no one to investigate too
closely into the character of the young lover, who was not much more
than a boy himself, and between whom and his girlish bride a hot,
foolish young love had sprung up like a mushroom, in a week or two of
acquaintance. She was twenty-five, but did not look her age. She was
small in stature,--one of those exquisitely neat little women whose
perfection of costume and appearance no external accident disturbs. Her
dress had the look of being moulded on her light little figure; her hair
was like brown satin, smooth as a mirror and reflecting the light. She
did not possess the large grace of abstract beauty. There was nothing
statuesque, nothing majestic, about her, but a kind of mild perfection,
a fitness and harmony which called forth the approval of the more
serious-minded portion of humanity as well as the admiration of the
younger and more frivolous.

It was generally known in the county that this young lady had far from
a happy life. She had been married in haste and over-confidence by
guardians who, if not glad to be rid of her, were at least pleased to
feel that their responsibility was over, and the orphan safe in her
husband's care, without taking too much pains to prove that the husband
was worthy of that charge, or that there was much reasonable prospect of
his devotion to it. Young Markland, it was understood, had sown his wild
oats somewhat plentifully at Oxford and elsewhere; and it was therefore
supposed, with very little logic, that there were no more to sow. But
this had not proved to be the case, and almost before his young wife
had reached the age of understanding, and was able to put two and two
together, he had run through the fortune she brought him--not a very
large one--and made her heart ache, which was worse, as hearts under
twenty ought never to learn how to ache. She was not a happy wife. The
country all about, the servants, and every villager near knew it, but
not from Lady Markland. She was very loyal, which is a noble quality,
and very proud, which in some cases does duty as a noble quality, and is
accepted as such. What were the secrets of her married life no one ever
heard from her; and fortunately those griefs which were open to all the
world never reached her, at least in detail. She did not know, save
vaguely, in what society her husband spent the frequent absences which
separated him from her. She did not know what kind of friends he made,
what houses he frequent