“You are too good to me, far too good,” he would say, but with a tone as of disclaiming his right to such goodness, inexpressibly painful to her.
At other times again he would brighten up wonderfully, and Marion’s anxiety about him, physically and mentally, would temporarily slumber.
So the days wore on, till it grew to be within about three weeks of Christmas. The engagement with Mrs. Allen, which had been punctually fulfilled, was drawing to a close, much to Marion’s regret; for the five guineas a month had proved a very acceptable addition to Geoffrey’s modest salary, and the task till latterly, had seemed a light and pleasant one. Mrs. Allen had shown herself most consistently kind and considerate; many a day she had suddenly discovered a pressing errand at the other side of Millington obliging her to drive in the direction of Brewer Street, where Mrs. Appleby’s mansion was situated, curiously enough at the very hour of Mrs. Baldwin’s return thither.
“So as it happens, my dear,” the worthy lad would say, “I can give you a lift home without taking me five yards about.”
The little boys were very nice children, gentle and teachable. The youngest one indeed rather unusually and precociously intelligent; but as is generally the case with such children, physically speaking, fragile to a degree. They were the youngest and only remaining of a large family, all of whom had dropped off, one by one, as the mother expressed it, like buds with no life in them.
“Though how it should be the young ones come to be so delicate considering how strong Papa and I are, I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Allen to Marion, as she wiped away a few tears one day when she had been relating the history of her successive bereavements.
As the weather grew colder Geoffrey seemed to feel stronger. The long walk to and from Mr. Baxter’s warehouse was not half so trying to him in winter as in the close oppressive days of their first coming to Millington. But it was not so with Marion. Day after day she felt her strength mysteriously diminishing, and as the last week of her daily lessons’ giving approached, she felt thankful that the engagement was so near its termination; for easy as the task had been, she felt that it was growing too much for her.
One morning the boys had been a little more troublesome than usual, and she herself by the close of the lesson felt utterly exhausted. The children had run out to their play, she was alone in the school-room putting on her bonnet and cloak preparatory to her long walk home to Brewer Street, when the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Allen appeared. She had come, good soul, with her usual transparent little fib about having to drive in Mrs. Baldwin’s direction; but before she had time to explain her errand, to her surprise and alarm, Marion burst into a violent fit of weeping.
“What is the matter, dear Mrs. Baldwin? tell me, I pray you,” said the kind-hearted woman. “Have the boys been teasing you, or are you not feeling well this morning?”
Marion tried to answer her enquiries, but for some minutes could not control her voice sufficiently to do so. Mrs. Allen fetched a glass of wine which she made her drink part of, and in a short time the poor girl was well enough to speak as quietly as usual, and smile at her own “silly fit of crying.”