“But all did leaven the air With a less bitter leaven of sure despair,
       Than these words—‘I loved once.’ ”
 
MRS. BROWNING.
 
 
 
SHE did not die, however. Young lives do not end so easily, and young hearts do not so quickly break as their inexperienced owners would imagine. She was very, very ill. For many weeks she lay in a state hardly to be described as either life or death, so faint was the line between the two, so many times we thought we had lost sight of her altogether in the shadows of the strange land that is ever go near us while yet a very far way off. It was at this time I first knew her, who ever after was very dear to me. It happened accidentally. I was visiting some friends at Mallingford just then, and happened to be calling at the Cross House the day the poor child was taken ill—the very day after the ride to Brackley that I have described—and I naturally did what I could in the way of nursing, as no nearer friend appeared to be at hand. Miss Tremlett was at first frightened, then cross; in which state she continued during the whole of Marion’s illness. Low fever, the doctors called it, but that is a vague and convenient name for an illness somewhat difficult to define.
 
During these weeks Geoffrey Baldwin was very miserable. He suffered not merely from his overwhelming anxiety, but also from self reproach and remorse; for, despite all Veronica’s assurances to the contrary, the poor fellow could not rid himself of an utterly irrational notion that in some way or other the annoyance he had caused her had had to do with this sudden and alarming illness. It was not really sudden though. The tension on her nervous system throughout this winter had been great, quite sufficient to account for her present state; the real wonder being that she had held out so long.
 
When at last she began to get better, Geoffrey’s delight was almost piteous. Marion was greatly touched by it—as indeed no woman but must have been—the first time she saw him again. His pleasure at her recovery was purely unselfish, in the ordinary sense at least, for he had altogether renounced the hope of ever winning her for his own.
 
“I only wonder,” he said to Veronica, “that she could forgive my presumption as she did. Since her illness it seems to me she has become more beautiful than ever. I feel myself like a great cart-horse when I am beside her. My only thought is, how I can make up to her for all I have caused her. For indeed her coming to this place at all was greatly owing to me. Even if I did not love her as intensely as I do, Veronica, I could not but reproach myself when I think of my selfishness.”
 
It was useless for his friend to contradict him. It pleased him far more when she set to work to carry out a plan for Marion’s gratification, which at first sight seemed hopeless enough. But between them the two achieved it, and actually obtained Miss Tremlett’s consent to their proposal that, now that she was sufficiently recovered to be moved, Marion Clifford could complete her cure by spending some weeks in Miss Temple’s pretty little house.
 
Miss Tremlett was, in her heart, not sorry to be rid of so troublesome a guest as a bona-fide invalid; though her consent was, of course, bestowed as ungraciously as possible.
 
The relief to Marion, of quitting for a season the ugly, uncomfortable room in which for five weary weeks she had been immured, was unspeakable; and once she was established in the pretty little chamber so carefully prepared for her, she astonished herself and everyone else by the rapidity of her recovery.
 
The long dream was over at last. Ralph was hers no longer, but belonged to another. She wished to hear no particulars; she was satisfied to know the bare fact. She had torn him out of her heart and life, and henceforth would seek to forget she had ever known him. God had been good to her, had given her true and kind friends, whose affection she would do her best to repay, and endeavour to turn to better profit the life so lately restored to her; for it seemed to her, in truth, that in her long illness she had, in a sense, died, and been again raised to life.
 
Thus she spoke to herself in the many quiet hours she spent in Veronica’s little drawing-room, and a sort of dreamy peace and subdued happiness seemed gradually to descend upon her. She was very sweet and winning in those days. To Veronica she grew daily dearer and more precious. And to poor Geoffrey? Ah! it was hard upon him, for all his humility and unselfishness! And she, silly little soul, said to herself that she only meant to be gentle and sisterly, to make up to this kind, generous friend, for her former petulance and roughness. Partly this, at least. In some measure she began instinctively to turn to him, out of a sort of reaction from her former bitter experience. He might not be very clever or original, this Geoffrey Baldwin; he was certainly wanting in that extraordinary, inexpressible something—sympathy, perfect congeniality of heart or mind, or both, which from the first had, as if by magic, drawn and attracted her to Ralph; but at least, he was tried and true, honest and devoted to the very heart’s core. And, oh! to the poor little heart, smarting yet, under its sore disappointment—what attraction, what soothing was there not in the thought that he, at least, loved her! Loved her with a love which she felt she could never give to him; and yet, though no coquette, she no longer felt inclined to discourage him. For, after all, she was a thorough woman. And I am afraid she was, in some respects, incapable of such a love of Ralph’s for her; for, through it all, as we have seen, he never doubted, never for an instant mistrusted her.
 
