“O that spectre! For three years it followed me up and down the dark staircase, or stood by my bed: only the blessed light had power to exorcise it.”  
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. MRS. JAMESON.
 
“That way madness lies.”
 
—KING LEAR.
 
 
 
IT was quite true. She had not misunderstood what he said. Sir Ralph, for reasons best known to himself, left Altes the next day for an indefinite time. It seemed to Marion that there had been something prophetic in his calling her “brave and patient.” She needed, at this time, to be both. And she succeeded, poor child, in her endeavour to act up to his opinion of her. Day after day the appointed hour saw her in the schoolroom, doing her very best with her pupils, bearing with Lotty’s tempers and poor little Sybil’s moods. And no one, not even Cissy, suspected that she had even these to bear, far less the deeper, though hardly even to herself acknowledged sorrow—disappointment—call it which you will, the magnitude of which unconsciously swallowed up the lesser daily irritations. It was not merely a sorrow, a loss, a something gone out of her life, which she had not known was there till she missed it. It was more than these. She was mortified, ashamed of having given her regard, she would call it by no more tender name even to herself, unasked. For Ralph’s strange words and manner she, in her morbid self-reproach, now explained as entirely traceable to his generous pity for her. Pity, in the first place, for her dependent position, and secondly (ah, how it wounded her to think so!) for her unmaidenly, because unsought and unreturned, revelation of her “regard” for him. How extraordinarily people misunderstand each other! Thus she was thinking and suffering, at the very time that Ralph was repeating to himself over and over again, “Under no possible circumstances, had there been no shadow of a rival in the field, could that bright, sweet being have learnt to care for a soured, dried-up, in every way unattractive man like me!”
 
At this period, I think, could Marion have been assured that such were Ralph’s feelings for her, she would have looked upon permanent separation from him as a comparatively small trial. For mortification, self-abasement of this kind are very hard upon a sensitive, pure-minded girl.
 
“If only I could think he did not despise me,” she said to herself.
 
It never occurred to her that so far, as least, as Ralph himself was concerned, her being a governess might have in any way have influenced him. She was too unpractical to realize the possibility of this; or was it, perhaps, the instinctive trust one genuine, noble nature feels in a kindred spirit? For Marion had been quick to perceive Mr. Erbenfeld’s contempt and Miss Vyse’s condescending insolence.
 
But time wore on, as it always does, through the weariest weeks, as through “the roughest day.” Christmas came and went. January far advanced, and Marion began to think indeed, she was never to see Ralph Severn again, for Cissy still spoke of the not for-distant “spring” as the probable date of her return to India. April had been originally mentioned as the limit of their stay at Altes, but before then, she heard from the children, the Severn household was to be removed to Switzerland for the summer.
 
Sybil sometimes spoke of her uncle. He had been in London for the last month, she said. And then two or three days after, with great delight, she showed Marion a letter he had sent her from Paris, dated from the H?tel de ——, where he said he was going to stay a week or two.
 
“And after that, perhaps, he will come home here,” said Sybil.
 
“Nonsense, Sybil,” said Lotty, hastily; “that’s not at all certain. He may, perhaps, not return to Altes at all. What do you know about it, I’d like to know?”
 
She spoke roughly and rudely, and Sybil began to cry. Marion checked Lofty, and desired her to attend to her lessons, and not interfere with her sister. Then she tried to soothe Sybil, but it was difficult to do so. Of late the child had seemed far from well. Her timidity and nervousness had increased to a painful extent, and Marion felt strangely anxious and uneasy about her. More than ever she felt persuaded that some unhappy influence was injuriously affecting the child, though in what it consisted, or how it was exercised, she was utterly unable to conjecture. This morning Lotty happened to be sent for by her grandmother, a few moments after receiving her governess’s reproof for her roughness to Sybil. When left alone with the poor little girl, still sobbing piteously, Marion again tried to soothe her. She took her on her knee, and spoke kind, loving words, while she kissed and caressed the throbbing brow and tear-stained cheeks.
 
“Sybil my darling,” she said, “try and leave off crying. It will make your head ache so. Lotty did not mean to be unkind; she only spoke thoughtlessly, as she does, but you must not mind it so very much.”
 
