“Between the dawning and the day,       The wind fell and the thunder ceased,
      The rod light came up from the east,
  As my dear love a-dying lay
      Between the dawning and the day.”
 
BALLAD.
 
 
 
THE night after the baby’s birth Marion Baldwin had a somewhat remarkable dream. Remarkable in more ways than one. In the first place it was unusually coherent and clear; in the second, it was the first and only time in which Ralph Severn, the being who had exerted the greatest influence on herself and her life, ever appeared to her in “a vision of the night;” in the third place, after events satisfied her at least that to some extent the dream was prophetic as well as retrospective.
 
She dreamt that she was again a little child. A girl with flying curls and nimble feet, playing with her brother Harry in the garden of the little cottage at Brackley. All that had happened to her since then—her eventful girlhood, her sufferings and joys, her wifehood had hardly as yet realized motherhood—her whole life in short, was for the time being, swept out of her mind. She was again little May Vere, chasing butterflies and running races on the grass with still smaller Harry. Suddenly, in the midst of their play there was wafted towards her a strong, sweet scent. It was that of honeysuckle; the scent which, ever since the meeting in the old garden at the Peacock, she had not been able to endure. Any day she would gladly have walked some miles rather than encounter it.
 
In her dream it acted upon her in a peculiar, bewildering way. For a short time there came over her the painful sensation of partial suffocation; it seemed to her that she stopped in her running, and lay down on the soft, velvety grass. At this point Harry disappeared; nor did the remembrance of him return to her again throughout the dream. Gradually the oppression cleared away, and her breathing became easy. She was still conscious of the honeysuckle scent; but no longer to a painful of disagreeable extent. Then some one called her by name, clearly and distinctly. She knew the voice to be Ralph’s; but, looking up eagerly to see him, to her amazement she recognized the person approaching her as Geoffrey. As he drew nearer she saw that he looked pale and tired and walked very slowly. Something too he was carrying in his arms, the form of which she could not at first distinguish. Then she saw that it was a little child, lying across his breast as if asleep. It was not a baby, for a shower of thick, dark hair fell over and concealed the face: and as Geoffrey came close to her, and stood half fainting beside her, with one hand he gently put aside the hair, and she saw that the child was Sybil. Then he spoke.
 
“Help me to carry her, Marion,” he said. “I promised to take care of her and see her safe home, but she was too tired to walk any further; and I am nearly worn out myself.”
 
Marion stretched out her arm to take the child, but suddenly, as she did so, Sybil seemed to awake, slid from her grasp, and stood before her. Without speaking, the child for a moment gazed at the husband and wife with yearning love in her face; then, kissing her little hands she turned from them and hastened rapidly away, seeming rather to fly than run; but ever as she went, turning to kiss her hands with a sort of beckoning gesture. Marion did not feel the least surprise; but looking at Geoffrey was amazed to see him in violent distress.
 
“I must go,” he cried, “I must go.” As these words reached her ears she was seized with that fearful, indescribable sensation of dream horror, combining in itself every shade of human agony. Throwing up her arms in her extremity, she heard again Ralph’s voice calling her by name; and immediately she felt her hands grasped in his. Looking up, she met his tender, loving gaze fixed on her.
 
“Marion, Marion,” he cried, as if in reproach, “why did you not tell me before? Why did you leave it for Sybil to tell? See only how Geoffrey is suffering. Could you not have trusted my great love, not even for his sake?”
 
Then blinding tears fell from her eyes. In a mist as it were, she saw Ralph dart forward, in time, barely, to prevent Geoffrey’s falling to the ground; the sense of suffocation again oppressed her, and making a strong effort to overcome it, she woke, with a slight scream — to find Geoffrey bending over her in some anxiety; for her sleep had been disturbed and he had obtained the nurse’s permission to watch beside her, while that good lady was occupied in performing Miss Baldwin’s toilette for the day.
 
It was early morning. There were birds, a few at least, even in Brewer Street; and their sweet spring chirping sounded fresh and bright to Marion’s waking ears.
 
“I have had such a queer dream,” she said to her husband, and she looked at him anxiously. “You are quite well this morning, dear Geoffrey, are you not?” she asked. “You have not been sitting up all night beside me?”
 
