Nothing—at least nothing but what is known already; and from that, some may think she should have been very happy. She had met the man she loved—had received from his own lips the assurance that her love was reciprocated—had heard it in passionate speech, sealed and confirmed by a fervent kiss, and a close rapturous embrace.
What more wanted she to confirm her in the supremest happiness that can be enjoyed—outside the limits of Elysium?
And yet Marion Wade was far from being happy!
What was the cause of her disquietude?
Had aught arisen to make her jealous? Did she doubt the fidelity of her lover?
A simple negative will serve as the answer to both questions.
She felt neither jealousy, nor doubt. The mind of Marion Wade was not easily swayed by such influences. Partly from a sense of self rectitude; partly from a knowledge of her own beauty—for she could not help knowing that she was beautiful—and partly, perhaps, from an instinctive consciousness of the power consequent on such a possession—hers was not a love to succumb readily to suspicion. Previous to that interview with her lover—the first and last properly deserving the name—she had yielded a little to this unpleasant emotion. But that was while she was still uncertain of Holtspur’s love—before she had heard it declared by himself—before she had listened to his vows plighted in words, in all the earnestness of eternal truth.
Since that hour no doubt had occurred to her mind. Suspicion she would have scorned as a guilty thing. She had given her own heart away—her heart and soul—wholly, and without reserve; and she had no other belief than that she had received the heart of Henry Holtspur in return.
Her unhappiness sprang from a different cause—or rather causes: for she had three sources of disquietude.
The first was a consciousness of having acted wrongly—of having failed in filial duty; and to a parent whose generous indulgence caused the dereliction to be all the more keenly felt.