both copied it and translated it. But

I can’t show it you just now. Indeed, I am not sure that it would not

please you more if I gave it to some one else to show you.”

He looked at her closely as he spoke. But she only appeared puzzled.

“If you gave it to some one else to show me?” she repeated. “I don’t

understand what you mean, Sir Ralph. Really I don’t.”

“Really, don’t you?” said he again; “truly and really?” He spoke, as it

were, in jest, and yet something in his voice sounded as if he were in

earnest.

“Think again, Miss Freer. Though you may never have seen this little

song, you may easily enough fancy that, pretty and simple as it is,

there was only one person who could have ventured to address it to the

Marion of those days without fear of its being scornfully rejected. That

Marion must have been young and fair; but now-a-days there are others

as young and as fair. And there are knights, too, gallant enough, though

not exactly cast in the mould of the old-world ones. You see, Miss

Freer, I should not like my poor little song to be scorned. I would

rather keep it till the true knight passes this way, and I am anxious

to—”

He stopped, at a loss to finish his sentence. Half ashamed, indeed, of

having said so much.

Marion had listened quietly. No sign of displeasure in her face, but

an expression of slight bewilderment, and somewhat, too, of sadness,

overspread it.

“Sir Ralph,” she said, “I won’t say again I don’t know what you are

talking about; but, truly, I may say I don’t know whom you are referring

to. You wouldn’t wish to vex me, I know. If even there is anything you

wish to warn me about, I am sure you would do it most gently and kindly.

I am not very old, and I daresay not very wise,” she added, with a

smile; “but, truly, I don’t quite understand. No knight, as you call it,

is likely to pass this way on my account.”

She spoke so earnestly and simply that Ralph all but moved out of his

habitual self-control, looked up again with the sun-light look over his

face.

“Miss Freer,” he began, eagerly, and still more eager words were on

his lips; but— —the door opened, and in walked, with the air of one

thoroughly at home, and sure of a welcome, Frank Berwick!

It was not the first time Ralph’s pleasant afternoons had been

interrupted by this young gentleman. He rose, the bright look utterly

gone from his face, shook hands with Frank, and, Mrs. Archer shortly

after returning to the room, seized the first opportunity of taking

leave of the little party. As he bade good-bye to Marion he said, in a

low voice, heard by her only:

“Forgive me, Miss Freer, for what I said. I must have seemed very

impertinent, but, truly, I did not mean to be so. Remember how many

years older I am than you, and let that prevent your thinking me

unpardonably officious.”

Marion said nothing, but for one half instant raised her eyes to his

face, with a curious expression, part deprecating, part reproachful. The

sort of look one sees in the face of a child who has been scolded for a

fault which it does not feel conscious of or understand. Then she said,

or whispered—or, indeed, was it only his fancy; the words were so faint

and low?—

“How little you understand me!”

When Ralph left Mrs. Archer’s house he did not turn towards the Rue des

Lauriers, but walked briskly in the opposite direction. Like many other

men, he had a habit, when perplexed or annoyed, of “taking it out of

himself,” as he would have called it, by sharp, physical exercise. Not

till he was some way out of the town, in a quiet country lane, did he

slacken his pace, and begin steadily to think—thus:

“What a weak fool I am, after all! Can it really be that after all

these years, I, now that I am middle-aged (for thirty-three is more

than middle-aged for men like me), have caught the strange infection,

hitherto so incomprehensible to me? What is there about this girl, this

grave-eyed Marion, that utterly changes me when in her presence? Oh!

Madness and Folly are no words for what I was nearly doing just now,

who of all men in the world am least fitted, have indeed least right to

marry! Lucky it was that that boy, Berwick, came in when he did. Not,

after all, that it would have mattered much. She could not care, or ever

learn to care, for me. But the thing might have distressed her all the

same, and increased the discomfort of her position. How odious it is to

think of her trudging backwards and forwards every morning as a daily

governess, and that hateful Florence sneering at and insulting her in

her cat-like way!”

At this point he stopped short in his meditations, and laughed at

himself.

“Really, I am too absurd! Now to be reasonable about it, what shall

I do? So far, surely, I am not so very far gone. No necessity for my

running away from Altes. And before long, I have very little doubt, the

temptation will be beyond my reach, for of young Berwick’s intentions

I have not the shadow of a doubt. He is not a bad fellow, by any means,

and will make a fair enough husband, I dare say. Not good enough for

her, of course, but then that’s the way in such things. Besides, going

out to India with him is, suppose, a preferable lot to being a governess

at home. But I hope his people will treat her properly. My poor little

girl! But what right have I to even think of her so? Ah! After all, if

things had been different!”

Thus he thought to himself as he slowly walked homewards. Turning the

thing round and round in his mind, and looking at it from all sides.

Finally deciding that all he could do was gradually to dismiss this wild

dream from his mind (not realizing in his inexperience, that in such

matters it is hearts, not minds, we have to deal with), and so far as

possible forget that it had ever visited him.

As no one but himself was involved, no one’s happiness or suffering in

question but his own, he decided he need not absent himself from

Altes for a little, as had been his first impulse, on making this

extraordinary discovery. Not, at least at present. But he would be

careful. He would not lay up for himself unnecessary perplexity or

suffering; for after all, his belief in his own self-control had

received a great shock. So he resolved, and acted upon his resolution by

not calling at Mrs. Archer’s till the next week; when, trusting to the

safety, which we are told, lies in numbers, he purposely chose a Friday

for his visit.

It was disagreeable, as he had anticipated, and indeed almost hoped it

would be.

The day being chilly, none of Mrs. Archer’s friends ventured out on the

terrace, and the small drawing-room was therefore rather crowded. There

was the usual set; the Bailey girls, Mr. Chepstow, and Monsieur De

l’Orme, the Frasers and Sophy Berwick, accompanied, of course, by her

brother. Erbenfeld was there too, amusing himself by trying to get up

a flirtation with Mrs. Archer; by no means an easy undertaking, as

he found to his cost; for Cissy’s self-possession, quick wit and

unaffected, utter indifference to his graceful compliments and

sentimental allusions, baffled him far more effectively than any

affectation of matronly dignity, or the most freezing airs of propriety.

It was really rather amusing to watch, for Erbenfeld was clever enough

in his shallow way, and evidently quite unaccustomed to have his

flattering attentions thus smilingly rejected. Ralph had not been there

two minutes before he began to wish himself away; but he had resolved

to say half-an-hour or so, to avoid the appearance of any marked change;

and so he sat on patiently, thinking to himself it was no bad discipline

for his powers of self-control to sit there trying to talk nonsense to

Sophy Berwick, all the time that he was intensely conscious or Marion’s

near presence at the piano, where she was eagerly examining sonic new

music which Frank had just brought her, the giver, of course, standing

close by, replying to her remarks with a bright smile on his handsome

face.

Suddenly some one proposed that they should have, a little music. The

glee party collected round the piano, and went through their little

performances successfully enough. This over, there was an exhibition of

instrumental music from one or two of the young ladies. In the moving

about the room that ensued, Ralph found himself, for the first time that

afternoon, near Marion. In his nervous hurry to say something, he, of

course, said about the stupidest thing he could have chosen:

“Do you sing, Miss Freer?”

She looked up at, him with surprise, but when she saw the perfect good

faith in which he had asked the question, she began to laugh in spite of

herself.

“Yes,” said she, “I think I have told you before that I sing a little,

and if you had been listening you would have heard me singing just now.”

“Were you singing?” he said, “truly I did not know. Certainly I would

have listened had I known it was you. I was thinking the other day how

odd it was I had never heard you sing.”

“I was not singing alone, just now,” she said, more seriously, “I only

took a part in those glees.”

“Ah!” he replied, “then it was not bad of me after all. But I should

very much like to hear you sing alone. When Miss Bailey finishes this

affair she is playing, will you sing, Miss Freer?”

“Oh, yes, if you like,” she answered lightly. But in a moment a thought

struck her, and she added mischievously, “what would you like me to

sing, Sir Ralph? Is there any song you think would suit me?”

“Several,” he replied, in the same tone. But as at this moment Miss

Bailey’s twirlings and twitchings suddenly ceased, and as Marion rose,

he said in a lower voice: “one in particular, but I can’t give it you.”

She seemed as if she hardly heard him, and at a sign from Cissy, took

Dora’s place at the piano.

Her voice was certainly not a very powerful one, but neither could it

be called weak. It was true and sweet, but its chief beauty was its

exceeding freshness. Clear and bright, and yet with an under-tone of

almost wild plaintiveness. The sort of voice one would be inclined to

describe as more like a young boy’s than a woman’s. It made one think

of a bunch of spring field flowers, freshly gathered and sparkling with

dew. So, at least, Ralph fancied as he listened, and went on in his own

mind to compare Florence Vyse’s rich contralto to a perfectly arranged

group of brilliantly coloured and heavily scented exotics. The simile

was not however a perfect one, for it did not sufficiently express the

tenderness and cultivated refinement of Marion’s singing.

What her song was, Ralph did not know nor care. It was German, so much

he discovered, and some words reached him, which sounded like these:

“So ist verronnen Meine Jugendzeit.”

A sort of sorrowful refrain they seemed to him, and they set his

thoughts off again in the direction of wishing they were less true as

applied to himself. But he pulled himself up short, thanked Miss Freer

quietly, said good bye to Mrs. Archer and her guests, and was just about

to take his departure when the door opened, and “Lady Severn and Miss

Vyse” were announced by Mrs. Fraser’s man-servant, whose mistress very

goodnaturedly lent him to Mrs. Archer on Fridays.

It was rather annoying. Ralph so seldom called on any lady, that his

presence here could not but surprise his mother. However, it was much

better than if the worthy lady had taken it into her head to call on

Mrs. Archer on one of the several afternoons he had spent in the

company only of Cissy and her guest. He made the best of the situation,

gratified Florence by asking if they had a seat to spare in the

carriage, in which case he would wait and return home with them, and

altogether made himself so sociable and agreeable, that Lady Severn

began to think, with pleased astonishment, that after all her

unsatisfactory Ralph had inherited something of the “Severn” affability.

So all seemed smooth and smiling; but for all that Florence had her

eyes open that afternoon; and bitter thoughts were in her heart as they

bowled home to the Rue des Lauriers, though the words on her lips were

honeyed and soft.

A few days after this, the second of the Altes balls took place. Mrs.

Archer and her cousin had not gone to the first, as on the day it was

held the former had not been well enough to risk the fatigue. But having

been, or fancied herself, stronger of late, she was bent on attending

the forthcoming one. Marion had no objection to accompanying her, save

her former fear of appearing inconsistent. But this time Cissy was not

to be moved. Marion was to go to the ball, attired in the prettiest

of dresses, and for this one evening to enjoy herself thoroughly, and

forget all about that “odious governessing.”

So the girl yielded, not unwillingly, I dare say. They arranged to

go with the Berwicks, Frank and Sophy warmly applauding Mrs. Archer’s

determination that Miss Freer should make one of the party.

“Of course you should come,” said Sophy. “I should think it bad enough

to have to be shut up all the morning with those brats, without thinking

it necessary on that account to forego a pleasant way or spending an

evening.”

“Oh, well,” replied Marion, “for once in a way I daresay there can be no

objection to it.”

“Once in a way,” repeated Sophy; “it is absurd to hear you, a girl ever

so much younger than I, talking like that. You don’t mean to remain a

governess all your life, do you, Miss Freer?”

Marion felt and looked rather annoyed at this not very

delicately-expressed inquiry; but, before she had time to reply, Cissy,

who was present at the time, came to the rescue.

“Of course not, Miss Berwick,” she exclaimed, rather indignantly, but,

on catching a beseeching look from Marion, she changed her tone, and

added, half laughingly, “Don’t you know, Miss Berwick, that Marion is

going out with me next spring, to marry a nabob whom she has never

seen? A real nabob, I assure you, as rich as—as I should like to be, and

that’s saying a good deal, I assure you. By this time next year,

imagine Miss Freer converted into Mrs. Nabob, with more fine dresses

and diamonds than she knows what to do with. What a charming prospect! I

hope you will remember, May, to give me some of your cast-off grandeur.”

“How can you be so silly, Cissy!” said Marion, half laughing and half

annoyed.

Sophy looked curious and mystified. She could not make out how much was

fun and how much earliest of Mrs. Archer’s announcement. Miss Freer’s

“How silly,” very probably, only applied to her friend’s exaggerated way

of telling it. It was quite possible, Sophy decided, that the young lady

was in fact engaged to some rich Indian, and was only a daily governess

for a short time, perhaps to make some money towards providing a

trousseau, being of a more independent spirit than some brides elect in

similar circumstances.

It seemed rather a plausible way of accounting, for the mystery, which

even Sophy, whose perceptions were not of the acutest, felt there

existed about this girl. She would have uncommonly liked to hear reason,

but, was not bold enough to make further inquiries. Besides which,

Marion evidently wished the subject to be dropped, and Sophy would have

been really sorry to annoy her. So no more was said; but, as Sophy was

leaving, Marion accompanied her to the door, and said to her, earnestly,

but in a low voice:

“Miss Berwick, will you be so good as not to think anything of what Mrs.

Archer said today? I mean, will you please not to talk about it. You

don’t know how exceedingly it would annoy me if any reports were spread

about me; if, indeed, I were spoken about at all, it would vex me, for

it might cause much mischief.”

“Certainly, Miss Freer, I won’t be the one to spread reports about you,”

replied Sophy; “I like you far too much to wish to annoy you. You may

depend upon my discretion.”

“Thank you,” said Marion, looking more comfortable, for she saw that

Sophy meant what she said.

Still it was not very wise of her to have made this appeal to Sophy.

It only impressed upon the thoughtless girl’s memory what otherwise she

would probably have soon forgotten.

Marion returned to the drawing-room, intending to scold Cissy, but the

naughty bird was flown.

This was the day of the ball. Mrs. Archer’s head was full if her own and

Marion’s toilettes. In justice to her it must be said her young cousin’s

appearance interested her quite a much as, if not more than, her own.

The result in both eases, was eminently satisfactory. Cissy, always

pretty, showed to advantage in a ball-dress; and Marion was at the age

when a girl must be plain indeed, not to look bright and sweet in a robe

of floating, cloudy white, here and there dotted with rosebuds of as

delicate a tint as the unaccustomed flush on the wearer’s cheeks. Marion

was far from plain. “Bright and sweet” would but ill have expressed what

Ralph Severn thought of her, as almost immediately on his arrival in the

room he caught sight of her, not dancing, but sitting quietly beside old

Mrs. Berwick, Cissy not far off. Ralph had come as a duty, because his

mother had desired it. He had been present at the previous ball for

the same reason, and had spent a most disagreeable evening. He hated

dancing, or fancied he did (for he danced well, and judges in such

matters say that no one who hates this “amusement” can ever be a

proficient therein). However this may have been, he certainly did most

devoutly hate dancing with Miss Vyse, which, to his dismay, he found

himself expected to do, to a considerable extent. So, his previous

experience having been the reverse of reassuring, he, with fear and

trembling, for the second time prepared to obey the maternal commands.

He entered the room hating himself and everybody else. In plain English,

not in the sweetest of tempers.

But one glance in a certain direction, one glimpse of a white dress and

blush rosebuds, one moment’s view of a graceful little head, round which

the bright brown hair was wound in thick, smooth coils; and the whole

scene was changed to him. And yet, but a few days before, he had calmly

decided that this dream of his was but a dream, a passing fancy, that he

could easily overcome, and, ere long, forget!

A strange reaction came over him this evening. From being unusually

gloomy and morose, he suddenly became, in the opposite extreme,

high-spirited, and, as he could be, in rare excitement, brilliantly

lively and amusing. He delighted and amazed Florence by dancing with her

twice in succession, waltzing, as she told him, “exquisitely.” This duty

over, and having seen his fair charm! engaged to the end of her card, he

found himself free to saunter up the room.

Yes, there she was, still sitting. She had not danced yet, then. How

could that be?

A friendly greeting from Mrs. Archer, a few words of commonplace small

talk, and he turned to Marion.

“Have you not been dancing, Miss Freer?”

“Not yet,” she answered, smiling; “l am engaged for two or three dances

further on, but you know I have not a great many acquaintances here.”

As she spoke Mr. Erbenfeld came up eagerly to Mrs. Archer, whom he

immediately began urging to break her resolution of not dancing. As

his glance fell upon Marion he bowed to her in the very stiffest and

slightest manner.

“Will you dance this with me, Miss Freer,” asked Sir Ralph, “whatever

it is? I don’t know, but it really doesn’t matter.” And as she rose and

took his arm, and they walked away, he added, “What have you done to

offend that fellow—Erbenfeld?”

“Nothing,” said Marion, “only—I think you forget.”

“What?” he asked.

“That I am a governess,” she answered simply.

“Miss Freer,” he said, earnestly, “don’t vex me by that sort of thing.

I won’t insult you by supposing for an instant that you mind any vulgar

insolence of that kind, but it hurts me for you to seem conscious of

it. Please, put all that nonsense aside. I am in a very good humour

to-night, which, you must know, is a rare occurrence, and deserves to be

commemorated. So I am going to enjoy myself, and you must do the same.”

“I assure you I intend to do so,” she said. Please remember it was you,

not I, that took any notice of Mr. Erbenfeld’s manner.”

“Well, forgive me for having done so,” said he. “And now tell me what

is your idea of enjoying yourself? Shall we dance this, or find a

comfortable corner for ‘sitting it out in’?”

“I should like to dance this,” said she; “if you don’t mind?”

“Mind!” said he; but the one little word held a good deal

So they danced and enjoy it; Marion being young enough, and Ralph not

so old after all as he fancied. He found his views on various subjects

undergoing a curious change this evening. Dancing and its attendants no

longer seemed to him so utterly insane and ridiculous as he had hitherto

considered them. The music was really very good, the floor capital, and

some of the ladies’ dresses exceedingly pretty. Marion was amused at his

expressions of satisfaction.

“You really must be in a very good humour, Sir Ralph,” said she, “or

else you have hitherto belied yourself. I always understood you detested

balls.”

“So I do, in general,” he replied, “this one is an exception. Do you

care about such things, Miss Freer?”

“Yes,” answered Marion, “I think I do. Not exceedingly perhaps, as

some girls do. But then my life has been different. I have no mother or

sister, and I have lived very much out of the world.”

“But you are not an orphan?” he asked hesitatingly; “your father is

alive? He is a clergyman, I think, is he not?” And before his mind rose

a picture of the struggling curate, and the unluxurious home in

which this girl had probably been reared. Though, how, under such

circumstances, she had come to be what she was, was a mystery beyond his

powers to fathom.

They were sitting in a quiet corner, and as he spoke, Marion’s face was

full in his view. She was looking down, but as he asked these questions

he distinctly saw her colour change, as it rarely did. There was a

change too in her voice as she replied:

“No, my father is not a clergyman. He—;” but then she stopped and

hesitated.

“Ah,” thought Ralph, “there is something worse than poverty here. She is

not a girl to be ashamed of anything but real disgrace.”

And there was a deepened tenderness in his tone as he quickly tried

to set her at ease by instantly changing the subject. She felt it. How

grateful she was! How gladly at that moment would she have agreed to be

indeed Miss Freer, the poor little governess, able to answer his kindly

questions with perfect frankness, with no secret from this man, whom

already she was learning to trust more than any other on earth. A sudden

impulse seized her to tell the truth. But the words died on her lips as

she thought to herself what might be the results of her betraying her

secret. In all probability she, and not only she, but Cissy too, would

for ever forfeit his respect. What might he not think it right to do?

Possibly to write to her father, in which case all she had striven for,

would be lost, and Harry after all disgraced. Sir Ralph, at the best,

would feel obliged to tell all to Lady Severn, and would naturally be

indignant at the trick that had been played her. The story would get

wind, and would spread beyond Altes, for Marion’s father was too much of

a public character for his daughter to masquerade with impunity.

All this flashed through her mind in an instant, and arrested the words

on her lips. Ralph saw that she was nervous and uneasy, and blamed

himself for having turned her thoughts in an evidently painful

direction. He tried to gain her attention, to amuse her, but in vain. At

last he stopped and laid his hand gently on her arm. Marion started.

“Miss Freer,” said he, “I see I have spoilt your pleasure by my

inconsiderate talk. Most unintentionally, poor child, I have brought

back to your mind sorrows and anxieties which I would give more than I

can express to banish far from you, not for one short evening, but for

ever. I am so angry with myself that I can’t bear the reproach of your

sad face. Won’t you forgive me and look happy again. Believe me I am the

last man on earth to pry into another person’s private concerns. Unless,

indeed, I could do anything to help you?”

“You are very, very good and kind,” replied Marion; and I truly did not

mean to look reproachful. No, thank you, you can’t help me in any way.

After a while things will come right.”

“So you are patient as well as brave?” said he, with a smile.

“How do you know I am either?” asked she.

“Because,” he began, eagerly, but slackened a little as he went on,

evidently changing what he was going to have said, “because I have seen

you in peculiar circumstances which have called for both, and you have

not failed.”

“You think better of me than I deserve,” said Marion, in all sincerity,

though the phrase she had used is seldom so uttered. “I fear if you knew

all about me you would greatly change your thoughts of me. I fear you

would,” she repeated, half questioningly, and as she spoke she laid

her hand on his arm, and looked up in his face with a sort of wistful

appeal. She did it in all simplicity, poor child. Somehow her secret

weighed heavily on her that evening; and oh! how she wished she could

tell him the whole!

Ralph did not speak for a moment. Then, as if in spite of himself, he

said, hoarsely almost, “Child, do not try me too far.”

