Thus she spoke to herself in the many quiet hours she spent in Veronica’s little drawing-room, and a sort of dreamy peace and subdued happiness seemed gradually to descend upon her. She was very sweet and winning in those days. To Veronica she grew daily dearer and more precious. And to poor Geoffrey? Ah! it was hard upon him, for all his humility and unselfishness! And she, silly little soul, said to herself that she only meant to be gentle and sisterly, to make up to this kind, generous friend, for her former petulance and roughness. Partly this, at least. In some measure she began instinctively to turn to him, out of a sort of reaction from her former bitter experience. He might not be very clever or original, this Geoffrey Baldwin; he was certainly wanting in that extraordinary, inexpressible something—sympathy, perfect congeniality of heart or mind, or both, which from the first had, as if by magic, drawn and attracted her to Ralph; but at least, he was tried and true, honest and devoted to the very heart’s core. And, oh! to the poor little heart, smarting yet, under its sore disappointment—what attraction, what soothing was there not in the thought that he, at least, loved her! Loved her with a love which she felt she could never give to him; and yet, though no coquette, she no longer felt inclined to discourage him. For, after all, she was a thorough woman. And I am afraid she was, in some respects, incapable of such a love of Ralph’s for her; for, through it all, as we have seen, he never doubted, never for an instant mistrusted her.
Whereas she, naturally enough, had come gradually to lose her trust in him, to doubt even, sometimes, if indeed he had ever cared for her as she for him.
And already she was beginning to say to herself, “I loved him once.”
Veronica watched the two, earnestly and anxiously. There was no mystery about Geoffrey. It was only too evident that more than ever he was heart and soul devoted to his ward; in his eyes more beautiful than ever, from the yet remaining traces of her severe illness; her thin white hands, her pale cheeks, and hair far removed from its former luxuriance.
“Have I not grown ugly, Mr. Baldwin,” she said one day, half in earnest, half in joke, and greatly from a sort of instinctive wish to test her power over him. “Look at my hair! It is hardly long enough to twist up at all, and it used to come down below my waist.”
His only answer was to pass his hand softly, nay, almost reverently, over the little head, still fair and graceful, though “the pretty brown hair,” poor Ralph had long ago admired, was sadly decreased in thickness and richness. Marion did not shrink away from Geoffrey’s hand. They happened at the moment to be alone. She looked up in his face, and saw there the words all but uttered on his lips. Though in a sense she had brought it on herself, yet now she shrank from it, felt that as yet, at least, she could not bear it. With some half excuse she turned away quickly, and left the room. But what she had seen in Geoffrey’s face that afternoon decided her that something must be done, some resolution arrived at in her own mind, as it was easy to see that the present state of things could not long continue.
It was now the beginning of May. Fully two months had elapsed since the ride to Brackley, and the commencement of her long illness. Spring was coming on apace, and the outside world looked very bright and sweet that evening, as Marion sat by Veronica’s couch in the bow-window of the little drawing-room. There was a half-formed resolution in the girl’s mind for once to break through her rule of reserve, and seek the advice of the true and wise friend beside her. For some minutes they had been silent: suddenly Marion spoke.
“Do you know, Miss Veronica, that I have been here nearly three weeks? Soon I must he thinking of the Cross House again.”
Miss Temple laid her hand caressingly on. Marion’s. “My poor child!” she said. “But surely there is no hurry. I wish I could keep you here always; but with the prospect of my sister’s coming to me for the winter, I cannot do so. I hoped, however, that Harry would have had a day or two to spend with you, before you return to Miss Tremlett’s. Is there no chance of it? He must be so anxious to see you since your illness.”
“There is not a chance of his coming till June,” said Marion; “and then it will be a real goodbye! He is sure to go abroad immediately. No, dear Miss Veronica, it is very horrible, but I must be thinking of going. That dreadful life at my aunt’s! So you know, rather than go on with it, I sometimes wish I had died last month.”