“Here there was but sorry going, for the way was very wearisome.”
PILGRIMS PROGRESS.
THE autumn days were already beginning to draw in, and it was growing late in the afternoon when Marion and her guardian entered Miss Tremlett’s presence; so the light was dim; and at first it was difficult to distinguish the owner of the sharp, somewhat querulous voice which greeted them from the opposite corner or the room.
“So you have got here at last, Miss Vere, Marion, I suppose I may still say? Excuse my rising. At this hour I always am obliged to rest the sofa till tea time. How did you get here? Oh,” as she for the first time perceived her niece’s companion. “So you’re there, Geoffrey Baldwin! Quite unnecessary. My niece could perfectly have walked up from the station alone.” And with the last few words the voice increased in acrimony.
Instinctively Marion crept a little closer to the tall form beside her. He felt her shiver slightly and—instinctively too—groped with his great strong hand for the little cold one hidden under her cloak, and gave it a reassuring pressure. She took it quite naturally, and for a moment or so allowed her hand to remain in his grasp. But she could not brace herself up to reply to her aunt’s greeting. Geoffrey did so for her, ignoring altogether the latter part of the speech.
“Yes,” he replied cheerfully, “here we are, Miss Tremlett, Miss Vere, I am sure is glad to be at her journey’s end. But it is so dark, I can hardly see. Take care, Miss Vere,” as Marion made a movement in the direction of the sofa, “there’s a footstool in the way. Perhaps Miss Tremlett will allow me to lights?”
“I never have lights between my afternoon luncheon and tea time, Geoffrey Baldwin. I am sure you might know that by now,” replied the old lady snappishly. “My head would never stand it However for once in a way—Oh, Martha is that you? You certainly need not have brought the lamp till I did ring.”
But Martha deposited the lamp and quietly retired. Now, Marion could see her aunt plainly. There was not very much to see. A withered face with some remains of former good looks, but none of the more lasting loveliness of sweet expression; or the rare but unsurpassed beauty of a tender, loving old age. A graceful figure had in her young days been one of Miss Tremlett’s attractions, and this she still imagined that she possessed. In consequence of which somewhat mistaken notion, for the former sylph-like slightness was now rather to be described as scragginess and angularity, she was fussy to a degree about the make and fit of her dresses. A wrinkle drove her frantic, and though her days were principally spent on the sofa, the slightest crease or rumple in her attire altogether upset her never-very-firmly-established equanimity. She wore a light brown “front” surmounted by a cap of marvellous construction, so precise and stiff in its appearance that till you touched it you could hardly believe it to consist of anything so soft and ethereal as lace. Miss Tremlett had one art in perfection altogether peculiar to herself that of lying on a sofa without the slightest appearance of ease or repose: she made you feel somehow as if, all the time instead of reclining on a couch, she was sitting bolt upright on the stiffest of high backed chairs.
As Marion drew near her, she held out her hand, and permitted, rather than invited, her to kiss her cheek. Geoffrey wished he could have bitten her, instead.
“Your cloak is not damp, I hope?” she exclaimed; and as Marion was about to express her thanks for the unexpected anxiety on her behalf, she went on, “if it is the least damp, you had better not stand so near me, I am so sensitive to the slightest damp or cold.” On which Marion timidly suggested that perhaps she had better change it at once, if Miss Tremlett would be so good as tell her which was to be her room.
“Evans, our housekeeper, is with me,” she added, more and more timidly, as she observed the expression of her aunt’s face, “but only for one night. She is going on tomorrow to visit her mother before her marriage.”
“You don’t mean to say that old woman is going to be married!” exclaimed Miss Tremlett, in a less unpleasant tone than Marion had yet heard.
“Evans is, not her mother,” replied the girl.
“Of course I never supposed you meant the mother,” said she elder lady snappishly. “The mother is eighty, and paralysed. I call Evans herself an old woman, and a very silly old woman too, by what you tell me. I really don’t know where she can sleep. I had no idea of you bringing any one with you. You must speak to Martha; she will show you your own room. It will be tea time in an hour, till then I must rest. Good evening. Mr. Baldwin,” as Geoffrey showed symptoms of retiring, “I should be so much obliged to you if you would remember to shut the door.”
“Hateful old woman!” thought Geoffrey, as he obeyed, resisting the boyish inclination to slam it loudly, by way of soothing Miss Tremlett’s nerves. He had time for a word to Marion, whom he found outside on the landing, disconsolately eyeing the staircase, and apparently at a loss as to her next proceedings. He began to speak to her jestingly,—something he said in ridicule of her aunt’s fears,—but he stopped suddenly when she turned towards him, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Oh, Mr. Baldwin,” she exclaimed passionately, don’t leave here. I had no idea my aunt was so utterly selfish and heartless. Not a word about poor Papa, whom she professed to care for! Oh, I can’t stay in this dreadful house.”
