Clara, whom Mrs. Lyddell promised to fetch to-morrow: Lady Julia was particularly full of empressement and affection, delighted that dear Caroline had been looking so lovely. She even came out with them to the cloak-room, where her son was assiduous in shawling Mrs. Lyddell, and all manner of civilities seemed to be passing among them in a low voice, while Edmund having disengaged Marian’s shawl from the surrounding drapery, said, as he put it round her, “Then it is settled that I take Gerald and try to do for the best?”
“O if you are so kind–“
“Don’s trust too much to it. I will try, which is all I can do.”
“No one can do him any good if you cannot.”
“Hush! And I must thank you for taking my scolding in such good part.”
“I deserved it.”
“I have since been thinking you are probably right. I am sure you are in the principle of the thing. It was the particular application that startled me.”
Mrs. Lyddell moved on, the carriage was at the door, they were all in it, Elliot of course last, and as he threw himself back in his corner and the door was shut, he exclaimed in a satisfied tone, “Well! he is coming it pretty strong!” Who was coming what? thought Marian, but her suspense did not last long, for Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell both chimed in with exclamations of satisfaction which left no doubt that they were delighting themselves in the prospect of seeing Caroline mistress of High Down. Marian had been in some slight degree prepared for this, she knew Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell would highly approve, nay, consider such a marriage as fulfilling their highest expectations, such an establishment as all that could be wished; and depending as she did on Caroline’s principle and right feeling, she was sorry to think how much vexation and worrying was in store for her. As she sat disregarded and forgotten through that long dark drive, hearing all the eager gratulations and anticipations of her three companions, regarding a marriage which she could not think of without a sort of horror, how did she despise them, feel imprisoned, and long to make her escape. She had not the least doubt as to what Caroline would do; her rejection of such a man was a matter of certainty; but Marian was vexed with her for having allowed herself to become so intimate with the Faulkners, and thought she had brought on herself all the annoyances that would follow.
Tired, irritated, excited, Marian was very glad to escape from the carriage, wish the rest good night, and run up to her own room. She sat before her glass, slowly brushing out her long dark hair, and trying to bring home her feverish thoughts, and dwell on what had passed, especially with Edmund, on whom she had not yet had time to think, and of all those hints of his, as to her behaviour in this matter. Had he approved it or not? or would he if he had known all the circumstances? There was something that struck her a good deal in his saying “I cannot judge of the amount of sacrifice.” Had it been a sacrifice to wear a plain dress, to abstain from archery? It would have been, to Clara, but was it to her? and as she looked at the two grey volumes, with their store of pretty engravings and pleasant reading which lay on her table, and thought that they were her own for life, and that Anne Clifford’s dress would now be laid aside and useless for ever after the archery prize, if she had won it, would be worthless, and the admiration, had she valued it, passed from her ears, she could not feel, for one instant, that it had been a sacrifice. Then again came his words, “every thing in this world is nonsense, except as a means of doing right or wrong.” Yes, pretty books, pleasant pictures, taste and intellect were in themselves as little precious as dress and finery, things as fleeting when compared with eternity, except so far as they trained the soul and the higher faculties which _might_ endure for ever. She thought of “Whether there he prophecies, they shall fail, whether there be tongues, they shall cease, whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.” All was a shadow except that charity which never faileth, a beautiful picture, even as a costly dress! the way we treat these things alone enduring. Her head throbbed as she tried to be certain as to whether she had acted right. If the dress had required the money set apart for the poor she would have been perfectly clear about it, but she knew it need not have done so. Would her vanity have been gratified? Decidedly not–admiration of her face was so distasteful to her proud shrinking bashfulness, that she felt it like an insult when reported to her, and could almost have wished not to be so handsome, if it had not been more agreeable to an artist-like eye to see a tolerable physiognomy in the glass, when obliged to look there, and besides she would not but be like the Arundels, and was well satisfied with the consciousness of having their features, as indeed she would have been if their noses had been turned up and their “foreheads villainous low.” If _her_ vanity was gratified, it was by standing apart from, and being able to look down on the rest of the world; and as Marian became conscious of this, her mind turned from it with the vexation of spirit, the disgust and sensation of dislike, and willingness to forget all about it, that every one is apt to feel with regard to a vanity passed away–something analogous to the contempt and dislike with which we turn from the withered shreds of tangible vanity, faded and crumpled artificial flowers, and tumbled gauze ribbon when disinterred from some dusty and forgotten corner. No feeling is much more unpleasant than the loathing of an old vanity; and though this of Marian’s was not yet old, yet that touch of Edmund’s which had shown her how he regarded her “high-and-mightiness,” had made her very much ashamed of it. Then came the question whether it was, after all, self-will that had actuated her, pride and self-will, leading her contrary to every one’s wishes, where she was not sure that she was fulfilling a duty. Again, on the other hand, there was this point about the Faulkner family, her dislike to them was founded on principle; indeed it was not dislike, for she allowed their agreeableness of manner, it was disapproval; it was determination not to enter into anything approaching to intimate acquaintance with a man whom she believed to be little better than an infidel. If Edmund knew this, would not he think her right? But then to be consistent, she should not have accepted his hospitality in any degree; she ought not to have gone to the ball, nor ever to have dined at his house. How far was she called on to set her face against him, how far was she independent, how far was obedience to the Lyddells a duty? This must be for a question for Edmund another time, and she hoped that Caroline’s refusal would put an end to the intercourse. Nor were these all her reflections. She thought of Edmund and his kindness to Gerald, and the hopes, nay the confidence which it revived in her, setting her mind fully at rest about her precious brother, for in spite of Edmund’s despondency, she could not help trusting entirely to the renewal of his influence; for who was like Edmund? Who so entirely treated, as well as spoke of, the world as nothing except as a means of doing right or wrong?
But then that he should be out of spirits, as she had more plainly than ever perceived to-night, in spite of the gaiety he had at first assumed, his manner of replying when she pressed him to go to Fern Torr, and his absolute avoidance of it, struck and puzzled her much as well as grieved her. She knew his loneliness, and could understand that he might be melancholy, but why he should shrink from the home he so loved was beyond what she could fathom.
She knew Clara would laugh at her for his having come so many miles on her account. Yes, quite sure that it was nonsense. Edmund had talked of coming to see her, so openly, he had laughed at and blamed her so uncompromisingly, that she had no doubt that he had not the least inclination to fall in love with her. She had the best of elder brothers in him, and he would take care of Gerald, and, happy in her confidence she fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
“What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barr’d with gold and opens but to golden keys. * * * * *
“Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager hearted as a boy when he first leaves his father’s field.”
TENNYSON.
Marian was not up much later than usual the next morning, but she had a long time to wait for the rest of the party. She read, wrote, drew, tried to busy herself as usual all the morning, but whether it was that she was tired with her ball, or that she was anxious about Caroline, she did not prosper very much, and grew restless and dissatisfied. She wished she knew whether she had done right, she wished she could feel that she had been kind and accommodating.
Her head was dull and heavy from the struggle to occupy herself when her mind was full, and after luncheon she tried to drive her stupidity away by a very long ride. Groom and horses were always at her service, as a part of Mrs. Lyddell’s justice to her, and off she set, in search of breezes, to the highest and furthest downs, by her attainable. On she went, cantering fast, feeling her power over her spirited pony, letting the summer sun shine full on her face, and the wind, when she had ridden where she could meet it, stream in a soft ripple round her head, like the waves of the summer tide. She rode far enough to attain the object she had proposed to herself, namely, to look down on Salisbury spire, pointing up in its green valley with the fresh meadows around it, giving a sense of refreshment, repose and holy influence, which her eye carried to her mind. Good men had raised that pile, had knelt there, sung in praise there, and now lay asleep within its grey walls and shady cloisters; men and women who had been to the full as much wearied and perplexed with sin and worldliness around them as she could ever feel; they had struggled through, their worn and fainting hearts had rested there, and now their time of peace was come. Why should it not be so with her?
Ah! but things were changed; in their time there was energy; there were great crimes indeed, but the Church was active. The bad was very bad, but the good was very good, there were real broad questions then of right and wrong, not the coldness and frivolity, where all was so worthless that there was scarce a possibility of caring or seeing which part was the right.
No, Marian would not accuse the time in which she was born, and the station to which it had pleased God to call her. Mr. Wortley had warned her against that. She had a Church, the one true holy Catholic Church, as surely and truly, nay, the very same that those men of old had, and was as much bound to love it, serve it, fight for it in her own way, as ever they had felt themselves. Life, truth, goodness, there was still, she saw it, knew it, felt it in some; and though there was little of it in her immediate home, so little as to make her heart faint, she knew that
“Israel yet has thousands sealed
Who to Baal never kneeled.”
If there was this frivolity, this deadness and chilliness about these present days, she knew it was a temptation long since prophesied of, as about to grow on the world “when, the love of many should wax cold,” but the help and the hope were never to fail, and while she might but grasp after them, she had enough to do, and need not feel faint and weary.
Her ride had done her good, her sensation of bodily lassitude and mental stupidity had been driven off by the active exercise which had produced a more wholesome kind of fatigue, and the temper which tended to discontent had partly gone with them, partly been chased away by reflection in a right spirit. As she was entering the park, Elliot, also on horseback, came up in time to profit by the same opening of the gate.
“Are you but just come home, Marian?” said he, “I thought I was very late.”
“I don’t know what o’clock it is, but I see the sun is getting low.”
“Have not you been at High Down?”
“No, I have been to Beacon Hill.”
“To Beacon Hill! That _is_ a ride! And you have not seen any of them since they came home?”
“No, I have been out all the afternoon.”
“Well, I have a notion you will have something to hear. I dare say you have some idea. Catch a young lady not up to a thing like that.”
A cold horror and disgust came over Marian, and she would not make a single inquiry, but Elliot went on.
“So you will ask no questions? I believe you are in the secret the whole time.”
“No, I am not.”
“No? You will never persuade me that you are not. Why, what else can you ladies sit up half the night talking about in your bed rooms?”
Marian despised him too much to deny.
“Then do you really mean to profess,” said Elliot, turning full towards her, so as to look her in the face in what she deemed an impertinent way, “that you cannot guess the news that is waiting for you?”
For once in her life she could not say “I don’t know,” and her answer was a very cold “I believe I do;” while in the meantime she was almost feeling, and quite looking, as if she could have cut off his bead. His disagreeableness was the one present pain, but behind it was undefined consternation, for she perceived that, at any rate, he did not think Caroline had refused Mr. Faulkner.
