ONE morning Lady Flanders, enveloped in a dressing-gown bought at a bazaar in Damascus, which made her look like the Grand Vizier in the Arabian Nights, knocked at the room which her guest, Mrs. Lancaster, was occupying. Marion, who had not yet finished her toilet, opened the door, and Lady Flanders stalked in. She merely nodded a good morning, and did not at once explain the reason of this early visitation. With her hands behind her, she began to pace slowly up and down the room, her head bent and her shaggy brows drawn together: altogether rather an appalling spectacle. At length she halted, felt in the pocket of her caftan for her snuff-box, and not finding it there, sniffed, rubbed her nose, and went up to Marion, who had resumed the combing of her hair which the entrance of her ladyship had interrupted.

“How is your health this morning, my dear?” she demanded, scowling down upon her.

“I thank you; much as usual,” replied Marion apathetically.

“Nonsense! You are not well at all: you’re as pale and peaked as a charity-school girl!” returned the old lady testily. “You haven’t improved at all since you came to my house, Mrs. Lancaster: and yet I’ve paid you every attention. I’m displeased at it!”

“You have been most kind to me, and I—” began Marion; but the other interrupted her with a peremptory gesture.

“You are altogether in the wrong, Mrs. Lancaster,” she exclaimed, “and you should have discernment enough to be aware of it. I have shown you no kindness whatever: ’tis a thing I never do any one; I have simply pleased myself, as I always do: and ’tis as likely as not I have got you and your husband into a precious scrape, only for the gratification of my own antipathies. I have always abominated that little devil of a Marquise Desmoines, and I was determined to let her know it! That is the whole secret of the matter!”

“I shall not alter my opinion, madam,” returned Marion with a smile, “and I can never forget the sympathy and protection you have given me. But I am unhappy: and I feel, now, that I did wrong to come here. I should have stayed at home with my mother.”

“This is assurance, upon my honor! Where are your manners, ma’am? Pray, is my house not good enough for you?” But, having made these inquiries in a haughty and fierce way, the great lady suddenly took Marion in her arms and kissed her on both cheeks.

“I am an old fool, my dear,” said she, sitting down with a disconsolate air, and crossing one leg over the other. “I’m not fit to be trusted alone any more. My likings and my dislikings both get me into trouble. I fell in love with you the minute I set eyes on you. For fifty years, at least, I have been ashamed of being a woman, and tried all I could to act as if I were a man—doing as men do, and thinking men’s thoughts—or, at any rate, talking as if I thought them. And now, since I met you, I only wish I were more a woman than I am! My dear, you are the finest creature that ever stood in petticoats, and nobody is good enough for you. And when I fancied that that Philip of yours didn’t appreciate the prize he had won—which, if he were the best man alive, he couldn’t deserve—it made me so angry that I could have cut that handsome white throat of his from one ear to the other. And as if that wasn’t enough, he must accuse you of improper behavior—”

“It was my own fault, Lady Flanders,” said Marion, interrupting. “I’m sure I behaved very badly, and when I wouldn’t tell him what I had been doing, I think he did quite right to be angry. I would ask him to forgive me, if he were here.”

“Don’t cry, my dear, it doesn’t suit your character, and you only do it because you’re weak and worn out, and God knows I don’t wonder at it! As to asking him to forgive you, you would do no such thing—don’t tell me!—until you were convinced he had done nothing to be forgiven for. And now,” continued her ladyship, again diving into her pocket after the absent snuff-box, “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve begun to think he may not have been quite so bad as I thought. Mind—I know nothing more yet: I only make an inference. You know I pounced down upon that clever little wretch, the Marquise; and from her manner, and some things she said, my suspicions about her and that husband of yours were rather confirmed than disconcerted. So, rather than have you left alone in your house for people to snigger at, I persuaded you to come to me for a few days, until we could know exactly how matters stood. Poor child! You were in a state of mind not to care what became of you; and when I met your husband, that same afternoon, I had half a—”

“You met him, Lady Flanders? You never told me that!” exclaimed Marion, looking up and flushing.

