"_Benedict_. What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?"
"_Beatrice_. Is it possible Disdain should die while she has such
meet food to feed her?"
_Much Ado about Nothing._
The Lyddell family did not continue in London much longer; it had been a
short season, and though the session of Parliament was not over, most
of the ladies were taking flight into the country, before the end of
June,--Mrs. Lyddell among the rest,--and her husband went backwards and
forwards to London, as occasion called him.
The girls were glad to get into the country, but Marian soon found that
she had not escaped either from gaieties, or from the objects of her
aversion; for Mr. Faulkner brought his mother and sisters to High Down
House, gave numerous parties there, and made a constant interchange of
civilities with the family at Oakworthy. Archery was pretty much the
fashion with the young ladies that year; it was a sport which Marian
liked particularly, having often practised it with Edmund and Agnes, and
her bow and arrows were always the first to be ready.
One day when Marian, Caroline, and Clara were shooting on the lawn at
Oakworthy, Mr. and Miss Faulkner rode from High Down, came out on the
lawn, and joined them. From that moment, any one could see the change
that came over Marian. Instead of laughing and talking, teaching Clara,
and paying only half attention to her own shooting, she now went on as
if it was her sole object, and as if she had no other purpose in life.
She fixed her arrows and twanged her string with a rigidity as if the
target had been a deadly enemy, or her whole fate was concentrated in
hitting the bull's eye; and when her arrows went straight to the mark,
or at least much straighter than those of any one else, she never
turned her head, or vouchsafed more than the briefest answer to the
exclamations around.
The others were talking of archery in general and in particular,--just
what, if it had not been Mr. Faulkner, would have delighted her; but
she would not hear him. He might speak of the English long-bow, and
the cloth yard-shaft, and the butts at which Elizabeth shot, and the
dexterity required for hitting a deer, and of the long arrow of the
Indian, and the Wourali reed of South America,--as long as he spoke it
was nothing to her, let Caroline smile and answer, and appeal to her as
much she would. Then came a talk about archery meetings and parties, in
which at last they all grew so eager, that they stood still round the
return target, and Marian could not shoot back again without perilling
them; so she unstrung her bow, and stood apart with a stern face, which
made her look a great deal more like Diana, than she by any means
suspected or desired.
Two days after, there came a note from Miss Faulkner,--Julia, as she had
requested to be called,--saying that her brother was so delighted with
the archery schemes that had been discussed, that he could not give them
up, and intended to give a grand fête at High Down,--archery in the
morning, a ball in the evening, and all the ladies who liked, to be in
costume. She ended by begging Caroline to come to luncheon that day, or
the next, to enter into council on the subject. There was great delight;
such an entertainment was quite a novelty in the neighbourhood, and the
costume seemed to make it all the more charming in the eyes of Caroline,
Clara, and their mother; all were talking at once, and wondering what it
could or should be, while Marian went on reading imperturbably without
one remark.
"It ought to be in Robin Hood's time, if only for the sake of Maid
Marian," said Caroline. "She will be quite sure to win the prize."
"O yes, that she will," said Clara; "she shoots so much better than any
one else."
"I shall not shoot in public," said Marian, looking up for a moment, and
then going on with her book.
"You will do nothing to make yourself particular," said Mrs. Lyddell:
"it will be very silly to set your face against this fête, when every
one knows how fond you are of archery."
"We don't know anything yet about what is to be," said Caroline,
quickly; and at that moment Elliot, coming in, offered to ride with her
to High Down, whereupon she hastened to get ready. Such an obliging
offer from her brother was certainly too uncommon a thing to be
neglected, in spite of the unwonted graciousness and amiability which
Elliot had for the last few weeks assumed towards her.
When she was gone, Marian and Clara resumed their ordinary occupations,
and one of them at least troubled herself no more about the fête, until,
shortly before dinner time, Elliot, Caroline, and Mr. Faulkner all rode
up to the front door. Mr. Faulkner, it appeared, was come to dinner, and
to carry on the consultation, since he was extremely eager about the
scheme, and no time was to be lost in sending out the invitations.