“You keep your congratulations till it is formally announced,” said he maliciously, still looking at her, though few save himself could have failed to be abashed by the firm, severe expression of her dark eyes, and lips compressed into all the sternness of the Queen of Olympus.
Happily they were so close to the house that Marian, who would not deign a reply, could avoid him without absolute rudeness. She threw her rein to the groom, and sprung to the ground before Elliot had time to offer his assistance, then ran hastily across the hall just as Clara was coming out of the drawing-room.
“Why, Elliot!” cried Clara meeting her brother, “you have not been riding with Marian?”
“With Marian? No, I thank you! I only met with her at the gate, and have been spoiling your market.”
“You don’t mean that you have been telling her?” cried Clara; “O I wanted to have been first.”
“Precious little thanks you’ll get!” said Elliot; but Clara, without attending to him, flew up stairs after Marian, who had reached her room, and while Fanny was endeavouring to get her dressed in time for dinner, was trying to collect her dismayed thoughts. She would not believe Caroline so foolish, nay, so wicked as to accept him, yet if it could possibly be true, what in the world should she say or do which way should she look, or how should she answer? In the midst of her first confusion in danced Clara, with a face full of delight at having something to tell, then looking blank at Fanny’s presence.
“Marian–my dear Marian–what do you think?” was her first eager beginning, then changing into “How–how late you are–where have you been! I really thought you had been out with Elliot,” and she laughed.
“I only fell in with him at the gate. I have been to Beacon Hill.”
“Have you indeed? O I wish you had come with mamma! So Elliot has been provoking, and told you,” she added, stopping there, and looking significant.
Marian glanced at Fanny, and shook her head. She was very glad she had such a protector, to give her time to collect her thoughts, but this was not easy, for Clara went rattling on in an eager discursive way about all sorts of things, the archery, the dancing, the partners, the dresses, hardly knowing what she said, nor Marian either, fidgeting about, trying to expedite the dressing, and looking most impatient, till at last Marian, anxious to know what had really taken place, pitying her eagerness, and willing to have it over, hurried the fastening of her dress, and arranging of her lace, and told Fanny to leave them.
“O Marian! Marian! what a shame of Elliot to have told you all about it. Did you expect it?”
“He only half told me,” replied Marian, “but make haste, Clara, let me hear. Is Caroline really engaged?”
“Yes–yes–O yes! and every one is so delighted, Lady Julia, and Julia and Louisa, and all!”
“And she has accepted him?”
“O yes to be sure–at least–yes, only you know it is too soon to settle when they will be married. What a charming wedding it will be, won’t it, Marian?–you and I find Julia and Louisa, and their cousins will be bridesmaids O! how delightful it will be. And then I shall come out.”
“But Clara, Clara, don’t be wild, do tell me all about it.”
“Ah! you see you missed something by not coming to stay there as we did. And to tell you a great secret, Marian, Louisa says she really believes that it was you that her brother thought of, when he first accepted Elliot’s invitation to come and stay here.”
“Nonsense,” said Marian, though her colour would rise.
“And he had not seen Caroline then, Louisa says,” proceeded Clara, but there she got into an inextricable confusion, and was not speedy in stammering out of it, having suddenly remembered that it was no great compliment to tell Marian that Louisa had said how glad they all were that it was not Miss Arundel. Marian cut the hesitation short by saying, “You have not told me when it was settled, or how you heard it.”
“It was settled last night after you were gone–in the conservatory– such a pretty place for a love affair, as Louisa says–at least I mean he asked her, but I don’t think she gave him any real regular answer– no, certainly she did not.”
“Did you know of it that evening?”
“O yes, Louisa and I had great fun in watching him all day, and all the day before, we saw it all quite plain.”
“But did Caroline tell you that night?”
“Yes, of course she did. She could not have kept it from me, you know, for I began to laugh at her the minute we came up, and asked her if she had not been delightfully employed, and you should have seen what a colour she grew directly.”
“And what did she say?” asked Marian very anxiously, almost hoping it might prove that Caroline’s acceptance might have been taken for granted without having been really given.
“I don’t exactly remember what she said, she was very grave and said it was no laughing matter, or something of that kind, and she walked up and down and begged me to be quiet and let her think.”
“Well!”
“Then I begged her only to let me know if he had proposed, and what she had said, and she told me she had said nothing–she could not tell–she must have time, and then she leant her head against the side of the bed, and said she wished she knew what to do! And when I tried to cheer her up, and said how delightful it would be—-“
“O Clara, how could you?” broke from Marian.
“Ah! I know you can’t bear the Faulkners, but you must now, for they will be your cousins, you know, Marian. And I assure you I did not say anything silly, I said it was not only that Mr. Faulkner is handsome and rich, that would not be anything, you know, but he is so sensible and so agreeable, and kind, and good tempered, and we are all so fond of him, and the Faulkners all so fond of her, and it would be so very nice to have her close to us, and mamma would be so charmed. Well, poor dear girl, she did not sleep at all that night, and this morning she only wanted, if she could, to have sent a note for us to be sent for to come home to breakfast, but that could not be, you know, and when we came down, Lady Julia was so kind and affectionate, and kissed her and said she was tired, and took her to lie on the sofa, in the little boudoir. Lady Julia sat with her there first, and then Mr. Faulkner came, and stayed with her a long, long time.”
“O!” sighed Marian, “was it settled then?”
“Not exactly settled, but somewhere about three o’clock, Mr. Faulkner ordered his horse, and rode out to find papa, and then Caroline ran up to our room, and bolted the door, and said she could not let me in, but just then mamma came and went up to her, and it was all joy and congratulation through the whole house. Mr. Faulkner came back and papa with him. But dear me, there is the second bell! Come, Marian! O, I do so wish you had been there.”
If Marian had been there, perhaps things would not have been exactly as they were at present, though this was very far from what Clara intended by her wish. Marian had done infinite mischief by the severity which had weakened the only home influence excepting Walter’s which held Caroline to the right. Caroline respected her extremely, but the confidence and affection which had been growing up slowly but surely out of that root of esteem, had been grievously dulled and blighted, and at a most critical time. It had in fact been almost killed down to the ground, and though the root was a healthy one, and might yet shoot forth again, the opportunity had been missed when it might have been turned to good account.
Caroline knew Mr. Faulkner not to be a religious man, and her better principles warned her against him; but on the other hand she really liked his manners extremely, her heart was warmed towards him by his preference and expressions of affection, and she did not know whether she loved him already or not, or whether she should allow herself to love him, as he was sure she could do. She had been used to a world where the service of GOD was not the first object; she had always lived with men whose thoughts and time were otherwise engrossed, and though she might regret what she saw, her standard had been lowered, and she was far less inclined to hold aloof front one whom her conscience did not approve, than if she had been accustomed to see everything desirable in her own family; in those whom nature and duty obliged her to love and respect.
By the Faulkners she was greeted with such kindness as to win her heart, and she thought the power she would enjoy at High Down would enable her to set things on a footing there, on which she could never place them at home; she could not fail to be happy with Mr. Faulkner; she might work upon his mind, if he loved her as he said he did. Still there stood the great unanswerable obstacle, the three words, “It is wrong!” If she stood alone, if there was no family on either side, she could, she would refuse, but dismay seized on her when she thought of the displeasure, the persecution at home if she rejected him; on the other hand she shrank from ingratitude for the kindness of the Faulkners. There was Clara putting her in mind of all that could bias her in his favour, rejoicing already, saying how all the family would rejoice.
O that interval, that night! if Marian had but stood there with the grave, earnest, heartfelt voice that repelled all sophistry with the wonted “I don’t know,” if the dark eyes had been there to look with contempt on all but the “right,” and to fill with tears, the more touching because so rare, as her tenderness, her deep feeling would have been called out by the sensation of seeing and aiding a friend to struggle nobly against a temptation, if Caroline had felt and seen the superiority, the loveableness of real, true, uncompromising regard for right, and right alone, if she had been by one touch made to partake of the horror Marian felt of any failure in faith, then all the innate strength and nobleness of her character might have been awakened, and she would have clung to “the right” at any cost, supported, carried through by Marian’s approval and sympathy, keeping her up to feel that higher approval was with her.
But alas! alas! Marian was at a distance, and her image had at present connected itself with harshness and haughtiness. She might be good; but such goodness did not invite imitation; she did not appear half as agreeable as the Faulkners. Caroline turned away from the recollection of her, was all night and all the morning distressed, undecided, and vacillating; then came Lady Julia’s affection, her lover pressing his suit, she hardly knew what she had said, but she found her consent was assumed, both families were rejoicing in it, she found herself considered to be engaged, and she returned home bewildered at all that had passed, flattered, almost intoxicated with the attention of various kinds paid her by every one, at High Down, and when her wonted dread of Marian’s disapproving eye would return, hardening herself against it with the thought that Marian could not make every one as Utopian as her own Edmund and Fern Torr, that she was proud and determined in prejudice, and after all what right had she to interfere? Of Walter, Caroline did not dare to think.
Marian came down with Clara, wearing a rigid company countenance, expressing more of indifference than of anything else; she would not look at Caroline lest her eye should seem to judge her, and only by furtive glances perceived that she looked pale, worn and wearied. There was talk about the ball going on all dinner-time, but Caroline hardly put in a word, and Marian’s were not many. Directly after dinner Caroline said she was tired, and should lie down till tea-time; she went and Mrs. Lyddell, taking Marian by the hand, exclaimed, “Now, Marian, I must be congratulated. I suppose Clara has told you all about it.”
“Yes, Clara told me,” said Marian, resolved not to offend except where she could not avoid it without sacrificing truth.
“You could scarcely be surprised,” said Mrs. Lyddell. “It has been evident for a long time. Dear Caroline! Well, I am sure this is a satisfaction! Settled so near home, and family and connection exactly what could be wished; and so extremely fond of her.”
“Yes, Lady Julia is very fond of her.”
Mrs. Lyddell was too much rejoiced herself not to take sympathy for granted. The point, on which Caroline’s scruples were founded, and which caused Marian’s dislike, had never even occurred to her: she lived little, or rather not at all, in Marian’s confidence, and really did not know that she disliked the Faulkners more than any one else, since her manners were so universally distant, that a little ungraciousness more or less was not very visible to a casual observer like Mrs. Lyddell. That same ordinary coldness and undemonstrativeness which had never thawed to Mrs. Lyddell was the reason that the entire absence of any expression of gladness or congratulation was not remarked, or at least only taken as her way, and besides at the bottom of her heart, Mrs. Lyddell was very much obliged to Marian for the repelling manner which had left the field to her daughter. So Marian got very well through half an hour’s interview, without giving offence; but she feared the _tete-a-tete_ with Caroline, and resolved as much as possible to avoid it, since she could do no good, and did not think it right to express her sentiments unless they were positively called for. Disappointed in Caroline, grieved, giving her up for lost, yet loving and pitying her, she had rather never meet her again, certainly not have any confidential intercourse with her.