Whereas she, naturally enough, had come gradually to lose her trust in him, to doubt even, sometimes, if indeed he had ever cared for her as she for him.
 
And already she was beginning to say to herself, “I loved him once.”
 
Veronica watched the two, earnestly and anxiously. There was no mystery about Geoffrey. It was only too evident that more than ever he was heart and soul devoted to his ward; in his eyes more beautiful than ever, from the yet remaining traces of her severe illness; her thin white hands, her pale cheeks, and hair far removed from its former luxuriance.
 
“Have I not grown ugly, Mr. Baldwin,” she said one day, half in earnest, half in joke, and greatly from a sort of instinctive wish to test her power over him. “Look at my hair! It is hardly long enough to twist up at all, and it used to come down below my waist.”
 
His only answer was to pass his hand softly, nay, almost reverently, over the little head, still fair and graceful, though “the pretty brown hair,” poor Ralph had long ago admired, was sadly decreased in thickness and richness. Marion did not shrink away from Geoffrey’s hand. They happened at the moment to be alone. She looked up in his face, and saw there the words all but uttered on his lips. Though in a sense she had brought it on herself, yet now she shrank from it, felt that as yet, at least, she could not bear it. With some half excuse she turned away quickly, and left the room. But what she had seen in Geoffrey’s face that afternoon decided her that something must be done, some resolution arrived at in her own mind, as it was easy to see that the present state of things could not long continue.
 
It was now the beginning of May. Fully two months had elapsed since the ride to Brackley, and the commencement of her long illness. Spring was coming on apace, and the outside world looked very bright and sweet that evening, as Marion sat by Veronica’s couch in the bow-window of the little drawing-room. There was a half-formed resolution in the girl’s mind for once to break through her rule of reserve, and seek the advice of the true and wise friend beside her. For some minutes they had been silent: suddenly Marion spoke.
 
“Do you know, Miss Veronica, that I have been here nearly three weeks? Soon I must he thinking of the Cross House again.”
 
Miss Temple laid her hand caressingly on. Marion’s. “My poor child!” she said. “But surely there is no hurry. I wish I could keep you here always; but with the prospect of my sister’s coming to me for the winter, I cannot do so. I hoped, however, that Harry would have had a day or two to spend with you, before you return to Miss Tremlett’s. Is there no chance of it? He must be so anxious to see you since your illness.”
 
“There is not a chance of his coming till June,” said Marion; “and then it will be a real goodbye! He is sure to go abroad immediately. No, dear Miss Veronica, it is very horrible, but I must be thinking of going. That dreadful life at my aunt’s! So you know, rather than go on with it, I sometimes wish I had died last month.”
 
Miss Veronica made no reply. Then she said, very softly and timidly:
 
“My darling Marion, forgive me if I appear officious or intrusive. But, I am sure that, you know there is another home open to you, whose owner would think himself blessed beyond measure to welcome you to it. He has told me of his disappointment. Are you quite sure, my dear child, that there can never be any hope for him, that you can never bring yourself to think favourably of this?”
 
Marion looked up into her companion’s face (she was sitting on the ground at Veronica’s side), with a slight smile. She appeared perfectly composed, her colour did not vary in the least. Miss Temple was far more embarrassed than she.
 
“I am glad you have spoken of this, Miss Veronica,” said the girl, “for I wish very much to talk to you about it. I am in a great puzzle. The truth of it is, I have already, in a sense, come to think favourably of it; and yet, I fear, not so favourably—not, in short, in the way that it—that he—deserves to be thought of. I li............