But before another word could be said by either, Cissy’s voice was heard

behind them.

“Marion, how ever have you and Sir Ralph managed to hide, yourselves?

I have had such a hunt for you. There’s poor Captain Berwick in such a

state at having lost one of his dances. You know you promised him the

first two when he came, and he couldn’t get here sooner. Do come. Sir

Ralph, pray bring her hack to the dancing room. Thank you, Mr. Chepstow”

(who was her cavalier), “my shawl’s always tumbling off.”

Ralph escorted Marion back to the dancers; at the entrance to the room

to be relieved of his charge by Frank Berwick, radiant with eagerness

and murmuring gentle reproaches to the truant partner as he led her away

to redeem her promise.

It seemed to Ralph that they danced together all the rest of the

evening, for he hardly let them out of his sight, though he spoke to

neither again till the very close.

Then, as Frank, with a face that to so acute an observer as Ralph

Severn, would, had he been less preoccupied, have told its own tale,

was leading Marion to the cloak-room, she heard herself addressed. There

were several people crowding round where they stood, but Ralph made his

way near enough for her to hear him, though he spoke low.

“Miss Freer,” he said, “I am going to leave Altes to-morrow for some

weeks, months perhaps. Will you say good-bye to me?”

“Going to leave Altes to-morrow,” repeated Marion, with a quiver in her

voice, which he did not hear, or if he did, set it down to a different

cause, “going away, to-morrow! Good-bye, Sir Ralph. Good-bye. And—thank

you for being so kind to me.”

“The last words were very low. If only he had looked at her, had

seen the tears welling up and all but running over! But no, he looked

resolutely aside. Only wrung the soft little hand and repeated again,

“Good-bye.”

It was all Marion could do to keep from crying right out in the dark

carriage on the way home. She had had enough to excite and distress

her that evening, and might well have been excused had her self-control

failed her at last.

Only the knowledge that Cissy would discover her tears as soon as she

reached home, enabled her to keep them back till alone in her little

room.

CHAPTER X. A SUDDEN RECALL.

“O that spectre! For three years it followed me up and down

the dark staircase, or stood by my bed: only the blessed

light had power to exorcise it.”

A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. MRS. JAMESON.

“That way madness lies.”

KING LEAR.

IT was quite true. She had not misunderstood what he said. Sir Ralph,

for reasons best known to himself, left Altes the next day for an

indefinite time. It seemed to Marion that there had been something

prophetic in his calling her “brave and patient.” She needed, at this

time, to be both. And she succeeded, poor child, in her endeavour to act

up to his opinion of her. Day after day the appointed hour saw her

in the schoolroom, doing her very best with her pupils, bearing with

Lotty’s tempers and poor little Sybil’s moods. And no one, not even

Cissy, suspected that she had even these to bear, far less the deeper,

though hardly even to herself acknowledged sorrow—disappointment—call

it which you will, the magnitude of which unconsciously swallowed up

the lesser daily irritations. It was not merely a sorrow, a loss, a

something gone out of her life, which she had not known was there till

she missed it. It was more than these. She was mortified, ashamed of

having given her regard, she would call it by no more tender name even

to herself, unasked. For Ralph’s strange words and manner she, in

her morbid self-reproach, now explained as entirely traceable to his

generous pity for her. Pity, in the first place, for her dependent

position, and secondly (ah, how it wounded her to think so!) for her

unmaidenly, because unsought and unreturned, revelation of her “regard”

for him. How extraordinarily people misunderstand each other! Thus she

was thinking and suffering, at the very time that Ralph was repeating to

himself over and over again, “Under no possible circumstances, had there

been no shadow of a rival in the field, could that bright, sweet being

have learnt to care for a soured, dried-up, in every way unattractive

man like me!”

At this period, I think, could Marion have been assured that such

were Ralph’s feelings for her, she would have looked upon permanent

separation from him as a comparatively small trial. For mortification,

self-abasement of this kind are very hard upon a sensitive, pure-minded

girl.

“If only I could think he did not despise me,” she said to herself.

It never occurred to her that so far, as least, as Ralph himself was

concerned, her being a governess might have in any way have influenced

him. She was too unpractical to realize the possibility of this; or was

it, perhaps, the instinctive trust one genuine, noble nature feels in

a kindred spirit? For Marion had been quick to perceive Mr. Erbenfeld’s

contempt and Miss Vyse’s condescending insolence.

But time wore on, as it always does, through the weariest weeks,

as through “the roughest day.” Christmas came and went. January far

advanced, and Marion began to think indeed, she was never to see Ralph

Severn again, for Cissy still spoke of the not for-distant “spring”

as the probable date of her return to India. April had been originally

mentioned as the limit of their stay at Altes, but before then, she

heard from the children, the Severn household was to be removed to

Switzerland for the summer.

Sybil sometimes spoke of her uncle. He had been in London for the last

month, she said. And then two or three days after, with great delight,

she showed Marion a letter he had sent her from Paris, dated from the

Hôtel de ——, where he said he was going to stay a week or two.

“And after that, perhaps, he will come home here,” said Sybil.

“Nonsense, Sybil,” said Lotty, hastily; “that’s not at all certain. He

may, perhaps, not return to Altes at all. What do you know about it, I’d

like to know?”

She spoke roughly and rudely, and Sybil began to cry. Marion checked

Lofty, and desired her to attend to her lessons, and not interfere with

her sister. Then she tried to soothe Sybil, but it was difficult to

do so. Of late the child had seemed far from well. Her timidity and

nervousness had increased to a painful extent, and Marion felt strangely

anxious and uneasy about her. More than ever she felt persuaded that

some unhappy influence was injuriously affecting the child, though in

what it consisted, or how it was exercised, she was utterly unable

to conjecture. This morning Lotty happened to be sent for by her

grandmother, a few moments after receiving her governess’s reproof for

her roughness to Sybil. When left alone with the poor little girl, still

sobbing piteously, Marion again tried to soothe her. She took her on her

knee, and spoke kind, loving words, while she kissed and caressed the

throbbing brow and tear-stained cheeks.

“Sybil my darling,” she said, “try and leave off crying. It will make

your head ache so. Lotty did not mean to be unkind; she only spoke

thoughtlessly, as she does, but you must not mind it so very much.”

Sybil clung to her more closely and tried to check her sobs as she

answered.

“It isn’t Lofty I’m crying about, dear Miss Freer. I’m thinking Uncle

Ralph isn’t coming back.”

“But he’s sure to come back before long, dear,” said Marion;” Lotty only

said he wasn’t perhaps coming just yet.”

“Oh! but I want him so much,” said Sybil, “so very much. I was thinking

I would tell him. I couldn’t tell any one else.”

“What about, dear?” asked Marion, gently. “If you will tell me, perhaps

I can help you.”

“No, you couldn’t,” answered Sybil. “Besides I mustn’t tell you. I said

I wouldn’t, and it might hurt you. I didn’t mean ever to tell anybody,

because of what Emilie said. But since it has been so bad, I thought I

would tell Uncle Ralph. He is big and strong, you know, and he wouldn’t

laugh at me.”

“Laugh at you, dear,” said Marion, eagerly; “no, indeed, he would not.

Nor would I, Sybil. You know I wouldn’t. Won’t you tell me this secret,

darling, unless, of course, you are sure it would be wrong to do so?”

“It wouldn’t be wrong,” said Sybil, “only I promised. And then—— Oh!”

she exclaimed, suddenly, while a sort of shiver ran through her—“oh, it

is so dreadful. Can’t you make me forget it, dear Miss Freer? Last night

I said my prayers a hundred times over without stopping, before Emilie

came to bed, but it was no use. I couldn’t go to sleep, and it gets so

hot under the clothes I can hardly breathe.”

“But how do you menu, before Emilie came to bed?” asked Marion; “doesn’t

she sit in your room after you are in bed? I am sure I have heard that

she was told to do so.”

“Yes,” answered Sybil in a whisper; “yes, Grandmamma did tell her so,

after Lotty went to sleep in Florence’s room. I was always able to go to

sleep before that. But Emilie won’t stay in my room till I go to sleep.

That is what has made it so bad. Only she told me not to tell. If I did,

she said I should get into a fit and die. All alone, Miss Freer, all

alone except for them,” the child added in a whisper of the utmost

horror, her eyes dilated as she looked up into Marion’s anxious face.

Suddenly she threw herself back into her governess’s arms, clutching

her tightly in her terror and distress, and burying her face on her

shoulder.

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “don’t make me tell any more. Don’t, please don’t.”

“Very well, darling,” replied Marion, soothingly; “we will talk about

some nice things. Only tell me, dear Sybil, does any one know? Any one

besides Emilie?”

“Florence knows part,” said the child; “Emilie told her I was very

naughty, and Florence wasn’t kind at all. She scolded me very much, and

said if I told that Emilie didn’t stay with me, she would get me sent

away to school. She said it was very unkind of me to want Emilie to sit

all the evening in my room. But I think Emilie didn’t tell it her all,

or she would not have scolded me so. Emilie does tell little stories,

Miss Freer, and I don’t like her, but Florence likes her because she

does a great deal of work for her, and then she says I give her so much

trouble, she has no time to do the things that Grandmamma wants done.

And it isn’t true, Miss Freer,” said Sybil, emphatically, clenching her

little hands in indignation.

“Well, dear, it should make you not mind so much what Emilie says,

if she is so careless in her way of speaking. If your secret is about

something Emilie has told, I would try not to think any more about it.”

“Yes, but that is true,” repeated Sybil, relapsing into her awe-struck

whisper; “I know that is true, because of what I saw, Miss Freer.”

She shuddered as she spoke, and Marion, fearful of uselessly exciting

her—as it was evident she must not at present insist upon the child’s

full confidence—hastened to change the subject. After some efforts, she

succeeded in interesting and amusing her little charge, who by the end

of the morning looked brighter and happier. Still the young governess

felt very anxious and uneasy when the hour came to leave her pupils

for the day. Sybil looked ready to burst into tears again, but Marion

whispered to her that to-morrow she would arrange to stay an hour later,

to finish a delightful story that had been broken in the middle; which

promise brought back a smile to the woe-begone little face.

“What can I do?” thought Marion. “I can’t bear to leave things as they

are, and yet any interference on my part would probably do no good, and

only cause me to be set down as presumptuous and officious. It might

even lead to my being dismissed, and then how miserable and forlorn

Sybil would be! It is evident that wicked Emilie is terrifying the poor

child to prevent her complaining of her. And Miss Vyse supporting such

conduct! Though I agree with Sybil that Emilie must have told the story

in her own way. Miss Vyse would not be so utterly heartless, if she knew

what the child is actually suffering. Though it is shameful of her

to have accepted Emilie’s statement as to Sybil’s naughtiness in that

careless way.”

So Marion thought to herself. But she could see nothing likely to do

such good in her power. All her cogitations ended in wishing Sir

Ralph were back again. But she resolved in the meantime to watch Sybil

closely, and if no improvement became manifest, to brave all, rather

than conceal the hidden mischief she now had proof was at work. Emilie,

the children’s maid, she had seen little of, but the girl’s manner and

appearance she disliked. Lady Severn unfortunately had an exceedingly

high opinion of her; and Miss Vyse, as Sybil had said, was sure to take

her part, for the reasons the child had been quick enough to discover.

The next day Sybil seemed better again, and told Marion she had had “a

very nice sleep all night.” But the day after the child was evidently

very ill. There were black circles round her eyes, telling of sleepless

hours and nervous suffering. The pain in her head was so bad, she said,

she could not see the words in her lesson-book when she tried to read;

and at last Marion gave up the attempt as useless. Sybil would not speak

much, and was evidently in terror of Marion’s renewing the subject of

her secret alarms. So, after trying to soothe her by reading aloud some

of the little girl’s favourite fairy tales, in which however she seemed

hardly able to take any interest, the young governess was obliged to

leave her for the day. Lotty did not seem much impressed by her sister's

suffering, saying carelessly:

“Oh! Sybil’s always sulky when she has the least bit of a headache.”

When lesson hours were over, Marion asked to see Lady Severn, intending

to tell her of Sybil’s evident illness. Considerably to her annoyance,

Lady Severn sent to ask her to see her in the drawing-room, in

consequence of which Miss Vyse was of course present at the interview,

which effectually dispelled Marion’s faint hopes of being able to do

poor Sybil any real good by what she might say to her grand-mother.

“You wished to see me, Miss Freer, I believe?” began the dowager, in a

rather icy tone.

“Merely to tell you that I think Sybil is far from well this morning,”

replied Marion rather shortly, at which Miss Vyse smiled contemptuously

as she bent over her writing-table. Miss Freer’s entrance into the room

she had acknowledged by the slightest and most indifferent of bows, or

rather nods.

“Of that I am quite aware,” said Lady Severn; “I make a point of seeing

the children every morning, Miss Freer, and I am thoroughly acquainted

with Sybil’s constitution. She is only suffering from one of her

old attacks, and the usual remedies have already been applied. Your

intention was good, Miss Freer, I have no doubt, but I assure you, it

is quite unnecessary for you to add to your duties the care of my

grand-daughters’ health. It is in older and naturally more experienced

hands than yours. At the same time, I thank you for your well-meant

attention to Sybil’s indisposition.”

Again Miss Vyse smiled quietly to herself.

Marion was paler than usual, as she made another effort for her poor

little pupil:

“You must excuse me, Lady Severn,” she said “if I seem officious or

presuming, but I am very anxious about Sybil. I think she has been

falling off for some time. I am afraid she does not sleep well, and bad

nights are sure to hurt a child. In the morning she often looks as if

she had been awake all night.”

“She has never been a good sleeper,” replied Lady Severn, but not

unkindly. “It arises merely from her general delicacy. It is not to be

expected she will get over it till she is older. But in this respect she

is already improved. Emilie says she sleeps soundly now, does she not,

Florence, my dear?” she inquired of Miss Vyse.

“Perfectly so, dear Aunt,” replied the young lady, with the same sneer

in her voice that Marion had detected in her smile. “Of course Miss

Freer cannot understand her in the same way that we do. I myself think

her wonderfully improved of late in her health, though I sometimes fear

the improvement in her temper and disposition is not so great.”

“I quite agree with you my love,” said Lady Severn. “Do not think I am

finding fault, Miss Freer, but you must allow me to say that I think

your anxiety would be better directed were you to turn it to the points

my niece has alluded to.”

“Sybil’s temper and whole behaviour are all I could wish when she is

well, Lady Severn,” said Marion stoutly. “At present I am convinced

there is much amiss with her, and believe it arises in great measure

from her having bad nights. I believe she sometimes cannot go to sleep

for hours after she is in bed. I am sure I would gladly come every

evening to sit by her or read to her, till she goes to sleep, if that

would do any good.”

Miss Vyse’s delicate black eyebrows rose in supercilious amazement at

this proposal, and Lady Severn at first seemed too astonished to reply.

At last she said:

“Really, Miss Freer I suppose I must again give you credit for kindly

and well-meant intention; but your must allow me to remind you that I

have an ample staff of servants in my household for waiting on the young

ladies. You really need not fear they are in any way neglected.”

“Neglected indeed!” repeated Miss Vyse with a silvery laugh at the

absurdity of the idea. “Why Emilie sits the whole evening besides Sybil,

till her little ladyship goes to sleep. And not a little difficult to

please, poor Emilie has found her of late, I can assure you, dear Aunt.

Sybil is a child that requires very judicious management, young as she

is.”

“She certainly does,” said Marion, quietly, looking at Florence as she

spoke. And then, as it appeared that Miss Vyse had exhausted her stock

of impertinent sneers and innuendos for the present, she thought it as

well to take leave.

Her cheeks burned as she thought quietly over the interview. “Poor

Sybil, I have done you more harm than good, I fear!” she said to

herself. And then in her genuine anxiety for the suffering and

mismanaged child, she unselfishly forgot her own personal annoyance and

mortification.

That afternoon as she was sitting with Cissy, Charlie, attended by

Thérèse, returned from his stroll in the park. He told her he had met

“those two little young ladies you go to play with every morning, May.

And the littlest one had red eyes, as if she had been crying,” he added

sympathisingly.

“Poor baby!” said Cissy. “She looks horribly ill now and then, Marion. I

fancy they are rather rough with her sometimes. She has cowed, cowering

look I can’t bear to see in a child’s face.”

All of which added not a little Marion’s uneasiness. An hour or so later

when she was alone in her room, Thérèse entered.

“If you please, Mademoiselle,” she said, “the little young lady asked me

to give you this, but that no one should see it.”

“This” was a leaf of copy-book paper, on which was written in Sybil’s

large, round text hand (the letters shaky and crooked, and the

whole bearing marks of being a laborious and painfully accomplished

production) the following words:

“DEAR MISS FREER,—I meet the little boy and his kind nurse often, and

Lotty would tell, if I had told you this morneng. Pleese writ to Unkel

at Paris, and say I will dye if he wont come. I coudent tell eny boddy

but him. Sybil.”

Marion’s resolution was instantly shaken. She fortunately remembered

the name of the hotel at which Sir Ralph was staying; and that evening’s

post bore to him a letter from her, enclosing poor Sybil’s piteous

appeal. She told Sir Ralph that she was unable to explain the cause of

the child’s suffering; but that she suspected that some cruel trick had

been played by Emilie, the maid, for the sake of terrifying her into

silence. She apologised for her boldness in writing to trouble him about

it; but added that she saw nothing else to do, as her own efforts had

failed to awaken Lady Severn’s anxiety about the poor little girl; and

she ended by begging him to return to Altes as soon as possible to judge

for himself, without of course betraying her confidence, or that of the

poor child.

Once her letter was fairly gone, Marion began to be rather frightened

at what she had done. She was perfectly satisfied that the step she had

taken was a right and indeed unavoidable one; but then there came the

after thought.

“What will he think of me for having done it? Knowing what I do of his

opinion of me, how could I have been the one, for any reason whatever,

to summon him back here before I leave!”

And she felt half inclined to run away from Altes before he could

possibly arrive! And yet with it all, there was a strange under current

of inexpressible happiness in the thought that now she was almost sure

to see him again, to hear him speak, to feel him looking kindly at her

once more.

“Once more!” If only that, and nothing beyond, yet that once more was

worth living for.

Two—three days passed. Then came the fourth, the day before the one on

which Marion had calculated it might be possible to receive an answer

from Paris. She had not been alone with Sybil for more than a moment

since receiving her note. Lotty seemed inquisitive and suspicious, and

Sybil was evidently afraid of her. Marion could only manage to whisper

to the child that she had done what she asked, without any further

explanation passing between them. Sybil brightened up wonderfully on

hearing this, and for some few days looked so much better that Marion

began to think Sir Ralph would consider her alarm about his little niece

very exaggerated, if not altogether uncalled for. The reflection was not

a pleasant one! There was no letter on the fifth morning, nor up to the

eighth! which did not make her feel any the more comfortable, and on

her way to the Rue des Lauriers, one week after her letter had gone, she

really began most heartily to wish she had not written at all.

But the first sight of Sybil changed her feelings entirely. The child

looked exceedingly ill, and was, as before, utterly unable to attend to

her lessons. She lay on the sofa without speaking, and hardly took any

notice even of her kind friend. Only as Marion was leaving, and bent

down to kiss her, Sybil whispered, hurriedly:

“Is he coming?”

“Yes, dear, I hope so,” replied Marion, in the same voice.

There was no time for more, for just then Emilie entered the room with

some medicine, which poor Sybil was obliged to take every two hours; and

the child shrank back in fear.

This was the evening of the last Altes ball before Lent. Cissy was not

inclined to go, not feeling particularly well, and Marion, too, was

much better pleased to stay at home. They spent till evening as usual,

quietly reading and working. From time to time the roll of carriages in

the street below reminded them of the gaiety which the little world of

Altes was about to enjoy. Marion did not envy the ball-goers, but she

could not help thinking, half sadly, of her one ball at Altes, and all

that passed there. Mrs. Archer was tired, and went to bed early, leaving

her cousin alone. To get rid of her thoughts Marion got a book, and

forced herself to attend to its contents, in which she so succeeded that

an hour or two went by, and it was close to midnight before she moved.

Suddenly, she was startled by the sound of a carriage driving up rapidly

and stopping at their door. Knowing that all the servants were disposed

of for the night, and fearing, that a sudden ring of the bell might

frighten Cissy, Marion went quickly to the front door, which she

unlocked and opened softly, and stood with it slightly ajar, watching to

see if indeed the carriage contained any visitor for them. She heard the

driver’s voice, replying to some question, but it was a very dark night

and she could distinguish nothing distinctly. In a moment more she

felt, rather than saw, that some one was approaching the door, which,

to prevent this person’s ringing the bell, she immediately opened more

widely. Evidently the stranger took her for one of the servants; for,

though apparently rather surprised at finding the door open and some

one behind it the unseasonable visitor inquired in French if it would be

possible for him to see “une de ces dames, Madame au Mademoiselle.” The

voice told more tales this time than that its owner was an Englishman!

“Sir Ralph,” said the girl, whom in the dim light he had taken for a

servant, “Sir Ralph, it is I—Marion.” (Even then she could not say Miss

Freer.) “Come in and tell me what is the matter. Oh tell me! Tell me

quickly,” she added, as she saw that he bore a burden in his arms.

Something covered with a shawl, but which he held tenderly and closely,

as if he would guard it from touch or approach. “What is that Sir

Ralph?” she almost screamed, as he entered the passage, and she saw that

what he carried was like a lifeless nerveless body, hanging limp and

loose and heavy in his grasp, though she could see no face or features.

