"It's hame, and it's hame, and it's hame."
Cunningham.
Edmund and Gerald had promised to spend a few days at Oakworthy, before
the one returned to Portsmouth and the other to Eton; but their plans
were disconcerted by an event which, as Clara said, placed Marian in
mourning in good earnest, namely, the death of her great aunt, old Mrs.
Jessie Arundel, who had always lived at Torquay. For the last four or
five years she had been almost imbecile, and so likely to die at any
time, that, as it seemed for that very reason, every one took her death
as a surprise when it really happened.
Edmund thought it right that both he and Gerald should attend her
funeral. Lord Marchmont, whose wife stood in the same relationship to
her, met them in London, and they all went together to Torquay, instead
of making the intended visit to Oakworthy. Gerald was obliged to return
to Eton on the following day, without coming to Oakworthy; but, to make
up for it, he wrote to his Writer from Torquay, and his letter ended
thus,--"Now I have a capital bit of news for you. Old aunt Jessie has
done what I shall venerate her for ever after--left every scrap of her
property to Edmund, except a legacy or two to her servants, a picture of
my father to me, and some queer old-fashioned jewels to you and Selina.
The will was made just after I was born; so it was to make up to Edmund
for my cutting him out of Fern Torr. You may suppose how Lord Marchmont
and I shook hands with him. It is somewhere about £20,000; there is
good news for you! He is executor, and has got to be here a day or two
longer; but Lord Marchmont and I set off by the first train to-morrow. I
shall look out for Lionel, tell him, in case he is too blind to see me.
Can't you come with him to the station, and have one moment's talk?"
This proved to be possible; and Marian, in the interval between the
coming of the post and the setting off, had time, all the hurry of her
dressing, to wonder if she ought to be very much rejoiced. She did not
believe, that even wealth could spoil Edmund, but she did not think all
this would be of much use to him. It did not give him a home, and in
fact she thought it rather a creditable thing to be as poor as he had
hitherto been. She had rather have heard of something to make him look
less like Tressilian, than he had done the last time she had seen him.
She had a pleasant drive with Lionel, who was very glad of any good luck
befalling Mr. Arundel, and presently, after some meditation, broke out
as follows:--"My eyes! what miles and miles it would buy in Australia"
and then proceeded to talk all the rest of the way about Australian
bulls.
The meeting at the station was a bright one, though so short, as
scarcely to be worth the journey, if the value of such moments were to
be reckoned by their number. There was Lord Marchmont to be spoken to,
as well as Gerald, which broke into the time. Gerald looked very happy
and pleasant. He said Edmund was the best fellow in the world, and that
he had been very happy--shot lots of things--he wished he could stop to
tell about it. Then Marian hurried what she had to say, while Lionel was
looking after his luggage. "Gerald, would you just try if you can do
anything to spare Lionel's eyes? When you have the same things to do,
could you not read to him, or something? they seem so much worse, and I
am so afraid."
"I'll try," said Gerald, "but I don't think I can do much, and he will
never give in."
The bell rang--Lionel ran up--she wished them good-bye, and drove home,
happier than when last she parted there from Gerald, wondering what had
happened in his journey with Edmund, and re-assured, by his free cordial
tone. She took up a book and read all the way home.
The next thing that was heard of Edmund was in a note to Mr. Lyddell,
saying that he should come and spend one night at Oakworthy, on his way
to Portsmouth; that he hoped to arrive about one o'clock, and that
he should bring Marian her aunt's legacy of the jewels. This was
communicated to her by Mrs. Lyddell, and she could not discover from
whence he wrote; she supposed from London, unless he was still detained
in Devonshire. She looked forward greatly to his coming, as there was
so much to hear about Gerald; and she felt, as if she wanted something
pleasant, very much indeed; for, now that Lionel was gone, she found
what a companion, interest, and occupation he had been, and missed
him very much. The constraint with all the others, except Clara,
was wearisome: and Clara, though never ceasing to talk, and very
affectionately, was anything but a companion, while poor Caroline kept
more than ever aloof, and had a flightiness of spirits--a sort of
gaiety of manner--which, to Marian, seemed to be assumed. This was more
especially the case, after there was an idea of fixing the marriage for
some time in the autumn, and arrangements were talked over. Marian began
to have little doubt that she was secretly unhappy, and grew more and
more tender in feeling towards her; while, by an effect of contraries,
her manner became more frigid and severe, in proportion to the warmth
within.
Clara wondered a little what Mr. Arundel was coming for, and laughed and
looked significant when Marian said she knew perfectly well; but Marian
thought she knew so thoroughly as not to be in the least disconcerted,
though Clara's glances were full upon her when he was announced. In he
came, just at luncheon time; he shook hands with Marian with all his
might, and one glance convinced her that he had not Tressilian's
face--nay, that though the sun of Africa had left its traces, he was
more like the Edmund of the olden time, than she had ever seen him since
her father's death. There were a good many people at luncheon that day.
Mr. Faulkner was there, and there were some visitors staying in the
house. Edmund was a good way from her, and she could only hear his voice
now and then in the buzz; but it was a very pleasant sound to hear, and
when he laughed, it was his own natural, free, gay laugh, such as it
used to be. She was sure he was very happy, and wondered if it was
possible Aunt Jessie's fortune could have made him so, or whether it
could all be the satisfaction of having set Gerald to rights.
As they rose to leave the dining room, he came to her, saying, "Marian,
can you have a walk with me?"
"Oh, yes, I should like it of all things; I will be ready in one
minute." And away she bounded, saying to Caroline, in the boldest and
most innocent manner in the world, as if on purpose to show that she
expected nothing, and would not be laughed at, that Edmund had asked her
to walk with him. He waited for her in the hall, and they went out, she
scarcely pausing till they were on the steps, to say, "Well, how did you
get on with Gerald? I am sure you made him very happy."
"We got on famously. He is a very nice fellow; he only wanted a little
stimulus the right way. He is thoroughly open and candid, and I have no
fear but that he will do very well."
Marian could not speak for joy, and for gratitude to her cousin; and
her heart throbbing with delight, she walked on, waiting for him to say
something more on this most precious of all tidings. But when he spoke
again, it was if he had done with the subject of Gerald. "Marian, I
have something to tell you," He paused--she stood in suspense--he began
again. "Marian, I am going to be married!"
"O!" and the inquiring, joyful, wondering, confident tone of that O, is
what nothing can ever convey. Her eyes were turned full on him with the
same eager curiosity, the same certainty, that he could not do other
than the best. He did not speak; but the half smile on his lip was a
full though mute reply to her confidence, that she had only to hear, in
order to rejoice with all her heart; and he held out a note directed to
her, in Agnes' writing!
