“... Selfishness
May not come near him, nor the little throng
Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path.”
_The Prelude._
But when Albert was out of sight, Leicester reissued from the door, and
walked up and down in the bright moonlight, almost till the break of
day. He was in a mood of mind which sometimes attacked him; a mood at
once of excitement and depression; of depression _because_ excited; a
mood of mind in which his life’s prospects pressed heavily, and when
the icy chain which severed him from his kind hung round him like a
fetter of lead.
There had been a time--it was in Leicester’s early youth--when
his shyness had found relief in society beneath him, and when the
dangers which attend that relief had appeared to be closing around
him, leading, or rather dragging him into temptation. But these
perils were dissipated, and the chain of evil habits and lowering
associations, broken at once and for ever by the death of his father,
when he was twenty-four years old. At his death he found himself left
as sole guardian to five sisters, all younger than himself; and the
responsibility imposed upon him bound him for ever.
Mr. Leicester, the father, had held a legal office, which allowed him
to bring up his family in comfort and even in affluence. His death
was sudden, and cut him off while yet only on the borders of age; but
though sudden, his cares for his children had provided for a change,
and the arrangements he had made were such as a father’s foresight
had deemed the best. His daughters were motherless, and at the age
most needing careful guardianship. His only son was, as has been
said, involved in dangers which might lead to a loss of character
and respectability. Had he taken advice, the wisest counsellor might
have said, “appoint another and safer guardian for your motherless
children.” But Mr. Leicester had looked with keen discrimination into
his son’s character. He trusted him while his steps were wandering from
the right way. He left to him all he possessed, with the simple request
that he would be a father to his sisters, and provide for and watch
over them as their father would have done.
It was a heavy responsibility for so young a man. Young married men
grow with the growth of their family, and every year is a school of
experience for the year that is to follow; but on Leicester the burden
of a full-grown family was suddenly laid. He felt the burden, and
with natural diffidence felt also his inability to perform the task;
but not the less he set himself to it, shaking himself free from old
temptations, putting aside other hopes and cares; gravely and sadly,
but nobly and honourably, and with all his heart. His father had
rightly judged of him.
A house in Clarges Street, and eight hundred a-year; this was what
his father had left to him, in charge for his sisters; to educate the
younger, to give comforts and pleasures to the elder, to lay by for
future portions, or sudden emergencies; to shield them all, as far as
in him lay, from the disappointments and cares which their reduced
income and change of life must naturally bring. These had been his
ceaseless thoughts for eight long years; thoughts so engrossing that
his own selfish existence had seem to pass out of sight, that hope
or joy in life--except as connected with their welfare--had vanished,
or seemed to vanish from his imagination, and from theirs also. One
separate existence alone he had, and this was in his legal studies,
vigorously pursued for their benefit and his own, but, so far as yet
appeared, pursued without end or hope.
Beneath these cares and studies life had flowed by him with a heavy
step; slight tints of grey were visible in his dark hair, and
furrows lightly streaked his broad high brow; while an expression
of melancholy, not oppressive, but gentle and subdued, seemed the
expression natural to his countenance.
In some respects the charge that had been laid upon him operated
disadvantageously on his character. His natural gravity increased;
thought drew him further and further from the animating scenes of
life, and habit set its fatal seal on a diffidence that once might have
been overcome. The absence of selfish hopes and fears in some degree
dulled the outward man, depriving him of those qualities which the
world sees and hears of, which win and attract the many, and which are
twice blessed; blessing those who have, and those who see them. But,
though he suffered under this disadvantage, there was compensation,
and far more than compensation within; as much more as the gifts of
the moral nature are above the graces of the outward man. He had that
within that passed show; a mind in which every evil thought or desire
was conquered through the desire to be worthy of his trust; a mind
refined and purified even as he wished to guard his sisters innocent
and pure; a mind from which man’s strongest enemy--self-love--was,
through the love of others, as nearly banished as perhaps in human
nature it is possible to be. And, as years passed on, silently and
almost unconsciously a diviner principle was growing up. He felt his
weakness to be and do all that a father might and should--that picture
of a father which he had set before himself, sublimated, perhaps,
beyond any human model, so watchful, so far-seeing, so tender in
sympathy, so long-suffering with infirmity--and as man, frail and
infirm, must do when once fully conscious of his weakness, he began
to seek and find his strength above. There is said to be a peculiar
character attendant upon a widow’s son; in such a character the
guardian brother shares.
But man is _man_, nevertheless, and cannot at all times live in the
same exaltation of spirit. There were moments when Leicester’s heart
sank under that want of selfish hope which his position seemed to him
to forbid. He had early convinced himself that that which had been
left as trust for his sisters, might not (so long, at least, as they
remained unmarried or poor) furnish forth the means to make a happy
home for his later years. It was but seldom that this fact presented
itself with anything of pain to his mind; for the most part his love
went hand-in-hand with his duty to his sisters, and he was content
to be theirs alone; but there were moments when he was less strong;
moments when his heart yearned for the rising up of those hopes which
bless most men in their dreams. It was one of these fits of excitement
and depression which visited him on the night of which we speak; a fit
so violent and so prolonged that he walked on and on in the stillness
of the night before the enemy was conquered. Wherefore on this night?
