Marianne

were virtually forbidden to wear it.

Marianne could never picture Ivy in anything but muslin. She had been wearing a dress of white muslin when Marianne met her for the first time, that day last summer in Bath. Lady Ellis had dragged a cross and distinctly unwilling Marianne away from her beloved woods with the two-fold object of taking the cure herself and at the same time introducing her niece into society. But the girl had felt instantly out of place amid the elegant crowds thronging the famous spa. There was too much noise, too many people, too much gossip, too many shrill, overdressed women and too many dandies with their bored and insolent airs and their passion for wagers.

And then, one morning as the two women were driving along Milsom Street after making some purchases, Lady Ellis uttered a cry and ordered the driver to stop. A couple were passing by on foot and Marianne's heart beat unaccountably faster. The woman was beautiful, certainly, and the height of elegance in the simple white dress which served to set off a miraculous chip-straw bonnet covered with a froth of delicate lace but Marianne had no eyes for her except to envy her her escort. He was surely quite the finest man that ever was. Moreover, it was to him that Lady Ellis's rapturous exclamation was addressed.

'Francis, Francis Cranmere! My dear child, how good to see you again. Don't tell me you don't recognize me?'

The gentleman's handsome, disdainful mouth had curved into a smile.

'Lady Selton!' He responded instantly, 'could you doubt my knowing you? England is full of women but I'll take my oath there is only one Ellis Selton. Your most obedient, my dear lady.'

Removing the beaver hat he wore so elegantly tilted to one side, he bowed over Lady Selton's fingertips and her niece was able to observe, to her considerable astonishment, that her spinster aunt was quite flushed with pleasure. However, the young man's grey eyes immediately travelled on inquiringly to Marianne and she felt herself instantly purple with embarrassment. In her plain cambric dress adorned, thanks to the clever fingers of her maid, only with a single embroidered panel she felt suddenly horribly dowdy. Any comparison between herself and the lovely stranger was so little to her advantage that she felt ready to die of shame and was incapable of saying anything intelligible when her aunt presented her to: 'My dear Francis, the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends', and then to 'his charming cousin, Lady St. Albans'.

A few words more, an exchange of addresses, and then they parted with promises to meet again. The carriage moved away with Marianne on the verge of tears. All at once, she wanted desperately to make this fine gentleman notice her, to dazzle him with her wit and brilliance, while he had probably seen her merely as some kind of silly schoolgirl. Her aunt had laughed and teased her about it.

'But there,' she added with a sigh, 'I can scarcely blame you, these Cranmeres are irresistible charmers, and Francis is the living image of his father. No man could ever think seriously of competing with Richard Cranmere.'

'Was he so very much admired?' Marianne asked in a small voice.

'Oh, the women were wild about him, every single one – more's the pity—'

The conversation had gone no further. Lady Ellis had lapsed into a reminiscent silence which the girl did not like to interrupt. She had learned later, by means of interrogating Jenkins, the old housekeeper, that her Aunt Ellis had once been madly in love with Richard Cranmere and had hoped to marry him but he had fallen instead for Marianne's mother, Anne, and Anne was already in love with a French diplomat. On her engagement to Pierre d'Asselnat, Lord Cranmere had gone away. His travels had taken him to India and it was there that he had married and that Francis had been born. The young man had returned home some ten years previously to take possession of a small inheritance not far from Selton Hall. At that time he had called frequently on Lady Ellis, drawn to her by their mutual passion for horses. Then, succumbing to the attractions of London, he had sold the little estate which must have formed the bulk of his fortune and they had not seen him since.

'And probably will not see him again until the next chance encounter – in ten years time!' Marianne had sighed.

But she was mistaken. Francis not only called on his old friend in the house she had taken for the season in Bath but, in September, he actually came to Selton Hall.

These visits plunged the young girl into an ecstasy of excitement. To her romantic imagination, Francis became Tristan, Lancelot, the Swan Knight come from distant shores to break the spell which held her captive. No legendary hero could live up to him. Francis was a hundred times more wonderful than all the knights of the Round Table put together, Merlin and King Arthur included. She began to day dream about him, basing an infinity of delight on a look or a smile, and building up reserves of happiness on which to live until his next visit. Francis behaved, in fact, charmingly to her. To her great surprise he would even sit by her now and then and talk to her. He asked her about her life and her amusements and, thinking of his life in London where he kept company with the noblest and most brilliant of the realm, she was ashamed that her conversation was all about dogs and horses and the countryside. She was so greatly in awe of him that one day, when Lady Ellis begged her to sing for Francis she was unable to produce a single note. Her mouth was so dry that no sound came. By nature lively and unselfconscious, in his presence she became shy and gauche. It was true that on that particular evening, Ivy had accompanied her cousin and her fragrant presence was not calculated to boost Marianne's confidence. The lovely cousin with her sophisticated elegance and unfailing sweetness was a sore trial to her nerves. She was like the fairy Vivien – but Marianne had never been fond of Vivien.

Her day of triumph had come out hunting when, for a whole day, she had galloped at Francis's side across muddy fields and through autumnal woods. Ivy, who disliked horses, had followed with Lady Ellis in the carriage. Marianne had Francis all to herself and she thought she would die of happiness when he complimented her on her faultless horsemanship.

'I know few men who ride as well as you,' he told her, 'and no women.'

There was a genuine warmth in his voice and in his eyes that flooded the girl's heart with joy. At that moment he really sounded like a lover. She smiled at him with all her heart.

'I love to ride with you, Francis. I feel as if I could go on like this to the end of the world.'

'Do you really mean that?'

'But – of course! Why should I say it if I did not?'

He made no answer. He merely leaned from his saddle and looked into her face and, for the first time, she was able to meet his gaze without embarrassment. Still he had said nothing but as he moved away he smiled briefly.

'Good,' was all he said. Then, apparently forgetting all about her, he gave his horse its head, leaving Marianne to wonder whether or not she had said something stupid.

After that day's hunting he had vanished for some time, and in any case her aunt's sudden illness had to some extent driven him from Marianne's mind. Then, one evening, two days before her death, Lady Ellis had sent for her niece.

'I know I am dying, child,' she told her, 'but I shall go in peace knowing that I shall not leave you alone.'

'What do you mean?'

'That Francis has asked for your hand and you shall marry him.'

'Mine? But – he has never spoken to me—'

'Stop babbling. I have not much time – he is a man who cannot fail to make you happy. He is twenty-eight now and will be able to give you the guidance and support you need. Besides, in bestowing you on him, I am remedying an unjustice on the part of fate. Francis has no fortune of his own, now he will have ours – he will join you as the master of Selton – and when I am laying there, across the park, I shall be glad to think of my beloved home in your hands, both of you. That way, I shall never really leave you—'

Exhausted from the effort of speaking, Lady Ellis closed her eyes and said no more. Marianne left the room torn between a curious mixture of terror and delight. It seemed fantastic that Francis should want to marry her, a simple country girl, when there were so many women all anxious to please him. It gave her an odd sense of triumph. She felt at the same time very proud and very apprehensive.

'I shall never be worthy of him,' she thought. 'I shall always be doing something improper, and he will think how silly I am—'

It was this fear which returned, intact, to plague Marianne during her wedding dinner. She gazed with mingled joy and pride at Francis, sitting opposite her in the high-backed chair, long empty, that belonged to the master of the house. He sat in it so carelessly and naturally that the young bride was filled with admiration. For