The Sherwood Forest plan had been talked over, and abandoned as too
common-place. It was to be a Kenilworth fête; eight young ladies of Lady
Julia's especial party were to appear in the morning in a pretty uniform
dress, a little subdued from the days of the ruff and farthingale; and
in the evening there was to be a regular Kenilworth quadrille, in which
each lady or gentleman was to assume the dress of some character of
Queen Elizabeth's court. In fact, as Mr. Faulkner said;--
"Gorgeous dames and statesmen bold
In bearded majesty appear."
Amy Robsart, Katherine Seymour, Anne Clifford, Frances Walsingham,
Mildred Cecil, and other ladies of the time were mentioned, and then
came the counting up of their eight living representatives,--the two
Misses Faulkner, Caroline, yes, and Clara herself, who started and
danced with ecstasy, then glanced entreatingly at her mother, who looked
doubtful; Marian, two cousins of the Faulkners, who were always ready
for anything, and a Miss Mordaunt, were reckoned up, and their dresses
quickly discussed; but all the time Marian said not a word. She was
thinking of the waste of time and consideration, the folly, levity
and vanity, the throwing away of money, all this would occasion, and
enjoying in her own mind the pleasure of resisting it _in toto_. She
supposed she must go to the archery meeting, though why people could
not be contented to shoot on their own lawns, instead of spoiling their
pleasure by all this fuss, she could not guess; but make a show of
herself and her shooting, be stared at by all the world,--that she would
never do. Nor would she make a figure of herself at the ball, and spend
the money which she wanted very much for her poor people and her
books, now that her court dress and London finery had eaten up such an
unconscionable share of her allowance. Increased as it was, she had
never felt so poor as at present; she wanted Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and
Legendary Art" for herself, and there were all the presents to be sent
to the old people at Fern Torr; and should these be given up for the
sake of appearing as the fair Anne Clifford, or some such person, for
one evening, during which she would be feeling most especially unnatural
and uncomfortable? No indeed! and she trusted that she had a very good
and sufficient defence against all such foolery, in the slight mourning
which she was wearing for one of the Marchmont connection. True, she had
thought of leaving it off next Sunday, but no matter; it would be such
armour as was not to be lightly parted with; and if she went to the ball
at all, it should never, never be as the heiress of the Cliffords, but
as the faithful mourning relation of old Mr. Thomas Marchmont, her
second cousin once removed, whom she had never beheld in her life, and
who would have been dead at least nine weeks by the time it took place.
She said nothing about it in the drawing-room; but when they went up
stairs, she told Caroline not to reckon upon her, for she should be in
mourning, and could not wear a fancy dress. Caroline looked much vexed.
"It was a great pity," she said, "and Julia Faulkner wished it to be
all their own set. Besides, would not Marian shoot,--she who did it so
well?"
"O, no, no, I could do no such thing with all those people staring."
"Not even for a silver arrow? You would be sure to win it."
"I should be ashamed of the very sight of it ever after. O no! I should
like--at least I should not mind seeing it all as a spectator, but as to
making a part of the show, never, never, Caroline!"
"Well, I know it is of no use to try to persuade you!" said Caroline,
with a little annoyance in her tone. "Good night."
Lady Julia, with her son and daughter, came to call the next day. Marian
thought herself fortunate in not being in the drawing-room. She put on
her bonnet, slipped out at the garden door, and walked away with a book
in her hand, to the remotest regions of the park, where she sat down
under a thorn-tree, and read Schiller's Thirty Years' War with a sort of
exemplary diligence and philosophy, till it was so late that she thought
herself perfectly secure of the Faulkners' being gone. Yet she only just
missed them, for their carriage was driving off at one door, as she
reached the other.
"Where have you been, Marian?" was the first greeting.
"I have been walking to the old thorn."
"O, have you? We hunted for you everywhere in the house: we would hardly
believe Fanny when she said you were gone out, for I knew you meant to
walk with us."
"I thought you would be engaged so long that it was not worth while to
wait for you."
"Well, but did you know you had missed the Faulkners?" said Clara.
"I knew they were here."
Every one understood this except Clara, and very little did it please
Mrs. Lyddell or Caroline.
"Marian," said Mrs. Lyddell, "you really must not be so absurd about
this matter. Your mourning is nothing. You need not be wearing it even
now; and it will annoy Lady Julia, and put her to serious inconvenience,
if you continue to refuse."
"I am sure I do not wish to inconvenience her," said Marian; "but there
must be many young ladies who would be only too happy to take the part."
