“ich ginge im waldo

so für mich him,

und nichts zu suchen

das war mein sinn

im schotten sah ich

ein blümchen stehn

wie sterne leuchtend

wie aüglein sch?n.

ich wollt’es brechen

da sagt’es fein,

soll ich zum welken

gebrochen sein?”—

g?the.

they were married in the end of june, after all engagement of six weeks only. there were no reasons for delay, and several which made expedition expedient. harry spent his last fortnight in england with them, and the marriage took place at its close. it was a very quiet affair, of which marion’s recent illness and continued mourning for her father were patent and satisfactory explanations, even to the double-motive-loving gossips of mallingford.

a sorrowful farewell to harry, whose whispered words of relief and satisfaction at leaving his sister in such good hands, were the most grateful to her ears of the congratulations forthcoming on this, as on all such occasions; a fervent blessing from veronica; a snappish adieu from miss tremlett, and the bride and bridegroom were gone—started on their own account on the life journey which, up hill and down dale, through fair weather and foul, they had chosen to travel together.

they did not spend their honeymoon abroad.

geoffrey proposed that they should do so, but marion negatived it, and decided in favour of a certain county which i need not particularize save by saying that its scenery is picturesque, its wayside inns charming, and its fishing the best of its kind. geoffrey was very fond of fishing, and marion was well content to spend the quiet, sleepy midsummer days, book in hand, lounging on the grassy banks at his side. she was not very strong yet, and travelling tired her; so after a week or two’s rambling, they settled down in one of the sweetest nooks they had come upon, and took up their temporary abode at the very prettiest of the wayside inns i alluded to, by name and sign “the peacock.”

the neighbourhood was not much frequented save by anglers and artists, of both of whom there were plenty. but it was before the railway days in this pretty county, and tourists of the more objectionable kinds were unknown. so everything as to outer surroundings was charming, and the two made a very satisfactory newly-married pair. he so handsome, she so sweet. both to all appearance perfectly happy in themselves and each other. which, to a great extent, was the case. geoffrey was happy beyond all he had ever dreamt of as possible; his only misgiving the fear that he was all unworthy of so sweet a bride, his only anxiety lest the wind should blow on her too rudely, or the slightest roughness be in her path. beyond this absorbing dread of not succeeding in making her happy, the impression on his sunny, hopeful nature, left by the girl’s sad little history of her “first love,” had already began to fade. he reverenced and trusted her so deeply that the slight melancholy still clinging to her seemed to him to render her only the more beautiful, the more tender and precious, and worthy of all devotion. doubt, suspicion, jealousy, or even the shadows of such unlovely visitants, were utterly foreign to his being. she had told him it was “all over” —that sad page in her history. he believed her, and loved her the more for the suffering she had endured. she had stirred up in him by her recital no feeling of anger or irritation towards his unknown rival. she had blamed no one for what had happened. all, she told him, had been the result of unpropitious circumstances; in saying which she had done wisely. it made it the easier for him to forget what there was little use in his remembering.

and she herself? was she too, happy? after all the storms and wearing suspense through which she had passed, had she in truth found a haven of rest and security. she thought so. “i am content,” she said to herself, “content and at peace, which is more than many can say.”

true; but not what one likes to hear of as the nearest approach to happiness to be hoped for by a girl over whose head twenty summers have barely passed.

at the sign of the peacock for a time we must leave them, while we hear a little more as to what in these last few months had happened to ralph.

he remained in italy with his mother and her household through the winter which marion had passed at mallingford. the month of may saw them all at last re-established at medhurst, but not for very long. the place had been to some extent neglected during the two or three years of the family’s absence; the house looked dingy and smelt fusty. before they could take up their quarters therein “for good,” before florence’s marriage could be celebrated with fitting magnificence, the mansion must be thoroughly “done up”—“beautified,” i believe, is the correct technical expression. so for a season medhurst was delivered over to the tender mercies of painters and paper-hangers, upholsterers and decorators, and “the family,” par excellence, of the neighbourhood, flitted north-wards for the time, to a favourite and pleasant little watering-place, in the same county where geoffrey and his wife were spending their honeymoon, but a few hours’ drive from the very inn which for some days past they had made their head-quarters.

