"Child of the town! for thee, alas!
Glad nature spreads nor tree or grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run.
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles,
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak."
ALAN CUNNINGHAM.
And so Edmund was gone! But he had bequeathed to Marian a purpose and
an object, which gave her a spirit to try hard and feel out a way for
herself in this confused tangle of a world around, her. She was happier,
though perhaps more anxious; for now it was not mere vague dislike and
discontent, but a clearer perception both of the temptations around and
of the battle required of her.
In January the whole family went to London, the object of many of
Marian's terrors. Caroline and Clara were both sorry to go, and the boys
lamented exceedingly; Lionel saying it was very hard that the last two
months before his going to school should be spent boxed up there, with
nothing to do. Indeed the life of the schoolroom party was here more
monotonous than that at Oakworthy; for besides the constant regularity
of lessons, there was now no variety in the walks; they only paced round
the square, or on fine days went as far as the park.
And then there were the masters! Marian was in a state of great fear,
under the anticipation of her first lessons from them; but the reality
proved much better than she had expected. To be sure, she disliked the
dancing with all her heart, and made no great figure in music; but
people were patient with her, and that was a great comfort; and then she
thoroughly liked and enjoyed the lessons in languages and in drawing.
There were further advantages in the London life, upon which she had not
calculated, for here she was nobody, less noticed than Caroline, seldom
summoned to see visitors, and, when she went into the drawing-room,
allowed to remain in the back-ground as much as she pleased; so that,
though her eye pined for green trees and purple hills, and her ear was
wearied with the never-ceasing sound of wheels, London so far exceeded
her expectations, that she wrote to Agnes, that, "if there were no
smoke, and no fog, and no streets, and no people, there would be no
great harm in it, especially if there was anything for the boys to do."
The boys were certainly to be pitied; in a house smaller than Oakworthy,
and without the occupations out of doors to which they had been
accustomed, edicts of silence were more ineffectual than ever, and yawns
became painfully frequent. Every one's temper fell into an uncomfortable
state of annoyance and irritation; Miss Morley, instead of her usual
quiet, piteous way of reproving, was fretful; Caroline was sharp; Clara
sometimes rude like the boys, sometimes cross with them; even Marian
was now and then tormented into a loss of temper, when there was no
obtaining the quiet which she, more than the others, needed in order to
learn a lesson properly. Each day Lionel grew more unruly, chiefly from
the want of occupation, leading the other two along with him; and each
day the female portion of the party grew more inclined to fretfulness,
as they felt their own helplessness. It even came to consultations
between Miss Morley and Caroline whether they must not really tell of
the boys: but the evil day was always put off till "next time."
Gerald was riotous when Lionel and John made him so, but not often on
his own account; and he had more resources of his own than they had. His
drawing was a great amusement to him, though rather in a perverse way;
for he would not be induced to take lessons of the master, seldom drew
at the right time, or in the right place, and frequently in the wrong
ones.
"I never can learn except when I am drawing," he said, and his slate
was often so filled with designs, that the sums were jostled into the
narrowest possible space, while his Latin grammar was similarly adorned.
There sat the Muse in full beauty, enthroned upon Parnassus, close to
_musa musæ; magister_ had a wig, and _dominus_ a great rod; while the
extraordinary physiognomies round _facies faciei_ would have been worthy
of any collection of caricatures. Moreover the illustrations of the verb
_amo_ commemorated the gentleman who was married on Sunday, killed his
wife on Wednesday, and at the preter-pluperfect tense was hanged on
Saturday. Other devices were scattered along the margin, and peeped out
of every nook--old men's heads, dogs, hunters, knights, omnibuses; and
the habit of drawing so grew upon him, that when he was going to read
any book where scribbling was insufferable, Marian generally took the
precaution of putting all pencils out of reach.
She often warned him to take care of the school-room Atlas; but, incited
by Lionel, he could not resist the temptation of putting a pipe in the
mouth of the Britannia who sat in a corner of the map of England. This
pipe she carefully rubbed out, but not till it had received from the
others a sort of applause which he took as encouragement to repeat the
offence; and when next Marian looked at Britannia, she found the pipe
restored, and a cocked hat on the lion's head. Again there was much
merriment; and though Miss Morley, more than once, told Gerald this
would never do, and he really must not, she could not help laughing so
much, that he never quite believed her to be in earnest, and proceeded
to people the world with inhabitants by no means proportioned to the
size of their countries. John-o'-Groat and his seven brothers took
possession of their house, Turks paraded in the Mediterranean, and in
the large empty space in the heart of Africa, Baron Munchausen caused
the lion to leap down the crocodile's throat.