"Of course," said Mrs. Lyddell, "any one else would rejoice to be asked;
but the point is, that it is so unpleasant to admit any thing of a
stranger into the intimacy these things occasion."
"I am almost a stranger to them."
"Yes, but not to us, Marian," said Clara. "You have known them as long,
or longer than we have; and you would look so very well. Lady Julia said
herself that such a distinguished face and figure as yours would set the
whole thing off to advantage."
Caroline well knew this was but the way to make Marian still more
determined against it. She held her tongue through all the persuasions
of her mother and Clara; and trusting a little, but not much, to the
superior influence which she knew herself to possess, she followed
Marian to her room, and began,--"Marian, are you still resolute against
this unfortunate archery? because, if you do not really think it a
matter of right and wrong, I should be very much obliged to you if you
would only yield."
It was not so easy to withstand Caroline speaking in this way, as Mrs.
Lyddell almost scolding and Clara talking nonsense; but Marian had made
up her mind, and would not let herself be shaken. "I don't think I can,"
was her answer.
"Will you say whether you really think it wrong?"
"I don't know." Not her considering "I don't know," but the dry,
provoking end-of-the-matter answer of half sullen days gone by.
"If you really thought it positively wrong," proceeded Caroline, "not
another word would I say: but I don't see how you can without condemning
all gaeties, and that I know you do not."
"I only think it a--a waste of time--a great deal of nonsense," said
Marian, faltering for an answer; "and really I have spent so much money;
I do not like to throw away any more."
"O, you do not know how we have settled that," said Caroline, beginning
to be hopeful now that she had something tangible to attack. "The
dresses for the morning will be nothing,--only a white skirt and green
polka, which will do to wear for ever after, and a little ruff, very
pretty, and no expense at all; and a little alteration will make our
court dresses perfectly suitable for Queen Elizabeth's ladies. You need
not be at all afraid of being ruined."
Marian saw that, though there would be many a little expense to make a
mickle one, yet it would still only cost her Mrs. Jameson, instead of
the gifts to the poor people; but as this was what chiefly justified
her in her own eyes, she would not admit the conviction, and answered,
"Those things that are altered and adapted really are as costly in the
end as if they were new altogether. Besides, I could not, I really could
not shoot before such an assembly."
"I should so like to see you get the arrow."
"O Caroline, that would be worse than anything!"
"Well, then, don't get it; shoot as badly as you please: only do be kind
and make one of us, or you will spoil the whole concern."
"How can that be? What difference can my dressing up or shooting make to
any one?"
"Why, for one thing, if you are not one, as you must be, living with us
and all, Julia will be obliged to ask that Miss Grimley; don't you know
her?"
"What, that old young lady who has been figuring in the newspaper so
long as getting all the archery prizes?"
"Yes, the veteran archer, as Elliot calls her; and Mr. Faulkner says, if
she appears in character at all, it must be as Queen Elizabeth herself
dancing a stately pavise to the sound of the little fiddle. She is some
connection of theirs, and must be asked, if you will not take it; and
she is almost as bad as Queen Elizabeth herself, and will give none of
us any peace about the dresses, O Marian! Julia said she should esteem
it as a real kindness from you if you would be Lady Anne, if only for
the sake of keeping her out!"
"I think it would be very absurd for a person who hates the whole
concern to be dragged in, for the sake of keeping out one who likes it!"
"Then you are still resolved? Well, I had not much expectation, but
still I was half inclined to hope you would relent, if you did not think
it a point of principle, when you knew that it would be a real favor to
me."
"To you, Caroline! you do not care for such trumpery."
"I do care about seeing my friends mortified and vexed," said Caroline,
mournfully.
"Your friends!" exclaimed Marian, in a voice of contempt.
"Yes, as much as kindness can make them."
"And esteem? O Caroline!"
"Kindness--readiness to oblige," repeated Caroline.
"They are my friends, and I am very fond of them."
Caroline went away without another word, and Marian felt that her words
implied that she preferred readiness to oblige, to rigid, unbending
superiority in goodness. Marian felt it, and was disappointed in
Caroline, and pleased to have kept her determination, without asking
herself how far it was satisfied pride in obstinacy.
