Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I am glad you like it,” she answered simply. “Uncle George and I are very fond of it. But it must seem a poor little place to you after Lidford House.”

  “Lidford House is spacious, and comfortable, and commonplace. One could hardly associate the faintest touch of romance with such a place. But about this one might fancy anything. Ah, here is your uncle, I see.”

  Captain Sedgewick came towards them, surprised at seeing Mr. Fenton, with whom he shook hands again very cordially, and who repeated his story about the impossibility of enduring to stop in the house on such a night.

  The Captain insisted on his going in-doors with them, however; and he exhibited no disinclination to linger in the cottage drawing-room, though it was only about a fourth of the size of that at Lidford House. It looked a very pretty room in the lamplight, with quaint old-fashioned furniture, the freshest and most delicate chintz hangings and coverings of chairs and sofas, and some valuable old china here and there.

  Captain Sedgewick had plenty to say for himself, and was pleased to find an intelligent stranger to converse with. His health had failed him long ago, and he had turned his back upon the world of action for ever; but he was as cheerful and hopeful as if his existence had been the gayest possible to man.

  Of course they talked a little of military matters, the changes that had come about in the service — none of them changes for the better, according to the Captain, who was a little behind the times in his way of looking at these things.

  He ordered in a bottle of claret for his guest, and Gilbert Fenton found himself seated by the open bow-window looking out at the dusky lawn and drinking his wine, as much at home as if he had been a visitor at the Captain’s for the last ten years. Marian Nowell sat on the other side of the room, with the lamplight shining on her dark-brown hair, and with that much-to-be-envied Skye terrier on her lap. Gilbert glanced across at her every now and then while he was talking with her uncle; and by and by she came over to the window and stood behind the Captain’s chair, with her clasped hands resting upon his shoulder.

  Gilbert contrived to engage her in the conversation presently. He found her quite able to discuss the airy topics which he started — the last new volume of poems, the picture of the year, and so on. There was nothing awkward or provincial in her manner; and if she did not say anything particularly brilliant, there was good sense in all her remarks, and she had a bright animated way of speaking that was very charming.

  She had lived a life of peculiar seclusion, rarely going beyond the village of Lidford, and had contrived to find perfect happiness in that simple existence. The Captain told Mr. Fenton this in the course of their talk.

  “I have not been able to afford so much as a visit to London for my darling,” he said; “but I do not know that she is any the worse for her ignorance of the great world. The grand point is that she should be happy, and I thank God that she has been happy hitherto.”

  “I should be very ungrateful if I were not, uncle George,” the girl said in a half whisper.

  Captain Sedgewick gave a thoughtful sigh, and was silent for a little while after this; and then the talk went on again until the clock upon the chimney-piece struck the half-hour after ten, and Gilbert Fenton rose to say good-night. “I have stayed a most unconscionable time, I fear,” he said; “but I had really no idea it was so late.”

  “Pray, don’t hurry away,” replied the Captain. “You ought to help me to finish that bottle. Marian and I are not the earliest people in Lidford.”

  Gilbert would have had no objection to loiter away another half-hour in the bow-window, talking politics with the Captain, or light literature with Miss Nowell, but he knew that his prolonged absence must have already caused some amount of wonder at Lidford House; so he held firmly to his good-night, shook hands with his new friends, holding Marian Nowell’s soft slender hand in his for the first time, and wondering at the strange magic of her touch, and then went out into the dreamy atmosphere of the summer night a changed creature.

  “Is this love at first sight?” he asked himself, as he walked homeward along the rustic lane, where dog-roses and the starry flowers of the wild convolvulus gleamed whitely in the uncertain light. “Is it? I should have been the last of men to believe such a thing possible yesterday; and yet to-night I feel as if that girl were destined to be the ruling influence of my future life. Why is it? Because she is lovely? Surely not. Surely I am not so weak a fool as to be caught by a beautiful face! And yet what else do I know of her? Absolutely nothing. She may be the shallowest of living creatures — the most selfish, the falsest, the basest. No; I do not believe she could ever be false or unworthy. There is something noble in her face — something more than mere beauty. Heaven knows, I have seen enough of that in my time. I could scarcely be so childish as to be bewitched by a pair of gray eyes and a rosy mouth; there must be something more. And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, born out of the utter idleness and dulness of this place. I shall go back to London in a week or two, and forget Marian Nowell. Marian Nowell!”

  He repeated the name with unspeakable tenderness in his tone — a deeper feeling than would have seemed natural to a passing fancy. It was more like a symptom of sickening for life’s great fever.

  It was close upon eleven when he made his appearance in his sister’s drawing-room, where Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, while his wife stifled her yawns over a mild theological treatise.

  He had to listen to a good deal of wonderment about the length of his absence, and was fain to confess to an accidental encounter with Captain Sedgewick, which had necessitated his going into the cottage.

  “Why, what could have taken you that way, Gilbert?”

  “A truant fancy, I suppose, my dear. It is as good a way as any other.”

  Mrs. Lister sighed, and shook her head doubtfully. “What fools you men are,” she said, “about a pretty face!” “Including Martin, Belle, when he fell in love with your fair self?”