“Oh, dear, no,” he answered cheerfully, “I have had an excellent night’s rest. But now I must be off; for the old dragon in the next room made me promise I shouldn’t let you talk first thing in the morning, before you have had anything to eat. I shall get my breakfast and start for town. I’ll be back for an hour in the middle of the day to see how you’re getting on. Be a good girl, and get well as fast as you can, and don’t dream queer dreams that make you scream in your sleep.”
 
“It wasn’t a disagreeable dream exactly,” said Marion, “but I don’t quite understand it.”
 
Geoffrey smiled at the grave consideration she bestowed on the subject. Then he kissed her tenderly, and was gone.
 
It might have been only the faint light in the room, but somehow, Marion could not rid herself of the idea that Geoffrey did not look well that morning. Certainly he had had plenty to try him of late; his anxiety about her had of itself been enough to knock him up. She must not be morbid or fanciful, she said to herself. The best thing she could do for her husband, was to get well herself as quickly as possible; so as to be able to take care of him and see he played no tricks with himself; in the way of not changing his wet clothes, going too long without food, or any nonsense of that kind!
 
She did her best to keep to her resolution, and her recovery progressed satisfactorily. The baby was certainly very delightful, its fingers and toes especially. It really cried very little indeed, hardly at all “compared with a many,” said the nurse, and Marion thought it a round ball of perfection. The nicest time was the evening, when Geoffrey came and sat beside her, his day’s work over; and she made him hold the baby in his arms and laughed at his wonderful clumsiness till the tears ran down her cheeks.
 
When she was well enough to be carried downstairs, and established on the regulation sofa, which, by the help of a few pillows, Geoffrey had succeeded in rendering somewhat more comfortable, some few visitors dropped in to enquire after her. Kind Mrs. Allen, of course, who indeed had allowed few days to pass since baby Mary’s arrival, without calling herself, or sending a servant, with far more fruit than Mrs. Baldwin could possibly have consumed, and flowers in sufficient abundance to have decked the greater part of the front parlours in Brewer Street—not to speak of more substantial proofs of friendliness in the shape of jellies and blancmanges, and a dozen of old port surreptitiously confided to Mrs. Appleby’s care, for the use of the young mother “when she begins to get about again.” It was all done so simply, with such homely, matter-of-fact kindliness, that even Geoffrey could not feel offended, or otherwise than grateful for the motherly goodness which his young wife’s gentleness and sweetness had thus drawn forth.
 
The Baxter chariot made its appearance in Brewer Street one day, and the descended therefrom in person, to inspect the new thing in babies which had made its appearance at No. 32. She condescended to approve of small Mary, handled her in a wonderfully knowing manner, and altogether over-whelmed her mamma by the astonishing amount of monthly nurse talk she managed to get through in a quarter of an hour. In this domain evidently she felt herself at home, and thorough mistress of all she touched upon.
 
Two or three weeks soon passed, and Marion began to resume her regular habits. Her anxiety about Geoffrey, though it had to some extent subsided, had by no means altogether left her. At times he looked almost like his old self; then again any extra fatigue or unusual anxiety would tell on him fearfully. One day when he left for town he told her not to expect him home for an hour later than usual, as he thought it probable he would be detained till that time. It was a fine, mild evening. Marion opened the window of her room upstairs, from whence she could see some way down the street, and sat there watching for his return. He came at last, walking slowly and looking very wearied. A slight shiver crept through her as suddenly the remembrance of her strange dream flashed across her mind. She darted downstairs and met him at the door, then drawing him gently into the little sitting-room—
 
“Geoffrey,” she said, “are you not well? I have been watching you coming along the street, and I fancied you looked so pale and tired.”
 
He did not answer her immediately. He sank down on a chair and covered his face with his hand. She grew frightened.
 
“Geoffrey,” she said, with the slight petulance of nervous anxiety, “speak to me, do! Are you not well, or is anything the matter?”
 
He roused himself and looked up in a bewildered manner.
 
“Don’t be vexed with me, dear,” he said. “I know I am very stupid. No, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only a slight feeling of giddiness came over me just now. I have had rather an extra long walk, and it is getting very close and oppressive in the warehouse now the summer is coming on. I shall be all right after tea. Let us have it now, for I have a lot of things to talk to you about.”
 
