“Ah me! for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth.”
 
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
 
“La doute s’introduit dans l’ame qui rêve, la foi descend dans l’ame qui souffre.”
 
 
 
THOSE few days had been dull enough for Marion. The weeks of happiness, unquestioning, if not thoughtless, that had preceded them, had ill prepared her for the sudden change. For that there was a change, that some mysterious influence had come between Ralph and her, she felt convinced. At first she was inclined to ascribe it to Cissy’s unlucky allusion to Frank Berwick that afternoon on the terrace. But on further reflection she became convinced that though this might explain part, it did not throw light on the whole. If Ralph’s feelings to her were merely, as she had for long believed, those of kindly, almost pitying friendliness, there could be no reason why the suspicion of her attachment to another should interfere with their pleasant intercourse. If, on the other hand, as of late she had half unconsciously begun to hope, his interest in her was of a far deeper nature, why should he have allowed all these weeks of almost daily intercourse to elapse, and then suddenly on the mere shadowy appearance of a possible rival, withdraw without a word of explanation offered or demanded?
 
No, if Ralph indeed “cared for her,” as she softly worded it to herself, there must be some other obstacle in the way, some more important influence at work than any mistaken dread of the young officer. Marion to some extent misunderstood Ralph. She had no idea of his extreme self contempt, his rooted notion that in all respects he was utterly unattractive, and unlikely to win a girl’s affection. She, in her sweet humility, so looked up to him that she could not realize his complete unconsciousness of the loftiness of the pedestal on which she had placed.
 
But this obstacle, this hindrance, in what then did it consist? wherein lay its insurmountably? A more worldly-minded or experienced girl would at once have found an answer to this question in the fact of her dependent position; but with respect to Ralph himself, this did not somehow occur to Marion as of much consequence. Yet she was by no means ignorant of the conventional importance of social position, and had indeed been keenly alive to the slights, and still more objectionable condescension, which in her r?le of governess she had not failed to meet with. Her unworldliness showed itself rather in her perfect trust, her childlike confidence that were there no other difficulty in the way, Sir Ralph would not refrain from asking her to be his wife because he believed her to be a governess. And indeed, though she knew it not, it was only at times that she realized her present position. It was too new to her, and she was too conscious of its unreality, for it to influence save in a passing way her estimate of herself or others. When with Sir Ralph, she always felt herself to be herself—Marion Vere—his equal in every sense. In every sense, at least, in which a true woman would wish to feel herself the equal of the man she loves. And, in an utterly illogical way, it seemed to her almost as if her knowledge that this was the case, her assurance that not even from the social point of view could she be regarded as other than a fit wife for him, must somehow or other be instinctively recognised by Ralph Severn himself.
 
In all these ideas, as we have seen, she was partly right and partly wrong.
 
From her own side, what troubled her most, was the consciousness of the deception she had practised. This indeed, were it known, might give Lady Severn a fair and reasonable excuse for the growing antipathy towards her, of which Marion had for some time felt conscious, while rightly attributing it to the specious influence of Miss Vyse. And far worse than this—for Sir Ralph, she knew well, was not the sort of man to like or dislike at the bidding of another, even though that other were his nearest relation—what might not be the effect on the young man himself of the revelation of her falsehood, for such in deed, if not in actual word, she felt that it deserved to be called? Would he ever forgive it, ever make allowance for the temptation which had prompted it? It was not like an isolated act, she said to herself in her sharp self-condemnation, it was a long series of deception into which she had been led, or rather allowed herself to fall. All these months she had been living under false colours; his very kindness to her even, seemed to her at times to have the scorch of “coals of fire.” Nay, for aught she knew, anything beyond this same kindness was purely the work of her imagination, and the little she was sure of, the gentle, almost fatherly care which he had always shown her, not hers it all, but belonged to Miss Freer, the poor little governess, who had upon him the claim that all weak and dependent beings have upon the strong and prosperous. So she tormented herself, her mind revolving in a circle of ever increasing wretchedness, doubt and self-reproach.
 