sir ralph was still with his mother. she had “made a point” of his remaining with her for the first few months of her return home, and he, having no pressing interests of his own was willing enough to agree to her wishes. florence was no longer with them. the few weeks intervening between their arrival in england and the time fixed for her marriage, she had preferred to spend in the “genteel” terrace with her mother and sisters. nor did this decision call for any great exercise of self-denial on her part, for besides the real pleasure of being with her relations and showing off the honours present and prospective, attendant on the bride of chepstow the golden, her mother’s modest dwelling was conveniently situated for expending to the best advantage in the purchase of a trousseau, the very liberal parting gift of her “dearest aunt and second mother.” then in the future glittered medhurst and the gorgeous preparations for the nuptials of the beauty and the millionaire. truly florence’s cup of happiness was full!

and plainly speaking, she was not missed by her late entertainers. lady severn and her son got on much better without her.

sir ralph was therefore at the little watering-place of friars’ springs, when, one day about the middle of july, a strange thing happened to him.

he received one morning, forwarded from medhurst, an indian letter, addressed to him in the same handwriting as the black-bordered envelope which last year had brought back to him his own letter to miss freer, a silent message from poor cissy’s tomb, telling that his last hope was gone.

he was alone when he received this unexpected letter. fortunately so, for not all his practised self-control could have concealed from other eyes the overwhelming intensity of emotion caused by the perusal of its extraordinary contents.

first he read the letter from colonel archer, which he discovered speedily was but an explanation, to a certain extent, of a second which it enclosed, in a blank envelope, but carefully sealed with black wax, evidently by colonel archer’s own hands, as it bore his crest. george archer was not given to prolixity of style in his written communications; his letter, therefore, may be given verbatim:

“landour,

“april 30th, 18——.

“my dear severn—

“you will remember my writing to you a few days after my wife’s death, enclosing to you a letter which she desired me to send to you as quickly as possible, and which she directed me to find in a certain place. do you remember also my saying to you that though i had followed her directions exactly, the state in which i found the letter did not altogether correspond with her description? she said i should find it all written and signed, but not folded or addressed. on the contrary, the letter i sent you i found folded and addressed, all ready in short, save the stamps, to be posted. i am terribly afraid, my dear severn, that i have made some dreadful mistake. evidently there were two letters to be forwarded to you, of which the one i did send, and which i much fear was the least important, had escaped my poor wife’s memory. only yesterday, being obliged to search among my wife’s papers for a missing document of some importance, i came upon the enclosed letter in one of the leaves of her blotting-book, written and signed, as she said, and lying there evidently waiting to be by her folded and addressed. not improbably she had intended to enclose it to you in the same envelope as contained the one i sent. i now recollect that i felt surprised at finding it unsealed. as little as possible of the enclosed has been read by me. in my first astonishment at my discovery i read some lines of the first page; enough to explain to me that without doubt it was the letter cissy referred to. the name of my wife’s young cousin, marion vere, caught my eye. also that of a miss freer, with whom i am wholly unacquainted. marion vere spent the winter at altes with my wife. it is probable you there met her. beyond this the whole affair is a mystery to me. nor do i ever wish to have it explained unless agreeable to you to do so. i earnestly trust my culpable, but not altogether inexcusable, negligence, may have done no harm. it will be an immense relief to me to hear this. i write in haste to catch the mail, so believe me, my dear severn,

“yours most truly,

“george archer.”

ralph read through this letter carefully, and felt after doing so as if he were dreaming. what could it mean? “marion vere,” who could she be? “miss freer,” a total stranger to colonel archer! not for some moments did it occur to him to turn for explanation to the sealed enclosure.