She saw he was very tired, and therefore said no more, till, refreshed by the meal, he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair by the window.
 
“How delightful it must be in the country just now,” said Geoffrey. “Brentshire will be looking its very best.”
 
“Yes,” said Marion, a little sadly. “I am not happy when I think of your being cooped up in this place all through the summer, Geoffrey. I can see it does not suit you.”
 
“It is not so bad for me as for you,” he replied. Then with a sudden change of tone: “Where do you think I went to-day after leaving the office? I set off to call on your friend, Mrs. Allen.”
 
“To thank her for all her kindness?” exclaimed Marion. “I am very glad. It is just what I have been wishing you would do, but I didn’t like to propose it, for you have seemed so tired lately in the evenings.”
 
“Well, to tell the truth it was not merely to thank her,” said Geoffrey. “I wanted to consult her about you. I am not quite satisfied that you are getting as thoroughly strong again as you should. And one day the doctor said something about sea-air being always desirable after this sort of thing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so at last I went to consult with Mrs. Allen as to how it should be managed. She has made the most capital arrangement, if only you will be a good girl and agree to it. What a good creature Mrs. Allen is!”
 
“Awfully good!” answered Marion, warmly. “What is this plan of hers?”
 
“I’m almost afraid to tell you. I shall be so horribly disappointed if you don’t agree to it,” said Geoffrey. “They, the Allens, are going to the sea-side on Friday, for a month and she has asked you and the baby, and nurse of course, to go with them for a fortnight.”
 
“And leave you?” exclaimed Marion in dismay.
 
“Only for a fortnight, dear,” he replied; “I shall get on very well. Possibly I may get away on Saturday-week and stay with you till the Monday. Don’t refuse to go, my darling. You don’t know what a relief it will be to my mind to know you are having a breath of fresh air.”
 
“But you want it more than I do, my poor Geoffrey!” remonstrated Marion, her voice faltering. “How can I leave you here alone for a whole fortnight? And you are not well. I see you are not well, though you won’t own to it.”
 
“But surely it would not mend matters for you not to try to get stronger, now you have really a chance of doing so,” he urged. “Think of all depending on you—that little monkey, too. Supposing I were to fall ill, which Heaven forbid, so long as I am any good to you, my dearest, all the more reason for you to keep strong.”
 
There was reason in this, Marion could not deny.
 
Geoffrey saw she was beginning to yield and resolved wisely to strike while the iron was hot.
 
“I promised to send Mrs. Allen a line by to-night’s post,” he said briskly. “Give me my portfolio, and I’ll write it now and get Sarah Ann, or whatever her name is, to post it. I am so glad to have it settled. You are a very good girl, Marion;” and he kissed her fondly.
 
“Promise me you won’t get ill while I am away,” she said wistfully.
 
“Of course I won’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” he replied. The words were rough, but the tone of the tenderest. “Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t think I am a bit worse than I was last year when we first came here. It is only the close weather that tries me.” And his satisfaction at the successful result of his little scheme, made him look so bright and cheerful that Marion’s spirits rose again, and she began to think her fears had been exaggerated.
 
“Be sure you write every day,” were her last words on the Friday morning, when, for the first time since their coming to Millington, the husband and wife separated. He nodded a cheerful assent, and in another minute the train puffed out of the station, and poor Geoffrey, standing solitary on the platform, straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse of his wife, was lost to sight.
 
Notwithstanding her misgivings on his account, Marion could not but feel that the change of air and scene was very acceptable and pleasant. The Allens were the kindest and most considerate of hosts; the fresh sea air seemed to give her new life and strength with every breath; little Mary throve as a Sunday child should, and everything but the thought of Geoffrey’s loneliness conspired to refresh and inspirit her.
 
For the first week every morning brought a few words from Brewer Street. He was “getting on all right,” wrote Geoffrey; delighted to hear she was so well and happy, and looking forward, if all were well, to a Saturday and Sunday together by the sea before her return.
 
One day he forwarded to her a letter in an unfamiliar hand. She opened it with some curiosity, and hastily glanced at the signature. It was that of “Maria Jane Baxter.”
 
“How kind of her to write,” thought Marion, and the CONTENTS OF the letter pleased her very much.
 
“I have not been able to write before,” wrote Maria, “for at school we are not allowed to send l............