“I know I didn’t: why should I? I had no doubt he was on the way to that Marquise; and it was the next day, as I tell you, that I pounced down on her. Well, then ... you shouldn’t interrupt me, my dear; and—I wish you’d touch that bell: I think I must have left my snuff-box on my dressing-table.”

The box was brought, and her ladyship took a copious pinch and proceeded. “Last night I heard something that disturbed and surprised me a good deal, and the source it came from was unimpeachable. I saw Mr. Merton Fillmore, and he told me that Madame Desmoines is going to bring an action against Mr. Lancaster to recover the money Mr. Grantley left him. At first I didn’t believe it, but he was quite serious, and said that he was her solicitor in the matter. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself:—but ’tis no use scolding men like him, they only bow and grin, and that’s an end of it! I asked him why she hadn’t claimed it before, and he tried to make up some nonsense about her having only just received proof that she was entitled to it. I told him it was a scandalous piece of business, and that he ought to have known better than to let himself be mixed up in it; and that I didn’t believe the case had a leg to stand on. But between you and me, my dear, I shouldn’t wonder if that particular kind of thieving that they call legal justice was on her side; and I fear there may be danger. But what I was going to say is, that if she is actually setting to work to ruin your husband, it doesn’t look much as if they were in love with each other, does it?”

Marion clasped her hands together softly in her lap, and her eyes shone. A long sigh breathed from her lips, which smiled tremulously.

“Aye, aye,” said Lady Flanders, sighing also, and scowling, “I know how it is! You are feeling happier than if I’d just told you you’d been made heiress of all the money in the Bank of England: and by-and-by, as soon as you’re able to think of anything else but Philip, you’ll turn round and fly into a terrible passion with me, because I misled you about him. But upon my honor, my dear, it was only your dignity and welfare I was thinking of. And mind you, this may be nothing but a blind, after all.”

“No,” said Marion, in a tender, preoccupied tone: “it is true; I am sure of it. I have been the wicked one. If he will only forgive me!”

“Never tell a person of my age and character that you are wicked,” said Lady Flanders dryly; “it is not in good taste, for it makes ’em wonder what the Recording Angel will call them. As to forgiving you, if he were here, and didn’t—”

“Do you know where he is?” exclaimed Marion, springing up. “Is he in the house? Oh, Lady Flanders, is he—”

“My dear, I don’t know where he is, any more than you do: but there’s no doubt he will be found soon enough, and I hope the lesson he’s had will have done him good. Meantime, there’s another matter to attend to. Your good mother, Mrs. Lockhart, you know—we arranged that she should be told nothing of all this trouble; and I gave her to understand, when I took you away, that you and your husband were going into the country to visit the Earl, and ’twas uncertain when you’d be back. Now, I got a letter from her this morning, saying that this was the anniversary of her wedding-day, and she wanted to spend it in the old house at Hammersmith. She was going to set out this forenoon; and it occurred to me it might be a good thing if you went with her. As your husband will probably turn up during the next few days, you would probably prefer to meet him in her company rather than in mine.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Marion, who had already begun hurriedly to complete her toilet: “I will be ready in a few minutes. Yes, that will be best.... Oh, I thank God! I could not have gone on living: but now, even if he doesn’t forgive me, I am happy.”

“I shall contrive so as to see him before you do,” said her ladyship; “and after I’ve done with him, the only person he won’t be ready to forgive will be me! Oh, ’tis just as well you both should have somebody to abuse, and I shall answer the purpose as well as anybody else. ’Tis about all an old hag like me is good for. Well, if you are going, I shall go with you, and deliver you safe into your mother’s hands: and probably there’ll have to be some lying done, when she asks where Philip is; and I’m a better hand at that than you are. You’ve no idea what experience I have had!”