here indeed he met with it in full! with feelings of the utmost astonishment and bewilderment, succeeded, as gradually the mists cleared away, by a revulsion of almost intoxicating intensity of delight, gratitude, returning hope and reviving anticipation, did his mind at last take in the meaning of the strange solution of all past mystery. this then had been the poor child’s secret, this the reason of all the mistakes and cross-purposes! his marion after all was no poor little struggling governess, on whom though he would have been proud to wed her, his narrow prejudiced world might have looked askance; but the daughter of one of the leading men of the day, come of a stock with which even lady severn herself could have no fault to find. and she had dreaded his blaming her innocent deceit, cissy told him; had feared it might lower her irretrievably in his eyes! truly as the daughter of an ancient house he could love her no more fervently, than as the despised little governess, sprang from no one knew where, with even the shadow of a suspected disgrace on her family; but yet in a very different sense, this revelation did increase his devotion, for it showed him yet more the unselfishness of her character and its rare union of strength and gentleness; and made him the more anxious to compensate to her by a life of happiness, of perfect mutual love and trust, for all he now well understood she must have so uncomplainingly suffered. it had not been a wise proceeding, this little comedy of hers—assumed names and positions are edged tools in the hands of inexperienced girls of nineteen—so much even ralph’s partial judgment of all that marion had done, could all but allow. but all the same he could not but lore and admire her the more for the sisterly devotion which prompted the scheme, the bravery and patience which had enabled her to carry it out.

some hours’ reflection decided him that no time must be lost in tracing, by the light of cissy’s communication, the girl whom he had little expected ever to see again. it all straight sailing enough now; the daughter of so well-known a man as hartford vere would be easy to find. he remembered hearing that the orphans of the late mr. vere had been left but scantily provided for; in all probability, therefore, their town house had been given up and the young people themselves received into the families of relatives, for he remembered too that marion had told him more than once that she had no mother. still he decided that london itself was the proper place in which to make enquiry, and thither he resolved as speedily a possible to betake himself.

one preliminary step only he felt it advisable to take. he must come to some understanding with his mother on the subject of his probable marriage. not that he now anticipated much difficulty in this quarter, for things were very different between lady severn and her son from what they had been during the reign of florence’s irritating influence.

the mother’s instinct had divined the change that had passed over her son; and now that she had come to know him better and love him more, there were few things she would not have agreed to, to give him pleasure. often when he little suspected it, her heart ached for him, when the outward signs of the secret sorrow that had so changed him, came before her notice. the many grey hairs mingled with his black, the new furrows round eyes and mouth, the general air of depression and hopelessness, only too plainly visible even in one who had never been other than quiet and grave. she would have given worlds to have obtained his confidence; but she felt instinctively that she had neglected till too late to seek what now she would have prized so highly.

it was with no little gratification therefore that she this morning acceded to sir ralph’s request that she would spare him a little time to talk over some matters of importance connected with his private affairs.

“but no bad news, i trust?” she said, as a new idea struck her. “you do not look as if it were, but i do trust you are not going to tell me you are thinking of leaving me?”

“not for long certainly,” he replied cordially. “a week or two at most will be the extent of my absence at present. no, my dear mother. what i have to say to you is more likely to lead to my settling near you permanently. a year or two ago i displeased you very much by not falling in with certain matrimonial schemes of yours on my behalf. i want to know if you have forgiven me?”

“quite,” said lady severn. “i meant it for the best, ralph, but i now think you were wiser than i. it would not have been a desirable arrangement. i am quite satisfied that florence should not be more nearly connected with us.”

“but i want more than that, mother,” pursued ralph, “i want you to do more than forgive me for not marrying to please you. i want your cordial, entire consent to my you to give you marrying to please myself.”

lady severn’s eyes filled with tears. a moment or two she hesitated; then said slowly and distinctly, “you shall have it, ralph. whomever you choose as your wife i shall cordially receive as my daughter. you have suffered, my poor boy, long and deeply. i thank god if things are looking brighter with you. only—only one thing i must say, and if it pains you, forgive me. i don’t care about money. we have plenty, and whenever you marry, what john had shall be yours. his daughters are provided for. i have not forgotten how well you behaved at that time, ralph, and as to herself personally, i feel no uneasiness about my future daughter. but, ralph, you have queer notions about some things. tell me, is she a lady? i would like the good old stock to be kept up. as i have promised so i will do: whoever she be i will receive her cordially. but it would be an immense relief to my mind to know that she really was one of our own class.”

ralph smiled slightly, but there was no bitterness in his smile. he could afford now to be lenient towards what he considered his mother’s little foibles.