Marian took it, but she was too wild, too delighted, too eager to look
at him, and hear him, to be able to open it. "O Edmund!" was what she
said now, and she caught hold of his hand for an ecstatic shake.
"Yes, thank you, yes. I said I must tell you myself, Marian--my sister."
"O, I never heard anything more delightful in my life," said Marian,
with a sort of gasp, as soon as the overwhelming delight gave her
breath. "O, Edmund, Edmund!"
"You have not read her note yet."
Marian tore it open, but there was scarcely any thing to read; it was
only--
"Dearest Marian,--He will have a note to carry you,
but I can't say anything for bewilderment. I know he will
tell you all about it, so it is of no use my writing. Are
not you sorry he should have a wife so far from good enough
for him?
"Your affectionate and most amazed
"AGNES."
Marian held it up to him, smiling. "But of course you have seen it?"
"No, I have not; I suppose she thought I should not carry such
nonsense."
"Well, I am sure there is no other person in all the wide world that I
could have thought good enough for you. Agnes! Agnes! O, Edmund, I wish
there was any way of not being quite choked with gladness!"
Edmund smiled, and perhaps he was "choked with gladness" beyond the
power of speech; for the two cousins only proceeded to shake hands
again. The next thing that was said was after an interval. "Marian, you
remember our bargain six years ago? Have you grown so very fond of the
Lyddells as to repent of it?"
"O, Edmund, you have not thought of that?"
"Have not we? It was one of the first things we did think of."
"I don't think I can bear to hear of much more happiness," said Marian,
in almost a crying voice. "I am so glad for you that I can't be glad for
myself yet. I can't take it all in; it is too good to be true!"
"Indeed it does seem so. But you agree? Agnes said I must make you agree
first of all."
"Don't I? Only I want to enjoy it for you,--it is so beyond everything!"
"Well, wasn't I a wise man to say I would not miss the pleasure of
telling you myself?"
"Then do tell me; do let us be rational, if we can. Then you came here
from Fern Torr?"
"Yes. Did you not know that?"
"No. I did not hear where you wrote from. How long were you there?"
"I only went on Wednesday."
"Then it was only one whole day! How much you must have had to settle!"
"So much, that we settled scarcely anything."
"Then you don't know when it is to be?"
"No, and Mrs. Wortley talks of having time,--poor Mrs. Wortley, but I
don't think I shall take her away far; I have some notion of looking out
for some place close at hand."
"Just what we settled long ago. But O! begin and tell me all,
Edmund,--as much as you like to tell me, at least. I want to know how
you first came to think of it." Then, as he smiled, she added, "I mean,
how long you have been thinking of it."
"If you mean how long with any hope, only since I knew of good aunt
Jessie's consideration for me. How long it has been in my mind I cannot
tell; certainly before I went to Africa. You see, Marian," he continued,
as if he was apologising, "it was this which made me think it advisable
for me to go, though, as I see now, it was not at all good for Gerald."
"What,--you mean--I am not sure that I understand--"
"Don't you see, Marian, feeling as I did, and knowing how out of
the question it was for a penniless man like me, to think of
marrying,--Agnes so young too, and I with everything to draw me to what
had been my only home,--there was nothing to be done but to keep out
of the way, to guard me against myself; and that was easier with seas
between. I don't know whether I did right or not, but I hoped I did,
because it cost me something; yet it was a forsaking of Gerald which
might have done much harm, though I hope it has not, as it has turned
out."
"I see it all!" said Marian, resting there, because she had not a word
with which to express her honour of his noble conduct.
"You will forgive me now," he added, with a smile, "for what you thought
my neglect of home."
"I am only afraid I must often have given you a great deal of pain," she
almost whispered.
"Never, except when I thought it right to silence you. It was only too
delightful to hear their very names. You might well tell me that she had
grown prettier than ever."
On talked and walked the cousins, over the downs, which had certainly
never been trodden by happier people. At last they recollected that they
must return, if they wished to be in time for the post, and retraced
their steps, talking as eagerly as ever. As they were coming near the
house, Marian said, "Does Gerald know?"
"Not yet; I shall write to him to-morrow."
"Is it to be a secret? Of course I should say nothing about it while you
are here, but may I mention it afterwards?"
"They said nothing about secrecy," said Edmund; "in fact I think
attempting it, only results in making one look foolish. Yes, you are
welcome to tell whom you please as soon as I am out of the way. I had
rather the Lyddells know."
"Very well; indeed, I don't think I can keep it to myself, it is too
much joy."
"Do you expect them to participate in your pleasure at making your
escape from them?"
"There is no one to miss me, except, perhaps, Lionel, a little, when his
eyes are bad. Caroline would once have cared, but that is over now, poor
thing! There never was a time when I should have been more glad to get
away. O, Edmund, if you would do one thing to oblige me, it would be,
to have your wedding the same day as Caroline's, that I might not be
obliged to be at it."
"At which?"
"O, you know!"
"Is it such a very bad affair?"
"O, I am very much grieved about it. The man has no religion at all, you
know; at least, if he has any, it is all natural religion,--anything but
the truth."
"Do you really mean that the family have accepted him, allowed this to
go on, knowing such things of him?"
"I don't know how far they see it. I don't think they allow it to
themselves, and I don't think they would understand some of it; as, for
instance, when I heard him talking the other day as if he assumed that
Christianity was only a development of people's tendency to believe,--as
fleeting as other forms of faith. It was not very broadly stated, and
I don't think I should have seen it, if it had not chimed in with
something I had read; and, besides, I knew what was in the man."
"How do you know? Not from your own observation?"
"O, no, no; I liked him at first. I could have liked him very much, if
Lord Marchmont had not told me about him, and then I had the key to
him."
"And this poor Miss Lyddell?"
"She knew what I did," said Marian, sadly. "But he is very
agreeable,--at least he is thought so,--and they all admired him so
much, and paid such court to him, that--Yet I did think better things of
Caroline. Lionel is the only one who has found him out, and he thinks of
it just as I do, O, Edmund, I am sure you would like Lionel."
"How are his eyes?" asked Edmund, as they were coming under the portico,
and could not talk of any of the more delicate subjects. "I thought
Gerald gave a very bad account of them; indeed, I scarcely expected that
he could have gone back to Eton."