It was about this time that Marian was one day summoned to the
drawing-room at an unusual time, and found Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell both
there looking exceedingly gracious. "Here is a present for you, Marian,"
said the former, putting into her hands a large thin parcel.
"For me! O thank you!" said Marian, too much surprised and embarrassed
to make much of her thanks; nor did her wonder diminish as, unfolding
the paper, she beheld a blue watered silk binding, richly embossed, with
the title of "The Wreath of Beauty," and soon there lay before her, in
all the smoothness of India paper and mezzotint, a portrait, beneath
which she read the name of Selina, Viscountess Marchmont.
"Selina!" repeated she, in the extremity of her amazement.
"Yes," said Mr. Lyddell, resting there in expectation of renewed and
eager acknowledgements; but all he received was this--"Can that be
Selina?"
"It is said to be a very good likeness," said Mrs. Lyddell.
"O!" cried Marian, and there she checked herself.
"Mr. Lyddell was quite struck with the resemblance to you," added Mrs.
Lyddell.
The astonishment of Marian's glance was greater than ever, but here
she bethought herself that Mr. Lyddell had intended to give her great
pleasure, and that she was very ungrateful; whereupon the room seemed to
swim round with her in her embarrassment, and with a great effort she
stammered out something about his being very kind, and her being very
much obliged to him; and then, perceiving that she ought to add more, in
order to satisfy that judge of politeness, Mrs. Lyddell, she said that
it was a long time since she had seen Lady Marchmont, and that she could
not so well judge of the likeness; and then she bore it away to sigh and
wonder over it unrestrainedly with Gerald.
No wonder the Lyddells were surprised, for Lady Marchmont's portrait was
incomparably the most beautiful in the book; the classical regularity of
the features, the perfect form of nose and chin, the lovely lip, and the
undulating line of the hair, all were exquisite; the turn of the long
neck, the _pose_ of the tall graceful figure, and the simple elegance
of the dress, were such as to call for great admiration. But all that
Marian saw was an affectation in that twisted position,--a straining
round of the eyes, and a kind of determination at archness of expression
in the mouth. Where was the merry, artless, sweet-looking Selina she
remembered, whose yet unformed though very pretty features had faded
from her memory, and left only the lively, good-natured expression
which, here she sought in vain?
"O Selina, Selina, can you be like this'?" exclaimed she; "and to think
of their saying I am like it! I am sure I hope one is as true as the
other."
Gerald drew his face into a horrible caricature of the expression in the
portrait, and set his sister laughing.
"I hope I shall never see her If she has grown like it," said she,
sighing.
"I should take the stick to her if she was," said Gerald.
"I am afraid it must be too true," said Marian, "or she would never
allow herself to be posted up in this absurd way. I wonder Lord
Marchmont allows it!"
"I'll tell you, Marian," said the sympathising Gerald, "if I had ten
beauties for my wife--"
"Ten beauties! O, Gerald!"
"Well, one ten times as beautiful as Selina, I mean; I would cure her of
vanity well; for I would tell her that, if she chose to have her picture
drawn in this Book of Beauty, it should only be with a ring through her
nose, and two stars tattooed on her cheeks."
"And a very good plan too," said Marian, laughing; "but I am afraid
poor Selina cannot be in such good hands. See, here are the impertinent
people writing verses about her, as if they had any business to ask
her what she is thinking about. Listen, Gerald; did you ever hear such
stuff?"
"Lady, why that radiant smile,
Matching with that pensive brow,
Like sunbeams on some mountain pile
Glowing on solemn heights of snow?
"Lady, why that glance of thought,
Joined to that arch lip of mirth,
Like shade by fleecy cloudlet brought
Over some paradise of earth?
"Yea, thou may'st smile, the world for thee
Is opening all its fairest bowers;
Yet in that earnest face I see
These may not claim thy dearest hours.