This was the last time for many weeks that Caroline lingered talking
in Marian's room. The old chill had come on again. Both knew, though
neither said so, that it was not so much because it was a display and
expense that Marian refused, as because it was the Faulkners' party. If
it had been Lady Marchmont's, it would have been very different. Now
Caroline liked the Faulkners; they were all good natured, and much more
agreeable than any others in the neighbourhood--than any, indeed, with
whom she had yet been brought into close intercourse. She thought Marian
was unjust and ungracious, both to them and to her; that she had been
prejudiced from the first, and now was very decidedly making herself
disagreeable by a rigidity in trifles, which was almost positive
unkindness. Caroline's home, as has been shown, was neither a very
happy, nor a very satisfactory one; so that of late she had learnt to
look upon her brother Walter and Marian as her chief comforts, and was
now much more hurt and disappointed at Marian's conduct than she was
willing to show. It was particularly unfortunate just at this time, when
there was so much to invite and gratify her at High Down, when she was
in especial need of a true and affectionate friend and counsellor, and
when Walter was absent, being engaged in preparing for his ordination,
which was to take place in the course of the autumn.
Mrs. Lyddell was much displeased with Marian, and showed it by her
coldness and formality; and Marian began to live more alone with
herself, and at war with the outer world, than she had done even before
Edmund's first visit five years ago. Caroline and Clara were a great
deal with the Faulkners, either at High Down or at home. Clara was in a
perfect transport at being admitted into the number of the archeresses,
and had struck up one of her eternal friendships with Louisa, the second
Miss Faulkner; and Marian might very fairly be provoked at seeing how
entirely her mind was diverted from all the rationality which she and
Caroline had been endeavouring--and as they had hoped, not without
success--to infuse into her during the past year. To get Clara to
settle quietly down to anything was an utter impossibility; her wisest
employment was the study of Elizabethan costumes, her most earnest, the
practice of archery. Now Marian always maintained that archery, on their
own lawn, and among themselves, was a very pretty sport; and for the
sake of consistency with her own principles, she very diligently shot
whenever the Faulkners were not there, and did her very best, by precept
and example, to make Clara fit her arrows to the string in her own
direct and purpose-like way, draw the bow-string to her ear with a
steady effort and aim, instead of a fitful jerk or twitch; and in fact
shoot, if she was to shoot, like a sensible woman, who really intended
damage to the target. Clara was very much obliged, and made some
progress; but Marian thus did herself little good with any one else,
for her love of the sport, and her excellence at it, made her spirit of
disdain all the more marked. Clara, was again, as in former times, her
chief friend in the family; for Marian, after the first vexation, held
her sense too cheap to blame her for her folly. It was the fault of the
others that she had been put in the way of what could not fail to turn
her head; so she listened, without showing many tokens of contempt,
to her endless histories of dear Louisa, and all the plans at High
Down,--of the witticisms that were perpetrated, the anticipations of
amusement and admiration, and of the tracasseries which Miss Grimley had
not failed to occasion. Marian was often entertained, and Clara more
than once hoped she was on the point of regretting that she was not one
of the favoured eight; but nothing could be further from Marian's mind.
She did not intend to absent herself either from the archery or from the
ball, but she must wear her own character, and no other; and people
were allowed to assume fancy dresses or not, just as suited their
inclination, so that she was in no fear of rendering herself remarkable.
Caroline and Clara were to go to High Down two days before the great
occasion, and stay till the day after; Marian to remain at Oakworthy.
Just before they went, Clara danced into her room, saying, "Marian, do
you know some of the officers at Portsmouth have been asked to the ball?
You know there is a railroad all the way. I wonder if Mr. Arundel will
be there?"
"Decidedly not," replied Marian.
"What, not when he knows what an attraction there will be?"
"Don't talk such nonsense, Clara; the idea of thinking a man would take
such a journey for a ball! Well, I hope you will be very happy."
"O do come and see my dress, Marian, before it is packed up; it is on
mamma's bed, and it is so beautiful!"
Marian came, and admired. Caroline was to be Amy Robsart, and Clara,
Janet Foster; a part her mother had chosen for her, as more appropriate
to a girl not yet come out. Certainly, Tony Foster would scarcely have
recognized his demure little Puritan under the little lace hood,
the purple bodice, and white skirt, at which Clara looked with such
exultation; and Janet was further to be supposed to have taken
possession of the Countess's orient neck-pearls, and was to wear them as
the only ornament that could with any propriety be bestowed on her. It
happened that Marian had a remarkably fine set of pearls. She had few
jewels of any kind; but these had been her grandmother's, and there
was some tradition belonging to them which no one ever could remember.