She need not have feared: Caroline was quite as much inclined to avoid her as she could be to avoid Caroline; by mutual consent they shunned being left alone together, and talked of indifferent matters if they were, for there was not familiarity enough for silence. When with the others Caroline was the same as usual, lively, agreeable, obliging; perhaps, and Marian thought it strange, a shade gayer than her wont. In her behaviour to Mr. Faulkner every one agreed that she was exactly the right thing, quiet and sensible, and, as people said, “evidently so very much attached to him.” Marian would have given worlds to know what was passing in her secret soul, but the right of reading there was gone. What did Walter think? To this also there was no answer; if he wrote, Marian heard nothing about his letter, and he did not come home. He was to be ordained in the autumn to a curacy in a large manufacturing town in the north of England, and in the meantime he was staying there with one of the other curates, helping in the schools, and learning something of the work before him. There was not a doubt in Marian’s mind that his sister’s engagement must be a great sorrow to him, and that this was the reason why he would not come home, even for a short visit. For Caroline, so really good, right thinking and excellent as she was, so far above the general tone of her family, wilfully to place herself in such a situation, to cast away all the high and true principles with which she had once been imbued, was too sad and grievous to be borne by one who loved her as Marian, did all the time, and how much worse it must be for her brother?
Yes, little did most of those who saw Marian’s unmoved, marble countenance, and heard her stiff, formal words, guess at the intensity of feeling beneath, which to those who knew her best was betokened by that very severity; how acutely she was suffering for the future before Caroline, how strong were the impulses to plead with her once more, how sick and loathing her heart felt at the manner in which this hateful connection was treated by all around. If that reserve could, or ought to, have been broken, Marian would have astonished them all.
If her former anxieties about Gerald had been as of old, she really did not know how she could have endured them in addition to all this; but while she was at ease about him nothing could quite overwhelm her. And she was very happy about him; Mr. Lyddell had readily consented to the Highland plan, and Gerald was so enchanted that he forgot all his former fears of Edmund, saw in him only a fellow-sportsman, and when he wrote to tell his sister of the project, decorated his letter with a portrait of the holidays, every one of the thirty-seven days represented in a sort of succession of clouds one behind the other, in each of which Gerald was doing something delightful,–boating, shooting, bagging his game, and enjoying an infinite variety of sports, the invention and representation of which did considerable credit to his ingenuity. On the very day after the Eton election, he met Edmund in London, and they set off together to spend the time before the ecstatic twelfth of August in visits to the Trosachs, to Fingal’s cave and every other Scottish wonder of note.
Lionel returned alone, and the first thing he said as he skimmed his hat across the hall table was, “There! thank goodness, I shan’t touch a book again these five weeks!” Every one asked after his eyes, but they told their own story, for they were considerably inflamed, and so evidently out of order that Mrs. Lyddell herself grew anxious, and the apothecary, Mr. Wells, was sent for. He spoke of their having been over tried by the school work, advised complete rest, and sent his mixture to bathe them, which in a day or two reduced the inflammation, made them comfortable, and restored them to their ordinary appearance, so that all anxiety passed off again.
Marian, like the others, dismissed the fear, though a flash of apprehension now and then crossed her mind. She was more with Lionel than the others, they had always been great allies, and at present were more thrown together than had ever been the case before. Johnny had been appointed to a ship which was to sail from Plymouth in a very short time, and he only came home for two or three days, from the school where he had been prepared. Mr. Lyddell took him to London for his outfit, and then on to Plymouth; Mrs. Lyddell was extremely overset, more so than Marian had thought her capable of being, for Johnny was her favourite, she regarded him as a victim, and could not bear to expose him to all the perils of sea and climate.
Johnny however went to Plymouth, and then there was nothing to be desired but that he should soon sail, that his mother might settle her mind, for in the mean time she was nervously anxious and restless, and could scarcely give her attention to anything, not even to the Faulkners, far less to what Marian was observing from time to time about Lionel’s eyes.
Now that John and Gerald were away, Lionel was deprived of his wonted companions: Elliot did not patronize him, and was besides too busy about the races to occasion on his own account any home sports in which Lionel might have taken a share, so that there was no companionship for him excepting with the young ladies. Caroline’s and Clara’s time was a great deal taken up with the Faulkners, and Marian and Lionel were thus left out by all and almost obliged to make a coalition.
Lionel haunted the drawing-room in the morning, either talking in the half-rhodomontade, half-in-earnest fashion of boys of sixteen, or listening if there was any reading aloud going forward. Clara’s readings with Marian and Caroline had well-nigh fallen to the ground now, and Caroline almost always spent the morning in her own room, but Marian now and then caught Clara and managed to get her to do something rational. More often, however, the reading was on Marian’s part to Lionel; he liked to hear her read scraps of any book she might have in hand, and she was very merciful to him in the selection, not being by any means too wise. She read him likewise the new numbers of the periodical tales, as well as the particulars of the rowing matches and cricket matches, overcoming for his sake her dislike to touching Elliot’s sporting newspaper. Indeed she had not so forgotten her cricket as not to be very much interested, to enter into all his notes and comments, and to be as anxious for the success of Eton as he was himself, so that if she had been called to give an account of her whole morning’s work for three days, she could have said nothing of it but that she had been studying the matches at Lord’s.
In the afternoon, if Marian could escape from the drive in the carriage, they walked or rode together, the latter when it was not too bright a day, for Lionel avoided the sunshine like an owl; and when in their walks a sunny field, or piece of down had to be passed, he drew his hat down and came under the shelter of Marian’s parasol, as if he fairly dreaded the glare. He was very apt too not to recognise people whom they met, and now and then made such strange mistakes about small objects near at hand, that though they were laughed at just at the moment, Marian thought them fearful signs when she recollected them afterwards, in that half-waking half-sleeping time when she had learnt to entertain herself with anxieties. Chess or backgammon was the great resource in the evening, when there was no dining out, and no grand dinner party, and the number of games Marian played with him were beyond all reckoning. He played, she thought, more by the touch than the eye, often feeling the head of a piece to satisfy himself whether it had the king’s crown or the queen’s round head, the bishop’s mitre or the knight’s ears, but he was so quick and ready that it was impossible to tell how far the defect of sight went, and she could not bear to ask or awaken his fears.
She did not think he had any; she did not believe that he had ever seen quite as well as other people, and therefore trusted to sight less than most; and his eyes had been so often ailing, and then better, that he was not likely to take alarm now. If he had, she believed he would have told her, for he was very confidential with her, and she often thought it a great pity that no one else had thought it worth while to enter into him enough to find out what a right-thinking, sensible boy he was, and how affectionate he would be if they would only let him. One day, when they had been taking a long ride together, he began talking about his intentions for the future. It arose out of some observation about the value of a tree in a new and an old country. Marian had been lamenting that no modern houses were ever built with the beautiful patterns of dark timbers, as we see them in old farm-houses; and Lionel answering that so much wood could never be afforded in England now.
“No, you must go to a primeval forest for that,” said Marian; “and very stupid it is of the people in the colonies to build houses as bad or worse than ours, when they have all the materials for nothing.”
“Well, I will build a famous house when I emigrate,” said Lionel; “a regular model of an old English farm-house it shall be,–stout, and strong, and handsome,–just to put the people in mind that they do belong to an old country, after all.”
“When you emigrate, Lionel?”
“Yes, I really have a great mind to do so, seriously, Marian,” and he rode nearer to her. “I do think it would be the best thing I could do. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” said Marian, considering, while his eager face was turned towards her.
“You see,” Lionel continued, “we must all do something for ourselves; and I am sure my eyes will never be fit for study. To be a clergyman is out of the question for me, even if I was good enough; and so is the law–“
“Yes, yes, certainly.”
“Well, then, there is only the army, and there one can’t get on without money. Now you know Elliot has been a monstrous expense to my father of late, and the times have grown so bad, and everything altogether has gone wrong; so that I think the only thing for it would be for me to go off to some new part of the world, where, when I once had a start, my own head and hands would maintain me,–no thanks to anybody.”
“I dare say it would,” said Marian, rather sadly, “I am sure these are right grounds, Lionel; but it is a terrible severing of all home ties.”
“O, but I should come back again. I should be an Englishman still, and come back when I had made my fortune.”
“O, Lionel, don’t be in a hurry to make a fortune; that spoils every one.”
“No, no, I am not going to grasp and grub for money; I hate that. Only if the fortune comes, one does not know how, with cattle, or horses, or lands–O, Marian, think of being an Australian stockman, riding after those famous jockeys of wild bulls–hurra!” Lionel rose in his stirrups, and flourished his whip round his head, so as greatly to amaze his steed. “There is a life to lead in a great place bigger than all Europe, instead of being stifled up in this little bit of a poky England, every profession choke full of people!”
“Well done, Lionel, you do want a field indeed!”
“So I do. I hate to be fenced up, and in, every way. I should like to break out in some fresh place, and feel I had all the world before me! Then I’ll tell you what, Marian,” and he spoke with infinite relish, “suppose matters got a little worse here, and they were all of them really in distress!”
“O Lionel!”
“Well, but listen. Then I should like to come home with all this fortune that I had made somehow, and get them all on their legs again; buy back the estate, perhaps, and give it to papa again; and then–and then”–his voice quivered a little, and his eyes winked, as if the sun had dazzled them–“see if mamma would not think me worth something, after all!”
This was the only time Lionel had ever said a word to show that he was conscious of his mother’s disregard of him; and the feeling it called up made Marian’s heart so full that she could not reply. But he wanted no answer, and went on. “Would not that be worth living for, Marian? But, after all, that is all nonsense,” he added, with a sigh; “at least it is all a chance. But what I really think is, that I should do much better for myself and every one else, in one of the colonies; and I have a great mind to speak to my father about it. By the by, I wish Mr. Arundel would come here when he has finished his journey with Gerald; I should like to talk to him about the Cape. I rather fancy the Cape, because of the lions; and one might have a chance of a row now and then with the Caffres.”