"But for thy brow, thy smile we deem
The gladsome mirth of fairy sprite;
But for thy smile, thy mien would seem
Some angel's from the world of light.
"Yet laughing lip and thoughtful brow
Are depths and gleams of mortal life;
Angel and fay, of us art thou,
Then art a woman and a wife!"
"What would they have her to be? a husband?" said Gerald.
Here Caroline and Clara came hastily in, eager to see the portrait and
read the verses, and very far were they from being able to imagine why
she did not like the portrait. Caroline owned that there might be a
little affectation, but she thought the beauty very considerable; and as
to Clara, she was in raptures, saying she never _did_ see any one half
so lovely. And as to the verses, they were the sweetest things she
ever read; and she carried them off to show to Miss Morley, who fully
sympathised with her. Marian found no one to share her opinion but
Gerald and Lionel, and their criticisms were unsparingly extended to
Lady Marchmont's features, as well as her expression, "Such mincing
lips! such untidy hair! Hollo! who has given her a black eye?" till they
had not left her a single beauty.
Marian hoped the subject was quite forgotten, when she had hidden
away the book under all her others: but the nest time there was a
dinner-party, Mrs. Lyddell desired her to fetch it, to show to some one
who knew Lady Marchmont. She took it up stairs again us soon as she
could, but again and again was she obliged to bring it, and condemned to
hear it talked over and admired. One day when she was going wearily and
reluctantly up stairs, she was arrested by a call from Lionel, who
was creeping up outside the balusters in a fashion which had no
recommendation but its extreme difficulty and danger.
"Eh, Marian, what, going after beauty again?"
"I wish it was Beauty and the Beast," said Marian, disconsolately.
"There are different tastes in the world, that is certain; but don't
break that neck of yours, Lionel."
Lionel replied by letting go with one hand and brandishing that and his
foot over the giddy space below. Marian frowned and squeezed up her
lips, but did not speak till it pleased him to draw himself in again,
and throw himself over the balusters before her, saying, "That is a
reward for you, Marian; Clara would have screeched."
The next time Marian was desired to fetch the book, it was for a morning
visitor,--a broad, stately, pompous old lady, who had had the pleasure
of meeting Lady Marchmont, and thought Miss Arundel very like her.
"Are you going after beauty?" said Lionel, again meeting Marian on the
stairs.
"Yes," said Marian, with a sigh.
"Well, I hope she will be pleased, that's all," said Lionel.
Marian thought there was a meaning in this speech, but she was in haste,
and without considering it, ran down stairs again. As she was opening
the drawing-room door, she saw Gerald on the top of the stairs, calling
to her, "Marian, have you that book? O, wait--"
"I cannot come now, Gerald," said she, entering the room, and shutting
the door after her. She laid the book on the table, and the page was
opened.
"O beautiful!" exclaimed the old lady, "How exact a likeness!"
"Why, Marian!" broke involuntarily from Mrs. Lyddell, and Marian,
looking at the print, could, in spite of her dismay, hardly keep from
laughing; for the elegant Lady Marchmont now appeared decorated with a
huge pair of mustachios, an elaborate jewelled ring in the nose, and a
wavy star on each cheek, and in the middle of the forehead; while over
the balustrade on which she was leaning there peeped a monster with
grotesque eyes, a pair of twisted horns, a parrot's beak, vulture's
claws, and a scaly tail stretching away in complicated spires far into
the distance. No one could for a moment doubt that this was Gerald's
work, and Marian felt sure that he had been thereto incited by Lionel.
Extreme was her consternation at the thought of the displeasure which he
had incurred; but in the mean time there was something very amusing
in the sight of the old lady beginning to perceive that something was
wrong, and yet not able to make it out, and not choosing to own her
difficulties. Mrs. Lyddell, though vexed and angry, carried it off very
well. "Ah! some mischief of the boys," said she, decidedly. "I am afraid
it is not fit to be seen." And so saying, she closed the book, and
changed the conversation.
As soon as the visitor had taken leave, the scene was changed; Mrs.
Lyddell walked hastily to the table, threw open the book, and began to
examine into the degree of damage it had suffered. "I suppose you know
nothing of this, Marian?" said she, surveying her with one of her
quickest and most formidable glances.