  “Martin did not stare me out of countenance in church, sir. But you have almost kept us waiting for prayers.”

  The servants came filing in. Martin Lister woke with a start, and Gilbert Fenton knelt down among his sister’s household to make his evening orisons. But his thoughts were not easily to be fixed that night. They wandered very wide of that simple family prayer, and made themselves into a vision of the future, in which he saw his life changed and brightened by the companionship of a fair young wife.

  * * *

  CHAPTER II

  MARIAN’S STORY

  The days passed, and there was no more dulness or emptiness for Gilbert Fenton in his life at Lidford. He went every day to the white-walled cottage on the green. It was easy enough to find some fresh excuse for each visit — a book or a piece of music which he had recommended to Miss Nowell, and had procured from London for her, or something of an equally frivolous character. The Captain was always cordial, always pleased to see him. His visits were generally made in the evening; and it was his delight to linger over the pretty little round table by the bow-window, drinking tea dispensed by Marian. The bright home-like room, the lovely face turned so trustingly to his; these were the things which made that fair vision of the future that haunted him so often now. He fancied himself the master of some pretty villa in the suburbs — at Kingston or Twickenham, perhaps — with a garden sloping down to the water’s edge, a lawn on which he and his wife and some chosen friend might sit after dinner in the long summer evenings, sipping their claret or their tea, as the case might be, and watching the last rosy glow of the sunset fade and die upon the river. He fancied himself with this girl for his wife, and the delight of going back from the dull dryasdust labours of his city life to a home in which she would bid him welcome. He behaved with a due amount of caution, and did not give the young lady any reason to suspect the state of the case yet awhile. Marian was perfectly devoid of coquetry, and had no idea that this gentleman’s constant presence at the cottage could have any ref
erence to herself. He liked her uncle; what more natural than that he should like that gallant soldier, whom Marian adored as the first of mankind? And it was out of his liking for the Captain that he came so often.

  The Captain, however, had not been slow to discover the real state of affairs, and the discovery had given him unqualified satisfaction. For a long time his quiet contentment in this pleasant, simple, easy-going life had been clouded by anxious thoughts about Marian’s future. His death — should that event happen before she married — must needs leave her utterly destitute. The little property from which his income was derived was not within his power to bequeath. It would pass, upon his death, to one of his nephews. The furniture of the cottage might realize a few hundreds, which would most likely be, for the greater part, absorbed by the debts of the year and the expenses of his funeral. Altogether, the outlook was a dreary one, and the Captain had suffered many a sharp pang in brooding over it. Lovely and attractive as Marian was, the chances of an advantageous marriage were not many for her in such a place as Lidford. It was natural, therefore, that Captain Sedgewick should welcome the advent of such a man as Gilbert Fenton — a man of good position and ample means; a thoroughly unaffected and agreeable fellow into the bargain, and quite handsome enough to win any woman’s heart, the Captain thought. He watched the two young people together, after the notion of this thing came into his mind, and about the sentiments of one of them he felt no shadow of doubt. He was not quite so clear about the feelings of the other. There was a perfect frankness and ease about Marian that seemed scarcely compatible with the growth of that tender passion which generally reveals itself by a certain amount of reserve, and is more eloquent in silence than in speech. Marian seemed always pleased to see Gilbert, always interested in his society; but she did not seem more than this, and the Captain was sorely perplexed.

  There was a dinner-party at Lidford House during the second week of Gilbert’s acquaintance with these new friends, and Captain Sedgewick and his adopted niece were invited.

  “They are pleasant people to have at a dinner-party,” Mrs. Lister said, when she discussed the invitation with her husband and brother; “so I suppose they may as well come, — though I don’t want to encourage your folly, Gilbert.”

  “My folly, as you are kind enough to call it, is not dependent on your encouragement, Belle.”

  “Then it is really a serious case, I suppose,” said Martin.

  “I really admire Miss Nowell — more than I ever admired any one before, if that is what you call a serious case, Martin.”

  “Rather like it, I think,” the other answered with a laugh.

  The dinner was a very quiet business — a couple of steady-going country gentlemen, with their wives and daughters, a son or two more or less dashing and sportsmanlike in style, the rector and his wife, Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell. Gilbert had to take one of the portly matrons in to dinner, and found himself placed at some distance from Miss Nowell during the repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, when he slipped out of the dining-room some time before the rest of the gentlemen, and found Marian seated at the piano, playing a dreamy reverie of Goria’s, while the other ladies were gathered in a little knot, discussing the last village scandal.

  He went over to the piano and stood by her while she played, looking fondly down at the graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently over the keys. He did not disturb her by much talk: it was quite enough happiness for him to stand there watching her as she played. Later, when a couple of whist-tables had been established, and the brilliantly-lighted room had grown hot, these two sat together at one of the open windows, looking out at the moonlit lawn; one of them supremely happy, and yet with a kind of undefined sense that this supreme happiness was a dangerous thing — a thing that it would be wise to pluck out of his heart, and have done with.