“then that relief i can give you, mother,” he said. “she is a lady even in the very narrowest and most conventional sense of the word, as well in the wider and far more beautiful one. she comes of a stock as good ‘or better’ than your own. better at least, in so far as i think i have heard there is no family of more ancient standing in the county they belong to. and well-conducted people too they have been on the whole, which, though, of course, a much less important consideration, is satisfactory to know.” (lady severn had no idea her son was “chaffing” her.) “she is not rich, but that i know you don’t care about. as to herself i would rather not tell you more just yet. her name too i should prefer not mentioning, unless you particularly wish to hear it.”

“oh, no, thank you,” said his mother, “i am quite content to wait till you feel ready to tell it me” (which by-the-way was a great story). “i am so thankful to know what you have told me, for you know, ralph,” she went on apologetically, “you were rather peculiar in your ideas about social position and all that. there was that young girl at altes, you remember, miss freer, whom florence took such a dislike to. at one time—it was very absurd of me—but at one time i really had a fear of you in that quarter. she was a very sweet creature, i must say. i took quite an interest in her at first, till florence told me how underhand and designing she was. not that i altogether believed it. florence was apt to be prejudiced—but there certainly was something strangely reserved about her for so young a person. but it may have been family troubles, poor thing! i often wish we had her back again, for certainly the children were better with her than they have been since.”

ralph did not reply to this long speech, at which, however, his mother was not surprised; for she had rather a habit of maundering on in a thinking aloud fashion, once she got hold of a subject, without expecting any special notice to be taken of what she was saying. nor had she the slightest suspicion that there was any connection between this long ago discarded dread of hers, and her son’s unexpected announcement of his matrimonial intentions.

she felt not a little curious as to who her daughter-in-law elect could possibly be!

ralph was so renowned a misogynist, that where and how he had come to fall in love she was quite at a loss to conceive. his acquaintances were few, his friends fewer. of the small number of eligible young ladies she ever remembered his speaking to more than once, not one she felt intuitively certain could be the mysterious lady of his thoughts.

“thank heaven she is a lady,” thought ralph’s mother. “i have no fears on any other score, for though so peculiar, he is thoroughly to be depended on as to essentials. and his taste is refined. she is sure to be pretty and pleasing, if no more. most probably he has met her at the house of some of his learned friends. sir archibald cunningham by-the-by! ralph spent a week there last spring, just before the time he grew so quiet and depressed. how stupid of me not to have thought of it before! to be sure, sir archibald is a bachelor, so it can’t be a daughter—but he is sure to have nieces or cousins. and good family too. yes, the cunninghams may quite pass muster. scotch too. poor and proud no doubt. oh, yes, the thing is as clear as daylight. only i wonder why it has been so long coming to anything. he can’t have been afraid of my disapproval: i am sure i have always shown myself ready to agree to anything in reason! ah, yes; a niece of sir archibald’s. i am glad i have satisfied myself about it.”

and “sir archibald’s niece” became henceforth an institution in the good lady’s mind. at present she regarded her with feelings of prospective motherly affection, and began to consider which of the severn jewels would be the most appropriate to offer to the young lady in token of welcome into that august family.