"O no," said Marian; "I am sure I am very sorry."
"Well, I must inquire about it," said Mrs. Lyddell, taking up the
book, and hastening towards the school-room, followed by poor Marian,
trembling with all her heart for her brother, and somewhat for Lionel,
even though she could not help being angry with him for having got
Gerald into such a scrape.
There stood the boys, looking partly exulting, partly frightened; Lionel
a little more of the first, Gerald a little more of the second; for
this was Gerald's first desperate piece of mischief, whereas Lionel had
survived many such. Besides, Gerald's handiwork was too evident to be
mistaken, while his companion's part in the folly could be known to no
one; and though it might be guessed at by Marian, Lionel thought she
might be trusted.
The book was spread upon the table, and the expressions of horror from
the three ladies of the school-room were as strong as could reasonably
be expected.
"Indeed," pleaded Miss Morley, in her deplorable tone, "I am continually
ordering Sir Gerald not to scribble in books, but he never will obey."
"That is not true!" cried Gerald, in a loud, startling voice.
"Gerald," said Mrs. Lyddell, "that is no proper manner of speaking; you
have behaved very ill already--do not add to your fault. Before any more
is said, beg Miss Morley's pardon."
There was a silence, and she repeated, "I desire that you will ask Miss
Morley's pardon directly--still silent? what is the meaning of this?"
Gerald stood bolt upright, and very rigid; poor Marian glancing
appealingly, first at him, then at Mrs. Lyddell, then at Miss Morley,
all equally without effect. She saw it all--that he might have been
brought to own that be had done wrong about this individual case; but
that the sweeping accusation of disobeying orders, which, as they all
knew, were never given with anything like decision, had roused a proud,
determined sense of injustice, and that he was ready to suffer anything
rather than apologise. She was wild to speak, to do something; yet what
could she attempt?
Mrs. Lyddell would not begin upon the book-scribbling subject till she
had conquered the spirit of defiance, and continued to insist on his
begging Miss Morley's pardon; but the more she ordered, the more
determined he grew. There he stood, his proud, dark eye fixed on a
picture on the wall, his lip curled with a sort of disdain, and an
expression in his whole motionless figure that, had his cause but been
good, would have been resolution, whereas it now was only indomitable
self-will and pride.
At any rate, it was an expression that showed that he was not to be
conquered by woman, though he might have been won over by her: and Mrs.
Lyddell had tact enough to give up the battle without owning herself
defeated, and without further discussion said, "Go to your own room,
Gerald; I shall give you time to reflect and get the better of your
obstinacy. You may come here again when you are ready to ask Miss Morley
to forgive you for your very improper conduct towards her."
Without turning to the right or left,--without one look towards his
sister, Gerald walked out of the room, and even shut the door after him
gently. Poor Marian, who could guess all that she felt?
"This is very extraordinary," said Mrs. Lyddell, "so well-behaved a boy
as he is in general."
"Ah! boys of his age always get quite beyond ladies' management," said
Miss Morley.
"Such determined obstinacy!" said Mrs. Lyddell.
"Perhaps he did not understand you," said Marian, unable to keep from
saying something, though she could not in her agitation think of
anything to the purpose.
"Understand? that is nonsense, Marian. What was there to understand?
He spoke very improperly, find I desire him to apologise; and if he is
obstinate, it is very wrong of you to defend him."
Marian was silenced, though her heart was swelling and her temples
throbbing. In another minute Mrs. Lyddell was summoned to some more
company, and Marian had nothing worse to hear than her companions'
commiseration for the book, and declarations that India rubber would do
it no good.
The afternoon passed away, and nothing was heard of Gerald: indeed,
Marian understood him well enough to expect that nothing would be heard.
As she was on her way to her own room, looking wistfully at his door,
Lionel overtook her; and thumping her hard on the back, exclaimed,
"Isn't it a jolly beast, Marian?"
"O, Lionel, it was very naughty of you. How could you make Gerald behave
so ill?"
"Never mind, Marian, he will get out of it soon enough. Come, don't be
savage; we did it all for your good."
"My good! how can you talk such nonsense?"
"Why, I'll bet you anything you like, that mamma will never be for
having the little beastie down to show the company."