"I sometimes think," almost whispered Marian, "that it is not he, poor
boy, whose eyes are the worst in the house; but Mrs. Lyddell's head has
been so full of Johnny, and Caroline, and all she has to do, that she
will not see anything amiss with Lionel."
"He must be a boy of a great deal of resolution and principle, to have
struggled on as he has clone, by Gerald's account. Ah! I meant to have
told you about Gerald, but all our time is gone."
"Never mind, we can talk of him in the evening. There is a corner of
mine where I always get out of the way of the people, and where I
have had many a nice talk with Walter, or Lionel, under cover of Miss
Grimley's music. Now where do you like to write your letter? If you had
not rather do it in your own room, there is a nice quiet place in
the old school-room, where I write mine, when the drawing-room is
uninhabitable."
Edmund accepted the invitation, partly because he was just so shy of
letting his own handwriting be seen in the address, that he meant to
avail himself of Marian's cover. Just as Marian had finished a note, too
joyous to have any sense in it, and containing a promise to write more
sensibly to-morrow, had directed the cover, and told her cousin that
he must wind up if he meant to catch the post, Clara opened the door,
gazed, laughed, and was retiring in haste, when Marian, without a shade
of the confusion Clara had hoped for, called her back. "Edmund came here
to write a note," she said, "don't go away."
Edmund made some demonstration about intruding, and wrote the
conclusion, at which nothing but some interruption would have made him
arrive, put it into the envelope, gave it face downwards to Marian,
and departed. Now Mrs. Lyddell and Clara were both persuaded that Mr.
Arundel had come for no other purpose than to propose to Marian; and
they had been entertaining themselves during their drive with conversing
on the subject; so that Clara was never more surprised and puzzled in
her life than by seeing Marian stand there, smiling, and with beaming
eyes, brighter than ever she had looked before, but without one particle
of a blush,--white-faced as ever, only dancing first on one foot, then
on the other, balancing her bonnet on one hand, and with the other
holding the precious letter.
"Well, Marian!"
"Well!" Marian made a pirouette. "I must run and put this letter in the
box." And so saying, away she ran down stairs, up again in a second;
then meeting the astonished Clara at the head of the stairs, she took
her round the waist, and fairly waltzed her to her own door, opened it,
threw herself into a chair, exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, Clara; you'll
think me mad, but I'll tell you all about it to-morrow."
Fanny was present, so Clara could do nothing but stare; and lateness,
and a dinner-party necessitating a hasty toilette, she retreated, while
Marian contained her raptures as best she could, and meditated on the
delightful life she was to lead with Agnes and Edmund, in some cottage
on the borders of Fern Torr. O happiness, such as she had never
known, which seemed to bring back as much of her home as could ever
return,--which would be everything for Gerald! Every care gone, Edmund
happy, Gerald satisfactory, her own exile at an end. Her head almost
swain round with happiness, and she wanted to turn to the glass, to
persuade herself that she could be the same Marian Arundel, wide awake,
and yet so very, very happy.
However, it was all future, as far as concerned herself; and that cares
were in the world she was convinced, by her own pang at seeing Caroline,
whom she overtook on her way down stairs. She had no disposition to
whirl _her_ round; but there was a softened feeling, belonging perhaps
to the fulness of her own joy, that made her, as she came up with her,
put her arm round her, as she had now and then walked with her in former
days. Caroline looked in her face, and drew the arm closer without
speaking. Their faces had always been unlike, but the contrast was
stronger than ever. Marian, with those pale, regular features, plain
dark hair, black eyes and eyebrows, with her mourning dress, and yet
with a radiant, irrepressible joy and buoyancy all round and about her;
while Caroline, with her small pretty features, rosy colour, blue eyes,
glossy curls, her pink dress and gold bracelets, was in general air very
different, and in countenance how much more; for the eyes were restless,
the smile came rather as if it was called, than as if it resided
naturally on her lip,--the colour of her cheeks, though bright, looked
fixed and feverish; and now and then, there was a quiver about the whole
face. How different from the secure expression of happiness, now and
then illuminated, as it were, with some sudden flash of secret joy,
which sat on Marian's broad, serene brow.
They entered the drawing-room together, and from that time Marian was
outwardly her own stiff, distant self, till the promised time in the
evening, when Edmund made his way to her in her corner, where he was
greeted by a most sunny look. "Now for Gerald," said she.
Edmund had a great deal to tell about Gerald. He thought him, on the
whole, a very nice, amiable, right-minded boy, who only wanted more
training and watching than Mr. Lyddell would or could give. He had,
after a time, been brought to be entirely open and confiding; and this,
for which Edmund seemed to be really grateful to him, and to admire him,
was the great point, he had made Edmund a friend, instead of looking at
him as a guardian,--found that he could sympathize, and had ended by
trusting and consulting him. Marian, though wondering how the reserve
had ever been, conquered, felt the relief of knowing that all was safe
now, and was not hurt by his confiding in any one but herself. Edmund
really thought it was safe. "I believe I know the worst of him now, poor
fellow," he said, smiling, "and the worst is not much. He has been going
on in a careless, thoughtless way, out of high spirits and imitation, a
good deal, and the consciousness made him keep back from you; he owns
that, and is very sorry."
"Does he? dear Gerald!"
"He seemed to feel deeply that he had neglected you; but he said, and
very truly, how much there had been against him,--no one, as he said, to
make him mind; and the fellows would have laughed at him, if they had
found out that he attended to his sister."
"Ah! Johnny sowed that mischief long ago!"
"I hope it is not weakness. I do not think it is; for there was
manliness in confessing all, and he seemed to feel the folly strongly."
"Did he tell you about the debts?"
"Yes, and of his own accord. They are nothing in themselves; but he has
been allowed too much money, has had little warning, and his title was
against him too. So if we can break off the habit of extravagance, there
is no great harm done. After all, you know, he is very young, and
there is plenty of time to form his character. I am sure he has good
dispositions of every kind, and if he has but resolution, he will be
sure to do well,"
"I think there is resolution in his temper. Nothing shakes him when his
mind is once made up."
So Marian was very well satisfied on the whole about her brother, and
she might justly be so by Edmund's account. There was nothing to disturb
her happiness, and she only doubted whether she should be able to sleep
for it. Her brother restored, as well as everything else!
When bed-time came, Mrs. Lyddell looked at her, as if expecting
something more to be said than "good night," but nothing came,--nothing
but the dancing light in the eyes. Clara followed her to the room, and
stood gazing at her. "Why, Marian," at last she said, "can't you tell me
anything about it?"
"No; not till to-morrow."