“something simple would be more suitable in the first place. of course once she is married she will have her proper share of all, as the wife of the head of the family.”

so lady severn amused herself: feeling most amiably disposed to the imaginary miss cunningham, whom before long she came to think of with very different feelings! but both her goodwill and resentment were kept to herself, poor lady, as ralph exacted from her a promise that the little she knew of his mysteriously unfortunate love affairs should be kept to herself: and as he never became more communicative on the subject, sir archibald’s niece was anathematized in the private recesses of lady severn’s heart only. but this is anticipating.

sir ralph left for london the morning after his conversation with his mother. he had to drive some distance cross-country before meeting the railway, which, as i said, had not yet penetrated into the pretty little county where the family had taken up their quarters for the summer.

so he hired a post-chaise and got through the first twenty miles briskly enough. then it became necessary to change horses, the roads being hilly, and expedition indispensable to his catching the scotch express at the nearest point on its way south.

fresh horses, however, could not be provided in less than an hour’s time, quoth mine host of the “peacock,” the wayside inn at which ralph’s charioteer had thought proper to make the enquiry.

the gentleman demurred.

“i am obliged to catch the south express at bexley junction at four,” he said doubtfully.

“time enough and plenty for that, sir,” said landlord and ostler in a breath, “even if you don’t start from here till half-past two; and it’s now only on the stroke of twelve.”

“there’s the grey and the bay, tom,” added the landlord, “would think nothing of taking a trap like this that far in a hour and a quarter. it’ll give the gentleman time to lunch and look about him a bit,” he continued, as ralph, on hearing his assurance, prepared to alight. “it’s thought worth coming a good bit to see, sir, is the peacock. we’ve kep’ it among us, father and son, with now an’ then brothers and nephews to help like in the way of ostlers and bootses, we’ve kep’ it nigh on eighty years; and never without a bed to make up, sir—winter and summer alike, sir. those as finds their way to the peacock onst, generally finds it twice, not to say three times and fower. there’s a gentleman here, sir, at present, a real gentleman, not a artist, as comes for the fishin,’ says, sir, there’ll be few summers and far between as won’t see him and his lady at the peacock. (newly-married couple,” he inter-ejected.) “by reason of which it is that one of the pair has had to be shod this morning, sir——”

“the lady or the gentleman?” asked ralph, but the landlord did not catch his words.

“mr. baldwin,” he continued, “took them a longish drive yesterday to show his lady some of the sights of the neighbourhood. he’s off again this morning to fetch the letters from bexley village. a active gentleman, very. the young lady’s a trifle delicate in health, i fancy. she’s sittin’ reading in the arbour this morning. they’ve been a week and more at the peacock, and there’s no word of them going as vet.”

“by-the-by,” said ralph, who being in the possession of pleasant hopes, could listen with patience to the worthy landlord’s communications, even to his mention of the young couple who found the peacock so charming. “by-the-by, what is the meaning of the name of your place? the peacock you call it, but on the sign-board i saw something which looked more like a tree or bush as i glanced at it.”

they were by this time inside the house.

“right enough, sir,” replied the man. “the peacock is a bush, sir. one of the old-fashioned kind, sir, you know; cut for to look like a peacock. it stands in the middle of the grass plot at the side of the house, near the arbour. you can’t miss it if you take a turn that way. it’s all complete, standin’ somewhat to the right of the plot, sir, tail and all. it takes some trouble the cuttin’ and keepin’ it in shape. but it’s quite a cur’osity. will you take a turn, sir, while we’re getting ready a little something in the way of lunch. chops, veal cutlets, roast chicken—which you please, sir?”

ralph was just the sort of man who could not for the life of him order his own dinner. he always, when put to it, as in the present instance, fell back, upon “a chop.” this the landlord undertook to have speedily prepared. it was ready a good while before ralph returned to eat it!

as his host suggested, he sauntered out into the garden. a real garden of the good old-fashioned sort. seen, too, to the greatest perfection on this hot, sweet, sunny day. what air there was, came laden with breath of roses and clover-pinks, mignonette, and wall-flower; all of which, with their less fragrant, but not less lovely companions—heart’s-ease, sweet-william, and all the dear old friends we see so seldom now-a-days, flourished in rare beauty and abundance in the neat little borders with their trim box edges, round all sides of the smooth, close-cut lawn, or grass plot, as its landlord had been content to call it.

more than once ralph stopped in his stroll to bury his face in some peculiarly tempting rose, or to pass his hand caressingly over the rich, soft velvet of an appealing pansy at his feet.