Marian half smiled; it was pleasant to find that, towards her at least,
the boys' intention had been anything but unkind, but still she hardly
knew how to be placable with Lionel when he had led her brother into
mischief, and then left him to bear all the blame.
"It was very wrong," she repeated.
"Come, don't be cross, Marian. You don't mean that you really cared for
that trumpery picture?"
"I did not care for it so much," said she, "but it was a valuable book,
and it was very kind of your papa to give it to me, so I was sorry to
have it spoilt."
"Won't it rub out?" said Lionel.
"No, of course not."
"I thought pencil always did."
"And then, Lionel, why could you not have thought what disgrace you were
leading Gerald into?"
"You don't think, Marian, I was going to be shabby enough to leave
Gerald alone in the scrape? No, if I do, I'll give you leave to tell of
me or do whatever you please; but you see now he is not in disgrace for
drawing that pretty little beast, but for giving poor unfortunate a bit
of his mind, so what use would there be in my putting my neck into the
noose before my time? No, if Gerald is the fellow I take him for, and
stands out about begging her pardon, the whole business of the book will
blow over, and we shall hear no more of it."
Marian shook her head. "O, Lionel, if you would only think whether a
thing is right before you do it!"
"How can you wish me to be so stupid, Marian?"
"I am sure, Lionel, the funniest, merriest people that I know, think
most about what is right."
"Well, that may do in Devonshire perhaps," said Lionel, stretching
himself, "but it won't here except with you. Indeed there is nobody else
that I know of that does make such a fuss about right and wrong, except
Walter, and he hasn't got an atom of fun to bless himself with."
"But, Lionel, what good will all the fun in the world do us when we come
to die?" said Marian, whispering.
The boy looked full at her, but would not show that he felt any force
in her words. "I don't mean to die just yet," he said, and by way of
escaping from the subject he mounted on the balusters, and was sliding
down as he had often done before, when by some hitch or some slip he
lost his balance, and slid down without the power to stop himself.
Marian thought him gone, and with suspended breath stood, in an agony of
horror, listening for his fall on the stones of the hall far beneath;
but the next moment she saw that he had been stopped by the turn of the
staircase, and the instinct of self-preservation had made him cling fast
to the rail with both hands, though he was unable to recover his footing
on the narrow ledge of the steps beyond it. She did not scream or call,
she ran down to the landing place--how she did it she knew not--but she
threw her arms round him and succeeded in lifting and dragging him over
the rail, which was not very high, till he stood on the safe side of the
balusters, Her heart beat, her head swam, and she was obliged to sit
down on the step and pant for breath; Lionel leant against the wall,
for his nerve was not restored for a moment or two, after his really
frightful peril. Not a word was spoken, and perhaps it was better that
none should pass between them. Mr. Lyddell's step was heard ascending,
and they both hurried away as fast as they could.
No one was told of the adventure, it was not Marian's part to speak
of it, if indeed she _could_ have done so, and it did not appear that
Lionel chose to mention it. Perhaps it was that he did not like to enter
upon it seriously, and it had been too much of an answer to his light
speech to be made a laughing matter. At any rate he was silent, and
Marian was very glad of it.
Mr. Lyddell was coming up to visit the prisoner and try if he could
bring him to reason, but it soon transpired that all his attempts had
been in vain, even though he came to a threat that unless Gerald made
his submission before the next day was at an end, he should be sent to
school with Lionel at the end of another fortnight.
Marian's distress increased, she was equally wretched at her brother's
increasing misbehaviour and at its punishment, It was provoking to see
Johnny walking about in all the grandeur and self-consequence of being
quite out of the scrape, and evidently rejoicing that Gerald was in
it; it was provoking to hear Miss Morley and the girls wondering, even
Saunders' pity was provoking, and there was nothing that gave her the
least comfort but the perception that Lionel was certainly graver and
more subdued.
She was allowed to go to her brother for a little while that evening,
with some hope that she might prevail with him. She found him leaning
against the window in the failing light, listlessly watching the horses
and grooms in the mews, which his high window overlooked. He turned his
head as she came in, but without speaking, and then looked back at the
window, till she came up to him, put her arm round his neck and turned
his face towards her. It was a sullen, dogged countenance, such as she
had seldom or never seen him wear before.
