“i will be quiet and talk with you,

and reason why you are wrong:

you wanted my love—is that much true?

and no i did love, so i do:

what has come of it all along.”

r. browning.

so time went on, as it always does, through weal and woe, bright days and dull. but this winter was weary work to marion baldwin. worse, far worse to bear, she constantly said to herself, than the previous one, spent mallingford at the cross house. then at least, though she had much to endure, she had been free from the reproaches of her conscience, which now, for all her endeavours to silence it, would yet at times insist on being heard. geoffrey, though she saw him but seldom in the day, constantly haunted her thoughts. she fancied she perceived a change in him. his manner was the same—perfectly gentle: but never more. but the sorrow of his life was beginning to tell on him physically. he was fast losing heart altogether, as day by day he became more convinced of the hopelessness of ever attempting to win back the wife, who indeed had never been his! yet she was gentler, more cordial even than she had been to him; always ready to agree to his wishes, much less irritable, anxious evidently to do her “duty” by him. she thought sincerely enough, that he was wearied of her, that it was too late to convince him that in her loneliness she was fast learning to prize the love and devotion which when hers, she had so rudely repulsed. for she was truly very desolate at this time. she was pining for affection, yearning for companionship.

the remembrance of ralph was growing to be to her as the memory of the dead, soft and chastened; shrined about with a sacredness of its own, but no longer agonizing and acute. she had grown so thoroughly to realize that she should never see him again, that he was utterly and for ever cut out of her life, that the inward strife and rebellion were at an end. she bowed her head in submission, standing by the grave of her lost love, and in heart said a last, voluntary farewell to the beautiful dream of her girlhood. she could never forget him, or in any sense replace him by another. he was still, and for ever must remain, a part of herself, of her whole existence. an impalpable, an indefinable and wholly immaterial bond yet, at times, seemed to rivet her spirit to his; and never was she so at peace as when she felt most conscious of this still existing sympathy. a consciousness altogether superior to the limitations of time or space—which the tidings of his death would in no wise have affected—a certainty that the noblest part of their natures was still and ever would be united, that, in the purest and most exquisite sense, he still loved her, still cared for her well being.

it was to her precisely as if he had long been dead; his own words had foreshadowed this, “as if one of us were dying, marion.”

to some extent he had foreseen how it would be with her—that to her sensitive, imaginative nature, his thus dying to her, fading softly out of her life, was the gentlest form in which the stroke could come. for she was not the sort of woman, “strong-minded, “philosophical,” call it what you will, who could ever have come to look upon him personally as only a friend, to have associated with him in a comfortable “let bygones-be-bygones” fashion, possibly to have attained to a sisterly regard for his wife, in no wise diminished by the gratifying reflection that “though really she is a nice creature, my dear, lady severn was not sir ralph’s first love.”

ralph had foreseen more. her nature, though well-balanced and far from weakly, was too clinging, too love-demanding, not, in time, to turn in its outward loneliness and desolation, to the shelter and support (if, indeed, geoffrey’s countenance did not belie his character) only too ready to welcome it. so much ralph had read, and correctly enough, of the probable future; and, therefore, as we have seen, even amidst his own supremest suffering, had ventured to predict “a moonlight happiness” for his darling.

but he had not foreseen—how could he have done so?—the side influences, the disturbing elements in the way. marion’s physical prostration at the time, which had rendered it much harder for her to act with her usual unselfishness and self-control; her monotonous, uninteresting, unoccupied life at the manor farm, where, partly through circumstances, partly through geoffrey’s mistaken kindness in sparing her every species of care or responsibility, all tended to foster her morbid clinging to the past, nothing drew her to healthy interest in the present. above all, ralph had by no means taken sufficiently into account geoffrey’s personal share in the whole. he had thought of him as a fine, honest fellow, devoted in his way to his wife; ready, as she herself had said in other words, to do anything for her happiness. true, he had had misgivings as to the effect of marion’s extending her confidence to her husband, he had thought it was only too probable that her doing so might, for a time at least, have unhappy results. but he had by no means felt certain that she would feel it her duty to tell more than she had already, before her marriage, confided to him. and even in the event of her doing so, he had not realized the manner in which it would act on the young man’s nature. few, indeed, even of those most intimately acquainted with geoffrey baldwin could have done so. these sunny, gleeful natures are often to the full as grievously misunderstood as their less attractive, graver and apparently more reserved neighbours. oh what fools we are in our superficial, presumptuous judgments of each other! may not the sunlight dance on the surface of the stream without our forthwith pronouncing its waters shallow? is there not latent in the blackest, coldest iron a vast power of heat and light?

