The Two Guardians Part 41

Marian shook her head sadly.

"He brought it to you, then?" sighed Caroline, "Ah! I saw who it came from."

She looked wistfully at Marian, as if longing to hear something of the letter, though she would not ask; and Marian, though much touched, was determined against saying one word about it, however indifferent, as she felt that, without Lionel's consent, she ought to be as mute as the paper it was written upon. Caroline paused, then continued, "Do you think he will ask you to write his answer for him?"

"No, I think not. You know he wrote a note to Gerald in one of my letters the other day. I dare say he will always be able to write; Mrs.

Wortley has a blind friend who does."

Caroline did not answer, but gazed at the fire for almost ten minutes.

At last she said, "Poor Walter! I wonder what he is doing."

"I am sure he must be making himself very useful," said Marian.

"That is one thing we may be sure of," said Caroline, smiling mournfully. "Walter is excellent wherever he is; but O, Marian,"

continued she, in a voice of inexpressible sadness, "who would have told me, a year ago, that all I should hear of Walter's ordination would be in the newspaper?"

Marian could make no answer but some sound expressive of sorrow.

"He has only written to me once since--since June!" proceeded Caroline, in the same utterly dejected tone.

Then Walter had remonstrated, which was a great comfort to Marian, by restoring him to his place in her estimation. Still she maintained her expressive silence, and Caroline went on after another interval. "You and he have been consistent from the first, Marian."

At that moment f.a.n.n.y came in, and no more could be said, for Marian was obliged to dress for dinner in a hurry. She took an opportunity of saying to Lionel that evening, something about the pleasure it would give Caroline if he would tell her about his letter.

"What! you have been telling her about it?" said he, in a tone of great vexation; "that is always the way with women--no trusting them!"

"No, indeed, Lionel, I said not one word; but she saw it was Walter's writing."

"And you went and told her I could not read it?"

"If she asked me, what could I do but speak the truth?" said Marian gently; but he only made an impatient exclamation.

"I gave not the least hint of what it was about," added Marian, pleadingly. "Of course I could not think of that, nor she either; but she looked as if she did so long for some news of Walter: she has not heard from him since the summer."

"That is her own fault," said Lionel, in his surly voice.

"That only makes it the worse for her. She is so much out of spirits, Lionel; and if you would only tell her that part about his schools and his lodging, I am sure she would be so much obliged to you."

"I shan't do any such thing," was his reply; "I always keep my letters to myself, and I wish you would not talk about me."

He turned sharply away, and crossed the room; but his temper was not improved by the consequences of his stumbling over a footstool which had been left full in the way, and in rather a dark place, where it would have been a trap for any one. He recovered in an instant without falling; so that it would not have signified if Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell had not both been startled. The former issued an edict that no stumbling-block should be left in the way, and the latter entered upon an investigation as to who had been the delinquent in the present case, so as to make a great deal of discussion of the very worst kind for Lionel.

Thenceforth the evening was uncomfortable. Marian felt as if she was guilty of all, and was extremely provoked with herself for that blundering way of driving at her point, which made things worse when she most wanted to set them right. She had not comforted Caroline, and she had led poor Lionel to fancy his confidence betrayed, and himself discussed and--as he would call it--gossiped about. No wonder he looked as if she had been injuring him; yet, unjust as it was, she had only her own mal-adroitness to blame. A person of tact would have smoothed it all at once, instead of ruffling everything up.

The tact Marian longed for is a natural talent; the consideration, the delicacy of feeling, that she really had, were a part of her sterling goodness, such as may be acquired by all; and her thorough truth, trustiness, kindness, and above all her single-mindedness, had a value, where she was really known, which weighed down, in the long run, all that was involuntarily against her in manner, and won her not only esteem, but such warm affection, such thorough reliance, as neither she herself, nor those who felt it could fathom. Tact is an excellent thing, but genuine love to our neighbour, seeking to show true kindness, delicacy, and consideration,--striving in fact to do as it would be done by,--is as much more precious, as a spiritual gift is than a natural quality.

That very night, as Marian was sitting in her own room in her dressing-gown, pondering on these unfortunate blunders, there was a knock at her door, and in came Caroline. Sitting down by the fire, she held out a letter on two or three sheets of closely written notepaper.

"Read that, Marian," said she, turning her face straight, to the fire as she gave it.