Then again, in those long, dull afternoons when she sat by Cissy’s bedside, or longer, duller evenings, when she had nothing at all to do but dream by herself in the little salon, there would come gleams of brightness, beautiful and sudden. A glance round the room, lighting on some book he had opened when last there, or the terrace where they had spent such happy hours, or even on the glass which some few days before had held the flowers he had brought her—any one of these things had power to shed sunshine through her heart. What did they not recall? Words all but spoken—slight, lingering touches of her fluttering hair, the ribbons of her dress, or the bracelet that clasped her round, white wrist—looks and tones more eloquent than words. Ah, how many silly, sweet trifles came crowding into her mind! Each with its own precious message of hope and assurance.
 
She rose from her seat at last. (It was the evening of the very day on which Ralph had met Frank and Mr. Price.) She rose from her seat, and stood erect in her maidenly dignity.
 
“I will believe,” she said to herself, “I will believe and trust him. I cannot remember his eyes, his voice, and not think him true. It may be he is not his own master; he is perhaps fettered in some way; I do not, and probably never may know. But for all that I believe he loves me. My love has not been given unsought, though it may be he hardly knew he was seeking it. I will no longer yield to this horrible mortification, this doubt of myself and of him. Come what may, Ralph Severn mid I have loved each other.”
 
And thereupon Marion found peace. Peace indeed of a somewhat hopeless kind, but nevertheless infinitely better than the miserable state of doubt and unrest which had preceded it.
 
And as she sat there alone and silent, dreaming, till even the long, light evening was drawing to a close, she gave the reins to her fancy, in her endeavour to picture to herself the nature of this barrier, which, she felt convinced, stood between herself and Ralph.
 
One theory after another she rejected as untenable; but curiously enough the real obstacle, Ralph’s actual want of means, his dependence on his mother, never once occurred to her. She was not after all intimately acquainted with the family history of the Severns, and naturally enough, seeing Ralph the head of a house, whose possessions were generally spoken of as considerable, the idea of associating poverty with one in his position, would have appeared to her absurd.
 
Suddenly a new solution struck her. Could it be that he was bound in honour, though not in affection (of the latter she was very sure), to his beautiful cousin, Florence Vyse? The more she thought of it, the better it seemed to answer the riddle. Not much of the Altes gossip, so far as the Severns were concerned, had reached her. Her position in the family, and her evident dislike to hearing their affairs discussed, had prevented her hearing much of the tittle-tattle which had been freely circulated about them.
 
Still, now and then, hints had reached her of an “understanding” on the subject, a family arrangement, of which the principals were Sir Ralph and the beautiful Florence. Her own observation had long since discovered that if such were not the state of things, it was from no backwardness on the part of the lady: but hitherto her thoughts had never rested on the possibility of there being any foundation in fact, for the rumours she had heard; for Sir Ralph had been at no to hide his aversion for his so-called cousin, his more than indifference, his absolute dislike to her society. Nor had he spoken of her with any prejudice or exaggeration, which might have been attributed to some other motive. He had simply allowed it to be plainly seen that he did not like, even while he could not but, in a sense, admire her. One expression of his, Marion recalled distinctly. Agreeing with her one day when she happened to allude incidentally to Miss Vyse’s great and peculiar beauty, she had heard him whisper, mutter rather, to himself: “Beautiful, yes, no doubt. But there are some kinds of beauty, than which I would rather have positive ugliness.”
 
All this had long ago decided Marion that the reports which had reached her on the subject were mere foundationless gossip; never before this evening had it come home to her girlish heart, with all its fresh belief in “love,” as the necessary precursor of marriage; never before had she realized that the case in question might be a sad exception to her rule—that heart and hand do not always go together—that Ralph himself might be bound in honour to marry the beautiful Florence, while his heart had been given to the simple, trusting girl, who long ago had allowed him to steal away hers in exchange.
 