"Gerald, dear Gerald, what is the meaning of this? You never used to
behave so?"
"I never was served so before," muttered he.
"You have drawn it on yourself. Why will you not submit and ask her
pardon?"
"What should I ask pardon for? I said nothing but the truth."
"How can you say so. Gerald? Did you not know that you ought not to
scribble in books? Can you say that Miss Morley has not often spoken to
you about the Atlas?"
"If you call 'O Sir Gerald!' and 'O you sad boy,' desiring me in a
rational way, I don't," said Gerald, imitating the tones, "laughing and
letting me go on; I thought she liked it."
"Now seriously, Gerald."
"Well, I mean that she did not care. If people tell me a thing they
should make me mind them."
"You should mind without being made, Gerald.
"I would if I thought them in earnest. But now, Marian, was it not a
horrid shame of her to speak just as if I had been always disobeying
her on purpose, making Mrs. Lyddell go into a rage with me for what was
entirely her own fault?"
"No, no, Gerald, you cannot say it was her fault that you spoilt the
picture."
"I think she ought to beg my pardon for telling such stories about me,"
repeated Gerald sullenly.
"Recollect yourself, Gerald, you know she meant that she had put you in
mind that you ought not; and don't you think that, true or not, your
speech was very rude?"
"If I was to beg her pardon it would mean that she spoke the truth,
which she did not, for she never took any pains to prevent me from
drawing in the map-book, or any where else."
"It would not mean any such thing if you were to say, 'Miss Morley, I
misunderstood you, and I am sorry I was so rude.' I am sure you must be
sorry for that, for it was not at all like a gentleman. Will you come
and say so?"
"You're like the rest," mumbled Gerald, turning his back upon her, and
sitting like a stock.
"Don't you think it would be the best way? Would it not make you
happier? O what is the use of being obstinate and disobedient? Think of
going to school in disgrace. O! Gerald, Gerald, what is to be done?"
Still she spoke with earnest pauses and anxious looks, but without the
least effect, and at last she said, "Well, Gerald, I must go, and very
much grieved I am. How would dear mamma like to see her little boy going
on in this way?"
She went to the door and looked back again there, and beheld Gerald,
with his hands over his face, striving to suppress a burst of sobbing.
She sprung to him, and would have thrown her arms round his neck, but he
pushed her off roughly, and with strong effort, drove back the tears,
and put on an iron face again. Again she entreated, but he would not
open his lips or give the least sign of listening, or of attending to
any persuasion, and she was obliged to leave him at last without hope of
subduing his obstinacy. How far he was now from being the gentle, good
child that he once had been! and by whose fault was it? Her spirit
burned with indignation against those who, as she thought, had worked
the change, and O! where was the influence from which Edmund hoped so
much?
The next day was long and miserable, for Gerald gave no sign of
yielding, but remained shut up in his room, maintaining an absolute
silence, when, at different times, Mrs. Lyddell went to visit him, and
assure him that Mr. Lyddell was fixed in his determination to send him
to school if he did not yield before the time of grace was up.
The time of grace was at an end the next morning, and at nine o'clock,
Gerald was summoned to the dining-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell were
at breakfast. He wanted to carry it off with a high hand, but his long
day of solitude had dulled him, and he looked pale and weary.
"Gerald," said Mrs. Lyddell, "I am sorry you have so persisted in your
misbehaviour to oblige us to punish you, as we threatened to do. Are you
now willing to own that you did wrong?"
"I ought not to have spoilt the book," said Gerald boldly, "and I was
rude to Miss Morley."
"There is a brave boy," said Mr. Lyddell, very much relieved. "Well,
Gerald, I am glad you have given, in at last; I hate obstinacy, as I
told you yesterday, but that is over, and we will say no more about it;
only you know we told you that you should be sent to school, and we must
keep our word."
"Yes," said Gerald, trying not to let a muscle of his face relax; though
now the die was cast, his consternation at the thought of school was
considerable.
"Well, you may go," said Mr. Lyddell, "and remember that obstinacy must
be got out of a boy some way or other."
Gerald went, and soon entered the schoolroom, where he walked up to Miss
Morley, saying, "I am sorry I was rude to you the day before yesterday."