“Hush! Marion,” he said, unconsciously calling her what she had called

herself; “hush! I know you will control yourself and help me. What a

mercy you were still up!”

He spoke in a matter-of-course tone that marvellously quieted Marion’s

first thrill of horror. But she could hardly control herself as he

had told her, when he gently laid his burden on the sofa in the still

lighted drawing-room, and softly removing the shawl from the face showed

Marion that it was Sybil! Poor little Sybil, there she lay, her eyes

closed, but her brow contracted as if with pain or terror, ghastly pale,

with the paleness it seemed to Marion that could only come from one

cause—death!

“Is she dead?” she whispered.

Ralph turned suddenly to her.

“My darling,” he said, “how could I be so cruelly thoughtless as to

forget you in my anxiety about this poor child. Dead! no. Indeed, no.

She is only fainting, and will revive again in a few moments. But dead

indeed she might have been but for you. Your goodness, your promptness

have saved her. It anything had been wanting to—but what am I saying?”

he exclaimed, with a sudden change of tone. “Marion—Miss Freer, you must

think me mad.”

But she said nothing. She leant over Sybil, and would not look up for

fear of meeting his eyes, as she asked quietly,—

“What can we do to revive her?”

“Nothing,” he said; “she is already coming round. Only be sure to

let her see you and this room, as soon as she opens her eyes. She has

already fainted once or twice, and was sent into hysterics again as soon

as she came round, by the sight of that room. And then she begged me to

bring her to you, so I did so, on my own responsibility. My mother and

Miss Vyse are out at a ball, the servants there told me. I sent for

Bailey, but the old fool was not to be found. Gone to the ball too, I

dare say. But it’s just as well to avoid the scandal, for a scandal it

is, no doubt, as you will say when you hear it all. I got her this the

chemist’s, on our way here. It can’t do her any harm.”

And as he spoke he produced a little bottle, from which he poured a few

drops into a glass of water, which Marion fetched him.

“Now Sybil, my pet,” he said, as the little girl opened her eyes, and

glanced round her with an expression of terror. “Now, dear, you are all

right again. You see you are with Miss Freer in her pretty house; and

she is going to let you sleep in her own room, and stay with you all

night.” At which information the poor baby tried to smile, as she

stroked Marion’s hand, laid on her caressingly.

“Forgive My audacity,” he whispered to Marion; “but you will be as good

as my word this once, won’t you?”

“You know I will,” answered Marion, in the same tone.

And then she went to rouse the good-natured Thérèse, and as far as

possible “insense” her as to the strange state of things. Between

them, poor Sybil was divested of her cloaks and shawls, and comfortably

ensconced for the night in a corner of Marion’s bed.

Exhausted by all she had gone through, the poor child soon fell asleep.

Marion returned for a moment to set Sir Ralph’s mind at ease about his

little niece, and to bid him good-night. He only detained her to request

her not to come to the Rue des Lauriers in the morning, as he would

explain her absence to Lady Severn. He also promised to call early, to

see how Sybil had passed the night, and to explain to Miss Freer what

had come to his knowledge as to the cause of the child’s terror and

consequent illness.

“That Emilie shall leave my mother’s service at once,” he said “if I am

to have any authority at all over my nieces. But by the morning I shall

be able to explain the whole affair better. I am not quite clear how

much was Emilie’s doing, and how much the result of pour Sybil’s own

nervousness. The poor child tried to tell me all about it, but could

hardly manage to do so clearly, in the state she was in.”

“You may be sure I shall take good care of her,” said Marion, as he was

leaving.

“I know that well,” he replied. “But that reminds me,” he went on, “I

have never thanked you for it all. What a boor I am! In the first place

your goodness in writing to me, and now for your goodness in taking my

poor child in, as you have done. I am so stupid, Miss Freer, at thanking

people. But you know what I mean, I am sure you do. Something more I

would ask of you. Miss Freer, can you forgive me for having forgotten

myself as I did last night?”

The last words he spoke very low, as if he could hardly force himself to

utter them. Marion did not speak for a moment, and he went on.

“You must think me mad—mad with presumption and folly, as indeed I think

myself. I thought I had mastered myself, Miss Freer, knowing all I do,

both to myself, and you. You, I trust, will be very happy in the life

you have chosen—much happier than if—ah! I must take care or I shall

have to ask you to forgive me again. Can you do so, Miss Freer—Marion?”

he added softly, as if in spite of himself.

And Marion looked up in his face, and said the one little word, “Yes.”

He wrung her hand and left her.

And she laid herself down beside the innocent little child he had given

into her care, and tried to sleep. But in vain! All night long she

tossed about, imagining herself kept awake by her anxiety about Sybil,

but in reality going over and over to herself his words, his looks, his

tones. And wondering why he behaved so strangely, and how it would all

end?

CHAPTER XI. THE LAST AFTERNOON ON THE TERRACE

“O Erd, O Sonne!

O Glück, O Lust!

O Lieb. O Liebe!

So golden Schön

Wie Morganwolken

Auf jenen Höhn.”

GÖTHE.

RALPH called 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 (this part 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 as that, 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 was

not Mdlle. 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 tell any 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. She shall 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.

“I know 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 could she know 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 for him, 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 and respected him, 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.”

“Your commissions, 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 oblige you, 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, how he 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

CHAPTER I. AN EVENTFUL RAMBLE.

“I did never think to marry.”

“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?”

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

SIR RALPH did 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 send my best 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 excuse me, 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 motioned any young 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 on her.

“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 for me. 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. I did offer 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 it now, 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 I have been 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 were not mistaken. There now, remember

that, however strange my after conduct may seem to you. I shall,

whatever I may be forced to do, think more of her happiness 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,

“How very nice 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 a trousseau and all its delightful attendants, proves

that she was very deeply 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? What should he

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 for him, 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 will not

be 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, for me, 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

for me? 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, “but she thinks 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 whole must be

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 would never

consent 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 could never get 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 wished I had

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 allowance unless I 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 Heaven I am 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.”

“Yes,” replied Ralph, “that was not in my grandfather’s power touch,

when he made over all the rest to his daughter. It went to my father

with the title. But unfortunately between his succeeding to the title

and his marrying the heiress several years intervened. Whitelake was

not much of a place to begin with—I don’t think in its best days it gave

more than some fifteen hundred a year; and my father mortgaged it so

heavily that now the rents only just cover the mortgage interest. So

that is a merely illusory possession, you see, I have nothing, Mr.

Price. Nothing whatever and no certainty of ever having anything. And,

then, though not idle, I am desultory. At this moment I see before me no

means of gaining enough to marry upon, even were I more sure than I am

of my own health and strength, and even if I could make up my mind to

risk the future. The present even is barred to me.”

“But if John had not died, Ralph? If you had remained in your original

place as younger son. You are no worse off than you would have been

then.”

“Yes, I am,” said Ralph emphatically, “ten times worse off. Had John

lived some small provision would have been secured to me. He often

talked of this. And I am worse off in another way. At that time I was

getting on fairly well and should soon have risen higher. I had been

vice consul at —— for some time, and had a good chance of succeeding Sir

Archibald eventually. I liked the East, and it suited me. Climate and

everything. I had ample time for the studies I liked best, and in my

quiet, stupid way I was contented enough. Looking back on it now I

certainly wonder at myself.” He went on dreamily. “I have, to my cost,

had a shadowy, tantalizing glimpse of something like happiness! But at

the time I believed myself to be an exception to the rest of mankind.

I thought myself perfectly secure against this sort of thing”—he

smiled half bitterly as he spoke. “You see how I am punished for my

presumption.”

Mr. Price answered by another question.

“Why, then, did you leave the East? I was never quite sure of the

reason.”

“Solely and entirely to please my mother. Though she cared little for

me personally, she had a regard for me as the head of the family, and

thought it unfitting that I should spend my life half buried alive out

there. Then the estate, Medhurst, puzzled her. The agent left and she

had to choose another. Then, too, she had that fit of thinking she was

going to die. Altogether, I seemed to have no choice. So I threw up my

appointment, as you know.”

“I think you did wrong, Ralph. Wrong in this way. You should not have

cut the ground from under your feet in both directions. You should not

have thrown up your only other chance without securing to yourself a

competency at home. This you might easily have done at the time the

money was raised for John’s children.”

“Yes,” said Ralph penitently. “I see it plainly enough now. But at that

time I stood so completely alone. It never occurred to me that I should

ever have to be selfish for others!”

“Well, there is no use blaming you now,” said Mr. Price. “The present

question is, what can you, what should you do?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Sir Ralph. “And you see, Price, how horribly

complicated it is. Were only I myself concerned I could soon decide,

whatever agony it cost me. But if indeed, it be true, as I have great

reason to believe (for the life of me I can’t be unselfish enough to say

“fear”), that she is involved, that she cares for me,”—his voice sank

as he uttered the words—“what can I do? How can I condemn another to the

suffering that it has taken all my manhood to endure?”

Mr. Price did not reply. They walked on for some time in silence.

Suddenly the elder man turned to his companion, with an apparently

irrelevant question.

“Did you see Sir Archibald when you were in town lately?”

“Sir Archibald?” repeated Ralph, with surprise. “Oh, yes, I saw him. He

was very gracious and condescended to approve of my notes on the various

patois about here. Though, of course, Basque is his great hobby; and

I have not been able to collect much new information about that. He is

leaving England again next month. He says Cameron has not been so well

lately.”

“So I heard,” said Mr. Price; “indeed I had better tell you at once what

I am thinking of. I heard from Cameron yesterday. He is returning home.

He can’t stand the climate. Now, Ralph, you see your old post will be

free again. Supposing Sir Archibald were willing to use his interest for

you to get it again, would you take it?”

Ralph did not answer at once. When he did at last speak it was slowly

and thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said, “I think I would. That is to say I should like to have

the option of it to fall back upon, if—if I am right in my hope—or

fear,” he added with a smile. “Thank you for telling me of it. But what

must I do? It is not much use writing to my old chief. It would be much

better to see him; don’t you think so?”

“Much better, I should say, from what I know of him. If you take my

advice, Ralph, you will go over to London as soon as you can, see

Sir Archibald, and, as you say yourself, secure the option of the

appointment. There is no such tremendous hurry, as Cameron is not coming

home for a month or two. But you should lose no time in obtaining Sir

Archibald’s promise to get you the refusal of it. I don’t know the

particulars of the thing, I suppose you could live on it, if the worst

came to the worst and Lady Severn refused all assistance? But, remember,

I am not advising you to anything rash. You must, if possible, be surer

of your ground before risking a quarrel with your nearest relation. On

the other hand, you have no right to ask for this young girl’s pledge

till you are sure of something offer her. It is an awkward position, a

very awkward position,” he repeated.

“But Price,” said Ralph, eagerly, “do you mean to say that were I

obtaining this small certainty for the present, I should be justified

in marrying? I—we could certainly live on my pay out there. Comfortably

enough, I dare say. But the future. What about that?”

Mr. Price looked very grave.

“I trust I am not advising you badly, my dear boy. I can only tell you

what I think. It seems to me that if you and this young lady do really

care for each other, as I believe you do—as I and my poor little

Margaret cared for each other, fifteen years ago,” he said, with a

gentle smile, “in this case,” he went on, “I think you should, to some

extent, brave the future. The probability of your not surviving your

mother is small. And I cannot help feeling more sanguine than you appear

about the way she would act if she were once convinced your decision was

irrevocable. Lady Severn, I have good reason to know, is kind-hearted

and conscientious, though, I must allow, prejudiced; and, perhaps,

naturally so. You don’t think it would be well to make an appeal to her

before doing anything else?”

“No, I don’t,” said Ralph. “At present it could do no good, and might

do great harm. If I told her anything I must tell all, and imagine the

horrors of her name being bandied about and insulted by my mother and

Miss Vyse! For that girl hears everything. I have a dreadful idea that

her suspicions are already aroused. Besides I should feel myself so much

stronger to lay the case before my mother, if I felt I had something

else to fall back upon. It would prove to her that I was most thoroughly

in earnest. No, my first step must be to see my old chief.”

Just then their roads parted. They separated with a hearty shake of the

hand, and a few strong words of thanks from Ralph for his former tutor’s

sympathy and advice.

“You will let me know how it all ends, my dear Ralph,” said Mr. Price,

as he left him.

“Most certainly. But I shall see you again?”

“It is doubtful,” replied the tutor. Any day now the Countess may decide

on leaving Altes. And if you set off for England in a few days, we may

be away when you return.”

“I hope not,” said Ralph. And then he walked home quickly, trying to

arrange his plans in his mind.

“I should much like to be sure, quite sure, of what Berwick told me,”

he thought; “and yet I see no way of satisfying myself without risk

of committing her to more than at present I have a right to ask. But

I couldn’t endure to go about in an underhand way; prying into her

innocent thoughts and feelings. And on the other hand, I can’t endure

to think that she may now be suffering, through my apparent coldness.

Suffering, my poor little girl—and for me!”

At that moment he felt inclined to brave all, and rush off to Mrs.

Archer’s on the spot.

Thinking threw no light on the difficulty. All he could decide upon was

to make immediate preparations for another visit to England; and for the

rest to be guided by circumstances, and by his honest determination to

think first and most of her happiness.

Notwithstanding, however, all his misgivings and anxieties, the Ralph

Severn who ran lightly up the long stone staircase of No. 5, was a very

different being from the grave, careworn man who had slowly descended

those same steps a few hours previously.

CHAPTER II. MORE THAN HALF WAY

“Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.”

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.

“La doute s’introduit dans l’âme qui rêve, la foi descend dans l’âme qui

souffre.”

THOSE few days had been dull enough for Marion. The weeks of happiness,

unquestioning, if not thoughtless, that had preceded them, had ill

prepared her for the sudden change. For that there was a change, that

some mysterious influence had come between Ralph and her, she felt

convinced. At first she was inclined to ascribe it to Cissy’s unlucky

allusion to Frank Berwick that afternoon on the terrace. But on further

reflection she became convinced that though this might explain part,

it did not throw light on the whole. If Ralph’s feelings to her were

merely, as she had for long believed, those of kindly, almost pitying

friendliness, there could be no reason why the suspicion of her

attachment to another should interfere with their pleasant intercourse.

If, on the other hand, as of late she had half unconsciously begun to

hope, his interest in her was of a far deeper nature, why should he have

allowed all these weeks of almost daily intercourse to elapse, and then

suddenly on the mere shadowy appearance of a possible rival, withdraw

without a word of explanation offered or demanded?

No, if Ralph indeed “cared for her,” as she softly worded it to herself,

there must be some other obstacle in the way, some more important

influence at work than any mistaken dread of the young officer. Marion

to some extent misunderstood Ralph. She had no idea of his extreme

self contempt, his rooted notion that in all respects he was utterly

unattractive, and unlikely to win a girl’s affection. She, in her sweet

humility, so looked up to him that she could not realize his complete

unconsciousness of the loftiness of the pedestal on which she had

placed.

But this obstacle, this hindrance, in what then did it consist? wherein

lay its insurmountably? A more worldly-minded or experienced girl

would at once have found an answer to this question in the fact of her

dependent position; but with respect to Ralph himself, this did not

somehow occur to Marion as of much consequence. Yet she was by no means

ignorant of the conventional importance of social position, and had

indeed been keenly alive to the slights, and still more objectionable

condescension, which in her rôle of governess she had not failed to meet

with. Her unworldliness showed itself rather in her perfect trust, her

childlike confidence that were there no other difficulty in the way,

Sir Ralph would not refrain from asking her to be his wife because he

believed her to be a governess. And indeed, though she knew it not, it

was only at times that she realized her present position. It was too new

to her, and she was too conscious of its unreality, for it to influence

save in a passing way her estimate of herself or others. When with Sir

Ralph, she always felt herself to be herself—Marion Vere—his equal in

every sense. In every sense, at least, in which a true woman would

wish to feel herself the equal of the man she loves. And, in an utterly

illogical way, it seemed to her almost as if her knowledge that this

was the case, her assurance that not even from the social point of view

could she be regarded as other than a fit wife for him, must somehow or

other be instinctively recognised by Ralph Severn himself.

In all these ideas, as we have seen, she was partly right and partly

wrong.

From her own side, what troubled her most, was the consciousness of the

deception she had practised. This indeed, were it known, might give Lady

Severn a fair and reasonable excuse for the growing antipathy towards

her, of which Marion had for some time felt conscious, while rightly

attributing it to the specious influence of Miss Vyse. And far worse

than this—for Sir Ralph, she knew well, was not the sort of man to like

or dislike at the bidding of another, even though that other were his

nearest relation—what might not be the effect on the young man himself

of the revelation of her falsehood, for such in deed, if not in actual

word, she felt that it deserved to be called? Would he ever forgive it,

ever make allowance for the temptation which had prompted it? It was

not like an isolated act, she said to herself in her sharp

self-condemnation, it was a long series of deception into which she had

been led, or rather allowed herself to fall. All these months she had

been living under false colours; his very kindness to her even, seemed

to her at times to have the scorch of “coals of fire.” Nay, for aught

she knew, anything beyond this same kindness was purely the work of her

imagination, and the little she was sure of, the gentle, almost fatherly

care which he had always shown her, not hers it all, but belonged to

Miss Freer, the poor little governess, who had upon him the claim that

all weak and dependent beings have upon the strong and prosperous. So

she tormented herself, her mind revolving in a circle of ever increasing

wretchedness, doubt and self-reproach.

Then again, in those long, dull afternoons when she sat by Cissy’s

bedside, or longer, duller evenings, when she had nothing at all to do

but dream by herself in the little salon, there would come gleams of

brightness, beautiful and sudden. A glance round the room, lighting on

some book he had opened when last there, or the terrace where they had

spent such happy hours, or even on the glass which some few days before

had held the flowers he had brought her—any one of these things had

power to shed sunshine through her heart. What did they not recall?

Words all but spoken—slight, lingering touches of her fluttering hair,

the ribbons of her dress, or the bracelet that clasped her round, white

wrist—looks and tones more eloquent than words. Ah, how many silly,

sweet trifles came crowding into her mind! Each with its own precious

message of hope and assurance.

She rose from her seat at last. (It was the evening of the very day on

which Ralph had met Frank and Mr. Price.) She rose from her seat, and

stood erect in her maidenly dignity.

“I will believe,” she said to herself, “I will believe and trust him. I

cannot remember his eyes, his voice, and not think him true. It may be

he is not his own master; he is perhaps fettered in some way; I do not,

and probably never may know. But for all that I believe he loves me. My

love has not been given unsought, though it may be he hardly knew he was

seeking it. I will no longer yield to this horrible mortification, this

doubt of myself and of him. Come what may, Ralph Severn mid I have loved

each other.”

And thereupon Marion found peace. Peace indeed of a somewhat hopeless

kind, but nevertheless infinitely better than the miserable state of

doubt and unrest which had preceded it.

And as she sat there alone and silent, dreaming, till even the long,

light evening was drawing to a close, she gave the reins to her fancy,

in her endeavour to picture to herself the nature of this barrier,

which, she felt convinced, stood between herself and Ralph.

One theory after another she rejected as untenable; but curiously enough

the real obstacle, Ralph’s actual want of means, his dependence on his

mother, never once occurred to her. She was not after all intimately

acquainted with the family history of the Severns, and naturally enough,

seeing Ralph the head of a house, whose possessions were generally

spoken of as considerable, the idea of associating poverty with one in

his position, would have appeared to her absurd.

Suddenly a new solution struck her. Could it be that he was bound in

honour, though not in affection (of the latter she was very sure), to

his beautiful cousin, Florence Vyse? The more she thought of it, the

better it seemed to answer the riddle. Not much of the Altes gossip, so

far as the Severns were concerned, had reached her. Her position in the

family, and her evident dislike to hearing their affairs discussed, had

prevented her hearing much of the tittle-tattle which had been freely

circulated about them.

Still, now and then, hints had reached her of an “understanding” on the

subject, a family arrangement, of which the principals were Sir

Ralph and the beautiful Florence. Her own observation had long since

discovered that if such were not the state of things, it was from no

backwardness on the part of the lady: but hitherto her thoughts had

never rested on the possibility of there being any foundation in fact,

for the rumours she had heard; for Sir Ralph had been at no to hide

his aversion for his so-called cousin, his more than indifference,

his absolute dislike to her society. Nor had he spoken of her with any

prejudice or exaggeration, which might have been attributed to some

other motive. He had simply allowed it to be plainly seen that he did

not like, even while he could not but, in a sense, admire her. One

expression of his, Marion recalled distinctly. Agreeing with her one

day when she happened to allude incidentally to Miss Vyse’s great and

peculiar beauty, she had heard him whisper, mutter rather, to himself:

“Beautiful, yes, no doubt. But there are some kinds of beauty, than

which I would rather have positive ugliness.”

All this had long ago decided Marion that the reports which had reached

her on the subject were mere foundationless gossip; never before this

evening had it come home to her girlish heart, with all its fresh belief

in “love,” as the necessary precursor of marriage; never before had

she realized that the case in question might be a sad exception to her

rule—that heart and hand do not always go together—that Ralph himself

might be bound in honour to marry the beautiful Florence, while his

heart had been given to the simple, trusting girl, who long ago had

allowed him to steal away hers in exchange.

Her quick imagination, once it had seized the clue, was at no loss to

follow out its discovery. “It is all plain to me now,” thought Marion,

“clear its daylight. And it is all over.”

But as she lay down to sleep her last thought was:

“I am content with my share. I would rather have his heart. I have got

it and,” she added almost fiercely, “I will keep it.”

