Lover and Husband: A Novel

by Mrs. Molesworth

He begged her to reply at once, and to confide to him the “imaginary” (he called it) obstacle on her side, the remembrance of which had so distressed her. That it was imaginary only, he told her he felt assured, for nothing not affecting her personally would he allow to come between them. Whatever it was, he begged her to tell it to him. Lastly, he entreated her to send him word where and when he might see her. At any moment, he wrote, he would hold himself in readiness to set off for England, to see her in her own home, or wherever else she might appoint.

One possibility only he did not allude to, for as yet it had not seriously occurred to him, that of her perhaps having determined on accompanying Mrs. Archer to India. Later, he wondered at its not having struck him.

So he wrote his letter, and enclosed it to the care of Mrs. George Archer, to be by her forwarded, or delivered immediately. And having posted it with his own hand, he felt rather lighter of heart than had been the case with him since his grievous disappointment of the morning. He tried to reason himself out of his excessive depression. “After all,” thought he, “it is nothing to be so miserable about. It is merely a question of a week or two’s delay. And now I can console myself by counting the days till her answer can come.” But it was not much use. From the first moment that he had heard her departure carelessly alluded to, he had somehow lost hope, felt an irresistible conviction that she was altogether and for ever gone from him. “It was very childish,” he said to himself, “childish and unreasonable.” But he could not help it. Still he did not allow his depression to paralyse or weaken his efforts to obviate the harm, too likely, in one form or another, to have been caused by Marion’s sudden and unlooked-for departure.

More he would gladly have done; for once his letter was written and despatched, the forced inaction and miserable suspense tried him terribly. Many times in the course of the next few days he was on the point of starting off again for England, but on refection he always discarded the idea. He was so utterly without knowledge of Marion’s past history and present circumstances. What, where, or who her friends were, he had no idea. Of everything in fact, save herself, her own sweet personality, he was entirely ignorant. Were he to find his way to her by means of his only clue, the address of the senior Mrs. Archer, it might do more harm than good, might injure his cause irretrievably. The father, to whom she had all alluded with more dread than affection, concerning whom there was evidently some sad or shameful page in her young history, what might he not be? How might not Ralph’s unlooked-for appearance irritate or exasperate him, how might it not pain or distress her, whose peace and well-being were truly, as he had said, his first consideration? There was no question of it, he decided, calmly and dispassionately; he had done well to write to her in the first place, and till he received her answer, he must take no more open or decisive steps. It might be, though hardly to himself would he own the dreadful doubt, yet it might be that on her side the obstacles would prove stubborn, even altogether insurmountable. In that case, with the terrible possibility before him, he would do well, for her sake, far more than for his own, to guard his secret, to save her name from even a breath of coarse innuendo or reproach, which, once under the acknowledged shelter of his love and protection, would fall harmless; but might, should it attack her without such defence, wound and sting her through all her pure, guileless innocence of thought and deed. To know that she was spoken of as “that Miss Freer who tried her best to catch Sir Ralph Severn, but who found it no use, as Lady Severn discovered that so-and-so, or such-and-such was the case,” would be too horrible! From this at least he could save her.

Sometimes it struck him as hard that she had left no message for him, no farewell greeting or word of remembrance. But then again, when he recalled the particulars of their last conversation, the extreme reserve and guardedness with which purposefully he had referred to his plans and intentions, the fears he had expressed that his efforts might be in vain—all this, to which he judged it right to confine himself, so that in case of adverse results she might in no wise consider herself bound to him—he could not find it in his heart to blame her. No girl, in her place, could have been expected to do more. Few, very few, would have trusted him as she had done.

So he waited, to outward appearance patiently enough, for the coming of the earliest day on which he might reasonably expect an answer to his letter.

During these days the mystery of Miss Vyse’s altered manner, and continued succession of gorgeous “gets-up” was to some extent explained.

She had really succeeded in attaching another string, and that other by no means a despicable one, to her bow!

The first day of his return they dined, as usual, alone. Florence complained of being tired, and left the drawing-room early. The following morning Lady Severn informed her son that dinner was to be half-an-hour later, that day, as she expected a guest.

“A gentleman,” she added, as if she wished Ralph to enquire further. But he was too profoundly indifferent to do so; and forgot all about the matter till just before dinner-time, when, to his amazement, on entering the drawing-room, he descried, seated side by side, on a sofa, in very suspicious proximity, Florence the magnificent, and our old friend the substantial and inconsolable widower, Mr. Chepstow!