miss veronica was absent from mallingford the greater part of this winter. her general health had been less satisfactory of late, and, after much consideration, it had been decided that the coldest months must be spent by her in a milder climate. in a sense, her absence was a relief to both her friends. it was becoming hard work to attempt to deceive her as to the true state of things at the manor farm: her loving scrutiny was more painful to marion than the cold formality of the generality of her acquaintances; more unendurable the thought of her distress and anxiety than even the consciousness of the gossiping curiosity with which the young wife felt instinctively she was elsewhere discussed.

yet she murmured, sometimes, not a little at this separation from the only friend she could really rely on: but then, in these days, marion baldwin murmured, inwardly at least, at everything in her life. there were times when she felt so desperate with ennui and heart-sick at what she believed to be her husband’s ever-growing indifference to her, that she said to herself, if only veronica were attainable she would break through her reserve and tell her all. most probably, had the resolution been possible to execute, she would have changed her mind before she was half way to miss temple’s cottage!

one day at luncheon geoffrey, to her surprise, told her a gentleman was coming to dinner. she felt considerably amazed and a little indignant. it was not often any guest joined them—“entertaining,” to any extent, not being expected of a young couple in the first months of their married life, and the couple in question being only too ready to avail themselves of the conventional excuse as long as they could with decency do so—and the few times on which their tête-à-tête meal had been interrupted, geoffrey had given her plenty of notice, had even seemed to make a favour on her side of her receiving any friend of his. to-day, however, he did nothing of the sort. hence her indignation at what she imagined to be a new proof of neglect and indifference.

in a somewhat abrupt manner he made his unexpected announcement. true to her determination, that on her side there should be no shortcoming, she answered quietly enough though at heart by no means as unmoved as she appeared:

“very well. i suppose you have told mrs. parker. do you wish me to be at dinner?”

he looked up, slightly surprised. then answered rather shortly, as had of late become a habit with him. “of course. why not? i never thought of your not being at dinner.”

“very well,” she replied again; but added, rather stiffly—“in this case, perhaps you will tell me the gentleman’s name. it might be awkward for me not to have heard it.”

all this time geoffrey’s attention had been greatly engrossed by several letters, printed reports, &c., which he had been reading as he eat his luncheon. for a minute or two he made no reply, seemed not to have heard her question; a trifling neglect, which marion in her present frame of mind found peculiarly irritating. she sat perfectly still, but no answer being apparently forthcoming, she, having finished her luncheon, rose quietly to leave the room, and had the door-handle in her hand before geoffrey noticed that she had left the table. the noise of the door opening roused him.

“i beg your pardon,” he said, hastily starting up. “you spoke to me. it was very rude of me, but i did not pay attention to what you said. please tell me what it was.”

“it was of no consequence, thank you,” replied marion, coldly, as she swept past him and crossed the hall to the drawing-room.

this was how, silly child, she performed her wifely part to the very letter of the law!

but geoffrey followed her, after delaying a few moments to collect the papers in which he had been so absorbed, and carry them for safety to his private den. this was at the other side of the house, so two or three minutes passed before he gently opened the drawing-room door, intending to apologise still more earnestly to his wife for his inattention. marion was sitting on the rug before the fire; for, though it was now early spring, it was very chilly; her face he could not at first see, it was hidden by her hands. but the slight noise he made on coming in disturbed her. she looked up hastily, with rather an angry light in her eyes, imagining it was the servant entering, with the everlasting excuse of “looking at the fire,” and feeling annoyed at the intrusion. but when she saw it was her husband her expression changed, and without speaking she quickly turned her face aside. not so quickly, though, but what geoffrey perceived what she wished to conceal--she was crying. it was the first time since their marriage he had seen her shed tears. (what different tales that simple little sentence may tell!) it smote him to the heart. with da sudden impulse he approached her, and stooped down, gently laying his hand on her shoulder: “my poor child,” he said, with all the tenderness in his voice that the words could contain, “forgive me. you have enough to bear without my boorishness wounding you so unnecessarily.”

her tears fell faster, but she did not shrink from his touch. she felt ashamed of her petulance and childishness. “it is not that,” she said at last, trying to repress her sobs.

