Marion Holmes was, as Mrs. Britton had said, a silent girl; not from any
habitual self-repression, but from an inherent inability to express her
deeper feelings. Hers was one of those dumb speechless souls, that,
finding no means of communicating with others, unable to get in touch
with those about them, go on their silent, lonely ways, no one dreaming
of the depth of feeling or wealth of affection they really possess.
The eldest child of a widowed mother, in moderate circumstances, her
life had been one of constant restriction and self-denial. Her
association with Darrell marked a new epoch in the dreary years. For the
first time within her memory there was something each morning to which
she could look forward with pleasant anticipation; something to look
back upon with pleasure when the day was done. As their intimacy grew
her happiness increased, and when he returned from college with high
honors her joy was unbounded. Brought up in a home where there was
little demonstration of affection, she did not look for it here; she
loved and supposed herself loved in return, else how could there be such
an affinity between them? The depth of her love for Darrell Britton she
herself did not know until his strange disappearance; then she learned
the place he had filled in her heart and life by the void that remained.
As months passed without tidings of him she lost hope. Unable to endure
the blank monotony of her home life she took up the study of medicine,
partly to divert her mind and also as a means of future self-support
more remunerative than teaching.
With the news of Darrell's return, hope sprang into new life, and it was
with a wild, sweet joy, which would not be stilled, pulsating through
her heart, that she went to call on Mrs. Britton.
She had a nature supersensitive, and as she entered Mrs. Britton's rooms
her heart sank and her whole soul recoiled as from a blow. With her
limited means and her multiplicity of home duties her outings had been
confined to the small towns within a short distance of her native
village. These rooms, in such marked contrast to everything to which
she had been accustomed, were to her a revelation of something beyond
her of which she had had no conception; a revelation also that her
comrade of by-gone days had grown away from her, beyond her--beyond even
her reach or ken.
Quietly, with a strange, benumbing pain, she noted every detail as she
answered Mrs. Britton's inquiries, but conscious of the lack of affinity
between herself and Darrell's mother, it seemed to her that the dark
eyes regarding her so searchingly must read with what hopes she had
come, and how those hopes had died. She was glad Darrell was not at
home; she could not have met him then and there. But so quiet were her
words and manner, so like her usual demeanor, that Mrs. Britton said to
herself, as Marion took leave,-"I was right; she cares for Darrell only as a mere acquaintance."