"Ah! Sir Gerald, I was sure your better sense--your generous spirit--but
I hope your submission--I hope Mr. Lyddell forgives--overlooks--"
"I am to go to school when Lionel does, if that is what you mean,"
replied Gerald, and then he came up to his sister, and looked earnestly,
yet with an inquiring shyness into her face. Marian might have been
hopeful, for his manner showed that it was for her opinion that he
really cared; but she was sad and unhappy at seeing his pride still so
far from being subdued, and though her heart yearned towards him, she
shook her head and looked coldly away from him to her book.
Gerald was chilled and went back to Lionel, who had plenty of ready
sympathy for him; a story half caught from his mamma's report, half
guessed at, that the old lady had looked full at the beast's curly tail,
and had said she had never seen anything so like Lady Marchmont; the
assertion of his own certainty that Gerald would never give in nor own
that poor unfortunate had spoken the truth, and Gerald felt triumphant,
as if his self-will had been something heroic, and his imprisonment and
going to school a martyrdom. It did not last, Gerald's nature was gentle
and retiring; he dreaded strangers, and his heart sank when he thought
of school. He wanted his sister to comfort him, but he would soon be out
of her reach. No Marian--all boys--all strange, and there was no help
for it now. Gerald rested his forehead against the window and gulped
down rising tears. But when he found himself on the point of being left
alone with Marian, his pride rose, and he would not confess that he had
been wrong or that he was unhappy, so he ran down stairs to find the
other boys and to get out of her way.
So it went on, Marian was very unhappy at this loss of his confidence;
but the more she attempted to talk to him, the more he avoided her,
being resolved not to show how great his dislike and dread of school
was.
"Gerald," said Lionel, the last day before they were to go, "I have been
thinking I should like to give Marian something instead of that book."
"So should I," said Gerald, delighted with the idea, for he was feeling
all the time that he was vexing his sister, and wishing to do something
by way of compensation.
"I did not mean you," said Lionel, "for it----for you would never have
been sharp enough to think of the beast for yourself. I only told you
because you could tell me what she would like best. Papa has just given
me a sovereign."
"He has given me another," said Gerald, "and we will put them together,
and do it handsomely."
"Well, what shall it be? Not that stupid book over again."
"O no, no, she has had enough of that already, and there are plenty of
other books that she wants."
"No, don't let it be a book," said Lionel; "I can't think how anybody
can like reading, when they can help it."
"Well, I do like some reading, when it is a shipwreck, or a famous
bloody battle," said Gerald.
"Yes, but then it makes one's eyes ache so."
"It does not mine."
"Well, if I go on long it always makes mine ache," said Lionel. "And
don't the letters look green and dance about, when you read by candle
light?"
"No," said Gerald. "How funny that is, Lionel. But I'll tell you what,
we will get Walter to take us out, and we shall be sure to see something
famous, in some shop-window or other."
Walter was at home for the Easter vacation, and under his protection the
boys were allowed to go out. Very patient he was, and wisely did he
give his counsel in the important choice which, if left to the boys
themselves, might probably have been really something famous. Marian
would have been grateful to him, had she known all that he averted from
her, a stuffed fox, an immense pebble brooch, a pair of slippers covered
with sportive demons. At every shop which furnished guns, knives, or
fishing tackle, they stopped and lamented that she was not a boy,
there was nothing in the world fit for girls; they tried a bazaar, and
pronounced everything trumpery, and Walter was beginning to get into
despair, when at last Lionel came to a stop before a print shop, calling
out, "Hollo, Gerald, here's Beauty and the Beast itself!"
It was the beautiful engraving from Raphael's picture of
Saint Margaret in meekness treading
Upon the dragon 'neath her spreading.
And Walter, rejoicing that their choice was likely to fall on anything
which a young lady might be so glad to possess, conducted them into the
shop, and gave all the desired assistance in effecting the purchase. It
was a fine impression, and the price was so high as to leave the boys'
finances at rather a low ebb; but Walter, in his secret soul, thought
this by no means to be regretted, since it was much better for them
that it should be generously spent at once in this manner, than that it
should be frittered away in the unaccountable and vain manner in which
he had usually seen schoolboys' money wasted.