“what a sweet place,” he thought to himself “and what a perfect day! just the place to make love in.”

so, too, thought his only companion in the garden, a young girl, half lying, half sitting in the arbour, whom as yet he had not observed served. nor had he, so far, been perceived by her.

marion, for she it was, had been spending the morning in a very idle fashion. with a book in her hand, but not reading, in a half dream of sweet summer fancies, subdued to pensiveness if not to melancholy, as was all about her, by the shadows of the past; but tinged and brightened, nevertheless, by the gentle sunshine of peace and affection which was gradually stealing into her life.

she was growing happier, there was no doubt. as she sat in the arbour that morning in dreamy restfulness, she acknowledged this to herself.

it might be to some extent the sweet summer influences about her—the flowers and the sunshine, and that loveliest of summer sounds, the soft, musical, mysterious hum—above, around, close-at-hand, and yet far off—of the myriads of busy, happy insects, rejoicing in their life; it might, to some extent, come from these outer-world influences, for her nature was intensely, exquisitely sensitive and impressionable. but however this may have been, the result was the same. the thoughts in her heart were full of gratitude and gentle gladness, as she murmured to herself softly, “i thank god that i am growing happier. the past has not crushed me so utterly as i thought. my youth has not altogether left me. i have suffered, god knows how i have suffered, but i thank him that the memory of it is beginning to fade in the light of the peaceful present.”

“happiness” to some natures means more than to others. there are plants that cannot live without sunshine. marion was one of these. happiness to her meant capability of well-doing—life, strength, and heart to fill her place in the world and do her work.

there are some few—the grandest of us all—to whom it is given bravely to endure to the end, with no hope on this side the grave; to do their task thoroughly, though it is all working in the dark with no prospect of light, save the far-off, fitful gleam that but seldom reaches the wearied eyes from across the depths of the dark river itself. but my poor child was not of these. she was strong, in a sense, stronger and deeper than most of her sex. but without some sunshine she must have withered and died.

she felt instinctively that so it was with her; and there was more, far more, than the selfish cry of relief from pain, in her deep thankfulness for the light beginning again, as she thought, however feebly, to glimmer on her path.

but as she was thinking thus, gazing out on the brightness and beauty around her, a shadow came between her and the sun, and the warmth and light flooding in through the narrow door of the rustic, close-thatched arbour, were suddenly intercepted.

a dark figure stood before her. her eyes were somewhat dazzled by the sunshine, and she did not for a moment see distinctly. the person—she could see it was a man—stood with his back to her. it was ralph, of course. he was amusing himself with trying, from different points of view, to discover the fancied resemblance of the old yew in the centre of the green to a peacock with outspread tail. from where he now stood some weird resemblance of the kind was perceptible. the arbour was deep, and from the outside looked dark and cavernous. utterly forgetful of the landlord’s mention of the young lady’s occupancy of it, he stood at the doorway unceremoniously blocking out the light: and when at last he turned and glanced inwards, he did not for an instant perceive that it was not tenantless. then the flutter of a light dress revealed the presence of its owner. with a hasty exclamation of apology for his intrusion, ralph was turning away, when a sound—what was it?—he could never tell—a cry of distress, an appeal to him by name, or only an inarticulate murmur—arrested him.

the lady in the arbour stood up and approached him, gazing at him fixedly, shading her eyes with her hand from the glare of light surrounding him, as he hastily stepped forward to meet her. something in her figure first struck him as familiar, something slight and indescribable, before he had time to look again at her face—to see the hand drop powerlessly by her side—and to recognize her he was on his way to seek—his lost love, marion vere!

in his glad surprise all else faded from his mind. “am i dreaming?” he exclaimed. “is it you, your very self? marion, my darling, speak to me.” and he seemed as if he were about to seize her hand and draw her towards him. but she turned coldly; in an instant regaining her self-control, which in the first moments of amazement had deserted her.