Here the old lady chuckled rather cynically, and wrapping her caftan around her, stalked out of the room. Marion, left to herself, quickly went about her preparations, singing to herself at intervals, and moving with a lighter step and heart than she had known for many days. The old house at Hammersmith! It seemed like going home for the first time since the honeymoon. It was there that her first happiness had come to her; and if Heaven ever permitted her to be happy again, it ought to happen there. All this fever of wealth and fashionable society was as a dream that is past: freshness and sanity had returned with the morning.

Lady Flanders, with the promptness of an old campaigner, who knows how to concentrate hours into minutes when there is need for it, was ready almost as soon as Marion, and the two immediately set forth for the Lancasters’ house in her ladyship’s big carriage, with the coachman in front and the footman behind in pigtails and silk stockings. They arrived just as Mrs. Lockhart was about to depart. She greeted them with her usual gentle serenity.

“My dear daughter,” she said, embracing Marion, “your trip to the country has done you good. She has a fine color, has she not, Lady Flanders? though I think she is a little thin. This city life is very trying: I used to find it so before I married your dear father. But no doubt ’tis different when you have your husband to go into society with you. A happy marriage is the best health preserver in the world. Has Philip come back too? Will he come out with us?”

“Your son-in-law, madam,” said Lady Flanders, before Marion could command her voice or open her mouth, “is detained, I believe, but very probably he may join you before you return. Madam, that gown suits you admirably; and I can scarce believe, when I look at you, that so many years have passed since you were the toast of Bath.”

Hereupon the lovely Fanny Pell of the last century flushed with innocent pleasure, and the color showed through the cheeks of the gentle widow of Major Lockhart: and the difficulty about Philip was evaded for the present. After a little more conversation, Mrs. Lockhart proposed that, as the day was fine, Lady Flanders should accompany them as far as Hammersmith, and perhaps lunch with them there; and in the afternoon she might drive back in time to keep her engagement to dine at Lord Croftus’. Marion added her entreaty to those of her mother: and her ladyship, doubtless perceiving that her presence would be a protection for Marion against the guileless inquisition of Mrs. Lockhart, who was as likely to prattle about Philip and the delights of a happy marriage as about anything else, consented; and the whole party got into the carriage, and rolled away on gently-swaying springs. The brief winter sunshine shone along the streets, throwing the shadow of the tall vehicle behind them; and the pedestrians on the sidewalks stepped out briskly, for the air was crisp and bright. Christmas was not far off, and its jovial influence was already felt. The long year, with all its happiness and its misery, its failure and its success, was drawing to a close; and for the bulk of mankind, the cheerfuller side of life seemed, on the whole, to have come uppermost. Marion, as she gazed out of the window of the carriage (while her mother and Lady Flanders chatted about the London of forty years ago), meditated over all which this year had brought her of good and evil: and tried to determine with herself whether, taking the good and the evil together, she would have wished this year omitted from her life. At first, with the remembrance of recent pain and suffering still fresh within her, and the future still so uncertain and clouded, she thought that it would have been better for her if she had died that day that she saw Philip and Mr. Grant enter the gate of the old house in Hammersmith, and knock at the door. But when she began to recall more in detail all the events that had happened, she thought that, for so much happiness, all the pain was not too dear a price to pay. There was the picture in her memory of Philip telling them how he had cared for Major Lockhart, on the field of Waterloo: his voice had been tremulous as he told it, and his eyes had met hers with a sympathy so manly and so honest that her heart went out to meet it. Then had ensued that period when she withdrew herself from him, as it were, and was harsh and cold, from the untamed maidenhood that had divined its danger, and blindly sought to preserve itself at any cost. But oh! how sweet it had been to feel, day by day, that the struggle was in vain! What fear, what joy, what self-distrust, what hope, what secret tears! And then, that summer ride to Richmond, with Philip at her side; the banter, the laughter, the betraying tones and looks, the swelling tenderness that drowned resistance; and at last, the touch of hands, and the few words that meant so much! Surely, to have lived through such a day might compensate for many a day of pain.