So S. Margaret was bought and rolled up, and so afraid were the boys
that she should not be rightly sent home, that they insisted on carrying
her themselves, and almost quarrelled as to which should have the first
turn.
Marian, on coming into her room, found both the boys on the top of the
chest of drawers, trying to pin the print up against the wall, and
though her arrival caused them some discomfiture, it was on the whole
a fortunate circumstance, since it saved the corners from extensive
damage.
"O Lionel! O Gerald! how beautiful! how very nice! What a lovely face!
Is it really for me? How I do thank you, but I am afraid you have spent
all your money."
"It is a better Beauty and the Beast than the old one," said Gerald,
"Isn't it, Marian?"
"A better beauty, but not a better beast," said Lionel.
"It is very beautiful indeed," said Marian; "I shall get a frame for it,
and it will always put me in mind of you both."
"Yes, you will always think of me when you look at the beauty," said
Lionel, "and of Gerald when you look at the beast."
"S. Margaret and the dragon! I wish I knew the story," said Marian;
"but I suppose it is an allegory like that of S. George. How good and
innocent she looks! Yes, see, Gerald, she is walking pure and white
through the park forest, and conquering the dragon. You see the palm in
the hand for victory. So innocent and so fearless."
"I thought it would be one of those funny Roman Catholic stories, like
what Caroline was reading one day," said Lionel.
"I don't like making fun of those," said Marian. "They often mean a
great deal, if you don't laugh at them, and tell them properly. I
am sure this print is to put us in mind of how we are to overcome
temptation, and I do like it very much. Thank you both."
Lionel was here called away, but Gerald remained, and proceeded to a
more minute examination of the beauties of the print, of which he was
very proud.
"O, Gerald, dear, if we could be like it," said Marian.
"Like it? That you'll never be, Marian; your hair is too black."
"Yes, but like it within. Pure and clear from sin in the midst of a bad
world. I shall look at it and think of that very often, and you must
think too, Gerald."
"I mean to be good at school," said Gerald.
And leaning against his sister, he let her talk to him as in times of
old, advising him with all her might, for he really liked it, and was
comfortable in having it so, though he would have been ashamed to
own that he did. Her advice was at once childish and wise; sometimes
sensible, sometimes impracticable. Let any sister of fourteen think what
counsel she would give a brother of nine if he would but listen to her,
and she will have a very fair idea of it. Gerald listened and promised
earnestly, and she thought, hoped, and trusted that his promises would
be kept: she reminded him of all that could strengthen his resolution,
and talked of the holidays with what cheer she might. She had copied out
a morning and evening prayer from her own treasured book, rather than
give him such another, because she thought he would perhaps heed them
more in her handwriting, and she now gave them to him, folded up in a
neat little silk case, which he could keep without observation. How she
put her arm round him and pressed him towards her as she gave them into
his hand, and felt that she was doing what her mother would have done,
so earnestly, so tearfully, so much more impressively. O was she
watching them now?
The brother and sister were interrupted at last, and called down to tea.
The evening passed away heavily, spent as it was for the most part in
the drawing-room; and the last thing before the boys went to bed, Lionel
pushing Gerald roughly off, held Marian fast by the hand, and whispered
in her ear, "I say--you've written out something for Gerald."
"Yes," she answered, horrified that he should have found it out.
"Would you mind doing it for me? Don't tell any one."
Was not this a pleasure? Marian sat up in her dressing-gown that night
to write the prayers in her very clearest writing, for she knew Lionel
never liked to read what was not large and clear, and she guessed that
late in the evening, after all his lessons, he would have too many
"green and blue monsters," as he used to call them, before his eyes,
to be willing to give them more work than he could possibly help. She
thought her mamma would have been very uneasy if she had heard of those
green and blue monsters, and she wondered whether Mrs. Lyddell knew
or cared about them, but Lionel was one of the least regarded of the
family, and nobody but Johnny ever thought it worth while to make a
trifling complaint to her. It was far worse that Lionel should be left
to obtain a form of private prayer by such a chance as this. Alas! alas
for them all! She was too unhappy to think more of Lionel, and in the
midst of earnest prayers for Gerald, she cried herself asleep.
Poor child, she was too miserable all the next day to give us any
pleasure in contemplating her.