Marian began telling all she could about the Cape, and from that time her _tete-a-tetes_ with Lionel were chiefly spent in discussions upon the comparative merits of the colonies. One thing Lionel was resolved on. “I will go somewhere where there is a Church within a tolerable distance,–say twenty miles; that is a short one for a colony, you know, Marian; for I know I am such a wild fellow, that I should very soon forget everything good, if I had not something to put me in mind of it. Or, by the by, Marian, what would be jolly would be to get Walter to go; I dare say he would, if it was some place where they were very badly off indeed, with plenty of natives, and all very savage.”
Marian understood quite well enough, to agree that it must be some place “very badly off indeed” to invite Walter, and Lionel greatly enjoyed the further arranging of plans for taking care of his intended chaplain, whom he meant to save from roughing it as much as possible. However, this might be regarded as a very aerial pinnacle of his castle, the first foundation of which was yet to be laid, by broaching the subject to his father. Lionel talked over the proposing it many times with his counsellor, and at length resolved upon it, with some slight hope that it might save his eyes from the suffering of another half year at Eton, which, as the holidays came nearer to an end, he began to dread.
“You see, Marian,” he said, “I do not like to give out, when I can help it, for they think it shirking, and there was a time when I did shirk; but a great many times last half, I was nearly mad with the aching and smarting of my eyes after I had been reading. And all I did was by bits now and then; for if I went on long the letters danced, and there was a mist between me and them.”
“I wish you would tell Mr. Lyddell; I am sure it is not fit to go on in such a way.”
“I have told Wells,” answered Lionel.
A pause–then Lionel said, “I believe papa is in the library; I’ll go and speak to him about the emigration.”
Marian was very anxious to hear the result of the conference, but she could not find out anything just at first as she had to drive out with Mrs. Lyddell and Caroline to make calls. In the evening, over the game at chess, Lionel told her that his father said he should talk to his mother about it; and two days after he came to her in the hall, saying, “Come and take a turn in the plantation walk, Marian; ’tis nice and shady there, and I have something to tell you.”
The something was as follows: “Well, Marian, my father was very kind, paid something about its being a sensible notion, and that he would see about it.”
“But are you to go back to Eton?”
“Yes, that must be; and I must scramble on as best I may. It will be better at first, after all this rest. It is something gained that the whole plan is not knocked on the head at once.”
“Then he gives his consent?”
“Why, he says it will be time to think of it in a year or two, and I am too young as yet, which is true enough; only, I wish I was to be learning farming, instead of torturing my eyes with what will be no good out there. Then he said, as to giving up the army, I need not think that was necessary, because it was only that he did not want to have two sons in it, and now Johnny is otherwise disposed of; and, besides Mr. Faulkner had behaved in such a handsome way about Caroline’s fortune.’
“O!” said Marian.
“Yes, I don’t like that at all,” said Lionel. “Johnny always was crazy to be a sailor, so he is all right, and that is not what I care for; but I don’t want to be beholden to Mr. Faulkner. I had rather Caroline had her own money, and not that we should all profit by her making this grand marriage.”
“I should quite feel with you.”
“Marian, we have never talked that over; but I know you cannot bear the Faulkners.”
“What is the use of asking me, Lionel?”
“O, I know you can’t, as well as if you had said so; and I want to know how you could let Caroline go and do such a thing?”
“I? How could I help it?” said Marian smiling, at the boy’s assuming that she had power of which she was far from being conscious. “Besides, I thought you liked Mr. Faulkner; you, all of you, did nothing but praise him at Christmas.”
“I did at first, not at last,” said Lionel. “Besides, liking a man to go out shooting with is not the same as liking him to marry one’s sister.”
“By no means!” cried Marian, emphatically. “But what made you think ill of him?”
“Things I heard him say to Elliot when we were out together.”
“Did Gerald hear them?” asked Marian, very anxiously, as she remembered what a hero Mr. Faulkner was in her brother’s estimation.
“No, I don’t think he did. He certainly was not there the worst time of all,–the time that gave a meaning to all the rest. Don’t you remember that day when Mr. Faulkner drove Elliot and me in his dog-cart to look at that horse at Salisbury? I am sure I never praised him after that day. He said what Elliot never would have said himself–never.”
“How?” Marian could not help asking, though she doubted the next moment whether it was wise to have done so.
“Things about–about religion–the Bible,” said Lionel, looking down and mumbling, as if it was with difficulty that he squeezed out the answer. “Now, you know, I have heard,” he added, speaking more freely, “I have heard people make fun with a text or a name out of the Bible many a time; and though that is very bad of them, I think they don’t mean much harm by it. Indeed, I have now and then done it myself, and should oftener, if I had not known how you hated it.”
“It is a very wrong thing,” but I see what you mean,–that some people do it from want of thought.”
“Yes, just so; but that is a very different thing from almost quizzing the whole Bible,–at least talking as if it was an absurd thing to accept the whole of it, I do declare, Marian, he was worse when he began to praise it than he was before; for he talked of the Old Testament as if it was just like the Greek mythology, and then he compared it to Homer, and AEschylus, and the Koran. To be sure he did say it was better poetry and morality; but the idea of comparing it! I don’t mean comparing as if it must be better, but as if it stood on the same ground.”
“And did Elliot listen to all this?” said Marian, thinking the poison must have been in rather too intellectual a form for Elliot.
“He listened,” said Lionel. “I don’t think he would ever set up to say such things for himself; but I believe he rather liked hearing them said. I am quite sure this Faulkner will make him worse than he is already, for all this talk is a hundred times worse than going on in Elliot’s way.”
“To be sure it is–a thousand times!”
“But what I want to know is this, Marian? has Caroline got any notion of what sort of a man she has got? Because if she does it with her eyes open, it can’t be helped; but if not, I think she ought to be warned; for I don’t suppose the man is fool enough to talk in this way to her. Indeed, I think I heard him say that believing is all very well for women.”
“Why don’t you tell her, then?”
“That is the very thing I had on my mind all these holidays; but I know no one would ever listen to me. If Walter was here it would be a very different thing, for he is worth attending to, and Caroline knows that; though she thinks I have no sense at all but for mischief.”
“She could not think so, if she heard you speak as you do now.”
“Then there is another thing, Marian, and what makes it quite–at least very nearly out of the question; I don’t believe they in the least reckoned on my hearing all this. You know the man is very good-natured; well, he took me up to go instead of his servant, and I was sitting back to back with them. I sometimes think my bad eyes have made my ears sharper, for I know I often hear when other people don’t; and so I should not expect they supposed in the least that I was attending, though I did not miss a word, for I could not help hearing. Now, you see, I could not possibly go and betray him; and if you were not the safest person in the world, I would never have told you: only, if somebody could just give Caroline a hint that she is going to marry an infidel, it would be a pleasant thing.”
“A pleasant thing!” repeated Marian. Then she paused, considering, and Lionel waited patiently while she did so, “I see,” she said at last, “that you could hardly tell her of this conversation; and after all, Lionel, I believe we knew what was quite as bad of him from the first: this only proves it a little more fully.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, Lord Marchmont told me something of it; and I mentioned it to Caroline before he came here at all.”
“O, that is right!” said Lionel, greatly relieved, “then it is no concern of mine; though what can possess Caroline, I can’t think. Is it love, I wonder?”
“I suppose so,” said Marian, sighing.
“Well, it is a queer thing,” said the boy. “I should have thought Caroline was one to care about such matters more than I, but perhaps she means to convert him. So! I did think Caroline was good for something, but it is no affair of mine; and I shall be all the more glad to get off to New Zealand to be out of the sight of it all.”
“It is very sad indeed!” said Marian. “I am sure it will be nothing but wretchedness. Caroline can blind herself now, but that will not go on.”
“And why can’t you speak to her, and stop her? She used to mind you. Does she come and talk about this man as if he was perfection?”
“No,” was the sorrowful reply. “She knew from the first my opinion of him, and we never have any talks now. We never have had one since she was first engaged.”
“Whew!” whistled Lionel. “Then she does mean to go and do it, and no mistake! Then I’ve done with her, and shan’t think about her any more than I can help. If she won’t be warned, she must Lave her own way, and may marry the Grand Turk, if she likes it better.” He whistled again, proposed a ride, and went to order the horses; while Marian, walking slowly to the house to prepare, did not so much grieve for Caroline, for that was an old accustomed sorrow, as marvel at the manner in which Lionel had spoken, and wonder where he had learnt the right views and excellent sense he had displayed. Far was she from guessing the value of such a steady witness to the truth as she had been from the first hour when Lionel had perceived and maintained “that she had no humbug in her;” how her cares for her brother had borne fruit in him; how he learnt from her to reverence goodness, and cleave to the right; and how he looked up to her, because her words were few, and her deeds consistent. More right in theory, than steady in practice was Lionel; very unformed, left untrained by those whose duty it was to watch him; but the seeds had been sown, and be his future life what it might, it could not but bear the impress of the years she had spent in the same family.
She knew nothing of all this; she only thought, as she watched his quick, bounding run, that he, the least regarded, was the flower of the flock, with principles as good as Walter’s, and so much more manly and active. For Marian, with all her respect for Walter, could not help wishing, like the boys, that he had more life and spirit, and less timidity. A little mental courage would, she thought, have brought him to expostulate with Caroline, instead of keeping out of the way, and leaving her to her fate. Edmund would not have done so.
CHAPTER XV.
“It’s hame, and it’s hame, and it’s hame.”
Cunningham.
Edmund and Gerald had promised to spend a few days at Oakworthy, before the one returned to Portsmouth and the other to Eton; but their plans were disconcerted by an event which, as Clara said, placed Marian in mourning in good earnest, namely, the death of her great aunt, old Mrs. Jessie Arundel, who had always lived at Torquay. For the last four or five years she had been almost imbecile, and so likely to die at any time, that, as it seemed for that very reason, every one took her death as a surprise when it really happened.
Edmund thought it right that both he and Gerald should attend her funeral. Lord Marchmont, whose wife stood in the same relationship to her, met them in London, and they all went together to Torquay, instead of making the intended visit to Oakworthy. Gerald was obliged to return to Eton on the following day, without coming to Oakworthy; but, to make up for it, he wrote to his Writer from Torquay, and his letter ended thus,–“Now I have a capital bit of news for you. Old aunt Jessie has done what I shall venerate her for ever after–left every scrap of her property to Edmund, except a legacy or two to her servants, a picture of my father to me, and some queer old-fashioned jewels to you and Selina. The will was made just after I was born; so it was to make up to Edmund for my cutting him out of Fern Torr. You may suppose how Lord Marchmont and I shook hands with him. It is somewhere about L20,000; there is good news for you! He is executor, and has got to be here a day or two longer; but Lord Marchmont and I set off by the first train to-morrow. I shall look out for Lionel, tell him, in case he is too blind to see me. Can’t you come with him to the station, and have one moment’s talk?”