“not my rudeness that has vexed you so?” asked geoffrey, gently, but feeling already a slight, premonitory chill.

“no, you must not think me so silly,” she replied. “it is” —and she hesitated.

“what?” he persisted.

“oh, i don’t know—i can’t tell you,” she exclaimed, passionately. “it is not any one thing. it is just everything.”

“oh,” said geoffrey, with a whole world of mingled feeling in his voice. “ah! i feared so. poor child,” he said again, but with more of bitterness than tenderness this time. “even my pity i suppose would be odious to you otherwise i might be fool enough to show you how genuine it is. but it is better not.” and he was turning away, when her voice recalled him.

“no, no,” she cried, “geoffrey, don’t be so hard. think how very lonely i am, how friendless! however i may have tried you, however you may think i have deceived you, surely my utter loneliness and wretchedness should soften you to me. i don’t want your pity. i want what now it is too late to ask for—i know it is too late. i know that you would hate me, only you are good, and so you don’t. but i can’t bear you to speak so hardly and bitterly.”

her sobs broke out more wildly. every word she had uttered was a fresh stab to geoffrey, interpreted by him as it was. but he controlled his own feelings and spoke very gently to the poor child in her sore distress.

“forgive me if what i said sounded hard and hitter, marion. heaven knows i am far from ever intending to hurt you. it is, as you say, too late to undo what is done; but do not make things worse by fancying i would ever intentionally add by even a word to all you suffer. do me justice at least. so much, i think, i have a right to expect.”

his words were gentle but cold. marion’s sobs grew quiet and her tears ceased. she was hurt, but her pride forbade her to show it except by silence.

in a moment geoffrey spoke again, in a different tone.

“you were asking me, i think,” he said, “the name of the gentleman who is coming to dine here. i should have told you before, but i did not know it myself till an hour or two ago when i met him accidentally in mallingford. it is mr. wrexham, my father’s successor in the bank. you remember my telling you about him, perhaps? very wealthy they say he is. what he cares to be a banker for passes my comprehension.”

“he has never been here before?” asked marion.

“in this house? no; and i would not have asked him now, for i don’t like the man, but that i want to have some talk with him. i have called a dozen times at the bank in the last week or two, but have never found him in. so when i met him to-day and he began apologising, i cut him short by asking him to dinner, and saying we could talk over our business after. it seemed to me he did not want to come, but he had no excuse ready. i can’t make him out.”

“but you are no longer a partner in the bank, are you?” asked marion.

“in a sort of a way i am still,” said geoffrey, “that is just what i want to see mr. wrexham about. through your other guardian, mr. framley vere, i have heard of a very good investment, both for your money—yours and harry’s, i mean—and part of my own. so i want to see about withdrawing some of my capital from the old bank. i have a right to do so at any time, with proper notice and so on. last year wrexham urged my doing so very much. just then it was not very convenient, but now that i wish to do it, there seems some difficulty which i can’t make out. i have never got hold of wrexham himself, so you understand why i am anxious to see him. to all intents and purposes he is the head of the concern now.”

“why don’t you like him?” said marion.

“i don’t know,” said geoffrey. “my reasons for disliking him would sound very silly if i put them in words, and yet to myself they don’t seem so. he is oily, and too ready, too business-like.”

marion half laughed.

“surely that is a queer fault to find with a business man,” she said.