She had sat up later than usual that evening; and the next morning she

was somewhat behind time in making her appearance. The clock struck the

half hour after eight as she finished dressing. Just as she was leaving

her room she heard the front door bell ring; and curious to see who

could be so early a visitor, she passed quickly through the drawing-room

on to the terrace, which sideways overlooked the entrance to the house.

There to her amazement she descried Sir Ralph Severn! What could he be

come about at so unusual an hour? The little mystery however was soon

explained. A slight bustle in the room within, and in another moment

Lofty and Sybil, laden with lovely, fresh flowers, made their appearance

on the terrace.

“Lotty! Sybil!” she exclaimed “where in the world have you got these

lovely flowers?”

“From the market,” answered Lotty. “Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Freer?

But they are really more from Sybil than from me. She thought of them

first.”

“Most from Uncle Ralph, Lotty,” interrupted Sybil, “he wouldn’t let me

pay for them. They are Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, to make the room

look pretty when she gets up in the afternoon. Won’t she be pleased?”

“I sure she will, you dear children answered Marion. “They are lovely.

We have never had such pretty ones before. And Cissy is so fond of

flowers. Pray thank Sir Ralph very much for getting them, and let me

kiss you, Sybil darling, for having thought of them. You too, dear

Lotty. How early you must have got up!”

“Oh, yes, we have been up two hours. We were so afraid of being too

late to go to the market with uncle. All these flowers are for Charlie’s

mamma, Miss Freer, but this one is for yourself, Uncle Ralph said,” and

as Sybil spoke, she took out of a corner of her basket where it had been

carefully placed, one perfectly pure white rose.

Marion took it from her, and held it carefully. “Is it not a beauty?”

said Lotty, but Miss Freer did not answer.

She turned, and went out again on the terrace. There she stood for a

moment, till Ralph, happening to look up, caught sight of her. His face

flushed, and a smile came over it when he saw what she held in her

hand. But he only bowed, and seemed to have no intention of entering the

house. So she went back to the children and thanked them again for their

pretty gift, and advised them not to keep their uncle waiting.

When they were gone she at down to her solitary breakfast, with her

heart full of strangely-mingled feelings; while Ralph walked home

absent and preoccupied, and answering much at random to the incessant,

chattering questions of his merry little nieces.

It is curious how sometimes when we have made up our mind to a certain

course of action, the most unexpected outward occurrences seem, as it

were, to happen on purpose to confirm us in our resolution.

So it seemed just now to Ralph. The English letters arrived this morning

as he sat at breakfast, after his early visit to the market. Among

them, to his surprise, he recognized one in the handwriting of his “old

chief,” as he called him, Sir Archibald Cunningham.

“Curious,” thought Ralph as he opened it. “Very, that I should hear from

him just at this crisis. The last man on earth to write a private letter

if he can avoid it.”

Its contents were, in themselves, unimportant enough, merely requesting

Sir Ralph to forward to him by post one or two additional notes on

the neighbouring patois, which, when in England, he had not thoroughly

revised. The gist of the letter, so far as Ralph was concerned, was

contained in the postscript.

“I would not have hurried you about these notes,” wrote Sir Archibald,

“but I have decided to leave England much sooner than I expected,

remaining some weeks in Switzerland on my way east. I start, if

possible, next week. I am only delayed by my wish to find out whom I am

likely to get instead of Cameron.”

“Next week,” thought Ralph; “that’s quick work. I must see him before he

leaves town.”

And that day saw a letter written and despatched to Sir Archibald

announcing Ralph’s intention of seeing him in London with as little

delay as possible, and giving him some idea of the nature of the

business he was specially anxious to discuss with him.

Lady Severn was not a little annoyed, when she learnt her son’s

intention of starting again for England on the morrow.

“It was very strange,” she said, “that Ralph could not have finished all

he had to do in town when he was there before.”

And she did her best to discover the reason of this sudden move. But

she obtained little satisfaction on the subject from her son. The

remembrance of the last private interview he had had with her, in which

a certain delicate, and to him most unpalatable subject, had for the

first time been openly discussed between them, did not incline him to be

confidential till he was obliged.

“I shall be only too ready to tell you all about this business of mine

when there is anything to tell, my dear mother,” he said; “at present I

can only assure you such is not the case.”

Miss Vyse did not mend matters by privately confiding to Lady Severn,

her belief that Sir Ralph had taken such a dislike to her, that he

seized every occasion for absenting himself from the home circle of

which she was at present a member.

“I am sure I don’t know why he dislikes me so, dear Aunt,” she said

sweetly, with tears in her lustrous eyes. “It is only of late. I can’t

help fancying sometimes”—— but then she stopped.

“What, my dear Florence? Do tell me, I beseech you. I cannot indeed

understand my son’s conduct; strange and unaccountable as he often has

been, his present behaviour surpasses all. Oh, my dear child, if only

John had lived, you would not have been thus unappreciated! He had such

taste and such amiability of character; and after his wife’s death, per

little thing, he only saw with my eyes. But what is it you fancy?”

“Pray do not blame me for it, dear Aunt. But I cannot help thinking that

there has been some outside influence at work to turn Sir Ralph from

me—and indeed from you. It is only since his intimacy with Mrs. Archer

and her friend that he has changed so to me. And I am sure I don’t know

why they should dislike me! But I would rather go home, dear Aunt,” she

went on, “truly I would rather go home” (though she was further than

ever from thinking of anything of the sort) “than stay here to be the

unhappy cause of coldness between my dearest, kindest friend and her

son.”

“Go home, my love, go home! Indeed you shall not think of such a thing,”

exclaimed Lady Severn. “You, my dear Florence, shall not be allowed to

suffer for that foolish boy’s mad infatuation. He forgets, I think, all

that is in my power. But you, my dear, must not dream of leaving me till

you do so for a home of your own.”

Not so bad for Florence after all! It was the first time she had

succeeded in obtaining from Lady Severn a distinct invitation to take

up her quarters permanently in her household, and she took care by her

vehement expressions of gratitude to clench the proposal, which in a

calmer moment the old lady might not have been in quite such a hurry to

make.

It was not very cordially that Lady Severn bade adieu to her son that

evening as, accompanied by Miss Vyse, she drove off to an elegant

entertainment given by Mr. Chepstow in the gardens of his pretty little

villa a couple of miles out of Altes.

Sir Ralph was to leave very early the next morning, and therefore

thought it expedient to make his farewells overnight. He thought himself

very fortunate in that, his farewells not being confined to the ladies

of his own household, Mr. Chepstow’s entertainment left him free to

spend the rest of the evening as he chose.

But it was no easy task he had set before him. Far from it, for to tell

the truth, he had by no means made up his mind as to what it consisted

in. He was as determined as ever, in no way to allow Marion to commit

herself to any promise, till he felt that he had a better right to ask

such from her. On the other hand, the thought of leaving Altes even for

a few days, without some greater assurance (than that of Frank Berwick’s

communication) of the true state of the young girl’s feelings towards

him, was unendurable.

Still more repugnant to him was the thought of the strange and

unfavourable light in which his own conduct must appear to her, were

no sort of explanation to take place between them; the worst of all, he

could not bear to go away haunted by the remembrance of her pale face

and anxious eyes, telling of suffering and disappointment of which he

was both the object and the cause.

He must say something, however little. That was all that he could make

up his mind to.

What it should be, or how it should be said, circumstances must decide.

He wondered, as in the cool or the evening he walked to Mrs. Archer’s,

how he should find them.

Would Marion be alone, her friend not yet well enough to be in the

drawing-room? In that case what should he do? Could he ask for Miss

Freer? Charlie’s “Madymuzelle.” He had never yet done so, and he dreaded

servants’ tongues, even that of the discreet and amiable Thérèse. He

felt considerably at a loss, and when he got to the top of the Rue St.

Thomas, twice turned back and walked some few yards in the opposite

direction while trying to decide on his next step. He might have saved

himself the trouble. Just its he was preparing to ring the bell, the

door was opened—by Marion herself.

She started slightly when she saw him,

“Oh,” said she, “I thought it was Dr. Bailey. I heard steps stop at the

door and I ran to open quietly. I wanted to see him alone to ask how he

thinks Mrs. Archer really is.”

“Is Mrs. Archer worse then?” asked Sir Ralph with interest.

“No, oh no. I think she is better. Almost well again indeed. But still

I am not satisfied about her somehow, and Dr. Bailey is one of those

people that talks to invalids as if they were babies. I thought perhaps

if I saw him alone he would tell me the truth.”

All this time they were standing in the doorway, Marion indeed blocking

up the entrance.

“Are you not going to ask me to come in, Miss Freer?” asked Sir Ralph.

Marion looked uncomfortable, but could hardly help smiling as she

replied:

“Mrs. Archer has gone to bed.”

“Then I shall not have the pleasure of seeing her. All the same, I think

you might have the civility to ask me to come in.”

Whereupon Marion drew hack laughing, and allowed him to enter the

drawing-room.

“You are expecting Bailey?” he said; “did he say he would call this

evening?”

“Yes, at nine o’clock. He wanted to see how Cissy was, after her drive

this afternoon.”

“At nine,” said Ralph, consulting his watch. “That’s still a quarter

of an hour off. Are you busy, Miss Freer, or may I stay a few minutes?”

adding to himself mentally, “I must take care that old gossip Bailey

does not catch me here, A nice amount of mischief he would make, if he

went chattering to my mother while away.”

“Oh no, I’m not particularly busy,” replied Marion, rather sadly, it

seemed to Ralph. “Indeed my evenings have been rather dull lately, but I

hope Cissy will soon be all right again.”

“I hope so too,” said Ralph, and then he sat still, utterly at a loss

what more to say, and how to say it. Marion seemed calm and subdued.

Perfectly free from nervousness or embarrassment, but yet in some subtle

way he was conscious of a change in her.

He looked at her as she at there opposite him, so quiet and pale.

Spirit-like, she seemed to his fancy, in her white, thin dress: the

faint colourless evening light seeming rather to shadow than illumine

her slight girlish figure. A sort of shiver ran through him. She looked

so fragile, so gentle and subdued. What if this were the beginning of

the end? What if he were thus to lose her? Lose her, before indeed

he could call her his. It was all he could do to control himself, to

refrain from gathering this fair, clinging, child-like creature in his

arms, and telling her that there she should be held for ever.

But he kept firmly to his resolution. Something of what was in his heart

he would say; but not yet the whole.

“Miss Freer,” he began. “I wanted particularly to see you this evening,

for to-morrow again I am going away.”

She looked up at him gravely, but hardly seemed surprised.

“Then,” she said with a slight, the very slightest, quiver in her voice—

“then you have come to say good-bye.”

“Not for long, I hope,” he answered. “I am very loth to go, but I think

it is my best course. In a week or two I hope to be back again, and if I

succeed in what I am going to try for, I shall, you may be sure, make

no delay in finding my way here again. I cannot explain to you,

Miss Freer—Marion. I cannot explain to you at present my strange,

inconsistent conduct. But I could not bear to go away without asking

you not to think worse of me than you can help—to trust me for a little.

Just now I cannot defend myself, but I beseech you to think gently

of me. If indeed”—and here in spite of himself his voice grew husky—”

indeed, I am not mistaken in thinking you are likely to have me in

your thoughts at all. If I am mistaken I can only ask you to forgive my

presumption.

“You are not mistaken,” said Marion, gently, but very clearly. “You

are not mistaken, and now I am not ashamed to tell you so. I do not

altogether understand you, but I do not ask for any explanation till

you can give it me. And if that time should never come I will still not

blame you, and I will not, even then, feel ashamed of having told you

so. I know that in some way you are not your own master, not free to

act as you wish. But I would not feel towards you as I do, if I did not

believe you cared for one thing more than for me.”

“One thing?” asked Ralph.

“Yes,” she said. “Doing right, I mean.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you for all you have said. Above all,

for trusting me. You are right in what you suspect. I am indeed not

free, but it will not be my fault if I do not succeed in becoming so.

I may fail; in that case I must not ask you to remember me. But, in any

ease, Marion, my dear, true-hearted little friend, thank you for all you

have been to me; and, above all, for not, misjudging me now.”

He had risen and come nearer her. She too stood up, and did not withdraw

the hand he had taken. But suddenly she started back, snatching it away

almost violently.

“No, no!” she cried; “I am not as good as you think me. I am not worthy

of you. I have deceived you in letting you think me— Oh, what shall I

do? Must I tell you? Please, don’t ask me to tell you yet. Some day it

may be different, but not just now. You would blame me so.”

“Hush, Marion; hush, my dear child. I don’t understand you. We both have

mysteries, you see. But don’t distress yourself so. Tell me nothing you

would rather not tell. Some day, as you say, when I can explain all my

strange behaviour to you, you shall then tell me what you please. Do you

think, my poor darling, that I cannot trust you as you trust me? Only

tell me this much. It is nothing that need come between us two, if, as I

hope, in a week or two from now I can see my way clearly.”

Marion looked relieved, but anxious.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It need not come between us if you

still wished it—cared to have me, I mean. It would depend on that, and

on my father,” she added. “If he would for once agree to my wishes. I

have never opposed him yet; never in anything.”

But at that moment the clock struck nine.

“I must go,” said Ralph, “or Bailey will be here. I don’t think your

secret obstacle will be insurmountable from what you say. Probably, you

exaggerate its importance. But before long I trust we may be able to

talk over together all our difficulties and anxieties, which will be the

best way of making an end of them. A fortnight at most will see me back

again. Till then we must hope the best and trust each other. Now I must

go. Good-bye, my darling. You are not angry with me for calling you so?

Good-bye.”

He held her hand for a moment firmly in his, dropped it suddenly, and

was gone.

Marion sat down again in her corner, still feeling the strong but gentle

pressure on her hand; still hearing the deep, earnest ring of his voice.

It was all very strange! Very strange and bewildering and anxious. Just

yet she felt too confused to recall all that had passed. Only the one

strong impression remained in her heart. Ralph Severn loved her, and she

was very happy.

What was he thinking?

“I hope I have done right. I hope and trust I have done right. I could

not have said more nor less. It would never have done to tell her

beforehand, sensitive as she is, of the sacrifice, as it would be

called, that I must make to win her. No, now that I am sure of her I

must have everything else settled and done before she hears of it. But

then, again, some difficulty she hinted at on her side, connected, I

have no doubt, with the family disgrace I suspected some time ago. Her

father, she mentioned. Can he have some marriage in view for her? I

should not wonder. Mrs. Archer said more than once that she was not

always to remain a governess. There is something queer about their

affairs I am certain, for even Mrs. Archer, inconsiderate as she

generally is, is reserved about them. But there can be nothing that

would affect my Marion herself. Nothing, now that I am sure she cares

for me. But I wish I were back again! As soon as possible on my return

I must see her, and explain to her my position clearly. Then she must

decide for herself, if she can venture to be a poor man’s wife. A very

poor man by all appearances. But she has a brave spirit of her own!

Fortunately, the quarrel with my mother was not owing to her; so she

need have no feeling of responsibility about it. If there had been no

other woman in the world I would not have married Florence Vyse. Yes, I

see what I must do. As soon as I return with the promise I hope for,

I shall lay the whole before Marion, and, in return, hear from her the

fancied obstacles on her side. Then I will speak to my mother, and give

her a last chance of retaining my affection and respect. But not till

I have first had a thorough explanation with Marion. And supposing my

mission is unsuccessful? Time enough if it is so. I am tired of caution.

It must succeed.”

And so, full of hope and bright anticipations, he started for England

the next morning.

CHAPTER III. “FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND.”

“So, I will lay one kiss

Upon thy hand, and looking through the lights

Of thy soft eyes, whisper the old word

That runs before all detail and change, ‘farewell.’”

ORESTES.

IT was now about the middle of March. Many of the human swallows at

Altes had already taken flight to more northern latitudes, others were

preparing for so doing. The season was an unusually early one. The

midday sun was already too powerful to face without great precautions in

the way of shady hats and parasols, and people no longer congratulated

themselves so triumphantly as a few weeks previously, on being out of

“that dreadful English climate.”

Even a little London rain would be acceptable, thought Marion, as she

walked home one glaring morning from the Rue des Lauriers. And then

her thoughts flew on to a certain familiar figure at that very moment

probably enough pacing the grey, dreary pavement of the great city

itself.

Hardly a week had a yet elapsed since Ralph left, but already she was

“wearying” for his return, her heart alternately dancing with sweetest

hopes and trembling with misgivings.

But she would leave it all to him. Who so wise, so brave, so true? What

lay within human possibility to do, he would, she felt sure, set himself

to achieve. The exact, nature of the complications about him, the

fetters he had himself told her of, she did not just now much trouble

her head about. Vaguely, she imagined them to be connected with Florence

Vyse, though what, if this were the case, could be the special object

of a journey to London, she was at a loss to think. But he had judged it

best not at present to tell her, and she was content to wait for his

own explanation—to be followed, alas! by what she could not bear to

contemplate, the confession of the long deception she had herself

practised.

She had left home this morning, as usual, early, before the arrival of

the letters, which to-day Cissy was looking for anxiously, the Indian

mail being due.

When she entered the little drawing-room, she was surprised at not

finding her cousin there. Nor were there about, the room the usual

traces of Mrs. Archer’s recent presence.

“I hope Cissy is not ill,” thought she anxiously, as she hastened to

Mrs. Archer’s bedroom.

The door was shut, but “come in,” in Cissy’s voice reassured her.

On entering the room, however, she stood aghast at the sight before her.

There was Cissy on her knees before a huge trunk, two or three others of

varying dimensions standing with their lids open in a row, while every

article of furniture in the room, bed, tables, chairs, and floor itself,

were literally heaped with the whole of the little lady’s wardrobe.

Dresses, cloaks, shawls, bonnets, boots and linen—the whole of Mrs.

Archer’s possessions seemed suddenly to have been seized with a frenzy

of disorder, while she herself in their midst, her small person almost,

hidden by the overwhelming portmanteau, looked utterly unable to cope

with the chaotic confusion around her. The scene reminded Marion of the

old fairy story of the poor little princess, shut up for twenty-four

hours in a room of tangled threads, all of which by the expiration

of the allotted time, she was ordered, under pain of some tremendous

punishment, to wind with perfect regularity in even skeins for the use

of her tormentor.

“What are you about, Cissy?” ejaculated her cousin, “Have you lost

anything, have you quarrelled with Madame Poulin and determined to leave

her house on the spot?”

“Don’t laugh, May, don’t,” said Cissy, beseechingly, looking up as

she spoke. Though the request was unnecessary, as the sight of

her tear-stained face quickly divested her cousin of any risible

inclination.

“I have had a letter from India—from George. At least part of it is from

him; the rest from his doctor, he could not write much himself.”

Here Cissy was interrupted by sobs, and for a moment or two could not

control herself sufficiently to go on with her explanation.

“Here is the letter, read it yourself,” she said at last, handing to

Marion the precious document, “I am beginning to pack, you see. We must

leave this the day after tomorrow. I would have sent to Lady Severn’s to

tell you had you been late of returning.”

Marion read the letter in silence. It was, as Mrs. Archer had said,

a joint production, begun by her husband, and then gone on with and

concluded by the medical man attending him. For he had been very ill,

this beloved “George” of poor Cissy’s; very ill indeed, Marion could

discover, through the assumedly cheerful tone of the letter. But he was

better now; so much better that Dr. Finlayson, an old friend or Cissy’s,

assured her he wanted nothing more but her nursing and society. He had

got sick leave for six months, and by the end of March hoped to be able

to be moved to a healthy neighbourhood, not far from Simla, where by the

autumn he had every prospect of obtaining the staff appointment he had

long been hoping for. So, as far as climate was concerned, there was

nothing to prevent Cissy’s at once rejoining him, provided always

her own health was sufficiently re-established, which point, said Dr.

Finlayson, Mrs. Archer’s anxiety for her husband must not allow her to

overlook, nor must she omit to consult as to this both her physician at

Altes, and her former medical adviser in England.

Marion stood staring at the letter without speaking. Was it selfish of

her, that even at this moment of warm commiseration for her cousin, the

effect this sudden move might have on her own prospects, rushed into her

mind? She tried to drive it back, but found it difficult to do so.

“Well, Marion,” said Cissy, peevishly, for, being in no small terror of

her cousin’s remonstrance as to so sudden and impulsive a step as the

immediate return to England, she was determined, woman-like, to take the

bull by the horns by constituting herself the aggrieved party.

“Well, Marion, have you nothing to say? You stand there as if you were

asleep, instead of helping me, with all that must be done to let us get

away by Thursday.”

“But are you really determined to go at once, Cissy? Do you think you

are fit for the journey even to London, or Cheltenham rather? I much

doubt it. Have you seen Dr. Bailey? Dearest Cissy, I am so sorry for

you, but I fear you are not well enough to rejoin Colonel Archer just

yet.”

“I am well enough to go to India to-day, but I am not well enough to

bear the anxiety of waiting for another mail’s rows. It would kill me,

Marion—kill me, simply,” repeated Cissy, emphatically, “and neither you

nor anyone else who wants to keep me alive, will attempt to stop me. As

for Bailey, he is an old woman and an old fool to the bargain. All the

same, I have sent for him and seen him. He says I am as well able to go

now as I am likely to be for the next year or two, if ever. And whether

it is so or not, Marion, I must go. What is my health to George’s? What

would I care for my life without him? You don’t know what it is to love

anyone, child, as I love my husband. Some day you may, and then you

will understand. But now, I must ask you, beg of you, to harass me by no

remonstrance. I have done all I was told. I have seen Bailey, and will

also see Frobisher at Cheltenham.”

