Till the grass grows my head above.”
TRANS. OF DES POURINNS BéARNAIS SONGS.
“Ihre Augen waren nicht die Sch?nsten 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 permanently2 settled in the pretty little southern town.
Harry3 wrote frequently and very cheerfully, only bewailing, as the Christmas holidays drew nearer, that they must be spent away from Marion. At rarer intervals4 there came paternal5 epistles from Mr. Vere, to which Marion always dutifully replied. Cissy, as her share, had regular letters from her husband, who latterly had alluded6 to a prospect7 before him of obtaining ere long a staff appointment in a part of the country sufficiently8 healthy for his wife to rejoin him there without risk.
Mrs. Archer9 was in great spirits at this news, and chattered10 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 misgivings12. She was not satisfied that her cousin was gaining strength from her sojourn13 at Altes, for at times she looked sadly fragile. The slightest extra exertion14 utterly15 prostrated16 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 haughtiness17 were sure to be followed by repentance18, genuine, though somewhat short-lived.
Now and then Miss Vyse favoured the schoolroom party with her presence. These were the days the young governess dreaded19. Not that then, was anything in Florence’s manner actually to be complained of. She refrained from the slightest appearance of interfering20, 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 refractory21 Lotty for any sign of disrespect or inattention.
“Oh, Lotty,” she would say, in an inexpressibly mischief22-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 demon23 of opposition24, and defiance25 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 innocence26; 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 fully1 trusted. And far worse, she instilled27 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 Rue28 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 exertions29.
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 chattering30 about him, but Marion did not encourage it. Much chattering would effectually interfered31 with lessons, and besides this, the girl-governess had of late begun to suspect that her discretion32 in this could not be carried too far; as she had a sort of instinctive33 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 candid34 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 chatter11, Dora Bailey’s silliness, and Mr. Chepstow’s ponderous35 platitudes36, 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 mischievously37, “there’s Marion. She didn’t ask them, so she’s not to blame for the infliction38, 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 specimens39 of the old language and dialects once spoken about here. I’m doing it for a friend who is taking up the subject thoroughly41.”
“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 confidential42 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 irrelevantly43, 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 dedicated44 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 Scotch45 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.”
“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 knights46, too, gallant48 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 knight47 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 vex49 me, I know. If even there is anything you wish to warn me about, I am sure you would do it most gently and kindly50. 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 habitual51 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 perplexed52 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 steadily53 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-aged54 (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 Folly55 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 distressed56 her all the same, and increased the discomfort58 of her position. How odious59 it is to think of her trudging60 backwards61 and forwards every morning as a daily governess, and that hateful Florence sneering62 at and insulting her in her cat-like way!”
At this point he stopped short in his meditations63, 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 decided64 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 chilly65, 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 flirtation66 with Mrs. Archer; by no means an easy undertaking67, as he found to his cost; for Cissy’s self-possession, quick wit and unaffected, utter indifference68 to his graceful69 compliments and sentimental70 allusions71, baffled him far more effectively than any affectation of matronly dignity, or the most freezing airs of propriety72. 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, standing73 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 plaintiveness74. 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 perfectly75 arranged group of brilliantly coloured and heavily scented76 exotics. The simile77 was not however a perfect one, for it did not sufficiently express the tenderness and cultivated refinement78 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 applied79 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 worthy80 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 sociable81 and agreeable, that Lady Severn began to think, with pleased astonishment82, 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 fatigue83. But having been, or fancied herself, stronger of late, she was bent84 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, attired85 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 unwillingly86, 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 brats87, 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 inquiry88; 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 catching89 a beseeching90 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 grandeur91.”
“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 plausible92 way of accounting93, for the mystery, which even Sophy, whose perceptions were not of the acutest, felt there existed about this girl. She would have uncommonly94 liked to hear reason, but, was not bold enough to make further inquiries95. 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 eminently96 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 rosebuds97 of as delicate a tint98 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 proficient99 therein). However this may have been, he certainly did most devoutly100 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 reassuring101, he, with fear and trembling, for the second time prepared to obey the maternal102 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 morose103, 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 insolence104 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 commemorated105. 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 belied106 yourself. I always understood you detested107 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 orphan108?” 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 fathom109.
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 forfeit110 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 impunity111.
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 banish112 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 pry113 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 peculiar114 circumstances which have called for both, and you have not failed.”
“You think better of me than I deserve,” said Marion, in all sincerity115, 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 simplicity116, 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, hoarsely117 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 hack118 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 truant119 partner as he led her away to redeem120 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 preoccupied121, 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 resolutely122 aside. Only wrung123 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 distress57 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.
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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15
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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33
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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38
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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42
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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43
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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45
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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46
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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47
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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48
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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49
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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52
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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53
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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54
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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55
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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56
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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58
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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59
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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60
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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63
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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66
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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67
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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68
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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69
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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71
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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72
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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plaintiveness
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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76
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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81
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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82
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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88
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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101
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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102
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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103
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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104
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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105
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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109
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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110
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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111
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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112
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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113
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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114
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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115
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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116
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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117
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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118
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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119
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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120
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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121
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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122
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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123
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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