"Oh, how sweet the pines smell, Marion! I declare it's quite bliss to
get down here in these wilds, with the free wind blowing the London
smoke out of your back hair, and no one to criticise and make remarks.
I won't go to the sea-side any more: pier and band, and esplanade and
promenade; in pink to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next day in
green; and then a bow here and a `de-do' there; and `how's mamma?' and
`nice day;' and all the same sickening stuff over again. There! I
won't hear fault found with the Fen-land ever any more. I don't wonder
at that dear old Hereward the Wake loving it. Why, it's beautiful! and
I feel free--as free as the air itself; and could set off and run and
jump and shout like a child?"
"Dangerous work, running and jumping here," said a tall, pale girl, the
speaker's companion, as she picked her way from tuft to tuft of heath
and rushes, now plucking a spray of white or creamy-pink moss, now some
silky rush, and at last bending long over a cluster of forget-me-nots,
peering up from the bright green water plants, like turquoise set in
enamelled gold.
"What lovely forget-me-nots!" cried her blonde companion, hurrying to
her side, the oozy ground bending beneath her weight, as she pressed
forward. "True blue--true blue! I must have a bunch as well."
"Poor Philip's favourite flowers," said the other, sadly. "I have the
little dried bouquet at home now that he gave me--six years ago this
spring, Ada. Forget-me-not!"
She stood, sad and thoughtful, with the flowers in her hand, the tears
the while dropping slowly upon the little blue petals, that seemed like
eyes peering up at her. They were standing together upon the edge of a
wide stretch of uncultivated marsh, which commenced as soon as the grove
of whispering pines through which they had come ceased to flourish;
though here and there, just as they had been dragged forth from the
boggy depths, lay, waiting for carriage, huge roots of pines, that had
been growing, perhaps, two thousand years before, and now, probed for
and dragged to the surface, proved to be sound--undecayed, and
crystallised with the abundant turpentine, forming a fuel much sought
after by the country people.
"Marion, darling," whispered the fair girl, passing her arm round the
other's waist, and speaking in soft, deep tones--a perfect contrast to
her gay accents of a few moments before--"try not to mourn now: it is
hardly loyal, and it is of no avail. I too have wept for the dead, many
and many a time."
"Yes; we all weep for our passed away," said Marion, sadly.
"Yes, true; I mourned, too, for poor Philip, Marion."
"You, Ada?"
"Yes; why not? I feel no shame in owning that I loved him, too--warmly
as ever you could, though I saw his preference and bore it in silence."
"You, you--Ada?"
"Yes, dear, I. You think me light and frivolous, but may not that be
merely on the surface? I wept long when I found that he loved and was
engaged to you; but I hid my secret, for my only wish was to see him
happy; and you cannot say that I ever failed in my friendship."
"Never--never, dear," said Marion, gazing with troubled eyes at her
friend, but clinging to her the while; and then, making their way to the
pine grove, they sat down amongst the soft shed needles to rest,
dreamily pondering over the past, till, starting from her reverie, Ada
Lee exclaimed lightly:
"There, this will not do. Poor Philip has gone to his soldier's grave,
honourably fighting for his country. May Heaven rest him! for he was a
brave fellow; but life is not long enough for much time to be spent in
weeping. There, Marion, darling, rouse your self; this is not a thing
of yesterday. Come! we must get back. Think of the wooing and wedding,
and be as merry and light-hearted as I am. Heigho! I wish, though,
that some one would marry me, and bring me to live down here in these
dear old solemn marshes. How nice for me to be always close to you,
wouldn't it? There's a house across there amongst the trees that would
do capitally. Who lives there?"
"No one, Ada," said the other, sadly. "That is Merland Hall, where poor
Philip should have dwelt."
Ada started, and again her arm was pressed round her companion's waist,
when, almost in silence, they walked back to the parsonage, where Ada
Lee was staying with her friend, having come down from London to fulfil
the office of bridesmaid at Marion's wedding.
But on reaching her bedroom Marion threw herself in a chair, letting the
botanical specimens she had been gathering fall upon the carpet beside
her, as she leaned her head upon her hand, and remained silent and
thoughtful.