Marion felt indeed that any interference on her part would be worse than

useless, though a sad foreboding was at her heart, and the tears filled

her eyes, as she looked at poor Cissy’s rapidly changing colour, the too

great brilliance of her eyes, and the nervous working of her thin, white

hands.

“And Charlie?” was all she asked.

“He will go, too. George wishes it, and Simla is so healthy. You have

not read the postscript.”

Which accordingly Marion did; and then proceeded to give way to a most

silly and ill-timed burst of tears!

“How silly!” stronger-minded young ladies will exclaim. Just so; but

then I am telling all about it, as it happened, and I must not make

my heroine any stronger or wiser than she was, poor little girl. Cissy

should have scolded her, but she didn’t. Instead thereof, she plumped

herself down beside her on the floor, and for a good quarter of an hour,

they cried and sobbed in each other’s arms. Then they sat up and wiped

their eyes, like sensible young women, as in the main they were, kissed

each other, while they ejaculated—“Dearest Cissy,” and “darling May,”

and set to work to think what they must do.

First of all there was Marion’s engagement with Lady Severn. This,

fortunately, was within a fortnight of expiring, and in answer to a

note of explanation which Marion dispatched, came a sufficiently cordial

reply from her pupils’ grandmother, enclosing a cheque for the fifteen

pounds (which had been all the little governess would agree to accept

for each quarter) owing to the end of the engagement, expressing thanks

for the kindness and attention she had bestowed on her pupils, and

begging her on no account to distress herself at having to leave Altes

before the quarter had fully expired.

With this came a note for Cissy. It was couched in much heartier

language, and the anxiety expressed as to Colonel Archer’s state of

health was evidently genuine. Lady Severn, in conclusion said she hoped

to call to see Mrs. Archer the following afternoon, and that she had

forgotten to mention that her grand-daughters would be disappointed not

to say goodbye to Miss Freer in person. They would be at home all the

next morning, if “Mrs. Archer’s young friend” could spare a few minutes

to come to see them.

“How thoughtless of her to propose it,” exclaimed Cissy; “really some

ladies deserve to be governesses themselves for a while, to see how they

would fancy that sort or thing. As if the children could not come to see

you! Oh, May, I am so thankful for you to say goodbye for ever to that

odious Miss Freer.”

“Are you?” said Marion; “I can’t say if I am or not. Sometimes I detest

her, and then again I feel very grateful to her. Thanks to her I am now

out of debt, any way. This fifteen pounds will come in nicely for the

quarter’s rent.”

“Very nicely,” said Cissy; “all the same, I’d like to make you eat that

of cat’s cheque!”

Marion did spare five minutes the following morning, and the parting

with Lotty and Sybil was really a most touching affair. There had been a

secret expedition the previous evening from the Rue des Lauriers, under

the escort of Thérèse’s sister, which resulted in the presentation to

Miss Freer or two original, though not strikingly appropriate parting

gifts. A mantel-piece ornament from Lotty of the china, pottery rather,

of’ the district, and from Sybil a gaily-bound and profusely illustrated

story book, more suited to her tender years than to the maturer taste of

the young governess.

“All fairy stories, dear Miss Freer,” said the child, trying her best to

keep back her tears, and bear the parting bravely. “All fairy stories,

and Beauty and the Beast is in I looked for the picture, and Jeannette

read me the name, ‘La Belle et la Bête.’ Won’t you like reading it, Miss

Freer?”

“Yes, indeed, my darlings,” said poor Marion, kissing them for the

twentieth and last time, with a strange wistful questioning in her

heart as to whether she should ever again kiss these sweet, fresh, child

faces, and if so, where and when! Then she ran away without looking,

back, to hide the fast dropping tears that, do what she would, could not

she entirely repressed; and carrying with her the presents on which

had been expended all the available resources of the little girls. Poor

little presents! There came a day when he hid them out of sight, far

away in a high cupboard. Not that she lived to forget her little pupils,

but sad unendurable memories came to associated with them in her mind,

and all she could do was to try to forget.

She hurried home to the Rue St. Thomas, treading for the last time

the now familiar streets. Hurried home to find Cissy immersed, and but

prostrated, by the terrible business of packing and accounts paying.

“Leave as much as possible to me, Cissy, dear. I have said my goodbyes,

and am now free to work. You have to be ready for Lady Severn, you know.

The Berwicks, and others, we cannot attempt. You might ask Lady Severn

to explain to them and any one else the reason of our sudden flight. One

thing, Cissy, will you do to oblige me? Give Lady Severn your address at

Cheltenham. It is possible there may be some message to send us through

her. I did not like to ask the children to write, but perhaps they may

think of it.”

“I don’t suppose any one will help them to do so, poor little things,

even if they wish it,” replied Mrs. Archer. “However, I can easily give

her the address.”

She did so when Lady Severn and Miss Vyse called to as goodbye. Lady

Severn took the card on which it was written, and after glancing at it,

handed it to Florence, when they reseated themselves in the carriage.

“You keep it, Florence, dear,” she said; “you have all my addresses.

Though, indeed, I shall not forget it. I have a capital head for

addresses—23, West Parade, Leamington. Yes. 23, West Parade.”

And after a week’s bustle crowded into a few hours, the little party

set off again on their travels. Just the three, Mrs. Archer, Marion, and

Charlie, for poor Thérèse had to be left behind. Mr. Chepstow sent two

carriages to convey them to the place from which the diligence started,

and was there himself to see them off. He was “really very kind,” they

all agreed.

But it was sad, this sudden, hurried departure from the place they had

come to know so well. Hardly sad for Cissy, perhaps; her thoughts were

far away eastward, and she only lived in the hope of soon following them

thither. But for her young cousin! Ah, it was very trying. Just a few

short, days before “he” would be back again, when all, she had hoped,

would have been explained between them. She had no hope of meeting him

in London. In all probability he would have left before their arrival,

and even if not, the chances of their meeting were of the most remote.

She did not know his address, and he!—he neither knew of her coming,

nor, should he even hear it from his mother, would he have the slightest

notion where to seek her. No, she must trust that he would write, as,

she felt satisfied he would be sure to do without delay, if he had

anything good to tell. In any case, indeed, she thought, considering the

circumstances, he would write. He was so thoughtful and considerate, and

must have a fair notion of the suspense she was enduring.

She did what she could before Leaving Altes. Besides the address

given at her request to Lady Severn, she left with Mme. Poulin several

ready-stamped envelopes, similarly directed by herself to Mrs. Archer’s

Cheltenham address, and gave their obliging landlady most particular

injunctions to the forwarding immediately of all letters and notes of

any kind that might be sent after their departure. How she wished she

could have left some directed to her own name and address! The going in

the first place to Cheltenham would add to the delay, but she dared

not venture to do more, and could only trust that a happy ending might

compensate for the present trying suspense.

It was a hurried and uncomfortable journey, and yet poor Marion could

hardly wish it over, for it was the last she could hope to see of Cissy

for many a long day to come.

They arrived in London very late in the evening of a chilly, rainy March

day. For this one night Marion accompanied her cousin to her hotel, for

though she had written from Altes to her father announcing their sudden

return to England, she felt more than doubtful of his having received

the letter, as he was much addicted to eccentric flights from home of

two or three days’ duration, and on such occasions did not think it

necessary to leave his address.

How strange to be in London again, and oh, how dreary and ugly it

looked! How painfully “the national dread of colour” is felt by the

traveller returning home from the brightness and freshness across the

channel!

“Oh,” exclaimed Marion, “how could I ever have grumbled at Altes

sunshine and heat! I envy you, Cissy. I declare, I wish I were going, to

India with you.”

“I wish indeed you were, my darling,” quoth Cissy, whose tears in these

days were never far to seek. “But if we are to drop you on our way to

the station, May, it is truly time to go.”

For Mrs. Archer’s plans were to go straight on to her mother-in-law’s at

Cheltenham, the morning after their arrival in London.

So their goodbye had to be said in the cab!

If walls had tongues as well as their proverbial ears, we should want no

other story tellers; but what of the romances we might hear from those

wretchedest of conveyances, London cabs, were they likewise endued with

speech!

Oh, the broken hearts that, have been jogged along the dirty London

streets since the days when the first “Hackney” saw the light! Oh, the

bright hopes doomed to disappointment, the vows made but to be broken,

the agonies of anxiety, the “farewells” of very utmost anguish, of

which these grumbling, creaking, four-wheelers, or rattling, springing

Hansoms, might tell! For my part I don’t think I should much fancy

spending a night alone in one of l hose dilapidated remains of a

vehicle, “cast,” at last, as no longer possible to use, which we now and

then discern in some dingy corner of a cab proprietors yard. I am quite

sure I should not spend the dark hours alone. Strange shadowy visitors

would occupy the other seats, and long forgotten scenes would be

re-enacted within the small compass of the four wooden walk! No,

assuredly, I should not fancy it at all!

But to return to our special cab, or rather to its occupants.

“You will be sure to write to me, Cissy dear from Cheltenham, and tell

me when you really go,” said Marion.”

“Oh yes, dear, of course, I shall,” replied Mrs. Archer; “and you, May,”

she continued, “must let me know how you find Uncle Vere, and Harry. For

he will be with you soon, won’t, he? It is so easy for him to run up to

town now he is at Woolwich.”

“Yes, I hope so,” answered Marion somewhat absently; then she added in

a lower voice, while a slight shade of colour came over her face, “Will

you, Cissy dear, be careful to send me on at, once any letters that may

be forwarded to me—to Miss Freer, you know—under cover to Cheltenham?”

“Certainly, I shall. But do you expect?” asked Mrs. Archer with some

surprise.

“I don’t know—perhaps,” replied Marion rather confusedly.

Something in her tone made Cissy turn so as to see her better. Then she

took the girl’s hand in hers, and said gently, very gently:

“My dearest, is there anything you are anxious about? Once or twice

lately I have half suspected something, but you are not like most girls,

silly and not to be trusted. Indeed I often fancy you are much wiser

than I, and I could not bear to pry into your confidence. But now,

darling, we shall not see each other for so long—perhaps indeed—but no,

I won’t he gloomy. Won’t you tell me if there is anything? Any special

letter you are expecting?”

“I can’t tell you just now, Cissy. Indeed I can hardly say there is

anything to tell. When, or if, there is I will write to you at once. I

promise you this, dear Cissy.”

“Or if I can help you in any way?” suggested Cissy rather timidly. “Yes,

if you could, I would as you to do so sooner than any one.”

“Only one word more, May. You wouldn’t go on screening Harry at the

expense of your happiness? You know how I mean, dear. You would not

allow this idea of your being only a governess to remain in any one’s

mind so as to cause injury to your own prospects? Promise me this, for

if not I shall never forgive myself for having given in to this scheme

of yours at Altes.”

“Don’t be afraid, Cissy. I have no intention of keeping it up. The very

first opportunity I have, I mean to tell the whole truth to —— you know

whom, for if I ever see him again, he will have a right to hear it.”

“Thank you for telling me this,” said Cissy, “I only wish he knew it

already! In any case, Marion, however things turn out, you will write

and tell me?”

“Yes, in any case. I promise you I will,” replied the girl. “But here we

are at my home! Oh, how unhomelike it looks, Cissy! Papa must be away,

but that I don’t mind. Oh, my dear, my darling Cissy, if only you

were not going so far! Whatever shall I do without you, my kind sweet

sister?”

And all her composure broken down, poor Marion clung to the only near

woman friend she had ever known. She had not thought she would feel

this parting so acutely; and when at last she had torn herself away, and

stood watching the cab drive off slowly, out of sight round the corner

of the square, it seemed indeed to her that she had parted for ever with

her dear, sweet friend.

It was a small comfort to remember that the faithful Foster, now

transformed into Mrs. Robinson, was to meet poor little Charlie and his

mother at the station, and not forsake them till she saw them off on

their long journey eastward; for Cissy was already half worn out with

fatigue and anxiety, and the parting with Marion had been almost more

than she could stand, poor loving little soul that she was.

“How thankful I shall be to hear of her being safe with her husband

again! My dear, kind Cissy. But oh, how I shall miss her!” thought

Marion as she entered her gloomy home, with no one to welcome her but

the startled servants; whose faces however did grow brighter when they

saw who it was. Which even, to my thinking, was better than no welcome

at all.

CHAPTER IV. THE END OF SEPTEMBER.

“He comes, the herald of a noisy world;

News from all nations lumbering at his back.

. . . .

Messenger of grief

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some:

To him indifferent whether grief or joy.

THE TASK.

“Art thou dead?

Dead?

. . . . .

Could from earth’s ways that figure alight

Be lost and I not know ‘twas so?

Of that fresh voice the gay delight

Fade from earth’s air, and I not know!”

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

IT was not, certainly, a pleasant change from Altes to London, for poor

Marion. For a day or two she was perfectly alone, her father, as she had

expected, absent; and she herself too anxious and dispirited to care to

announce her return to the few friends, so-called, with whom she was on

anything like intimate terms.

On the third day Mr. Vere made his appearance. Marion was sitting alone,

late in the afternoon, in the same room in which we first saw her, when

he returned. She heard him enter the house, she heard his step on the

stair, and rose, half trembling, to greet him. Oh, how she wished she

could feel glad to see him! What she had of late gone through had both

softened and widened her heart. She was very ready to love this father

of hers, if only he would let her, but alas, it was too late in the day

for anything of this kind!

He came in. A tall, slightly bent, grizzled man. Looking older,

considerably so, than his age, and giving one, somehow, the impression

that he must always have appeared so.

He shook hands with his daughter in what he intended for a cordial

manner, and then in a jerky sort of way kissed her forehead, as if he

were half ashamed of what he was doing.

Still, for him, this was a good deal, and Marion tried her best to

respond to it heartily.

“So you’re back again, my dear,” he remarked by way of greeting.

“Yes, Papa,” she replied; “I arrived here on Tuesday morning. Poor Cissy

went on to Cheltenham at once to begin her preparations. I have been so

happy at Altes, dear Papa, so very happy. I shall always be so grateful

to you for having allowed me to go with Cissy. And now that I have come

back, I am so anxious to do what I can in return for your kindness. You

must let me be of use to you, Papa—more than I have been hitherto.”

“Ah, yes, humph, just so!” half grunted, half muttered Mr. Vere. “Very

glad you have enjoyed yourself. I wish I could get a holiday myself. I

am more knocked up than I ever remember feeling before.”

This was wonderfully communicative and gracious! “I am so sorry. I

thought you were not looking very well,” remarked Marion. But her father

didn’t encourage any further expression of filial solicitude. His head

already half hidden in a newspaper which he had brought into the room

with him, he appeared lost to the world outside its folds.

Suddenly he startled Marion by speaking again.

“What’s all this nonsense about Cecilia Archer setting of to India just

now?” he asked; “At this season it’s utter madness! She’ll kill herself

before she gets there. I thought she had more sense.”

“The doctors have given her leave,” replied Marion: “I believe they

thought the risk would be greater of detaining her at home, when she

is in such anxiety. And besides, she is going to Simla, which is a very

healthy place.”

“Anxiety, fiddlesticks!” growled Mr. Vere, “what good did anxiety ever

do any one? Simla, humbug! To get there she must pass through the very

worst and unhealthiest part of the whole continent—at this season,

that’s to say; as you might know if you would speak less thoughtlessly.”

“I am very sorry,” began Marion, but the head had again retired behind

the newspaper, and she said no more.

In another moment it appeared again.

“There have been a lot of invitations for you. I did not think it worth

while to send them to Altes. You can look them over, and tell me if

there are any you wish to accept. What gaiety you wish for, you must be

content with early this year, for Lady Barnstaple is going abroad in a

few weeks to some German baths, and I don’t care about your going out

with any one else.”

“Thank you, Papa,” said Marion, really grateful for the unusual interest

he expressed in her concerns, “I shall look over the invitations but I

don’t think I care very much about going out this year. A very few times

before Lady Barnstaple leaves town, will quite content me. I have a

letter from Harry,” she went on, feeling unusually bold, “he wants to

know if he may come up from Woolwich for next Saturday and Sunday to

see me. It is so long since we have seen each other,” she added

deprecatingly, for something in the way the newspaper rustled,

frightened away her newly found audacity.

“Harry wants to know if he may come for next Saturday and Sunday, does

he?” said Mr. Vere, very slowly, distinctly emphasizing each word of the

sentence, “then, you will perhaps be so good as to tell him from me that

most certainly he may not come here for Saturday, Sunday, or any other

day, fill I see fit to send for him. Idle young idiot, that he is! I

wonder he is not ashamed to propose such a thing. Had he worked as he

should have done years ago, he might now have been at the head of the

Woolwich academy, instead of being, at seventeen, obliged to cram at a

tutor’s to obtain even a Line commission. And now, forsooth, he thinks

he is to have it all his own way and run up and down to town, whenever

the fancy seizes him! I tell you, Marion, you mean well, I believe,

but if there is to be peace among us, you must be careful what sort of

influence you exert over your brother. I give you fair warning of this.

See that you attend to it.” And so saying, he marched out of the room,

newspaper in hand, without giving his daughter time to reply.

It was well he did so, for the fast coming tears would have choked her

voice. Though by no means a woman of the lachrymose order, Marion’s

self-control had of late somewhat deserted her, and she had so longed

to see Harry! Not only this, she had come home, though anxious and

depressed, thoroughly determined to fulfil to the best of her power, her

daughter’s duty. The hope that no very long time would elapse, before

she might be taken to a more congenial home, naturally encouraged her

to the better performance of her present duties, before they should be

beyond her power—among the things of the past: and joined to this, was

a half superstitious, hardly acknowledged belief, that according to her

present earnestness in well-doing, would be the measure of her future

happiness.

Was she more of a heathen, poor little soul, for so thinking, than many,

in their own opinion, far wiser people? Doing good for good’s own sake

is a doctrine not often inculcated, even by those who think themselves

the most “orthodox” and spiritual-minded.

“Surely, surely,” cries the eager, anxious heart, “if I but bear this

patiently, and to the best of my poor power perform these hard and

uninviting duties, surely I shall at last meet with my reward? The

Father above ‘is not a man that he should lie,’ and has he not promised

‘good things’ to the patient doer of present duty; ‘long days and

blessedness to such as honour his commandments?”

Such is the unexpressed, unacknowledged hope of many an aching,

longing heart. A hope which perhaps strengthens to do bravely, and bear

uncomplainingly, at times when higher motives might be powerless.

Vain hopes, unwarranted expectations, are they? Nay, not so. The “good

things” are no dream, the “blessedness” no delusion, though they may not

indeed consist of the one thing craved for by the anguished heart, that

one gift, whatever it be, which at such seasons seems to our dark and

imperfect vision the only blessing worth having, without which existence

itself were no boon!

And now to poor Marion. Full, as I have said, of her ardent resolutions,

her self-administered incentive to exertion, the thought that if she

were not a good daughter at home, she would never deserve to be placed

in a happier sphere, where duty, become so sweet and attractive, would

no longer be a hard taskmaster, but a smiling handmaiden—now, full of

all these earnest thoughts and aspirations, it was indeed hard upon her,

very hard, to be thus chilled and repelled by her father.

And at first he had seemed so kind, so much gentler and less reserved

than usual! There was certainly some change in him, which she could not

understand. He was no longer so calm and unbending as he had been—more

impulsive in both ways—kinder, and yet so much more irritable than she

had ever known him. What could be the meaning of it? He looked ill too,

and confessed to not feeling as well as usual. Marion felt anxious and

concerned, and almost forgave him the harshness of that last speech,

though her eyes filled with tears as she recalled it.

“Oh how sorry Ralph would be for me if he knew it!” she thought. “Oh, if

only I could see him and tell him all my troubles, and ask him to take

care of me for always!”

And she longed for him so intensely, that had he suddenly entered the

room and stood beside her she would not have been surprised!

And had she only known it—ah! it tears me even to write it—after all

these years since that dreary March afternoon; and though long since

then, these hopes and sorrows of my poor child’s have faded and softened

into the faint shadows of the past; all, even now, I can hardly bear

to think of it—at that very moment Ralph was in a house on the opposite

side of that very square, closeted with Sir Archibald Cunningham,

while they discussed the business which had brought the younger man to

England, and of which the successful conclusion was sending him back to

Altes the next morning hopeful and elated, feeling strong enough to

face all the world in general, and his mother in particular, now that no

insurmountable obstacle stood between him and the only woman he had ever

loved.

But this Marion did not, could not, know.

So she stood by the window in a half dream of vague hope and

expectation. Something, she felt sure, was going to happen: a sensation

often the result of over-strained nerves, or excited imagination, but

for all that none the less consolatory in its way while it lasts.

What happened was a ring at the bell! It was almost too dark to

distinguish the form of the visitor as he ran up the two or three steps

that separated the hall door from the pavement; in vain Marion strained

her eyes. She could perceive nothing clearly, so she took to listening

breathlessly.

The door was opened, but shut quickly.

“No visitor, then,” thought Marion, and her heart sank. But another

moment, and it rose again.

“Two letters for you, ma’am,” said the servant entering, but as hastily

retreating in search of a light. Letters; ah, yes, good news often comes

by the post, so what may not these contain?

One from Harry. A few rough, kindly words, begging her not to take it to

heart if her request for his Saturday’s visit was refused by her father.

“He has been so queer lately,” wrote Harry, “so changeable and

irritable, I am afraid of putting him out, and almost sorry I suggested

it. “Never mind, if he won’t let me come. We are sure to meet before

long. It is a comfort to know you are near at hand.”