This proved to be possible; and Marian, in the interval between the coming of the post and the setting off, had time, all the hurry of her dressing, to wonder if she ought to be very much rejoiced. She did not believe, that even wealth could spoil Edmund, but she did not think all this would be of much use to him. It did not give him a home, and in fact she thought it rather a creditable thing to be as poor as he had hitherto been. She had rather have heard of something to make him look less like Tressilian, than he had done the last time she had seen him.
She had a pleasant drive with Lionel, who was very glad of any good luck befalling Mr. Arundel, and presently, after some meditation, broke out as follows:–“My eyes! what miles and miles it would buy in Australia” and then proceeded to talk all the rest of the way about Australian bulls.
The meeting at the station was a bright one, though so short, as scarcely to be worth the journey, if the value of such moments were to be reckoned by their number. There was Lord Marchmont to be spoken to, as well as Gerald, which broke into the time. Gerald looked very happy and pleasant. He said Edmund was the best fellow in the world, and that he had been very happy–shot lots of things–he wished he could stop to tell about it. Then Marian hurried what she had to say, while Lionel was looking after his luggage. “Gerald, would you just try if you can do anything to spare Lionel’s eyes? When you have the same things to do, could you not read to him, or something? they seem so much worse, and I am so afraid.”
“I’ll try,” said Gerald, “but I don’t think I can do much, and he will never give in.”
The bell rang–Lionel ran up–she wished them good-bye, and drove home, happier than when last she parted there from Gerald, wondering what had happened in his journey with Edmund, and re-assured, by his free cordial tone. She took up a book and read all the way home.
The next thing that was heard of Edmund was in a note to Mr. Lyddell, saying that he should come and spend one night at Oakworthy, on his way to Portsmouth; that he hoped to arrive about one o’clock, and that he should bring Marian her aunt’s legacy of the jewels. This was communicated to her by Mrs. Lyddell, and she could not discover from whence he wrote; she supposed from London, unless he was still detained in Devonshire. She looked forward greatly to his coming, as there was so much to hear about Gerald; and she felt, as if she wanted something pleasant, very much indeed; for, now that Lionel was gone, she found what a companion, interest, and occupation he had been, and missed him very much. The constraint with all the others, except Clara, was wearisome: and Clara, though never ceasing to talk, and very affectionately, was anything but a companion, while poor Caroline kept more than ever aloof, and had a flightiness of spirits–a sort of gaiety of manner–which, to Marian, seemed to be assumed. This was more especially the case, after there was an idea of fixing the marriage for some time in the autumn, and arrangements were talked over. Marian began to have little doubt that she was secretly unhappy, and grew more and more tender in feeling towards her; while, by an effect of contraries, her manner became more frigid and severe, in proportion to the warmth within.
Clara wondered a little what Mr. Arundel was coming for, and laughed and looked significant when Marian said she knew perfectly well; but Marian thought she knew so thoroughly as not to be in the least disconcerted, though Clara’s glances were full upon her when he was announced. In he came, just at luncheon time; he shook hands with Marian with all his might, and one glance convinced her that he had not Tressilian’s face–nay, that though the sun of Africa had left its traces, he was more like the Edmund of the olden time, than she had ever seen him since her father’s death. There were a good many people at luncheon that day. Mr. Faulkner was there, and there were some visitors staying in the house. Edmund was a good way from her, and she could only hear his voice now and then in the buzz; but it was a very pleasant sound to hear, and when he laughed, it was his own natural, free, gay laugh, such as it used to be. She was sure he was very happy, and wondered if it was possible Aunt Jessie’s fortune could have made him so, or whether it could all be the satisfaction of having set Gerald to rights.
As they rose to leave the dining room, he came to her, saying, “Marian, can you have a walk with me?”
“Oh, yes, I should like it of all things; I will be ready in one minute.” And away she bounded, saying to Caroline, in the boldest and most innocent manner in the world, as if on purpose to show that she expected nothing, and would not be laughed at, that Edmund had asked her to walk with him. He waited for her in the hall, and they went out, she scarcely pausing till they were on the steps, to say, “Well, how did you get on with Gerald? I am sure you made him very happy.”
“We got on famously. He is a very nice fellow; he only wanted a little stimulus the right way. He is thoroughly open and candid, and I have no fear but that he will do very well.”
Marian could not speak for joy, and for gratitude to her cousin; and her heart throbbing with delight, she walked on, waiting for him to say something more on this most precious of all tidings. But when he spoke again, it was if he had done with the subject of Gerald. “Marian, I have something to tell you,” He paused–she stood in suspense–he began again. “Marian, I am going to be married!”
“O!” and the inquiring, joyful, wondering, confident tone of that O, is what nothing can ever convey. Her eyes were turned full on him with the same eager curiosity, the same certainty, that he could not do other than the best. He did not speak; but the half smile on his lip was a full though mute reply to her confidence, that she had only to hear, in order to rejoice with all her heart; and he held out a note directed to her, in Agnes’ writing!
Marian took it, but she was too wild, too delighted, too eager to look at him, and hear him, to be able to open it. “O Edmund!” was what she said now, and she caught hold of his hand for an ecstatic shake.
“Yes, thank you, yes. I said I must tell you myself, Marian–my sister.”
“O, I never heard anything more delightful in my life,” said Marian, with a sort of gasp, as soon as the overwhelming delight gave her breath. “O, Edmund, Edmund!”
“You have not read her note yet.”
Marian tore it open, but there was scarcely any thing to read; it was only–
“Dearest Marian,–He will have a note to carry you, but I can’t say anything for bewilderment. I know he will tell you all about it, so it is of no use my writing. Are not you sorry he should have a wife so far from good enough for him?
“Your affectionate and most amazed
“AGNES.”
Marian held it up to him, smiling. “But of course you have seen it?”
“No, I have not; I suppose she thought I should not carry such nonsense.”
“Well, I am sure there is no other person in all the wide world that I could have thought good enough for you. Agnes! Agnes! O, Edmund, I wish there was any way of not being quite choked with gladness!”
Edmund smiled, and perhaps he was “choked with gladness” beyond the power of speech; for the two cousins only proceeded to shake hands again. The next thing that was said was after an interval. “Marian, you remember our bargain six years ago? Have you grown so very fond of the Lyddells as to repent of it?”
“O, Edmund, you have not thought of that?”
“Have not we? It was one of the first things we did think of.”
“I don’t think I can bear to hear of much more happiness,” said Marian, in almost a crying voice. “I am so glad for you that I can’t be glad for myself yet. I can’t take it all in; it is too good to be true!”
“Indeed it does seem so. But you agree? Agnes said I must make you agree first of all.”
“Don’t I? Only I want to enjoy it for you,–it is so beyond everything!”
“Well, wasn’t I a wise man to say I would not miss the pleasure of telling you myself?”
“Then do tell me; do let us be rational, if we can. Then you came here from Fern Torr?”
“Yes. Did you not know that?”
“No. I did not hear where you wrote from. How long were you there?”
“I only went on Wednesday.”
“Then it was only one whole day! How much you must have had to settle!”
“So much, that we settled scarcely anything.”
“Then you don’t know when it is to be?”
“No, and Mrs. Wortley talks of having time,–poor Mrs. Wortley, but I don’t think I shall take her away far; I have some notion of looking out for some place close at hand.”
“Just what we settled long ago. But O! begin and tell me all, Edmund,–as much as you like to tell me, at least. I want to know how you first came to think of it.” Then, as he smiled, she added, “I mean, how long you have been thinking of it.”
“If you mean how long with any hope, only since I knew of good aunt Jessie’s consideration for me. How long it has been in my mind I cannot tell; certainly before I went to Africa. You see, Marian,” he continued, as if he was apologising, “it was this which made me think it advisable for me to go, though, as I see now, it was not at all good for Gerald.”
“What,–you mean–I am not sure that I understand–“
“Don’t you see, Marian, feeling as I did, and knowing how out of the question it was for a penniless man like me, to think of marrying,–Agnes so young too, and I with everything to draw me to what had been my only home,–there was nothing to be done but to keep out of the way, to guard me against myself; and that was easier with seas between. I don’t know whether I did right or not, but I hoped I did, because it cost me something; yet it was a forsaking of Gerald which might have done much harm, though I hope it has not, as it has turned out.”
“I see it all!” said Marian, resting there, because she had not a word with which to express her honour of his noble conduct.
“You will forgive me now,” he added, with a smile, “for what you thought my neglect of home.”
“I am only afraid I must often have given you a great deal of pain,” she almost whispered.
“Never, except when I thought it right to silence you. It was only too delightful to hear their very names. You might well tell me that she had grown prettier than ever.”
On talked and walked the cousins, over the downs, which had certainly never been trodden by happier people. At last they recollected that they must return, if they wished to be in time for the post, and retraced their steps, talking as eagerly as ever. As they were coming near the house, Marian said, “Does Gerald know?”
“Not yet; I shall write to him to-morrow.”
“Is it to be a secret? Of course I should say nothing about it while you are here, but may I mention it afterwards?”
“They said nothing about secrecy,” said Edmund; “in fact I think attempting it, only results in making one look foolish. Yes, you are welcome to tell whom you please as soon as I am out of the way. I had rather the Lyddells know.”
“Very well; indeed, I don’t think I can keep it to myself, it is too much joy.”
“Do you expect them to participate in your pleasure at making your escape from them?”
“There is no one to miss me, except, perhaps, Lionel, a little, when his eyes are bad. Caroline would once have cared, but that is over now, poor thing! There never was a time when I should have been more glad to get away. O, Edmund, if you would do one thing to oblige me, it would be, to have your wedding the same day as Caroline’s, that I might not be obliged to be at it.”
“At which?”
“O, you know!”
“Is it such a very bad affair?”
“O, I am very much grieved about it. The man has no religion at all, you know; at least, if he has any, it is all natural religion,–anything but the truth.”
“Do you really mean that the family have accepted him, allowed this to go on, knowing such things of him?”
“I don’t know how far they see it. I don’t think they allow it to themselves, and I don’t think they would understand some of it; as, for instance, when I heard him talking the other day as if he assumed that Christianity was only a development of people’s tendency to believe,–as fleeting as other forms of faith. It was not very broadly stated, and I don’t think I should have seen it, if it had not chimed in with something I had read; and, besides, I knew what was in the man.”
“How do you know? Not from your own observation?”
“O, no, no; I liked him at first. I could have liked him very much, if Lord Marchmont had not told me about him, and then I had the key to him.”