Who can tell? Many varied thoughts sweep over the brain, and some
among them, though but light thoughts, have a strange exciting power;
many sights pass before the eye, and some, without our knowledge,
impress the memory, leaving a trace never to be effaced again. It
might have been the sight of a happy home, a father’s fond love, or
a daughter’s devotion; it might have been the sight of a fair face,
or the sound of a sweet voice, or the laugh of one who knew no care.
It might have been the attraction of one being towards another by
inexplicable, magical attraction; who can tell? There is no questioning
of the inner springs of thought and feeling. All that man can do is to
master such disturbances of the inward man which reason or conscience
forbids him to indulge. And so, before he slept, Leicester set himself
to master the giant Self, who had suddenly taken possession of his soul.
And now, if it be asked whether his sisters were worthy of his
devotion, whether the home they made for him was as happy as his
affection had demanded, it must be owned in answer that they were
even unusually compassed about with human infirmities; infirmities
very various in their kinds, but all conspiring to mar that peace and
sympathy which, had it been more perfect, might have satisfied all his
affections.
Marian, the eldest, was at this time twenty-nine, three years younger
than her brother. At the period of her father’s death, she had been
a weak-minded, frivolous girl, with thoughts dwelling exclusively on
balls and parties, dress, partners, and love. Her brother endeavoured
to impress her mind with the necessity for care and thought in the
arrangement of their now limited income, and for this purpose consulted
her seriously, not only on matters of housekeeping, but on the needful
sums to be allotted to the different departments of dress, pleasure,
and education. He succeeded in interesting her not only beyond his
hopes, but beyond his wishes. The love of usefulness, the love of
power, the love of management, laid firm hold on her mind; and, with
the exclusiveness of weak minds, shut out all other loves. Henceforth,
balls, parties, dress, and lovers were abjured; she became a tolerable
housekeeper, and a tiresome woman.
Henrietta, the second sister, had a family likeness to Marian’s
original character. She was also frivolous and sentimental; but
with a more varied disposition, and a greater charm of manner, she
could never have been what her sister was. Jessie, the fourth, was
again a reproduction of the same character, under slightly varying
features--more silly than Marian, and with less charm than Henrietta.
All three were pretty, for there was great beauty in the family; and
none had any very serious faults or evil tempers. But all their minds
were small; they were immersed in small cares, small joys, and still
smaller jealousies. Leicester did not find much sympathy of soul with
them.
The other two were formed in a different mould. Rachel, the third
sister, was like her brother in person, and like him, also, in mind.
Her face was beautiful; her mind, thoughtful and diffident in a degree
even beyond his. This diffidence was increased by circumstances. She
was lame; not sufficiently so to cause her much personal inconvenience,
but enough to cause awkwardness in her movements, and to make her
bashful and retiring from observation. This diffidence prevented that
union with her brother and comfort in his society which might have
been hers. All the sisters were jealous of his affection; all would
willingly have supposed themselves his first object. Rachel had not the
moral courage, even for his sake, to brave the pain these jealousies
might cause, and to go forward to give and receive the confidence that
might have existed, the sympathy that did exist between them. She was a
failure, and she knew it.
Perhaps the one from whom he derived the greatest pleasure and comfort,
was his youngest sister, Margaret, now just eighteen. Though she had
grown up beneath his fatherly care, she stood less in awe of him than
any of her sisters; and though less capable of understanding him, and
unable to be so real a friend as Rachel, the freedom and confidence
with which she treated him made her society the greatest refreshment
he knew. She helped him in other ways also. Since she had grown to
reasonable and observant years, she had stood forth in his defence
against the exactions of her elder sisters--exactions thoughtlessly
enforced by them, and patiently and kindly submitted to by him, but
whose pertinacity tended to reduce him to slavery.
This was the sister of whom he had spoken to Violet as preferring his
chaperonage to that of all others. She was a pretty, straightforward,
good-humoured girl, who, with no superiority of character, was an
example of the comfort such practical qualities as good sense, good
temper, and self-reliance can give.
“You were very late last night, John,” observed Marian, as the whole
party sat at breakfast on the following morning; “I did not hear your
door shut until after three o’clock. What was the cause?”
“Don’t answer unless you please,” said Margaret, who sat by his side.
“I have no objection to answer,” he replied, smiling; “it was a bright
moonlight night, and I walked about till I was quite tired.”
“Where did you dine last night?” said Henrietta. “Oh! I remember!--it
was Mr. Osborne’s, was it not?”
“Yes--Albert Ellis’s uncle.”
“Has he a fine house?” asked Marian; “what sort of establishment does
he keep?”
“Nothing you will care to hear about, my dear Marian; everything very
grand. I have brought away no hints for you.”
“But he has a daughter. We should like to hear about her. I know people
call her a beauty; is she a beauty? What is she like? Does she dress
very fine?”
