heart was so happy, that, instead of allowing him to be slightly penitent, which might have done him good, she hastened to console him by saying she was only sleepy, and it was not his fault at all.
“Dear child!” said Aunt Howard, as the door closed upon her, “how unselfish she is! You will be a happy man, Marston.”
“I intend to be,” was the curt rejoinder, as the young man carefully selected a cigar and stepped out on the verandah.
Marion Maitland had been sent to England as an infant, to her aunt’s care. Her mother remained in India, putting off her return from season to season, always, when the time came, unwilling to leave her husband. At last she really did embark; but when Mrs. Howard took the little Marion to Southampton to meet the steamer, and to restore the child to the mother, she was met by the sad intelligence that the poor lady had died of exhaustion on the voyage. The little girl, therefore, remained under her aunt’s charge. Mrs. Howard was worthy of the confidence reposed in her by her brother. She loved her niece, and acted by her—it would be too much to say judiciously—but, at least, as she would have acted by her own child.
Dr. and Mrs. Howard had been long married; they had no family. The Doctor had adopted as his own, his younger brother’s only son; the Marston already introduced to the reader. The uncle intended the young man for the Church, hoping he might one day succeed him in the living he held—a family one; but Marston’s talents and predilections all pointed him out as fitted more for the Bar than the Church. Possessed of superior, if not first-rate abilities, he made his way slowly but surely on that up-hill road. Before Dr. Howard died, he had the gratification of seeing his nephew established in his self-chosen profession, with a fair start. Mrs. Howard had, from the first, warmly seconded her husband’s views with regard to his adopted son. She was strongly attached to him, and after the Doctor’s death, her house continued to be the young man’s home. She was a good, amiable woman, not wanting in parts. Her life had been chiefly spent in the society of men of education and letters; and though not herself scholar or artist, she had in no mean degree, what men of talent value, the power of appreciation. Her peculiar failing was an inordinate appreciation of the master sex. Like most failings, it was only a merit in excess. It arose from her profound affection and veneration for her own lord and master. Attributing to him all perfections of soul and intellect, she charitably and generously endowed all other lords with the same; and invariably—from an honest conviction, not from cowardice—leaned to the stronger side.
Woman she regarded—and truly—as the complement of man; but it is doubtful if her mind ever embraced the reverse of the proposition.
Her own life had been one of voluntary and entire surrender; happily for her the hand on the reins had been uniformly steady and light.
This influence had, of course, worked on the young Marion, and had not been without effect on Marston Howard. As Marion grew up there was frequent talk of her going out to rejoin her father. But the General was often on active service, and looked forward to settling down by-and-by in an English home, warmed by the sunshine of a daughter’s love and care. He shrewdly guessed that bringing her over to India would not be the most direct way to ensure the accomplishment of his hopes, and therefore begged his sister to continue her guardianship until he could come home himself to claim his daughter.
A word now in praise of Marion. Gentle and submissive, she had aptly learned her aunt’s oft-inculcated lesson that obedience is the first virtue of woman. She always yielded to the slightest wish of those placed over her; and this habit of deference, united to a sweet, courteous manner, made her a general favourite. Pliant, however, as she seemed and was, Marion was yet a vertebrate animal. She sometimes, not often, refused to bend at the first summons, and questioned, timidly but pertinaciously, matters which her aunt would have had her receive, as she herself received them, as articles of faith. Such questionings were usually addressed to Marston, for whom she entertained, as was right and mete, a profound esteem and admiration. Him and his acts and fiats she never questioned; that would have been a presumption at which she would have started aghast. And she was in truth much indebted to her cousin by adoption. Marston was a deep thinker, a good linguist, a man of much general information and refined tastes. As a youth he had made the child his plaything and messenger; as a young man he had found the graceful girl a very pleasant attraction to his uncle’s house. Half unconsciously he had called out her dormant powers, and opened to her paths of study and reflection which she had patiently followed up, occasionally coming to him to lift her over some difficulty which she could not surmount alone. She had thus become an intelligent companion; always glad to be conversed with, grateful for instruction, and humbly obliged for her cousin’s notice. What wonder that by degrees Marston Howard came to the conclusion that his pretty cousin Marion was the woman among all with whom he was acquainted most fitted to be the helpmate of a rising barrister? She was intelligent enough for a domestic whetstone when such an article was in demand; accomplished enough to adorn her—no, his station; pretty enough and graceful enough to make his house attractive; rich enough to make an addition to his means that would be very advantageous at the commencement of a career. So he resolved to marry as soon as Marion should have completed her nineteenth year. It is not certain whether he ever expounded his views on this subject to Marion. Mrs. Howard had long ago destined the young people for each other, and there came to be in time a sort of tacit understanding on the matter.
About three months before Marion’s birthday General Maitland fixed the period of his often-postponed return, and named the mail by which he was to be expected. After so many years of residence in a hot climate, it was considered hardly prudent to re-commence his European life by an English winter. Therefore, in the autumn, Mrs.