Besides, the season of outward coldness and suspended confidence that had followed this, had been founded on nothing real, and had vanished at the first touch of reality. On that black night when she and Philip groped their way through midnight ways to avert, if it might be, the peril so mysteriously foreshadowed. Their spirits touched and recognized each other, and the terror of the crisis had only made the recognition more deep and firm. On that tragic night, love had avouched himself greater than all tragedy and sorrow; more true than they, and, unlike them, eternal. The flower of this love had she and Philip plucked, and had breathed its immortal fragrance. So much the year had brought her.

But then Marion fell to thinking about the months that had since elapsed, and the significance of their story. And the more she meditated, the more clearly did it appear to her that she, and not Philip, had been to blame. For why had she refused the legacy? From jealousy of Philip. But was her jealousy just? It had been a fancy merely, a vague suspicion, founded upon hints half understood and whimsically exaggerated. A woman who is loved has no right to say, “Because another woman is more beautiful or brilliant than I, therefore my husband will care more for her than he does for me.” For love is the divine Philosopher’s Stone, which transfigures that which it touches; and, for the lover, there is a beauty in his mistress before which the splendor of Helen of Troy or the Egyptian Cleopatra seem but as dust. And let her beware lest she so far vulgarize the dignity of love as to make it one with her own estimate of herself. As justly might the Song that Solomon sang rate its worth at that of the material forms and substances whereby it was conveyed from his mind to ours. As regarded Philip, moreover, how could he, being innocent of that which she suspected, have done otherwise than he did? For him to have yielded, would have been to acknowledge himself vulnerable. And again, what justification could she plead for the dissipated and reckless life she had led since the difference of opinion between Philip and herself? None, none! It had been the ungenerous revenge which, to requite open defeat, goes about to rob the victor of the comfort of his victory. Still less defensible was this last act of hers, to which the present disastrous state of things was immediately due. To gain an end which she had ostensibly given up, she had put herself in a predicament fairly open to the worst interpretation; and then, when her husband had demanded the explanation which was his right, she had defiantly refused to give it. When a woman like Marion begins to be repentant and forgiving, she allows herself no limits; and by the time the carriage had reached Hammersmith, Marion was disposed to consider herself the most reckless and culpable of wives, and Philip the most injured and long-suffering of husbands. But where, alas! was Philip, that she might tell him so?

They turned down the well-remembered little side street, and in another minute the carriage had drawn up before the iron gate, to which, so long ago and yet so recently, Marion had fastened the card with “To Let” written on it, which had been the means of bringing her and Philip together. The footman jumped down, opened the carriage door, and let down the steps; he assisted Mrs. Lockhart to alight, and gave her his arm up the walk. Marion followed with Lady Flanders. The old house looked forlorn, though a care-taker had been left in charge of it; the windows were dull and bare; the cedar of Lebanon had scattered its dry needles over the path and grass-plot: the knocker was tarnished, the foot-scraper red with dust. The footman lifted the knocker to rap; but before the stroke sounded, the door was opened from within.

Marion heard her mother give a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure, and then say something, in words she did not distinguish. She raised her eyes languidly: but the broad back of the liveried footman intercepted her view. Lady Flanders, however, whose vision was not thus obstructed, gave a start, and cried out, “Why, d—— him, there he is!”

The footman’s back disappeared, and in its place Marion’s gaze absorbed the vision of a tall dark figure, a white face, black, exploring eyes, disheveled hair,—all suddenly kindled up and vivified by a flash of poignant delight. She remained standing erect on the lower step, and, without removing her wide, breathless gaze, she slowly raised her hands, and clasped them together against her heart.

“Mr. Lancaster,” said Lady Flanders, in a high, sharp tone, “help your wife into the house, can’t you! she’s feeling faint. You ought to be more careful how you play off your surprises on a woman in her condition. Why didn’t you let us know you were going to be here? Come, Mrs. Lockhart,” she added, seizing the latter by the arm and drawing her in-doors, “let us get up stairs and take off our bonnets. That’s the way with these young married people! They can’t meet after a separation of twelve hours without going into such heroics and ecstasies as would make one think they had been dead and returned to life again, at least! Leave ’em to themselves, and perhaps in half an hour they’ll be able to recognize our existence.”