“yes, i know it is,” said geoffrey, “but—”

the sentence was never completed. a ring at the bell made mrs. baldwin take flight in terror lest it should be the announcement of visitors, whom, with the evident traces of recent tears on her face, she felt anything but prepared to meet. she need not, have been afraid. it was only squire copley who had walked over to discuss drains with geoffrey, so she was left undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.

she felt brighter and happier. the little conversation with geoffrey, confined thought it had been almost entirely to business matters, had yet done her good, taken her a little out of herself, given her a not unpleasant feeling that notwithstanding all that had occurred to separate them, they had yet, must have, husband and wife as they were, some interest in common, some ground on which from time to time they were likely to meet.

“and any,” thought she, “is better than none, even though it be only the unromantic one of money matters.”

geoffrey’s tone at the commencement of their conversation had somewhat puzzled her. transparent as she imagined him, she was beginning to find him sometimes difficult to read. if he were tired of her, worn out by her coldness and moodiness, as she had begun to fancy, could he, would he not be more than human to address her with the intense tenderness which this afternoon had breathed through his whole words and manner? on the other hand, was it not more than could be expected of any man, save an exceptionally deep and adhesive character (“such as ralph’s, for instance,” she said to herself,) that through all that had happened, all the bitter disappointment and mortification, he should yet continue to care for, to love such a wife, or rather no wife, as she been to him? he had echoed, without, she fancied, fully comprehending her own words, “it is too late.” was it too late? or could it be that even yet, even now, in what she felt to be in a figurative sense, the autumn of her life, there was rising before her a possibility such as she had been indignant with brave, unselfish ralph for predicting, nay, urging on her, a possibility of happiness, chastened and tempered, but none the less real on this account, for herself and for the man to whom she was bound by the closest and most sacred of ties? and of better than happiness—of harmony and meaning in her life, of living rather than mere enduring of existence, of duties to do and suffering to bear, both sanctified and rendered beautiful by love. could it be that such things were yet in store for her? she could hardly believe it. yet as she remembered geoffrey’s look and voice, her heart yearned within her, and the tears again welled up to her eyes, but softly, and without bitterness or burning. all that afternoon till it grew dark she sat by the fire in her room—thinking and hoping as she had not been able to do for long.

though pale and wearied looking, there was a gentle light and brightness about her that evening very pleasant for geoffrey to see. it reminded him of the days when he first knew her—still more of the first days of their married life. and though the remembrance brought with it a sigh, it too was less bitter than tender; and his voice was very gentle that evening when he had occasion to speak to his young wife.

mr. wrexham duly made his appearance. marion’s first impression of him was unfavourable. she felt quite ready to echo geoffrey’s indefinite expressions of dislike. but later in the evening she somewhat modified her first opinion. he was so clever and amusing, so thoroughly “up” in all the subjects of the day, from the last novel to yesterday’s debate, that she felt really interested and refreshed by his conversation. it was more the sort of talk she had been accustomed to in her father’s house, and which, as far as her experience went, was by no means indigenous to brentshire, where the men’s ideas seldom extended beyond fox-hunting and “birds,” varied occasionally by a dip into drains and such like farmers’ interests; and where the still narrower minds of the women rotated among servants and babies, descriptions at second or third hand of the probable fashions, and gossip not unfrequently verging on something very like downright scandal.

mr. wrexham seemed at home on every subject and in every direction. certainly his personal appearance was against him, and the fact that in five minutes’ time it ceased to impress his companions disagreeably, in itself says a good deal for his cleverness and tact. he was middle-sized and fat—not stout, fat—loose, and somewhat flabby. a large head, with a bare, bald forehead such as many people take as a guarantee of brains and benevolence, small twinkling eyes, a preponderance of jaw and mouth, and a pair of fat, white, and yet determined looking hands—all these do not make up an attractive whole. but he talked away his own ugliness, and talked himself, with that round, full voice of his, into his young hostess’s good graces in a really wonderful way. he did not flatter her; he was far too clever to make such a mistake. he appealed to her knowledge of the subjects they were conversing about in a matter-of-course way far more insidiously gratifying to a sensible and intellectual woman. once or twice, as if inadvertently, he alluded to her father, the loss the country had sustained in his premature death, the immense veneration he, mr. wrexham, had always felt for him, though not personally acquainted with the great man, and so on, so delicately and judiciously, that marion’s dislike was perfectly overcome, and she mentally resolved never again to trust to first impressions. after dinner, as she expected, the gentlemen sat long in the dining-room. she was growing tired and sleepy when they joined her. geoffrey’s face, she was glad to see, looked brighter and less anxious than it had appeared during dinner. mr. wrexham had evidently the faculty of talking business as pleasantly as everything else, for his host’s manner to him had decidedly increased in cordiality.