"O, that is too bad, Marian, when you heard all I had to tell directly."
"I can't help it; I am not at liberty to tell other people's affairs."
"Don't look so grand, Marian, pray. I am sure I thought this was your
own."
"So it is in a way."
"In a way? Why, Marian, what an extraordinary girl you are! not your own
affair! Well, if you are impenetrable, I can't help it; but it is not
kind, when we all want to congratulate you."
"Stop, stop, Clara!" exclaimed Marian, and now she did blush, "will you
be satisfied if I tell you that it is not what you suppose? You shall
hear what it is to-morrow, and then you will see what nonsense you have
been talking."
"What?" cried Clara, "you are not--"
"Don't say it, pray don't! Never was any one further from it. Now do
go to bed, Clara, for I cannot tell you a word more, and keep your
curiosity at rest for to-night."
Marian took care not to be caught alone by Clara before breakfast the
next morning, and almost immediately after breakfast, Edmund departed.
Marian had been out into the hall with him to exchange some last words,
and Mrs. Lyddell, meantime, was observing to Caroline that she never
knew anything so strange; she thought it was due to herself, however
unpleasant it might be, to claim some confidence from Miss Arundel, on
such matters, while living under her care. Marian came back, however,
with her innocent look of delight,--a look so unlike the bashfulness of
a damsel in love, that Mrs. Lyddell felt again doubtful; and before she
could speak, Marian had turned to Clara and said, "Now I will tell you
what makes me so happy. Edmund and Agnes Wortley are engaged, and I am
to go and live with them."
"Miss Wortley!" at once exclaimed Mrs. Lyddell and her daughters, in the
extremity of surprise; and then Mrs. Lyddell and Clara asked all the
usual questions in haste and eagerness, wondering within themselves most
of all at Marian's full rejoicing, for till now they had never been
able to see that Edmund was really to her only like an elder brother.
Caroline scarcely spoke, only went on nervously with her work. At last,
when some interruption had caused her mother and Clara to leave the
room, she laid it down, looked at Marian for a moment or two, then said,
in a trembling voice, "Dear Marian, I am glad you are so happy! I am
glad you are to live with them!" then kissed her, and hastened away
before she could answer or return the caress. Her handkerchief was
raised as she closed the door. Marian sat and grieved, for well did she
know all poor Caroline conveyed by that "I am glad you are to live with
them." It meant that Caroline felt that she had given up the esteem and
friendship in which they had lived,--that she thought her own home unfit
for one brought from such a sphere as Fern Torr,--that she resigned all
those plans for Clara's good, everything that had been valued between
them,--that she looked not for happiness for herself, and though she
had forfeited such affection as once had been hers, yet she still loved
Marian. How could Marian rejoice so much, when such a fate was waiting
for Caroline? Poor Caroline! she contrasted her feelings with those of
Agnes, grieved again over her, and ended by blaming herself for all the
coldness and severity of the last six weeks, requited as it was by so
much kind, fond affection.
Yet Caroline was weakly, wilfully doing wrong. How should she behave
rightly towards her? O, why would nothing happen to save her, and break
off this mockery of a marriage? But as of this there seemed little
hope,--as the Faulkners were at Oakworthy more than ever, and Mrs.
Lyddell was talking in good earnest of wedding clothes, and bridesmaids,
it was a comfort to have these better hopes to occupy herself with.
Especially did she enjoy the idea of Gerald's rejoicing, and it was very
eagerly that she watched for his first letter of delight. It came as
soon as heart could wish; but so mixed are joy and grief in this world,
that even Gerald's letter could not convey unalloyed pleasure, but
filled her with a fresh anxiety,--or more properly, strengthened and
realized what had hitherto been but a vague terror.
"Eton, Sept. 14th.
"My dear Marian,--Never was anything better in this
world than Edmund's plans. I give him infinite credit for
them; and, as head of the family, he has my full consent.
I wish they would go and live at the Manor House
till I am of age,--that would be jolly! Lionel desires me
to tell you that it is all very well, except your going from
Oakworthy, and he shall go about the house like a mad
fury," (here followed his portrait in the character,) "if you
go before he is off after the blue wild beestes at the Cape.
His eyes are very bad, and I wish you would tell Mrs.
Lyddell about them; for I don't believe it is a bit of use
his staying here, and though I am very glad to help him,
doing all his work and my own too is more than I can stand.
It is much worse than last half; then he could see to read,
though it hurt him; now Greek or small print beats him entirely,
and he cannot look out a word in the Lexicon. He
does just manage to write, and he never forgets anything;
so another fellow and I have dragged him through, this
week. But it cannot go on so; and as he won't give up or
complain, I will have something done about it, or he will
blind himself outright before he has done. I cannot think
how it is my tutor has not found it out, but I suppose it is
that Lionel is so sharp, and has such a memory. Do speak
to Mrs. Lyddell.
"Your affectionate brother,
"E. GERALD ARUNDEL"
Marian carried the letter at once to Mrs. Lyddell's dressing-room, but
she found that Gerald had been mistaken in supposing the tutor had not
observed Lionel's failing sight: for the same post had brought a letter
from him, which had at length completely alarmed Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell,
and the former was going at once to write to his son to meet him in
London, where he intended to consult one of the first oculists.
This was a great relief. Mr. Lyddell set off, and the party at home
comforted themselves with predictions that all would soon be remedied;
Marian and Clara agreeing that it would be very pleasant to have Lionel
at home to walk with them, and to be nursed.
Mr. Lyddell had been gone about two days; Caroline and Clara were at
High Down, and Marian was returning from a solitary ramble in the park,
enjoying her last letter from Agnes, when, as she crossed the lawn, she
was startled by finding Lionel stretched on his face on the grass, just
at the turn where some bushes concealed him from the windows. He lay
flat, without his hat, his forehead resting on one arm; while with his
hand he tore up daisies and grass, and threw them hastily over his
shoulder, while his whole frame quivered in a convulsive agony of
distress.
"Lionel! Lionel! you come home? What is the matter?" exclaimed she.
"Matter! matter enough, I think," said, or rather muttered Lionel;
"There is an end of the Cape, or anything else."
"How are your eyes?" asked Marian, in consternation.
"Only I am blind for life!" answered Lionel; still hiding his face, and
speaking in a sullen, defiant tone.
Marian, dreadfully shocked, almost beyond all power of speaking or
moving, could only drop down sitting on the grass beside him, and take
his hand.
"All neglect, too," he added; then vehemently, "I don't believe, no I
don't, there is any pauper's son in the parish that would have been so
used!"