  “My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Nowell,” Gilbert Fenton said by and by. “I shall have to go back to London and the old commercial life, the letter-writing and interview-giving, and all that kind of thing.”

  “Your sister said you were very fond of the counting-house, Mr. Fenton,” she answered lightly. “I daresay, if you would only confess the truth, you are heartily tired of the country, and will be delighted to resume your business life.”

  “I should never be tired of Lidford.”

  “Indeed! and yet it is generally considered such a dull place.”

  “It has not been so to me. It will always be a shining spot in my memory, different and distinct from all other places.”

  She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnest tone, and their eyes met — his full of tenderness, hers only shy and surprised. It was not then that the words he had to speak could be spoken, and he let the conversation drift into a general discussion of the merits of town or country life. But he was determined that the words should be spoken very soon.

  He went to the cottage next day, between three and four upon a drowsy summer afternoon, and was so fortunate as to find Marian sitting under one of the walnut-trees at the end of the garden reading a novel, with her faithful Skye terrier in attendance. He seated himself on a low garden-chair by her side, and took the book gently from her hand.

  “I have come to spoil your afternoon’s amusement,” he said. “I have not many days more to spend in Lidford, you know, and I want to make the most of a short time.”

  “The book is not particularly interesting,” Miss Nowell answered, laughing. “I’ll go and tell my uncle you are here. He is taking an afternoon nap; but I know he’ll be pleased to see you.”

  “Don’t tell him just yet,” said Mr. Fenton, detaining her. “I have something to say to you this afternoon, — something that it is wiser to say at once, perhaps, though I have been willing enough to put off the hour of saying it, as a man may well be when all his future life depends upon the issue of a few words. I think you must know what I mean, Miss Nowell. Marian, I think you can guess what is coming. I told you last night how sweet Lidford had been to me.”

  “Yes,” she said, with a bright inquiring look in her eyes. “But what have I to do with that?”

  “Everything. It is you who have made the little country village my paradise. O Marian, tell me that it has not been a fool’s paradise! My darling, I love you with all my heart and soul, with an honest man’s first and only love. Promise that you will be my wife.”

  He took the hand that lay loosely on her lap, and pressed it in both his own. She withdrew it gently, and sat looking at him with a face that had grown suddenly pale.

  “You do not know what you are asking,” she said; “you cannot know. Captain Sedgewick is not my uncle. He does not even know who my parents were. I am the most obscure creature in the world.”

  “Not one degree less dear to me because of that, Marian; only the dearer. Tell me, my darling, is there any hope for me?”

  “I never thought — —” she faltered; “I had no idea — —”

  “That to know you was to love you. My life and soul, I have loved you from the hour I first saw you in Lidford church. I was a doomed man from that moment, Marian. O my dearest, trust me, and it shall go hard if I do not make your future life a happy one. Granted that I am ten years — more than ten years — your senior, that is a difference on the right side. I have fought the battle of life, and have conquered, and am strong enough to protect and shelter the woman I love. Come, Marian, I am waiting for a word of hope.”

  “And do you really love me?” she asked wonderingly. “It seems so strange after so short a time.”

  “I loved you from that first evening in the church, my dear.”

  “I am very grateful to you,” she said slowly, “and I am proud — I have reason to be proud — of your preference. But I have known you such a short time. I am afraid to give you any promise.”

  “Afraid of me, or of yourself, Marian?”

  “Of myself.”

  “In what way?”

  “I am only a foolish f
rivolous girl. You offer me so much more than I deserve in offering me your love like this. I scarcely know if I have a heart to give to any one. I know that I have never loved anybody except my one friend and protector, my dear adopted uncle.”

  “But you do not say that you cannot love me, Marian. Perhaps I have spoken too soon, after all. It seems to me that I have known you for a lifetime; but that is only a lover’s fancy. I seem almost a stranger to you, perhaps?”

  “Almost,” she answered, looking at him with clear truthful eyes.

  “That is rather hard upon me, my dear. But I can wait. You do not know how patient I can be.”

  He began to talk of indifferent subjects after this, a little depressed and disheartened by the course the interview had taken. He felt that he had been too precipitate. What was there in a fortnight’s intimacy to justify such a step, except to himself, with whom time had been measured by a different standard since he had known Marian Nowell? He was angry with his own eagerness, which had brought upon him this semi-defeat.

  Happily Miss Nowell had not told him that his case was hopeless, had not forbidden him to approach the subject again; nor had she exhibited any involuntary sign of aversion to him. Surprise had appeared the chief sentiment caused by his revelation. Surprise was natural to such girlish inexperience; and after surprise had passed away, more tender feelings might arise, a latent tenderness unsuspected hitherto.

  “I think a woman can scarcely help returning a man’s love, if he is only as thoroughly in earnest as I am,” Gilbert Fenton said to himself, as he sat under the walnut-trees trying to talk pleasantly, and to ignore the serious conversation which had preceded that careless talk.

  He saw the Captain alone next day, and told him what had happened. George Sedgewick listened to him with profound attention and a grave anxious face.

  “She didn’t reject you?” he said, when Gilbert had finished his story.