Her quick imagination, once it had seized the clue, was at no loss to follow out its discovery. “It is all plain to me now,” thought Marion, “clear its daylight. And it is all over.”
 
But as she lay down to sleep her last thought was:
 
“I am content with my share. I would rather have his heart. I have got it and,” she added almost fiercely, “I will keep it.”
 
She had sat up later than usual that evening; and the next morning she was somewhat behind time in making her appearance. The clock struck the half hour after eight as she finished dressing. Just as she was leaving her room she heard the front door bell ring; and curious to see who could be so early a visitor, she passed quickly through the drawing-room on to the terrace, which sideways overlooked the entrance to the house. There to her amazement she descried Sir Ralph Severn! What could he be come about at so unusual an hour? The little mystery however was soon explained. A slight bustle in the room within, and in another moment Lofty and Sybil, laden with lovely, fresh flowers, made their appearance on the terrace.
 
“Lotty! Sybil!” she exclaimed “where in the world have you got these lovely flowers?”
 
“From the market,” answered Lotty. “Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Freer? But they are really more from Sybil than from me. She thought of them first.”
 
“Most from Uncle Ralph, Lotty,” interrupted Sybil, “he wouldn’t let me pay for them. They are Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, to make the room look pretty when she gets up in the afternoon. Won’t she be pleased?”
 
“I sure she will, you dear children answered Marion. “They are lovely. We have never had such pretty ones before. And Cissy is so fond of flowers. Pray thank Sir Ralph very much for getting them, and let me kiss you, Sybil darling, for having thought of them. You too, dear Lotty. How early you must have got up!”
 
“Oh, yes, we have been up two hours. We were so afraid of being too late to go to the market with uncle. All these flowers are for Charlie’s mamma, Miss Freer, but this one is for yourself, Uncle Ralph said,” and as Sybil spoke, she took out of a corner of her basket where it had been carefully placed, one perfectly pure white rose.
 
Marion took it from her, and held it carefully. “Is it not a beauty?” said Lotty, but Miss Freer did not answer.
 
She turned, and went out again on the terrace. There she stood for a moment, till Ralph, happening to look up, caught sight of her. His face flushed, and a smile came over it when he saw what she held in her hand. But he only bowed, and seemed to have no intention of entering the house. So she went back to the children and thanked them again for their pretty gift, and advised them not to keep their uncle waiting.
 
When they were gone she at down to her solitary breakfast, with her heart full of strangely-mingled feelings; while Ralph walked home absent and preoccupied, and answering much at random to the incessant, chattering questions of his merry little nieces.
 
It is curious how sometimes when we have made up our mind to a certain course of action, the most unexpected outward occurrences seem, as it were, to happen on purpose to confirm us in our resolution.
 
So it seemed just now to Ralph. The English letters arrived this morning as he sat at breakfast, after his early visit to the market. Among them, to his surprise, he recognized one in the handwriting of his “old chief,” as he called him, Sir Archibald Cunningham.
 
“Curious,” thought Ralph as he opened it. “Very, that I should hear from him just at this crisis. The last man on earth to write a private letter if he can avoid it.”
 
Its contents were, in themselves, unimportant enough, merely requesting Sir Ralph to forward to him by post one or two additional notes on the neighbouring patois, which, when in England, he had not thoroughly revised. The gist of the letter, so far as Ralph was concerned, was contained in the postscript.
 
“I would not have hurried you about these notes,” wrote Sir Archibald, “but I have decided to leave England much sooner than I expected, remaining some weeks in Switzerland on my way east. I start, if possible, next week. I am only delayed by my wish to find out whom I am likely to get instead of Cameron.”
 
“Next week,” thought Ralph; “that’s quick work. I must see him before he leaves town.”
 
And that day saw a letter written and despatched to Sir Archibald announcing Ralph’s intention of seeing him in London with as little delay as possible, and giving him some idea of the nature of the business he was specially anxious to discuss with him.
 
Lady Severn was not a little annoyed, when she learnt her son’s intention of starting again for England on the morrow.
 
“It was very st............