held out a letter on two or three sheets of closely written notepaper. 'Read that, Marian,' said she, turning her face straight, to the fire as she gave it.
It was from Walter, and the date showed that it had been written, immediately on receiving the announcement of Caroline's engagement. It was grave, earnest, and affectionate; not accusing Mr. Faulkner of anything, not positively objecting to him, but reminding Caroline of the solemnity of the duties she was about to undertake, and of the extreme danger of allowing herself to be so attracted by agreeableness of manner, or led on by the opinion of those around her, as to forget that the connection she was about to form was to last for life, and that she must be responsible for the influence her husband would exercise on her life here, and therefore on her life hereafter. He said he was sure she could not enter lightly on such an engagement, and therefore trusted that her own mind was thoroughly convinced that she had chosen one who would be a guide, an aid, and a support in the path that all were treading.
It was exactly Walter's way, as Marian well knew, to manage to say, in his simple, and as he thought, guarded manner of representing things, what to sharper people had very much the air of irony; and as she gave back the letter, her observation, as the first that would occur, was, 'It is very like Walter.'
'Very,' said Caroline.
'Did you answer him?'
'I wrote again, but--but'--her voice began to fail--'it was not an answer. I would not seem to understand him. I wrote a lively, careless sort of letter, and only said papa and mamma were delighted, or something of that kind. And O, Marian, Marian, he has never written to me again, and I have deserved it.' She burst into tears.
'But why don't you write now? He must be very anxious to hear of Lionel, and there is no one to tell him.'
'I cannot,' she replied; 'I cannot, while--while he thinks of me as he must--as he ought!' She wept bitterly, and Marian stood by perplexed and distressed. 'Dear Caroline,' was the utmost that she could say.
'Marian!' cried Caroline, looking up for a moment, then hiding her face again--'I would give anything in the world that he had been at home last summer; or that you had slept at High Down that night.'
A flash of hope and joy came across Marian. 'If you think so,' she began, but Caroline cut her short. 'I know what you mean, but that it? impossible, quite Impossible--decidedly so,' she added, as if these assurances were to strengthen her own belief in its impossibility, and not arguing, from a consciousness that her friend would overthrow every one of her arguments. 'I don't know what made me come to you, and tease you,' said she, rising and taking her letter; 'good night.'
'Tease me! O, Caroline, Caroline, you know--'
What she knew was lost in a most affectionate embrace; but Caroline would not stay any longer, and left Marian as usual, regretting everything that had passed.
The nest night, however, Caroline came again, as if there was some irresistible spell that drew her to Marian. It was Sunday, and Marian had long since observed that on such days Caroline was always most out of spirits. She sat down, and let a long time pass without talking; but at last she said, 'Marian, it is very kind in you to let me come and sit here. You cannot--no--you will never know how wretched I am.'
'My dear, dear Caroline, if I could but do anything for you! but,' she proceeded, gathering resolution from her day's reflections, 'you are the only person who can do anything for yourself.'
'Impossible!' repeated Caroline.
Marian was not exactly silenced, but involved in deep considerations as to the propriety of interfering, and whether attempting to persuade Caroline would be doing evil that good might come. Before she had made up her mind,--as, indeed, how could she in five minutes come to a conclusion to which hours of previous perplexity had failed to bring her?--Caroline spoke again, 'If it had but never begun! but now it has, it must go on.'
'I don't know--'