Janet's necklace was so much less pretty, that Marian could not help
exclaiming that Clara had better wear hers. Clara demurred, for she knew
Marian relied on these pearls to help out a dress which had seen more
than one London party; but it ended in Marian's having her own way, and
being contemptuous at the gratitude with which her loan was received.
Yet she was surprised to find that it was a relief to her that Mrs.
Lyddell departed a little from her cold politeness, and showed herself
really pleased and obliged.
Certainly, if Mrs. Lyddell had not in some degree relaxed, those two
days would have been very forlorn. As it was, it was very odd to sit
down to dinner with only Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell and Elliot, and to have no
one but Mrs. Lyddell to speak to in the drawing-room. She was glad when
the day came, to have it over; and she was not sufficiently hard-hearted
to regret that it was as fine as could be wished. To High Down they
went, and everything was just as Marian had expected,--every one walked
about and idled, and wondered when the shooting would begin; and when
it did begin, no one paid much attention to it except those who were
interested in some of the competitors. Marian watched her pupil
anxiously, and Clara, between excitement and nervousness, shot much
worse than if she had been in the garden at home, and went so wide of
the mark, that Marian was ashamed of her. Caroline did better, but not
well; and the prize was of course borne off by Miss Grimley, who was
popularly reported to have arrows enough to stock the quivers of two or
three cupids.
Clara ran up to Marian, and walked with her a little while; telling her
all that had come to pass during the last two days,--a great deal of
bustle, and merriment, and nonsense, which Clara seemed to have enjoyed
excessively, and of which Marian could have said, "Every one to his
taste." Of Caroline she saw little or nothing; and after wandering
about in the rear of Mrs. Lyddell, and exchanging a great many cold
salutations, and colder sentences of small-talk, she was very glad to
find herself once more in the carriage, though it was only to go home,
dine and dress for the ball, and then High Down again.
She wore white, with jet ornaments, and a row of pearls round her
hair,--the only thing that saved her from being rather shabbily dressed
than otherwise. However, Mrs. Lyddell had long since announced that she
had done saying anything about Marian's dress, and Fanny had not been a
ladies' maid long enough to grow into a tyrant; so that she had her own
way, and no one repeated to her, what she knew full well, that her white
silk was yellow where it swept the ground, and the lace did not stand
out as freshly as once it did.
Mrs. Lyddell and Elliot talked and laughed all the way, quizzing the
company very sociably, and both appearing in the highest spirits. Mr.
Lyddell was asleep in his corner; Marian with her forehead against the
window, and her thoughts with Gerald. They reached High Down in the
midst of a stream of carriages; and Marian, in her plain white, had to
walk into the ball-room with Elliot, who had completed his offences in
her eyes, by daring to assume the dress of Sir Philip Sidney. She soon,
however, was free of him, for he liked her as little as she liked him,
and moreover had to go and perform his part in the noted Kenilworth
quadrille. Marian was left standing by Mrs. Lyddell, as she usually did,
through the greater part of a ball; for as she never waltzed, there
were few dances in which she could take a part. She had made half the
Oakworthy neighbours afraid of her; and Mrs. Lyddell, having found that
all activity in the way of being a useful chaperon was thrown away, had
acquiesced in leaving her to herself, "doing her justice" sufficient by
taking her to the ball.
Marian was entertained by the pageant, as she deemed it. It was a very
pretty scene, with so many gay dresses, in the bright light; and it was
amusing to recognise her acquaintances in the wonderful costumes some
of them had seen fit to assume. She would have liked some one to
laugh with, at a shepherdess dancing, crook and all; and she highly
appreciated a good-natured old gentleman, who was willing to do
anything, however absurd, that could please his friends, and had come
out as my grave Lord Keeper himself, with
"His bushy beard and shoe-strings green,
His high-crowned hat and satin-doublet."
Caroline looked more like a beauty than she had ever seen her before.
Her fair ringlets and white neck had a peculiar elegance, set off by the
delicate fan-like ruff, and graceful head-gear of the Countess Amy. The
only fault that Marian could find was, that poor Amy never could have
looked as if she had so much mind as Caroline's countenance expressed.