“And this poor Miss Lyddell?”
“She knew what I did,” said Marian, sadly. “But he is very agreeable,–at least he is thought so,–and they all admired him so much, and paid such court to him, that–Yet I did think better things of Caroline. Lionel is the only one who has found him out, and he thinks of it just as I do, O, Edmund, I am sure you would like Lionel.”
“How are his eyes?” asked Edmund, as they were coming under the portico, and could not talk of any of the more delicate subjects. “I thought Gerald gave a very bad account of them; indeed, I scarcely expected that he could have gone back to Eton.”
“I sometimes think,” almost whispered Marian, “that it is not he, poor boy, whose eyes are the worst in the house; but Mrs. Lyddell’s head has been so full of Johnny, and Caroline, and all she has to do, that she will not see anything amiss with Lionel.”
“He must be a boy of a great deal of resolution and principle, to have struggled on as he has clone, by Gerald’s account. Ah! I meant to have told you about Gerald, but all our time is gone.”
“Never mind, we can talk of him in the evening. There is a corner of mine where I always get out of the way of the people, and where I have had many a nice talk with Walter, or Lionel, under cover of Miss Grimley’s music. Now where do you like to write your letter? If you had not rather do it in your own room, there is a nice quiet place in the old school-room, where I write mine, when the drawing-room is uninhabitable.”
Edmund accepted the invitation, partly because he was just so shy of letting his own handwriting be seen in the address, that he meant to avail himself of Marian’s cover. Just as Marian had finished a note, too joyous to have any sense in it, and containing a promise to write more sensibly to-morrow, had directed the cover, and told her cousin that he must wind up if he meant to catch the post, Clara opened the door, gazed, laughed, and was retiring in haste, when Marian, without a shade of the confusion Clara had hoped for, called her back. “Edmund came here to write a note,” she said, “don’t go away.”
Edmund made some demonstration about intruding, and wrote the conclusion, at which nothing but some interruption would have made him arrive, put it into the envelope, gave it face downwards to Marian, and departed. Now Mrs. Lyddell and Clara were both persuaded that Mr. Arundel had come for no other purpose than to propose to Marian; and they had been entertaining themselves during their drive with conversing on the subject; so that Clara was never more surprised and puzzled in her life than by seeing Marian stand there, smiling, and with beaming eyes, brighter than ever she had looked before, but without one particle of a blush,–white-faced as ever, only dancing first on one foot, then on the other, balancing her bonnet on one hand, and with the other holding the precious letter.
“Well, Marian!”
“Well!” Marian made a pirouette. “I must run and put this letter in the box.” And so saying, away she ran down stairs, up again in a second; then meeting the astonished Clara at the head of the stairs, she took her round the waist, and fairly waltzed her to her own door, opened it, threw herself into a chair, exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, Clara; you’ll think me mad, but I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow.”
Fanny was present, so Clara could do nothing but stare; and lateness, and a dinner-party necessitating a hasty toilette, she retreated, while Marian contained her raptures as best she could, and meditated on the delightful life she was to lead with Agnes and Edmund, in some cottage on the borders of Fern Torr. O happiness, such as she had never known, which seemed to bring back as much of her home as could ever return,–which would be everything for Gerald! Every care gone, Edmund happy, Gerald satisfactory, her own exile at an end. Her head almost swain round with happiness, and she wanted to turn to the glass, to persuade herself that she could be the same Marian Arundel, wide awake, and yet so very, very happy.
However, it was all future, as far as concerned herself; and that cares were in the world she was convinced, by her own pang at seeing Caroline, whom she overtook on her way down stairs. She had no disposition to whirl _her_ round; but there was a softened feeling, belonging perhaps to the fulness of her own joy, that made her, as she came up with her, put her arm round her, as she had now and then walked with her in former days. Caroline looked in her face, and drew the arm closer without speaking. Their faces had always been unlike, but the contrast was stronger than ever. Marian, with those pale, regular features, plain dark hair, black eyes and eyebrows, with her mourning dress, and yet with a radiant, irrepressible joy and buoyancy all round and about her; while Caroline, with her small pretty features, rosy colour, blue eyes, glossy curls, her pink dress and gold bracelets, was in general air very different, and in countenance how much more; for the eyes were restless, the smile came rather as if it was called, than as if it resided naturally on her lip,–the colour of her cheeks, though bright, looked fixed and feverish; and now and then, there was a quiver about the whole face. How different from the secure expression of happiness, now and then illuminated, as it were, with some sudden flash of secret joy, which sat on Marian’s broad, serene brow.
They entered the drawing-room together, and from that time Marian was outwardly her own stiff, distant self, till the promised time in the evening, when Edmund made his way to her in her corner, where he was greeted by a most sunny look. “Now for Gerald,” said she.
Edmund had a great deal to tell about Gerald. He thought him, on the whole, a very nice, amiable, right-minded boy, who only wanted more training and watching than Mr. Lyddell would or could give. He had, after a time, been brought to be entirely open and confiding; and this, for which Edmund seemed to be really grateful to him, and to admire him, was the great point, he had made Edmund a friend, instead of looking at him as a guardian,–found that he could sympathize, and had ended by trusting and consulting him. Marian, though wondering how the reserve had ever been, conquered, felt the relief of knowing that all was safe now, and was not hurt by his confiding in any one but herself. Edmund really thought it was safe. “I believe I know the worst of him now, poor fellow,” he said, smiling, “and the worst is not much. He has been going on in a careless, thoughtless way, out of high spirits and imitation, a good deal, and the consciousness made him keep back from you; he owns that, and is very sorry.”
“Does he? dear Gerald!”
“He seemed to feel deeply that he had neglected you; but he said, and very truly, how much there had been against him,–no one, as he said, to make him mind; and the fellows would have laughed at him, if they had found out that he attended to his sister.”
“Ah! Johnny sowed that mischief long ago!”
“I hope it is not weakness. I do not think it is; for there was manliness in confessing all, and he seemed to feel the folly strongly.”
“Did he tell you about the debts?”
“Yes, and of his own accord. They are nothing in themselves; but he has been allowed too much money, has had little warning, and his title was against him too. So if we can break off the habit of extravagance, there is no great harm done. After all, you know, he is very young, and there is plenty of time to form his character. I am sure he has good dispositions of every kind, and if he has but resolution, he will be sure to do well,”
“I think there is resolution in his temper. Nothing shakes him when his mind is once made up.”
So Marian was very well satisfied on the whole about her brother, and she might justly be so by Edmund’s account. There was nothing to disturb her happiness, and she only doubted whether she should be able to sleep for it. Her brother restored, as well as everything else!
When bed-time came, Mrs. Lyddell looked at her, as if expecting something more to be said than “good night,” but nothing came,–nothing but the dancing light in the eyes. Clara followed her to the room, and stood gazing at her. “Why, Marian,” at last she said, “can’t you tell me anything about it?”
“No; not till to-morrow.”
“O, that is too bad, Marian, when you heard all I had to tell directly.”
“I can’t help it; I am not at liberty to tell other people’s affairs.”
“Don’t look so grand, Marian, pray. I am sure I thought this was your own.”
“So it is in a way.”
“In a way? Why, Marian, what an extraordinary girl you are! not your own affair! Well, if you are impenetrable, I can’t help it; but it is not kind, when we all want to congratulate you.”
“Stop, stop, Clara!” exclaimed Marian, and now she did blush, “will you be satisfied if I tell you that it is not what you suppose? You shall hear what it is to-morrow, and then you will see what nonsense you have been talking.”
“What?” cried Clara, “you are not–“
“Don’t say it, pray don’t! Never was any one further from it. Now do go to bed, Clara, for I cannot tell you a word more, and keep your curiosity at rest for to-night.”
Marian took care not to be caught alone by Clara before breakfast the next morning, and almost immediately after breakfast, Edmund departed. Marian had been out into the hall with him to exchange some last words, and Mrs. Lyddell, meantime, was observing to Caroline that she never knew anything so strange; she thought it was due to herself, however unpleasant it might be, to claim some confidence from Miss Arundel, on such matters, while living under her care. Marian came back, however, with her innocent look of delight,–a look so unlike the bashfulness of a damsel in love, that Mrs. Lyddell felt again doubtful; and before she could speak, Marian had turned to Clara and said, “Now I will tell you what makes me so happy. Edmund and Agnes Wortley are engaged, and I am to go and live with them.”
“Miss Wortley!” at once exclaimed Mrs. Lyddell and her daughters, in the extremity of surprise; and then Mrs. Lyddell and Clara asked all the usual questions in haste and eagerness, wondering within themselves most of all at Marian’s full rejoicing, for till now they had never been able to see that Edmund was really to her only like an elder brother. Caroline scarcely spoke, only went on nervously with her work. At last, when some interruption had caused her mother and Clara to leave the room, she laid it down, looked at Marian for a moment or two, then said, in a trembling voice, “Dear Marian, I am glad you are so happy! I am glad you are to live with them!” then kissed her, and hastened away before she could answer or return the caress. Her handkerchief was raised as she closed the door. Marian sat and grieved, for well did she know all poor Caroline conveyed by that “I am glad you are to live with them.” It meant that Caroline felt that she had given up the esteem and friendship in which they had lived,–that she thought her own home unfit for one brought from such a sphere as Fern Torr,–that she resigned all those plans for Clara’s good, everything that had been valued between them,–that she looked not for happiness for herself, and though she had forfeited such affection as once had been hers, yet she still loved Marian. How could Marian rejoice so much, when such a fate was waiting for Caroline? Poor Caroline! she contrasted her feelings with those of Agnes, grieved again over her, and ended by blaming herself for all the coldness and severity of the last six weeks, requited as it was by so much kind, fond affection.
Yet Caroline was weakly, wilfully doing wrong. How should she behave rightly towards her? O, why would nothing happen to save her, and break off this mockery of a marriage? But as of this there seemed little hope,–as the Faulkners were at Oakworthy more than ever, and Mrs. Lyddell was talking in good earnest of wedding clothes, and bridesmaids, it was a comfort to have these better hopes to occupy herself with.
Especially did she enjoy the idea of Gerald’s rejoicing, and it was very eagerly that she watched for his first letter of delight. It came as soon as heart could wish; but so mixed are joy and grief in this world, that even Gerald’s letter could not convey unalloyed pleasure, but filled her with a fresh anxiety,–or more properly, strengthened and realized what had hitherto been but a vague terror.
“Eton, Sept. 14th.