So much from Harry. The other was from Cissy, but it felt thick—was

there, could there be, an enclosure? Yes, sure enough, inside Cissy’s

few loving words of last farewell, it lay. A foreign letter, in an

unfamiliar hand, addressed to,

MISS FREER, care of Mrs. Archer,

23, West Parade,

Cheltenham.

She tore it open. What a disappointment! A large sheet of thin paper

covered with the text-hand she knew so well. A child’s letter, from poor

little Sybil in fact, folded and directed by the new governess already

installed in place or her dear Miss Freer.

That was all! Ralph folded the letters. His own to Miss Fryer he

destroyed.

“Miss Brown is very kind,” wrote Sybil, “but I cry for you when I am in

bed. Uncle Ralph has not come home, but I think he will be very sorry

you have gone away.”

That was all!

There was, however, a certain amount of satisfaction in the fact of the

letter come safe to hand. It showed that she need fear no postal delay

or miscarriage, owing to the roundabout manner in which her letters must

come. For Cissy added in a postscript, “I forward the only letter for

Miss Freer that has come, and I am leaving with my mother-in-law (a very

careful and methodical person) most particular directions to forward

at once to you all letters that may arrive to my care, for that same

mysterious young lady.”

Marion would much have liked at once to reply to poor, affectionate,

little Sybil; but as things were, she thought it better not.

This, and more important matters, would all be set straight soon—or

never. In the latter case it was better for the child to forget her;

in the former, a short delay in thanking her little friend would be

immaterial.

For the next few weeks the soul of Marion’s day was the post-hour.

How she woke and rose early to be ready to hear the ring she came to

know so well.

How she composed herself to sleep by the thought of what might be coming

in the morning!

But the weeks went on—the weeks, so easy to write of—but each, alas with

its appalling list of days, and hours, and minutes! Looking back to

the time of her return from Altes, six weeks later, Marion could hardly

believe that mouths, if not years, had not passed since the evening she

parted with Ralph. Her life at this time was strangely solitary. She

saw little of her father, though she had forgotten none of her good

resolutions, and in many hitherto neglected ways, endeavoured to show

him her daughterly affection and anxiety for his comfort.

He was, on the whole, kinder in manner to her than had been his wont,

but still strangely irritable and uncertain in temper. The change was

remarked by others besides herself; and once or twice commented upon by

some of the more intimate of Mr. Vere’s friends and allies, who now and

then visited at his house.

“He is wearing himself out. Miss Vere,” said one or these gentlemen to

her, “mind and body. The amount of work he has gone through in the last

few years would have killed most men long ago. He is wearing himself

out.”

Poor Marion thought it only too probable, and more than ever regretted

the unnatural isolation from his children, in which her father had

chosen to live, which now utterly precluded her from remonstrance or

interference of any kind.

As the season advanced she went out a little more, under the chaperonage

of her god-mother, Lady Barnstaple. But it was weary work—balls,

concerts—whatever it was, weary and unenjoyable. She had not, naturally,

enough of what are called “animal spirits” to throw off suffering, even

temporarily, under excitement, as many, by no means heartless, women are

able to do. Her indifferent, almost absent manner, came to be remarked

by the few who knew her well enough to notice her; and more than one

desirable “parti,” who had in former days been struck by the girl’s

sweet brightness and gentle gaiety, was frightened away by the

indefinable change that had come over her.

“Miss Vere looks as if she were going into a decline,” was murmured on

more than one occasion, when her slender figure and pale, grave face

were discerned among the crowd.

“Such a pity, is it not? And she promised to be so pretty last year.

Do you remember her mother—oh, no, it was long before your time, of

course—Constantia Percy, she was, the Merivale Percies, you know, and

such a lovely creature! They do say Mr. Vere bullied her to death. I

could believe it of him. Those very clever, ambitious men, my dear, are

not the best husbands. Have you heard that a baronetcy is spoken of for

him? No? Ah, then it may be mere gossip,” and so on.

Not till May did Marion get a glimpse of Harry, and then but a hurried

one. Mr. Vere graciously permitted him to come up to town on his

sister’s birthday, which fell in “the pleasant month.”

His visit was really the first bright spot in her life since her return

to England. How well and happy he looked! And how sweet it was to be

thanked by his own lips for what she had done for him—done, though she

knew it not, at a priced that had cost her dear!

For she was still as far as ever from guessing the real nature of the

difficulty that Ralph had alluded to.

Still she imagined it to be connected with Florence Vyse, and in this

found the only reasonable solution of his continued silence—a silence,

she now began to fear, never likely to be broken or explained.

A little incident led her to do at last what she had not hitherto felt

fit for,—to write to Cissy a full account of the whole from beginning

to end, and to ask her advice as to the propriety of disclosing to Sir

Ralph the secret of her assumed name and position while at Altes. A

disclosure which, were it to be made, could be done by no one so well as

by Cissy, and which, were it once clearly explained to Sir Ralph, would

satisfy her; even if the result destroyed her last lingering hope that

after all some mistake through her change of name had occurred, that in

some way the mysterious obstacle in the way of his marrying Miss Freer,

might be removed by her appearing in her true colours as Marion Vere.

If indeed he could forgive the deception!

It was a few chance words overheard at a dinner party, that led to her

taking this step.

She had accompanied her father to one or the rare entertainments

he honoured with his presence, and finding herself at dinner very

“stupidly” placed—her neighbour on the right being a discontented

gourmand, (terrible conjunction! a good-natured gourmand being barely

endurable), and he on the left a “highest” church curate, a class with

whom she could never, unlike most young ladies, succeed in “getting on”

as it is called—she gave them both up in despair, and amused herself by

listening to the snatches of conversation that reached her ears.

Suddenly a name caught her attention.

“Severn, did you say? Oh yes, I know whom you mean. He was out there

before; at A——, I mean. A peculiar person, is he not? A great linguist,

or philologist, I should say. So he is going out again, you say?”

“So Sir Archibald told me just before he left. ‘I expect to have my old

vice out again in a few months, when Cameron returns,’ was what he

said. I take some interest in it, as my son and his wife are thinking of

spending next winter out there, for her health.”

“Oh, indeed!” was the reply in the first voice, and then the

conversation diverged to other topics.

It was very strange! What could be the meaning of it? It must be the

same “Severn” they spoke of; the description suited, exactly. This did

not look like marrying Florence Vyse! Marion thought it over till her

brain was weary, looked at it first in one light, then in another; the

final result of her cogitations being the letter to Cissy alluded to

above. It was now about the middle of June. By the end of the month she

was hoping to hear of Cissy’s arrival in India; by the end of September,

at latest, she calculated she might receive an answer to her present

letter.

This done, she felt more at rest than had been the case with her for

many a day. It seemed to her she had acted wisely in allowing no false

dignity to stand between her and the man she loved and trusted so

entirely, and on the other hand the step she had taken in no way

infringed the delicate boundary of her maidenly reserve, in after life

need cause her no blush to look back upon.

Harry’s vacation was at hand, and he was looking forward with eager

delight to spending it in her society. Marion resolved that he should

not be disappointed of his anticipated pleasure. “The end of September,”

she set before herself as a sort of goal, till then resolving to the

utmost of her power to set aside her personal anxieties, and enjoy the

present. Nor were her endeavours vain. Harry and she had never

been happier together than during these holidays, and she herself

unconsciously regained much of her usual health and elasticity both of

mind and body.

A fortnight, by their father’s orders, was spent at Brighton. Here, one

day, Altes and its precious associations were suddenly brought to her

mind. Harry and she were strolling on the sands, when a voice beside her

made her start.

“Could it be, is it then posseeble that I have the plaisir to look at

Mees Feere?” It could be none other than Monsieur de l’Orme. He

indeed it was, as large, or rather as small as life, got up in what he

considered a perfectly unexceptionable English costume, the details of

which can be better imagined than described. Poor little man! He was so

inexpressibly delighted with himself and every one else, that his gaiety

was infectious.

Marion greeted him cordially.

“For it is just possible,” thought she, “that through him I may hear

something, however little, of him who is never really absent from my

thoughts.”

But it was not so. The little Frenchman had left Altes soon after Mrs.

Archer’s departure, and since then had been wandering to and fro, now at

last finding himself at the summit or his desires, a visitor in “le pays

charmant d’Angleterre.”

His account of his travels was very amusing, only he was so dreadfully

polite about everything.

London he had found “manifique, tout ce qu’il y a de plus beau,” but

“triste, vairee triste, surtout le Dimanche.” “Laysteer Squarr,” had

not, he confessed, quite come up to his ideal of the much vaunted

comfort Anglais, and the cab fares had struck him as slightly

exorbitant, not being accustomed in France to pay something extra to the

driver over and above the five itself, as he found was always expected

by London cabbies.

“But my dear Monsieur,” broke in Harry at this point, “you must have

been regularly done. I declare it’s a national disgrace to treat

strangers so!”

M. de l’Orme looked puzzled.

“Pardon,” he exclaimed, “I do not quite at all onderstand. Monsieur say,

I have been ‘donne.’ Donne? I request tousand forgives. That I am then

beast! Mais ‘donne.’ C’est bien ‘fini,’ ‘achevé,’ que Monsieur veut

dire?”

“Oh, no,” said Harry bluntly, “not that at all. Done means cheated,

taken in. You understand now? I meant that the cabbies had been cheating

you, in other words ‘doing you,’ and uncommonly brown too,” he added in

a lower voice.

“Harry!” said Marion in a tone of remonstrance.

But M. de l’Orme was really too irresistible, and Harry after all only a

schoolboy.

They took the little man a walk (Harry worse confounding his confusion

by offering to put him in the way of “doing” Brighton), exhibiting to

him the beauties of this London-super-mare, with which kind attention

he was so charmed, as to be rather at a loss for sufficiently effusive

expressions in English, and obliged consequently to fall back upon his

native tongue.

Then Harry took upon himself to invite him to dine with them, a

proposal which Marion could not but second; aghast though she was at

her brother’s audacity; for at no hour of the day, and on no day of

the week, were they secure from their father’s swooping down upon them.

Fortunately, however, M. de l’Orme was obliged to leave Brighton at

once, and could not therefore accept their invitation, much to Marion’s

relief, for besides her fear of Mr. Vere’s appearance, she had been

every moment in terror of the little Frenchman coming, out with some

allusion to her pupils at Altes.

But the Severn family was not mentioned till the last moment, when M. de

l’Orme observed casually that several of their Altes acquaintances

were spending the summer in Switzerland. The Berwicks, he said, were

a Lausanne, and “Miladi Sevèrne” had taken a maison de champaigne at

Vevey.

“All’s well that ends well,” and Marion was thankful when their friend

had bidden them an overflowing farewell, and taken himself off in an

opposite direction.

By the middle of August Harry was off again, for what he trusted would

be his last half-year at the Woolwich tutor’s; and Marion returned

to her lonely life, brightened only by the hope that the end of the

following month would bring her an answer from Cissy.

No letter from her cousin had yet reached her; but from the elder Mrs.

Archer at Cheltenham she had heard of the traveller’s safe arrival at

their destination. These few weeks were not so bad as those immediately

succeeding her return home. To certain people, weak-minded ones perhaps,

in such circumstances, the looking forward to a distinct goal is a great

help! But still it was weary work. All sorts of torturing fears would

now and then rush into her mind—that Ralph would have left for the East

before any communication from Cissy could reach him—that he would never

forgive her deception—that he was already married to Miss Vyse; these

and a hundred other “thick coming fancies” from time to time came to

torment her; above all, in the middle of the night, would they crowd

upon her, ten-fold deepened and magnified, by the strange power of the

all-surrounding darkness and silence.

It sometimes struck her as curious that she never dreamt of Ralph; for

naturally she was a great dreamer, and since infancy had been accustomed

to live over again in “mid-night fantasy,” the pleasures and sorrows,

the hopes and disappointments of the day.

The end of September came at last. The Indian mail was in, but as yet

no letters for her. Still she was not disheartened. Not improbably

Cissy might have enclosed hers in a budget to her mother-in-law; or even

supposing the worst, that her cousin had been prevented writing at once,

she must just extend a little further her laboriously acquired patience,

and hope for what the next mail might bring.

She rose early on the morning of the 30th, and sat at the dining room

window, watching for the postman, as had come to be a habit with her. He

came at last. Brown, the discreet, seemed to guess she was eager to hear

what he had brought. For before she asked any question, he announced,

“No letters for you, ma’am—all for my master.”

She thought she had not expected any, but still ——. In another minute

a second ring at the front bell was explained by Brown’s re-appearance,

with the Times, which she took up, though hardly caring to see it, and

amused herself in the listless way people often do, when perhaps

their hears are well-nigh bursting with anxiety, by glancing over the

advertisement sheet.

“Births. No, no one that I care about I’m sure. I wonder what people

do with all these hosts of children! There are some names—the wife of a

somebody James., Esq., Notting Hill; and another, the better half of a

Rev. Mr. Watson, in the midland counties, who, I really do believe, make

their appearance here at least once a mouth!

“Marriages. Yes, I may happen to see some I know of. Ah, I declare! Well

I need not waste any more pity on you, my dear sir.”

“ ‘At Calcutta, on the so-and-so, by the Reverend, &c., Francis Hunter

Berwick, Captain 81st Bengal Native Infantry, and Acting Commissioner

in Oude, to Dora Isabella, eldest daughter of R. D. Bailey, Esq., M. D.’

Poor little thing! I daresay she’ll be very happy! But how strange it

seems. So soon alter. Well, never mind. I’m very glad.”

So Marion soliloquised. Having gone through the marriages, she was on

the point of throwing the paper aside, when it occurred to her to look

if among the deaths was announced that of a very old gentleman, their

next door neighbour, whose funeral had taken place the previous day. A

moment, and the paper fell from her hands, to be clutched at again, and

glared at by the stony, unbelieving eyes, which one would hardly have

recognised as the sweet, tender Marion’s! Then a burst of wild, bitter

sobbing—an abandonment of grief, very piteous to see. Poor girl, poor

solitary child! This was the first time it had come so near her, the

first time she had felt that agonising grief—the wild cry of revolt

against the awful law of our nature, which, at such seasons, rends us

with despair. God be thanked, He Himself hears that terrible cry, “and

pitieth.” His poor children! This was what Marion saw in the death

column of the Times.

“On the 10th of August, at Landour, North West Provinces, suddenly,

Cecilia May Vere, aged 28, the beloved wife of Lieut.-Colonel Archer,

H.M.’s 101st Regiment, and only daughter of the late Charles Hope-Lacy,

Esq. of Wyesham, ——shire.”

CHAPTER V. ORPHANED.

“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.”

MACBETH.

“L’incertitude est vraiment le pire de tous les maux parcequ’il est le

seul qui suspend nécessairement les ressorts de l’âme, et qui ajourue le

courage.”

OCTAVE FEUILLET.

MR. VERE breakfasted alone that morning. He was surprised at his

daughter’s absence, more particularly as he was considerably later

than usual, having had a sleepless night. In spite of himself he was

beginning insensibly to feel pleasure in Marion’s society. Of late he

had felt strangely weakened and unhinged, and when obliged by utter

weariness to rest from his usual occupations, he found it soothing and

refreshing to watch his gentle little daughter. She was just the sort of

woman one could imagine at home in a sick room. Calm, cheerful, and with

immense “tact” of the very best kind—that which springs from no worldly

notions of policy or expediency, but from the habit of consideration

for others—the quick instinctive sympathy which may be cultivated, but

hardly, I think, acquired.

So, as the breakfast was getting cold and no Marion appeared, Mr. Vere

fidgeted and fussed, and ended by ringing the bell, and desiring Brown

to enquire the reason of Miss Vere’s absence.

The servant soon reappeared.

“Mrs. Evans wished me to say, sir, that Miss Vere is rather upset this

morning. Indeed she thinks Miss Vere must have had some bad news, and

she would be glad, if so be as you could step up to her room, sir, as

before you go out.”

“Bad news!” exclaimed Mr. Vere, “nonsense. If there had been any bad

news I should have heard it.”

But his hand shook as he hastily emptied his coffee-cup; and without

further delay he hastened up to his daughter’s room. It was the first

time for years that he had been in it, and, as he entered, he was struck

by its plainness and simplicity. It was the same room she had had as

a child, and her innocent girl life might almost have been read in a

glance at its arrangements and contents. There were the book-shelves on

the wall, the upper ones filled with the child’s treasures she had not

liked to set aside; the lower ones with the favourites of her later

years. There were the plaster casts she had saved her pence to buy

many years ago, now somewhat yellowed and disfigured by London fogs

and smoke. The framed photograph of Harry over the mantel-piece, and a

little water-colour sketch of the dear old cottage at Brackley, the only

pictures on the walls.

Somehow it all came home to the father’s heart, and for almost the first

time a strange misgiving seized him. Had he after all done wisely in

the life he had marked out for himself? Had he not deliberately put away

from him treasures near at hand, which, now that failing health of mind

and body was creeping upon him, might have been to him the sweetest of

consolations—strength to his weakness, comfort in his need?

Nor were his misgivings merely from this selfish point of view.

Something of fatherly yearning towards his child, pity for her

loneliness and admiration of the gentle, uncomplaining patience with

which, of late especially, she had borne his coldness and irritability,

caused him to speak very kindly, and touch her very softly, as he

stood beside the bed on which, in her paroxysm of grief, she had thrown

herself, her face buried in the pillows.

“Marion, my dear,” he said, “you alarm me. What can be the matter, my

poor child? Surely, surely,” he went on hurriedly, as for the first time

a dreadful possibility occurred to him, “there can be nothing wrong with

Harry?”

She sat up, mechanically pushing back from her temples the hair, usually

so neat and smooth, which had fallen loose as she lay. Her father caught

her upraised hand, and held it gently in his. But she seemed hardly

conscious of the unusual kindness of his manner.

“No, not Harry,” she replied, “but, oh, Papa, look here,” and as she

spoke, with her other hand she pointed to those dreadful four lines

in the newspaper lying on the pillow beside her, “it is Cissy, my dear

Cissy—the only sister I ever had—my own dear, kind Cissy.” And the sobs

burst out again as violently as at first. Mr. Vere, hardly understanding

what she said, stared at the place she pointed out, but for a minute or

two could not decipher the words.

When their meaning at last broke upon him, he staggered and almost fell.

“This is very dreadful,” he said, “very sad and dreadful. So young

and bright and happy! My poor little Cissy! It is like her mother over

again. Marion, my dearest child, you can hardly feel this more than I

do. You don’t know all it brings back to me.”

And Marion, now glancing at her father, saw his face pale with deep

emotion, while one or two large tears gathered in his eyes.

It was the best thing to bring her back to herself.

“My poor father,” she thought, “how I have misjudged you!” And with a

sudden loving impulse, she threw her arms round his neck, and clung to

him as she had hardly, even in her confiding infancy, ever clung to him

before. Nor was she repulsed.

In a little while her father spoke to her; kindly and gently, in a way

she would hardly have believed it possible for him to speak; he, in

general, so cold and satirical, so unbending and severe.

He left her in a short time, promising to write at once to Cheltenham

for details of this sad news; and volunteering also to send for Harry

for a day or two, that she might feel less solitary in her grief.

This kindness soothed and calmed her, and in an hour or two she crept

down stairs, and tried to employ herself as usual. But it would not

do. Ever and anon it rushed upon her with overwhelming force, the

remembrance of those dreadful printed words:—

“On the 10th of August, Cecilia Mary Vere.”

“The 10th of August,” that was the time she and Harry were at Brighton,

possibly the very day they were talking and laughing with M. de l’Orme!

And then another thought, of aggravating misery, occurred to her. With

Cissy had gone the last, the very last link between herself and Ralph!

Ralph, whom more than ever in this her time of sorrow, she hungered for;

Ralph, whom she could not live without.

“If only he were here,” she thought, “merely to sit beside me and hold

my hand, even though I knew he was never to be more to me afterwards!

Oh, if only, only, he knew of my bitter grief, he would, I know, find

some way to comfort me. But he will never, never know it, never hear of

me again. For most likely my poor Cissy never got my letter at all. Oh,

why are things so cruel upon me? Why may I not be happy? Why could not

my one, only woman friend have been left me? It is more than I can bear,

this losing Ralph again. For I had been counting so on Cissy.

And the sad, weary day went by, followed by others as sad and weary,

and Marion thought she had drained sorrow to its dregs. She had only one

comfort—her father’s continued kindness and gentleness. She clung to him

wonderfully, poor child, in those days; but more was before her that

she little thought of. In her absorption she did not observe Mr. Vere’s

increasing illness; but when Harry me home on the following Saturday

he was much startled by it, and amazed, too, at the strange, unwonted

softness and tenderness almost, of his father’s manner to both his

sister and himself, though especially to the former.

Before leaving Marion on the Monday the boy debated with himself whether

he should confide his misgivings to her. But he decided that it was

better not to do so.

“It is not as if she could do any good,” thought he, “and after all I

may be exaggerating the change in my father. I think it is as much

his unusual kindness as his looking ill that has struck me so. May has

trouble enough already.”

Still it was with a strange feeling of anxiety and impending sorrow,

that he shook hands with his father and kissed his sister that Monday

morning, when he left them to return to his tutor’s.

His presentiments were realized only too correctly. On the following

Friday he was telegraphed for, and arrived at home to find his father

already dead, and Marion sitting by his bedside in speechless, tearless

sorrow.

“Just as he was beginning to care for is a little,” she said, in a dull,

husky voice, that did not sound the least like her own. “Oh, Harry, I

am so lonely, so miserable! I have only you, and soon you will be going

away. Except for you I wish I might die.”