Sybil clung to her more closely and tried to check her sobs as she answered.
 
“It isn’t Lofty I’m crying about, dear Miss Freer. I’m thinking Uncle Ralph isn’t coming back.”
 
“But he’s sure to come back before long, dear,” said Marion;” Lotty only said he wasn’t perhaps coming just yet.”
 
“Oh! but I want him so much,” said Sybil, “so very much. I was thinking I would tell him. I couldn’t tell any one else.”
 
“What about, dear?” asked Marion, gently. “If you will tell me, perhaps I can help you.”
 
“No, you couldn’t,” answered Sybil. “Besides I mustn’t tell you. I said I wouldn’t, and it might hurt you. I didn’t mean ever to tell anybody, because of what Emilie said. But since it has been so bad, I thought I would tell Uncle Ralph. He is big and strong, you know, and he wouldn’t laugh at me.”
 
“Laugh at you, dear,” said Marion, eagerly; “no, indeed, he would not. Nor would I, Sybil. You know I wouldn’t. Won’t you tell me this secret, darling, unless, of course, you are sure it would be wrong to do so?”
 
“It wouldn’t be wrong,” said Sybil, “only I promised. And then—— Oh!” she exclaimed, suddenly, while a sort of shiver ran through her—“oh, it is so dreadful. Can’t you make me forget it, dear Miss Freer? Last night I said my prayers a hundred times over without stopping, before Emilie came to bed, but it was no use. I couldn’t go to sleep, and it gets so hot under the clothes I can hardly breathe.”
 
“But how do you menu, before Emilie came to bed?” asked Marion; “doesn’t she sit in your room after you are in bed? I am sure I have heard that she was told to do so.”
 
“Yes,” answered Sybil in a whisper; “yes, Grandmamma did tell her so, after Lotty went to sleep in Florence’s room. I was always able to go to sleep before that. But Emilie won’t stay in my room till I go to sleep. That is what has made it so bad. Only she told me not to tell. If I did, she said I should get into a fit and die. All alone, Miss Freer, all alone except for them,” the child added in a whisper of the utmost horror, her eyes dilated as she looked up into Marion’s anxious face. Suddenly she threw herself back into her governess’s arms, clutching her tightly in her terror and distress, and burying her face on her shoulder.
 
“Oh!” she exclaimed; “don’t make me tell any more. Don’t, please don’t.”
 
“Very well, darling,” replied Marion, soothingly; “we will talk about some nice things. Only tell me, dear Sybil, does any one know? Any one besides Emilie?”
 
“Florence knows part,” said the child; “Emilie told her I was very naughty, and Florence wasn’t kind at all. She scolded me very much, and said if I told that Emilie didn’t stay with me, she would get me sent away to school. She said it was very unkind of me to want Emilie to sit all the evening in my room. But I think Emilie didn’t tell it her all, or she would not have scolded me so. Emilie does tell little stories, Miss Freer, and I don’t like her, but Florence likes her because she does a great deal of work for her, and then she says I give her so much trouble, she has no time to do the things that Grandmamma wants done. And it isn’t true, Miss Freer,” said Sybil, emphatically, clenching her little hands in indignation.
 
“Well, dear, it should make you not mind so much what Emilie says, if she is so careless in her way of speaking. If your secret is about something Emilie has told, I would try not to think any more about it.”
 
“Yes, but that is true,” repeated Sybil, relapsing into her awe-struck whisper; “I know that is true, because of what I saw, Miss Freer.”
 
She shuddered as she spoke, and Marion, fearful of uselessly exciting her—as it was evident she must not at present insist upon the child’s full confidence—hastened to change the subject. After some efforts, she succeeded in interesting and amusing her little charge, who by the end of the morning looked brighter and happier. Still the young governess felt very anxious and uneasy when the hour came to leave her pupils for the day. Sybil looked ready to burst into tears again, but Marion whispered to her that to-morrow she would arrange to stay an hour later, to finish a delightful story that had been broken in the middle; which promise brought back a smile to the woe-begone little face.
 