“we were just talking of miss temple in the other room,” began mr. wrexham. “i am delighted to find how intimate a friend of yours she is, mrs. baldwin. a charming, really charming person she must be. by-the-by, how terribly abused that word often is! i have not the pleasure of knowing her personally, but her books make one feel as if she were a personal friend.”

“her books!” repeated marion, in surprise. “miss temple’s books! i never knew she had written any. did you, geoffrey?”

“oh yes,” said he, “it was ever so long ago she wrote them. i believe they’re out of print now.”

“how could you be so stupid as never to tell me before?” said marion, playfully. geoffrey looked pleased.

“i’m not much of a novel reader,” he said; “to tell the truth i’m not sure that i did read them. very few people knew anything about them.”

“what are they called?” asked marion. but geoffrey was quite at fault. mr. wrexham as usual came to the rescue. not only with the names, but with slight but appreciative and well worded sketches of the two novels in question.

marion was delighted, and still more so when their ever ready guest volunteered to procure for her copies of the books, though now, as geoffrey had said, out of print.

shortly after, mr. wrexham took his leave. geoffrey undertook to put him on his road, as he expressed his intention of walking home. marion was tired and went to bed, so it was not till the next morning at breakfast time that they compared notes on the subject of their guest.

“you liked him better when you came to talk more to him, did you not, geoffrey?” asked marion.

“i did and i didn’t,” he replied. “i have still that queer sort of feeling of not making him out. but it may be my fancy only. i daresay he’s straightforward enough.”

“he is unusually clever and well-informed,” said marion.

“so i should think,” said geoffrey, “though not going in for that sort of thing myself, i can admire it in others. clever! oh dear yes! i only hope he’s not too clever.”

“did you talk over your business matters satisfactorily?” enquired mrs. baldwin.

“ye—es, i think so,” replied her husband. ‘‘all he said seemed right enough. i can draw out your money of course any day, my own too in part. the man can have no motive, as far as i can see. he doesn’t w my money, but still it seems queer.”

“what?” asked marion.

“oh! i forgot i hadn’t told you. wrexham has such a poor opinion of the investment your cousin, mr. framley vere, so strongly recommended. i really don’t know what to do. mr. framley vere is considered a very good man of business, and he, you know, is your other trustee. in fact i have hardly any right to delay doing as he advised—with respect to your money and harry’s i mean. he wrote about it three weeks ago and wished it done at once, only i have never succeeded in getting hold of wrexham. and i can’t but be to some extent impressed by what he said. if i wait a month or two he says he can put me in the way of something much better—more secure, that’s to say. but i don’t like seeming to oppose mr. framley vere. indeed i’ve no right to do so. if he were at home i would go and see him. but he’s on the continent.”

“you might write to him,” suggested marion; “his letters are sure to be forwarded.”

“so i might, certainly,” replied her husband. “i don’t know but what it will be the best plan. i will write and tell him all wrexham told me. it was in confidence, but that of course does not exclude my co-trustee. i can ask him to reply at once. yes, that will be the best plan. thank you for suggesting it. you see i hate writing so, it’s the last expedient that ever enters my head.”

and with considerable relief at the solution of his perplexity, mr. baldwin left the breakfast-table.

two days later marion fell ill. her complaint was only a very bad cold, but so bad that for a fortnight she was confined to her room. geoffrey was unhappy enough about her, though he said little. marion herself was comparatively cheerful. the enforced rest of body, and to a great extent of mind also, was soothing to her just then. and she was the sort of woman that is never sweeter and more loveable than in illness.

geoffrey wrote to mr. framley vere. but during this fortnight there came no answer. the first day marion was downstairs again, geoffrey told her that the morning’s post had brought a letter from miss temple, begging him possible to meet her the following day at a half-way point on her journey homewards from devonshire, as her escort could only bring her thus far, and in her helpless state her maid was not sufficient protection. the young man hesitated to comply, as he disliked the idea of leaving his wife alone in a barely convalescent state; but when she heard or it, marion begged him to do as veronica asked.