As to her partner, Marian did not behold him with very different
feelings, from those with which she would have regarded the real Earl
of Leicester, could she have had one peep at the actual pageant of
Kenilworth, with its outward pomp, masking the breaking hearts beneath.
Thereupon she fell deep into musings on "Kenilworth," which she had read
at home, when, so young and unlearned in novels as not to have a guess
at what would happen, when it was all a wonder and fairy-land of
delight, and when poor Tressilian's name of Edmund had been his first
charm in her eyes, even before she loved him for his deep character and
melancholy fate. She thought how unlike all this common-place world was
to the world it aped--how far these Raleighs and Sidneys were from being
worthy to usurp the name even for one evening! and as to Tressilian, how
impossible to see any face here that would even shadow her idea of him!
And yet she did not know; she might have to change her mind. There
actually was a countenance handsome, thoughtful, almost melancholy
enough for Tressilian himself, with the deep dark eyes, pale, clear,
sun-burnt, brown complexion, and jetty hair that befitted her hero; a
short beard and dark dress would have completed him, but she almost
thought it a pity that such a face should appear above a scarlet coat
and gold epaulettes.
However, Tressilian had been moving towards the end of the room where
she was standing, and was coming so near that she could not study him
after the first; so she turned to speak to Miss Faulkner, who had
finished her quadrille, and just as a polka was commencing, she was
surprised by finding Tressilian himself standing by her, and asking to
have the honour of dancing with her.
"Thank you, I don't dance the Polka," she replied; and as she spoke
quick flashes of thought crossed her thus--"I have not been introduced
to him--I have met him before--how horrid of Tressilian's face to talk
of polkas--ha! it is Edmund!"
Edmund Arundel's eye it was that was glancing at her with a look of
great amusement at her bewilderment.
"The next quadrille," he proceeded, in the same ceremonious voice.
"O Edmund, Edmund, I did not know you in the least! Who would have
thought of seeing you here?"
"Why not? Did you not know we were asked?"
"Asked? yes; but who would have come who could have helped it?"
"I wanted particularly to see you." Then, after speaking to Mrs.
Lyddell, he turned to her again, and resumed, "But am I not to have the
pleasure of dancing the next quadrille with you?"
"If it is any pleasure to you, I am sure you are very welcome."
"In the mean time, what is the meaning of your not being amongst the
performers? You used to be a capital shot."
"I? O, of course I could not shoot before all the world."
"Well, I was in hopes my pupil had been doing me credit; so much so,
that I tried very hard to make that lady with the silver arrow into
you, and--" as Marian looked at Miss Grimley's thin, freckled face, and
reddish, sandy locks, and could not help smiling, he continued, "when
that would not quite do, I went on trying to turn each maid of honour
into you, till, just as I gave you up, I saw young Dashwood fixed in
contemplation; and well he might be, for there was something so majestic
as could be nothing but Zenobia, Queen of the East, or Miss Arundel
herself."
"Majestic! nonsense! nothing can feel less majestic."
"Then decidedly you are not what you seem."
"I was trying all the time to make you into Tressilian, only your red
coat was in the way. You know I never saw you in it before."
"And so you have given up archery?"
"O, no! I shoot at home; only I cannot make a spectacle of myself,--I
hate the whole thing so much."
"And you would not wear a fancy dress?"
"You see I am in mourning."
"Why, who is dead?"
"Don't you know? Old Mr. Thomas Marchmont."
"Yes, and his great-grandfather likewise! Well, you certainly are
inclined to make the most of your connection with the peerage,"
"Edmund!" and for the first time Marian felt as if she had been making
herself more foolish than magnanimous. He gave his arm and they walked
along together. He presently began abruptly, "What I came here for was
to consult you about a plan for Gerald. You see I shall never get at him
unless I have him alone. Now I don't like to take him away from you for
the holidays, but I do not see how it is to be managed otherwise."
"I don't do him any good now," said Marian sadly.
"What I thought of was this; I find I can get leave for two months this
summer. Now suppose I was to take him to Marchmont's grouse shooting
place in Scotland, and about among the Highlands and Islands. Perhaps
the pleasure of that excursion would make up for the being carried off
by an awful guardian, and those scrambles might bring him to the old
footing with me."
"O it would be very nice to have him with you," said Marian; "but----"
"Well, what is the but?"