It was from Walter, and the date showed that it had been written, immediately on receiving the announcement of Caroline's engagement.

It was grave, earnest, and affectionate; not accusing Mr. Faulkner of anything, not positively objecting to him, but reminding Caroline of the solemnity of the duties she was about to undertake, and of the extreme danger of allowing herself to be so attracted by agreeableness of manner, or led on by the opinion of those around her, as to forget that the connection she was about to form was to last for life, and that she must be responsible for the influence her husband would exercise on her life here, and therefore on her life hereafter. He said he was sure she could not enter lightly on such an engagement, and therefore trusted that her own mind was thoroughly convinced that she had chosen one who would be a guide, an aid, and a support in the path that all were treading.

It was exactly Walter's way, as Marian well knew, to manage to say, in his simple, and as he thought, guarded manner of representing things, what to sharper people had very much the air of irony; and as she gave back the letter, her observation, as the first that would occur, was, "It is very like Walter."

"Very," said Caroline.

"Did you answer him?"

"I wrote again, but--but"--her voice began to fail--"it was not an answer. I would not seem to understand him. I wrote a lively, careless sort of letter, and only said papa and mamma were delighted, or something of that kind. And O, Marian, Marian, he has never written to me again, and I have deserved it." She burst into tears.

"But why don't you write now? He must be very anxious to hear of Lionel, and there is no one to tell him."

"I cannot," she replied; "I cannot, while--while he thinks of me as he must--as he ought!" She wept bitterly, and Marian stood by perplexed and distressed. "Dear Caroline," was the utmost that she could say.

"Marian!" cried Caroline, looking up for a moment, then hiding her face again--"I would give anything in the world that he had been at home last summer; or that you had slept at High Down that night."

A flash of hope and joy came across Marian. "If you think so," she began, but Caroline cut her short. "I know what you mean, but that it?

impossible, quite Impossible--decidedly so," she added, as if these a.s.surances were to strengthen her own belief in its impossibility, and not arguing, from a consciousness that her friend would overthrow every one of her arguments. "I don't know what made me come to you, and tease you," said she, rising and taking her letter; "good night."

"Tease me! O, Caroline, Caroline, you know--"

What she knew was lost in a most affectionate embrace; but Caroline would not stay any longer, and left Marian as usual, regretting everything that had pa.s.sed.

The nest night, however, Caroline came again, as if there was some irresistible spell that drew her to Marian. It was Sunday, and Marian had long since observed that on such days Caroline was always most out of spirits. She sat down, and let a long time pa.s.s without talking; but at last she said, "Marian, it is very kind in you to let me come and sit here. You cannot--no--you will never know how wretched I am."

"My dear, dear Caroline, if I could but do anything for you! but," she proceeded, gathering resolution from her day's reflections, "you are the only person who can do anything for yourself."

"Impossible!" repeated Caroline.

Marian was not exactly silenced, but involved in deep considerations as to the propriety of interfering, and whether attempting to persuade Caroline would be doing evil that good might come. Before she had made up her mind,--as, indeed, how could she in five minutes come to a conclusion to which hours of previous perplexity had failed to bring her?--Caroline spoke again, "If it had but never begun! but now it has, it must go on."

"I don't know--"

"It must, I tell you!" repeated Caroline. "If it had all to begin over again, it would be very different. O, if it was but this time last year!"

"But Caroline, Caroline," repeated Marian, carried away by the thought that rose to her lips, "only think; you say now if it was this time last year--now, while you can escape. Shall not you say so all the more when it is really too late,--when you will wish you had drawn back now?"

"You have no right to say I should wish, that!" said Caroline, offended.

"You don't know what the love is that you are holding so cheaply."

"I beg your pardon, Caroline," and Marian was thrown into herself again; but she thought a little longer, and seeing that Caroline was still waiting and musing, she ventured on saying, in a timid voice, "Somehow, I think, it would seem to me that the more affection there was, the more painful it would all be."

"You are right there, Marian," exclaimed Caroline, in a voice of acute feeling.

It was a strange question that Marian next asked abruptly, on an impulse sudden at the moment, though it was what she had long eagerly desired to know. "Do you love him after all?"

Caroline did not seem vexed by the inquiry, but went on speaking rather as if she was examining herself as to the answer,--"Love him? I don't know; sometimes I think I do, sometimes I think not. It is not as people in books love, and--and it can't be as your Agnes must love Mr.

Arundel."