“My dear Marian,–Never was anything better in this world than Edmund’s plans. I give him infinite credit for them; and, as head of the family, he has my full consent. I wish they would go and live at the Manor House till I am of age,–that would be jolly! Lionel desires me to tell you that it is all very well, except your going from Oakworthy, and he shall go about the house like a mad fury,” (here followed his portrait in the character,) “if you go before he is off after the blue wild beestes at the Cape. His eyes are very bad, and I wish you would tell Mrs. Lyddell about them; for I don’t believe it is a bit of use his staying here, and though I am very glad to help him, doing all his work and my own too is more than I can stand. It is much worse than last half; then he could see to read, though it hurt him; now Greek or small print beats him entirely, and he cannot look out a word in the Lexicon. He does just manage to write, and he never forgets anything; so another fellow and I have dragged him through, this week. But it cannot go on so; and as he won’t give up or complain, I will have something done about it, or he will blind himself outright before he has done. I cannot think how it is my tutor has not found it out, but I suppose it is that Lionel is so sharp, and has such a memory. Do speak to Mrs. Lyddell.
“Your affectionate brother,
“E. GERALD ARUNDEL”
Marian carried the letter at once to Mrs. Lyddell’s dressing-room, but she found that Gerald had been mistaken in supposing the tutor had not observed Lionel’s failing sight: for the same post had brought a letter from him, which had at length completely alarmed Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell, and the former was going at once to write to his son to meet him in London, where he intended to consult one of the first oculists.
This was a great relief. Mr. Lyddell set off, and the party at home comforted themselves with predictions that all would soon be remedied; Marian and Clara agreeing that it would be very pleasant to have Lionel at home to walk with them, and to be nursed.
Mr. Lyddell had been gone about two days; Caroline and Clara were at High Down, and Marian was returning from a solitary ramble in the park, enjoying her last letter from Agnes, when, as she crossed the lawn, she was startled by finding Lionel stretched on his face on the grass, just at the turn where some bushes concealed him from the windows. He lay flat, without his hat, his forehead resting on one arm; while with his hand he tore up daisies and grass, and threw them hastily over his shoulder, while his whole frame quivered in a convulsive agony of distress.
“Lionel! Lionel! you come home? What is the matter?” exclaimed she.
“Matter! matter enough, I think,” said, or rather muttered Lionel; “There is an end of the Cape, or anything else.”
“How are your eyes?” asked Marian, in consternation.
“Only I am blind for life!” answered Lionel; still hiding his face, and speaking in a sullen, defiant tone.
Marian, dreadfully shocked, almost beyond all power of speaking or moving, could only drop down sitting on the grass beside him, and take his hand.
“All neglect, too,” he added; then vehemently, “I don’t believe, no I don’t, there is any pauper’s son in the parish that would have been so used!”
Her voice was low with fright: “But, Lionel, what has happened? Let me see you. Is it worse? can’t you see?”
“O yes, I can see now, after a fashion, at least, but that is soon to go, they say, and then–They have done it themselves, and they may have that satisfaction!” added he, with a fearful bitterness in his tone. “Elections, and parliament, and dinners, and that Faulkner,–that is what they have given my sight for.” He withdrew his hand, and turned his shoulder from Marian, as if resolute not to be comforted; and again he shook with agony.
“O, don’t say such dreadful things, dear Lionel! O, if I could but do anything for you!” she cried, in a tone of heartfelt grief, which seemed to soften the poor boy a little; for he twisted round, so that his face, still pillowed on one arm, was half raised to her, and she could see how flushed it was, and that the eyelids were inflamed, though not with tears, and the eyes themselves had not altered from their former appearance.
“‘Tis not your fault,” he said. “If my mother had cared for me one quarter–“
“Don’t blame anybody, pray!” interrupted Marian: “it only makes it worse. Only tell me all about it. Did the occulist say–“
“Not to me,” answered Lionel; “not the worst, at least. He examined my eyes very closely, and asked me all manner of questions about what I could see, and what I could not, and what things hurt them, and how long it had been going on, and how I had been using them. Then he told me that it was impossible for him to do anything for them as yet, till the disease had made more progress; that most likely I should quite lose my sight this winter, and then I must come to him again. So that was bad enough, but I could have made up my mind to that, and they sent me away. Then it seems that, after I was gone, he went on about it to papa, and told him that the mischief had been brewing time out of mind, and some time ago it might have been stopped; but all that straining of my eyes at Eton, last half, had done immense harm, and confirmed the disease; and it is of a kind that–that–there is no cure for!” He buried his face again.
“Did Mr. Lyddell tell you this?”
“No, he only told me we were to go home directly, and wrote to Gerald to send my things from Eton. He hardly spoke a word all the way,–only led me about, and poked me in and out of the carriage, as if I was blind already; it put me almost in a rage. Then as soon as we came home,–about half an hour ago, I should think,–he told it all straight out to my mother, did not mince matters, I assure you: indeed, I believe they both forgot I was there. They are apt to forget me, you know. He regularly stormed about the neglect, and told her it was all her fault; and while this was going on, I found I had heard the worst, and I did not want to be pitied, so I came out here. And so there is the whole story for you, Marian, and a pretty one it is! A fine sort of life I shall have instead–“
“Well but, Lionel,” cried Marian, eagerly, “are you sure that be said _for certain_ that it was hopeless? for it seems so odd that he should have told you one thing, and Mr. Lyddell another.”
“Pshaw! I suppose he had got some consideration, and did not want to knock me down with the worst at once.”
“I should think it was more comfortable to know the worst at once!” said Marian, meditatively, “so as to be able to settle one’s mind to it.”
“A pretty thing to settle one’s mind to,” said Lionel, “to know I must be a good-for-nothing, dependent wretch all my days! As well be a woman, or an idiot at once! There, I shall never see that tree green again; no, and spring–I have seen my last of that! and I may look my last at all your faces. Johnny I shall never see again.”
Ho was crying bitterly now,–almost choking with tears; and Marian’s were flowing too. She was much distressed at the present moment; for though the weeping was likely to relieve him, she feared it might be doing harm to his eyes, and she did not know in the least whether it ought to be checked, or, indeed, how to check it. Grieved and in great consternation she was, in truth, for she was very fond of Lionel, and full of such strong sympathy and compassion, as to be perfectly incapable of expressing it, in the slightest degree. But he knew her; she had been the only person who had ever been uneasy about his sight, and this went for a great deal with him: so that, with all her undemonstrativeness, there was no one whom he could have liked so well to have near him in that moment of dire despair. “O, I am so sorry!” expressed infinitely more than the simple words.
“You see, Marian,” said he, raising himself, and struggling with the sobs of which he was ashamed, “I could bear it better if I had not had such a scheme for my life, and my father consenting too. Australia, and those wild cattle, and that glorious Bush life, always galloping in the plains; and now to be condemned to be moping about here, for ever, in darkness and helplessness. O, to think of the plans we have made, all come to an end for ever!” and again he was weeping violently.
“They might have been stopped otherwise,” said Marian, catching at any possible idea that might answer, or seem to console him; “you know you might have been ill, or met with an accident, and had a great deal to suffer.”
“I would suffer anything rather than lose my eyesight! You don’t know what you are talking of.”
“Then just suppose this complaint had come on, in some lonely place out in the wilds, with no one to take care of you.”
“It would not, I should have had no Greek to put my eyes out.”
“And after all, dear Lionel, you know—-;” there she was choked–“you know that–” and she was choked again–“you know where it comes from.”
“I know what you mean,” he said; “and if it did–But it is my mother’s neglect; there is the bitterness of it. Why, you and my father tried to stir her up to it in the spring, and she would not; and then, when for very shame she must attend, what does she do but let me go muddling on with that old woman Wells! She has regularly thrown my sight away, as much as if she had pulled my eyes out and thrown them over the hedge.”
“No one could ever have guessed–“
“I tell you she might have guessed. Any other mother in the world would have been frightened years ago, long before I went to school. If it had been Elliot or Johnny, wouldn’t she have had half the doctors in London? but what did she ever trouble her head about _me?_”
“Now, Lionel, that must not be said. You know it is wrong, and I am sure you will see how sorry she is, and how it was really not having time.”
“I dare say she is sorry–I should hope so–now it is too late, and she has done it.”
“But why will you accuse any one?” said Marian, sorely perplexed, and secretly sharing all his indignation against Mrs. Lyddell. “You know it only embitters you and makes it all worse; and after all, even if man had actually done the mischief, it still would ultimately be sent from Heaven.”
“I don’t see that that makes it any better,” murmured Lionel.
“O don’t you, Lionel?” said she earnestly; “doesn’t it make you sure it is for the best?”
“I don’t know what I have done to be so punished,” went on Lionel to himself; “I have not always been good, but I have tried, and more lately, to do right; there are many much less steady than I, who–“
“Yes, yes, Lionel, but perhaps it is not as good for them to be prosperous. Indeed, indeed I am quite sure, though I don’t understand it all, or see the way, that if you will but bear it rightly, you will be glad, if not before, yet at least when you die, even of this terrible affliction.”
“I almost wish I was dying now!” said Lionel gloomily, “if I could but die the last day that I am to see the sky and everything, instead of droning on in the dark, a burthen to myself and every one else, for I don’t know how long, forty, fifty, sixty years perhaps. You know, Marian, I am only sixteen–“
There was a burst of tears again, and Marian felt herself an unsuccessful comforter, nor did she wonder at it, for she could not fancy that anything could relieve the sense of such a misfortune as poor Lionel’s, except the really high source of consolation, and that as yet only by faith, which might make him take it on trust as the best in the end, though for the present he must feel all the misery. She had no time to answer him again, for the garden door opened, and at the sound he dashed away his tears, sprang to his feet, and assumed a firm, cold, would-be indifferent look, as Mrs. Lyddell came out and advanced towards them. Marian thought her looking flushed and agitated, and her voice certainly betrayed more emotion than had ever been shown in it, except when bidding Johnny farewell.
“Lionel, my dear, sitting on the damp grass? You will certainly catch cold! I have been searching for you everywhere, but I am glad you were with Marian. I wanted to ask you, my dear, whether you would like to have your own room or Walter’s,” added she, wandering on as if anxious to say what was kindest, yet dreading to come to the subject nearest their hearts.
“My own, thank you,” bluntly answered Lionel, “I’ll and unpack.” He brushed hastily by her, and ran into the house up stairs, his roughness contrasting with her affectionate tone. She looked at Marian, and saw the trace of tears on her eyelids, and her own lip quivered while her eyes filled, and she said in a trembling voice, “Poor dear boy! has he been telling you? Does he know it all?”