Her voice was low with fright: "But, Lionel, what has happened? Let me
see you. Is it worse? can't you see?"
"O yes, I can see now, after a fashion, at least, but that is soon to
go, they say, and then--They have done it themselves, and they may have
that satisfaction!" added he, with a fearful bitterness in his tone.
"Elections, and parliament, and dinners, and that Faulkner,--that is
what they have given my sight for." He withdrew his hand, and turned his
shoulder from Marian, as if resolute not to be comforted; and again he
shook with agony.
"O, don't say such dreadful things, dear Lionel! O, if I could but do
anything for you!" she cried, in a tone of heartfelt grief, which seemed
to soften the poor boy a little; for he twisted round, so that his face,
still pillowed on one arm, was half raised to her, and she could see
how flushed it was, and that the eyelids were inflamed, though not
with tears, and the eyes themselves had not altered from their former
appearance.
"'Tis not your fault," he said. "If my mother had cared for me one
quarter--"
"Don't blame anybody, pray!" interrupted Marian: "it only makes it
worse. Only tell me all about it. Did the occulist say--"
"Not to me," answered Lionel; "not the worst, at least. He examined my
eyes very closely, and asked me all manner of questions about what I
could see, and what I could not, and what things hurt them, and how long
it had been going on, and how I had been using them. Then he told me
that it was impossible for him to do anything for them as yet, till the
disease had made more progress; that most likely I should quite lose my
sight this winter, and then I must come to him again. So that was bad
enough, but I could have made up my mind to that, and they sent me away.
Then it seems that, after I was gone, he went on about it to papa, and
told him that the mischief had been brewing time out of mind, and some
time ago it might have been stopped; but all that straining of my eyes
at Eton, last half, had done immense harm, and confirmed the disease;
and it is of a kind that--that--there is no cure for!" He buried his
face again.
"Did Mr. Lyddell tell you this?"
"No, he only told me we were to go home directly, and wrote to Gerald to
send my things from Eton. He hardly spoke a word all the way,--only led
me about, and poked me in and out of the carriage, as if I was
blind already; it put me almost in a rage. Then as soon as we came
home,--about half an hour ago, I should think,--he told it all straight
out to my mother, did not mince matters, I assure you: indeed, I believe
they both forgot I was there. They are apt to forget me, you know. He
regularly stormed about the neglect, and told her it was all her fault;
and while this was going on, I found I had heard the worst, and I did
not want to be pitied, so I came out here. And so there is the whole
story for you, Marian, and a pretty one it is! A fine sort of life I
shall have instead--"
"Well but, Lionel," cried Marian, eagerly, "are you sure that be said
_for certain_ that it was hopeless? for it seems so odd that he should
have told you one thing, and Mr. Lyddell another."
"Pshaw! I suppose he had got some consideration, and did not want to
knock me down with the worst at once."
"I should think it was more comfortable to know the worst at once!" said
Marian, meditatively, "so as to be able to settle one's mind to it."
"A pretty thing to settle one's mind to," said Lionel, "to know I must
be a good-for-nothing, dependent wretch all my days! As well be a woman,
or an idiot at once! There, I shall never see that tree green again; no,
and spring--I have seen my last of that! and I may look my last at all
your faces. Johnny I shall never see again."
Ho was crying bitterly now,--almost choking with tears; and Marian's
were flowing too. She was much distressed at the present moment; for
though the weeping was likely to relieve him, she feared it might be
doing harm to his eyes, and she did not know in the least whether it
ought to be checked, or, indeed, how to check it. Grieved and in great
consternation she was, in truth, for she was very fond of Lionel,
and full of such strong sympathy and compassion, as to be perfectly
incapable of expressing it, in the slightest degree. But he knew her;
she had been the only person who had ever been uneasy about his
sight, and this went for a great deal with him: so that, with all her
undemonstrativeness, there was no one whom he could have liked so well
to have near him in that moment of dire despair. "O, I am so sorry!"
expressed infinitely more than the simple words.
"You see, Marian," said he, raising himself, and struggling with the
sobs of which he was ashamed, "I could bear it better if I had not had
such a scheme for my life, and my father consenting too. Australia, and
those wild cattle, and that glorious Bush life, always galloping in the
plains; and now to be condemned to be moping about here, for ever, in
darkness and helplessness. O, to think of the plans we have made, all
come to an end for ever!" and again he was weeping violently.
"They might have been stopped otherwise," said Marian, catching at any
possible idea that might answer, or seem to console him; "you know you
might have been ill, or met with an accident, and had a great deal to
suffer."
"I would suffer anything rather than lose my eyesight! You don't know
what you are talking of."
"Then just suppose this complaint had come on, in some lonely place out
in the wilds, with no one to take care of you."
"It would not, I should have had no Greek to put my eyes out."
"And after all, dear Lionel, you know----;" there she was choked--"you
know that--" and she was choked again--"you know where it comes from."
"I know what you mean," he said; "and if it did--But it is my mother's
neglect; there is the bitterness of it. Why, you and my father tried to
stir her up to it in the spring, and she would not; and then, when for
very shame she must attend, what does she do but let me go muddling on
with that old woman Wells! She has regularly thrown my sight away, as
much as if she had pulled my eyes out and thrown them over the hedge."
"No one could ever have guessed--"
"I tell you she might have guessed. Any other mother in the world would
have been frightened years ago, long before I went to school. If it had
been Elliot or Johnny, wouldn't she have had half the doctors in London?
but what did she ever trouble her head about _me?_"
"Now, Lionel, that must not be said. You know it is wrong, and I am sure
you will see how sorry she is, and how it was really not having time."
"I dare say she is sorry--I should hope so--now it is too late, and she
has done it."
"But why will you accuse any one?" said Marian, sorely perplexed, and
secretly sharing all his indignation against Mrs. Lyddell. "You know it
only embitters you and makes it all worse; and after all, even if man
had actually done the mischief, it still would ultimately be sent from
Heaven."
"I don't see that that makes it any better," murmured Lionel.
"O don't you, Lionel?" said she earnestly; "doesn't it make you sure it
is for the best?"
"I don't know what I have done to be so punished," went on Lionel to
himself; "I have not always been good, but I have tried, and more
lately, to do right; there are many much less steady than I, who--"
"Yes, yes, Lionel, but perhaps it is not as good for them to be
prosperous. Indeed, indeed I am quite sure, though I don't understand it
all, or see the way, that if you will but bear it rightly, you will be
glad, if not before, yet at least when you die, even of this terrible
affliction."