“What can I do?” thought Marion. “I can’t bear to leave things as they are, and yet any interference on my part would probably do no good, and only cause me to be set down as presumptuous and officious. It might even lead to my being dismissed, and then how miserable and forlorn Sybil would be! It is evident that wicked Emilie is terrifying the poor child to prevent her complaining of her. And Miss Vyse supporting such conduct! Though I agree with Sybil that Emilie must have told the story in her own way. Miss Vyse would not be so utterly heartless, if she knew what the child is actually suffering. Though it is shameful of her to have accepted Emilie’s statement as to Sybil’s naughtiness in that careless way.”
 
So Marion thought to herself. But she could see nothing likely to do such good in her power. All her cogitations ended in wishing Sir Ralph were back again. But she resolved in the meantime to watch Sybil closely, and if no improvement became manifest, to brave all, rather than conceal the hidden mischief she now had proof was at work. Emilie, the children’s maid, she had seen little of, but the girl’s manner and appearance she disliked. Lady Severn unfortunately had an exceedingly high opinion of her; and Miss Vyse, as Sybil had said, was sure to take her part, for the reasons the child had been quick enough to discover.
 
The next day Sybil seemed better again, and told Marion she had had “a very nice sleep all night.” But the day after the child was evidently very ill. There were black circles round her eyes, telling of sleepless hours and nervous suffering. The pain in her head was so bad, she said, she could not see the words in her lesson-book when she tried to read; and at last Marion gave up the attempt as useless. Sybil would not speak much, and was evidently in terror of Marion’s renewing the subject of her secret alarms. So, after trying to soothe her by reading aloud some of the little girl’s favourite fairy tales, in which however she seemed hardly able to take any interest, the young governess was obliged to leave her for the day. Lotty did not seem much impressed by her sister's suffering, saying carelessly:
 
“Oh! Sybil’s always sulky when she has the least bit of a headache.”
 
When lesson hours were over, Marion asked to see Lady Severn, intending to tell her of Sybil’s evident illness. Considerably to her annoyance, Lady Severn sent to ask her to see her in the drawing-room, in consequence of which Miss Vyse was of course present at the interview, which effectually dispelled Marion’s faint hopes of being able to do poor Sybil any real good by what she might say to her grand-mother.
 
“You wished to see me, Miss Freer, I believe?” began the dowager, in a rather icy tone.
 
“Merely to tell you that I think Sybil is far from well this morning,” replied Marion rather shortly, at which Miss Vyse smiled contemptuously as she bent over her writing-table. Miss Freer’s entrance into the room she had acknowledged by the slightest and most indifferent of bows, or rather nods.
 
“Of that I am quite aware,” said Lady Severn; “I make a point of seeing the children every morning, Miss Freer, and I am thoroughly acquainted with Sybil’s constitution. She is only suffering from one of her old attacks, and the usual remedies have already been applied. Your intention was good, Miss Freer, I have no doubt, but I assure you, it is quite unnecessary for you to add to your duties the care of my grand-daughters’ health. It is in older and naturally more experienced hands than yours. At the same time, I thank you for your well-meant attention to Sybil’s indisposition.”
 
Again Miss Vyse smiled quietly to herself.
 
Marion was paler than usual, as she made another effort for her poor little pupil:
 
“You must excuse me, Lady Severn,” she said “if I seem officious or presuming, but I am very anxious about Sybil. I think she has been falling off for some time. I am afraid she does not sleep well, and bad nights are sure to hurt a child. In the morning she often looks as if she had been awake all night.”
 
“She has never been a good sleeper,” replied Lady Severn, but not unkindly. “It arises merely from her general delicacy. It is not to be expected she will get over it till she is older. But in this respect she is already improved. Emilie says she sleeps soundly now, does she not, Florence, my dear?” she inquired of Miss Vyse.
 
“Perfectly so, dear Aunt,” replied the young lady, with the same sneer in her voice that Marion had detected in her smile. “Of course Miss Freer cannot understand her in the same way that we do. I myself think her wonderfully improved of late in her health, though I sometimes fear the improvement in her temper and disposition is not so great.”
 
“I quite agree with you my love,” said Lady Severn. “Do not think I am finding fault, Miss Freer, but you must allow m............