And then had come the black mystery of Guy's utter vanishing from the world of men and women.
Lady Poole had always been fond of Guy Rathbone, and now, by a curious contradiction of nature, when she had schooled herself to realize that it was on this man her daughter's life was centred, the old lady was terribly and genuinely affected at Guy's disappearance. No one could have been more helpful or more sympathetic during these black hours, and she gladly left Curzon Street for Brighton, in order that she might be alone with her daughter and endeavour to bring her back in some measure to happiness, or, if not happiness, to interest in life.
Soon after Marjorie had written her letter to Sir William, Lady Poole had received a reply from the scientist, enclosing a short note for her daughter.
It had been a wonderful letter. The writer said that he could not disguise from himself that he had seen, or at least suspected, the way things were going.
"Terrible," he said, "as this letter of your daughter's has been to me, it would yet ill-become me not to receive it as a man. I had hoped and believed that a very happy life was in store for me with Marjorie and for her with me. Then I saw that it was not to be, and Marjorie's letter comes as no surprise, but as only the definite and final end of my dream. Dear Lady Poole, do realize that, despite all this, it will always be my duty and my privilege to be the friend of you and of your daughter if you and she will permit me to be so. I have told her so often how I love her, and I tell her so even now. But love, as I understand it, should have the element of self-sacrifice in it, if it is true love. I will therefore say no more about my personal feelings, except in one way. Just as my whole life would have been devoted to making your daughter happy, so I now feel it is my duty to devote myself as well as I can to making her happy in another way. She has chosen a man no doubt more worthy to be her husband than I should ever be. You will forgive a natural weakness if I say no more on this point, but the great fact is that she has chosen. Therefore, I say that my only wish is for her life-long happiness, and that all my endeavours, such as they are, will be still devoted to that end. Let them be happy, let them be together. And if I can promote their happiness, even though my own heart may be broken, believe me, dear Lady Poole, it is my most fervent wish.
"Will you give Marjorie the enclosed little note of farewell? I shall not trouble her more, until perhaps some day in the future we may still be friends, though fate and her decision have forbidden me to be anything more to her than just that.
"Believe me, my dear Lady Poole,
"In great sorrow and in sincere friendship,
"William Gouldesbrough."
So the two ladies had gone to Brighton, and while the press of the United Kingdom was throbbing with excitement, while hundreds of people were endeavouring to solve the terrible mystery of Guy Rathbone's disappearance, the girl more nearly interested in it than any one else in the world stayed quietly with her mother at the pleasant sea-side town, and was not molested by press or public.
Marjorie had become, even in these few days, a ghost of her former self. The light had faded out of her eyes, they had ceased to appear transparent and had become opaque. Her beautifully chiselled lips now drooped in pathetic and habitual pain, her pallor was constant and unvarying. She drank in the keen sea breezes, and they brought no colour to her cheeks. She walked upon the white chalk cliffs and saw nothing of the shifting gold and shadow as the sun fell upon the sea, heard nothing of the harmonies of the Channel winds. Her whole heart was full of a passionate yearning and a terrible despair; she was like a stately flower that had been put out of its warm and sheltered home into an icy blast, and was withered and blackened in an hour.
Kind as her mother was, Marjorie felt that there was nobody now left to lean upon, to confide in. A girl of her temperament needs some stronger arm than any woman can provide, to help and comfort, to keep awake the fires of hope within her, and nothing of the sort was hers. In all the world she seemed to have no one to confide in, no one to lean upon, no one who would give her courage and hope for the black and impenetrable future.
At the end of the first fortnight, Marjorie knew, though her mother only just referred to the matter, that letters were daily arriving from Sir William Gouldesbrough.
One evening Lady Poole, unable to keep the news from her daughter any longer, told her of these communications.