"I almost wish I was dying now!" said Lionel gloomily, "if I could but
die the last day that I am to see the sky and everything, instead of
droning on in the dark, a burthen to myself and every one else, for
I don't know how long, forty, fifty, sixty years perhaps. You know,
Marian, I am only sixteen--"
There was a burst of tears again, and Marian felt herself an
unsuccessful comforter, nor did she wonder at it, for she could not
fancy that anything could relieve the sense of such a misfortune as poor
Lionel's, except the really high source of consolation, and that as yet
only by faith, which might make him take it on trust as the best in the
end, though for the present he must feel all the misery. She had no time
to answer him again, for the garden door opened, and at the sound he
dashed away his tears, sprang to his feet, and assumed a firm, cold,
would-be indifferent look, as Mrs. Lyddell came out and advanced towards
them. Marian thought her looking flushed and agitated, and her voice
certainly betrayed more emotion than had ever been shown in it, except
when bidding Johnny farewell.
"Lionel, my dear, sitting on the damp grass? You will certainly catch
cold! I have been searching for you everywhere, but I am glad you were
with Marian. I wanted to ask you, my dear, whether you would like to
have your own room or Walter's," added she, wandering on as if anxious
to say what was kindest, yet dreading to come to the subject nearest
their hearts.
"My own, thank you," bluntly answered Lionel, "I'll and unpack." He
brushed hastily by her, and ran into the house up stairs, his roughness
contrasting with her affectionate tone. She looked at Marian, and saw
the trace of tears on her eyelids, and her own lip quivered while her
eyes filled, and she said in a trembling voice, "Poor dear boy! has he
been telling you? Does he know it all?"
"Yes," said Marian, anxiously, "but is it really so very bad? Is there
no hope?"
"No hope? Who said so?" exclaimed Mrs. Lyddell quickly.
"He did," said Marian; "he said Mr. Lyddell told you so."
"Was he there?" exclaimed she: "Ah! that was Mr. Lyddell's strong way of
putting things! So unfortunate--forgetting all about him. Poor fellow! I
must go to him directly, and tell him it was no such thing."
"What? how? O do tell me!" cried Marian, turning and hurrying with her,
and speaking with, such earnestness that Mrs. Lyddell could not doubt of
her sympathy now. She slackened her pace, and explained that what the
surgeon, had said was, that there was confirmed disease, and of a very
serious character, but the precise nature could not be ascertained till
it had made greater progress, and it was then possible that it might
prove capable of removal.
Mrs. Lyddell was resolved that neither herself nor any one else should
believe anything but what was most hopeful. She could not have borne
it otherwise. She really was far from being indifferent to any of her
children, though multiplicity of occupation, and thoughts, engaged on
what she considered the welfare of the family, had prevented her
from being properly attentive to all, and she was so accustomed to
uninterrupted prosperity, as to have almost forgotten that there was
such a thing as anxiety or misfortune. Lionel, neither the eldest nor
the youngest, healthy, and independent, neither remarkable for beauty
nor grace, just unruly enough to be provoking, and just steady enough to
be no cause of anxiety, had been as much a cipher in the family as a One
lively boy could be; but though slow to be roused into anxiety, she felt
it with full force when it came, all the motherly affection, which while
secure had appeared dormant, revived, she was dreadfully shocked, and
would have been utterly overwhelmed by the accusation of neglect, had it
not been for her sanguine spirit. In this temper she represented all to
Marian in the most cheering light, and hastened up stairs to do the same
to Lionel. Marian, relieved and hopeful, was waiting to collect some
properties of hers, to carry to her room, when she met Mr. Lyddell. She
went up to greet him, and thinking that he looked very mournful, there
was more cordiality and fellow-feeling in her way of addressing him than
ever there had been before, though she simply said "Good morning" and
shook hands.
"You have heard about it, Marian?" said he. "Has he been with you, poor
fellow?"
"Yes," said Marian, "he is in his own room now."
"Ah! you spoke long ago," said Mr. Lyddell; "I wish we had attended to
you."
"It was Edmund who remarked it," said she.
"Ay, ay, and senseless it was not to attend. Then it seems that
something might have been done, at any rate he would not have gone on
injuring them with his work at Eton, but now it is as good as a lost
case. Poor fellow!"
"O!" exclaimed Marian, thrown back again, "I thought there was a hope
that it might not prove to be the worst."
"There is just a shade of chance that it may turn out otherwise, and
that, your mother--Mrs. Lyddell I mean--takes hold of, but I have not
the slightest hope. The surgeon said, it had all the appearance of a
confirmed case, such as cannot be removed."
Marian stood aghast, and Mr. Lyddell, with a sort of groan, most painful
to hear, passed her, and shut himself into his study. The only thing she
could think of doing, was to pour out her dismay and compassion in a
letter to Gerald, and she repaired to the schoolroom for the purpose of
writing, but she had not been there long, before Lionel came in, and sat
down astride on the music-stool, just as he used to do, but with a very
different expression of countenance from the wild, reckless spirit of
merriment which used to possess him. He sat and meditated for a little
while, then exclaimed, "Marian, whom have you seen since I left you?"
"Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell."
"Did you hear papa say anything about it?"
"Yes, a little."
"Did he say what the doctor thought of it?"
"Yes."
"Tell me the very words," and he leant his elbows on the table, looking
at her fixedly.
"Ah! Lionel, can you bear it? They are so very sad."
"Tell me them, I say."
Marian looked down, as if she could not bear to meet his countenance,
and faltered as she repeated them.
"Ay!" said Lionel, springing up, and flinging himself round
passionately, "I knew it was humbug all the time!"
"What? How? O Lionel, what have I done?"
"As if I was a fool or a baby, to be fed with false hopes," proceeded
Lionel, sitting down, and hiding his face on his crossed arms on the
table; "she might have let that alone, she has done me mischief enough
already."
"Lionel," said Marian, firmly and gravely, for she was really shocked at
his tone, "you must not come to me, if it is to speak in such a manner
of your mother."
"Very well," said Lionel coldly, rising up to leave the room, then
pausing just as his hand was on the door, "I thought _you_ did feel for
me, Marian."
"O Lionel, dear Lionel," and she sprang to him, to lead him back to his
seat, but he still retained his hold of the lock and would not move;
"you know"--her tears were flowing--"you know how I grieve for you; but
if you are in trouble, that ought not to make you do wrong," He was
turning the lock, and hardened his face, but Marian went on, "Don't go,
Lionel, only hear me. Mrs. Lyddell is very unhappy about you, and I am
sure you must see yourself, that if she blames herself for any want of
care, her only comfort must be in hoping for the best, making the most
of this little ray."