These and other like questions were asked by Henrietta and Jessie
between them.
“She is not like any of _us_,” was the reply. “She has blue eyes and
auburn hair. As to her dress, I cannot give you any particulars. It was
pretty, I think, but whether fine or not I don’t know.”
“Were there many young people there? Has Miss Osborne a great many
people who admire her? Did you like her, John?” continued the two
inquirers.
“Don’t answer, John,” said Margaret, lifting up her hand; “I don’t
choose that John should be pestered with questions. Let him tell us
what he likes, but don’t let us worry him to death.”
“You are needlessly officious, Margaret,” said Marian; “John is able to
decide whether he pleases to answer or not, without your help.”
“Not quite; John is too good-natured.”
“But, John, do answer us,” said Jessie. “Is Miss Osborne a nice girl?
is she very fascinating? Did you get on with her, and do you think you
could fall in love with her?”
“There is Jessie’s rapid imagination,” he said, smiling, though the ten
curious eyes that looked into his face succeeded in bringing a faint,
very faint colour there; “Jessie asks that question every time I make a
new acquaintance.”
“But you have not answered me to-day,” said Jessie; “in general, he
says no--does he not, Henrietta? But to-day he will not say no. Now,
John....”
“I will not have John pestered,” cried Margaret, peremptorily; “leave
him and Miss Osborne alone.”
“My dear Margaret,” he said, with quickness, “they do not pester me in
the least. I will answer anything you please, Jessie--what is it you
want to know?”
“Whether you think you could fall in love with Miss Osborne,” said both
Jessie and Henrietta, eagerly.
“And that is rather a difficult question to answer,” he replied,
playfully; “if I say no, that is not very civil to a young lady, is it?
and if I say yes, it is not very decorous. But why this extraordinary
interest in Miss Osborne? What do you know of her to excite it?”
“As to that, I feel it too,” said Margaret; “I suppose it is because we
know Mr. Ellis a little. I like Mr. Ellis, and so I fancy his cousin.”
“Besides, she is a beauty,” said Henrietta; “and though you may think
me frivolous to say so, a beauty always interests me more than a common
girl.”
“So far from thinking you frivolous, Henrietta,” said Leicester,
smiling, “I am of the same mind myself; but I am afraid we must leave
all frivolous things for the present. Marian, you look as if the house
books were waiting. Do you want me before I go out?”
She acquiesced, and they went away together. Marian was the only one
who ever saw her brother alone. If any other had attempted a private
interview, a storm of curiosity and jealousy would have been excited
in the house. Of her opportunities, Marian made no use, so far as
acquaintance with his tastes and wishes went. Her interviews were
solely confined to complaints of servants and tradespeople, taxes, and
prices. These things weighed heavily on her mind, and she poured them
out into his kind and patient ears on every occasion, heedless how
she wearied him, and regardless whether or not he had any worries or
troubles to confide in return.
The remaining sisters conversed on what had passed.
“I think John is going to be in love with Miss Osborne,” said
Henrietta; “you may not believe me, but before anything was said, when
he first came in this morning, I saw something unusual in his face.”
“So did I,” said Jessie; which fact, however, was doubtful, for
Jessie’s thoughts had but seldom an independent being.
“Then why did you ask so many questions?” said Rachel, speaking for the
first time, and then with a rising colour; “don’t you wish him to be in
love, and to marry?”
“To marry!” cried Margaret, startled and aghast; “no, indeed, I don’t
wish him to marry!”
“No, indeed!” echoed the two others. “Marry! I never thought of such a
thing! John must not marry!”
“It is the thing I long for,” continued Rachel, her colour deepening in
the earnestness of her manner; “he has been long enough devoted to us;
it is time he had some hope of his own.”
“But good gracious!” cried Henrietta, “what would happen to us if he
married? Think of the house without a man in it.”
“We must all marry too, that is certain,” said Margaret; “I could no
more live in the house without John than I could live with the fishes
in the sea. But, happily, there is no need to think about it. Rachel’s
thoughts have flown as fast as Jessie’s. John has no thoughts of
marrying, I am very sure.”
“I did not think he had; I only _wish_ he had.”
“Then pray don’t wish, my dear Rachel,” said Margaret, earnestly; “it
is being so much more unselfish than I can be, that it makes me quite
uncomfortable.”
“What did you think, Rachel?” asked Henrietta; for where John was
concerned, Rachel’s insight into his feelings was instinctively felt;
“did you think he was going to be in love with Miss Osborne?”
“He certainly gave us no reason to think so,” she replied, “and I don’t
think John is a person to fall in love in a few hours; but still I
did fancy, like you, that I saw some kind of thought in his face this
morning. It need not have been that, however. He has many things to
think of.”
“Oh, no, it was that,” cried Jessie, sentimentally; “I saw love in his
face when first he came in this morning.”
“Don’t talk such trash!” said Margaret, indignantly; “one would think
John was a lackadaisical fool to hear you speak. I am sick of the very
name of Miss Osborne. Pray let us leave her alone.”