"Oh, come--come, darling; this will never do," cried Ada. "Mrs Elstree
said that I was to do all I could to cheer and enliven you, and here
have I been making you worse with my ill-chosen chatter. Why, you ought
to be as happy as the day is long: a fine, handsome husband, young as
well as rich; a castle to live in, and he as devoted as possible. Why,
I declare I'm almost in love with him myself. Look at the presents he
has sent you. Why, one would think, to see that doleful face, that you
did not like him!"
"But I do, Ada. I esteem and respect, and I think I love him."
"Think, indeed! why, of course you do. Didn't I see you give him a kiss
last night when he asked you as he was going?"
"And I believe that I shall be very happy with him," continued Marion,
not heeding her companions words; "but, just now, as I am going to take
this irrevocable step, the past all seems to come back, and it almost
seems as if I were going to be faithless to poor Philip; and, in spite
of all I can do, my poor heart is filled with forebodings."
"Oh dear--oh dear! What a girl it is!" cried Ada. "This won't do, you
know. What am I to do with you? Oh! look here! Why, here's a note on
the dressing-table, and a case--a jewel-case, I'm sure! Why, it's
another present from that dear Sir Murray. Why, you happy, lucky
darling! There, pray read your note, and do show me what's in the case,
there's a dear sweet girl."
As she spoke, she seized a note lying by a large morocco case upon the
dressing-table, and eagerly placed it in her friend's hand, laying the
case in her lap, at the same time stroking the hair from her forehead,
and kissing her tenderly, though a shade of care and anxiety was plainly
visible upon the face she strove to make appear mirthful.
Marion read the note, the colour mantling faintly in her cheek the
while.
"He is most kind and affectionate," she said, sadly. "I would that he
had chosen one more worthy of his love!"
"How can you talk like that?" cried Ada, reproachfully. "There, do pray
chase away this horrible low-spiritedness! It is not right to Sir
Murray, dear--it isn't, indeed; and I'm sure you have no cause to blame
yourself. But there, my own handsome darling, I know what it is: you
feel the step you are going to take, and no wonder; but try--pray try--
for his sake, to be brighter. He's coming to dinner, you know; and he's
a dear, nice fellow, in spite of his pride and so much of the Spanish
grandee. Think, too, how happy it makes Mr and Mrs Elstree to see you
so well provided for!--and without going right away. They're as proud
as can be, and the dear old rector is making out that he is
condescending wonderfully in letting Sir Murray have his darling. But
all the time he's reckoning upon your being Lady Gernon, and so is dear
aunt. But come, you have not shown me your present; and, look here, if
all your specimens are not lying upon the floor! I suppose you will
give up botany now you are taking to husbandry."
"The joke is old, Ada," said Marion, smiling, and, making an effort, she
rose from her chair, gathered together her flowers and mosses, and laid
them on the table, before turning the handsome gilt key of the morocco
case, to display, glittering in the light, a gorgeous suite of
sapphires: necklet, bracelets, earrings; and a large cross, a mingling
of the same gems with brilliants.
"Oh, what a lovely piece of vanity;" cried Ada, rapturously. "Oh, my
darling, how proud I shall feel of my friend Lady Gernon--that is, if
she does not grow too stilty for her old friend."
"For shame, Ada!" cried Marion.
"Oh, I don't know," said Ada. "I have my forebodings, too, and I think
I may as well say good-bye for good when you start to-morrow for your
tour."
"Do you wish to make me more unhappy?" said Marion, reproachfully.
"No, of course not," said Ada, kissing her. "But, mark my words, it
will be so," she continued, dreamily, as she clasped the jewels upon her
friend's arms and neck. "There, I declare they are quite regal, and
must have cost hundreds of pounds! I love sapphires; they are so much
like forget-me-nots--true blue, you know. There, how stupid I am,
setting you off again! But look, darling, are they not lovely? I never
saw a more beautiful suite. That cross, too--it's magnificent! But you
must take care not to lose it. The ring is slight, and it might come
detached. Now, then, bathe those eyes, while I put the present away.
Really I've a great mind to let you wear them at dinner to-night."
Marion said nothing, and Ada slowly replaced the gems, lingering long
over the cross, little thinking it was to be the bane of her cousin's
life.
Book 1, Chapter II.