It was very pitiful. These two solitary children clinging to each other

in their great desolation, as, long ago, they had clung to each other

for comfort in their little trifling child!

“It,” Marion whispered to her brother, “had been very sudden, dreadfully

sudden.” Mr. Vere had been presiding at a large public meeting the day

before that or his death, and had come home late, saying he felt tired.

“But I never thought he was really ill, Harry,” said Marion; “I had no

idea of it. At breakfast yesterday morning he seemed very well. He got

several letters, and read them while he eat his breakfast.”

“Could there have been anything in his letters to startle or annoy him?”

suggested Harry.

“No, I think not. I have them all here. Among them was one from young

Mr. Baldwin—Geoffrey Baldwin, you remember, Harry?—saying that he

would come to see him, as he wished, ‘to-morrow or Monday.’ Papa seemed

pleased at this, and gave me the letter to read. He began to speak about

Mr. Baldwin, and told him he had appointed him our guardian, or trustee,

in his will. It surprised me a little his talking this way to me. He has

generally been so reserved about these sort of things.”

“He must have known he was very ill,” said Harry. “He said something

to me about his will last Sunday. He told me that he wished to give a

little more attention to his private affairs than he had found time for,

for some years past. Indeed, Marion, I may be mistaken, but I have a

sort of idea that though every one has seemed to consider my father a

rich man, he was not really so. He has spent an immense deal of money

on public matters one way and another. That contested election two years

ago, and lots of subscriptions and things always going on. It’s always

the way with ‘public men,’ they neglect their own affairs to look after

everybody else’s. I hope I may be mistaken, but I have my fears that we

shall not be rich by any means.”

“I don’t care,” said Marion; “I would be just as miserable if we had

millions. I don’t care for money. But I wish you would not talk about

money, Harry. It seems too horrible—so soon—only yesterday!”

“Don’t think me heartless, dear May,” said the boy. “For myself I truly

don’t care. I could go to India. It was only for you. Did my father say

nothing more to you?”

“No,” replied his sister; “at least only a word or two almost at

the last, before he became unconscious. He went up to his room after

breakfast, and about half-an-hour after, Brown heard a heavy fall. He

ran upstairs and found him, as he told you, in a sort of fit. I don’t

understand what it was exactly. He lifted him on to his bed and sent for

a doctor before telling me. Poor Brown, he was very kind and thoughtful!

A little after the doctor came Papa grew slightly better, and asked for

me. I was beside him. He signed for me to kiss him, and whispered to me:

‘You have been my dear little daughter. It was a great mistake, but

you will forgive me. Poor Harry too.’ Then he grew uneasy, and muttered

something about ‘sending for Baldwin, hoping it would be all right for

them, poor children.’ I bent down and said, ‘Yes, clear Papa, it will

be all right.’ He seemed pleased and smiled at me, but he did not speak

again to me. Only I heard him whisper to himself very, very low—no one

else heard it—the prayer of the poor publican, Harry: ‘Lord, be merciful

to me a sinner.’ Then he lay quite still, seeming not to suffer at all.

I had laid my head down for a minute when the doctor spoke to me. Then l

knew, Harry. Oh, poor papa! Poor Papa! We did not think we cared so much

for him, did we, Harry?”

“No,” said the boy, “nor that he cared for us.”

There was no exaggeration about their grief. Mr. Vere had not been

an affectionate father, and his death was far from being to them the

overwhelming, utterly prostrating blow, that the loss of a parent

is felt to be in some happier families. Nevertheless it was, more

especially from its suddenness, a very terrible shock, to Marion, in

particular, whose life for several months had been one of constant

suspense and disappointment, culminating in the great grief of her

cousin’s death. And young natures after all, with rare exceptions, are

sweet and generous, ready to forgive and forget, not backward to give

their love on slight enough encouragement.

Mr. Baldwin came late on Monday evening. Harry received him, but Marion

was tired, and begged not to be asked to see him, or any one, till after

the funeral was over. Mr. Vere had left directions that this should

take place very quietly; in consequence of which only a few of his most

intimate friends were present. It was evident that he had for some time

past suspected the state of his own health. Only two days before he

had called on his lawyer about some slight addition to his will, which

however there had not been time to execute; and had left with him a

letter of directions; as to the arrangements of his funeral, in case of

his death occurring suddenly, as he had been warned might possibly be

the case.

So though the papers were full of the sudden death of the great man,

each vying with the others as to the extent and accuracy of their

biographical notices, the actual mourners were few; and with but little

of outward parade or ostentation, the mortal remains of Hartford Vere

were carried to the grave.

Ralph Severn, sitting at breakfast that morning in his mother’s villa at

Vevey, observed casually that the Member for —— was dead.

“A useful man he was a very useful man. His party will miss him

exceedingly. There are rumours, I see, that his private affairs are in

some confusion. Always the case with these public men. I hope, however,

it may not be true.”

“Was he a friend of yours, then?” asked Florence.

“O dear, no,” replied he, “I have seen him, of course, and heard him

speak. But I never spoke to him. I am far too small a person to be hand

in glove with the leading politicians of the day. But I should be sorry

to think that a man who had spent his life, as he believed, for the good

of his country, should leave his family unprovided for.”

“Has he left a large family?” asked Lady Severn.

“No,” said Ralph, consulting the paper; “a son and a daughter, I think

it said somewhere. His wife died many years ago. By the bye, she was

one of those beautiful Miss Percies of Merivale, mother. You remember

Merivale, of course? That queer old place near my Uncle Brackley’s. It

is sold now, but the last time I was in Brentshire I went to see it. The

Veres were Brentshire people, too, were they not?”

“Oh dear, yes, one of the oldest families there,” said Lady Severn,

who prided herself on her genealogical accuracy, and was supposed to be

particularly well up in Brentshire family lore, Lord Brackley, the great

man of the county, being her step-brother. “I remember them well long

ago. But the present head of the family, this Mr. Vere’s uncle or

cousin, I forget which, married a great heiress, and emigrated to some

other country.”

“Ah, indeed!” replied Sir Ralph, for whom these details possessed no

peculiar interest, and whose thoughts were just then painfully engrossed

by private troubles of his own, complicated of late in an altogether

unexpected way. “Ah, indeed!” said he, and straightway forgot all about

the death of Mr. Vere, and fell to thinking of very different matters.

To return, however, to our poor little Marion.

On the morning of the funeral she received at last what she had so long

been looking for—an Indian letter! Not, alas! in the familiar hand that

was wont to cause her such pleasure; for in all the seven years of her

married life in the East, Mrs. Archer had seldom allowed a mail to pass

without writing to her little cousin—that dear handwriting she would

never, never see again. This letter had a deep black border, and the

address was written in a firm, large hand, very different from Cissy’s

characteristic scratch. It was from Colonel Archer.

Some few, sad details, it gave of Cissy’s last illness and death (the

first Marion had received, for the elder Mrs. Archer had been ill, and

unable to reply to Mr. Vere’s enquiries), the suddenness of which had

been its most distressing feature, for she had suffered little, poor

Cissy. Some blunt, strong words of his own agony, at losing, her, which

told that poor George Archer’s heart was all but broken. And then her

last message to Marion, when too nearly gone almost to speak. George had

written them down, he said, at once, for fear of possible mistake—the

faint, fluttering words of the tender, affectionate heart. “Tell dear

May,” she had said, “I have done what she wished, and I hope they will

be very happy.”

That was all—the message, and a little lock of the bright fair hair

Marion knew so well, cut off, gently and reverently, from his dead

wife’s head, by the husband she had loved so devotedly.

All, but how much! Enough to turn the grey world rosy again, to

bathe all around her in golden light, to fill her heart with joy and

thankfulness, which she tried in vain to banish by the recollection that

today her father was to be buried.

“Oh, am I wicked, am I heartless?” she asked herself. “God forgive me

if I am. But I was so broken down, so hopeless, and now all seems so

different! By now even, this very day perhaps, Ralph will know it all,

will have received Cissy’s letter, explaining away all the trouble, so

far, at least, as I was concerned. Sooner even than to-day, for Cissy

must have written before her illness began. Yes, sooner, surely. Any day

I may look for a letter from him if, as I feel convinced, some mistake

or misapprehension has been at the root of his strange silence.”

And in proportion to her previous hopelessness and despair, was her

present sanguine belief that all would soon be well.

In the afternoon of that day, when “all was over,” as people say, the

will read, and the few guests departed, Harry ran upstairs to beg Marion

to come down to see Mr. Baldwin, who was going to remain with them for a

day or two. Her presence at the reading of the will had been suggested,

but not after all considered advisable; for as Harry, poor boy, had

feared, the will itself, and still more Mr. Crooke the lawyer’s comments

thereupon, had revealed that the state of the dead man’s affairs was the

reverse of satisfactory, and it was thought well that Marion should be

spared the shock to her feelings of such a disclosure in public.

Some hint of this Harry gave to his sister as they went downstairs

together. He was somewhat disappointed that she did not say again, as

she had said the other day, “I don’t care about money, Harry, truly I

don’t.”

“After all, I fear she does care,” thought her brother. Mr. Baldwin was

in the library, Harry said, and thither they went.

When they entered the room he was standing with his back to the door,

looking out of the window. A tall, powerful figure, hands in pockets,

clad in tweed and velvet shooting coat, for which, by his young host’s

permission, he had already exchanged the uncongenial black, in which he

had performed his part as second chief mourner in the morning. But he

started when Harry’s voice reached him; he had not known that the boy

had gone to fetch his sister.

“I have persuaded May to come down to make tea for us, Baldwin,” said

Harry.

Geoffrey Baldwin wheeled round suddenly, and his handsome face flushed.

“Miss Vere,” he exclaimed, almost before he saw her; “that’s too bad of

you, Harry—not to have warned me, I mean. I thought we were to be alone.

Miss Vere, you must excuse me, really. I had no business to change my

clothes, but I didn’t know I should see you to-day.”

Even as he finished the words he had begun, a curious expression came

over his face, and seemed to affect the tone of his voice. Marion hardly

at first understood it.

“Never mind,” she said quietly, “I am sure people’s clothes have nothing

to do with their feelings.”

Mr. Baldwin did not reply. He stood staring at her, regularly staring,

in a way that in any one else would have been offensive and rude. But

he did it so simply, so unconsciously almost, that the only feeling it

aroused in Marion was an extreme, almost nervous wish to laugh. Then it

flashed upon her.

“I know why you look so amazed, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed. “You can’t

remember where you saw me before. I can tell you. It was at the railway

station, nearly a year ago,” she added, with an imperceptible sob in her

voice.

A look of extreme satisfaction overspread his face.

“Thank you for reminding me. I am so very glad. Yes, it was just then.

You had a little boy with you?”

“Yes,” she replied, “little Charlie Archer. I was on my way abroad with

his mother. Harry!” she turned to him appealingly. It was too fresh yet

for her to tell it herself. But he understood her, and in a few words

explained to Mr. Baldwin what Marion could not find voice to tell.

The fair face before her was softened by a look of almost womanly

commiseration, though all he said was the commonplace phrase,

“I am very sorry to hear it.”

He was wonderfully good-looking, and of a thoroughly manly type of

beauty. Tall, as I have said, but firm and compact, the features almost

perfect of their kind, and the colouring unusually rich and mellow, if

such a word can be applied to a human face. The hair was of that bright,

sunny hue, on which, however in the shade, some light always seems to

linger; the eyes unmistakeably blue, honest, laughing, what I have heard

called “well opened eyes,” set round by thick, soft fringes, curling

like a girl’s. A pleasant mouth too, lips closed in repose, though

usually open enough to show the clear, even, white teeth within. But

nothing in the mouth or lower jaw to spoil the beautiful whole, as is

not unfrequently the case in such great physical perfection, by its

confession of spiritual weakness, undue preponderance of the lower part

of our nature over the higher. No, if Geoffrey Baldwin’s mouth told

tales at all, they were of too great sensitiveness, too quick a

sympathy, too impulsive a heart, to be altogether well managed and

directed by the intellectual powers with which nature had gifted him.

For although of average ability and intelligence, he was certainly not

a clever man, in the ordinary sense of the word. “An illiterate

clod-hopper,” he called himself, but that was far too severe. Feel

deeply, very deeply, he could, and often, perhaps on the whole too

often, did. But as for thinking deeply! It made his head ache, he said,

and after all what was the good of it?

He knew well and thoroughly all required of him in his daily life, which

was that of a gentleman farmer, and so long as that was the case, he

couldn’t for the life of him see what more learning he wanted.

But honest as the day, brave as a lion, and tender as a lamb,

chivalrous, with a chivalry that is fast going out of fashion, generous

and unsuspicious to a fault—though he went to sleep over Tennyson,

and preferred a ride across country to the most exquisite music ever

heard—after all, the world would not be the worse of a few more like

you, Geoffrey Baldwin.

Then they talked a little of old days, and Geoffrey blushed more than

Marion, when some of their escapades were referred to—their tumbling

into the brook and his fishing them out; their “hare and hounds,” when

the hare, and she, perched on Geoffrey’s shoulder, the terrible horseman

pursuit. And another remembrance came to Geoffrey’s mind, though this

he kept to himself. Of a day when, in return for some special act of

kindness, little May had clambered on to his knee and kissed and bugged

him right honestly, while she promised, voluntarily too, that if only

“Jeff” would wait till she was big she would marry him, she would

indeed, really and truly, or “in truality,” which was her childish mode

of asseveration.

“What a little tomboy I must have been,” said Marion, and then she added

dreamily, “I wonder if I shall ever see that Brackley cottage again!”

“I hope so,” said Harry cheerfully, but he looked uncomfortable, and

glanced appealingly at Geoffrey, who in turn frowned slightly, and

seemed at a loss. So Harry spoke.

“May, dear,” he said, “I must go back to Woolwich so soon, and Mr.

Baldwin too has little time to spare, that if you don’t mind, I think we

had better explain to you a little how things are. It won’t take long.

We need not go into details with you, but you see we shall not have much

time to consult together.”

“No,” said Marion, “we shall not. I am quite ready to listen. I don’t

understand business matters much, but you won’t mind?” she added, half

appealingly, to Mr. Baldwin; “I know Papa told me he had asked you to

take charge of things for us. I am very glad. It is so much nicer than a

stranger.”

She spoke quietly, but with a slight sinking at her heart, why, she

could hardly have told. Was some fresh trouble before her? Some new

obstacle in her path, just as she fancied it was going to be made clear?

Supposing she were utterly penniless. What then? She might be obliged

to become a governess in reality. How might not this affect her possible

relations to Ralph? Would it be right for her, in that case, to think of

him, or rather, to allow him to think of her? All this flashed through

her mind in a bewildering, perplexing whirl. She had time to think

a little, for Mr. Baldwin appeared to hesitate somewhat to begin his

statement.

“Please tell me,” she said at last. “Never mind how bad it is. I would

so much rather know. Have we nothing at all to live on? Is that it?”

“No, no, May!” said Harry, eagerly.

And “Oh, no, Miss Vere! Indeed, no!” exclaimed Mr. Baldwin. But her thus

fearing the worst made it easier to tell the whole.

Of their father’s large property, but a comparatively small portion,

after all liabilities were cleared off, remained to them. For many

years, it was evident that Mr. Vere must have lived beyond his income,

though he himself, not improbably, had been unaware of the fact. Then,

when this state of things had been suddenly brought before him, how

or when, no one knew, it appeared that by hasty, ill-considered

speculation, he had endeavoured to retrieve himself. In vain; more

and yet more had been sunk, and still he had persisted in more deeply

involving himself, till at last all was gone, save some few thousands

of ready money, originally intended as a settlement on his wife, but of

which the deed had never been executed. So, in all probability, had his

life been extended, this would have gone the way of the rest, and his

children might have been left beggars.

“I see,” said Marion, “but I am sure Papa did it for the best. Don’t say

any more about it, but just tell me how much there is left. How much we

shall have to live on, I mean.”

“I can’t tell you quite exactly,” said Mr. Baldwin, “till we decide

what to do with this house, the furniture, &c. There is a long lease to

dispose of and the furniture, I suppose, is valuable. But to give you a

rough idea,” he went on, consulting a note book in his hand. “I should

think, after all is cleared, you and Harry will have about—mind I only

say about—four hundred a year between you. The ready money is at present

in the Mallingford hank, the bank of which my father used to be the

head, you know, Miss Vere. If the other trustee, a cousin of your

father’s, who is at present abroad, wishes to put it anywhere else, I

shall have no objection, though for my own part I think it may as well

stay where it is. The old bank’s as safe as can be. All my own money is

there, which shows what I think of it. Still I don’t profess to be

much of a man of business and I should like to have Mr. Framley Vere’s

opinion. I am sadly afraid I shall make a very poor trustee! I don’t

like to say “guardian,” to such wards, for I honestly believe you are

both much wiser than I. I fear your poor father must have credited me

with some of my own father’s long-headedness as to money matters, and if

so the result will prove he was mistaken. I however can only do my best.

Only pray don’t ever ask me anything I should not consent to, for I

could not possibly refuse you.”

He spoke lightly, and as if to both, but his eyes rested on Marion. She

was touched by his frankness and simplicity, his kindness of voice and

manner, and, in all innocence and child-like confidence, she held out

her hand to him, saying warmly, “Thank you, Mr. Baldwin for explaining

it to me so kindly. I am quite sure I shall never wish for another

guardian any way.”

Geoffrey took the little hand, softly, reverently almost, in his

own great strong one. A deep flush spread over his face, for though

sunburnt, he was naturally so fair that as a boy at school his quickly

changing colour had procured for him many undesirable epithets; and

there came a grave, earnest look into his eyes, which added to their

depth, without diminishing their softness. Without speaking, he pressed

gently the hand that lay in his, held it for a moment, as if mentally

sealing a vow.

Harry had turned away before this little scene occurred, and all that

Marion thought of it was, “How kind and brotherly Mr. Baldwin is! Were

it necessary I almost think I could take him into my confidence.”

CHAPTER VI. MALLINGFORD AND AUNT TREMLETT.

“Non illum nostri passunt labores,

Non si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque libamus

Sithoniasque nives hiemis subeamus aquosæ—

Omnia vincit amor.”

VIRGIL.

“AND what then do you and Harry think I should do? Where, I should

rather say, do you think I should go, for I am sure you have thought

of some plan?” asked Marion, later is the evening, as they still at

together talking.

Mr. Baldwin looked at Harry, and Harry at Mr. Baldwin. This was the part

of the whole they most dreaded telling her, being, as are all their sex,

sad cowards when there was question breaking bad or disagreeable news.

“No permanent arrangement can be made till we hear from Mr. Framley,

Vere,” began Mr. Baldwin, but Marion interrupted him.

“You need not, I assure you, take him into consideration with regard to

my movements,” said she: “he is one of those old bachelors that think

girls torments, and provided he is not asked to look out for a home for

me himself, he will trouble himself very little as to what becomes of

me. I daresay Harry may find him a sensible adviser and he may be a good

man of business, but beyond that I am sure he won’t interfere.”

“The only plan that appears at all feasible to Harry and me,” resumed

Mr. Baldwin, “is one which I fear will be very distasteful to you.”

Again he stopped.

“Please tell me what it is,” urged Marion.

Mr. Baldwin looked at Harry beseechingly.

“It’s nothing so very dreadful,” said the boy, “all really for the

present it’s the only thing to be done. It’s only Aunt Tremlett and

Mallingford, May.” He spoke lightly, but in his heart he dreaded the

effect of his announcement.

But to his amazement Marion took it philosophically in the extreme.

“I thought it was that,” she replied, “well, I daresay it will do very

fairly, all things considered. Mallingford certainly is dull, and Aunt

Tremlett duller; but I don’t mind. I shall get on comfortably enough,

and I shall have you Harry, in the holidays. May I not?” she asked,

appealing, to Mr. Baldwin.

“Most assuredly,” he answered warmly, “I was thinking of that. And if

Miss Tremlett objects to the racket of a young gentleman in her house,

Harry can come to me. It’s not two miles from my house to Mallingford,

and I can lend you a horse, or two if you like,” he said, turning to

Harry.

“That would be capital,” said the boy, “much more to my taste than Aunt

Tremlett’s. Though I’ll stay there part of the time if shell have me,”

he added quickly, seeing that his sister looked rather disappointed.

And so Marion’s future, for a time at least, was decided.

It all came to pass very soon. So soon, that ten days later she found

herself, under the escort of Mrs. Evans and Brown (about to set up a

joint establishment, after “keeping company” of many years’ standing),

in the railway on her way to Mallingford, hardly able to realize that

not yet a month had passed since the day when she saw those sad four

lines in the ‘Times’—when for the first time the destroying angel had

passed close by her, breaking the small circle of her immediate friends.

And now already another place was vacant!

It was rather a long journey to Mallingford. A few years ago, when

as children Marion and Harry used to spend the summer in the Brackley

cottage, the railway only went about two-thirds of the way, and the

last thirty miles were traversed in the coach. Now it was different.

Mallingford had a station of its own, at which some half dozen trains

stopped in the day, so the whole of the journey was performed on

the railway; at which, had she been in the mood to observe or feel

interested in outside things, Marion would have murmured; for long ago

the stage coach part of the programme had been the children’s great

delight: in fine weather at least, when they coaxed their attendants to

allow them to mount up to the top of the vehicle, from whence they had

a charming view of the country in general, and of the four dashing,

smoking horses in particular.

But Marion was sad and listless, and so long as she was left at peace

to pursue the wearying circle of her own thoughts, cared little for what

might be her surroundings.