"I don't know, only would not taking him home be more likely to revive
old associations than anything else?"
"No," answered Edmund most decidedly; then in a more hesitating manner,
as if casting about for reasons, he added, "I mean he was at home last
year--it would not appear so inviting as this expedition--it would be
giving every one a great deal of trouble."
"To have the Manor House set to rights--yes--but just a week at the
Parsonage--just to revive the old feelings with you. For you to teach
him how to behave to the Fern Torr people."
"No," repeated Edmund, "it would not do."
He spoke in a manner that made Marian look up in his face with surprise,
and exclaim as if hurt, "Then you are really casting off poor old Fern
Torr."
The next moment she was sorry she had said so, for his namesake in
"Kenilworth" could never have worn a more melancholy aspect than he, as
he answered in a very low voice of deep feeling, "I am the last man in
the world to be reproached with too little affection for Fern Torr."
Marian was grieved, surprised, confused, but she had no time to find an
answer, for the quadrille was forming, Edmund began a search for _vis à
vis_, and she found herself dancing before she had made up her mind what
she should have said if she could have replied at once; but it was too
late to return to the subject, and she thought it best to begin entirely
another, by asking, the next time they were standing still, how he liked
the officers of his new regiment.
"Very much, most of them," replied Edmund; "one or two are particularly
nice people."
"Do you like any as well as Captain Gresham or--"
"New friends are not old ones," quickly answered Edmund.
"O no, but if you knew them as well, are there any equally worthy to be
liked? I want you to be comfortable there very much, as it is all our
fault."
"Don't say any more of that, Marian. Thank you, I am very
comfortable--they are a very pleasant set."
"Are there any of them here?"
"Yes, three of them."
_L'Eté_ cut short his speech, and when they paused again he began, "I
mean you to dance with Dashwood--there that rosy tall boy standing
partnerless behind the lady in a Swiss fly-away cap."
"O I see," said Marian.
"Yes, and don't be high and mighty with him."
"High and mighty, when I am only shy."
"Effects are seen, causes are not equally on the surface."
"O Edmund!"
"Well, he is a very nice right-minded boy, very shy himself; so don't
be grand, for I have a great regard for him, and I want him to have a
pleasant evening."
Marian was considerably frightened by being told to be agreeable, the
thing which of all others she thought the most difficult; but she would
attempt anything for the sake of obliging Edmund, and making no answer,
consoled herself with thinking how far off the next quadrille was. In
the mean time, whilst she danced in the most business-like and least
pleasure-like way possible, she was pondering on what she had to say on
her own account to her cousin, and when the quadrille was over and he
took her to the supper room in quest of ices, she eagerly began, "Then
you think me wrong about my fancy dress?"
"Shall I give your own favourite reply?"
"Don't you think it a good thing to avoid all this folly and expense?"
"And to prove Miss Arundel's lofty contempt for finery and foolery?"
"I do not want to set myself up, but how am I to help thinking all this
nonsense?"
"A hard question, since no one attempts to say it is far otherwise; but
after all, everything in this world is nonsense, except as a means of
doing right or wrong."
"And you do not think I made this nonsense a means of doing right?"
"If it had been any body else, I should have admired, but I do not trust
_you_. However I know nothing about it, I cannot judge of the amount of
sacrifice. Cream ice or water ice?"
They could not converse any more just then, and in the next polka,
Clara, who not being come out, was not well off for partners, was
extremely honoured and delighted by being asked to dance by Mr. Arundel.
When the turn of a quadrille came round again, Edmund, as good as his
word, introduced to Marian his youthful ensign, and she, dreadfully
afraid of not obeying Edmund by being agreeable to his friend, set
herself to talk with all her might; told him what some of the costumes
were intended to represent, speculated as to the others, found him
very pleasant, and ended by making him consider his friend's cousin as
delightful as she was handsome, and he had been very much impressed with
her countenance. She saw Edmund was well pleased to see him looking
animated and gratified, and the consequence was that she had to dance
with another of his brother officers, and after all it had not been by
any means such hard work to be amiable as she was apt to imagine. At any
rate she never liked a ball so well, but then she had never met Edmund
at any other, which might account for it. After the last quadrille, Mrs.
Lyddell summoned her to come home, they took their leave of Caroline and
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.