“sir ralph,” she said, “i cannot understand how it is you are here; but i do not want to see or speak to you. go away, i beg of you, and do not ask me to answer you again.”

but almost before she had finished the few cold, strange words, he interrupted her.

“i don’t wonder you are indignant with me. heaven only knows what i must have seemed to deserve you to think of me. but, listen to my explanation. you must, marion, you shall!” he exclaimed, vehemently, as she was endeavouring to pass him. and mechanically she obeyed. she was not frightened, but the old influence was at work already. she could not resist his determination that he should be heard.

she sank on the seat beside her, and he stood there in the doorway, the sunlight pouring in round him, while with earnest voice, and the quick-coming words of a full heart, he told his tale.

rapidly and unhesitatingly he went over all we have heard already. the reason of his former hesitation, the success of his journey to england, the bitter disappointment awaiting him on his return to altes, the long string of mistakes and cross-purposes, up to the last extraordinary revelation contained in cissy’s overlooked letter. she did not interrupt him by word or gesture. so he went on to tell of his delight, of the revulsion to joy from the depths of utter hopelessness the increased love and devotion wrought in him by the knowledge of all she had done and suffered; above all, by the explanation of her poor little innocent secret, which she, his poor darling, as he called her again, had dreaded his knowing. then he stopped for a second time, but still she did not answer.

“all is right now,” he said, while yet his heart throbbed faster, from some strange, unacknowledged misgiving—“all is right now,” he repeated. “my mother waiting eagerly to receive you as a daughter. marion, my dearest, have i startled you? you look paler and thinner than you were. i am a brute not to have thought of it; you have been ill. forgive my roughness, i implore you; but do not punish me in this dreadful way by refusing to look up or answer me. speak to me, my darling, i beseech you.”

then at last she spoke, but in a dull, dead voice, and without raising her eyes from the sanded floor of the little summer-house, on which she was gazing, as if she would print it on her brain. she only said, without the slightest expression or inflection in her tone—

“i thought you were married. i thought you were married to florence vyse.”

he almost laughed in the momentary relief.

“thought i was married—and to florence vyse! whoever told you so? and how could you have believed it? it must have been some absurd confusion of the news of her marriage, which is to take place shortly, true enough; but the bridegroom elect is mr. chepstow, not me. oh, marion, you didn’t really believe it?”

“yes, i did,” she replied, still in the same dead tone. “i did believe it thoroughly, so thoroughly that it nearly killed me.”

“ah, my darling!” he groaned, “then i am right. you have been very ill. i feared it. but now it is all right. now, if indeed my whole life’s devotion can do so, i will make up to you for all the miserable past. why, why did you doubt me, my love, my darling? you knew at least if i could not marry you, i should choose no other woman. but it is cruel to reproach you—cruel and useless, for it is all right now.”

and again he made as if he would draw her to his arms. but she put out her hands before her, as if in appeal.

“stop!” she said; “stop, ralph! you have not heard all yet. remember it is a year since that letter was written. truly it is useless to reproach me or anyone now, for—ah! how shall i tell him?—you have not heard all, ralph! it is not all right, but fearfully, unchangeably wrong. ralph, i am married!”

a sound as of a great, gasping sob of despair.

then a voice she would not have known for him, said, “when?”

“yesterday fortnight,” she replied, as if she were repeating a lesson learnt by rote; “yesterday fortnight. i was counting how long it was as i was sitting here before you came, and i remember i said to myself, ‘it was yesterday fortnight,’ otherwise i could not remember now. this is thursday, and it was on a wednesday. i am not marion vere now. his name is baldwin—geoffrey baldwin—and he is my husband, and i promised to love him! oh, god, forgive me! what is this thing that i have done? what is this awful punishment that has come upon me?”

and she crouched lower down on the rough bench on which she was sitting, and buried her face in her hands.