“Yes,” said Marian, anxiously, “but is it really so very bad? Is there no hope?”
“No hope? Who said so?” exclaimed Mrs. Lyddell quickly.
“He did,” said Marian; “he said Mr. Lyddell told you so.”
“Was he there?” exclaimed she: “Ah! that was Mr. Lyddell’s strong way of putting things! So unfortunate–forgetting all about him. Poor fellow! I must go to him directly, and tell him it was no such thing.”
“What? how? O do tell me!” cried Marian, turning and hurrying with her, and speaking with, such earnestness that Mrs. Lyddell could not doubt of her sympathy now. She slackened her pace, and explained that what the surgeon, had said was, that there was confirmed disease, and of a very serious character, but the precise nature could not be ascertained till it had made greater progress, and it was then possible that it might prove capable of removal.
Mrs. Lyddell was resolved that neither herself nor any one else should believe anything but what was most hopeful. She could not have borne it otherwise. She really was far from being indifferent to any of her children, though multiplicity of occupation, and thoughts, engaged on what she considered the welfare of the family, had prevented her from being properly attentive to all, and she was so accustomed to uninterrupted prosperity, as to have almost forgotten that there was such a thing as anxiety or misfortune. Lionel, neither the eldest nor the youngest, healthy, and independent, neither remarkable for beauty nor grace, just unruly enough to be provoking, and just steady enough to be no cause of anxiety, had been as much a cipher in the family as a One lively boy could be; but though slow to be roused into anxiety, she felt it with full force when it came, all the motherly affection, which while secure had appeared dormant, revived, she was dreadfully shocked, and would have been utterly overwhelmed by the accusation of neglect, had it not been for her sanguine spirit. In this temper she represented all to Marian in the most cheering light, and hastened up stairs to do the same to Lionel. Marian, relieved and hopeful, was waiting to collect some properties of hers, to carry to her room, when she met Mr. Lyddell. She went up to greet him, and thinking that he looked very mournful, there was more cordiality and fellow-feeling in her way of addressing him than ever there had been before, though she simply said “Good morning” and shook hands.
“You have heard about it, Marian?” said he. “Has he been with you, poor fellow?”
“Yes,” said Marian, “he is in his own room now.”
“Ah! you spoke long ago,” said Mr. Lyddell; “I wish we had attended to you.”
“It was Edmund who remarked it,” said she.
“Ay, ay, and senseless it was not to attend. Then it seems that something might have been done, at any rate he would not have gone on injuring them with his work at Eton, but now it is as good as a lost case. Poor fellow!”
“O!” exclaimed Marian, thrown back again, “I thought there was a hope that it might not prove to be the worst.”
“There is just a shade of chance that it may turn out otherwise, and that, your mother–Mrs. Lyddell I mean–takes hold of, but I have not the slightest hope. The surgeon said, it had all the appearance of a confirmed case, such as cannot be removed.”
Marian stood aghast, and Mr. Lyddell, with a sort of groan, most painful to hear, passed her, and shut himself into his study. The only thing she could think of doing, was to pour out her dismay and compassion in a letter to Gerald, and she repaired to the schoolroom for the purpose of writing, but she had not been there long, before Lionel came in, and sat down astride on the music-stool, just as he used to do, but with a very different expression of countenance from the wild, reckless spirit of merriment which used to possess him. He sat and meditated for a little while, then exclaimed, “Marian, whom have you seen since I left you?”
“Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell.”
“Did you hear papa say anything about it?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Did he say what the doctor thought of it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me the very words,” and he leant his elbows on the table, looking at her fixedly.
“Ah! Lionel, can you bear it? They are so very sad.”
“Tell me them, I say.”
Marian looked down, as if she could not bear to meet his countenance, and faltered as she repeated them.
“Ay!” said Lionel, springing up, and flinging himself round passionately, “I knew it was humbug all the time!”
“What? How? O Lionel, what have I done?”
“As if I was a fool or a baby, to be fed with false hopes,” proceeded Lionel, sitting down, and hiding his face on his crossed arms on the table; “she might have let that alone, she has done me mischief enough already.”
“Lionel,” said Marian, firmly and gravely, for she was really shocked at his tone, “you must not come to me, if it is to speak in such a manner of your mother.”
“Very well,” said Lionel coldly, rising up to leave the room, then pausing just as his hand was on the door, “I thought _you_ did feel for me, Marian.”
“O Lionel, dear Lionel,” and she sprang to him, to lead him back to his seat, but he still retained his hold of the lock and would not move; “you know”–her tears were flowing–“you know how I grieve for you; but if you are in trouble, that ought not to make you do wrong,” He was turning the lock, and hardened his face, but Marian went on, “Don’t go, Lionel, only hear me. Mrs. Lyddell is very unhappy about you, and I am sure you must see yourself, that if she blames herself for any want of care, her only comfort must be in hoping for the best, making the most of this little ray.”
“Then _you_ think there is a ray!” interrupted Lionel.
“So far as that nothing is certain, but I am afraid it is so slight, that you had much better not trust to it, but settle your mind to bear whatever may come.”
“Very easy talking! If you had but to do it!” cried Lionel, impetuously wrenching the door open in spite of her gentle resistance, and running off determinately, leaving her, poor girl, in great despair, at having so completely failed either in comforting, softening, or bringing him to any kind of resigned feeling, having besides vexed him, made him think her unkind; and though this was unintentional, and might be better for him, just contradicted what his mother wished him to believe.
Her distress was too great even for writing to Gerald, and she walked up and down, thinking what to do, longing to find him some better comforter, and offering up many a prayer for him, till at last she heard Caroline and Clara come home, and remembering that happen what might, she must dress for dinner, up she went, heavily and sorrowfully.
As soon as she was dressed, she went to Clara’s room, feeling that this would be but kind. Clara was not there, and she hesitated whether to go on to Caroline’s, once her frequent resort. At that instant, however, both sisters came up together, and hastened to her. “O Marian Marian!” exclaimed Clara.
“You know all about it, I suppose,” said Caroline.
“Yea, indeed I do.”
“Come in here,” said Caroline opening her door; “I want to know about him, poor fellow, and how he bears it. Have you seen anything of him?”
Marian told all she could, without betraying what was confidential, and did her best to soften Lionel’s conduct, by which his sisters evidently had been disappointed, saying that he had scarcely chosen to speak to them. Marian explained what was on her mind, how she had, without intending it, flatly contradicted Mrs. Lyddell’s cheering assurances, regretting it much, as injustice towards Mrs. Lyddell, but of this, Caroline thought little.
“Mamma is always sanguine,” she said, “and it was only her colouring that made Lionel think her account hopeful. It must be better for him, poor fellow, to know the truth, than to have his mind unsettled with vain hopes. O dear! O dear! how sad it is, and at his age too! It breaks one’s heart to think of it.”
All coldness and distance had left Caroline’s manner in speaking to Marian, and this was a great comfort, in the midst of their troubles.
A very uncomfortable time it was, which thus commenced. Lionel was a good boy on the whole, with right principles, and some seriousness of mind, but he was far too undisciplined to meet patiently such a trial as this. He had pride, and a high spirit, and this made him assume a bearing, which was a good deal admired in the family, trying to carry it off with a high hand, never openly uttering a word of complaint, and seeming as if he would rather die than directly express the miserable despairing feelings within, though, poor boy, he little knew how evidently they showed themselves in his gloomy silence, his outbreaks of temper, and his almost desperate, defiant spirit of independence.
His father and mother, not understanding him in the least, managed, in the revulsion of feeling which made him now the first object in the family, to try his temper perpetually. He had in former times, missed their demonstrations of affection, though healthy, high-spirited, and by no means sentimental, the craving had been only occasional, he had done very well without them, and had gained habits of freedom incompatible with being petted. He had never been used to be interfered with, and could not understand it at all; and that remembrance of past neglect embittered all his feelings.
Mr. Lyddell had just found out, as Marian had thought long ago, that Lionel was the flower of his flock, the one of his sons, who alone united spirit and steadiness, for the emigration scheme had shown a degree of sense, enterprise, and consideration which had at the time pleased and surprised him, and now added much to his sense of the promise lost. He laid all the blame of the neglect on his wife, but he did not lament it the less keenly. His extreme kindness and solicitude for the boy, were, to those who compared them with his general character, quite affecting, but unluckily they displayed themselves is a way which harassed Lionel very much, for he treated him as if he fancied him completely blind already, cautioned him, guided him, and looked anxious, if he did but walk across the garden alone; whilst Lionel, who could see quite well enough for all ordinary purposes, was teased, reminded of his troubles, and vexed above measure by having notice attracted to his defect of sight.
In the main, however, he owned that his father was kind, and sorry for him, though each particular instance annoyed him; but it was much worse with his mother, for her petting was more minute, more constant, and such as would have been worrying to any boy in full health, even if it had not, as in poor Lionel’s case, been connected with the dark future, and with a past, which had sadly soured him against her. He was always rough and morose with her, rebelling against her care, never wakening into affection, or showing pleasure in what she proposed, though she continued to press on him her attention, with uunwearied assiduity.
His sisters were treated much in the same manner; Clara made him cross with over care, and Caroline, though showing better judgment, and much real tact and affection, was also kept at a distance, and often harshly answered. Marian too, was quite sufficiently like a sister to come in for many an unreasonable fit of rudeness, and temper when it was perfectly impossible to find any means of pleasing him.
Indeed such unoccupied days as his were in themselves a trial of good humour. Idleness was very pleasant in the holidays, but his was too active a spirit to bear it for long together, especially when it left room for such anticipations as those for which his hopes of a Bush life were exchanged, Yet he treated offers of reading to him as insults, and far less would he endure to learn any occupation that might serve him when his sight should be quite gone; he professed to hate music, and lounged about disconsolately in the house or garden. Now and then, if he found the young ladies reading on their own account, he would be beguiled into listening and being amused, and their ingenuity was often exercised in appearing to be doing it naturally, and he sometimes took part in conversation, and thus had his attention withdrawn from his misfortune; but it was not often that his moodiness of manner could be charmed away, unless strangers were present, when he thought it a point of honour to seem at his ease and merry.
After luncheon, he liked best to ride, but against this, Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell set their faces, persuaded that it must be very dangerous. This, Lionel thought the height of unkindness; he could ride just as safely as in the holidays; and it was too cruel to make him give up the one pleasure he best liked, while he was still able to enjoy it, and though not sufficiently familiar with them to attempt any remonstrance, he became doubly discontented and sullen. He would not walk with the girls, but wandered far away over the downs by himself, often not coming back