And in her distress she caught hold of his arm with both her hands. It was rare that Marion so lost her self-control, and therefore the more impressive. Geoffrey was terribly grieved.
“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” he said, “that you feel it so painfully. I would give all I have in the world to spare you an hour in this place, but truly my—truly, Miss Vere, there is at present no help for it. Anything I can do in the way of cheering your stay here, softening its disagreeables, you have only to ask me, and I shall be so pleased, so delighted, to do it.” And half timidly he laid his hand on those still grasping his arm. His touch seemed to recall her to herself. She drew her hands away gently, and said penitently:
“You are too good to me, Mr. Baldwin, and I am very self and ungrateful. I will try to be sensible and make the best of things so long as I stay here.”
“Which shall not be an hour longer than I can prevent, you may be very sure,” said Geoffrey fervently.
“Thank you,” she replied sadly, “but I am afraid there is not much in your power, dear Mr. Baldwin; you could not help me in the—the only way,”—and then she stopped suddenly. Geoffrey had not caught her last words clearly. Had he done so, ten to one, she might have been led on to say more, and to yield to the impulse which came over her to take her young guardian into her confidence, to trust him, at this time almost her only friend, with the sad little story of her life. A good impulse it was, a good and wise one. Ah, Marion, why did you not yield to it? Why, m y heart’s darling, if not for your own, then for the sake of honest, chivalrous Geoffrey? What might it not have saved him—him and you, and yet another! If only the child had been a little more conceited, a trifle more like other women, she would have seen the dangers before her, the sharpness of the tools with which, in all innocence, she was playing. What a strange thing it is that of the many times in their lives in which conscientious people refrain from yielding to an impulse, so large a proportion would, viewed in the light of after events, have been wise and expedient! Whereas, if ever such persons do act upon the moment’s inclination, they are almost sure hereafter to repent it! It is everywhere the same—in trifles as in important matters, nothing but the old rule of contrary; which rule, nevertheless, may some day be seen to contain more things, by a great many, than are at present dreamt of in our philosophy.
So unfortunately it came to pass that Geoffrey did not hear Marion’s half-whispered words.
Satisfied, so far, with seeing her calm and gentle as usual, he bade her good night and left her, promising to look in in the course of a day or two, to see how she got on with “the old cat,” as he mentally apostrophised her.
Marion succeeded in finding Martha, whom she was glad to discover much more hospitably inclined than her mistress. So Evans was comfortably entertained for the one night she spent at the Cross House, and I doubt not spent a much more agreeable evening below stairs, than did Marion in the drab drawing-room with her aunt. It really was terribly hard work. Miss Tremlett evidently expected to be entertained, a state of mind always liable to exert a peculiarly depressing influence on the second member of a tête-à-tête, even when there are no saddening or dulling thoughts and anxieties already at work on heart and brain. For the life of her, Marion could not rouse herself to make small talk for the tiresome old lady; nor could she bring herself to express the profound interest evidently expected of her, in the painfully minute account of all her aunt’s maladies, with which in the course of the evening she was favoured. At last Miss Tremlett lost patience, and waxed very cross indeed.
“Are you always so stupid and sulky, Marion?” she inquired. “If so, the sooner you make some other arrangement for yourself, the better. I am not strong enough to support the depressing effect of a companion in low spirits. Nor can I understand why you should look so gloomy. It is not as if your poor father had been so much attached to you, or you to him, when he was alive. In that case it would be very different indeed. But all the world knows he cared very little for his children, though, all things considered, I don’t blame him.”
“What do you mean, Aunt Tremlett?” said Marion, fiercely almost, for she felt roused to sudden passion. “What do you mean by speaking so of my dear father? He did love us, more than anybody knows, and no one has any right to say he did not.”
“A pity he did not leave you some more substantial proof of his affection,” said Miss Tremlett, sneeringly. “I am not blaming him, however. Considering all, as I said, it is no wonder he took but little interest in you.”
“What do you mean by that?” repeated Marion, in the same fierce tone. (Miss Tremlett rather enjoyed her excitement. She had roused her at last.) “Considering all what? I am not a child now, Aunt Tremlett, and I will allow no one, not even you, to say, or infer, anything disrespectful to the memory of either of my parents.”