In this way the wise old woman of the world, who had comprehended the situation at a glance, at once parried whatever inconvenient inquiries Mrs. Lockhart might have made, and afforded an opportunity to Philip and Marion to enjoy their explanation and reconciliation in private, away from the inspection of footmen and other ignorant and inquisitive persons. When she got up stairs, and before she removed her bonnet, she took out a large silk pocket-handkerchief, and blew her nose; and for some time made no articulate rejoinder to the serene little observations which Mrs. Lockhart kept offering.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“How did you happen to be here, my dearest?” said Marion, in the course of the interview. “Did you know we were coming?”

“I have been here for several days, I believe,” answered Philip: “I hardly know how long, or when the days begun or ended. I did not know where to look for you, darling, and it seemed most natural to come here, where we loved each other first.”

“Oh, my Philip! and were you thinking I was wicked all that time?”

“No, thank God! I don’t think I ever seriously believed that. But one day, before I came here, I saw Tom Moore; he came up to me, and said he wanted to say something to me in private. So we walked across the park, and pretty soon I found that he was talking about you. From that moment I remember every word he uttered. ‘Mr. Lancaster,’ he said, ‘you’ll do me the credit to believe that I’m a man of honor and a gentleman, and the good name of a lady is sacred to me. I have admired and reverenced Mrs. Lancaster since first I had the honor to be in her presence; and though, to be sure, ’twas mighty small notice she ever took of me, my nature is not so petty that a slight to my vanity can obscure my judgment or dim my perception.’ Then he went on to tell me all about meeting you at Vauxhall, and what a state of excitement you were in, and how he hurried you out of sight, and put you into a carriage, and then went and got Sir Francis; and how you all drove to the inn in Pimlico, and afterwards how he saw you safe home with your maid. Then he said that tortures would never have unsealed his lips on the subject; but he had learned that, in some way, a rumor had got abroad that you were seen there. Whereupon he had deemed it due to his honor as a gentleman, as well as to his consciousness of integrity and innocence, to come to me at once, in a frank and manly way, and give me to know at first hand all there was to be known of the matter. It was very eloquent and chivalrous,” added Philip, “and at any other time I might have laughed: as it was, I just thanked him, and we bowed to each other and parted; and I came here.”

“It seems like coming up out of the grave,” said Marion, musingly. “And now, my poor Philip, after all our quarreling and trouble, what do you think has happened? The Marquise is going to sue for your money; and Lady Flanders says she’s afraid the law may give it to her.”

“Will the Marquise do that?” said Philip, arching his eyebrows.

“So Merton Fillmore says: and he is to conduct her case.”

“Well,” said Philip, beginning to smile, “she could not have done anything that pleases me better; for I have gained much wisdom since I saw you last, and am as anxious to be rid of that burden as ever you were. So, if you agree, my darling, we’ll give her the twenty thousand pounds, without putting her to the trouble to sue for it: for there’s only one kind of wealth worth having, and that is what I have been enjoying ever since I caught sight of you on the doorsteps.”

“But, Philip, you know we have spent ever so much money on that miserable house in town. What are we to do about that? for the money from ‘Iduna’ will not be enough to pay it.”

“Why, that is all right, too,” said Philip, laughing: “for, though I had forgotten it till this moment, Lord Seabridge, who is not expected to live more than a week, said when I saw him the other day that he put five thousand pounds in his will for me, ‘just to buy my wife a present.’ We can pay our debts with that, and still have a few hundreds left to begin life again in this old house.” He put his arm round her waist, and added, looking down at her, “You won’t object to my receiving that legacy, will you?”

“Oh, Philip!” said Marion, with a long sigh, hiding her face on his shoulder; “I wish.... I think.... I hear my mother and Lady Flanders coming down stairs!”