THE OPINION OF THE FAMILY.
The Joscelyns were much excited and disturbed by all this “to do” about
Liddy, which the sisters-in-law thought intolerable, and which, as has
been already related, moved even Joan to some sensation of displeasure,
notwithstanding the gratified sense of family pride which she
experienced as a Joscelyn in the recognition of her family, which,
though late, was satisfactory. But Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom had no such
feeling. To them the sense of being left out was not less but rather
more disagreeable because a little chit like Liddy had been made much of
and received as the representative of her race. Neither of these ladies
could bear to hear of it, and Will and Tom showed their feelings in
indignant ridicule, scorning the thought that a little lass should be
put in the foreground, and their own substantial claims as the heirs of
the Joscelyn name disregarded. For what is a girl in a family? nothing;
a mere accident; perhaps useful in a way as extending the connection,
but directly of no sort of benefit at all. When they heard, however,
that Lydia was going “abroad” their indignation burst all bounds. Where
was the money to come from? The sons and the sons’ wives were as angry
as if it came out of their own pockets. Mrs. Will even cried, and
enumerated a whole list of things which were wanted to make her house
comfortable. “I never have even a trip to the seaside,” she said, “and
as for a piano where I’m to get one I can’t tell, and the children all
growing up; and there isn’t a sideboard in the house, not like I was
used to, and the poorest stock of linen! while your sister is
gallivanting all over the world.” Mrs. Tom suggested that nothing but a
surreptitious slice out of Uncle Henry’s property--which it was a sin
and a shame to keep hanging on because of a runaway, who must be dead
years ago or he would have come back on the hands of his family, no
doubt about that--could have induced Ralph Joscelyn to consent to such
a mad piece of expenditure. “That Pilgrim just plays into their hands,”
she said; “your mother’s silly enough for anything, when it’s for Liddy,
but your father’d never have done it without something to go upon.” The
brothers were so moved by these arguments, and by their own sense of
injustice, that they made a joint raid upon the paternal house to see
what remonstrance would do. “I’ll tell you what it is, father, it’s time
that money was divided,” said Will; “it would come in uncommon handy, I
can tell you, in my house, with all my children growing up.” Tom had no
children, but he was not less forcible in his representations. “We’re a
laughing-stock to all the county,” he said, “hanging on waiting for
Harry turning up. If Harry had been going to turn up he’d have done it
long ago. There never was a good-for-nothing in a family but he came
back.” Now the day of this visit was a day which Joan had chosen to come
to the White House to hear “all about it,” and these words were spoken
at the family table just after the early dinner, for which an additional
chicken had been killed on account of the guests.
“Good for nothing!” said Joan, indignantly, “that’s what our Harry
never was. You may say what you like of yourselves, but of him I’ll
never stand such lying. He was as honourable a lad as ever stepped. He
never asked a penny from one of you, nor from father either--that he
got. So far from taking anything of yours with him, he left his own
behind him. Poor lad! there’s his very clothes in his drawers. It must
have cost him a mint of money to get more to put in their place. I’ve
often thought of that. If it’s just to put mother out, which is all
you’ll do, you may as well try some other subject than Harry. Mother,
don’t you take on. He’s no more dead than I am. He’ll come home some
fine day to take up his property--if you don’t let them put you into
your grave first.”
Mrs. Joscelyn’s hands had crept together in a nervous clasp. She looked
pitifully from one to another. “Boys,” she said, in her soft voice, to
the threatening men who looked older and infinitely harder than she, “I
hope you’ll have a little patience. If I had the money, oh! how gladly I
would give it you! It is hard, too, when you have need of it. I say
nothing against that.”
“Need of it! I should think we had need of it,” said Will. “As for
giving it if you had it, that’s easy speaking; and there are plenty
that promise what they haven’t, and think no more of it when they have.
What’s this we hear of Liddy going abroad? I should say that would cost
a pretty penny. My wife and me, we can’t take our family so much as for
a fortnight to the sea-side.”
“And what business is it of your wife’s and yours where Liddy goes?”
said Joan, instantly throwing her shield over her own side. “You’ll not
get Liddy’s money, you may be sure of that, to take you to the
sea-side.”
“Oh, children!” cried Mrs. Joscelyn, clasping her hands.
“Well, I must say it’s more reasonable that a family of children should
have a change, than that a bit of a lass like Liddy should go picking up
foreign manners and ruining her character--not that I am speaking for
myself----” Tom interposed. But he was interrupted by a cry from Joan,
repeating his last words, “ruining her character!” and by an exclamation
of pain from her mother. “Well,” cried Tom, “I say again, ruining her
character. Is there any decent man about here that would have anything
to do with a Frenchified wife?--not to say that a woman’s morals are
always undermined in those foreign places. And Liddy’s flyaway enough,
already----”
Here Joscelyn commanded silence by striking his fist upon the table with
a blow that made the glasses ring. “Hold your dashed tongues,” he said.
“What have you got to do with it, you lads? You’ve got what belongs to
you, and you can go to Jericho and be blanked to you. If there’s any man
has a right to interfere in my house, I’d like just to see his dashed
face. Hold your tongues, the whole blanked lot of you. Them that’s in my
house will do as I please, and them that has houses of their own had
better go where they came from; and, Liddy, don’t you say a word, my
lass. I’ll look after you,” he said, laying a large hand upon her
shoulder, as he thrust his chair away from the table with an impulse
which displaced the table too, and jarred and shook everything upon it.
When Joscelyn “spoke up,” there was nobody in his family that ventured
to withstand him. The sons rose, too, somewhat abashed, and strode forth
after him to view the stables, which was the recognised thing to do
after the meal, which thus came to an abrupt conclusion. They shook
their heads over father’s weakness, and declared to each other that
“they (meaning the women) had got him under their thumb”--though “who
would have thought it of father!” “It’s what every man comes to when he
begins to break up,” Tom said.
When they were gone Mrs. Joscelyn cried, but the two sisters were
indignant. “Now, mother, don’t be a silly,” Joan said. “They are just as
worldly and as hard as they always were. But what can you expect when
you think of the two women these poor lads married? It is a wonder they
are no worse.”
“Oh!” sighed poor Mrs. Joscelyn, “when I think the bonnie boys they
were!” for she was a woman upon whom experience had little power, and
who never could learn.
As for Lydia it struck her against her will with a strong sense of the
ridiculous to hear her middle-aged brothers, in whose favour she had
scarcely even a natural prejudice, spoken of as “bonnie boys.” It was
all she could do out of respect for her mother not to laugh. And she was
more angry than she was amused. “What harm does it do to Will and Tom,”
she said, “that I should be going abroad?”
“They are just furious that Liddy has been asked to the Castle,” said
Joan. “Oh, I know them down to the bottom of their hearts; but I’ll tell
you what, mother, if it’s a question of making a lady of Liddy, and
sending her out in a way to do us credit, you mind there’s nothing to be
spared upon her, for Phil and me, we’ll do our share.”
This was all Mrs. Will and Mrs. Tom (for the other women of the family
scouted the idea that the brothers were anything but puppets in the
hands of these ladies), made by their motion. They threw Joan vehemently
upon the other side, blew away the little vapour of envy and
uncharitableness which made the elder sister grudge for a moment the
younger’s elevation, and bound Joan in enthusiastic partizanship to all
her little sister’s wishes. “She shall do us credit,” Joan said, “if I
don’t have a gown to my back for years to come. She shall want for
nothing if I have to give up my party next Christmas. She shall find out
who it is that stands by her, and them that think of her in the family.”
“I never had any doubt about that,” said Lydia, throwing her arms round
her sister, “and, Joan, I’ll bring you the best of presents, I’ll bring
you Harry back.”
At this Joan shook her head and wiped a tear out of the corner of her
eye. “It’s a blessing,” she said, “you little thing, that Phil’s just as
silly about you as me; but to find Harry, poor Harry, will take a
cleverer than you.”
“Joan, do not you say that. I have it borne in upon me here,” said Mrs.
Joscelyn, laying her thin hands upon her bosom, “that before I die I
will see my boy back.”
“And it is I that will find him,” Liddy cried, throwing back her head
with a proud movement of self-confidence; for the moment, being foolish
women, they all believed in this inspiration. “And why not,” said
sensible Joan, “it may be the Lord that has put it into her head. And
all these fine folks, the Duchess and my lady and the rest of them, may
just have been instruments.”
This suggestion filled them all with momentary awe. To see such noble
means bringing about a triumphant end, and to be able to trace so easily
the workings of Providence, is always the highest of pleasures to the
simple-minded. To bring Harry back to his own, and comfort the heart of
his mother before she died, was this not an object worthy the employment
of Duchesses? Meanwhile Tom and Will went home discomfited, and told
their wives how father had “shut them up.” “These women have got him
under their thumb,” was what they all said.
Then there came another agitating crisis; Sir John and Lady Brotherton
offered a visit to their cousin to arrange the details of their journey,
and this made such an overturn in the White House as had not been known
in the memory of man. To the wonder of everybody, Joscelyn made no
objection to it. A shade of complacency even stole over his face as he
gave his consent. “My lady--will maybe take a fancy to me, as some one
else has ta’en a fancy to thee,” he said, pulling Lydia’s ear with
unprecedented playfulness. Certainly the women had got him under their
thumb at last. Joan and her husband came over with a great sense of
importance to help to prepare for this great ceremonial, he enacting
butler and she housekeeper to the admiration of all concerned. Philip
Selby knew about wine, nobody could gainsay that; while his wife
prepared enough of what were then called “made dishes,” and pastry and
cakes, to have lasted a month instead of a day. Then the amiable pair
drove home at a great rate, to dress themselves in their best and
present themselves solemnly as guests to meet the strangers. Lionel
Brotherton was in all these secrets; Joan and he indeed exchanged a
smile of intelligence when after working together all day they met and
shook hands in the evening; but he kept inviolate the confidence
bestowed upon him, and never betrayed even to his mother the tremendous
pains that had been taken to prepare for her, and receive her fitly.
When he went up to her room after the dinner was over, to bid her good
night, Lady Brotherton could not speak enough in praise of their new
cousin. “You did well to say it was an idyllic life,” she cried. “You
did not say a word too much, Lionel; what freshness, what simplicity,
what a breath of the moor; and all so nice, such pretty curtains (Lionel
himself had helped to fasten them up that morning), such nice old
furniture! I thought pretty Liddy was quite an exceptional moor-blossom,
but I quite understand her now. Her mother is a most refined woman. I
should like to model those hands of hers; they are full of expression.
And that handsome whitehaired father like a tower, quite the ideal
representative of a very old impoverished family, little education, and
not much to say, but with long descent in every feature!” It was all
Lionel could do to keep his countenance.
“I am so glad you like them, mother; I don’t know when I have been so
glad; and you can’t think how kind they have been to me.”
“I love them for it,” said Lady Brotherton, “not that I am
surprised--for they like you, Lionel, one can see that, and nothing
could be more delightful to your mother. Tell me, dear, does poor Lord
Eldred come often, or is he forbidden to come? I want to know how far it
has gone.”
“How far what has gone?” said Lionel aghast.
“Is it possible you have not noticed? I am sure he made no secret of it,
poor fellow; the Duchess saw it well enough. Why, that Lord Eldred is
over head and ears, or if there is any stronger expression--deep, deep
in the depths of love; and I am mistaken if she does not know as well as
I--”
“In love--with--? not Lydia? Lydia!” Lionel cried, as if this were the
most astonishing thing in the world.
Lady Brotherton’s back was turned; she did not see his lamentable
countenance. She laughed with a tinkling silvery laugh for which she was
famous, but which her son at that moment felt to be the harshest and
least melodious of sounds. “Who else?” she said; “there is no one but
Lydia here capable of being fallen in love with. Not that nice Mrs.
Selby, you may be sure, which would not be proper, and is
impossible--no, Liddy--I like the name of Liddy. It is quite rural and
moorland, like all the rest. Well, don’t you think she knows it too?”
“I shouldn’t say so,” Lionel answered with the greatest gravity. He
tried very hard not to be so deadly serious; but he could not smile.
“Well, we shall see, we shall see,” said Lady Brotherton gaily, “of
course I shall not interfere. I dare say the Duchess blesses me for
taking her out of the way. But if the lover has the courage to follow,
nobody need expect me to put obstacles in the course of true love. It
shall run smooth for me. Going, Lionel? God bless you, dear; the Fells
have agreed with you, you are as brown and strong as you can look, and I
must go and see your den to-morrow. Good night, good night, my own boy.”
Lionel went away in a frame of mind very different from that with which
he had followed his mother upstairs. He looked into the parlour with a
countenance so solemn that the little party assembled there, and
congratulating themselves on everything having gone off so well, were
entirely chilled. Mrs. Joscelyn, reposing in her chair with her hands
clasped, was smiling with relief and pleasure, while Joan described all
the pangs with which she had looked forward to the arrival of my Lady.
“I thought she would be so stiff and so grand,” said Joan, “Lord, I
don’t know what I didn’t think; but she’s as nice a woman as mother or
myself, and takes nothing upon her. As long as I live I’ll never be
afraid of a fine lady again.” Here Lionel’s solemn voice was heard at
the door.
“I have come to say good night,” he said; “no, thank you, I will not sit
down. I have a long walk before me; not anything, thank you. My mother
is very comfortable, and much obliged to you, Mrs. Joscelyn. I beg I may
not trouble anyone to open the door.”
“What is the matter with him with all his ‘thank yous,’ and his ‘not
troubling any ones,’” cried Joan when he went away without a smile. It
was generally Lydia who let him out, which perhaps Mrs. Joscelyn should
not have permitted. But to-night Lydia was checked by his cold looks,
and held back shyly, and it was Philip Selby who opened the door. This
was a slight matter; but it seemed to prove to Lionel everything his
mother had said. He felt rather glad to have left a chill behind him, as
he had evidently done; and he was very much tempted to steal to the
window and peep in at them, and enjoy the wonder with which no doubt
they would ask each other “What is the matter?” It was well he did not
do so, for he would have seen the company in the parlour laughing--all
but Lydia, who was wondering by herself in a corner, what was the
matter?--at a witticism of Joan’s, who had made a solemn face in
imitation of poor Lionel the moment his back was turned. Lionel was
fortunately not aware of this; but felt that he had produced a
sensation, and was not sorry; and so went away gloomily, not to say
misanthropically, down into the village and across the bridge and along
the river’s side to Birrenshead. On the way he met with old Isaac, who
had once more been beguiled into the “Red Lion,” and was now making his
way home with much stumbling.
“It was you as kept me, Master,” the old man said, “you know ’twas you
as kept me. I’d never have stayed out so long if it hadn’t been for you.
If you would mention it to t’missis I would take it kind, for women is
very onreasonable.”
“T’auld sinner,” cried a voice in the dark, “to larn t’young gentleman a
pack o’ lies. D’ye think I dunuo know where you’ve been just to hear
your voice?”
“My good woman,” said Lionel, “don’t be hard upon poor Isaac.”
He was still so terribly serious, and spoke in tones so hollow and
tragical, that Jane Oliver was alarmed. She darted forward in the dark
and caught hold of his arm.
“Oh! my bonnie young gentleman,” she cried, “tell me! Something’s
happened to my silly auld man?”
At this hint Isaac began to moan, and grasped at Lionel’s other arm,
leaning heavily upon it.
“It’s nothing, Missis, nothing; that is, not much, nothing to frighten
you. T’ young Master’s been that kind, he’s given me his arm to lean
upon all along t’ water-side,” Isaac said, with a limp which would have
been much too demonstrative had it been addressed to the eye; but in the
dark it answered well enough. For once the Missis fell into the trap,
and Lionel, dragged round by his pretended patient to the back door,
with blessings called down upon his head by the deceived woman, went
through the little fiction with the gravest countenance, and without the
least inclination even to smile. It was not till he had left Isaac with
his foot elevated on a chair, elaborating the story of a supposed
sprain, and had groped his way round to the other entrance, and climbed
the dilapidated stairs to the musty old sitting-room, in which his
solitary lamp was flaring, that he burst into a short laugh, as he threw
himself into a chair. If it was Isaac’s little comedy that called forth
this sudden outburst, it was only as the climax of a hundred other
comedies which were not mirthful. His disappointment, and the confusion
of all his thoughts, which his mother’s revelation had brought about,
made him, as was natural, misanthropical and bitter. He laughed at the
tragical folly and falsehood of everything, himself included; from the
Joscelyns making all sorts of efforts to appear better, more refined and
comfortable, than they were, by way of pleasing, _i.e._, deceiving, Lady
Brotherton--and Lady Brotherton accepting everything, adding her own
fanciful interpretation, not only deceived, but deceiving herself--down
to old Isaac, who had so often tried in vain to dupe his wife, and his
wife, who was now duped so easily, not by Isaac, but, save the mark! by
himself, Lionel, without intention or purpose. “And I, who am the
biggest fool of all!” the poor youth said to himself. What had he been
doing all these weeks? making a fool’s paradise out of this squalid
ruin, and princes and princesses out of the Joscelyns, half farmers,
half horse-coupers as they were--all because he had believed in the
sweet looks of a girl who the whole time had been aiming these sweet
looks over his head at a better match, and a greater personage than
himself. What an idiot he had been! the scales seemed to fall from his
eyes. He saw everything round him, he thought, in its true colour. What
would his mother think if she came and saw the wretched place in which
he had been living? She would ask, like the village folk, what could his
motive be? His motive, what was it? Even now, mortified and discouraged
as he was, he sat upright in his chair with a thrill of alarm, when he
imagined a research into his motives. Lady Brotherton might stop the
expedition altogether if she found them out. Lydia’s perfidy was
terrible, but it would be more terrible still to leave her behind,
perhaps to lose sight of her, to miss the opportunity to which he had
been looking forward with so much delight. When he came to think of it,
his mother had not said Lydia was in love with Lord Eldred, but only
that Lord Eldred was in love with Lydia--which was so different. At this
Lionel roused himself, and the sight of his portmanteaux packed and
ready to be shut up, roused him still more. After all it was to-morrow
they were to start, and he, and not Lord Eldred, was to be for the
present Lydia’s daily companion. There would be time to do many things
before that hero could arrive, even if, as Lady Brotherton suggested, he
should join them afterwards. To-morrow, nay, to-day, for it was already
past midnight, was all his own, with nobody to interfere.
And next day, with some suppressed tears and fictitious smiles, and a
general excitement of the whole neighbourhood, as if the village itself
had been going abroad, the party went away. The vicarage people and all
the Selbys came out to their doors to see them pass. Raaf Selby on
horseback stood like a statue at the end of the bridge, and took off his
hat and gave Lydia a look half-tragical and altogether melodramatic.
Joan drove her mother in the phaeton steadily, but with a very grave
countenance, though now and then bursting into momentary jokes and
laughter, to the station to see them off, her husband riding very slowly
by their side. Joan laughed by times, but that did not change the
seriousness of her face; and Mrs Joscelyn sat with her veil down, a
large Spanish veil covered by great spots of black flowers, behind
which nobody could see what she was doing. Lydia herself broke down, and
cried freely, though her mother could not cry. “I’ll bring home Harry,”
the girl cried, with a passionate promise, out of one window of the
railway carriage. Lionel was at another, keeping in the background,
eager to be off, and shorten the moment of farewells, when his attention
was distracted from the pathetic group by the sudden swaying upwards of
old Isaac’s shock head. “I thought you’d like to know, Sir,” old Isaac
said, “as my missis and me’s the best of friends. And it’s all owing to
you, as had the judgment never to say a word. Good-bye and good luck to
you, Master; don’t forget old Isaac Oliver as will do you a good turn
and welcome whenever he has the chance. Lord! but we took t’ Missis in,
that time,” Isaac said, with a grin that reached from ear to ear. And
that was the last the travellers saw of the village folk.