“ ‘Will not allow.’ Indeed! Very pretty language for a young lady. Upon my word I little knew what I was about when I invited you to my house, Marion Vere. Though for all your grand heroics, I see you have some notion of what I refer to. ‘Either’ of your parents, you said. So, then, you do allow it is possible there might be something to be said against one of them after all! On the whole, I think, with your permission or course, Miss Vere, after what I have seen of your very amiable tempo, it will be as well to drop the subject. In plain words, I will not tell you what I mean; and you will I oblige me by leaving me for the night and retiring to your own room. You have upset me quite enough for one evening. It will be days before I recover from the nervous prostration always brought on by excitement. Go; and if you wish to remain my guest, learn to behave like a reasonable being instead of making such an exhibition of temper without any provocation whatever.”
Miss Tremlett always took the injured innocent tone when she had succeeded in goading any one else to fury.
Without a word Marion left the room. Her self-control only lasted till she was safely ensconced in her own little bedroom, and then, poor child, after her usual fashion when in sore distress, she threw herself on the bed and hid her face on the pillows, sobbing with excitement and weeping the hot, quick rushing tears that came more from anger than grief.
She felt very much ashamed of herself. This was, indeed, a sad beginning of her Mallingford experiences. How foolish she had been to take fire at the old lady’s sneers! She knew of old that there had been bitter feud between her silly, pretty young mother and her father’s family, and it was worse than foolish to rake up these old sores. Now, when the two principals in the melancholy story of mistake and disappointment were laid to rest, passed away into the silent land where to us, at least, it is not given to judge them, how much better to let the whole fade gently out of mind! Her aunt was old, and old age should be sacred. She had no right to resent her crabbedness of temper, her self-absorption, her ungenial asperity, and small snappishness.
A loveless life, with few exceptions, had been Miss Tremlett’s. “Heaven only knows,” thought poor Marion, “if in similar circumstances my nature would prove any more amiable! Certainly, I am not at present going the way to make it so.”
And with a sore heart, sore, but gentle and humble, the orphan fell asleep, in the strange, unloving home, which was the only shelter at present open to her.
Morning, somehow, made things look brighter. For one thing, there was the tantalising post-hour to watch for; Marion not having yet given up hopes of “some day” bringing the long-looked-for explanation of Ralph’s mysterious silence. The whole affair changed its aspect to her constantly, according to the mood she was in. She had taken good care that there should be no miscarriage of letters owing to her change of residence, and so here at Mallingford, as in London, the arrival of the letters became the great interest of her day. Truly, there was little else to distract or occupy her! She determined, however, from this first morning to profit by her disagreeable experience of the preceding evening, and, at all costs, avoid any sort of word-warfare with her aunt. Miss Tremlett, at the bottom of her heart, was not a little disappointed when, on her making her appearance for the day, in the drawing-room about noon, her niece, instead of receiving her with sulky silence or indignant remonstrance, greeted her with a few gentle words of apology for her want of self-control the previous night, and offers of her ready services in any way the old lady might wish to make her useful.
“Would you like me to read aloud sometimes, Aunt?” said she. “I think I can do so pleasantly. Or is there any work I can do for you?”
“I am glad, Marion, to see that you have come back to your senses this morning,” was all the thanks she got. But she did not care. All she asked was peace and quiet; in which to muse over her own secret hopes and fears, to perplex herself endlessly with vain guesses to what was beyond her power to fathom. And for some little time she felt almost contented. The perfect monotony of her life did not pall upon her just at first. It seemed rather a sort of rest to her after the violent excitement through which she had lately passed. But it was not a healthy state of things.
Her days were very like each other. The morning hours were the pleasantest, for Miss Tremlett always breakfasted in her bedroom, and till noon Marion was her own mistress. After that her aunt expected her to be in attendance upon her till the hour of her after noon siesta, which came to be the girl’s favourite time for a stroll. Even in the dull autumn days she felt it a relief to get out into the open air by herself and ramble along the country roads leading out of Mallingford—thinking of what? Of “this time last year.” How much is told by those few commonplace words!
Now and then her aunt had visitors. Very uninteresting people they seemed to Marion. Mostly elderly, still, and formal, of her aunt’s own standing. Not many of the younger denizens of the little town found their way to the Cross House. Had they done so, I question if they would have been much to my heroine’s taste! Her deep mourning, of course, put her partaking in any Mallingford festivities quite out of the question at present. They were not of an attractive kind, and even had she been in perfect health and spirits she would have cared little about them.
Still, after a time, there came a sort of reaction. A protest of youth against the unnatural torpidity of............