"Then _you_ think there is a ray!" interrupted Lionel.
"So far as that nothing is certain, but I am afraid it is so slight,
that you had much better not trust to it, but settle your mind to bear
whatever may come."
"Very easy talking! If you had but to do it!" cried Lionel, impetuously
wrenching the door open in spite of her gentle resistance, and running
off determinately, leaving her, poor girl, in great despair, at having
so completely failed either in comforting, softening, or bringing him to
any kind of resigned feeling, having besides vexed him, made him think
her unkind; and though this was unintentional, and might be better for
him, just contradicted what his mother wished him to believe.
Her distress was too great even for writing to Gerald, and she walked
up and down, thinking what to do, longing to find him some better
comforter, and offering up many a prayer for him, till at last she heard
Caroline and Clara come home, and remembering that happen what might,
she must dress for dinner, up she went, heavily and sorrowfully.
As soon as she was dressed, she went to Clara's room, feeling that this
would be but kind. Clara was not there, and she hesitated whether to go
on to Caroline's, once her frequent resort. At that instant, however,
both sisters came up together, and hastened to her. "O Marian Marian!"
exclaimed Clara.
"You know all about it, I suppose," said Caroline.
"Yea, indeed I do."
"Come in here," said Caroline opening her door; "I want to know about
him, poor fellow, and how he bears it. Have you seen anything of him?"
Marian told all she could, without betraying what was confidential, and
did her best to soften Lionel's conduct, by which his sisters evidently
had been disappointed, saying that he had scarcely chosen to speak
to them. Marian explained what was on her mind, how she had, without
intending it, flatly contradicted Mrs. Lyddell's cheering assurances,
regretting it much, as injustice towards Mrs. Lyddell, but of this,
Caroline thought little.
"Mamma is always sanguine," she said, "and it was only her colouring
that made Lionel think her account hopeful. It must be better for him,
poor fellow, to know the truth, than to have his mind unsettled with
vain hopes. O dear! O dear! how sad it is, and at his age too! It breaks
one's heart to think of it."
All coldness and distance had left Caroline's manner in speaking to
Marian, and this was a great comfort, in the midst of their troubles.
A very uncomfortable time it was, which thus commenced. Lionel was a
good boy on the whole, with right principles, and some seriousness of
mind, but he was far too undisciplined to meet patiently such a trial
as this. He had pride, and a high spirit, and this made him assume a
bearing, which was a good deal admired in the family, trying to carry
it off with a high hand, never openly uttering a word of complaint, and
seeming as if he would rather die than directly express the miserable
despairing feelings within, though, poor boy, he little knew how
evidently they showed themselves in his gloomy silence, his outbreaks of
temper, and his almost desperate, defiant spirit of independence.
His father and mother, not understanding him in the least, managed, in
the revulsion of feeling which made him now the first object in the
family, to try his temper perpetually. He had in former times, missed
their demonstrations of affection, though healthy, high-spirited, and by
no means sentimental, the craving had been only occasional, he had done
very well without them, and had gained habits of freedom incompatible
with being petted. He had never been used to be interfered with, and
could not understand it at all; and that remembrance of past neglect
embittered all his feelings.
Mr. Lyddell had just found out, as Marian had thought long ago, that
Lionel was the flower of his flock, the one of his sons, who alone
united spirit and steadiness, for the emigration scheme had shown a
degree of sense, enterprise, and consideration which had at the time
pleased and surprised him, and now added much to his sense of the
promise lost. He laid all the blame of the neglect on his wife, but he
did not lament it the less keenly. His extreme kindness and solicitude
for the boy, were, to those who compared them with his general
character, quite affecting, but unluckily they displayed themselves is a
way which harassed Lionel very much, for he treated him as if he fancied
him completely blind already, cautioned him, guided him, and looked
anxious, if he did but walk across the garden alone; whilst Lionel,
who could see quite well enough for all ordinary purposes, was teased,
reminded of his troubles, and vexed above measure by having notice
attracted to his defect of sight.
In the main, however, he owned that his father was kind, and sorry for
him, though each particular instance annoyed him; but it was much worse
with his mother, for her petting was more minute, more constant, and
such as would have been worrying to any boy in full health, even if it
had not, as in poor Lionel's case, been connected with the dark future,
and with a past, which had sadly soured him against her. He was always
rough and morose with her, rebelling against her care, never wakening
into affection, or showing pleasure in what she proposed, though she
continued to press on him her attention, with uunwearied assiduity.
His sisters were treated much in the same manner; Clara made him cross
with over care, and Caroline, though showing better judgment, and much
real tact and affection, was also kept at a distance, and often harshly
answered. Marian too, was quite sufficiently like a sister to come
in for many an unreasonable fit of rudeness, and temper when it was
perfectly impossible to find any means of pleasing him.
Indeed such unoccupied days as his were in themselves a trial of good
humour. Idleness was very pleasant in the holidays, but his was too
active a spirit to bear it for long together, especially when it left
room for such anticipations as those for which his hopes of a Bush life
were exchanged, Yet he treated offers of reading to him as insults, and
far less would he endure to learn any occupation that might serve him
when his sight should be quite gone; he professed to hate music, and
lounged about disconsolately in the house or garden. Now and then, if
he found the young ladies reading on their own account, he would be
beguiled into listening and being amused, and their ingenuity was often
exercised in appearing to be doing it naturally, and he sometimes took
part in conversation, and thus had his attention withdrawn from his
misfortune; but it was not often that his moodiness of manner could be
charmed away, unless strangers were present, when he thought it a point
of honour to seem at his ease and merry.
After luncheon, he liked best to ride, but against this, Mr. and Mrs.
Lyddell set their faces, persuaded that it must be very dangerous. This,
Lionel thought the height of unkindness; he could ride just as safely
as in the holidays; and it was too cruel to make him give up the one
pleasure he best liked, while he was still able to enjoy it, and though
not sufficiently familiar with them to attempt any remonstrance, he
became doubly discontented and sullen. He would not walk with the girls,
but wandered far away over the downs by himself, often not coming back
till very late, and till both his parents had been in some alarm. At
last, after about a week, Marian ventured to expostulate; she prevailed,
and he was allowed to resume his rides, under a restriction that it must
never be alone. Now, taking a servant with him was an avowal of his
misfortune which he never would endure; so Marian, who never in her life
was afraid of what any horse could do, became his companion, and rode
out with him a good deal, feeling him indeed a charge, but not nearly so
heavy a one as her cousins fancied.