“it is but little we can do for her,” she said, “and only think what a friend she has been to us both.”

“to me,” replied geoffrey, “but i am not so sure that you have the same reason to say so. had it not been for her—for meeting again at her house, i mean—the probability is, poor child, you would never have been talked out of your first decision. what would it not have saved you!”

“geoffrey!” said his wife, looking up with eyes full or tears. he had never before said as much, and she was deeply touched. unconsciously his few words revealed to her the rare unselfishness of his character. even in looking back to what truly had been the bitterest trial of his life, he thought of the past if not solely, at least chiefly, from her point of view. “what would it not have saved you.”

she might have perhaps said more, but a servant’s entering interrupted them. geoffrey was obliged to leave that morning in order to reach the half-way point the same evening, so as to be ready to start with his charge the following day at an early enough hour to reach mallingford before dark the succeeding afternoon. but he carried with him on his journey a companion which cheered and encouraged him as he had little hoped ever again to be cheered and encouraged.

all through, the long railway journey, in the unfamiliar, bustling town where he spent the night, it was present with him—the remembrance of a sweet, pale face and soft eyes dimmed with tears, gently calling him by name in a voice half of reproach, but telling surely of something more. something he had not all through these weary months ventured to hope for as possible for him even in the furthest future. could it be, or was he mad to think it, could it be that marion, his wife, was learning to care for him?

the thought thrilled him through and through. it gave a brightness to his face and manner that poor veronica rejoiced to see. she was not given to the asking of intrusive questions, or of beating about a delicate subject in hopes of discovering its exact condition, (both which modes of torture some people seem to consider a proof of the most devoted friendship) so she said nothing at all verging on the matter so constantly in her thoughts. but the tone in which geoffrey replied to her affectionate enquiries about his wife, fell pleasantly on her ear.

“she is much better,” said geoffrey, “but she really has been very ill. i can’t bear to hear her coughs, though the doctor assures me she is perfectly sound. to tell you the truth, veronica,” he added, with a half smile, “i am such a baby about marion, i didn’t half like leaving her even for a day.”

“it was very good of you, dear geoffrey,” said miss temple. “i really don’t know how i should have got home without you. but if i had had the least notion she was ill i would never have asked it.”

“there was not the slightest reason really for my not corning,” said geoffrey, “only you see i’m ridiculously anxious about her. but she would never have forgiven me if i hadn’t come. she is always so delighted if we can be of the least use to you. no one i’m sure deserves as much of us.”

“you are very dear, good children both of you,” said veronica. “and were i, as i hope to be before i die, perfectly assured that i have throughout acted for your real good by both of you, i think—i think i should die content.”

“she had said more than she had intended. a moment after she almost regretted having done so, for though geoffrey pressed her hand, her poor wasted hand, which years ago in girlhood had been so round and pretty, he said nothing; and she half fancied her words brought a red flush to his fair face.

their journey was accomplished in safety. it was pretty late in the afternoon when their train puffed into mallingford station, and geoffrey jumped out on to the platform to see that the easiest of the “king’s arms” carriages was in waiting according to command, for the invalid lady.

veronica meantime remained with her maid in the railway carriage, awaiting his return. he was absent barely five minutes—too short a time truly to change a man from youth to age, from the aspect of robust health to that of pallid, haggard sickness—yet, had five months, nay years, elapsed before geoffrey baldwin returned to veronica, she would have been amazed and horrified at the change. his bright boyish face looked like that of a man of fifty, all drawn and pinched, pallid as with a pallor of death, blue about the lips, even the sunny hair at that moment seemed to be dimmed by a shade of grey.

veronica was too terrified to speak. the one word “marion,” she shaped with her lips, though her tongue refused to utter it. but geoffrey understood her.

“no,” he whispered hoarsely “not that. but the old bank, baldwin’s bank, has stopped payment. it was my own fault. i have ruined her. curse that fellow, curse him,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth.