"Perchance it was ours on life's journey to enter
Some path through whose shadows no lovelight was thrown,
With heart that could breast the fierce storms of its winter,
And gather the wealth of its harvest alone;
It is well there are stars in bright heaven to guide us
To heights we ne'er dreamt of,--but oh, to forget
The fortunes that bar, and the gulfs that divide us
From paths that looked lovely, with some we have met."
F. BROWNE.
Many weeks had passed away, and nothing had changed, in any
material way, since the spring. Mrs. Lyddell's condition was still
unsatisfactory, and she seemed to be settling into a confirmed state of
ill health, and almost of hypochondriacism. So many shocks, following
each other in such quick succession, on a person entirely unprepared by
nature, experience or self-regulation, had entirely broken her down, and
shattered her nerves and spirits in a manner which she seemed less and
less like to recover. She was only able to rise late in the day, take a
short drive, and after dining in her own room, come down in the evening,
if they were alone, and it was a good day with her.
No change, neither sea air, nor London advice, had made much difference,
and her condition had become so habitual, that her family had ceased to
expect any considerable amendment; and it was likely that Clara would,
for many years, have full employment as her companion and attendant.
Lionel was perfectly, hopelessly blind, but growing reconciled to his
misfortune, and habituated to the privation, as well as resigned in
will. His natural character, of a high-spirited, joyous, enterprising
boy, showed itself still in his independence and fearlessness, joined to
cheerfulness, and enlivened the house. He had even gone the length of
talking freely and drolly to his father, and Mr. Lyddell had learnt to
smile, and even laugh at his fun.
There had been fears that the removal to London, for the session of
Parliament, would be a great privation to him, since he would miss the
wandering about the downs by himself, and the riding with Marian; but
his temper and spirits did not fail. He walked every day with her, and
was entertained with all he heard, both by his own quick ears, and by
her description. They went to exhibitions, where she saw for him, and
there were lectures, readings, and other oral amusements, to which his
father, or some good-natured friend, would take him. He began to acquire
a taste for music, which he had hitherto never cared to hear, and
concerts became a great delight to him: though he had not the correct
ear, and admirable appreciation of music, that often, in blind persons,
seems like a compensation for the loss of the pleasures of the eye.
Lady Marchmont became very kind to him. She was thoroughly good natured,
and the sight of the blind youth, whose arm Marian held as they walked
together, stirred all her kindly feelings. He was gentlemanlike
and pleasant looking, and his manner, now divested of schoolboy
_brusquerie_, was frank and confiding. Selina was disposed to like him,
and to be interested in him. She found, too, that Marian did not like to
go out when his amusement was not provided for; so at first for Marian's
sake, then for his own, she made him join them when they went to
concerts, or to any other amusement that could gratify him. Her bright
liveliness and spirited way of talking, won him; and it delighted Marian
to see what great friends they became, even to the length of laughing
over the old Wreath of Beauty story together. And when at length she was
brought, of her own accord, in some degree to patronise Clara, it was a
triumph indeed; and Mrs. Lyddell was more obliged to Marian than for all
the real benefits she had conferred, when she saw Clara dressed to go to
a party at Lady Marchmont's.
All this time Marian was becoming more and more a prey to that secret
doubt, whether it might not be a duty to give up her cherished hope of a
home at Fern Torr. She did not see how she could be spared. Clara was an
admirable attendant on her mother, and was becoming a better mistress of
the house; but she was not able to be at the same time a companion to
her father and Lionel, and, poor girl, she would be very forlorn and
much at a loss, without Marian's elder sisterhood; for the sense of help
and reliance that Marian's presence gave her was little less. For her to
go away, would be to bring home to Clara the loss of Caroline more than
she had ever been left to feel it.
Yet, on the other hand, Clara was no companion. They talked, indeed, but
they never discussed,--never had any interchange of higher sympathies or
reflections; it was not getting beyond the immediate matter in hand;
and often Marian, would be sensible that, if her own pleasure were
consulted, a walk or ride, with her thoughts free to range in meditation
or day-dream, was preferable to Clara's chatter.
Her own pleasure,--that she enjoyed but little, and less now than ever,
for her time was never her own. There was Lionel on her hands almost
every day, to be read to, or walked with; and if he went out with his
father, or spent an hour in his mother's room, there was Clara wanting
her quite as much, for gossip, exercise, or consultation. Mrs. Lyddell,
too, must be visited; for though Marian was not the most beloved,
or most welcome person in the world, yet a change of society and
conversation was desirable, both for her sake and Clara's; so more
than two hours every day were spent in her sitting-room. Then, in the
evening, Marian's thoughts and ears must be free for Mr. Lyddell and
Lionel. All her own pursuits were at an end, she had hardly touched a
pencil the whole year, nor opened a German book, nor indeed any book,
excepting what she read to Lionel, and these were many. She was very
seldom able to enjoy the luxury of being alone; she could hardly even
write her letters, except by sitting up for them; and even the valuable
hour before midnight was not certain to be her own, for if Clara had no
other time to pour out her cares, she used to come then, and linger in
her cousin's room, reiterating petty perplexities, endless in detail.
How delightful to escape from all this, to quietness, peace, freedom
from her own cares and other people's,--Fern Torr air and scenery,
Edmund and Agnes for companions, and liberty to teach school children,
go about among her own people, do good in her own way, and enjoy her own
studies. It was like a captive longing to be set free,--a wanderer in
sight of home.
But the captive paused on the threshold of the dungeon; the wanderer
stood still on the brow of the last hill. Marian paced up and down her
own room, and thought and reasoned half aloud,--
"Sweet is the smile of home, the mutual look,
When hearts are of each other sure;
Sweet all the joys that crown the household nook,
The haunt of all affections pure:
Yet in the world even these abide, and we
Above the world our calling boast."
"And I am making them the world, if for their sake I give up what my
conscience calls on me to do. I know, though I do little good here, my
going away would make them more uncomfortable. Have I any right to seek
my pleasure? But I should do more good there; I should go to school,
read to the poor people, go to Church in the week, be more improved
myself. O that home of peace and joy! And Gerald--my first duty is to
him. But what harm would it do him? I could go home for his holidays. I
must not deceive myself; I have been put in the way of positive duties
here, or rather, ways of being useful have grown up round me. Is it
right to run away from them,--poor Lionel, poor Clara! Would not every
weary hour of Lionel's--every time Clara was teased, and teased
her father,--be my fault? But how Edmund and Agnes will be
disappointed!--they who will have been throwing away so much kind care!
O you goose of a Marian! are you going to fancy it is for your sake that
they mean to marry? don't you think they can do very well without you?
How very silly to be sorry that it must be so!--how very, very silly!
And even Gerald will marry one of these days, and will not want me; and
shall I always be alone then? For as to that other sort of affection, I
am sure it is quite certain that I can never care for any body enough to
marry,--never half as well as for Gerald. No, no one will ever love me
as I do others; every one has some one nearer to them; a lonely life,
and never a home! Well, then there is a home somewhere else, and those
who made my earthly home are waiting for me there, in the Land of the
Leal."
Such was the tenor of Marian's oft-repeated musings. The practical
result was a resolution to consult Edmund when she should go to Fern
Torr to his wedding, early in August. She could not write her pros and
cons, but to Edmund she could tell them, and trust to him as a just and
impartial judge; and if Agnes was angry, it would serve them, thought
Marian, smiling, for a quarrel, for they won't have many other chances
of one.
However, the time drew on when, behold, every one's calculations were
disturbed by a sudden dissolution of Parliament. Hitherto such events
had not made much difference to the Lyddells; as Mr. Lyddell's election
had been, for the last twenty years, unopposed; and the only doubt
at present was, whether he thought it worth while to stand again,
considering that he was growing old and weary of business, and besides
could not well afford the London house.
He had been hinting something of the kind to Lionel and Marian in the
evening, as a matter under consideration and they had heard it with
joy, when the next morning made a sudden change in affairs, by bringing
tidings that Mr. Faulkner was soliciting the votes of Mr. Lyddell's
constituents on the opposite interest, taking the wrong side of the
question,--a most important one, upon which the dissolution had taken
place.
Here was indignation indeed. There was something so unfeeling in such a
proceeding, on his part, that the mildest word spoken against him was
Marian's, and that was "atrocious." To give up was one thing, to be thus
turned out was quite another; and it was clearly right to the moral
sense, as well as satisfactory to the indignant temper, that Mr. Lyddell
should oppose "to the last gasp," as the furious Lionel expressed it,
one who espoused principles so pernicious both in politics and religion.
One thing was certain, that nobody would ever wish again that Caroline
had married him. Ill as Mr. Lyddell could afford the expense of a
contested election, his blood was up, and he was determined not to yield
an inch. Never had Marian believed she could grow so vehement about
anything that concerned him, but now her whole soul seemed to be in his
success. He had always been on the right side; and now that a steadily
growing sense of religion was influencing all his actions, he was just
the fit person for his position, and Marian could, on principle, wish
earnestly to see him retain it, for his own sake, as well as to keep out
Mr. Faulkner. But, alas! poor Marian, that the ministers should have
chosen this precise time, so as just to bring the election the very week
of Edmund's wedding!
What was to be done? Mrs. Lyddell could not believe that an election
would go on right without dinner-parties of every visitable individual
in the county; and how was Clara to manage them all? Mrs. Lyddell's only
experiment, in coming into the room when there was company, had done her
so much harm, that it was not on any account to be repeated; and her
restlessness and anxiety,--her persuasion that nothing could be done
well in which she was not concerned,--made the keeping her quiet a more
anxious business than even the receiving company. There was Mr. Lyddell
wanting to have lists written, and needing all sorts of small helps to
which he had been used from his active wife; everything came on the two
girls, and Marian did not see how she could be spared even for the three
days it would take to go to the wedding.
Perhaps that excitement about the election would have somewhat dulled
the acuteness of the sacrifice, if it had not been for what was to come
after it. The die must be cast without consultation with Edmund; she
must write and tell them that their kind design for her was in vain.
Gerald was at Oakworthy for the first week of his holidays, and he was
the only person she could call to hold council with her. She had some
difficulty in catching him; for he was galloping about with messages
all day, figuring to himself that he produced a grand effect in the
canvass,--making caricatures, describing them to Lionel, and conducting
him wherever he was not expected to be seen. However, catch him she did,
at bed-time, and pulling him into her room, propounded her difficulty.
"Gerald, I don't see how I am ever to manage to go with you to their
wedding."
Ha? don't you? Well, it would be a pity to lose the nomination-day, and
the show of hands; I should travel all night to be in time, but you
could not, I suppose?"
"I? why you don't think I should go to it?"
"Lionel will--I am to take care of Lionel. Can't you go? What a bore it
must be to be a woman! Well, then, why don't you come to the wedding?"
"Because I think Clara will get into such a fuss, if there is no one to
help her at the dinner the evening before. There is Mrs. Pringle coming
to dine and sleep, so it can't be only a gentleman's party: and there is
so much to do."
"Whew! it will be very stupid of you not to come; and how Agnes will
scold! But I suppose yen can't be everywhere. One would give up
something for the sake of beating such a rogue as that Faulkner."
"If we were but sure of doing it."
"Sure! Why we shall smash him to shivers, if one fortieth part of the
people are but as good as their word. Did I tell you, Marian, how I
answered that old farmer to-day?" &c., &c., all which Marian had to
hear, before she could get him back to the matter in hand.
"I am almost sorry to give up those three days," he said, "though it is
for their wedding; but you see, Marian," and the boy spoke with his air
of consequence, "I think it is expected of me, and they would all be
disappointed. It would not look as if it was well between Edmund and mo,
if I was not present; but you can please yourself, you know."
"Yes, yes, you could not stay away," said Marian; "I should be very
sorry that you should. You must go."
"And if I come away that afternoon, I may be back by the mail train by
one at night, and be in time for the show of hands. Hurrah! I've a'mind
to write to Jemmy, to buy up all the rotten eggs in Fern Torr."
"You wild animal! But do be sensible a little while, Gerald, for I have
something serious to ask your advice upon."
"Well,"--and all the wisdom of sixteen was at her service.
"I want to know what you think about my living here, or at Fern Torr?"
"Hollo! why I thought it was settled long ago that you were to live at
the Quarry with them."
"So it was; but I don't know whether I am not more wanted here than
there."
"You don't mean that that have changed their mind, and don't want to
have you?"
"Not a bit--O dear, no! but I think, somehow, Clara and Lionel find me
of more use than they would."
"To be sure, this place would be in a pretty tolerable sort of a mess
without you. I don't know how any of them would get on."
"Well, then, I wanted your opinion, Gerald; I had better tell Edmund and
Agnes that I ought to stay on here."
"But what am I to do? I mean to be at Fern Torr in the holidays, I
assure you, except a week or two, just to see Lionel; and I don't mean
to have my holidays without you, I declare!"
"O, I hope always to come home for them."
"Why, then, if I have you when I am at home, I don't care,--I mean--"
said Gerald, conscious of the egotism he was committing, "I mean you
don't like it half so well, do you?"
"O no--I mean--I don't know--"
"Which do you mean?"
"I don't know--at least, of course, I had rather be with Edmund and
Agnes than anybody else, except you; but then, if I was thinking Lionel
had no one to read to him, or to ride with, or that Mrs. Lyddell was
worse, and Clara unhappy, I could hardly enjoy it."
"You would not think so much about it if you were away from them."
"Perhaps not, but it would be the same, and it would haunt me at night."
"But, Marian, you can't give up Edmund and Agnes now they have built a
room for you."
"I must have it when I come for your holidays."
"Well, you must do as you please," said Gerald.
"And you won't be vexed?"
"Vexed! Why should I? It is nothing to me, if I have you when I am at
home; and, indeed, I don't see what poor Lionel would do without you. I
suppose it is the best way, since you like it; only you must settle it
with Agnes your own way. I shall tell her it is not my fault. Won't she
be in a rage, that's all!"
With which sentence Sir Gerald's acquiescence was conveyed, with little
perception of the struggle in his sister's mind, and of the pain and
grief it was to her to write to her cousin and friend, begging them to
release her from her promise.
As to the rest of the house, they never appeared to think at all about
her quitting them; or if Clara and Lionel did, perchance, remember that
it had been spoken of, they hoped it had blown over, and dreaded the
revival of the idea too much to refer to it. Not one of the whole family
guessed that to them was sacrificed the most treasured project of
Marian's life.
She had made up her mind, but she could not bear to write to tell her
friend that her plans were frustrated; so it was to Edmund that she
wrote the full detail of her reasons and regrets, begging him to forgive
her, and to make her peace with Agnes; while she begged Mrs. Wortley to
excuse her for missing the wedding.
Edmund's answer was just what she wished, and indeed expected. "You are
right," he said, "and it is of no use to tell you how sorry we are. It
is impossible to be so selfish as to wish you to act otherwise, and in
process of time you may perhaps obtain Agnes' pardon: in the mean time
we never walk to the Quarry, without her abusing you for giving so much
trouble for nothing. I would only advise one thing, namely, that you
make no promise nor engagement respecting your place of residence, since
circumstances may alter; and you had better not feel yourself bound.
With this proviso we resign you to your own judgment, and to the place
where you seem indeed at present to be most wanted."
So wrote Edmund: Agnes did not write at all. Marian announced that she
had given up going to the wedding. Clara was sorry she should miss it,
but could not guess how she should have managed without her; and no
one else had leisure to think at all, or else considered it quite as a
matter of course that site should not go away when she was wanted.
If any one had, seven years, or even one year ago, told Marian how she
would spend that bridal day, her incredulity would have been complete.
So absorbed was she in Mr. Lyddell's election affairs that she hardly
had time to think about it, between hopes and alarms, doubts and
intelligence, visitors and preparations, notes to be written and papers
to be found, Clara to be helped, Mrs. Lyddell to be kept quiet, Lionel's
news to hear, the dinner party to be entertained. Very differently had
Marian now learnt to sit in company from former days. She had a motive
now, in the wish to help Clara, and all her distant coldness had melted
into a quiet, kind, obliging manner, which had taught her to take
genuine interest even in common-place people, and caused it to be said
that Miss Arundel had ceased to be shy and haughty. It was all one
whirl, leaving no time for sitting down, and still less for musing.
Lionel went indeed with his father to the committee-room, and was there
half the day; for his services were wonderful, and particularly his
memory for names and places, to which Mr. Lyddell declared he would
rather trust than to any memorandum. He was thus out of Marian's way all
the morning, but there was enough to occupy her without him, and in the
afternoon he came home, full of news, and especially full of glory, in
a conquest of his own, a doubtful voter, whom he had recollected, and
undertaken to secure, had made the servant drive him round that way,
canvassed on his own account, and obtained a promise, extracted as
Marian suspected, by admiration of the blind young gentleman's high
spirit and independence.
Mr. Lyddell was particularly delighted; when became home very late, just
before the eight o'clock dinner, he came up into his wife's room, and
told her the whole story, told Marian all over again on the stairs, and
told it a third time to some of the dinner guests, before Lionel came
down. Marian saw he valued that vote above all the rest.
Busy as the day had been, Marian was resolved to sit up till her
brother's return at two o'clock in the morning, to hear his tidings, and
she expected to enjoy the space for thinking; but the thoughts would
not be settled, and instead of dwelling on Edmund and Agnes, she found
herself continually going back to the voters' list, and counting up the
forces on each side. Then she grew sleepy, and fell into a long musing
dream of shapeless fancies, woke herself, tried to write to Agnes, and
went off into her former vision of felicity in the house at the Quarry,
which she indulged in, forgetting that she had renounced it. At last
came the sounds of a carriage, and of opening doors. She met Gerald on
the stairs, but he was sleepy and would say little. "It had all gone off
very well--yes--nobody cried--he had a bit of wedding-cake for her, and
here was a note, she should hear all about it another time;"--yawn, and
he shut himself into his own room. That was all Marian obtained by her
vigil. You, there was the note, put in with the wedding cards.
"MY DEAR MARIAN,--I can't relieve my mind by scolding
you, and I don't know what else you have a right to
expect after the way you have treated us. They tell me I
must write, and I have not a word to say, though I always
promised you should have the first letter from
"Your affectionate cousin,
"AGNES ARUNDEL."
Wild as ever, thought Marian, as a little disappointed, she laid down
the note, but she understood how Agnes had felt obliged to write, in
hurry and agitation, and just because she felt deeply, had been unable
to express herself otherwise than what some people would call foolishly
and unsuitably.
There was not much more of the wedding to be heard from Gerald the next
morning, for he was full of the nomination, and proud of having Lionel
under his especial charge.
This day was as wild a bustle as the former one, and there was still
more excitement in the evening. Of course the show of hands had been in
favour of Mr. Faulkner, of course he and his proposer and seconder had
behaved one only more disgracefully than the other, of course the rabble
bad behaved shamefully, and the boys were almost beside themselves with
wrath; and besides the details of all these matters-of-course, the boys
had adventures of their own, for somehow Gerald and Lionel had been left
in the midst of a vituperative mob, out of which Gerald had brought off
his companion in a most spirited and successful way, without letting
any one discover Lionel's blindness, which would have been the most
efficient protection for both. Again and again Marian was told of the
gallant way in which both boys had conducted themselves, and proud and
pleased was she.
Mr. Lyddell lost his seat, and the boys were half mad, a hundred times
more concerned than he was himself, while Marian moralized to herself
on why it was allowed to happen that he should be set aside from public
life, just when he would have begun to act on truly sound principles.
And yet perhaps the leisure he thus obtained, and the seclusion from the
whirl of politics were the very things he needed, to draw him entirely
apart from the world which had so long engrossed him.
It was about sis weeks after this that Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Arundel, in
acceptance of a warm invitation from Mr. Lyddell, were driving along
the white road leading to Oakworthy, after a very pleasant visit to the
Marchmonts, when Selina had treated Agnes so affectionately, as to cause
her to forget all past neglect, and had, as Edmund said, scaled their
friendship, by raving at Marian's decision, "It was too bad," said she,
"when they had given up London,--the only thing that made it tolerable."
To which, however, Agnes did not quite agree.
"And now," said she, "I shall see whether Marian is happy."
"I don't believe you wish her to be so," said Edmund.
"No, I am not quite so spiteful," rejoined Agnes, "but in order to
forgive her, I must think it a very great sacrifice."
"And have a marvellously high estimate of our two selves," said Edmund.
"What do I see?" said Agnes. "Look at those two people riding on the
down up there against the sky, don't you see their figures? It is a
lady. Gould it be Marian? No, she is riding so close to the other--he
can't be a servant."
"Lionel, I suspect," said Edmund.
"The poor blind boy! O surely she does not ride alone with him! O what a
pretty cantering on the turf. It is really Marian, I see now. How I do
like to see her ride."
A moment or two more, and descending from the high green slope, the two
riders were on the road meeting the carriage. Marian looked her best
on horseback, with her excellent seat, and easy, fearless manner, her
little hat and feathers became her fine features, and the air and
exercise gave them animation, which made her more like a picture of
Velasquez and less like a Grecian statue than she was at any other time.
Lionel rode almost close to her, a bright glow of sunshine on his lively
face, and a dexterity and quickness in his whole air that made Agnes
hesitate for a second or two, whether he could really be the blind
youth. A joyous "How d'ye do?" was called out on each side. "Well,
Lionel," then said Edmund, "are you quite well?"
"O yes, thank you," replied a gay voice, "we thought we would see if we
could not meet you."
"We rode over the down," said Marian, "and we are going back the same
way. We shall be at home as soon as you are. Good-bye. To the right,
Lionel."
And they were seen trotting up the hill again, then as the carriage came
in sight of the front door, there was Lionel jumping Marian down from
her saddle. Agnes did not know how to believe that he could not see, as
she watched his upright bearing, and rapid, fearless step, so unlike the
groping ways of persons who have lost their sight later in life.
Clara presently came down, and Agnes was struck with her more thoughtful
face, and collected manner, so unlike the giddy child she had last seen,
not intellectual indeed, but quiet, lady-like, and sensible. And as to
Mr. Lyddell, he looked so worn and so much older, so subdued in manner,
and so free from those over civilities of former times, that Agnes made
up her mind that he must not be hated.
Of Mrs. Lyddell she saw very little, only sitting in her room for an
hour each morning, as a visitor, but it was evident she was very much
out of health, and a great charge to them all. Agnes could be sorry for
her, but could not like her while she did not speak more cordially of
Marian. All praise of her had something forced and against the grain,
and Agnes thought her intensely ungrateful.
Lionel interested Agnes extremely, with his happy, independent ways,
unrepining temper and spirit of enterprise. He was always eager about
some contrivance of his own, and just at this time it was wood-carving.
His left hand showed as much sticking-plaster as skin, and he used to
come into the drawing-room with it wrapped up in his handkerchief and
say, "Here's another, Marian," when Marian very quietly produced her
sticking-plaster, as if it was quite an ordinary matter; nay, would
not follow up the suggestion that he should not have so sharp a knife,
saying that it was much better to cut one's finger with a sharp knife
than a blunt one. He had cut about twenty bits of wood to waste, to say
nothing of hands, but he persevered with amusing energy, and before the
end of the visit had achieved a capital old man's head for the top of a
walking stick, which he presented to Edmund. He promised Agnes a set of
silk winders, and in the mean time made great friends with her, getting
her to tell him about her brother's sporting adventures, and in return
making himself very amusing with relations out of his sailor brother's
letters. Johnny had been concerned in the great exploit of climbing the
Peter Bottle mountain, and Lionel was as proud of it as if he had done
it himself, making Marian show everybody a drawing which Gerald had made
of the appearance that Johnny must have cut, standing on one leg on the
highest stone. They were also struck with the change in the manner in
which Walter was regarded, and the pride and affection with which all
the family spoke of his doings at his curacy.
But that Marian, though not prominent, and apparently merely a guest,
was necessary to the comfort of each member of the family, was a thing
that at the end of a fortnight, Agnes could not deny. Nor could she
attempt to make up a case to show that she and her husband were equally
in want of her.
"So, Marian," said she, as they parted, "I forgive you on condition of
your spending Christmas with us."
"And I ought to forgive you," said Edmund, "in consideration of the
fulfilment of my prediction that you would not be able to leave the
Lyddells when I was ready to receive you."
Marian smiled, and watched them from the door. As they lost sight of
the house, Edmund turned to his wife, saying, "How little we are fit to
order events! Here, Agnes, I looked back at this house six years ago
in a sort of despair. I was ready to reproach Providence, to reproach
everything. I thought I saw my uncle's children in the way to be ruined,
all his work undone, and there was I, unable to act, and yet with the
responsibility of the care of them. I tell you, Agnes, I never was so
wretched in my life. And yet what short-sightedness! There has Marian
been, placed, like a witness of the truth, calm, firm, constant,
guarding herself and her brother first, and then softening, and winning
all that came under her influence."
"Oh! but, Edmund, your coming home saved Gerald," said the wife, who
could not see her husband's credit given away even to Marian.
"I brought the experience and authority that she could not have, but
vain would have been my attempts without the sense of right she had
always kept up in his mind. Trouble has done much for those Lyddells,
but I don't believe that without her, it would have had that effect:
When I remember what Mr. Lyddell was, his carelessness, the painful
manner in which he used to talk; when I see him now, when I think of
what that poor Caroline was saved from, when I see the alteration in
Clara, and watch that blind boy, then I see indeed that our little
Marian, whom we thought thrown away and spoilt, was sent there to be
a blessing. If she had been naturally a winning, gentle, persuasive
person, I should have thought less of the wonder; but in her it is
the simple force of goodness, undecorated. I once feared the constant
opposition in which she lived, would harden her, but instead, she has
softened, sweetened, and lost all that was hard and haughty in her ways,
when it was no longer needed for a protection. Selina Marchmont has
failed too in giving her the exclusive spirit which I once feared
for her. It is as if she had a spell for passing through the world
unscathed."
"And you think she is happy?"
"As happy as those that never look for their happiness in this world."
Agnes sighed. "My vision has always been," said she, "to see Marian as
happy as--ourselves."
"She may be yet," said Edmund smiling, "but she has the best sort of
happiness. She is in less danger of clinging to this world than we are.
And somehow she gives me the impression of one too high and noble to
seek her happiness in the way in which most people look for it. Yes,
we ourselves, Agnes, we have a nest and home in this world; she stands
above it, and her only relation with it is to make others happy."
"She little thinks how we talk of her," said Agnes. "And still stranger
it is, that with the reverence I have for her, I can play with her and
scold her."
A silence; ending with Agnes repeating,
"GOOD LORD, through this world's troubled way
Thy children's course secure;
And lead them onward day by day,
Kindly like Thee and pure.
"Be theirs to do Thy work of love,
All erring souls to win;
Amid a sinful world to move,
Yet give no smile to sin."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Two Guardians, by Charlotte Mary Yonge