Still, though not afraid of accidents to him or to herself, these rides
were almost a subject of dread to Marian, daily as was their occurrence,
for it was then that poor Lionel made up for the reserve he exercised
with all the rest. If she could have done him any good, it would have
been a different thing, but surely, the world did not contain, as she
thought, a worse comforter than herself; for day after day, answer
as she would, came the same sad strain of regrets, and laments over
vanished plans, repelling every attempt at leading him to resignation,
and only varied by the different moods in which he would sometimes look
on his case as hopeless, and sometimes be angry with her for assuming
that it was so. Still worse were the complaints of his parents, in
which he would indulge after each fresh provocation, or rather, what he
thought so, though she never gave him the least encouragement to talk
in this manner, argued for them, and often blamed him; yet do what she
would, he never was convinced. The same battle on some other ground was
sure to recur, often the next day, and Marian, right as she knew she
was, never felt as if she had the victory; for five times out of six, it
was in a surly, impatient manner that he turned away from her, as they
dismounted. She often wondered whether she ought to let him go on thus,
whether it was right in her, if it did him harm, by confirming all his
unpleasant feelings, or whether it might not be worse for him to let
them rankle in his heart instead of pouring them out. It seemed too
unkind to silence him, when he fancied such talk a comfort, and she was
the only person in his confidence, yet what was right? what was good for
him? Her head ached with the self debate; she felt positively worn and
depressed, with the continued useless, harassing conversations; she knew
he was beyond her management, yet, with all her doubts, she was too
tender-hearted to vex him; she let him go on and only combated each
point, instead of refusing to listen.
Why would not Walter come home, the only true comforter Lionel was
likely to find, whom he really respected and loved? Walter was by this
time ordained, yet he did not propose coming home; indeed Marian had
not even heard whether he had written, and she was inclined to think he
could not have been informed of the state of things at home.
At length, when Lionel had been at home nearly a month, there came one
morning a letter directed to him. His mother and Clara both offered to
read it for him, but he gruffly refused, glanced it over, and put it in
his pocket. He loitered through the morning, and rode with Marian in the
afternoon. As they happened to meet with some entertaining subject of
conversation, the ride was more cheerful than usual, and she hoped she
had escaped the ordinary discussion; but when he helped her to dismount
under the portico, he said, "Don't go in just yet. Come and take a turn
in the plantations."
Her heart sank at the task that was coming, but she would not disappoint
him, and gathering up her habit, she followed his quick steps. As soon
as they were out of sight of the house, he produced the letter, saying,
"Here, read me this."
"O! I was in hopes that you could."
"I thought I could at first, but it was only 'my dear Lionel,' that I
could read. It was all haze after that. There is a step In these three
weeks," he added in a voice meant to be manly and careless. "Come, let
us hear. 'Tis from Walter, is not it?"
The letter had been written on first receiving intelligence of Lionel's
condition, which had been communicated by his father when he had to
write about something else. Marian, as she read, rejoiced in the letter,
it was so exactly what she wanted to have said, and yet never could
venture on, about regarding the affliction as a cross, and bending to
bear it patiently. She had often felt that here was the best relief, but
she had never dared to set it openly before Lionel, fearing that her
awkwardness, and his waywardness, might lead to his saying something
scornful, which would be worse than all. Here it was put before him in
just the right way, and one to which he must attend, and she watched
eagerly for some token of the way in which he took it.
He made no remark, however, seeming to hear it as a matter of course
that Walter would say something of the kind. After asking if she was
certain she had read all, and pointing to a few crossed lines at the
head of the first page, to make sure that she had not missed them, he
only said, "Then there is not a word about coming. Well, I do think he
might come when he knows that after this time I shall never be able to
see him."
"I don't suppose he thinks of that," said Marian--"I mean perhaps
he would not think of your caring for the mere _sight_ of him as a
pleasure."
"He does not know then," said Lionel, "I am trying to learn all your
faces, and I don't think I shall forget them."
"I am sure if he guessed you wished for him he would come that instant."
"I am not going to ask him," said Lionel proudly.
"What, I really think, is the reason of his stayin away," said Marian,
hesitating, "is about Mr. Faulkner. I think more especially now he is a
Clergyman, he will not have anything to do with him."
"Ay, ay," said Lionel, "that is a reason good for something. I only
should like to do the same, except that if I was Walter I would have
done more long ago, instead of just keeping out of the way, and told
Caroline it was a regular shame, and she ought not to be taken in with
his fine speeches, and balls, and stuff."
"I don't know--" said Marian.
"What don't you know?"
"How far even Walter would be authorised to interfere about what Mr. and
Mrs. Lyddell approve."
"Don't talk nonsense, Marian. If a thing is right, it is right, if it is
wrong, it's wrong, and all the world ought to try to prevent it. I know
I would, if anybody would mind me, for it makes me sick to see that man
come into the room, and the fuss mamma makes with him. I think he grows
worse. I declare I'd as soon see her marry Julian the Apostate! I am so
glad he is gone to those races. I should like to ask Caroline what sort
of happiness she expects with a man that talks of the Bible as if it was
no better than the Iliad! I only wish he would talk so to her, perhaps
that would shock her."
"I don't think she is very happy," said Marian.
"I am sure she ought not to be," was the answer.
"The more talk there has been of fixing the day the more unhappy she has
looked," said Marian. "You know she has begged the Faulkners to let it
be put off a little longer, because she could not bear that it should be
while you are in this doubtful state."
"I did not know it," said Lionel, "and much good does it do me! A nice
life I shall have with no one but Clara to speak to! And when is your
marriage, Marian? Mr. Arundel's, I mean, for that is as bad."
"O that will not be till next summer," said Marian: "Mrs. Wortley wishes
Agnes to be twenty-one first, and Edmund has to build a house."
And Marian was ready to forgive them for the delay when she saw how
glad it made Lionel look. Yes, rejoiced as she must be to escape from
Oakworthy, she could not go without a chequered feeling. If she was
adroit at managing people, she would make Clara take the place she held
now with Lionel, which would be good for both, but she was far too
clumsy to bring that about; and O! what a refuge Fern Torr would be
after all this harassing life! It would be better for Lionel not to have
her to divert his confidence from his own family, and at any rate she
should be there to help him through this sad autumn of uncertainty. Then
would come the peace, rest, and guidance she had longed for all her
life, in her own home, and that hope might well cheer her through life.