She had heard nothing from Ralph, received no sort of explanation of his

strange conduct. And her hopes were sinking low. By Cissy’s last message

she was now perfectly convinced that no sort of mistake was at the

bottom of his incomprehensible silence. He must, by the last mail at

latest, if not sooner, have received Mrs. Archer’s explanation of the

whole from Marion’s side. That he still refrained from communicating

with her must be owing to one of two causes: either his feelings to her

were changed by the knowledge of the deception she had practised; or he

himself had failed in the object of his visit to England, and was

still fettered by the mysterious complications to which he had alluded.

Complications in no way removed, as she had now and then begun to fancy

might prove to be the case, by the fact of her being the daughter of

the distinguished politician Hartford Vere, instead of Marion Freer, the

little governess.

“Not that my position would have made any difference to him personally,”

she always added; “he, I know, cared for Marion Freer as I shall never,

never be cared for again. But it might have influenced his mother if the

obstacle was in any way connected with her.”

Latterly she had said to herself somewhat bitterly, that so far as his

advantage was concerned, there was nothing to regret.

My father dead, and a mere pittance all my portion! And the very little

beauty I ever had fading already,” she thought, as she looked at herself

in her old toilet glass for the last time, the morning she left London.

She was mistaken, however. But her beauty was not of a kind to be

materially affected by such causes, and in this respect rose far

superior to the more striking, but merely physical, loveliness of such

women as Florence Vyse. The “sweet soul” that looked out of Marion

Vere’s grey eyes would render them beautiful till old age; the delicate

features and sensitive mouth drew their chief attraction from the truth

of heart and refinement of mind of their owner. To my mind she was

at all times a beautiful woman. Her nature, in spite of adverse

circumstances, was sound and healthy, and in a sense, even strong; for

after all it is the strongest who suffer the most, that bend only, where

weaker ones would break.

As Geoffrey Baldwin handed her on to the little platform at Mallingford

station, whither he had driven to meet her, he, at least, would have

agreed with me. Likely enough, he would have been at a loss to define

his sensations with regard to her. He was not a man who troubled himself

much with definitions of any kind certainly, but it is curious to

reflect on the peculiar attraction this girl had for him from the first.

He had seen plenty of far handsomer women, he had known some few as

sweet and good. Intellect he did not care for, did not understand. Yet

as he looked at the slight figure in its heavy mourning dress, at

the fair face and sad, gentle eyes that glanced up at him with their

indescribable expression or mingled womanliness and childlike appeal,

there came over his honest manhood the same yearning instinct of love

and protection, the same wild longing to fold her then and there in

his arms, which, before now, had stirred the innermost depths of Ralph

Severn’s heart, had indeed cost him no slight struggle to resist. I

make, no secret of it at all. Both these men fell love with her, as

it is called, almost from the first. It was very strange. They were so

utterly different, alike only in that they were brave and good and true.

But as to tastes, shades of character, habits, ideas—all in short that

goes to the formation of individuality, you might search high and low,

far and wide, before you could find two men so radically dissimilar

as the quiet, studious Sir Ralph Severn, and the high-spirited,

open-hearted, life enjoying farmer, Geoffrey Baldwin.

Marion felt glad that her young guardian had come to meet her, and she

told him so.

“It seems less desolate,” she said, “for I do not expect much of a

welcome from Aunt Tremlett.” Which expectation, for all his wish to

cheer her, Mr. Baldwin could not find it in his conscience to disagree

with.

So in silence he put her and Evans into the fly he had stopped to order

at the King’s Arms, on his way through Mallingford, he himself following

in his dog-cart, “just to shake hands with Miss Tremlett,” he said to

himself, though in reality to make sure that his charge should have what

little additional comfort and support his presence might give her, on

her first arrival at the not very cheerful dwelling, which, for some

time to come, at least, was to be her home.

There was no mystery about Miss Tremlett. She was simply a narrow-minded

hypochondriac, who, never having been accustomed in youth to live for

any other object than her precious self, had in old age, naturally

enough increased in devotion to this all-engrossing idol. She was what

is called a woman of high principles and excellent judgement, meaning,

I suppose that when she was young, pretty, and poor, she had refused to

marry the only man she cared for because he was a struggling curate, and

had done her best to secure a rich husband; failing which she had for

years “devoted herself” to an odious old woman, her god-mother, in hopes

of succeeding to her fortune, in which, strange to say, she had not been

disappointed. And now that she was old (for the fortune did not come to

her till she was fifty) she had not been guilty of any enormity, robbing

a church, for instance, in consequence of which and her large fortune,

she was “greatly respected” in Mallingford, and at the various

tea-tables always alluded to by the rector in the terms above mentioned.

It was a great feather in her cap, this taking her orphan grand-niece

to live with her. Many of her acquaintances, in their secret hearts,

wondered at it, especially when it oozed out, as such things always do,

that the great Mr. Vere had not left his children “overly well provided

for,” as Mrs. Jones, of the King’s Arms, expressed it to her crony, Miss

Green, the milliner. Miss Green was better informed than Mrs. Jones,

however, a few days later, for she had been working at “The Cross

House,” Miss Tremlett’s residence, and had it from Mrs. Thomas, the

housekeeper that Master and Miss Vere had been left “quite destitoot.”

“Not one brass farthing between them, Mrs. Jones, I do assure you,” she

said, “and his debts, they do say, something awful.”

To which communication Mrs. Jones replied by an impressive “In-deed.”

Miss Tremlett had been influenced by various motives, when on hearing

of her nephew’s death, she had authorized Geoffrey Baldwin to offer her

house as a temporary home for Marion. For one thing, in her heart, as

in most others, there was a soft spot, and in her way, she had loved and

been proud of Hartford Vere. Then again, though to some extent grasping

and money-loving, she was not on the whole ungenerous or stingy. There

was one thing she loved better than money and that was herself and her

own comfort, and it occurred to her that even if Marion should be

left very scantily provided for, she would cause but little additional

expense in her household, and would be all the more ready to repay her

aunt’s kindness by making herself a useful and agreeable companion. The

effect on her nerves of a cheerful young person about the house would,

her medical man informed her, be decidedly beneficial. Any way, it would

do no harm to try. She had been rather disagreeably well lately, and

felt in want of a little excitement. And if Marion failed in all

else, there was one point on which it was quite impossible she should

disappoint her. The girl’s presence in her house would, at all events,

give her something new to grumble about!

So much as to Aunt Tremlett. As to Mallingford itself there is not very

much to say. It was (in those days at least, possibly the last few years

may have improved it) an intensely stupid little town. Dull, with

a dullness that to those fortunate people who have had no personal

experience of small provincial town life, altogether baffles

description. And worse than dull—spiteful, ill-naturedly gossiping, and

conceited, with the utterly hopeless conceit, only seen to perfection

in the stupidest or people and societies. Conservative of course, to

the back-bone, in everything—the more objectionable and undesirable the

object of its conservatism, the more stolidly, bull-doggishly tenacious

grew Mallingford. Instance the long resistance to the introduction of

gas lamps in the streets and public buildings, the still prevailing

cobble stones in the market-place, the stiflingly high pews in the

peculiarly hideous church, and, last not least, the universally signed

petition against that most noisy and blustering of innovators—the

railway.

The only liberals in Mallingford were its numerous young ladies, who,

on the subject of the fashions, became positively rabid. Though their

admirers of the opposite sex were few, for the census reported but one

single gentleman to every eight or ten equally marriageable damsels,

there were really few things a Mallingford girl would have hesitated to

do, for the sake of being the first to be seen in the High Street

with the latest fashion, whatever it might be, coal-scuttle bonnets or

pork-pie hat, high-heeled hoots or Paris crinoline!

There were good gentle souls in Mallingford, too, of course, as, Heaven

be praised, there are in most places in this wicked world; but the

prevailing spirit of the little town, the placid stupidity, unrelieved,

save by occasional snappish outbursts of party-spirit, the ludicrous

pretension and would-be exclusiveness of its reigning families, the airs

of the half-educated daughters of the same—these things and many other

of a similar nature would need a keener pen than mine to do justice to

them! Very laughable, very contemptible no doubt, were it not that from

so surely passing away, is giving place, not merely to another, but to a

better state of things.

It may seem exaggerated to speak so gravely of the foibles and

absurdities of county town society as it existed in Mallingford some few

years ago, as possibly it still exists in other yet more “conservative”

places of the kind. If it appear so I can only say that to me it

comes naturally to speak seriously of things I have myself felt

strongly—absurdities if you like, but worse than absurdities, for they

have sprung from deep rooted error, and their influence, again, has, in

its turn, been an evil one. Besides which, it is necessary to a right

comprehension of my heroine’s life and character, that the nature of the

social atmosphere into which at this critical period of her history she

was thrown, should be, to some extent at least, understood and justly

appreciated.

Over the cobble stones, in the fly from the King’s Arms, Marion was

rattled to her destination. “The Cross House,” as it was called, its

name from its vicinity to the old market place (now, wonderful to say,

deserted in favour of a more convenient site), in the centre of which,

though no longer surrounded by booths and stalls, still stood in

respectable decay the pride of Mallingford, the venerable cross. Queer

things that ancient monument must have seen in its day; strange sights

if all be true that is to be read concerning it, in the “Guide to

Mallingford and its neighbourhood,” changes many and marvellous even in

this sturdy little stronghold of conservatism! Of its antiquity, there

can be no doubt, for it was already aged in 1641, when by some special

good luck, or over-sight on the part of the fanatic destroyers, it

escaped the fate of its fellow monuments.

To Marion in her childhood it had not been without appalling

associations, for besides whispers of a heretic or two burnt to death

at its base, there was a more ghastly legend of a modern Sapphira

struck dead on the spot by what some good people used to call “a

special dispensation of providence,” as an awful warning to succeeding

generations. Marion’s nurse told her this pretty little story one day

when the perfectly truthful child persisted in refusing to confess to

a sin she had not committed; but it had an opposite effect to that

anticipated. “If, then, I say I broke the jug, nurse, when I know I did

not, God would perhaps kill me like the woman. Which way of putting

it was rather beyond the nurse’s logical powers. Fortunately the real

delinquent was afterwards discovered, and the little girl came off with

flying colours!

As the fly stopped at the door of the Cross House, Geoffrey’s bright

face appeared. He rang the bell, and notwithstanding the forbidding

frowns of the prim, crabbed looking maid-servant, who answered the

summons, stood his ground bravely, and carried out his intention of

assisting at the first meeting of aunt and niece. They were almost

strangers to each other, for the years during which they had not met had

changed the girl from a child to a woman, and had nearly effaced from

her recollection the personal appearance of her aunt, who had done

little to attract of attach her young relative to herself.

Marion and Mr. Baldwin were shown into a room at the back of the house,

on the first floor. A pleasant bright room it might have been, had

its owner been a pleasant or bright person, for it looked out on an

old-fashioned walled-in garden, which too, might easily have been

rendered pretty and attractive, instead of formal and bare. An untidy,

neglected garden is an unpleasant sight, but hardly less so to my mind

is a faultlessly neat one, if stiff, ungraceful and prim—the one might

quite as justly as the other be described as “uncared for.” No person

who cares for a garden as it should be cared for, would be content with

doling out to it the minimum of unlovely, unloving attention, necessary

to keeping it merely in order—that particular kind of lifeless, stunted

order which is one of the ugliest things I know.

So, as might be expected from the glance at the garden on entering, the

room was very dreary, uninviting and colourless. The dingy library in

the London house where we first met Marion was charming in comparison,

for it, though dull and gloomy, always looked warm and comfortable,

which was far from being the case with Miss Tremlett’s drawing-room.

In the literal sense it was not cold, for winter and summer, spring and

autumn, it was kept at an equal temperature by all means of tiresome

inventions—patents most of them—self-adjusting ventilators and

equalising stoves, pipes with hot air and pipes with cold, on which the

credulous lady spent a small fortune in the course of each year. Still

it always looked cold. It was so oppressively grey—drab rather. So

obtrusively neutral, if such an expression be permissible; that

one almost felt as if the most glaring mixture of colours would be

preferable! I wonder, by the way, whence has arisen the notion so common

to people of very small taste or no taste at all, that so long as

they stick to greys and drabs and slate colour, they are perfectly

unimpregnable, however terribly they may mingle the shades, or, which

is almost as bad, distress more sensitive organizations by unbroken

monotony of dingy gloom.

“I must say I like quiet colours,” you will hear said with a

self-satisfied smile by the most hopelessly commonplace and least

educated of your acquaintance.

“Quiet colours!” Just as well, my dear Madam, might you be proud of

being stone deaf or lame of one leg, as of your incapability of admiring

one of the most exquisite of our material gifts, that of colour. A pity

truly that you and others of your refined tastes had not a hand in the

arrangement of things in general; this world for instance, how very much

more tasteful and less “vulgar” it would have been, had it been left to

your unexceptionable greys and drabs! Not that greys and drabs are not

good in their place, beautiful even, as a background to more vivid hues,

a repose to the eye after the luxury of greens and blues and scarlets,

which nature has the bad taste to love and cherish so fondly. But only

fancy a whole world of greys and drabs! Oh, intensity of blue sky; oh,

fields of emerald green; flowers of every conceivable perfection of

colour; from deepest, richest, crimson, through golden gleams, to

faintest blush of rose; oh, beautiful bright radiant things, what

a dreary, ugly world this would be without you! But we, being more

refined, in our tastes, some of us, prefer “quiet colours” as we call

them. Rather I think, would I endure the agony of Mrs. Butcher’s Sunday

bonnet before me in church, a perfect mass of utterly unassorted reds

and greens and yellows, but in its way an innocent, “vulgar” barbaric

expression of delight, untutored and, spontaneous, in the colour-beauty

so profusely bestowed; rather I think this, than the other extreme, of

cold, presumptuous scorn of this great gift, which results—In what? In

a dungeon of a drawing-room like that of the unlovable Miss Tremlett at

Mallingford! From which by-the-by we have wandered an inexcusably long

way.

CHAPTER VII. GREY DAYS.

“Here there was but sorry going, for the way was very wearisome.”

PILGRIMS PROGRESS.

THE autumn days were already beginning to draw in, and it was growing

late in the afternoon when Marion and her guardian entered Miss

Tremlett’s presence; so the light was dim; and at first it was difficult

to distinguish the owner of the sharp, somewhat querulous voice which

greeted them from the opposite corner or the room.

“So you have got here at last, Miss Vere, Marion, I suppose I may still

say? Excuse my rising. At this hour I always am obliged to rest the

sofa till tea time. How did you get here? Oh,” as she for the first time

perceived her niece’s companion. “So you’re there, Geoffrey Baldwin!

Quite unnecessary. My niece could perfectly have walked up from the

station alone.” And with the last few words the voice increased in

acrimony.

Instinctively Marion crept a little closer to the tall form beside her.

He felt her shiver slightly and—instinctively too—groped with his great

strong hand for the little cold one hidden under her cloak, and gave it

a reassuring pressure. She took it quite naturally, and for a moment

or so allowed her hand to remain in his grasp. But she could not brace

herself up to reply to her aunt’s greeting. Geoffrey did so for her,

ignoring altogether the latter part of the speech.

“Yes,” he replied cheerfully, “here we are, Miss Tremlett, Miss Vere,

I am sure is glad to be at her journey’s end. But it is so dark, I can

hardly see. Take care, Miss Vere,” as Marion made a movement in the

direction of the sofa, “there’s a footstool in the way. Perhaps Miss

Tremlett will allow me to lights?”

“I never have lights between my afternoon luncheon and tea time,

Geoffrey Baldwin. I am sure you might know that by now,” replied the

old lady snappishly. “My head would never stand it However for once in a

way—Oh, Martha is that you? You certainly need not have brought the lamp

till I did ring.”

But Martha deposited the lamp and quietly retired. Now, Marion could see

her aunt plainly. There was not very much to see. A withered face

with some remains of former good looks, but none of the more lasting

loveliness of sweet expression; or the rare but unsurpassed beauty of a

tender, loving old age. A graceful figure had in her young days been

one of Miss Tremlett’s attractions, and this she still imagined that

she possessed. In consequence of which somewhat mistaken notion, for

the former sylph-like slightness was now rather to be described as

scragginess and angularity, she was fussy to a degree about the make

and fit of her dresses. A wrinkle drove her frantic, and though her days

were principally spent on the sofa, the slightest crease or rumple

in her attire altogether upset her never-very-firmly-established

equanimity. She wore a light brown “front” surmounted by a cap of

marvellous construction, so precise and stiff in its appearance that

till you touched it you could hardly believe it to consist of anything

so soft and ethereal as lace. Miss Tremlett had one art in perfection

altogether peculiar to herself that of lying on a sofa without the

slightest appearance of ease or repose: she made you feel somehow as

if, all the time instead of reclining on a couch, she was sitting bolt

upright on the stiffest of high backed chairs.

As Marion drew near her, she held out her hand, and permitted, rather

than invited, her to kiss her cheek. Geoffrey wished he could have

bitten her, instead.

“Your cloak is not damp, I hope?” she exclaimed; and as Marion was about

to express her thanks for the unexpected anxiety on her behalf, she went

on, “if it is the least damp, you had better not stand so near me, I

am so sensitive to the slightest damp or cold.” On which Marion timidly

suggested that perhaps she had better change it at once, if Miss

Tremlett would be so good as tell her which was to be her room.

“Evans, our housekeeper, is with me,” she added, more and more timidly,

as she observed the expression of her aunt’s face, “but only for

one night. She is going on tomorrow to visit her mother before her

marriage.”

“You don’t mean to say that old woman is going to be married!” exclaimed

Miss Tremlett, in a less unpleasant tone than Marion had yet heard.

“Evans is, not her mother,” replied the girl.

“Of course I never supposed you meant the mother,” said she elder lady

snappishly. “The mother is eighty, and paralysed. I call Evans herself

an old woman, and a very silly old woman too, by what you tell me. I

really don’t know where she can sleep. I had no idea of you bringing any

one with you. You must speak to Martha; she will show you your own room.

It will be tea time in an hour, till then I must rest. Good evening. Mr.

Baldwin,” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of retiring, “I should be so much

obliged to you if you would remember to shut the door.”

“Hateful old woman!” thought Geoffrey, as he obeyed, resisting the

boyish inclination to slam it loudly, by way of soothing Miss Tremlett’s

nerves. He had time for a word to Marion, whom he found outside on the

landing, disconsolately eyeing the staircase, and apparently at a

loss as to her next proceedings. He began to speak to her

jestingly,—something he said in ridicule of her aunt’s fears,—but he

stopped suddenly when she turned towards him, and he saw that her eyes

were full of tears.

“Oh, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed passionately, don’t leave here. I had

no idea my aunt was so utterly selfish and heartless. Not a word about

poor Papa, whom she professed to care for! Oh, I can’t stay in this

dreadful house.”

And in her distress she caught hold of his arm with both her hands. It

was rare that Marion so lost her self-control, and therefore the more

impressive. Geoffrey was terribly grieved.

“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” he said, “that you feel it so painfully.

I would give all I have in the world to spare you an hour in this place,

but truly my—truly, Miss Vere, there is at present no help for it.

Anything I can do in the way of cheering your stay here, softening its

disagreeables, you have only to ask me, and I shall be so pleased, so

delighted, to do it.” And half timidly he laid his hand on those still

grasping his arm. His touch seemed to recall her to herself. She drew

her hands away gently, and said penitently:

“You are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I am very self and ungrateful.

I will try to be sensible and make the best of things so long as I stay

here.”

“Which shall not be an hour longer than I can prevent, you may be very

sure,” said Geoffrey fervently.

“Thank you,” she replied sadly, “but I am afraid there is not much in

your power, dear Mr. Baldwin; you could not help me in the—the only

way,”—and then she stopped suddenly. Geoffrey had not caught her last

words clearly. Had he done so, ten to one, she might have been led on

to say more, and to yield to the impulse which came over her to take her

young guardian into her confidence, to trust him, at this time almost

her only friend, with the sad little story of her life. A good impulse

it was, a good and wise one. Ah, Marion, why did you not yield to it?

Why, m y heart’s darling, if not for your own, then for the sake of

honest, chivalrous Geoffrey? What might it not have saved him—him

and you, and yet another! If only the child had been a little more

conceited, a trifle more like other women, she would have seen the

dangers before her, the sharpness of the tools with which, in all

innocence, she was playing. What a strange thing it is that of the many

times in their lives in which conscientious people refrain from yielding

to an impulse, so large a proportion would, viewed in the light of after

events, have been wise and expedient! Whereas, if ever such persons do

act upon the moment’s inclination, they are almost sure hereafter to

repent it! It is everywhere the same—in trifles as in important matters,

nothing but the old rule of contrary; which rule, nevertheless, may some

day be seen to contain more things, by a great many, than are at present

dreamt of in our philosophy.

So unfortunately it came to pass that Geoffrey did not hear Marion’s

half-whispered words.

Satisfied, so far, with seeing her calm and gentle as usual, he bade her

good night and left her, promising to look in in the course of a day

or two, to see how she got on with “the old cat,” as he mentally

apostrophised her.

Marion succeeded in finding Martha, whom she was glad to discover much

more hospitably inclined than her mistress. So Evans was comfortably

entertained for the one night she spent at the Cross House, and I doubt

not spent a much more agreeable evening below stairs, than did Marion in

the drab drawing-room with her aunt. It really was terribly hard work.

Miss Tremlett evidently expected to be entertained, a state of mind

always liable to exert a peculiarly depressing influence on the second

member of a tête-à-tête, even when there are no saddening or dulling